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  “Is it far to the fortress?” I asked the driver.

  “No, not far,” he answered; “it’s over there, you can see it.”

  I looked from side to side, expecting to see menacing battlements, towers, and a rampart, but saw nothing except a village surrounded by a log fence. On one side of it stood three or four haystacks, half covered with snow, on another a tumbledown windmill with wings of bark that hung idle.

  “But where is the fortress?” I asked in surprise.

  “Why here,” answered the driver, pointing to the village, and as he spoke we drove into it.

  At the gate I saw an old cannon made of cast iron; the streets were narrow and crooked, the cottages low and, for the most part, with thatched roofs. I told the driver to take me to the Commandant’s, and in another minute the chaise stopped before a wooden house built upon rising ground close to a church, also made of wood.

  No one came out to meet me. I walked into the entry and opened the door into the anteroom. An old soldier was sitting on the table, sewing a blue patch on the sleeve of a green uniform. I asked him to announce me.

  “Go in, my dear,” he said, “our people are at home.”

  I stepped into a clean little room, furnished in the old-fashioned style. In the corner stood a cupboard full of crockery; an officer’s diploma in a frame under glass hung on the wall; colored prints, representing “The Taking of Ochakoff and Küstrin,” “The Choosing of a Bride,” and “The Cat’s Funeral,” made bright patches on each side of it. An elderly lady, dressed in a Russian jacket† and with a kerchief on her head, was sitting by the window. She was winding yarn which a one-eyed man in an officer’s uniform held for her on his outstretched hands.

  “What is your pleasure, sir?” she asked me, going on with her work.

  I answered that I had come to serve in the army, and thought it my duty to present myself to the Captain, and with these words I turned to the one-eyed old man whom I took to be the Commandant, but the lady of the house interrupted the speech I had prepared.

  “Ivan Kuzmich is not at home,” she answered; “he has gone to see Father Gerasim; but it makes no difference, sir; I am his wife. You are very welcome. Please sit down.”

  She called the maid and asked her to call the sergeant. The old man kept looking at me inquisitively with his single eye.

  “May I be so bold as to ask in what regiment you have been serving?”

  I satisfied his curiosity.

  “And may I ask,” he continued, “why you have been transferred from the Guards to the garrison?”

  I answered that such was the decision of my superiors.

  “I presume it was for behavior unseemly in an officer of the Guards?” the persistent old man went on.

  “That’s enough nonsense,” the Captain’s lady interrupted him. “You see the young man is tired after the journey; he has other things to think of…. Hold your hands straight.

  “And don’t you worry, my dear, that you have been banished to these wilds,” she went on, addressing herself to me. “You are not the first nor the last. You will like it better when you are used to it. Shvabrin, Alexey Ivanych, was transferred to us five years ago for killing a man. Heaven only knows what possessed him, but, would you believe it, he went out of town with a certain lieutenant and they both took swords and started prodding each other—and Alexey Ivanych did for the lieutenant, and before two witnesses, too! There it is—one never knows what one may do.”

  At that moment the sergeant, a young and well-built Cossack, came into the room.

  “Maximych!” the Captain’s lady said to him. “Find a lodging for this gentleman and mind it is clean.”

  “Yes, Vasilisa Yegorovna,” the Cossack answered. “Shall I get rooms for his honor at Ivan Polezhayev’s?”

  “Certainly not, Maximych,” said the lady. “Polezhayev is crowded as it is; besides, he is a friend and always remembers that we are his superiors. Take the gentleman … what is your name, sir?”

  “Pyotr Andreyich.”

  “Take Pyotr Andreyich to Semyon Kuzov’s. He let his horse into my kitchen-garden, the rascal. Well, Maximych, is everything in order?”

  “All is well, thank God,” the Cossack answered; “only Corporal Prokhorov had a fight in the bathhouse with Ustinya Negulina about a bucket of hot water.”

  “Ivan Ignatyich,” said the Captain’s lady to the one-eyed old man, “will you look into it and find out whether Ustinya or Prokhorov is to blame? And punish them both! Well, Maximych, you can go now. Pyotr Andreyich, Maximych will take you to your lodging.”

  I took leave of her. The Cossack brought me to a cottage that stood on the high bank of the river at the very edge of the fortress. Half of the cottage was occupied by Semyon Kuzov’s family, the other was allotted to me. It consisted of one fairly clean room partitioned into two. Savelyich began unpacking; I looked out of the narrow window. The melancholy steppe stretched before me. On one side I could see a few cottages; several hens strutted about the street. An old woman stood on the steps with a trough, calling to pigs that answered her with friendly grunting. And this was the place where I was doomed to spend my youth! I suddenly felt wretched; I left the window and went to bed without any supper in spite of Savelyich’s entreaties. He kept repeating in distress: “Merciful heavens, he won’t eat! What will my mistress say if the child is taken ill?”

  Next morning I had just begun to dress when the door opened and a young officer, short, swarthy, with a plain but extremely lively face, walked in.

  “Excuse me,” he said to me in French, “for coming without ceremony to make your acquaintance. Yesterday I heard of your arrival: I could not resist the desire to see at last a human face. You will understand this when you have lived here for a time.”

  I guessed that this was the officer who had been dismissed from the Guards on account of a duel. We made friends at once. Shvabrin was very intelligent. His conversation was witty and entertaining. He described to me in a most amusing way the Commandant’s family, their friends, and the place to which fate had brought him. I was screaming with laughter when the old soldier, whom I had seen mending a uniform at the Commandant’s, came in and gave me Vasilisa Yegorovna’s invitation to dine with them. Shvabrin said he would go with me.

  As we approached the Commandant’s house we saw in the square some twenty old garrison soldiers in three-cornered hats and with long queues. They were standing at attention. The Commandant, a tall, vigorous old man, wearing a nightcap and a cotton dressing gown, stood facing them. When he saw us, he came up, said a few kind words to me, and went on drilling his men. We stopped to look on, but he asked us to go to his house, promising to come soon after.

  “There’s nothing here worth looking at,” he added. Vasilisa Yegorovna gave us a kind and homely welcome, treating me as though she had known me all my life. The old veteran and the maid Palasha were laying the table.

  “My Ivan Kuzmich is late with his drilling today,” she said. “Palasha, call your master to dinner. And where is Masha?”

  At that moment a girl of eighteen, with a rosy round face, came in; her fair hair was smoothly combed behind her ears which at that moment were burning. I did not particularly like her at the first glance. I was prejudiced against her: Shvabrin had described Masha, the Captain’s daughter, as quite stupid. Marya Ivanovna sat down in a corner and began sewing. Meanwhile cabbage soup was served. Not seeing her husband, Vasilisa Yegorovna sent Palasha a second time to call him.

  “Tell your master that our guests are waiting and the soup will get cold; there is always time for drilling, thank heaven; he can shout to his heart’s content later on.”

  The Captain soon appeared, accompanied by the one-eyed old man.

  “What has come over you, my dear?” his wife said to him. “Dinner was served ages ago, and you wouldn’t come.”

  “But I was busy drilling soldiers, Vasilisa Yegorovna, let me tell you.”

  “Come, come,” his wife retorted, “all this d
rilling is mere pretense—your soldiers don’t learn anything and you are no good at it either. You had much better sit at home and say your prayers. Dear guests, come to the table.”

  We sat down to dinner. Vasilisa Yegorovna was never silent for a minute and bombarded me with questions: who were my parents, were they living, where did they live, how big was their estate? When she heard that my father had three hundred serfs she said: “Just fancy! to think of there being rich people in the world! And we, my dear, have only one maid, Palasha, but we are comfortable enough, thank heaven. The only trouble is Masha ought to be getting married, and all she has by way of dowry is a comb and a broom and a brass farthing, just enough to go to the baths with. If the right man turns up, all well and good, but, if not, she will die an old maid.”

  I glanced at Marya Ivanovna; she flushed crimson and tears dropped into her plate. I felt sorry for her and hastened to change the conversation.

  “I have heard,” I said, rather inappropriately, “that the Bashkirs propose to attack your fortress.”

  “From whom have you heard it, my good sir?” Ivan Kuzmich asked.

  “I was told it at Orenburg,” I answered.

  “Don’t you believe it!” said the Commandant. “We have not heard anything of it for years. The Bashkirs have been scared and the Kirghiz, too, have had their lesson. No fear, they won’t attack us; and if they do I will give them such a fright that they will keep quiet for another ten years.”

  “And you are not afraid,” I continued, turning to Vasilisa Yegorovna, “to remain in a fortress subject to such dangers?”

  “It’s a habit, my dear,” she answered. “Twenty years ago when we were transferred here from the regiment, I cannot tell you how I dreaded those accursed infidels! As soon as I saw their lynx caps and heard their squealing, my heart stood still, would you believe it! And now I have grown so used to it that I don’t stir when they tell us the villains are prowling round the fortress.”

  “Vasilisa Yegorovna is a most courageous lady,” Shvabrin remarked pompously. “Ivan Kuzmich can bear witness to it.”

  “Yes; she is not of the timid sort, let me tell you!” Ivan Kuzmich assented.

  “And Marya Ivanovna? Is she as brave as you are?” I asked.

  “Is Masha brave?” her mother answered. “No, Masha is a coward. She can’t bear even now to hear a rifle shot; it makes her all of a tremble. And when, two years ago, Ivan Kuzmich took it into his head to fire our cannon on my name-day, she nearly died of fright, poor dear. Since then we haven’t fired the cursed cannon anymore.”

  We got up from the table. The Captain and his wife went to lie down, and I went to Shvabrin’s and spent the whole evening with him.

  IV

  THE DUEL

  Oh, very well, take up then your position

  And you shall see me pierce your body through.

  KNYAZHNIN

  SEVERAL WEEKS had passed and my life in the Belogorsky fortress had grown not merely endurable but positively pleasant. I was received in the Commandant’s house as one of the family. The husband and wife were most worthy people. Ivan Kuzmich, who had risen from the ranks to be an officer, was a plain and uneducated man, but most kind and honorable. His wife ruled him, which suited his easygoing disposition. Vasilisa Yegorovna looked upon her husband’s military duties as her own concern and managed the fortress as she did her own home. Marya Ivanovna soon lost her shyness with me and we became friends. I found her to be a girl of feeling and good sense. Imperceptibly I grew attached to the kind family, and even to Ivan Ignatyich, the one-eyed lieutenant of the garrison; Shvabrin had said of him that he was on improper terms with Vasilisa Yegorovna, though there was not a semblance of truth in it; but Shvabrin did not care about that.

  I received my commission. My military duties were not strenuous. In our blessed fortress there were no parades, no drills, no sentry duty. Occasionally the Commandant, of his own accord, taught the soldiers, but had not yet succeeded in teaching all of them to know their left hand from their right. Shvabrin had several French books. I began reading and developed a taste for literature. In the mornings I read, practiced translating, and sometimes composed verses; I almost always dined at the Commandant’s and spent there the rest of the day; in the evenings, Father Gerasim and his wife, Akulina Pamfilovna, the biggest gossip in the neighborhood, sometimes came there also. Of course I saw Alexey Ivanych Shvabrin every day, but his conversation grew more and more distasteful to me as time went on. I disliked his constant jokes about the Commandant’s family and, in particular, his derisive remarks about Marya Ivanovna. There was no other society in the fortress; and, indeed, I wished for no other.

  In spite of the prophecies, the Bashkirs did not rise. Peace reigned around our fortress. But the peace was suddenly disturbed by an internal war.

  I have already said that I tried my hand at literature. Judged by the standards of that period my attempts were quite creditable, and several years later Alexander Petrovich Sumarokov‡ thoroughly approved of them. One day I succeeded in writing a song that pleased me. Everybody knows that sometimes under the pretext of seeking advice writers try to find an appreciative listener. And so, having copied out my song, I took it to Shvabrin, who was the only person in the fortress capable of doing justice to the poet’s work. After a few preliminary remarks I took my notebook out of my pocket and read the following verses to him:

  “Thoughts of love I try to banish

  And her beauty to forget,

  And, ah me! avoiding Masha

  Hope I shall my freedom get.

  But the eyes that have seduced me

  Are before me night and day,

  To confusion they’ve reduced me,

  Driven rest and peace away.

  When you hear of my misfortunes

  Pity, Masha, pity me!

  You can see my cruel torments:

  I am captive held by thee.”

  “What do you think of it?” I asked Shvabrin, expecting praise as my rightful due. But to my extreme annoyance Shvabrin, who was usually a kind critic, declared that my song was bad.

  “Why so?” I asked, concealing my vexation.

  “Because such lines are worthy of my teacher, Vassily Kirilych Tretyakovsky,§ and greatly remind me of his love verses.”

  He then took my notebook from me and began mercilessly criticizing every line and every word of the poem, mocking me in a most derisive manner. I could not endure it, snatched the notebook from him, and said I would never show him my verses again. Shvabrin laughed at this threat too.

  “We shall see,” he said, “whether you will keep your word. Poets need a listener as much as Ivan Kuzmich needs his decanter of vodka before dinner. And who is this Masha to whom you declare your tender passion and lovesickness? Is it Marya Ivanovna, by any chance?”

  “It’s none of your business whoever she may be,” I answered, frowning. “I want neither your opinion nor your conjectures.”

  “Oho! A touchy poet and a modest lover!” Shvabrin went on, irritating me more and more. “But take a friend’s advice: if you want to succeed, you must have recourse to something better than songs.”

  “What do you mean, sir? Please explain yourself.”

  “Willingly. I mean that if you want Masha Mironov to visit you at dusk, present her with a pair of earrings instead of tender verses.”

  My blood boiled.

  “And why have you such an opinion of her?” I asked, hardly able to restrain my indignation.

  “Because I know her manners and morals from experience,” he answered, with a fiendish smile.

  “It’s a lie, you scoundrel,” I cried furiously. “It’s a shameless lie!”

  Shvabrin changed color.

  “You’ll have to pay for this,” he said, gripping my arm; “you will give me satisfaction.”

  “Certainly—whenever you like,” I answered, with relief. I was ready to tear him to pieces at that moment.

  I went at once to Ivan Ignatyich, whom I
found with a needle in his hands threading mushrooms to dry for the winter, at Vasilisa Yegorovna’s request.

  “Ah, Pyotr Andreyich! Pleased to see you!” he said, when he saw me. “What good fortune brings you? What business, may I ask?”

  I explained to him briefly that I had quarreled with Alexey Ivanych and was asking him, Ivan Ignatyich, to be my second. Ivan Ignatyich listened to me attentively, staring at me with his solitary eye.

  “You are pleased to say,” he answered, “that you intend to kill Alexey Ivanych and wish me to witness it? Is that so, may I ask?”

  “Quite so.”

  “Good heavens, Pyotr Andreyich! What are you thinking about? You have quarreled with Alexey Ivanych? What ever does it matter? Bad words are of no consequence. He abuses you—you swear back at him; he hits you in the face—you hit him on the ear, twice, three times—and then go your own way; and we shall see to it that you make it up later on. But killing a fellow-creature—is that a right thing to do, let me ask you? And, anyway, if you killed him it wouldn’t matter so much; I am not very fond of Alexey Ivanych myself, for the matter of that. But what if he makes a hole in you? What will that be like? Who will be made a fool of then, may I ask?”

  The sensible old man’s arguments did not shake me. I stuck to my intention.

  “As you like,” said Ivan Ignatyich. “Do what you think best. But why should I be your witness? What for? Two men fighting each other! What is there worth seeing in it, may I ask? I’ve been in the Swedish War and the Turkish, and, believe me, I’ve seen enough.”