The Captain's Daughter

by Alexander Pushkin

  I went back to the commandant’s and sat down, as I often did, beside Maria Ivanovna. Ivan Kuzmich was out; Vasilisa Yegorovna was busy about the house. We spoke very quietly. Maria Ivanovna tenderly reproached me for the anxiety I had occasioned them all. “I almost fainted,” she said, “when we heard that the two of you were going to fight with swords. How strange men are! For a single word, which they would probably forget in a week anyway, they are ready to kill one another and to sacrifice not only their lives but also their consciences and the happiness of those who . . . But I’m sure it wasn’t you who began the quarrel. It must have been Alexey Ivanich.”

  “What makes you think that, Maria Ivanovna?”

  “Oh, I don’t know . . . He’s always sneering. I don’t like Alexey Ivanich. I don’t like him at all; and yet, strange to say, I should be very sorry if I thought he disliked me. That would upset me dreadfully.”

  “And what do you think, Maria Ivanovna? Does he like you?”

  Maria Ivanovna blushed.

  “I believe,” she said hesitantly, “that he does.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he once asked for my hand.”

  “He . . . he asked for your hand? When?”

  “Last year. About two months before you came here.”

  “And you refused?”

  “Yes, as you can see. Alexey Ivanich is a clever man, of course, and he’s wealthy and from a good family—but when I think of having to kiss him beneath the bridal crowns, [7] in front of all those people . . . No, not for anything in the world!”

  Maria Ivanovna’s words explained a great deal. I could see now what lay behind Shvabrin’s relentless jibes; he must have noticed our mutual attraction and been trying to turn us against each other. The words that had led to our quarrel seemed all the viler now that I understood them not as coarse jests but as deliberate slander. I wanted more than ever to punish Shvabrin for his evil tongue; I could hardly wait for an opportunity.

  I did not have to wait long. The next day, as I was composing an elegy, biting my pen in the hope of finding a rhyme, Shvabrin came and tapped on the wall just beneath my window. I put down my pen, took my sword, and went out to join him. “Why wait any longer?” he asked. “We’re not being watched. Let’s go down to the river. No one will interfere with us there.” We set off in silence. After climbing down a steep little path, we stopped by the very edge of the river and drew our swords. Shvabrin was the better swordsman, but I was stronger and bolder and I was able to make good use of the fencing lessons I had once had from Monsieur Beaupré. Shvabrin had clearly not expected me to be such a dangerous opponent. For a long time neither of us was able to inflict any injury upon the other; at last, realizing that Shvabrin was weakening, I began to advance on him energetically and almost drove him into the river. Just then I heard someone calling my name. I looked round and saw Savelich running down the path towards me. At that moment I felt a sharp pain in my chest, just below my right shoulder; I fell to the ground and passed out.

  5. LOVE

  Maiden, maiden, pretty maiden,

  Do not marry yet.

  Ask your father, ask your mother;

  Ask your parents, ask your kinsfolk.

  Gather sense, gather wisdom;

  There’s no richer dowry.

  —FOLK SONG

  If you find someone better—you’ll forget me.

  Find someone worse—you’ll remember me.

  —FOLK SONG

  WHEN I regained consciousness, it took me some time to understand where I was or what had happened to me. I was lying in bed in a strange room, feeling extremely weak. Savelich was standing nearby, a candle in his hand. Someone was carefully unwinding bandages from around my chest and shoulder. Gradually my thoughts cleared. I remembered the duel and realized I must have been wounded. Just then the door creaked. “Well, how is he?” whispered a voice that made me tremble. “Still the same,” Savelich answered with a sigh. “Still unconscious, and this is the fifth day.” I tried to turn my head but couldn’t. “Where am I? Who’s there?” I managed to say. Maria Ivanovna came up to the bed and bent over me. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “I’m well, thank God,” I answered in a weak voice. “Oh, Maria Ivanovna, is it you? Tell me . . .” I was too weak to go on. “Ah!” exclaimed Savelich. His face lit up with joy. “He’s come round! He’s come round!” he repeated. “The Lord be praised! Oh Pyotr Andreich! What a fright you gave me! Just think—almost five whole days.” Maria Ivanovna interrupted him. “Don’t talk to him too much, Savelich. He’s still weak.” She went out and quietly closed the door behind her. My thoughts were in turmoil. I was evidently in the commandant’s house. Maria Ivanovna had been coming in to see me. There were several things I wanted to ask Savelich, but the old man shook his head and put his hands over his ears. Irritated by this, I closed my eyes and soon fell asleep.

  When I awoke I called Savelich, but Maria Ivanovna had taken his place; I was greeted by her angelic voice. I know no words for the feeling of sweetness that came over me. I seized her hand and pressed it against my face, bathing it in tears of love. Masha did not withdraw her hand . . . and then her lips touched my cheek in a fresh, ardent kiss. Fire ran through me. “Sweet, kind Maria Ivanovna,” I said, “be my wife, agree to make me happy.” She remembered herself. “For the love of God, calm down!” she said, removing her hand. “You’re still in danger. Your wound might reopen. Take care of yourself, if only for my sake.” With these words she went out. I was overcome. Happiness brought me back to life. She was going to be mine. She loved me. This thought filled my whole being.

  From that moment I grew stronger by the hour. The regimental barber—there being no other doctor in the fortress—treated my wound, and fortunately he did not try to be clever. Youth and nature hastened my recovery. I was attended by the whole of the commandant’s household. Maria Ivanovna hardly left my side. Naturally I took the first opportunity to resume my interrupted declaration of love; this time Maria Ivanovna heard me out. She acknowledged her feelings for me without the least coyness and said that her parents would be delighted for her. “But what about your parents?” she went on. “Don’t you think they might make difficulties?”

  I pondered this. I had no anxieties with regard to my mother but, knowing my father as I did, I thought it unlikely that he would be especially moved by my love; he would look on it as youthful folly. I said as much to Maria Ivanovna but made up my mind, nevertheless, to write to Father as eloquently as I could and ask for his blessing. I showed the letter to Maria Ivanovna, who found it so deeply moving that she was unable to doubt its success; with all the trustfulness of youth and love she gave herself over to the feelings of her tender heart.

  I made up with Shvabrin during the first days of my convalescence; Ivan Kuzmich reprimanded me for the duel and said, “Pyotr Andreich! Really I should put you under arrest, but you’ve been punished enough as it is. But I’m keeping Alexey Ivanich under guard in the grain store, and Vasilisa Yegorovna has his sword under lock and key. Let him have time to think and discover the error of his ways!” Too happy to feel ill will, I interceded on Shvabrin’s behalf, and the kindhearted commandant, after obtaining his wife’s consent, resolved to set him free. Shvabrin came to see me. He expressed deep regret; he admitted that he had been entirely in the wrong and asked me to forget all that had happened between us. Not being one to bear grudges, I sincerely forgave him both for our quarrel and for my wound. Ascribing his slander to bruised vanity and unrequited love, I magnanimously pardoned my unhappy rival.

  I soon made a complete recovery and was able to move back to my quarters. Not daring to hope and trying to stifle my gloomy forebodings, I anxiously awaited an answer to my letter. I had not yet spoken to Vasilisa Yegorovna and her husband, but my proposal was hardly likely to surprise them. Neither Maria Ivanovna nor I concealed our feelings from them and we were confident of their consent.

  One morning, Savelich finally came in with a letter in his hand. My
heart racing, I snatched it from him. The address was in Father’s hand. This prepared me for something important; it was usually Mother who wrote to me, with Father merely adding a few lines at the end. For some time, leaving the seal unbroken, I read and reread the solemn and formal inscription: To my son, Pyotr Andreich Grinyov, at Fort Belogorsk in the Province of Orenburg. I tried to divine from the handwriting the mood in which the letter had been written. At last I braced myself to open it. It was clear from the first lines that all was lost. Here is what Father wrote:

  My son, Pyotr!

  On the 15th of this month we received your letter in which you ask for our parental blessing and consent to your marriage with Maria Ivanovna, the Mironov girl. Not only have I no intention of giving you either my blessing or my consent, but I also intend to take you in hand and punish you for your pranks, like a small boy; for in spite of your officer’s rank you have shown that you are not yet worthy to bear a sword entrusted to you for the defense of your fatherland and not for dueling with other young hotheads like yourself. I shall write forthwith to Andrey Karlovich, requesting him to transfer you to somewhere a good many miles from Fort Belogorsk, where you will forget this folly and come to your senses. Your dear mother, on learning of your duel and your wound, fell ill with grief and still keeps to her bed. What will become of you? I pray God that you will mend your ways, although I dare not trust in His great mercy.

  Your Father, A.G.

  This letter aroused several feelings in me. I was wounded by the harsh expressions Father used so freely. His contemptuous tone with regard to Maria Ivanovna seemed to me as improper as it was unjust. The thought of being transferred from the fortress appalled me, but what distressed me more than anything was the news of Mother’s illness. I felt indignant with Savelich; I had no doubt that it was he who had informed my parents of the duel. I paced up and down my cramped room for a while, stopped, gave him a fierce look and said, “So it’s not enough for you to have been the cause of a wound that kept me at death’s door for an entire month. Now you want to finish off my mother as well.” Savelich was thunderstruck. “For pity’s sake, sir!” he said, almost starting to sob. “Me the cause of your wound! As God is my witness, I was running to shield you with my own body from Alexey Ivanich’s sword. It was only my age—damn it—that made me too slow. But what have I done to your mother?” “What have you done?” I replied. “Who asked you to inform on me? Were you sent here to spy on me?” “To spy on you!” exclaimed Savelich, with tears in his eyes. “Dear God Almighty! Please read what the master has written to me. See for yourself what kind of spy I am!” He took a letter out of his pocket, and I read:

  You should be ashamed of yourself, you dog, for not keeping me informed about my son, Pyotr, in spite of my strict injunctions, and for leaving it to strangers to notify me of his pranks. Is this the way you carry out your duty and the will of your master? I’ll send you out to herd swine, you dog, for concealment of the truth and abetting my son in his youthful folly. On receipt of this letter, I command you to write back instantly with an account of his health, which I am told has improved, and to tell me where exactly he was wounded and whether he has received proper treatment.

  It was clear that Savelich was innocent and that I had done him an injustice. I begged his forgiveness but the old man was inconsolable. “That I should live to see this!” he said again and again. “That this should be the thanks I get from my masters! An old dog, am I, and a swineherd—and now I’m the cause of your wound as well? No, Pyotr Andreich! No, sir, it’s not me but that accursed Monseer who’s to blame. He was the one who taught you to prod people with iron spits and to stamp your feet, as if prodding and stamping could protect you from an evil man! So much for throwing away good money on some damned Monseer!”

  Who then had informed my father? The general? But the general did not seem especially concerned about me and, in any case, Ivan Kuzmich had not thought it necessary to report the duel. For a while I didn’t know what to think. Then I decided it must have been Shvabrin. There was no one else who might gain from my being sent away from the fortress and separated from the commandant’s family. I went off to tell everything to Maria Ivanovna. She met me on the porch. “Whatever’s the matter with you?” she said at once. “How pale you look!” “All is lost,” I said and gave her the letter. She went pale too. After reading the letter, she gave it back to me with a trembling hand and said in a trembling voice, “It is clearly not meant to be. Your dear ones don’t want me to be one of the family. God’s will be done in all things! The Lord knows what is best for us. There’s nothing we can do, Pyotr Andreich. May you at least be happy.” “No!” I cried, seizing her hand. “You love me, and I’m ready for anything. We can throw ourselves at your parents’ feet. They are simple people, not stonyhearted and proud. They’ll give us their blessing; we’ll marry. And in the end Father will hear our entreaties; yes, Mother will take our side and Father will forgive me.” “No, Pyotr Andreich,” Masha replied. “I will not marry you without your parents’ blessing. Without it you will not be happy. Let us submit to God’s will. If you find a wife, if you come to love another, God be with you, Pyotr Andreich, I’ll remember you in my . . .” She burst into tears and moved away from me; I almost followed her inside but, sensing that I was in no state to control my feelings, I returned to my quarters.

  I was sitting in my room, deep in thought, when Savelich interrupted me. “Here, sir,” he said, handing me a sheet of paper. “See if I am someone who spies on his master and tries to cause strife between father and son.” I took the sheet from his hands; it was his reply to the letter he had received. Here it is, word for word:

  Andrey Petrovich, Sir, Our Gracious Father!

  I have received your gracious letter, in which it pleased you to be angry with me, your serf, and say that I should be ashamed of myself for not carrying out my master’s orders. But I am not a dog but your faithful servant, and I do obey my master’s instructions and I have always served you faithfully and my hair has gone grey in your service. I did not write to you concerning Pyotr Andreich’s wound so as not to scare you in vain; and I hear now that the mistress, our dear mother Avdotya Vasilievna, has been taken ill with fright, and I shall pray to God for her health. Pyotr Andreich was wounded beneath the right shoulder, in the chest, just below the bone, and the wound was about two and a half inches deep, and he was put to bed in the commandant’s house, where we carried him from the riverbank and where he was treated by our barber, Stepan Paromonov; and now Pyotr Andreich, the Lord be praised, is in good health and there is nothing but good to be said of him. His superior officers, I hear, are pleased with him, and he is like a son to Vasilisa Yegorovna. And as for what has passed, do not blame the young man; a horse has four legs, yet it stumbles. And if it please you, as you wrote, to send me to herd swine, may your lordly will be carried out in this respect too. Herewith I bow down humbly before you.

  Your faithful serf, Arkhip Savelievich.

  There were several times, as I read the kind old man’s letter, that I couldn’t help smiling. I was in no state to answer Father myself; and Savelich’s letter was enough, I felt, to allay Mother’s anxiety.

  From that day on everything changed. Maria Ivanovna hardly spoke to me and did her best to avoid me. I found it painful to visit the commandant’s house. Gradually I accustomed myself to sitting alone in my quarters. At first Vasilisa Yegorovna chided me for this but, seeing my determination, she left me in peace. I saw Ivan Kuzmich only when duty required it. I met Shvabrin rarely, and with reluctance, all the more so because I sensed in him a veiled hostility that confirmed my suspicions. My life became unbearable to me. I sank into a state of gloomy brooding, exacerbated by loneliness and inactivity. In solitude my love blazed all the more fiercely and became ever more of a torment. I lost the desire to read or write. I felt broken. I feared I should either go mad or fall into dissolute ways. But then unexpected events, which were to have a profound effect on my entire life, gave my
soul a powerful and salutary shock.

  6. THE PUGACHOV REBELLION

  Listen, young men, listen well

  To what we old folk have to tell.

  —SONG [1]

  BEFORE recounting the strange events to which I was a witness, I need to say a few words about the situation in the province of Orenburg towards the end of the year 1773.

  This large, rich province was inhabited by a number of half-wild peoples who had only recently come under Russian sovereignty. Their repeated uprisings and their unfamiliarity with laws and civic life meant that the government had to keep constant watch over them if it was not to lose control. Fortresses were built in strategic positions, and these fortresses were garrisoned for the main part by the Cossacks who had lived for many years on the banks of the Yaik. But the Yaik Cossacks whose duty it was to guard the peace and security of these parts were far from peaceable themselves; they too had for some time posed a threat to the government. In 1772 an insurrection had broken out in their biggest town. Its cause was the severity of the measures taken by Major General Traubenberg in order to bring the Cossacks to heel; what it led to was the barbarous slaughter of Traubenberg and a coup within the Cossack administration.[2] The revolt was put down by cannon shot and harsh reprisals.

  All this had happened some time before I was posted to Fort Belogorsk. By then everything seemed quiet; the authorities, however, had been too ready to accept the apparent repentance of the wily rebels. They were nursing their anger in secret and waiting only for the right opportunity to foment more trouble.