In spite of the predictions, the Bashkirs did not rise. Peace reigned around our fortress. But the peace was suddenly disturbed by internal dissension.
I have already mentioned that I was dabbling in literature. For those days my attempts were fairly passable, and some years later Alexander Petrovich Sumarokov1 praised them highly. One day I succeeded in writing a song which met with my satisfaction. We know that sometimes on the pretext of seeking advice authors try to find an appreciative listener. And so, having copied out my little verses, I bore them off to Shvabrin, who was the only person in the whole fortress capable of doing justice to a poet’s work. After a few preliminary remarks I took my manuscript from my pocket and read to him the following lines:
I banish thoughts of love, and try
My fair one to forget;
And to be free again I fly
From Masha with regret.
But wheresoever I may go,
Those eyes I still do see.
My troubled soul no peace may know,
There is no rest for me.
O when thou dost learn my torment,
Pity, Masba, O pity me!
My cruel fate is plain to see –
I am prisoner held by thee.
‘What do you think of it?’ I asked Shvabrin, expecting the praise which I considered my right. But to my extreme annoyance Shvabrin, usually an indulgent critic, roundly condemned my song.
‘Why so?’ I asked, concealing my vexation.
‘Because’, he replied, ‘they are the sort of lines my teacher, Vassily Kirillich Tredyakovsky1 would write – they put me very much in mind of his love couplets.’
He took my notebook from me and began mercilessly criticizing every verse and every word of the poem, jeering at me in the most sarcastic manner. This was more than I could endure and, snatching the manuscript from his hands, I declared I would never show him my verses again so long as I lived, at which threat Shvabrin laughed again.
‘We shall see’, he said, ‘whether you will keep your word. A poet needs an audience in the same way as Ivan Kuzmich needs his vodka before dinner. And who is this Masha to whom you declare your tender passion and love-sick plight? Can it be Maria Ivanovna by any chance?’
‘It’s none of your business whoever she is,’ I replied frowning. ‘I want neither your opinion nor your conjectures.’
‘Oho, the sensitive poet, the discreet lover!’ Shvabrin went on, irritating me more and more. ‘But take a friend’s advice: if you want to succeed, you must not put all your faith in songs.’
‘What do you mean, sir? Kindly explain yourself.’
‘With pleasure. I mean that if you want Masha Mironov to come to your room at dusk, a pair of ear-rings would be a better offering than your tender verses.’
My blood boiled.
‘And why have you such an opinion of her?’ I asked, hardly able to restrain my indignation.
‘Because’, he replied with a devilish smile, ‘I know by experience her morals and habits.’
‘It’s a lie, you scoundrel!’ I cried in fury. ‘It’s a most shameless lie!’
Shvabrin changed colour.
‘You shall pay for this,’ he said, gripping my arm. ‘You shall give me satisfaction.’
‘Certainly – whenever you like!’ I replied, delighted.
There and then I could have torn him to pieces.
I hastened off to Ivan Ignatyich, whom I found with a needle in his hand: the commandant’s wife had set him to thread mushrooms to dry for the winter. ‘Ah, Piotr Andreich, come straight in!’ he said, on seeing me. ‘What good fortune brings you here? What might you be wanting, if I may inquire?’ I explained briefly that I had quarrelled with Alexei Ivanich and had come to ask him – Ivan Ignatyich – to be my second. Ivan Ignatyich listened attentively, staring at me with his solitary eye.
‘You mean to say’, he answered, ‘that you intend to kill Alexei Ivanich and would like me to witness it? Is that so, may I ask?’
‘Exactly.’
‘In heaven’s name, Piotr Andreich, whatever are you thinking of? You have had words with Alexei Ivanich? What does that matter? Calling names is of no consequence. He insults you, and you give him a piece of your mind; he punches you on the nose, and you reply with a box on the ear – and on the other – and again – and each of you goes his own way; and later on we reconcile the pair of you. But to kill a man, would that be right, tell me that. If you kill him, well and good – so much the worse for him –I have no particular love for Alexei Ivanich myself. But supposing he makes holes through you? How are things then? Who would look a fool then, will you tell me?’
The sensible old man’s arguments had no effect. I stuck to my intention.
‘As you please,’ said Ivan Ignatyich. ‘Do as you think best. But why should I be present? What is the point? Two men fighting each other – what is the wonderful spectacle there, may I ask? Praise God, I have fought against the Swedes and the Turks, and seen fighting enough.’
I tried to explain as best I could the duties of a second but Ivan Ignatyich simply could not understand me at all.
‘Have your own way,’ he said, ‘but if I am to be mixed up in this business it shall only be to go and report to Ivan Kuzmich, in accordance with duty, that a crime contrary to the interests of the State is being hatched in the fortress, and to ask if his Honour will take the necessary measures…’
I was alarmed and implored Ivan Ignatyich to say nothing to the commandant: I had great difficulty in persuading him. He gave me his word, and I abandoned the idea of asking for his help.
I spent the evening as usual at the commandant’s, and did my best to appear cheerful and indifferent so as not to excite suspicion and in order to avoid trouble some questions; but I confess I could not boast the cool composure which people in my position generally profess to feel. That evening I inclined to be tender and emotional. Maria Ivanovna attracted me more than ever. The thought that I might be seeing her for the last time imparted to her in my eyes something very touching. Shvabrin likewise made his appearance at the commandant’s. I took him aside and told him of my conversation with Ivan Ignatyich. ‘What do we want with seconds?’ he said to me dryly. ‘We can do without them.’ We arranged to fight behind the corn-stacks near the fortress, and to meet there the following morning between six and seven. We appeared to be talking so amicably together that Ivan Ignatyich, delighted, let the cat out of the bag. ‘That’s what you ought to have done a long time ago,’ he said to me contentedly. ‘A bad peace is better than a good quarrel, and a damaged name better than a damaged skin.’
‘What’s that, what’s that, Ivan Ignatyich?’ asked the commandant’s wife, who was telling fortunes with playing cards over in the corner. ‘I did not catch what you said.’
Ivan Ignatyich, seeing my look of annoyance and remembering his promise, got flustered, not knowing what to answer. Shvabrin hastened to his assistance.
‘Ivan Ignatyich’, said he, ‘approves of our reconciliation.’
‘And with whom have you been quarrelling, my dear?’
‘Piotr Andreich and I have fallen out rather seriously.’
‘What about?’
‘The merest trifle, Vassilissa Yegorovna – a song.’
‘What a thing to quarrel about – a song!… However did it happen?’
‘It happened like this: Piotr Andreich recently composed a song and today when he began to sing it to me, I broke into my favourite ditty:
Captain’s daughter, O captain’s daughter,
Walk not abroad at the midnight hour.
Words followed. Piotr Andreich was angry at first but then he reflected that everyone is free to sing what he likes. And that was the end of the matter.’
Shvabrin’s effrontery very nearly made me boil over with fury, but nobody except myself understood his coarse insinuations – or, at any rate, nobody took any notice of them. From songs the conversation turned upon poets, and the commandant observed that they
were a rakish lot and terrible drunkards, and advised me, as a friend, to give up writing verses, for such an occupation did not accord with the interests of the Service, and led to no good.
Shvabrin’s presence was unendurable. I soon said good night to the commandant and his family, and back at home examined my sword, tested the point of it and went to bed, telling Savelich to wake me just after six.
The next morning, at the appointed hour, I stood behind the corn-stacks awaiting my opponent. He soon made his appearance. ‘We may be disturbed,’ he said. ‘We must be quick,’ We took off our uniforms and, wearing our sleeveless under-jackets only, drew our swords. At that moment Ivan Ignatyich with five soldiers of the garrison suddenly appeared from behind the stacks. He summoned us to the commandant. Resentfully we obeyed; the soldiers surrounded us and we followed behind Ivan Ignatyich, who led the way in triumph, striding along with an air of astonishing importance.
We reached the commandant’s house. Ivan Ignatyich opened the door, announcing triumphantly: ‘Here they are!’ Vassilissa Yegorovna came towards us. ‘How now, my good sirs! What do you mean by this? What has come over you? Whatever next? Plotting to commit murder here in our fortress! Ivan Kuzmich, put them under arrest at once! Piotr Andreich, Alexei Ivanich – give up your swords this instant! Give them up, give them up! Palashka, take these swords to the store-room. Piotr Andreich, I did not expect this of you: are you not ashamed of yourself? It is all very well for Alexei Ivanich – he was turned out of the Guards for killing a man, he does not believe in God even; but imagine you doing a thing like this! Do you wish to imitate him?’
Ivan Kuzmich, in full agreement with his wife, kept saying: ‘Yes, you know, Vassilissa Yegorovna is quite right. Duelling is explicitly forbidden by the regulations.’ Meanwhile, Palashka took our swords and carried them away to the store-room. I could not help laughing. Shvabrin preserved his gravity. ‘With all my respect for you,’ he said to Vassilissa Yegorovna coolly, ‘I cannot help remarking that you give yourself unnecessary trouble in constituting yourself our judge. Leave it to Ivan Kuzmich – it is his business.’ – ‘Ah, my dear sir!’ retorted the commandant’s lady. ‘Are not husband and wife one spirit and one flesh? Ivan Kuzmich, what are you waiting for? Place them under arrest at once, in solitary confinement, and on bread and water, until they come to their senses. And let Father Gerassim impose a public penance on them, that they may beg God’s forgiveness and confess their sins before everyone.’
Ivan Kuzmich did not know what to do. Maria Ivanovna was exceedingly pale. Little by little the storm subsided; the commandant’s wife calmed down and made us embrace each other. Palashka brought us back our swords. We left the house seemingly reconciled. Ivan Ignatyich accompanied us. ‘Aren’t you ashamed’, I said to him angrily, ‘to go and report us to the commandant when you had given me your word not to?’ – ‘God is my witness, I never mentioned a thing to Ivan Kuzmich,’ he replied. ‘Vassilissa Yegorovna wormed it all out of me. It was she arranged it without the commandant’s knowledge. Anyhow, let us thank heaven that it has all ended in the way it has!’ With these words he turned home and Shvabrin and I were left alone. ‘We cannot let it rest at this,’ I said to him. ‘Of course not,’ replied Shvabrin, ‘you shall answer me with your blood for your insolence; but I expect we shall be watched. We shall have to dissemble for a few days. Goodbye.’ And we parted as though nothing had happened.
Returning to the commandant’s house, I sat down as usual near Maria Ivanovna. Ivan Kuzmich was not at home. Vassilissa Yegorovna was busy with household matters. We talked together in an undertone. Maria Ivanovna reproached me tenderly for the anxiety I had caused them all by my quarrel with Shvabrin.
‘I fainted away’, she said, ‘when we were told that you intended to fight with swords. How strange men are! Because of a single word which they would probably have forgotten a week later they are ready to murder one another and sacrifice not only their lives but their consciences and the happiness of those… But I am sure it was not you who began the quarrel. No doubt Alexei Ivanich was to blame.’
‘And what makes you think so, Maria Ivanovna?’
‘Oh, I don’t know… he is so sarcastic. I don’t like Alexei Ivanich. I loathe him, and yet, strange to say, I wouldn’t for anything have him dislike me so much. That would worry me dreadfully.’
‘And what do you think, Maria Ivanovna? Does he like you, or not?’
Maria Ivanovna stammered and blushed.
‘I think…’ she said, ‘I believe he does like me.’
‘Why do you think so now?’
‘Because he asked for my hand in marriage.’
‘Marriage! Asked for your hand in marriage? When was that?’
‘Last year. About two months before you came.’
‘And you refused?’
‘As you can see. Of course, Alexei Ivanich is clever and rich and comes of good family. But when I think that at the wedding I should have to kiss him in public… no, nothing would induce me to!’
Maria Ivanovna’s words opened my eyes and explained a great many things. I now understood the persistent slander with which Shvabrin pursued her. He had no doubt observed our mutual attraction and was doing his utmost to alienate us from each other. The words which had given rise to our quarrel seemed to me all the more vile when, instead of coarse and ill-mannered mockery, I saw in them premeditated calumny. My desire to punish the insolent traducer became still more violent, and I waited impatiently for a favourable opportunity.
I had not long to wait. The following day as I sat composing an elegy, and biting my pen as I searched for a rhyme, Shvabrin tapped at my window. I abandoned my pen, picked up my sword and went out to join him. ‘Why put it off?’ said Shvabrin. ‘Nobody is watching us. Let us go down to the river. We shall not be disturbed there.’ We set off in silence. Descending by a steep path, we stopped at the river-bank and bared our swords. Shvabrin was the more expert but I was stronger and more daring, and Monsieur Beaupré, who had once upon a time been a soldier, had given me a few lessons in fencing, which I turned to good account. Shvabrin had not expected to find in me such a dangerous opponent. For a long time neither of us was able to inflict any injury upon the other; at last, observing that Shvabrin was weakening, I began to press him vigorously and almost forced him into the river. Suddenly I heard someone shouting my name. I glanced round and saw Savelich running down the steep path towards me… At that same moment I felt a sharp stab in the breast, under my right shoulder. I fell and lost consciousness.
5
LOVE
Ah, you young maiden, O maiden fair!
You must not marry while still so young.
Ask your father, then ask your mother,
Father and mother and all your kin.
Cull wisdom, my beauty, and common sense,
And so these twain shall thy dowry be.
FOLK SONG
Find a better one, and you’ll forget me.
But if she be worse – you’ll think of me.
FOLK SONG
WHEN I regained consciousness I could not at first understand where I was and what had happened to me. I was lying in bed in a strange room, feeling very weak. Savelich was standing before me with a candle in his hand. Someone was carefully unwinding the bandages round my chest and shoulder. Gradually my head cleared. I remembered the duel and guessed that I had been wounded. At that moment the door creaked. ‘Well, how is he?’ whispered a voice which sent a thrill through me. ‘Still the same,’ Savelich answered with a sigh. ‘Still unconscious: this makes the fifth day.’ I tried to turn my head but could not. ‘Where am I? Who is here?’ I said with an effort. Maria Ivanovna came up to the bed and bent over me. ‘Well, how do you feel?’ she asked. ‘All right,’ I answered in a weak voice. ‘Is that you, Maria Ivanovna? Tell me…’ I had not the strength to go on, and broke off. Savelich uttered a cry. His face lit up with joy. ‘He has come round, he has come round!’ he kept on repeating. ‘Thank God! Well, Piot
r Andreich, dear, you have given me a fright. It was no joke – five whole days…’ Maria Ivanovna interrupted him. ‘Do not talk too much to him, Savelich,’ she said. ‘He is still weak.’ She went out and quietly closed the door. My thoughts were in a turmoil. And so I was in the commandant’s house: Maria Ivanovna had been in to see me. I wanted to ask Savelich a question or two but the old man shook his head and stopped his ears. I closed my eyes in vexation and soon dropped asleep.
When I woke up I called Savelich, but instead of him there was Maria Ivanovna: her angelic voice greeted me. I cannot describe the blissful feeling which enveloped me at that moment. I seized her hand and pressed it to me, bathing it with tears of emotion. Masha did not withdraw her hand… and suddenly her lips touched my cheek and I felt their hot, fresh kiss. A flame ran through me. ‘Dear, good Maria Ivanovna,’ I said to her, ‘be my wife, consent to make my happy.’ She recovered herself. ‘Calm yourself, for heaven’s sake,’ she said, withdrawing her hand. ‘You are not out of danger yet: your wound may open again. Take care of yourself, if only for my sake.’ With these words she went out, leaving me in an ecstasy of bliss. Happiness restored me. She would be mine! She loved me! The thought filled my whole being.
From that moment I grew better every hour. The regimental barber attended to my wound, for there was no other doctor in the fortress, and fortunately he did not try to be too clever. Youth and nature accelerated my recovery. The whole family fussed over me. Maria Ivanovna never left my side. Naturally, at the first opportunity I returned to my interrupted declaration of love, and Maria Ivanovna heard me out with more patience. Without any affectation she confessed her fondness for me, and said that her parents would certainly be glad of her happiness. ‘But think it over well,’ she added. ‘Won’t your parents raise objections?’