“Masha, brave?” her mother replied. “No, Masha’s a coward. To this day she can’t bear the sound of shooting: just trembles all over. And two years ago, when Ivan Kuzmich took it into his head to fire off our cannon on my name day, my little dove nearly departed this life from fright. We haven’t fired the cursed cannon again since.”
We got up from the table. The captain and his wife went off to sleep; and I went to Shvabrin’s, where I spent the whole evening.
CHAPTER FOUR The Duel
Very well, stand straight and true,
And watch me as I run you through.
KNYAZHNIN14
Several weeks went by, and my life in the Belogorsk fortress became not only tolerable for me, but even agreeable. In the commandant’s house I was received as one of their own. The husband and wife were most honorable people. Ivan Kuzmich, who had risen from the ranks to become an officer, was a simple, uneducated man, but most honest and good. His wife ruled him, which agreed with his easygoing nature. Vasilisa Egorovna looked upon matters of the service as her household chores, and ran the fortress as she did her own little house. Marya Ivanovna soon stopped being shy with me. We became acquainted. I found her to be a reasonable and sensitive girl. Imperceptibly, I became attached to this good family, even to Ivan Ignatyich, the one-eyed garrison lieutenant, for whom Shvabrin invented inadmissible relations with Vasilisa Egorovna, which did not have a shadow of plausibility; but Shvabrin was not worried about that.
I was made an officer. The service was no burden to me. In the God-protected fortress there were no reviews, nor drills, nor watches. The commandant, on his own initiative, occasionally drilled his soldiers; but he still could not get all of them to tell right from left, though many of them, to avoid making a mistake, made the sign of the cross over themselves before each turn. Shvabrin had several French books. I began to read, and an interest in literature awakened in me. In the mornings I read, practiced translation, and sometimes also wrote verses. I almost always dined at the commandant’s, where I usually spent the rest of the day, and where in the evening Father Gerasim would sometimes come with his wife, Akulina Pamfilovna, the foremost talebearer of the neighborhood. A. I. Shvabrin, naturally, I saw every day; but his conversation became less and less agreeable to me. His habitual jokes about the commandant’s family displeased me very much, especially his caustic remarks about Marya Ivanovna. There was no other society in the fortress, but I wished for no other.
In spite of the predictions, the Bashkirs did not revolt. Calm reigned around our fortress. But the peace was disrupted by sudden internecine strife.
I have already said that I occupied myself with literature. My attempts, for that time, were fairly good, and several years later Alexander Petrovich Sumarokov15 praised them highly. Once I succeeded in writing a little song that pleased me. It is a known thing that writers, under the pretext of seeking advice, occasionally look for a benevolent listener. So, having copied out my song, I took it to Shvabrin, who alone in the whole fortress could appreciate a verse writer’s production. After a brief preamble, I took my notebook out of my pocket and read him the following little verses:
Amorous thoughts in me destroying,
I strive of her beauty to be free,
And, oh, sweet Masha, thee avoiding,
Freedom at last I hope to see!
But the eyes that me have captured
Are before me all the time,
And my spirit they have raptured,
Ruining my peace of mind.
Thou, of my misfortune learning,
Take pity, Masha, upon me,
Who in this cruel trap am turning,
Being imprisoned here by thee.
“How do you find it?” I asked Shvabrin, expecting the praise that was certainly due me. But, to my great vexation, Shvabrin, usually indulgent, resolutely informed me that my song was no good.
“Why so?” I asked, concealing my vexation.
“Because,” he replied, “such verses are worthy of my tutor, Vasily Kirilych Tredyakovsky,16 and remind me very much of his love couplets.”
Here he took my notebook from me and mercilessly began to analyze each line and each word, jeering at me in the most caustic manner. I could not bear it, tore my notebook from his hands, and said I would never again show him my writings. Shvabrin laughed at that threat as well.
“We’ll see if you keep your word,” he said. “A poet has need of a listener, just as Ivan Kuzmich has need of a dram of vodka before dinner. And who is this Masha to whom you declare your tender passion and amorous tribulation? Might it not be Marya Ivanovna?”
“It’s none of your business,” I replied, frowning, “whoever this Masha might be. I ask neither for your opinions nor for your conjectures.”
“Oho! A touchy poet and a discreet lover!” Shvabrin went on, annoying me more and more all the time. “But listen to some friendly advice: if you want to succeed, I advise you to do it otherwise than by little songs.”
