No one came out to meet me. I went into the front hall and opened the door to the anteroom. An old veteran was sitting on a table, sewing a blue patch on the elbow of a green uniform. I told him to announce me.
“Go on in, my dear man,” the veteran replied. “Our people are at home.”
I entered a clean little room, decorated in the old-fashioned way. In one corner stood a china cupboard; on the wall hung an officer’s diploma under glass and in a frame; around it were proudly displayed some woodblock prints depicting the taking of Küstrin and Ochakov,12 as well as the choosing of a bride and the burial of a cat. By the window sat an old woman in a quilted vest and with a kerchief on her head. She was unwinding yarn, which a one-eyed old man in an officer’s uniform was holding on his outstretched arms.
“What can I do for you, my dear man?” she asked, going on with her work.
I replied that I had come to serve and was reporting for duty to the captain, addressing these last words to the one-eyed old man, whom I took for the commandant; but the lady of the house interrupted my prepared speech.
“Ivan Kuzmich is not at home,” she said. “He’s gone to visit Father Gerasim. But it makes no difference, my dear, I am his missis. Come right in. Sit down, dear.”
She called the serving girl and told her to summon the sergeant. The old man kept glancing at me curiously with his solitary eye.
“Dare I ask,” he said, “in what regiment you were pleased to serve?”
I satisfied his curiosity.
“And dare I ask,” he continued, “why you were pleased to transfer from the guards to the garrison?”
I replied that such was the will of my superiors.
“I suspect it was for behavior unbecoming to a guards officer,” the indefatigable questioner continued.
“Enough nonsense,” the captain’s wife said to him. “You can see the young man’s tired from the journey; he can’t be bothered with you…Hold your arms straight…And you, my dear,” she continued, turning to me, “don’t grieve that they’ve bundled you off to our backwater. You’re not the first, and you’re not the last. Habit and love go hand in glove. Shvabrin, Alexei Ivanych, was transferred to us nearly five years ago for killing a man. God knows what devil got into him. You see, he went outside town with a certain lieutenant, and they took swords, and then up and started poking them at each other; and Alexei Ivanych stabbed the lieutenant to death, and that in front of two witnesses! What can you do? The devil knows no master.”
Just then the sergeant came in, a strapping young Cossack.
“Maximych!” the captain’s wife said to him. “Find quarters for the good officer—of the cleaner sort.”
“Yes, ma’am, Vasilisa Egorovna,” replied the sergeant. “Why not put his honor up with Ivan Polezhaev?”
“No good, Maximych,” said the captain’s wife. “It’s crowded at Polezhaev’s; besides, he’s a friend and mindful that we’re his superiors. Take the good officer…What’s your name, my dear? Pyotr Andreich?…Take Pyotr Andreich to Semyon Kuzov’s. The rascal let his horse get into my kitchen garden. Well, so, Maximych, is everything all right?”
“Yes, thank God, everything’s quiet,” replied the Cossack, “only Corporal Prokhorov had a fight in the bathhouse with Ustinya Negulina over a basin of hot water.”
“Ivan Ignatyich!” the captain’s wife said to the one-eyed old man. “Sort it out between Prokhorov and Ustinya, who’s right and who’s wrong. And punish both of them. Well, Maximych, off you go, and God be with you. Pyotr Andreich, Maximych will take you to your quarters.”
I bowed and left. The sergeant brought me to the cottage, which stood on a high riverbank at the very edge of the fortress. One half of the cottage was occupied by Semyon Kuzov’s family, the other was allotted to me. It consisted of one rather tidy room divided in two by a partition. Savelyich started putting things in order; I started looking out the narrow window. Before me stretched the dismal steppe. To one side stood several huts; several chickens were wandering in the street. An old woman, standing on the porch with a tub, was calling her pigs, who answered with friendly grunts. And such was the place where I was condemned to spend my youth! Anguish came over me; I left the window and went to bed without supper, despite the admonitions of Savelyich, who kept repeating in distress: “God Almighty! He doesn’t want to eat anything! What will the mistress say if the little one’s taken ill?”
The next morning, just as I was beginning to dress, the door opened and a young officer came in, a short man with a swarthy and singularly unattractive, but extremely animated, face.
“Excuse me,” he said in French, “for coming without ceremony to make your acquaintance. Yesterday I learned of your arrival; the wish to see a human face at last took such hold of me that I couldn’t help myself. You’ll understand when you’ve lived here a little while.”
I guessed that this was the officer discharged from the guards for fighting a duel. We became acquainted at once. Shvabrin was far from stupid. His conversation was witty and entertaining. He described for me with great merriment the commandant’s family, their society, and the place that fate had brought me to. I was laughing wholeheartedly, when that same veteran who had been mending the uniform in the commandant’s anteroom came in and told me that Vasilisa Egorovna invited me to dine with them. Shvabrin volunteered to go with me.
As we approached the commandant’s house, we saw on a little square some twenty old veterans with long queues and three-cornered hats. They were lined up at attention. Before them stood the commandant, a tall and vigorous old man in a nightcap and a nankeen dressing gown. Seeing us, he came over and said a few kind words to me, and then went back to giving orders. We were going to stop and watch the drill; but he asked us to go to Vasilisa Egorovna, promising to follow us. “And here,” he added, “there’s nothing for you to watch.”
Vasilisa Egorovna received us simply and cordially and treated me as if she had known me for ages. The veteran and Palashka were setting the table.
“Why is my Ivan Kuzmich drilling so long today?” said the commandant’s wife. “Palashka, call the master to dinner. And where is Masha?”
Just then a girl of about eighteen came in, round-faced, rosy-cheeked, with light brown hair combed smoothly behind her ears, which were burning red. At first glance I did not like her very much. I looked at her with prejudice: Shvabrin had described Masha, the captain’s daughter, as a perfect little fool. Marya Ivanovna sat down in the corner and began to sew. Meanwhile cabbage soup was served. Vasilisa Egorovna, not seeing her husband, sent Palashka for him a second time.
“Tell the master: the guests are waiting, the soup’s getting cold; thank God, the drilling won’t run away; he’ll have time to shout his fill.”
The captain soon appeared, accompanied by the one-eyed old man.
“What’s this, my dearest?” his wife said to him. “The food’s long been served and there’s no sign of you.”
“See here, Vasilisa Egorovna,” Ivan Kuzmich replied, “I’ve been busy with my duties, drilling my good soldiers.”
“Enough now!” retorted the captain’s wife. “They only call it drill: your soldiers never learn, and you don’t know the first thing about it. Sit at home and pray to God—that would be better. Dear guests, please come to the table.”
We sat down to dinner. Vasilisa Egorovna did not stop talking for a moment and showered me with questions: who were my parents, were they still living, where did they live, and what was their situation? On hearing that my father owned three hundred peasant souls, she said:
“Fancy that! So there are rich people in the world! And all we have for souls, my dear, is the wench Palashka; but, thank God, we get by. There’s just one trouble: Masha. The girl’s of marrying age, but what dowry has she got? A besom, a brush, and three kopecks in cash (God forgive me!) to go to the bathhouse. It’s fine if a good man turns up; otherwise she’ll sit there a maiden bride forevermore.”
I glanced at Marya Ivano
vna. She blushed all over, and tears even fell on her plate. I felt sorry for her, and I hastened to change the conversation.
“I’ve heard,” I said, rather beside the point, “that the Bashkirs13 are preparing to attack your fortress.”
“From whom, my dear boy, were you pleased to hear that?” asked Ivan Kuzmich.
“They told me so in Orenburg,” I replied.
“Fiddlesticks!” said the commandant. “We’ve heard nothing for a long time. The Bashkirs are frightened folk, and the Kirghiz have also been taught a good lesson. They’re not likely to go poking at us; and if they do, I’ll put such a scare into them, they’ll stay quiet for ten years.”
“And you’re not afraid,” I went on, turning to the captain’s wife, “to stay in a fortress exposed to such dangers?”
“Habit, my dear,” she replied. “It’s some twenty years ago that we were transferred here from the regiment, and, Lord help me, how afraid I was of those accursed heathens! The moment I saw their lynx hats and heard their shrieks, believe me, dear, my heart would stop dead! But now I’m so used to it that, if they come and tell us the villains are roaming around the fortress, I don’t even flinch.”
“Vasilisa Egorovna is a most courageous lady,” Shvabrin observed solemnly. “Ivan Kuzmich can testify to that.”
“Yes, see here,” said Ivan Kuzmich, “the woman doesn’t scare easily.”
“And Marya Ivanovna?” I asked. “Is she as brave as you are?”
“Masha, brave?” her mother replied. “No, Masha’s a coward. To this day she can’t bear the sound of shooting: just trembles all over. And two years ago, when Ivan Kuzmich took it into his head to fire off our cannon on my name day, my little dove nearly departed this life from fright. We haven’t fired the cursed cannon again since.”
We got up from the table. The captain and his wife went off to sleep; and I went to Shvabrin’s, where I spent the whole evening.
CHAPTER FOUR
The Duel
Very well, stand straight and true,
And watch me as I run you through.
KNYAZHNIN14
Several weeks went by, and my life in the Belogorsk fortress became not only tolerable for me, but even agreeable. In the commandant’s house I was received as one of their own. The husband and wife were most honorable people. Ivan Kuzmich, who had risen from the ranks to become an officer, was a simple, uneducated man, but most honest and good. His wife ruled him, which agreed with his easygoing nature. Vasilisa Egorovna looked upon matters of the service as her household chores, and ran the fortress as she did her own little house. Marya Ivanovna soon stopped being shy with me. We became acquainted. I found her to be a reasonable and sensitive girl. Imperceptibly, I became attached to this good family, even to Ivan Ignatyich, the one-eyed garrison lieutenant, for whom Shvabrin invented inadmissible relations with Vasilisa Egorovna, which did not have a shadow of plausibility; but Shvabrin was not worried about that.
I was made an officer. The service was no burden to me. In the God-protected fortress there were no reviews, nor drills, nor watches. The commandant, on his own initiative, occasionally drilled his soldiers; but he still could not get all of them to tell right from left, though many of them, to avoid making a mistake, made the sign of the cross over themselves before each turn. Shvabrin had several French books. I began to read, and an interest in literature awakened in me. In the mornings I read, practiced translation, and sometimes also wrote verses. I almost always dined at the commandant’s, where I usually spent the rest of the day, and where in the evening Father Gerasim would sometimes come with his wife, Akulina Pamfilovna, the foremost talebearer of the neighborhood. A. I. Shvabrin, naturally, I saw every day; but his conversation became less and less agreeable to me. His habitual jokes about the commandant’s family displeased me very much, especially his caustic remarks about Marya Ivanovna. There was no other society in the fortress, but I wished for no other.
In spite of the predictions, the Bashkirs did not revolt. Calm reigned around our fortress. But the peace was disrupted by sudden internecine strife.
I have already said that I occupied myself with literature. My attempts, for that time, were fairly good, and several years later Alexander Petrovich Sumarokov15 praised them highly. Once I succeeded in writing a little song that pleased me. It is a known thing that writers, under the pretext of seeking advice, occasionally look for a benevolent listener. So, having copied out my song, I took it to Shvabrin, who alone in the whole fortress could appreciate a verse writer’s production. After a brief preamble, I took my notebook out of my pocket and read him the following little verses:
Amorous thoughts in me destroying,
I strive of her beauty to be free,
And, oh, sweet Masha, thee avoiding,
Freedom at last I hope to see!
But the eyes that me have captured
Are before me all the time,
And my spirit they have raptured,
Ruining my peace of mind.
Thou, of my misfortune learning,
Take pity, Masha, upon me,
Who in this cruel trap am turning,
Being imprisoned here by thee.
“How do you find it?” I asked Shvabrin, expecting the praise that was certainly due me. But, to my great vexation, Shvabrin, usually indulgent, resolutely informed me that my song was no good.
“Why so?” I asked, concealing my vexation.
“Because,” he replied, “such verses are worthy of my tutor, Vasily Kirilych Tredyakovsky,16 and remind me very much of his love couplets.”
Here he took my notebook from me and mercilessly began to analyze each line and each word, jeering at me in the most caustic manner. I could not bear it, tore my notebook from his hands, and said I would never again show him my writings. Shvabrin laughed at that threat as well.
“We’ll see if you keep your word,” he said. “A poet has need of a listener, just as Ivan Kuzmich has need of a dram of vodka before dinner. And who is this Masha to whom you declare your tender passion and amorous tribulation? Might it not be Marya Ivanovna?”
“It’s none of your business,” I replied, frowning, “whoever this Masha might be. I ask neither for your opinions nor for your conjectures.”
“Oho! A touchy poet and a discreet lover!” Shvabrin went on, annoying me more and more all the time. “But listen to some friendly advice: if you want to succeed, I advise you to do it otherwise than by little songs.”
“What is the meaning of that, sir? Kindly explain yourself.”
“Gladly. It means that if you want Masha Mironov to meet you after dark, then instead of tender verses, give her a pair of earrings.”
My blood boiled.
“And why do you have such an opinion of her?” I asked, barely controlling my indignation.
“Because,” he replied with an infernal grin, “I know her ways and habits from experience.”
“You’re lying, scoundrel!” I cried in fury. “You’re lying most shamelessly!”
Shvabrin’s countenance changed.
“That you will not get away with,” he said, gripping my arm. “You will give me satisfaction.”
“Very well; whenever you like!” I replied joyfully. At that moment I was ready to tear him to pieces.
I went at once to Ivan Ignatyich and found him with a needle in his hand: on orders from the commandant’s wife, he was stringing mushrooms to be dried for winter.
“Ah, Pyotr Andreich!” he said, seeing me. “Welcome! What good fortune brings you here? And on what business, may I ask?”
I explained to him in a few words that I had quarreled with Alexei Ivanych, and asked him, Ivan Ignatyich, to be my second. Ivan Ignatyich listened to me attentively, goggling his only eye at me.
“You’re pleased to be saying,” he said to me, “that you want to skewer Alexei Ivanyich and wish me to be a witness to it? Is that it, may I ask?”
“Exactly.”
“For pity’s sake, Pyotr Andrei
ch! What are you getting into! You and Alexei Ivanych have quarreled? It’s no big thing! Bad words don’t stick. He called you names, and you swore at him; he punches you in the nose, you box him on the ear two, three times—and you go your own ways; and we’ll get you to make peace. Or else what: is it a good thing to skewer your neighbor, may I ask? And good enough if you skewer him: God help Alexei Ivanych; I’m no great fancier of him myself. But what if he puts a hole in you? How will that be? Who’ll be the fool then, may I ask?”
The sensible lieutenant’s reasoning did not make me waver. I clung to my intention.
“As you like,” said Ivan Ignatyich, “do what you’ve a mind to. But why should I be a witness to it? What on earth for? Men fight, so what else is new, may I ask? Good God, I went to war with the Swedes and the Turks: I’ve seen it all.”
I tried to explain to him the duties of a second, but Ivan Ignatyich simply could not understand me.
“Have it your way,” he said. “If I’m to get mixed up in this business, I’d better go to Ivan Kuzmich and dutifully inform him that there’s some evildoing afoot in the fortress, contrary to official interest: might it be the commandant’s goodwill to take suitable measures…”
I became frightened and started begging Ivan Ignatyich to say nothing to the commandant. I barely managed to persuade him. He gave me his word, and I decided to let it go at that.
I spent the evening, as was my habit, at the commandant’s. I tried to seem cheerful and indifferent, so as not to arouse any suspicions and avoid importunate questions; but I confess, I did not have the composure of which those in my position almost always boast. That evening I was disposed to tenderness and affection. I liked Marya Ivanovna more than usual. The thought that I might be seeing her for the last time endowed her, in my eyes, with something touching. Shvabrin, too, showed up. I drew him aside and informed him of my conversation with Ivan Ignatyich.
“What do we need seconds for?” he said to me drily. “We’ll do without them.”