Tales of Belkin and Other Prose Writings

by Alexander Pushkin

SKOTININ: Mitrofan takes after me.

  The Minor1

  FROM THE EDITOR

  Having undertaken the publication of the Tales of Belkin, which we herewith offer to the public, we wished to preface them with at least a brief biography of the late author, thereby satisfying the justifiable curiosity of lovers of our native literature. To that end we approached Marya Alekseyevna Trafilin, heiress of Ivan Petrovich Belkin and his next of kin. But unfortunately she could not provide us with any information at all, since she had never been acquainted with the deceased. She advised us to consult on this matter a certain worthy gentleman who had been a friend of Ivan Petrovich. We followed her advice and received the following valued reply to our letter. We print it here without any alterations or commentary, as a precious memorial to a noble intellect and a touching friendship, and at the same time as a most adequate biographical account.

  My dear Sir,

  I had the honour of receiving on the 23rd inst. your esteemed letter dated the 15th, in which you express your desire to possess detailed information regarding the dates of birth and death, the service career, the domestic circumstances, as well as the occupations and character of the late Ivan Petrovich Belkin, my former loyal friend and neighbour. It is with great pleasure that I comply with your request and I herewith forward to you, my dear Sir, all that I can recall, not only of his conversations but also of my own observations.

  Ivan Petrovich Belkin was born of honourable and noble parents in the year 1798, in the village of Goryukhino. His late father, Second-Major Pyotr Ivanovich Belkin, was married to one Pelageya Gavrilovna, née Trafilin. He was not rich, but was abstemious in his habits and very able in managing his business affairs. Their son received his elementary education from the parish clerk. It was to this worthy gentleman, it would appear, that he owed his love of reading and interest in Russian literature. In 1815 he entered a regiment of chasseurs (I do not remember the number), in which he remained until the year 1823. The deaths of his parents, which were almost simultaneous, compelled him to resign his commission and to return to Goryukhino, his patrimonial estate.

  Having embarked on the management of his estate, because of his inexperience and soft-heartedness, Ivan Petrovich soon allowed matters to fall into neglect, and he relaxed the strict regime that had been established by his late father. After dismissing the industrious and efficient bailiff with whom his serfs (as is their wont) were dissatisfied, he entrusted the management of the estate to his old housekeeper, who had won his confidence through her narrative skill. This stupid old woman could not distinguish a twenty-five from a fifty rouble note. The peasants, to all of whom she was godmother, had no fear of her whatsoever. The village-elder whom they had elected was so indulgent towards them, acting in concert with them to swindle their master, that Ivan Petrovich was compelled to abolish the corvée,2 replacing it with an extremely moderate quit-rent.3 Even so, the peasants, taking advantage of his weakness, elicited from him a special tax exemption in the first year and in the second paid more than two-thirds of the quit-rent in nuts, cranberries and the like. Notwithstanding, they were still in arrears.

  Having been a friend of Ivan Petrovich’s late father, I deemed it my duty to offer his son advice too, and on more than one occasion volunteered to restore the old order which he had allowed to fall into neglect. To that end I rode over to his place one day, requested the account books, summoned that rogue of an elder and began to examine them in the presence of Ivan Petrovich. At first the young master followed me with the greatest attention and diligence; but as soon as it became clear from the accounts that, in the past two years, the number of peasants on the estate had increased, while the quantity of fowls and cattle had considerably decreased, Ivan Petrovich said that he was satisfied with these initial findings and no longer listened to me; at that very moment when, as a result of my investigations and stern interrogation, I had thrown that roguish elder into utmost confusion and reduced him to complete silence, to my extreme annoyance I heard Ivan Petrovich snoring vigorously in his chair. Thereafter I ceased interfering in his business affairs, entrusting these matters to the care of the Almighty.

  However, this in no way harmed our friendly relations, inasmuch as I myself, while deeply regretting that weakness and ruinous negligence of his, so prevalent among our young noblemen these days, was genuinely fond of Ivan Petrovich. And it was indeed impossible not to like such a gentle and honest young man as he. For his part Ivan Petrovich showed respect for one of my years and had a heartfelt attachment for me. Right up to his death he would see me almost every day, greatly valuing my simple conversation, although, for the most part, we had hardly anything in common as regards habits, ways of thinking or temperament.

  Ivan Petrovich lived the most modest of lives, avoiding excess of any kind. Not once did I see him the worse for drink (which in our parts can be accounted an unprecedented marvel); he had a strong inclination towards the female sex, but he was truly as shy as a young girl.*

  Besides the tales which you are good enough to mention in your letter, Ivan Petrovich left a large number of manuscripts, some of which are in my possession and some of which were used by his housekeeper for various domestic needs. Thus all the windows in her wing of the house were pasted over last winter with the first part of a novel which he never completed. The above-mentioned tales were, it would appear, his first literary venture. As Ivan Petrovich used to maintain, for the most part they were true stories that he had heard from various people.† However, the names in almost all of them were invented by himself, but those of villages and hamlets were taken from our neighbourhood, which explains why my village too is mentioned somewhere. This was not from any malicious motives, but solely from want of imagination.

  In the autumn of 1828 Ivan Petrovich caught a catarrhal chill which developed into a fever, and he died despite the untiring ministrations of our local doctor, a highly skilled gentleman, especially in the treatment of deep-rooted ailments such as corns and the like. He passed away in my arms in the thirtieth year of his life and is buried next to his parents in the churchyard at Goryukhino.

  Ivan Petrovich was of medium height, with grey eyes, fair hair, straight nose; he had a light complexion and a thin face.

  This is all, my dear Sir, that I can recall concerning the manner of life, occupations, temperament and appearance of my late neighbour and friend. But in case you should think fit to make use of this letter in any way, I most humbly beseech you not to mention my name: for although I have great respect and admiration for men of letters, I consider it inappropriate and indeed unseemly for one of my years to be included in their number. With my profound respects, etc.

  November 16, 1830

  Village of Nenaradovo.

  Considering it our duty to respect the wishes of our author’s esteemed friend, we convey our deepest gratitude to him for the information provided and hope that the public will appreciate his sincerity and good nature.

  A. P.

  THE SHOT

  And so we fought a duel. Baratynsky1

  I vowed to kill him according to the code of duelling (it was my turn to shoot). ‘An Evening on Bivouac’2

  I

  We were stationed in the small town of ***. The life of an army officer is well-known. In the mornings drill and riding-school; dinner with the Colonel or at a Jewish inn; in the evenings punch and cards. In *** there was not one open house, nor a single marriageable girl. We would meet in each other’s quarters, where all we saw was our own uniforms.

  Only one of our company was not in the army. He was about thirty-five and therefore considered an old man. His experience gave him many advantages over us; moreover, his habitual sullenness, gruff disposition and spiteful tongue had a powerful effect on our young minds. Some kind of mystery surrounded his life; he appeared to be Russian, yet his name was foreign. Formerly he had served with the hussars, and successfully at that. No one knew the reason that had induced him to resign his commission and settle in a wretched lit
tle town, where he lived poorly and extravagantly at the same time. He invariably went about on foot, in a shabby black frock-coat, but he kept open house for all the officers in our regiment.

  True, his dinners consisted of only two or three courses, prepared by an ex-soldier, but the champagne flowed like water. No one knew what his circumstances were or what his income was, and no one dared question him on the subject. He had a collection of books, chiefly on military subjects, and some novels. He willingly lent them to us and never asked for them back. On the other hand, he never returned to its owner any book that he had borrowed. His principal pastime was pistol-shooting. The walls of his room were riddled with bullet holes, so that they resembled a honeycomb. His rich collection of pistols was the sole luxury in that miserable clay-walled cottage where he lived. The skill he had acquired was simply incredible, and had he offered to shoot a pear from anyone’s forage cap, not a man in our regiment would have hesitated to offer his head.

  Our conversations often touched upon duelling. Silvio (as I shall call him) never became involved in them. If he were asked whether he had ever fought he would coldly reply that he had, but would never go into details, and it was obvious that he found such questions disagreeable. We assumed that he had on his conscience some hapless victim of his terrible skill. Besides, it never even occurred to us to suspect him of anything like cowardice. There are those whose mere appearance is enough to remove any such suspicion. But an unexpected event astounded us all.

  One day about ten of our officers were dining at Silvio’s. We drank as much as usual – that is, a great deal; after dinner we tried to persuade our host to hold the bank at cards. For some time he kept refusing, since he rarely played; at last, though, he ordered cards to be brought, poured out about fifty gold coins on to the table and sat down to deal. We stood around him and the game began. It was Silvio’s habit to maintain complete silence when playing, never arguing or entering into any explanations. If a player happened to miscalculate Silvio either immediately paid him the difference or made a note of the surplus. We were well aware of this habit of his and never stopped him from having things his own way. But among us at that time was an officer recently transferred to our regiment. While playing this lieutenant absent-mindedly doubled his stake. Silvio took the chalk and corrected the score as he usually did. Thinking that Silvio had made a mistake the officer called for an explanation. Silvio continued dealing in silence. The lieutenant, losing patience, picked up the brush and rubbed out what he thought had been wrongly noted. Silvio took the chalk and adjusted the score. Heated by the wine, the game and his comrades’ laughter, the officer considered himself grossly insulted and, in a fit of rage, seized a bronze candlestick from the table and hurled it at Silvio, who barely managed to get out of the way in time. We were all stunned. White with rage, Silvio stood up, his eyes flashing, and said, ‘Sir, please be so good as to leave, and thank God that this has happened in my house.’

  We had no doubts as to the consequences and already considered our new comrade a dead man. The officer left, declaring that he was ready to answer for the insult whenever it suited the gentleman holding the bank. We continued playing for a few minutes longer but, feeling that our host was no longer in the mood for cards, we withdrew one after the other and departed to our quarters, talking about the imminent vacancy in the regiment.

  Next day, at riding-school, we were already asking each other if the poor lieutenant was still alive, when suddenly he appeared. We asked him the very same question. He replied that as yet he had had no word from Silvio. This astonished us. We went to Silvio’s and found him in the courtyard, firing one bullet after another at an ace glued to the gate. He greeted us as usual, without saying a word about the incident of the previous evening. Three days passed and the lieutenant was still alive. Could it be possible, we asked in amazement, that Silvio was not going to fight? Silvio did not fight. He was satisfied with a very flimsy apology and made peace with the officer.

  This did him enormous harm in the eyes of the young men. Lack of courage is the last thing to be excused by young people, who normally see valour as the summit of human virtue and as an excuse for every imaginable vice. Gradually, however, the whole affair was forgotten and Silvio regained his former influence.

  I alone could no longer treat him on the same terms as before. Having a romantic imagination, I had become more attached than anyone else to this man, whose life was an enigma and who struck me as the hero of some mysterious tale. He was fond of me; at least, with me alone did he abandon his habitual sarcastic tone and converse about various subjects in a frank and unusually agreeable manner. But after that unfortunate evening, the thought that his honour had been stained and had remained uncleansed through his own fault would not leave me and prevented me from associating with him as before; I felt ashamed to look at him. Silvio was too intelligent and experienced not to notice this and not to guess the reason. It seemed to upset him; at least, on one or two occasions I could see that he wanted to explain everything to me. But I avoided such opportunities and Silvio did not keep company with me any longer. Subsequently I saw him only in the presence of other officers and our former frank conversations came to an end.

  Those who live among the distractions of the capital can have no conception of the many sensations so familiar to inhabitants of villages or small towns – for example, waiting for the day when the mail arrives. On Tuesdays and Fridays our regimental office would be packed with officers, some expecting money, others letters or newspapers. Letters were usually opened on the spot, items of news exchanged and the office presented the liveliest of scenes. Silvio, whose letters were addressed to our regiment, was usually there. One day he received a letter whose seal he tore off with a look of the utmost impatience. His eyes gleamed as he ran through its contents. The other officers were too engrossed with their own letters to notice anything.

  ‘Gentlemen,’ Silvio told them, ‘circumstances demand my immediate departure. I am leaving tonight. I hope that you will not refuse to dine with me for the last time. And I shall expect you too,’ he added, turning to me. ‘I shall expect you without fail.’

  With these words he left in a hurry; after agreeing to meet at Silvio’s the rest of us went our various ways.

  I arrived there at the appointed time and found almost the entire regiment there. All his belongings were already packed. There remained only those bare, bullet-riddled walls. We sat down at the table. Our host was in exceptionally high spirits and before long his gaiety infected us all. Corks constantly popped, glasses foamed and hissed incessantly. With the utmost fervour we wished our departing host a safe journey and good fortune. It was late in the evening when we rose from the table. As we were sorting out our caps Silvio, who was bidding each of us farewell, took me by the arm and stopped me just as I was about to leave.

  ‘I must have a word with you,’ he said softly. I stayed behind.

  The guests had all departed; the two of us were left alone, and we sat opposite each other and lit our pipes in silence. Silvio seemed very anxious; not a trace was left of that feverish gaiety. His grim pallor, his flashing eyes and the dense smoke issuing from his mouth made him look like the Devil incarnate. Several minutes passed and then Silvio broke the silence.

  ‘We shall probably never meet again,’ he told me, ‘but before we part I would like to have a few words with you. You may have noticed that I care little for other people’s opinion of me; but I like you and it would be painful for me to leave you with a false impression.’

  He stopped and started refilling his pipe. I said nothing and looked down at the floor.

  ‘You found it strange,’ he continued, ‘that I did not demand satisfaction from that drunken madcap R **. You will agree that, as I had the choice of weapons, his life was in my hands, while my own was in virtually no danger whatsoever. I could well ascribe my restraint to magnanimity alone, but I do not wish to lie. Had I been able to punish R** without risking my own life I would not have pa
rdoned him for anything.’

  I looked at Silvio in astonishment. Such a confession took me completely aback. Silvio continued,

  ‘That’s the precise truth: I have no right to put my life in danger. Six years ago I received a slap in the face and my enemy is still alive.’

  My curiosity was greatly aroused.

  ‘Did you not fight him?’ I replied. ‘Circumstances kept you apart, I suppose.’

  ‘I did fight him,’ Silvio replied, ‘and here is a souvenir of our duel.’

  Silvio stood up and took from a cardboard box a braided red cap with a gold tassel (the sort the French call bonnet de police). He put it on; a bullet had pierced it about two inches above the forehead.

  ‘You know,’ Silvio continued, ‘that I used to serve in the *** hussar regiment. You know all about my character. I’m accustomed to taking first place in everything, but since I was young it has been a veritable passion with me. In our times wild behaviour was all the rage, and I was the wildest officer in the whole army. We would boast of our drinking-bouts – once I outdrank the famous Burtsov, of whom Denis Davydov sang in his poetry.3 In our regiment duels were a regular occurrence: in all of them I was either witness or participant. My comrades idolized me, but the regimental commanders, who were constantly being replaced, looked upon me as a necessary evil.

  ‘I was calmly (or not so calmly) basking in my reputation, when a young man from a rich and noble family joined the regiment (I do not want to mention his name). Never in my life had I met such a brilliant child of fortune. Picture for yourself – youth, intelligence, good looks, the most unbridled gaiety, the most reckless courage, a distinguished name, more money than he could count and of which he was never short – and you can gauge the impression he was bound to make on us. My supremacy was shaken. Fascinated by my reputation, he started seeking my friendship; but I treated him coldly and so, without the least regret, he avoided me. I came to hate him. His successes in the regiment and in female company reduced me to despair. I began to pick quarrels with him. To my epigrams he replied with epigrams that always struck me as more spontaneous and sharper than my own and which, needless to add, were infinitely more amusing: he jested while I fumed. Finally, at a ball given by a Polish landowner, when I saw that he was the centre of attention of all the ladies, particularly of the hostess herself, with whom I was having an affair, I whispered some crude insult in his ear. He flushed and slapped my face. We reached for our sabres; the ladies fainted; we were dragged apart, but that same night we rode out to fight.