Journey from St. Petersburg to Moscow by Irina Reyfman (top 10 novels of all time .txt) 📕

danger and difficulty of the crossing, as well as fear that his absence could be discovered. He returned to his cell several hours before sunrise. He thus spent a long time in these dangerous traversals, compensating with nocturnal pleasure for the boredom of his daily confinement. But fate put an end to his amorous triumphs. On one of the nights when the intrepid lover set off across the waves to behold his dear one, a biting headwind suddenly rose up halfway through his trip. All his efforts to overcome the furious waters were futile. In vain did he exhaust himself by straining every muscle; in vain did he raise his voice to be heard in the moment of danger. When he saw the impossibility of reaching the shore, he conceived the idea to return to his monastery. With the wind behind him, it would be easier to reach that bank. But no sooner had he reversed his course when the waves, overpowering his tired muscles, plunged him into their yawning depths. On the morn, his body was found on a distant shore. If I had been writing an epic poem about this, I would have represented to my reader his mistress in anguish. But that would be excessive here. Everyone knows that at least for an initial moment a mistress despairs to learn the death of her dear one. But I do not even know whether our new Hero64 threw herself into the lake or perhaps on the next night yet again prepared a bath for a traveler. The chronicle of love relates that the beauties of Valdai did not die of love … except perhaps only in the hospital.

The mores of Valdai have also encroached upon the closest postal station, Zimnogorye. Here the same sort of reception is readied for the traveler that he has in Valdai. The first thing to meet their gaze will be rouged-up girls and their pretzels. But since my youthful years had already passed, I hastily parted company with the painted sirens of Valdai and Zimnogorye.

* one mile—Trans.

EDROVO

Having arrived at at a settlement, I got out of the carriage. Not far from the road, over the water, stood many women and young girls. The lust that had my entire life dominated me, though by now dimmed, took its usual course and directed my steps to the throng of these rustic beauties. This crowd consisted of more than thirty women. They were all in their holiday clothing, their necks exposed, feet bare, elbows uncovered, each dress tucked up in front under the girdle at the waist, white undershirts, cheerful glances, health written on their cheeks. Although coarsened by heat and cold, these attractions were no less charming for the lack of artifice: the beauty of youth in its full brilliance, a smile on the lips or a hearty laugh from which a row of teeth whiter than the purest ivory became visible. Teeth that would drive fashionable dressers out of their minds. Come hither, dear Muscovite and Petersburg young ladies, look at their teeth, learn from them how to keep them pure. They have no dentist. They do not daily rub the shine off their teeth with brushes and powder. Stand next to any of them as you please, mouth to mouth. None will infect your lung with their breath. But your own breath, your own might, perhaps, in them deposit the basis of … disease … which one I fear to say; while you might not blush, you would be angry.—Am I telling a lie?—One of you, your husband goes about with all the trashy wenches. Having contracted the disease, he drinks, eats, and, why, sleeps with you, while another woman deigns to have lovers by the year, month, week, or, God forbid, day. Having made his acquaintance in a day and fulfilled her desire, the next day she does not know him; indeed, sometimes she does not even know that she has already become infected through a mere kiss of his.—And you, my little dove, a fifteen-year-old maiden, perhaps you are still innocent; but I can see on your brow that your blood has been thoroughly poisoned. Your father of blessed memory hardly left the care of doctors, but to set you on her own pious path your good lady and mother has found you a bridegroom, a worthy elderly general, and only rushes to give you away in marriage in order not to make a visit to the orphanage with you. No bad thing it is to be married to a codger, complete freedom to do as you please. The main thing is to be wedded, all the children are his. Should he be jealous, so much the better: there is more pleasure to be had in frolics snatched secretly; from the first night, it should be possible to train him not to follow the stupid old custom of sleeping in one bed with his wife.—

I was not keeping track how long you, my dear city in-laws, aunties, sisters, nieces, and so on, detained me. To tell the truth, you don’t deserve it. You have rouge on your cheek, rouge on your heart, rouge on your conscience, and on your sincerity you have … soot. It’s all the same whether it is rouge or soot. I would flee from you at full pelt to my country beauties. It is true that some among them resemble you, but there are others unheard of and never seen in cities. Look how round, stout, straight, and sound the limbs of my beauties are. You are amused that their feet are five or even six vershok* long. Well, then, my dear niece, with a foot size of three vershok†, stand next to them and launch into a race. Who will reach the tall birch at the end of the meadow faster? Tut-tut, that’s not your business.—And you, my dear little dove, dear sister, whose waist is three-quarters of an arshin‡, you deign to