An Island Surrounded by QuarantinesAlexander Pushkin, letters from Boldino, 1830, in his Works, vol. 6, edited by S. A. Vengerov (1915)Hearth Interactive Hearth Library А. С. Пушкинъ, Сочиненія, vol. 6, Письма Пушкина 1825–1837 и дополненія къ нимъ; Статьи и замѣтки, edited by S. A. Vengerov (Petrograd: Brockhaus-Efron, 1915), letters 346, 347, 349 and 352, pp. 60–63. Digital text: Internet Archive item sochinenijat6ipismapushkina182554, OCR text, extracted by code; pre-1918 spelling as printed, restored where the OCR garbles it. Not yet read against the page images. The editor’s notes are not copied. Author’s text only. Russian Natalya GoncharovaPushkin's fiancée, whom he married after the cholera quarantines of 1830 let him reach Moscow.Pyotr PletnevA critic and teacher in St. Petersburg and Pushkin's friend, who looked after the publishing of his works.Faddei BulgarinA journalist and Pushkin's literary enemy, owner of an estate called Karlovo.Anton DelvigA baron and poet, Pushkin's school friend, who published the almanac *Northern Flowers* and the *Literary Gazette*.Mikhail PogodinA Moscow historian, journalist and playwright, to whom Pushkin wrote from Boldino in 1830.GodThe one God worshiped by Jews, Christians and Muslims. Many writers in the library saw his hand in epidemics, cures, voyages and the fortunes of colonies. Moscow55.752 37.6178Kaluga54.5293 36.2754Penza53.1957 45.0108Vyatka58.5981 49.6578Arkhangelsk64.5461 40.5518St. Petersburg59.9386 30.3141Abramovo55.05 45.15Boldino55 45.31Tver56.8584 35.9006 cholera A disease that spread up the Volga into central Russia in 1830, when Pushkin and many Russians called it “the plague,” and struck London in 1854, where John Snow traced it to a water pump.quarantine and public health measures Keeping the sick, travelers or goods out of a city or away from the healthy, and cleaning the streets, by order of officials: from Florence in 1348 to the cholera posts of 1830 and the plague searches of 1897.
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— 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. 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— 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. 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— 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. 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?
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, 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. 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. 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. 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. 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. It will get here sooner. Goodbye. I kiss your mother’s hands, and bow low to your sisters. 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. 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, 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? I know nothing. I send you, Baron, my vassal’s tax, called the Flower Tax because it is paid in November, right in the season of flowers. 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, then the songs of troubadours will not fall silent all year round in your castle, the Literary Gazette. 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. From the Moscow Gazette, the only paper that reaches me, I see, my dear and esteemed Mikhail Petrovich, 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. 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. 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?