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  I tried to explain to him the duties of a second, but Ivan Ignatyich simply could not understand me.

  “You may say what you like,” he said, “but if I am to take part in this affair, it is only to go to Ivan Kuzmich and tell him, as duty bids me, that a crime contrary to the interests of the State is being planned in the fortress—and to ask if the Commandant would be pleased to take proper measures.”

  I was alarmed and begged Ivan Ignatyich to say nothing to the Commandant. I had difficulty in persuading him, but at last he gave me his word and I left him.

  I spent the evening, as usual, at the Commandant’s. I tried to appear cheerful and indifferent so as to escape inquisitive questions, and not give grounds for suspicion, but I confess I could not boast of the indifference which people in my position generally profess to feel. That evening I was inclined to be tender and emotional. Marya Ivanovna attracted me more than ever. The thought that I might be seeing her for the last time, made her seem particularly touching to me. Shvabrin was there also. 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 will 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 that Ivan Ignatyich, delighted, let out the secret.

  “That’s right!” he said to me, looking pleased; “a bad peace is better than a good quarrel; a damaged name is better than a damaged skin.”

  “What’s this, what’s this, Ivan Ignatyich?” asked Vasilisa Yegorovna, who was telling fortunes by cards in the corner. “I wasn’t listening.”

  Ivan Ignatyich, seeing my look of annoyance and recalling his promise, was confused and did not know what to say. Shvabrin hastened to his assistance.

  “Ivan Ignatyich approves of our making peace,” he said.

  “But with whom had you quarreled, my dear?”

  “I had rather a serious quarrel with Pyotr Andreyich.”

  “What about?”

  “About the merest trifle, Vasilisa Yegorovna: a song.”

  “That’s a queer thing to quarrel about! A song! But how did it happen?”

  “Why, this is how it was. Not long ago Pyotr Andreyich composed a song and today he began singing it in my presence, and I struck up my favorite:

  ‘Captain’s daughter, I warn you,

  Don’t you go for midnight walks.’

  “There was discord. Pyotr Andreyich was angry at first, but then he thought better of it, and decided that everyone may sing what he likes. And that was the end of it.”

  Shvabrin’s impudence very nearly incensed me, but no one except me understood his coarse hints, or, at any rate, no one took any notice of them. From songs the conversation turned to poets; the Commandant remarked that they were a bad lot and bitter drunkards, and advised me, as a friend, to give up writing verses, for such an occupation did not accord with military duties and brought one to no good.

  Shvabrin’s presence was unendurable to me. I soon said good-bye to the Captain and his family. When I came home I examined my sword, felt the point of it, and went to bed, telling Savelyich to wake me at six o’clock.

  The following morning I stood behind the corn stacks at the appointed hour waiting for my opponent. He arrived soon after me.

  “We may be disturbed,” he said. “We had better be quick.”

  We took off our uniforms and, dressed in our waistcoats only, bared our swords. At that moment Ivan Ignatyich with five soldiers of the garrison suddenly appeared from behind the stacks. He requested us to go to the Commandant’s. We obeyed, vexed as we were; the soldiers surrounded us and we followed Ivan Ignatyich, who led us in triumph, stepping along with an air of extraordinary importance.

  We entered the Commandant’s house. Ivan Ignatyich opened the doors and solemnly proclaimed: “I have brought them!”

  We were met by Vasilisa Yegorovna.

  “Goodness me! What ever next? What? How could you? Planning murder in our fortress! Ivan Kuzmich, put them under arrest at once! Pyotr Andreyich, Alexey Ivanych! Give me your swords, give them up, give them up! Palasha, take these swords to the pantry! I did not expect this of you, Pyotr Andreyich; aren’t you ashamed of yourself? It is all very well for Alexey Ivanych—he has been dismissed from the Guards for killing a man, and he does not believe in God, but fancy you doing a thing like this! Do you want to be like him?”

  Ivan Kuzmich fully agreed with his wife, and kept repeating: “Vasilisa Yegorovna is quite right; let me tell you duels are explicitly forbidden in the army regulations.”

  Meanwhile Palasha took our swords and carried them to the pantry. I could not help laughing; Shvabrin retained his dignity.

  “With all respect for you,” he said coolly, “I must observe that you give yourself unnecessary trouble in passing judgment upon us. Leave it to Ivan Kuzmich—it is his business.”

  “But, my dear sir, aren’t husband and wife one flesh and one spirit?” the Commandant’s lady retorted. “Ivan Kuzmich, what are you thinking of? Put them under arrest at once in different corners and give them nothing but bread and water till they come to their senses! And let Father Gerasim set them a penance that they may beg God to forgive them and confess their sin to the people.”

  Ivan Kuzmich did not know what to do. Marya Ivanovna was extremely pale. Little by little the storm subsided; Vasilisa Yegorovna calmed down and made us kiss each other. Palasha brought us back our swords. We left the Commandant’s house, apparently reconciled. Ivan Ignatyich accompanied us.

  “Aren’t you ashamed,” I said to him angrily, “to have betrayed us to the Commandant when you promised me not to?”

  “God is my witness, I never said anything to Ivan Kuzmich,” he answered; “Vasilisa Yegorovna wormed it all out of me. And she made all the arrangements without saying a word to Ivan Kuzmich…. But thank Heaven that it has all ended in this way.”

  With these words he turned home and Shvabrin and I were left alone.

  “We cannot let it end at that,” I said to him.

  “Of course not,” Shvabrin answered; “you will answer me with your blood for your insolence, but I expect we shall be watched. We shall have to pretend to be friends for a few days. Good-bye.”

  And we parted as though nothing had happened. Returning to the Commandant’s I sat down, as usual, by Marya Ivanovna. Ivan Kuzmich was not at home; Vasilisa Yegorovna was busy with household matters. We spoke in undertones. Marya Ivanovna tenderly reproached me for the anxiety I had caused everyone by my quarrel with Shvabrin.

  “I was quite overcome,” she said, “when I heard you were going to fight. How strange men are! Because of a single word which they would be sure to forget in a week’s time they are ready to kill each other and to sacrifice their lives and their conscience and the welfare of those who … But I am sure you did not begin the quarrel. Alexy Ivanych is probably to blame.”

  “And why do you think so, Marya Ivanovna?”

  “Oh, I don’t know … he always jeers at people. I don’t like Alexey Ivanych. He repels me and yet, strange to say, I would not, on any account, have him dislike me also. That would worry me dreadfully.”

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

  Marya Ivanovna stammered and blushed.

  “I think …” she said, “I believe he does like me.”

  “And why do you believe it?”

  “Because he made me an offer of marriage.”

  “He made you an offer of marriage? When?”

  “Last year. Some two months before you came.”

  “And you refused?”

  “As you see. Of course, Alexey Ivanych is clever and rich, and of good family; but when I think that in church I should have to kiss him before all the people … not for anything! Nothing would induce me!”

  Marya Ivanovna’s words opened my eyes and explained a great deal to me. I under
stood the persistent slanders with which he pursued her. The words that gave rise to our quarrel seemed to me all the more vile when, instead of coarse and unseemly mockery, I saw in them deliberate calumny. My desire to punish the impudent slanderer grew more intense, and I waited impatiently for an opportunity.

  I did not have to wait long. The following day as I sat composing an elegy, biting my pen as I searched for a rhyme, Shvabrin knocked at my window. I left my pen, picked up my sword, and went out to him.

  “Why wait?” Shvabrin said. “We are not watched. Let us go down to the river. No one will disturb us there.”

  We walked in silence. Descending by a steep path we stopped at a river bank and bared our swords. Shvabrin was more skilled than I, but I was stronger and more daring; Monsieur Beaupré, who had once been a soldier, had given me a few lessons in fencing and I made use of them. Shvabrin had not expected to find in me so formidable an opponent. For a time we could neither of us do the other any harm; at last, observing that Shvabrin was weakening, I began to press him and almost drove him into the river. Suddenly I heard someone loudly calling my name. I turned round and saw Savelyich running toward me down the steep path … at that moment I felt a stab in my breast under the right shoulder, and fell down senseless.

  V

  LOVE

  Ah, you young maiden, you maiden fair!

  You must not marry while still so young

  You must ask your father and mother first,

  Your father and mother and all your kin.

  You must grow in wisdom and keen good sense,

  Must save up for yourself a rich dowry.

  A FOLK SONG

  If you find one better than me—you’ll forget me,

  If one who is worse—you’ll remember.

  A FOLK SONG

  WHEN I REGAINED consciousness I could not grasp for a few minutes where I was, and what had happened to me. I was lying on a bed in a strange room, feeling very weak. Savelyich was standing before me with a candle in his hand. Someone was carefully unwrapping the bandages round my chest and shoulder. Gradually my thoughts cleared. I remembered my duel, and understood that I had been wounded. At that moment the door creaked.

  “How is he?” whispered a voice which sent a tremor through me.

  “Still the same,” Savelyich answered, with a sigh. “Still unconscious. It’s the fifth day.”

  I tried to turn my head, but could not.

  “Where am I? Who is here?” I said, with an effort.

  Marya Ivanovna came up to my bed and bent over me.

  “Well, how do you feel?” she asked.

  “God be thanked,” I answered in a weak voice. “Is it you, Marya Ivanovna? Tell me …”

  I had not the strength to go on, and broke off. Savelyich cried out. His face lit up with joy.

  “He has come to his senses! Thank God! Well, my dear Pyotr Andreyich, you have given me a fright! Five days, it’s no joke!”

  Marya Ivanovna interrupted him.

  “Don’t talk to him too much, Savelyich,” 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: Marya Ivanovna had come in to me. I wanted to ask Savelyich several questions, 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 Savelyich, but instead of him I saw Marya Ivanovna before me; her angelic voice greeted me. I cannot express the blissful feeling that possessed me at that moment. I seized her hand and covered it with kisses, wetting it with tears of tenderness. Masha did not withdraw her hand … and suddenly her lips touched my cheek and I felt their fresh and ardent kiss. A flame ran through me.

  “Dear, kind Marya Ivanovna,” I said to her, “be my wife, consent to make me happy.”

  She regained her self-possession.

  “Calm yourself, for Heaven’s sake,” she said, taking her hand from me, “you are not out of danger yet—the wound may open. Take care of yourself, if only for my sake.”

  With these words she went out, leaving me in an ecstasy of delight. Happiness revived me. She would be mine! She loved me! My whole being was filled with this thought.

  From that time onward I grew better every hour. I was treated by the regimental barber, for there was no other doctor in the fortress, and fortunately he did not attempt to be clever. Youth and nature hastened my recovery. The whole of the Commandant’s family looked after me. Marya Ivanovna never left my side. Of course, at the first opportunity, I returned to our interrupted explanation, and Marya Ivanovna heard me out with more patience. Without any affectation she confessed her love for me and said that her parents would certainly be glad of her happiness.

  “But think well,” she added, “won’t your parents raise objections?”

  I pondered. I had no doubts of my mother’s kindness; but knowing my father’s views and disposition, I felt that my love would not particularly touch him and that he would look upon it as a young man’s whim. I candidly admitted this to Marya Ivanovna, but decided to write to my father as eloquently as possible, asking him to give us his blessing. I showed my letter to Marya Ivanovna, who found it so touching and convincing that she never doubted of its success and abandoned herself to the feelings of her tender heart with all the trustfulness of youth and love.

  I made peace with Shvabrin in the first days of my convalescence. In reprimanding me for the duel, Ivan Kuzmich had said to me: “Ah, Pyotr Andreyich, I ought really to put you under arrest, but you have been punished enough already. Alexey Ivanych, though, is shut up in the storehouse and Vasilisa Yegorovna has his sword under lock and key. It is just as well he should think things over and repent.”

  I was much too happy to retain any hostile feeling in my heart. I interceded for Shvabrin, and the kind Commandant, with his wife’s consent, decided to release him. Shvabrin called on me; he expressed a profound regret for what had passed between us; he admitted that he had been entirely to blame and asked me to forget the past. It was not in my nature to harbor malice and I sincerely forgave him both our quarrel and the wound he had inflicted on me. I ascribed his slander to the vexation of wounded vanity and rejected love, and generously excused my unhappy rival.

  I was soon quite well again and able to move into my lodgings. I awaited with impatience the answer to my last letter, not daring to hope, and trying to stifle melancholy forebodings. I had not yet declared my intentions to Vasilisa Yegorovna and her husband; but my offer was not likely to surprise them. Neither Marya Ivanovna nor I attempted to conceal our feelings from them, and we were certain of their consent beforehand.

  At last, one morning Savelyich came in to me holding a letter. I seized it with a tremor. The address was written in my father’s hand. This prepared me for something important, for as a rule it was my mother who wrote to me and my father only added a few lines at the end of the letter. Several minutes passed before I unsealed the envelope, reading over again and again the solemnly worded address: “To my son Pyotr Andreyich Grinyov, at the Belogorsky fortress in the Province of Orenburg.” I tried to guess from the handwriting in what mood my father wrote the letter; at last I brought myself to open it and saw from the very first lines that all was lost. The letter was as follows:

  My Son Pyotr!

  On the 15th of this month we received the letter in which you ask for our parental blessing and consent to your marriage with Marya Ivanovna, Mironov’s daughter; I do not intend to give you either my blessing or my consent, and, indeed, I mean to get at you and give you a thorough lesson as to a naughty boy for your pranks, not regarding your officer’s rank, for you have proved that you are not yet worthy to wear the sword which has been given to you to defend your fatherland, and not to fight duels with scapegraces like yourself. I will write at once to Andrey Karlovich asking him to transfer you from the Belogorsky fortress to some remote place where you can get over your foolishness. When your mother heard of your d
uel and of your being wounded, she was taken ill with grief and is now in bed. What will become of you? I pray to God that you may be reformed although I dare not hope for this great mercy.

  Your father,

  A. G.

  The perusal of this letter stirred various feelings in me. The cruel expressions, which my father did not stint, wounded me deeply. The contemptuous way in which he referred to Marya Ivanovna appeared to me as unseemly as it was unjust. The thought of my being transferred from the Belogorsky fortress terrified me; but most of all I was grieved by the news of my mother’s illness. I felt indignant with Savelyich, never doubting it was he who had informed my parents of the duel. As I paced up and down in my tiny room I stopped before him and said, looking at him angrily: “So it’s not enough for you that I have been wounded because of you, and lain for a whole month at death’s door—you want to kill my mother as well.”

  Savelyich was thunderstruck.

  “Good heavens, sir, what are you saying?” he said, almost sobbing. “You have been wounded because of me! God knows I was running to shield you with my own breast from Alexey Ivanych’s sword! It was old age, curse it, that hindered me. But what have I done to your mother?”

  “What have you done?” I repeated. “Who asked you to inform against me? Are you here to spy on me?”

  “I informed against you?” Savelyich answered with tears. “O Lord, King of Heaven! Very well, read then what Master writes to me: you will see how I informed against you.”

  He pulled a letter out of his pocket and I read the following:

  You should be ashamed, you old dog, not to have written to me about my son, Pyotr Andreyich, in spite of my strict orders; strangers have to inform me of his misdoings. So this is how you carry out your duties and your master’s will? I will send you to look after pigs, you old dog, for concealing the truth, and conniving with the young man. As soon as you receive this I command you to write to me at once about his health, which, I am told, is better, in what place exactly he was wounded, and whether his wound has healed properly.