As we approached the commandant’s house, we saw about twenty old soldiers standing to attention on a small square; they had their hair in long pigtails and were wearing three-cornered hats.[6] The commandant, a tall vigorous-looking old man in a nightcap and a cotton dressing gown, stood facing them. Seeing us, he came over, said a few words of welcome to me, and returned to drilling his men. We would have stopped to watch, but he asked us to go on in, promising to join us soon. “There’s nothing to see here,” he added.
Vasilisa Yegorovna welcomed us with simple cordiality, as if she had known me all my life. The old soldier and Palashka were laying the table. “What’s keeping my Ivan Kuzmich? Why’s he spending so long with his men today?” asked Vasilisa Yegorovna. “Palashka, call the master to dinner! And where’s Masha gone?” Just then a young woman came into the room. She looked about eighteen and she had a round rosy face; her light brown hair was combed smoothly back behind her ears, which were very pink. At first I was not especially taken with her. But I was seeing her through prejudiced eyes; Shvabrin had spoken of Masha, the captain’s daughter, as a complete simpleton. She sat down in a corner and began to sew. Then the cabbage soup was brought in. Seeing no sign of her husband, Vasilisa Yegorovna dispatched Palashka a second time. “Tell the master,” she said, “that his guests are waiting and that the soup will get cold. There’ll be time enough, thank the Lord, for him to bellow at his men. They won’t disappear.” Soon after this, the captain at last came in, accompanied by the one-eyed old man. “What’s going on, sir?” asked his wife. “The soup’s been on the table for ages, but you seem to have gone quite deaf.” “Vasilisa Yegorovna!” replied Ivan Kuzmich. “I do have my duties, yes indeed! I was drilling my old boys.” “Drilling your old boys!” replied his wife. “They’re never going to learn anything about soldiering—and anyway, dear sir, you have barely a clue yourself. You’d do better to stay at home and pray to God. Dear guests, please come to the table.”
We sat down to dinner. Vasilisa Yegorovna did not stop talking for a single moment. She showered me with questions: who were my parents? were they still alive? where did they live? what were their circumstances? On learning that my father had three hundred serfs, [7] she said, “Well, fancy that! Who’d have thought there are people in the world with such wealth? And we, dear sir, have only our one maid, Palashka. Still, thank the Lord, we manage to make ends meet. Our only sorrow is Masha: the girl should be marrying by now, but what does she have for a dowry? A fine-tooth comb, a besom broom and a three-kopek coin (God forgive me!) so she can go to the bathhouse. All very well if a good man comes her way, but otherwise she’ll remain an old maid till kingdom come.” I glanced at Maria Ivanovna. She was blushing profusely; there were even tears dropping onto her plate. I felt sorry for her and hurriedly changed the subject. “I’ve heard,” I remarked somewhat randomly, “that the Bashkirs [8] are planning to attack your fortress.” “Who did you hear that from, sir?” asked Ivan Kuzmich. “It’s what I was told in Orenburg,” I replied. “Stuff and nonsense!” said Ivan Kuzmich. “We haven’t heard so much as a whisper from them. The Bashkirs are a frightened lot, and we’ve put the wind up the Kirghiz [9] too. None of them will be sniffing around here in a hurry—and if they do, I’ll give them a lesson that will put the fear of God into them for the next ten years.” “But are you not afraid,” I said, turning to Vasilisa Yegorovna, “to remain in a fortress exposed to such dangers?” “You get used to it, good sir,” she replied. “Twenty years ago, when we were first transferred here from the regiment, God alone knows how scared I was of those accursed heathens. I’d only have to glimpse their lynx-fur caps or hear their yells and, believe me, my heart would stand still! But now, dear sir, I hardly bat an eyelid if someone reports that the villains are prowling around the fortress.”
“Vasilisa Yegorovna is a lady of exceptional courage,” Shvabrin declared gravely. “Ivan Kuzmich can testify to that.”
“Yes indeed,” said Ivan Kuzmich, “the woman’s no faint-heart.”
“And Maria Ivanovna?” I asked Vasilisa Yegorovna. “Is she as brave as you are?”
“Is Masha brave?” answered her mother. “No, Masha’s a coward. Even a rifle shot still makes her go all of a tremble. A couple of years ago, on my name day, [10] Ivan Kuzmich took it into his head to fire a shot from our cannon—and the poor darling nearly died of fright. Since then we haven’t once dared fire the damned thing.”
We got up from table. The captain and his wife retired to their room for a nap; Shvabrin and I returned to his quarters and I spent the rest of the day with him.
4. THE DUEL
Since you’ve insulted me, or I have you,
You’ll soon be seeing me run your body through.
—KNYAZHNIN [1]
SEVERAL weeks passed by and my life in the fortress grew not only bearable but even enjoyable. I was received in the commandant’s house as one of the family. Both Ivan Kuzmich and his wife were the worthiest of people. Ivan Kuzmich, a soldier’s son who had risen from the ranks, was simple and uneducated but extremely honest and kind. His wife ruled him, and this suited his easy-going disposition. Vasilisa Yegorovna made no distinction between military and domestic affairs and ran the fortress exactly as she managed her home. Maria Ivanovna soon stopped being shy with me. We became better acquainted. I found her both sensible and sensitive. Without noticing it, I grew attached to this kind family and even to Ivan Ignatich, the one-eyed garrison lieutenant who, according to Shvabrin, was pursuing an illicit liaison with Vasilisa Yegorovna. That this was supremely implausible seemed not to trouble Shvabrin in the least.
I received my commission. My military duties were not burdensome. God smiled on our fortress; there was no sentry duty there, nor were there regular drills or parades.[2] When the fancy took him, Ivan Kuzmich would have a go at drilling his soldiers, but he had not yet managed to get them all to tell left from right, even though a fair number of them, afraid of making a mistake, used to cross themselves before each about-turn. Shvabrin owned a number of French books. I began reading them, and I developed an interest in literature. In the mornings I would read, do exercises in translation, and occasionally even compose verses. I almost always had lunch at the commandant’s and I usually spent the rest of the day there; some evenings Father Gerasim would also come round, accompanied by his wife, Akulina Pamfilovna, the leading local gossip. Alexey Ivanovich Shvabrin, of course, I saw every day, but his conversation was becoming more and more distasteful to me. I disliked his constant jokes at the expense of the commandant’s family, and especially his caustic remarks about Maria Ivanovna. There was no other society in the fortress—and no other I wished for.
Despite predictions, the Bashkirs showed no sign of unrest. Everywhere round about was peaceful. But this peace was suddenly disrupted by internal strife.
I have already mentioned my interest in literature. By the standards of the time my efforts were fairly creditable; a few years later, Alexandr Petrovich Sumarokov [3] was to accord them high praise. One day I managed to write a little song that I was quite pleased with. As everyone knows, authors sometimes pretend to be asking advice when what they really want is a sympathetic listener. I copied out my song and took it to Shvabrin, the only person in the fortress able to appreciate poetry. After a few preliminary remarks, I took my exercise book from my pocket and read him these lines:
From lovely Masha I must flee,
No thought of love dare I confess,
For never may my heart be free
While I look on her loveliness.
But the eyes that first enchanted
Shine before me night and day.
By those lights this heart is haunted;
All sleep, all peace, they drive away.
Now that I have told my anguish,
Dearest Masha, show compassion;
Or forever must I languish
In the grip of hopeless passion.
“What do you think?” I asked, expecting praise a
s my rightful due. But Shvabrin, usually an indulgent critic, firmly declared that my song was no good.
“Why?” I asked, trying to hide my annoyance.
“Because lines like that could have been written by my teacher, Vasily Kirillich Tredyakovsky.[4] They strongly remind me of his love poems.”
He took my exercise book and began picking apart every line and every word, mocking me mercilessly and sarcastically. This was more than I could bear; I snatched back my book and said I would never again show him my verses so long as I lived. Shvabrin laughed. “We shall see,” he said, “whether or not you can keep your word. Bards need listeners, just as Ivan Kuzmich needs a glass or two of vodka before dinner. And who is this Masha to whom you are declaring your tender passion and lovesick plight? It isn’t by any chance Maria Ivanovna, is it?”
“That’s none of your business,” I said angrily. “I need neither your opinion of my verses, nor any other of your conjectures.”
“Aha! A proud bard and a discreet lover,” Shvabrin went on, irritating me more every minute. “But take a friend’s advice: to succeed, you need more than songs.”
“What do you mean, sir? Be so kind as to explain yourself!”
“Gladly. I mean that, if you desire Masha Mironova to come and visit you after dark, you should present her not with tender verses but with a pair of earrings.”
“And what makes you think that?” I asked. I could hardly restrain myself; my blood was boiling.
“Because I know what she’s like,” he said with a diabolical grin. “I know from experience.”
“You’re lying!” I exclaimed furiously. “You’re a shameless liar.”
Shvabrin paled. “I can’t let that pass,” he said, gripping my arm. “I demand satisfaction.”
“Certainly. Whenever you wish!” I replied. I was delighted; at that moment I could have torn him limb from limb.
I went straight to Ivan Ignatich, whom I found holding a darning needle; Vasilisa Yegorovna had entrusted him with the task of threading mushrooms so they could be dried for the winter. “Ah, Pyotr Andreich!” he said. “Welcome! But why has God sent you here, may I ask? What can I do for you?” After briefly explaining that Alexey Ivanich and I had quarrelled, I requested Ivan Ignatich to act as my second. Ivan Ignatich listened, eying me intently with his one eye. “So what you are so kindly telling me,” he replied, “is that you want to run Alexey Ivanich through and that you would like me to witness this? Is that so, may I ask?”
“Exactly so.”
“Lord have mercy, Pyotr Andreich! What on earth’s got into you? So you’ve quarrelled with Alexey Ivanich! What of it? Words don’t break bones. If he curses you—curse him back. If he thumps you on the nose—thump him round the ear. When you’ve both had enough, leave it to us—we can help the two of you to make up. But as for running a sword through your neighbor! What good, may I ask, can come of that? And who’s to say you will run a sword through Alexey Ivanich? That would be no great loss—I’m not so very fond of the man myself. But what if he runs a sword through you? How, may I ask, will that look? Who’ll look a dunderhead then?”
The good sense of the old lieutenant did not sway me. I stood by my decision.
“As you wish,” said Ivan Ignatich. “Do as you think fit. But why do you want me there? Why should I have to be a witness? Do you think I haven’t seen enough of men fighting? I’ve fought the Swedes, and I’ve fought the Turks.[5] Praise be to God, I’ve seen more than enough of men scrapping.”
As best I could, I explained to him the duties of a second, but Ivan Ignatich simply could not understand me. “Do as you wish,” he said, “but the only part I can play in this business is to go to the commandant as my duty requires, report that a wicked deed, a deed injurious to the interests of the state, is being plotted here, and ask if he wishes to take appropriate measures.”[6]
I took fright and begged Ivan Ignatich not to say anything to Ivan Kuzmich. It was only with great difficulty that I got him to give me his word. After that, I decided to let him be.
I spent the evening, as usual, at the commandant’s. I tried to appear cheerful and nonchalant, so as to avoid bothersome questions and not give grounds for suspicion. I must admit, however, that I felt none of the sangfroid of which men in my situation usually boast. That evening I felt tender and loving. I found Maria Ivanovna more appealing than ever. The thought that I might be seeing her for the last time made everything about her seem especially touching. Shvabrin called round too. I took him aside and told him about my conversation with Ivan Ignatich. “What do we want seconds for?” he replied drily. “We can do without them.” We agreed to fight behind the hayricks not far from the fortress and to meet there between six and seven the following morning. Our manner seemed so cordial that Ivan Ignatich, in his delight, very nearly gave us away. “And about time too!” he said with a pleased look. “A bad peace is better than a good quarrel, and a hale body is worth more than honor.”
“What was that, Ivan Ignatich?” said Vasilisa Yegorovna, who was sitting in the corner, telling fortunes with a pack of cards. “I didn’t quite hear.”
Seeing my irritation and remembering his promise, Ivan Ignatich became flustered. He was clearly lost for words. Shvabrin came to his rescue.
“Ivan Ignatich,” he said, “approves of our reconciliation.”
“And who have you been quarrelling with, sir?”
“Pyotr Andreich and I almost had quite a serious quarrel.”
“What about?”
“It was about the merest trifle, Vasilisa Yegorovna. It was over a song.”
“What a thing to quarrel over! A song! How come?”
“Well, not long ago Pyotr Andreich composed a little ditty. And when he began singing it to me today, I joined in with one of my favorites:
Captain’s daughter, stay at home!
In the moonlight do not roam!
We had a difference of opinion. Pyotr Andreich got very angry, but then he realized that everyone is free to sing what he likes. And that was the end of it.”
Shvabrins’s brazenness enraged me, but I seemed to be alone in understanding his coarse insinuations; no one else, at any rate, was paying them any attention. From songs the conversation turned to poets, and Ivan Kuzmich observed that they were a wayward lot—fearful drunkards, every one of them. He counselled me to give up writing verses, saying this was a pastime that interferes with your military duties and never leads to anything good.
I found Shvabrin’s presence unbearable. I soon took my leave of Ivan Kuzmich and his family. Back at my quarters I examined my sword, tried its point, and told Savelich to wake me soon after six o’clock.
The next morning, at the appointed hour, I was standing behind the hayricks. My adversary did not make me wait long. “Someone might see us,” he said, “so let’s not waste time.” We took off our jackets and, wearing trousers and waistcoats, drew our swords. At that moment, from behind one of the hayricks, there appeared Ivan Ignatich and five old soldiers. He ordered us to the commandant’s. Sullenly we obeyed; escorted by the soldiers, we walked back towards the fortress. Ivan Ignatich strode ahead of us with an air of triumph.
We entered the commandant’s house. Ivan Ignatich opened the door and announced solemnly, “Here they are!” We were met by Vasilisa Yegorovna. “Goodness me! Whatever next, my good men? Really! What is all this? Plotting murder here in our fortress! Ivan Kuzmich! Have them arrested immediately! Pyotr Andreich! Alexey Ivanich! Hand over your swords! Hand them over at once! Palashka, take these swords to the storeroom! Pyotr Andreich! I didn’t expect this of you. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? It’s all very well for Alexey Ivanich: he was discharged from the Guards for committing a murder and he doesn’t believe in the Lord God. But you! You should know better! Or are you planning to follow in his footsteps?”
Ivan Kuzmich, of course, agreed with his wife. He kept repeating, “Yes indeed, Vasilisa Yegorovna is right. Dueling is expressly forbidden by the Code of War
Articles.” Meanwhile, Palashka took our swords and put them away in the storeroom. I could not help laughing. Shvabrin maintained his air of self-importance. “With all due respect,” he said coolly to Vasilisa Yegorovna, “I cannot but remark that, by appointing yourself as our judge, you are putting yourself to unnecessary trouble. Leave this matter to Ivan Kuzmich. It is for him to decide what to do.” “But my dear sir,” Vasilisa Yegorovna retorted, “are not husband and wife one flesh? Ivan Kuzmich! Don’t just stand there gaping! Lock them up at once, in different ends of the house. And keep them on bread and water till they come to their senses. And have Father Gerasim impose a penance on them, so they pray God for forgiveness and show themselves repentant before their fellow men!”
Ivan Kuzmich did not know what to do. Maria Ivanovna had gone very pale. Little by little the storm abated; Vasilisa Yegorovna calmed down and made me and Shvabrin embrace and kiss. Palashka brought back our swords. We left the commandant’s house apparently reconciled. Ivan Ignatich went with us. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” I said to him angrily, “reporting us to the commandant after you’d given your word not to!” “As God is my witness, I never spoke to Ivan Kuzmich,” he said. “Vasilisa Yegorovna wheedled it all out of me. She arranged everything without Ivan Kuzmich knowing a thing. Anyway, thank God it’s all ended the way it has.” With these words he turned off towards his home, and Shvabrin and I were left alone. “We can’t leave it at that,” I said to him. “Certainly not,” said Shvabrin, “you will pay in blood for your insolence. But they’ll be keeping an eye on us; for the moment we must pretend to have made it up. Goodbye!” And we parted as if nothing were amiss.
The Captain's Daughter Page 4
