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She cannot deal with the negative aspects (such as walking barefoot) but she gets to live her romantic idea of the smart and classy peasant girl who impresses the master and gains his love. So engrossed in her fantasy, she even mocks herself when she is to be introduced formally as a wealthy lady to the lad she loves. The sense of freedom and the adventurous experience makes her keep her true identity secret for as long as possible, dreaming furtively at the life of the common as a lifelong escapade. On the other hand Dunya, the daughter of the Station Master and thus, a member of the lower class, falls so easily in love with a young and wealthy passer by that one cannot but question the veracity of her feelings. Even though not very obvious, it can be implied that Dunya was also dreaming about the life on the wealthy (being surrounded by many on a daily basis) as to an oasis of romantic delight. This becomes clear, when her father finds her, transformed in a wealthy lady, and she does not dare to return to him until after his death. Nevertheless, this does not go on only in the mind of young ladies. The coffin maker dreamed his entire life to the bigger, wealthier house in which he moves at the beginning of his story. His move is not only in space, but also in class, as he advances through hoard work to the middle class. Even his want to have a party, just like the others in his class, and invite those who appreciate him (the dead) show his frustration with the clash between his expectancies of this new, better status and the reality of his life. All in all, the three stories are characterized by the frustration of the characters who are not satisfied with their current position, and dream of an idyllic different life.
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Remembrance
by Aleksandr Pushkin
When the loud day for men who sow and reap
Grows still, and on the silence of the town
The unsubstantial veils of night and sleep,
The meed of the day's labour, settle down,
Then for me in the stillness of the night
The wasting, watchful hours drag on their course,
And in the idle darkness comes the bite
Of all the burning serpents of remorse;
Dreams seethe; and fretful infelicities
Are swarming in my over-burdened soul,
And Memory before my wakeful eyes
With noiseless hand unwinds her lengthy scroll.
Then, as with loathing I peruse the years,
I tremble, and I curse my natal day,
Wail bitterly, and bitterly shed tears,
But cannot wash the woeful script away.
--Translated by Maurice Baring
From "World Poetry," edited by Katharine Washburn, John S. Major and Clifton Fadiman (W.W. Norton: 1,338 pp.) |
