Till and sow and reap and till and sow and reap and till. Only rarely was the rhythm broken for an hour by the sounding of a distant storm. The king, shut up in his castle, believed that it was the gods above weeping with him over the loss of his son. But the peasants knew that the tantrum came from the forest floor: the noise of Ardour struggling with her lover, the boy who had fallen for her and who made her feel furiously — could it be true? — human.
I can’t say when I first heard about the Russian snow maiden Snegurochka, or who told me her legend. Moreover, I’ve never since encountered anything like the version I remember hearing. Presumably my recollection is mistaken; the version I remember perhaps doesn’t exist. I wrote “Ardour” to preserve the Snegurochka who has lingered with me, even as a figment of my imagination.
Folklore is layered. Each recounting is a revision suited to a particular time and place. I would like to believe that this process can go on, even in a society that has shifted from a tradition of spontaneous storytelling to one that privileges writing and recording. The past century and a half has seen a ballet, an opera, and two movies based on the Russian snow maiden legend, which would suggest that Snegurochka at least has survived the transition to recorded media. She is very much alive, and if she seems quite different in each of these appearances — including my own story — it is in keeping with her chimerical ways.
LUDMILLA PETRUSHEVSKAYA. I’m Here