An Island Surrounded by Quarantines

Милостивая Государыня Наталья Николаевна. я по французски браниться не умѣю, такъ позвольте мнѣ говорить вамъ по русски, а вы, мой Ангелъ, отвѣчайте мнѣ хоть по чухонски да только отвѣчайте. Письмо Ваше отъ 1-го окт. получилъ я 26-го. Оно огорчило меня по многимъ причинамъ во первыхъ потому что оно шло ровно 25 дней. 2) что вы перваго октября были еще въ Москвѣ давно уже зачумленной. 3) что вы не получили моихъ писемъ. 4) что письмо ваше короче было визитной карточки; 5) что вы на меня видно сердитесь между тѣмъ какъ я пренесчастное животное ужъ безъ того. Гдѣ вы? что вы? я писалъ въ Москву, мнѣ не отвѣчаютъ—

Gracious Madam Natalya Nikolaevna. I do not know how to scold in French, so allow me to speak to you in Russian, and you, my Angel, answer me even in Chukhon, only answer. Your letter of the 1st of Oct. I received on the 26th. It grieved me for many reasons: first, because it traveled exactly 25 days. 2) that on the first of October you were still in Moscow, long since plague-stricken. 3) that you had not received my letters. 4) that your letter was shorter than a visiting card; 5) that you are evidently angry with me, while I am a most unhappy animal even without that. Where are you? how are you? I wrote to Moscow, they do not answer me—

Dear Madam Natalya Nikolaevna, I don’t know how to scold in French, so allow me to speak to you in Russian. And you, my angel, answer me, even in Finnish,1 only answer. Your letter of October 1 reached me on the 26th. It upset me for many reasons. First, because it took exactly 25 days to come. Second, because on October 1 you were still in Moscow, which has long been stricken with the plague.2 Third, because you had not received my letters. Fourth, because your letter was shorter than a visiting card. Fifth, because you are clearly angry with me, when I am the unhappiest creature alive as it is. Where are you? How are you? I wrote to Moscow, and no one answers me.

1. Po-chukhonski, “in Chukhon,” a slighting Russian name for the Finnish and Estonian peoples near St. Petersburg and their speech.
2. Pushkin, like many Russians, calls the cholera “the plague” (chuma).

Братъ мнѣ непишетъ, пологая что его письма по обыкновенію, для меня неинтересны—Въ чумное время дѣло другое; радъ письму проколотому; знаешь что покрайней мѣрѣ живъ—и то хорошо. Если вы въ Калугѣ, я пріѣду къ Вамъ черезъ Пензу; если вы въ Москвѣ, т. е. въ Московской деревнѣ то пріѣду къ Вамъ черезъ Вятку, Архангельскъ и Петербургъ. Ей богу не шучу — но напишите мнѣ гдѣ вы а письмо адресуйте Лук: Уѣздъ въ село Абрамово для пересылки въ Болдино. Скорѣй дойдетъ. Простите. Цалую ручки у матушки; кланяюсь въ поясъ сестрицамъ.

My brother does not write to me, supposing that his letters, as usual, are uninteresting to me—In plague time it is another matter; [one is] glad of a pierced letter; you know that at least [the writer is] alive—and that is good. If you are in Kaluga, I will come to you through Penza; if you are in Moscow, that is, in the Moscow village, then I will come to you through Vyatka, Arkhangelsk and Petersburg. By God I am not joking—but write me where you are, and address the letter: Luk[oyanov] District, to the village of Abramovo, for forwarding to Boldino. It will arrive sooner. Farewell. I kiss the hands of your mother; I bow to the waist to your sisters.

My brother doesn’t write to me, thinking that his letters, as usual, don’t interest me. In a time of plague it’s a different matter. You are glad to get a letter even with holes punched in it.3 At least you know the writer is alive, and that’s something. If you are in Kaluga, I will come to you by way of Penza. If you are in Moscow, that is, at your family’s estate near Moscow, I will come to you by way of Vyatka, Arkhangelsk, and Petersburg.4 So help me God, I’m not joking. But write and tell me where you are, and address the letter: Lukoyanov District, village of Abramovo, to be forwarded to Boldino.5 It will get here sooner. Goodbye. I kiss your mother’s hands, and bow low to your sisters.

3. At quarantine posts, letters from infected places were pierced and smoked or soaked in vinegar, which was believed to disinfect them.
4. Roundabout routes far to the east and north of Moscow, to get around the quarantine lines.
5. Abramovo was a post station about 12 versts (8 miles) from Boldino, in Lukoyanov District, as Pushkin explains in a later letter.

Я сунулся было въ Москву, да узнавъ что туда никого не пускаютъ воротился въ Болдино да жду погоды—Ну ужъ погода! Знаю что не такъ страшенъ чортъ якъ его малюютъ; знаю что холера не опаснѣе Турецкой перестрѣлки—да отдаленность—да неизвѣстность—вотъ что мучительно. Отправляясь въ путь писалъ я своимъ чтобъ они меня ждали черезъ 25 дней—Невѣста и перестала мнѣ писать, и гдѣ она, и что она до сихъ поръ не вѣдаю—Каково? тоесть, душа моя Плетневъ, хоть я и не изъ иныхъ прочихъ, такъ сказать—но до того доходитъ что хоть въ петлю—Мнѣ и стихи въ голову не лѣзутъ, хоть осень чудная, и дождь и снѣгъ и по колѣно грязь. Не знаю гдѣ моя; надѣюсь что уѣхала изъ чумной Москвы, но куда? въ Калугу? въ Тверь? въ Карлово къ Булгарину? ничего незнаю—

I poked myself [tried to go] to Moscow, but learning that no one is let in there I turned back to Boldino and am waiting for weather—Well, what weather! I know that the devil is not as terrible as they paint him; I know that cholera is no more dangerous than Turkish crossfire—but the distance—but the uncertainty—that is what is tormenting. Setting out on the road I wrote to my people that they should expect me in 25 days—My bride has even stopped writing to me, and where she is, and how she is, I do not know to this day—How’s that? that is, my soul Pletnev, though I am not one of the others, so to speak—but it gets to the point that [I could put my head] in the noose—Even verses do not climb into my head, though the autumn is wonderful, and rain and snow and mud up to the knee. I don’t know where mine is; I hope that she has left plague-stricken Moscow, but for where? to Kaluga? to Tver? to Karlovo, to Bulgarin’s? I know nothing—

I set off for Moscow, but when I learned that no one is being let in, I turned back to Boldino, and now I’m waiting for the weather. And what weather! I know the devil is not as black as he is painted. I know that cholera is no more dangerous than Turkish gunfire.6 But the distance, and not knowing: that is what torments me. When I set out, I wrote to my family to expect me in 25 days. My bride has even stopped writing to me, and where she is and how she is, I still don’t know. How do you like that? I mean, my dear Pletnev,7 I’m not one of your ordinary folk, so to speak, but things have come to the point where I could hang myself. Not even verses come into my head, though the autumn is wonderful: rain and snow and mud up to your knees. I don’t know where my girl is. I hope she has left plague-stricken Moscow, but for where? Kaluga? Tver? Karlovo, to Bulgarin’s?8 I know nothing.

6. In 1829 Pushkin had traveled with the Russian army in its war against the Ottoman Empire and had come under fire.
7. Pyotr Pletnev, a critic and teacher in St. Petersburg and Pushkin’s friend, who looked after the publishing of his works.
8. Faddei Bulgarin, a journalist and Pushkin’s literary enemy, owned an estate called Karlovo. Pushkin is joking.

Посылаю тебѣ, Баронъ, Вассальскую мою подать, именуемую Цвѣточною, по той причинѣ что платится она въ ноябрѣ въ самую пору цвѣтовъ. Доношу тебѣ, моему Владѣльцу, что нынѣшняя осень была дѣтородна, и что коли твой смиренный Вассалъ не околѣетъ отъ сарацинскаго падежа, Холерой именуемаго, и занесеннаго намъ крестовыми воинами т. е. бурлаками, то въ замкѣ твоемъ, Литературной Газетѣ, пѣсни трубадуровъ неумолкнутъ круглый годъ.

I send you, Baron, my vassal tax, called the Flower [tax], for the reason that it is paid in November, at the very season of flowers. I report to you, my Lord, that the present autumn has been child-bearing, and that if your humble Vassal does not croak from the Saracen murrain, called Cholera, and brought to us by the crusading warriors, that is, by the barge haulers, then in your castle, the Literary Gazette, the songs of the troubadours will not fall silent all year round.

I send you, Baron, my vassal’s tax, called the Flower Tax because it is paid in November, right in the season of flowers.9 I report to you, my Lord, that this autumn has been fruitful, and that if your humble vassal does not drop dead of the Saracen murrain called Cholera, brought to us by crusaders, that is, by barge haulers,10 then the songs of troubadours will not fall silent all year round in your castle, the Literary Gazette.

9. Baron Anton Delvig, a poet and Pushkin’s school friend, published the yearly almanac Northern Flowers and the Literary Gazette. Pushkin is sending him poems for them.
10. Cholera spread up the Volga River into central Russia in 1830. Pushkin casts the Volga barge haulers as crusaders bringing a disease home from the East.

Я живу въ деревнѣ какъ въ островѣ окруженной карантинами. Жду погоды чтобъ жениться и добраться до П. Б.—но я объ этомъ не смѣю еще и думать—

I live in the country as on an island surrounded by quarantines. I wait for weather in order to marry and to get to P[eters]b[urg]—but I do not yet dare even to think about it—

I live in the country as if on an island surrounded by quarantines. I’m waiting for the weather to change, so that I can get married and get to Petersburg. But I don’t dare even think about that yet.

Изъ Моск. Вѣдомостей, единственнаго журнала доходящаго до меня, вижу любезный и почтенный Михайло Петровичъ что вы не оставили Матушки нашей. Дважды порывался я къ Вамъ, но карантины опять отбрасывали меня на мой несносный островокъ откуда простираю къ Вамъ руки и вопію гласомъ велимъ. Пошлите мнѣ слово живое, ради Бога. Никто мнѣ ничего непишетъ. Думаютъ что я холерой схваченъ или зачахъ въ карантинѣ. Не знаю гдѣ и что моя невѣста. Знаете-ли вы, можете-ли узнать? ради Бога узнайте и отпишите мнѣ: въ Лукояновскій Уѣздъ въ село Абрамово, для пересылки въ село Болдино.

From the Mosc[ow] Gazette, the only journal reaching me, I see, dear and esteemed Mikhail Petrovich, that you have not left our Mother. Twice I have rushed toward you, but the quarantines again threw me back onto my unbearable little island, from which I stretch out my hands to you and cry out with a great voice. Send me a living word, for God’s sake. No one writes me anything. They think that I have been seized by cholera or have wasted away in quarantine. I do not know where or how my bride is. Do you know, can you find out? For God’s sake find out and write back to me: to Lukoyanov District, to the village of Abramovo, for forwarding to the village of Boldino.

From the Moscow Gazette, the only paper that reaches me, I see, my dear and esteemed Mikhail Petrovich,11 that you have not left our Mother Moscow. Twice I have tried to break through to you, but the quarantines threw me back again onto my unbearable little island. From here I stretch out my hands to you and cry out with a loud voice.12 Send me a living word, for God’s sake. No one writes to me at all. They think I’ve caught the cholera or wasted away in quarantine. I don’t know where my bride is or how she is. Do you know, or can you find out? For God’s sake, find out and write to me: Lukoyanov District, village of Abramovo, to be forwarded to the village of Boldino.

11. Mikhail Pogodin, a Moscow historian, journalist, and playwright.
12. Pushkin borrows the solemn words of the Church Slavonic Bible.

А главнаго то и несказалъ: срокъ [день] моему долгу въ слѣдующемъ мѣсяцѣ, но я не смѣю надѣяться заплатить Вамъ. Не я лгу, и не мошна лжетъ—лжетъ холера и прилыгаютъ 5 карантиновъ насъ раздѣляющихъ. Прощайте, будьте живы. Что братъ?

And the main thing I did not say: the term [day] of my debt is next month, but I do not dare hope to pay you. It is not I who lie, and not the purse that lies—the cholera lies, and the 5 quarantines dividing us lie along [with it]. Farewell, be alive. How is [your] brother?

But I haven’t said the main thing. My debt to you falls due next month, but I don’t dare hope to pay you. It’s not I who lie, and not my purse. The cholera lies, and the five quarantines between us help it lie. Goodbye, and stay alive. How is your brother?