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Title: The Prose Tales of Alexander Pushkin

Author: Aleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin

Translator: T. Keane

Release date: July 29, 2017 [eBook #55219]
Most recently updated: October 23, 2024

Language: English

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*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROSE
TALES OF ALEXANDER PUSHKIN ***

THE PROSE TALES
OF

ALEXANDER POUSHKIN
TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY

T. KEANE

LONDON

G. BELL AND SONS, LTD.

1916

CONTENTS.
THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER
DOUBROVSKY
THE QUEEN OF SPADES
AN AMATEUR PEASANT GIRL
THE SHOT
THE SNOWSTORM
THE POST MASTER
THE COFFIN-MAKER
KIRDJALI
THE EGYPTIAN NIGHTS
PETER THE GREAT’S NEGRO

THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER I.

THE SERGEANT OF THE GUARDS.

My father, Andrei Petrovitch Grineff, after having served in his youth under
Count Münich,[1] quitted the service, in the year 17—, with the rank of
senior major. He settled down upon his estate in the district of Simbirsk,
where he married Avdotia Vassilevna U——, the daughter of a poor
nobleman of the neighbourhood. Nine children were the result of this
marriage. All my brothers and sisters died in their infancy. I was enrolled as
a sergeant in the Semenovsky Regiment, through the influence of Prince B
——, a major in the Guards, and a near relation of our family. I was
considered as being on leave of absence until the completion of my course
of studies. In those days our system of education was very different from
that in vogue at the present time. At five years of age I was given into the
hands of our gamekeeper, Savelitch, whose sober conduct had rendered him
worthy of being selected to take charge of me. Under his instruction, at the
age of twelve I could read and write Russian, and I was by no means a bad
judge of the qualities of a greyhound. About that time my father engaged a
Frenchman, a Monsieur Beaupré, who had been imported from Moscow,
together with the yearly stock of wine and Provence oil. Savelitch was not
by any means pleased at his arrival.
“Heaven be thanked!” he muttered to himself; “the child is washed,
combed, and well-fed. What need is there for spending money and engaging
a Mossoo, as if there were not enough of our own people!”
Beaupré had been a hairdresser in his own country, then a soldier in Prussia,
then he had come to Russia pour être outchitel,[2] without very well
understanding the meaning of the word. He was a good sort of fellow, but
extremely flighty and thoughtless. His chief weakness was a passion for the
fair sex; but his tenderness not unfrequently met with rebuffs, which would
cause him to sigh and lament for the whole twenty-four hours. Moreover, to
use his own expression, he was no enemy of the bottle, or, in other words,
he loved to drink more than was good for him. But as, with us, wine was
only served out at dinner, and then in small glasses only, and as, moreover,
the teacher was generally passed over on these occasions, my Beaupré very
soon became accustomed to Russian drinks, and even began to prefer them
to the wines of his own country, as being more beneficial for the stomach.
We soon became very good friends, and although, by the terms of the
contract, he was engaged to teach me French, German, and all the sciences,
yet he much preferred learning from me to chatter in Russian, and then each

of us occupied himself with what seemed best to him. Our friendship was of
the most intimate character, and I wished for no other mentor. But fate soon
separated us, owing to an event which I will now proceed to relate.
The laundress, Palashka, a thick-set woman with a face scarred by the
small-pox, and the one-eyed cowkeeper, Akoulka, made up their minds
together one day and went and threw themselves at my mother’s feet,
accusing themselves of certain guilty weaknesses, complaining, with a
flood of tears, that the Mossoo had taken advantage of their inexperience,
and had effected their ruin. My mother did not look upon such matters in
the light of a joke, so she consulted my father upon the subject. An inquiry
into the matter was promptly resolved upon. He immediately sent for the
rascally Frenchman. He was informed that Monsieur was engaged in giving
me my lesson. My father came to my room. At that particular moment
Beaupré was lying on the bed, sleeping the sleep of innocence. I was
occupied in a very different manner. I ought to mention that a map had been
obtained from Moscow, in order that I might be instructed in geography. It
hung upon the wall without ever being made use of, and as it was a very
large map, and the paper thick and of good quality, I had long been tempted
to appropriate it to my own use. I resolved to make it into a kite, and, taking
advantage of Beaupré’s slumber, I set to work. My father entered the room
just at the moment when I was adjusting a tail to the Cape of Good Hope.
Seeing me so occupied with geography, my father saluted me with a box on
the ear, then stepped towards Beaupré, and waking him very
unceremoniously, overwhelmed him with reproaches. In his confusion,
Beaupré wanted to rise up from the bed, but he was unable to do so: the
unfortunate Frenchman was hopelessly intoxicated. There was only one
course to take after so many acts of misdemeanour. My father seized hold
of him by the collar, lifted him off the bed, hustled him out of the room, and
dismissed him that very same day from his service—to the unspeakable
delight of Savelitch. Thus ended my education.
I now lived the life of a spoiled child, frightening the pigeons, and playing
at leap-frog with the boys on the estate. I continued to lead this kind of life
until I was sixteen years of age. Then came the turning-point in my
existence.
One day in autumn, my mother was boiling some honey preserves in the
parlour, and I was looking on and licking my lips as the liquid simmered

and frothed. My father was sitting near the window, reading the “Court
Calendar,” which he received every year. This book always had a great
effect upon him; he used to read it with especial interest, and the reading of
it always stirred his bile in the most astonishing manner. My mother, who
was perfectly well acquainted with his whims and peculiarities, always
endeavoured to keep this unfortunate book out of the way as much as she
possibly could, and, on this account, his eyes would not catch a glimpse of
the volume for months together. But when he did happen to find it, he
would sit with it in his hands for hours at a stretch.... As I have said, my
father was reading the “Court Calendar,” every now and then shrugging his
shoulders, and muttering to himself: “Lieutenant-General!... He used to be a
sergeant in my company!... Knight of both Russian Orders!... How long is it
since we——”
At last my father flung the “Calendar” down upon the sofa, and sank into a
reverie—a proceeding that was always of evil augury.
Suddenly he turned to my mother:
“Avdotia Vassilevna,[3] how old is Petrousha?”[4]
“He is getting on for seventeen,” replied my mother: “Petrousha was born
in the same year that aunt Nastasia Gerasimovna[5] lost her eye, and——”
“Very well,” said my father, interrupting her; “it is time that he entered the
service. He has had quite enough of running about the servants’ rooms and
climbing up to the dovecots.”
The thought of soon having to part with me produced such an effect upon
my mother, that she let the spoon fall into the saucepan, and the tears
streamed down her cheeks. As for myself, it would be difficult to describe
the delight that I felt. The thought of the service was associated in my mind
with thoughts of freedom and the pleasures of a life in St. Petersburg. I
imagined myself an officer in the Guards, that being, in my opinion, the
summit of human felicity.
My father loved neither to change his intentions, nor to delay putting them
into execution. The day for my departure was fixed. On the evening before,
my father informed me that he intended to write to my future chief, and
asked for pens and paper.

“Do not forget, Andrei Petrovitch,”[6] said my mother, “to send my
salutations to Prince B——, and say that I hope he will take our Petrousha
under his protection.”
“What nonsense!” exclaimed my father, frowning. “Why should I write to
Prince B——”
“Why, you said just now that you wanted to write to Petrousha’s chief.”
“Well, and what then?”
“Why, Prince B—— is Petrousha’s chief. You know Petrousha is enrolled
in the Semenovsky Regiment.”
“Enrolled! What care I whether he is enrolled or not? Petrousha is not going
to St. Petersburg. What would he learn by serving in St. Petersburg? To
squander money and indulge in habits of dissipation. No, let him enter a
regiment of the Line; let him learn to carry knapsack and belt, to smell
powder, to become a soldier, and not an idler in the Guards. Where is his
passport? Bring it here.”
My mother went to get my passport, which she preserved in a small box
along with the shirt in which I was christened, and delivered it to my father
with a trembling hand. My father read it through very attentively, placed it
in front of him upon the table, and commenced to write his letter.
I was tortured with curiosity. Where was I to be sent to, if I was not going to
St. Petersburg? I kept my eyes steadfastly fixed upon the pen, which moved
slowly over the paper. At last he finished the letter, enclosed it in a cover
along with my passport, took off his spectacles, and, calling me to him,
said:
“Here is a letter for Andrei Karlovitch R——, my old comrade and friend.
You are going to Orenburg to serve under his command.”
All my brilliant hopes were thus brought to the ground! Instead of a life of
gaiety in St. Petersburg, there awaited me a tedious existence in a dreary
and distant country. The service, which I had thought of with such rapture
but a moment before, now presented itself to my eyes in the light of a great
misfortune. But there was no help for it, and arguing the matter would have
been of no avail.

Early the next morning a travelling carriage drew up before the door; my
portmanteau was placed in it, as well as a small chest containing a tea-
service and a tied-up cloth full of rolls and pies—the last tokens of home
indulgence. My parents gave me their blessing. My father said to me:
“Good-bye, Peter! Serve faithfully whom you have sworn to serve; obey
your superior officers; do not run after their favours; be not too eager in
volunteering for service, but never shirk a duty when you are selected for it;
and remember the proverb: ‘Take care of your coat while it is new, and of
your honour while it is young.’”
My mother, with tears in her eyes, enjoined me to take care of my health, at
the same time impressing upon Savelitch to look well after the child. A
cloak made of hare-skin was then put over my shoulders, and over that
another made of fox-skin. I seated myself in the carriage with Savelitch,
and started off on my journey, weeping bitterly.
That same night I arrived at Simbirsk, where I was compelled to remain for
the space of twenty-four hours, to enable Savelitch to purchase several
necessary articles which he had been commissioned to procure. I stopped at
an inn. In the morning Savelitch sallied out to the shops. Tired of looking
out of the window into a dirty alley, I began to wander about the rooms of
the inn. As I entered the billiard-room, my eyes caught sight of a tall
gentleman of about thirty-five years of age, with long, black moustaches; he
was dressed in a morning-gown, and had a cue in his hand and a pipe
between his teeth. He was playing with the marker, who drank a glass of
brandy when he scored, but crept on all-fours beneath the table when he
failed. I stopped to look at the game. The longer it continued, the more
frequent became the crawling on all-fours, until at last the marker crept
beneath the table and remained there.
The gentleman uttered a few strong expressions over him, as a sort of
funeral oration, and then invited me to play a game with him. I declined, on
the score that I did not know how to play. This evidently seemed very
strange to him, and he looked at me with an air of commiseration. However,
we soon fell into conversation. I learned that his name was Ivan Ivanovitch
Zourin; that he was a captain in a Hussar regiment; that he was then
stopping in Simbirsk, waiting to receive some recruits, and that he was
staying at the same inn as myself.

Zourin invited me to dine with him, in military fashion, upon whatever
Heaven should be pleased to set before us. I accepted his invitation with
pleasure. We sat down to table. Zourin drank a great deal, and pressed me to
do the same, saying that it was necessary for me to get accustomed to the
ways of the service. He related to me several military anecdotes, which
convulsed me with laughter, and when we rose from the table we had
become intimate friends Then he offered to teach me how to play at
billiards.
“It is an indispensable game for soldiers like us,” said he. “When on the
march, for instance, you arrive at some insignificant village, what can you
do to occupy the time? You cannot always be thrashing the Jews. You
involuntarily make your way to the inn to play at billiards, and to do that,
you must know how to play.”
I was completely convinced, and I commenced to learn the game with great
assiduity. Zourin encouraged me with loud-voiced praise, being astonished
at my rapid progress; and after a few lessons he proposed that we should
play for money, for the smallest sums possible, not for the sake of gain, but
merely for the sake of not playing for nothing, which, according to his
opinion, was an exceedingly bad habit.
I agreed to his proposal, and Zourin ordered a supply of punch, which he
persuaded me to partake of, saying that it was necessary to become
accustomed to it in the service; for what would the service be without
punch! I followed his advice. In the meantime we continued our game. The
more frequently I had recourse to the punch, the more emboldened I
became. The balls kept continually flying in the wrong direction; I grew
angry, abused the marker—who counted the points, Heaven only knows
how,—increased the stakes from time to time—in a word, I behaved like a
boy just out of leading-strings. In the meanwhile the time had passed away
without my having observed it. Zourin glanced at the clock, laid down his
cue, and informed me that I had lost a hundred roubles.[7] I was
considerably confounded by this piece of information. My money was in
the hands of Savelitch. I began to make some excuses. Zourin interrupted
me:
“Pray, do not be uneasy. I can wait; and now let us go to Arinoushka.”[8]

What more shall I add? I finished the day as foolishly as I had commenced
it. We took supper with Arinoushka. Zourin kept continually filling my
glass, observing as he did so, that it was necessary to become accustomed to
it in the service. When I rose from the table, I was scarcely able to stand on
my legs; at midnight, Zourin conducted me back to the inn.
Savelitch came to the doorstep to meet us. He uttered a groan on perceiving
the indubitable signs of my zeal for the service.
“What has happened to you?” he said, in a voice of lamentation. “Where
have you been drinking so? Oh, Lord! never did such a misfortune happen
before!”
“Hold your tongue, you old greybeard!” I replied, in an unsteady voice;
“you are certainly drunk. Go to sleep ... and put me to bed.”
The next morning I awoke with a violent headache, and with a confused
recollection of the events of the day before. My reflections were interrupted
by Savelitch, who brought me a cup of tea.
“You are beginning your games early, Peter Andreitch,”[9] he said, shaking
his head. “And whom do you take after? As far as I know, neither your
father nor grandfather were ever drunkards; as for your mother, I will say
nothing; she has never drunk anything except kvas[10] since the day she was
born. And who is to blame for all this? Why, that cursed Mossoo, who was
ever running to Antipevna with: ‘Madame, je vous prie, vodka.’[11] You see
what a pretty pass your je vous prie has brought you to! There’s no denying
that the son of a dog taught you some nice things! It was worth while to hire
such a heathen for your tutor, as if our master had not enough of his own
people!”
I felt ashamed of myself. I turned my back to him, and said:
“Go away, Savelitch; I do not want any tea.”
But it was a difficult matter to quiet Savelitch when he had set his mind
upon preaching a sermon.
“You see now, Peter Andreitch, what it is to get drunk. You have a
headache, and you do not want to eat or drink anything. A man who gets
drunk is good for nothing. Have some cucumber pickle with honey; or
perhaps half a glass of fruit wine would be better still. What do you say?”

At that moment a boy entered the room and handed me a note from Zourin.
I opened it and read the following lines:

“DEAR PETER ANDREIVITCH,
“Be so good as to send me, by my boy, the hundred roubles which you
lost to me yesterday. I am in great need of money.
“Yours faithfully,
“IVAN ZOURIN.”

There was no help for it. I assumed an air of indifference, and turning to
Savelitch, who was my treasurer and caretaker in one, I ordered him to give
the boy a hundred roubles.
“What? why?” asked the astonished Savelitch.
“I owe them to him,” I replied, with the greatest possible coolness.
“Owe!” ejaculated Savelitch, becoming more and more astonished. “When
did you get into his debt? It looks a very suspicious piece of business. You
may do as you like, my lord, but I shall not give the money.”
I thought that, if in this decisive moment I did not gain the upper hand of
the obstinate old man, it would be difficult for me to liberate myself from
his tutelage later on; so, looking haughtily at him, I said:
“I am your master, and you are my servant. The money is mine. I played
and lost it because I chose to do so; and I advise you not to oppose my
wishes, but to do what you are ordered.”
Savelitch was so astounded at my words, that he clasped his hands and
stood as if petrified.
“What are you standing there like that for?” I exclaimed angrily.
Savelitch began to weep.
“Father, Peter Andreitch,” he stammered in a quivering voice, “do not break
my heart with grief. You are the light of my life, so listen to me—to an old
man: write to this robber, and tell him that you were only joking, that we
have not got so much money. A hundred roubles! Merciful Heaven! Tell

him that your parents have strictly forbidden you to play for anything
except nuts——”
“That will do; let me have no more of your chatter! Give me the money, or I
will put you out by the neck!”
Savelitch looked at me with deep sadness, and went for the money. I pitied
the poor old man; but I wanted to assert my independence and to show that
I was no longer a child.
The money was paid to Zourin. Savelitch hastened to get me away from the
accursed inn. He made his appearance with the information that the horses
were ready. With an uneasy conscience, and a silent feeling of remorse, I
left Simbirsk without taking leave of my teacher of billiards, and without
thinking that I should ever see him again.

[1] A celebrated German general who entered the service of Russia during the
reign of Peter the Great.
[2] Outchitel. A tutor.
[3] Avdotia, daughter of Basil.
[4] Diminutive of Peter.
[5] Anastasia, daughter of Gerasim.
[6] The Russians usually address each other by their Christian name and that of
their father. Thus Andrei Petrovitch means simply Andrew, son of Peter.
[7] The rouble, at that time, was worth about three shillings and four-pence.
[8] Diminutive of Arina.
[9] Peter, son of Andrew.
[10] A sour but refreshing drink made from rye-meal and malt.
[11] Brandy.

CHAPTER II.

THE GUIDE.

My reflections during the journey were not very agreeable. My loss,
according to the value of money at that time, was of no little importance. I
could not but confess, within my own mind, that my behaviour at the
Simbirsk inn was very stupid, and I felt guilty in the presence of Savelitch.’
All this tormented me. The old man sat in gloomy silence upon the seat of
the vehicle, with his face averted from me, and every now and then giving
vent to a sigh. I wanted at all hazards to become reconciled to him, but I did
not know how to begin. At last I said to him:
“Come, come, Savelitch, that will do, let us be friends. I was to blame; I see
myself that I was in the wrong. I acted very foolishly yesterday, and I
offended you without cause. I promise that I will act more wisely for the
future, and listen to your advice. Come, don’t be angry, but let us be friends
again.”
“Ah! father, Peter Andreitch,” he replied, with a deep sigh, “I am angry with
myself; I alone am to blame. How could I leave you alone in the inn! But
what else could be expected? We are led astray by sin. The thought came
into my mind to go and see the clerk’s wife, who is my gossip.[1] But so it
was: I went to my gossip, and ill-luck came of it. Was there ever such a
misfortune! How shall I ever be able to look in the face of my master and
mistress? What will they say when they know that their child is a drunkard
and a gambler?”
In order to console poor Savelitch, I gave him my word that I would never
again spend a single copeck[2] without his consent. He calmed down by
degrees, although every now and again he still continued muttering, with a
shake of the head, “A hundred roubles! It’s no laughing matter!”
I was nearing the place of my destination. On every side of me extended a
dreary-looking plain, intersected by hills and ravines. Everything was
covered with snow. The sun was setting. The kibitka[3] was proceeding
along the narrow road, or, to speak more precisely, along the track made by
the peasants’ sledges Suddenly the driver began gazing intently about him,
and at last, taking off his cap, he turned to me and said:
“My lord, will you not give orders to turn back?”
“Why?”

“The weather does not look very promising: the wind is beginning to rise;
see how it whirls the freshly fallen snow along.”
“What does that matter?”
“And do you see that yonder?”
And the driver pointed with his whip towards the east.
“I see nothing, except the white steppe and the clear sky.”
“There—away in the distance: that cloud.”
I perceived, indeed, on the edge of the horizon, a white cloud, which I had
taken at first for a distant hill. The driver explained to me that this small
cloud presaged a snowstorm.
I had heard of the snowstorms of that part of the country, and I knew that
whole trains of waggons were frequently buried in the drifts. Savelitch was
of the same opinion as the driver, and advised that we should return. But the
wind did not seem to me to be very strong: I hoped to be able to reach the
next station in good time, and I gave orders to drive on faster.
The driver urged on the horses at a gallop, but he still continued to gaze
towards the east. The horses entered into their work with a will. In the
meantime the wind had gradually increased in violence. The little cloud had
changed into a large, white, nebulous mass, which rose heavily, and
gradually began to extend over the whole sky. A fine snow began to fall,
and then all at once this gave place to large heavy flakes. The wind roared;
the snowstorm had burst upon us. In one moment the dark sky became
confounded with the sea of snow; everything had disappeared.
“Well, my lord,” cried the driver, “this is a misfortune; it is a regular
snowstorm!”
I looked out of the kibitka; all was storm and darkness. The wind blew with
such terrific violence that it seemed as if it were endowed with life.
Savelitch and I were covered with snow: the horses ploughed their way
onward at a walking pace, and soon came to a standstill.
“Why don’t you go on?” I called out impatiently to the driver.
“But where am I to drive to?” he replied, jumping down from his seat; “I
haven’t the slightest idea as to where we are; there is no road, and it is dark

all round.”
I began to scold him. Savelitch took his part.
“You ought to have taken his advice,” he said angrily. “You should have
returned to the posting-house; you could have had some tea and could have
slept there till the morning; the storm would have blown over by that time,
and then you could have proceeded on your journey. And why such haste?
It would be all very well if we were going to a wedding!”
Savelitch was right. But what was to be done? The snow still continued to
fall. A drift began to form around the kibitka. The horses stood with
dejected heads, and every now and then a shudder shook their frames. The
driver kept walking round them, and, being unable to do anything else,
busied himself with adjusting the harness. Savelitch grumbled. I looked
round on every side, hoping to discover some sign of a house or a road, but
I could distinguish nothing except the confused whirling snowdrifts
Suddenly I caught sight of something black.
“Hillo! driver,” I cried; “look! what is that black object yonder?”
The driver looked carefully in the direction indicated.
“God knows, my lord,” said he, seating himself in his place again; “it is
neither a sledge nor a tree, and it seems to move. It must be either a man or
a wolf.”
I ordered him to drive towards the unknown object, which was gradually
drawing nearer to us. In about two minutes we came up to it and discovered
it to be a man.
“Hi! my good man,” cried the driver to him; “say, do you know where the
road is?”
“The road is here; I am standing on a firm track,” replied the wayfarer. “But
what of it?”
“Listen, peasant,” said I to him; “do you know this country? Can you lead
me to a place where I can obtain a night’s lodging?”
“I know the country very well,” replied the peasant. “Heaven be thanked, I
have crossed it and re-crossed it in every direction. But you see what sort of
weather it is: it would be very easy to miss the road. You had much better

stay here and wait; perhaps the storm will blow over, and the sky become
clear, then we shall be able to find the road by the help of the stars.”
His cool indifference encouraged me. I had already resolved to abandon
myself to the will of God and to pass the night upon the steppe, when
suddenly the peasant mounted to the seat of our vehicle and said to the
driver:
“Thank Heaven, there is a house not far off; turn to the right and go straight
on.”
“Why should I go to the right?” asked the driver in a dissatisfied tone.
“Where do you see a road? I am not the owner of these horses that I should
use the whip without mercy.”
The driver seemed to me to be in the right.
“In truth,” said I, “why do you think that there is a house not far off?”
“Because the wind blows from that direction,” replied the wayfarer, “and I
can smell smoke; that is a sign that there is a village close at hand.”
His sagacity and nicety of smell astonished me. I ordered the driver to go
on. The horses moved heavily through the deep snow. The kibitka advanced
very slowly, at one moment mounting to the summit of a ridge, at another
sinking into a deep hollow, now rolling to one side, and now to the other. It
was very much like being in a ship on a stormy sea. Savelitch sighed and
groaned, and continually jostled against me. I let down the cover of the
kibitka, wrapped myself up in my cloak, and fell into a slumber, lulled by
the music of the storm, and rocked by the motion of the vehicle.
I had a dream which I shall never forget, and in which I still see something
prophetic when I compare it with the strange events of my life. The reader
will excuse me for mentioning the matter, for probably he knows from
experience that man is naturally given to superstition in spite of the great
contempt entertained for it.
I was in that condition of mind when reality and imagination become
confused in the vague sensations attending the first stage of drowsiness. It
seemed to me that the storm still continued, and that we were still
wandering about the wilderness of snow.... All at once I caught sight of a
gate, and we entered the courtyard of our mansion. My first thought was a

fear that my father would be angry with me for my involuntary return to the
paternal roof, and would regard it as an act of intentional disobedience.
With a feeling of uneasiness I sprang out of the kibitka, and saw my mother
coming down the steps to meet me, with a look of deep affliction upon her
face.
“Hush!” she said to me; “your father is on the point of death, and wishes to
take leave of you.”
Struck with awe, I followed her into the bedroom. I looked about me; the
room was dimly lighted, and round the bed stood several persons with
sorrow-stricken countenances. I approached very gently; my mother raised
the curtain and said:
“Andrei Petrovitch, Petrousha has arrived; he has returned because he heard
of your illness; give him your blessing.”
I knelt down and fixed my eyes upon the face of the sick man. But what did
I see?... Instead of my father, I saw lying in the bed a black-bearded
peasant, who looked at me with an expression of gaiety upon his
countenance. Greatly perplexed, I turned round to my mother and said to
her:
“What does all this mean? This is not my father. Why should I ask this
peasant for his blessing?”
“It is all the same, Petrousha,” replied my mother; “he is your stepfather;
kiss his hand and let him bless you.” I would not consent to it. Then the
peasant sprang out of bed, grasped the axe which hung at his back,[4] and
commenced flourishing it about on every side. I wanted to run away, but I
could not; the room began to get filled with dead bodies; I kept stumbling
against them, and my feet continually slipped in pools of blood. The
dreadful peasant called out to me in a gentle voice, saying:
“Do not be afraid; come and receive my blessing.” Terror and doubt took
possession of me.... At that moment I awoke; the horses had come to a
standstill. Savelitch took hold of my hand, saying:
“Get out, my lord, we have arrived.”
“Where are we?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

“At a place of refuge. God came to our help and conducted us straight to the
fence of the house. Get out as quickly as you can, my lord, and warm
yourself.”
I stepped out of the kibitka. The storm still raged, although with less
violence than at first. It was as dark as if we were totally blind. The host
met us at the door, holding a lantern under the skirt of his coat, and
conducted me into a room, small, but tolerably clean. It was lit up by a pine
torch. On the wall hung a long rifle, and a tall Cossack cap.
The host, a Yaikian Cossack by birth, was a peasant of about sixty years of
age, still hale and strong. Savelitch brought in the tea-chest, and asked for a
fire in order to prepare some tea, which I seemed to need at that moment
more than at any other time in my life. The host hastened to attend to the
matter.
“Where is the guide?” I said to Savelitch.
“Here, your Excellency,” replied a voice from above.
I glanced up at the loft, and saw a black beard and two sparkling eyes.
“Well, friend, are you cold?”
“How could I be otherwise than cold in only a thin tunic! I had a fur coat,
but why should I hide my fault?—I pawned it yesterday with a brandy-
seller; the cold did not seem to be so severe.”
At that moment the host entered with a smoking tea-urn; I offered our guide
a cup of tea; the peasant came down from the loft. His exterior seemed to
me somewhat remarkable. He was about forty years of age, of middle
height, thin and broad-shouldered. In his black beard streaks of grey were
beginning to make their appearance; his large, lively black eyes were
incessantly on the roll. His face had something rather agreeable about it,
although an expression of vindictiveness could also be detected upon it. His
hair was cut close round his head. He was dressed in a ragged tunic and
Tartar trousers. I gave him a cup of tea; he tasted it, and made a wry face.
“Your Excellency,” said he, “be so good as to order a glass of wine for me;
tea is not the drink for us Cossacks.”
I willingly complied with his request. The landlord brought a square bottle
and a glass from a cupboard, went up to him, and, looking into his face,

said:
“Oh! you are again in our neighbourhood! Where have you come from?”
My guide winked significantly, and made reply:
“Flying in the garden, pecking hempseed; the old woman threw a stone, but
it missed its aim. And how is it with—you?”
“How is it with us?” replied the landlord, continuing the allegorical
conversation, “they were beginning to ring the vespers, but the pope’s wife
would not allow it: the pope is on a visit, and the devils are in the glebe.”
“Hold your tongue, uncle,” replied my rover; “when there is rain, there will
be mushrooms; and when there are mushrooms, there will be a pannier; but
now” (and here he winked again) “put your axe behind your back; the
ranger is going about. Your Excellency, I drink to your health!”
With these words he took hold of the glass, made the sign of the cross, and
drank off the liquor in one draught; then, bowing to me, he returned to the
loft.
At that time I could not understand anything of this thieves’ slang, but
afterwards I understood that it referred to the Yaikian army, which had only
just then been reduced to submission after the revolt of 1772. Savelitch
listened with a look of great dissatisfaction. He glanced very suspiciously,
first at the landlord, then at the guide. The inn, or umet, as it was called in
those parts, was situated in the middle of the steppe, far from every
habitation or village, and had very much the appearance of a rendezvous for
thieves. But there was no help for it. We could not think of continuing our
journey. The uneasiness of Savelitch afforded me very great amusement. In
the meantime I made all necessary arrangements for passing the night
comfortably, and then stretched myself upon a bench. Savelitch resolved to
avail himself of the stove[5]; our host lay down upon the floor. Soon all in
the house were snoring, and I fell into a sleep as sound as that of the grave.
When I awoke on the following morning, at a somewhat late hour, I
perceived that the storm was over. The sun was shining. The snow lay like a
dazzling shroud over the boundless steppe. The horses were harnessed. I
paid the reckoning to the host, the sum asked of us being so very moderate
that even Savelitch did not dispute the matter and commence to haggle

about the payment as was his usual custom; moreover, his suspicions of the
previous evening had completely vanished from his mind. I called for our
guide, thanked him for the assistance he had rendered us, and ordered
Savelitch to give him half a rouble for brandy.
Savelitch frowned.
“Half a rouble for brandy?” said he; “why so? Because you were pleased to
bring him with you to this inn? With your leave, my lord, but we have not
too many half roubles to spare. If we give money for brandy to everybody
we have to deal with, we shall very soon have to starve ourselves.”
I could not argue with Savelitch. According to my own promise, the
disposal of my money was to be left entirely to his discretion. But I felt
rather vexed that I was not able to show my gratitude to a man who, if he
had not rescued me from certain destruction, had at least delivered me from
a very disagreeable position.
“Well,” said I, coldly, “if you will not give him half a rouble, give him
something out of my wardrobe; he is too thinly clad. Give him my hare-skin
pelisse.”
“In the name of Heaven, father, Peter Andreitch!” said Savelitch, “why give
him your pelisse? The dog will sell it for drink at the first tavern that he
comes to.”
“It is no business of yours, old man,” said my stroller, “whether I sell it for
drink or not. His Excellency is pleased to give me a cloak from off his own
shoulders; it is his lordly will, and it is your duty, as servant, to obey, and
not to dispute.”
“Have you no fear of God, you robber!” said Savelitch, in an angry tone.
“You see that the child has not yet reached the age of discretion, and yet
you are only too glad to take advantage of his good-nature, and rob him.
What do you want with my master’s pelisse? You will not be able to stretch
it across your accursed shoulders.”
“I beg of you not to show off your wit,” I said to my guardian. “Bring the
pelisse hither immediately!”
“Gracious Lord!” groaned Savelitch, “the pelisse is almost brand-new! If it
were to anybody deserving of it, it would be different, but to give it to a

ragged drunkard!”
However, the pelisse was brought. The peasant instantly commenced to try
it on. And, indeed, the garment, which I had grown out of, and which was
rather tight for me, was a great deal too small for him. But he contrived to
get it on somehow, though not without bursting the seams in the effort.
Savelitch very nearly gave vent to a groan when he heard the stitches giving
way. The stroller was exceedingly pleased with my present. He conducted
me to the kibitka, and said, with a low bow:
“Many thanks, your Excellency! May God reward you for your virtue. I
shall never forget your kindness.”
He went his way, and I set out again on my journey, without paying any
attention to Savelitch, and I soon forgot all about the storm of the previous
day, the guide, and my pelisse.
On arriving at Orenburg, I immediately presented myself to the general. He
was a tall man, but somewhat bent with age. His long hair was perfectly
white. His old faded uniform recalled to mind the warrior of the time of the
Empress Anne, and he spoke with a strong German accent.
I gave him the letter from my father. On hearing the name, he glanced at me
quickly.
“Mein Gott!” said he, “it does not seem so very long ago since Andrei
Petrovitch was your age, and now what a fine young fellow he has got for a
son! Ach! time, time!”
He opened the letter and began to read it half aloud, making his own
observations upon it in the course of his reading.
“‘Esteemed Sir, Ivan Karlovitch, I hope that your Excellency’—Why all
this ceremony? Pshaw! Isn’t he ashamed of himself? To be sure, discipline
before everything, but is that the way to write to an old comrade?—‘Your
Excellency has not forgotten’—Hm!—‘and—when—with the late Field
Marshal Mün—in the campaign—also Caroline’—Ha, brother! he still
remembers our old pranks, then?—‘Now to business.—I send you my
young hopeful’—Hm!—‘Hold him with hedgehog mittens.’—What are
hedgehog mittens? That must be a Russian proverb.—What does ‘hold him
with hedgehog mittens’ mean?” he repeated, turning to me.

“It means,” I replied, looking as innocent as I possibly could, “to treat a
person kindly, not to be too severe, and to allow as much liberty as
possible.”
“Hm! I understand—‘And do not give him too much liberty.’—No, it is
evident that ‘hedgehog mittens’ does not mean that.—‘Enclosed you will
find his passport.’—Where is it then? Ah! here it is.—‘Enrol him in the
Semenovsky Regiment.’—Very well, very well, everything shall be
attended to.—‘Allow me without ceremony to embrace you as an old
comrade and friend.’—Ah! at last he has got to it.—‘Etcetera,
etcetera.’—‘Well, my little father,’ said he, finishing the reading of the
letter, and putting my passport on one side, ‘everything shall be arranged;
you shall be an officer in the Regiment, and so that you may lose no time,
start to-morrow for the fortress of Bailogorsk, where you will be under the
command of Captain Mironoff, a good and honest man. There you will
learn real service, and be taught what real discipline is. Orenburg is not the
place for you, there is nothing for you to do there; amusements are injurious
to a young man. Favour me with your company at dinner to-day.”
“This is getting worse and worse,” I thought to myself. “Of what use will it
be to me to have been a sergeant in the Guards almost from my mother’s
womb! Whither has it led me? To the Regiment, and to a dreary fortress on
the borders of the Kirghis-Kaisaks steppes!”
I dined with Andrei Karlovitch, in company with his old adjutant. A strict
German economy ruled his table, and I believe that the fear of being
obliged to entertain an additional guest now and again was partly the cause
of my being so promptly banished to the garrison.
The next day I took leave of the general, and set out for the place of my
destination.

[1] Savelitch uses the word here in its old meaning of fellow-sponsor.
[2] A tenth of a penny.
[3] A kind of rough travelling cart.
[4] The Russian peasant usually carries his axe behind him.
[5] The usual sleeping place of the Russian peasant.

CHAPTER III.

THE FORTRESS.

The fortress of Bailogorsk was situated about forty versts[1] from Orenburg.
The road to it led along the steep bank of the Yaik.[2] The river was not yet
frozen, and its leaden-coloured waves had a dark and melancholy aspect as
they rose and fell between the dreary banks covered with the white snow.
Beyond it stretched the Kirghis steppes. I sank into reflections, most of
them of a gloomy nature. Garrison life had little attraction for me. I
endeavoured to picture to myself Captain Mironoff, my future chief; and I
imagined him to be a severe, ill-tempered old man, knowing nothing except
what was connected with his duty, and ready to arrest me and put me on
bread and water for the merest trifle.
In the meantime it began to grow dark, and we quickened our pace.
“Is it far to the fortress?” I inquired of our driver.
“Not far,” he replied, “you can see it yonder.”
I looked around on every side, expecting to see formidable bastions, towers,
and ramparts, but I could see nothing except a small village surrounded by a
wooden palisade. On one side stood three or four hayricks, half covered
with snow; on the other a crooked looking windmill, with its bark sails
hanging idly down.
“But where is the fortress?” I asked in astonishment.
“There it is,” replied the driver, pointing to the village, and, as he spoke, we
entered into it.
At the gate I saw an old cast-iron gun; the streets were narrow and crooked;
the cottages small, and for the most part covered with thatch. I expressed a
wish to be taken to the Commandant, and, in about a minute, the kibitka
stopped in front of a small wooden house, built on an eminence, and
situated near the church, which was likewise of wood.

Nobody came out to meet me. I made my way to the entrance and then
proceeded to the ante-room. An old pensioner, seated at a table, was
engaged in sewing a blue patch on the elbow of a green uniform coat. I
ordered him to announce me.
“Go inside, little father,” replied the pensioner; “our people are at home.”
I entered into a very clean room, furnished in the old-fashioned style. In one
corner stood a cupboard containing earthenware utensils; on the wall hung
an officers diploma, framed and glazed, and around it were arranged a few
rude wood engravings, representing the “Capture of Kustrin and
Otchakoff,”[3] the “Choice of the Bride,” and the “Burial of the Cat.” At the
window sat an old woman in a jerkin, and wearing a handkerchief round her
head. She was unwinding thread which a one-eyed old man, dressed in an
officer’s uniform, held in his outstretched hands.
“What is your pleasure, little father?” she asked, continuing her occupation.
I replied that I had come to enter the service, and, in accordance with the
regulations, to notify my arrival to the Captain in command. And with these
words I turned towards the one-eyed old man, whom I supposed to be the
Commandant; but the old lady interrupted me in the speech which I had so
carefully prepared beforehand.
“Ivan Kouzmitch[4] is not at home,” said she; “he has gone to visit Father
Gerasim. But it is all the same, I am his wife.”
She summoned a maid-servant and told her to call an orderly officer. The
little old man looked at me out of his one eye with much curiosity.
“May I ask,” said he, “in what regiment you have deigned to serve?”
I satisfied his curiosity.
“And may I ask,” he continued, “why you have exchanged the Guards for
this garrison?”
I replied that such was the wish of the authorities.
“Probably for conduct unbecoming an officer of the Guards?” continued the
indefatigable interrogator.
“A truce to your foolish chatter,” said the Captain’s wife to him; “you see
that the young man is tired after his journey. He has something else to do

than to listen to your nonsense.” Then turning to me she added: “You are
not the first, and you will not be the last. It is a hard life here, but you will
soon get to like it. It is five years ago since Shvabrin Alexei Ivanitch was
sent here to us for a murder. Heaven knows what it was that caused him to
go wrong. You see, he went out of the town with a lieutenant; they had
taken their swords with them, and they began to thrust at one another, and
Alexei Ivanitch stabbed the lieutenant, and all before two witnesses! But
what would you? Man is not master of sin.”
At this moment the orderly officer, a young and well-built Cossack, entered
the room.
“Maximitch,” said the Captain’s wife to him, “conduct this officer to his
quarters, and see that everything is attended to.”
“I obey, Vassilissa Egorovna,” replied the orderly. “Is not his Excellency to
lodge with Ivan Polejaeff?”
“What a booby you are, Maximitch!” said the Captain’s wife. “Polejaeff’s
house is crowded already; besides, he is my gossip, and remembers that we
are his superiors. Take the officer—what is your name, little father?”[5]
“Peter Andreitch.”
“Take Peter Andreitch to Simon Kouzoff. The rascal allowed his horse to
get in my kitchen-garden.... And is everything right, Maximitch?”
“Everything, thank God!” replied the Cossack; “only Corporal Prokhoroff
has been having a squabble at the bath with Ustinia Pegoulina, on account
of a can of hot water.”
“Ivan Ignatitch,” said the Captain’s wife to the one-eyed old man, “decide
between Prokhoroff and Ustinia as to who is right and who is wrong, and
then punish both. Now, Maximitch, go, and God be with you. Peter
Andreitch, Maximitch will conduct you to your quarters.”
I bowed and took my departure. The orderly conducted me to a hut, situated
on the steep bank of the river, at the extreme end of the fortress. One half of
the hut was occupied by the family of Simon Kouzoff; the other was given
up to me. It consisted of one room, of tolerable cleanliness, and was divided
into two by a partition.

Savelitch began to set the room in order, and I looked out of the narrow
window. Before me stretched a gloomy steppe. On one side stood a few
huts, and two or three fowls were wandering about the street. An old
woman, standing on a doorstep with a trough in her hands, was calling
some pigs, which answered her with friendly grunts. And this was the place
in which I was condemned to spend my youth! Grief took possession of me;
I came, away from the window and lay down to sleep without eating any
supper, in spite of the exhortations of Savelitch, who kept repeating in a
tone of distress:
“Lord of heaven! he will eat nothing! What will my mistress say if the child
falls ill?”—
The next morning I had scarcely begun to dress when the door opened, and
a young officer, somewhat short in stature, with a swarthy and rather ill-
looking countenance, though distinguished by extraordinary vivacity,
entered the room.
“Pardon me,” he said to me in French, “for coming without ceremony to
make your acquaintance. I heard yesterday of your arrival, and the desire to
see at last a fresh human face took such possession of me, that I could not
wait any longer. You will understand this when you have lived here a little
while.”
I conjectured that this was the officer who had been dismissed from the
Guards on account of the duel. We soon became acquainted. Shvabrin was
by no means a fool. His conversation was witty and entertaining. With great
liveliness he described to me the family of the Commandant, his society,
and the place to which fate had conducted me. I was laughing with all my
heart when the old soldier who had been mending his uniform in the
Commandant’s ante-chamber, came to me, and, in the name of Vassilissa
Egorovna, invited me to dinner. Shvabrin declared that he would go with
me.
On approaching the Commandant’s house, we perceived on the square
about twenty old soldiers, with long pig-tails and three-cornered hats. They
were standing to the front. Before them stood the Commandant, a tall and
sprightly old man, in a nightcap and flannel dressing-gown. Observing us,
he came forward towards us, said a few kind words to me, and then went on
again with the drilling of his men. We were going to stop to watch the

evolutions, but he requested us to go to Vassilissa Egorovna, promising to
join us in a little while. “Here,” he added, “there is nothing for you to see.”
Vassilissa Egorovna received us with unfeigned gladness and simplicity,
and treated me as if she had known me all my life. The pensioner and
Palashka spread the tablecloth.
“What is detaining my Ivan Kouzmitch so long to-day?” said the
Commandant’s wife. “Palashka, go and call your master to dinner.... But
where is Masha?”[6]
At that moment there entered the room a young girl of about eighteen years
of age, with a round, rosy face, and light brown hair, brushed smoothly
back behind her ears, which were tinged with a deep blush. She did not
produce a very favourable impression upon me at the first glance. I
regarded her with prejudiced eyes. Shvabrin had described Masha, the
Captain’s daughter, as a perfect idiot. Maria Ivanovna[7] sat down in a
corner and began to sew. Meanwhile, the cabbage-soup was brought in.
Vassilissa Egorovna, not seeing her husband, sent Palashka after him a
second time.
“Tell your master that the guests are waiting, and that the soup is getting
cold. Thank Heaven, the drill will not run away! he will have plenty of time
to shout himself hoarse.”
The Captain soon made his appearance, accompanied by the little one-eyed
old man.
“What is the meaning of this, little father?” said his wife to him; “the dinner
has been ready a long time, and you would not come.”
“Why, you see, Vassilissa Egorovna,” said Ivan Kouzmitch, “I was
occupied with my duties; I was teaching my little soldiers.”
“Nonsense!” replied his wife; “it is all talk about your teaching the soldiers.
The service does not suit them, and you yourself don’t understand anything
about it. It would be better for you to stay at home and pray to God. My
dear guests, pray take your places at the table.”
We sat down to dine. Vassilissa Egorovna was not silent for a single
moment, and she overwhelmed me with questions. Who were my parents?

Were they living? Where did they live? How much were they worth? On
hearing that my father owned three hundred souls:[8]
“Really now!” she exclaimed; “well, there are some rich people in the
world! As for us, my little father, we have only our one servant-girl,
Palashka; but, thank God, we manage to get along well enough! There is
only one thing that we are troubled about. Masha is an eligible girl, but
what has she got for a marriage portion? A clean comb, a hand-broom, and
three copecks—Heaven have pity upon her!—to pay for a bath. If she can
find a good man, all very well; if not, she will have to be an old maid.”
I glanced at Maria Ivanovna; she was blushing all over, and tears were even
falling into her plate. I began to feel pity for her, and I hastened to change
the conversation.
“I have heard,” said I, as appropriately as I could, “that the Bashkirs are
assembling to make an attack upon your fortress.”
“And from whom did you hear that, my little father?” asked Ivan
Kouzmitch.
“They told me so in Orenburg,” I replied.
“All nonsense!” said the Commandant; “we have heard nothing about them
for a long time. The Bashkirs are a timid lot, and the Kirghises have learnt a
lesson. Don’t be alarmed, they will not attack us; but if they should venture
to do so, we will teach them such a lesson that they will not make another
move for the next ten years.”
“And are you not afraid,” continued I, turning to the Captain’s wife, “to
remain in a fortress exposed to so many dangers?”
“Habit, my little father,” she replied. “It is twenty years ago since they
transferred us from the regiment to this place, and you cannot imagine how
these accursed heathens used to terrify me. If I caught a glimpse of their
hairy caps now and then, or if I heard their yells, will you believe it, my
father, my heart would leap almost into my mouth. But now I am so
accustomed to it that I would not move out of my place if anyone came to
tell me that the villains were prowling round the fortress.”
“Vassilissa Egorovna is a very courageous lady,” observed Shvabrin
earnestly; “Ivan Kouzmitch can bear witness to that.”

“Yes, I believe you,” said Ivan Kouzmitch; “the wife is not one of the timid
ones.”
“And Maria Ivanovna,” I asked, “is she as brave as you?”
“Masha brave?” replied her mother. “No, Masha is a coward. Up to the
present time she has never been able to hear the report of a gun without
trembling all over. Two years ago, when Ivan Kouzmitch took the idea into
his head to fire off our cannon on my name-day,[9] my little dove was so
frightened that she nearly died through terror. Since then we have never
fired off the accursed cannon.”
We rose from the table. The Captain and his wife went to indulge in a nap,
and I accompanied Shvabrin to his quarters, where I spent the whole
evening.

[1] A verst is two-thirds of an English mile.
[2] A tributary of the Oural.
[3] Taken from the Turks in 1737 by the Russian troops under Count Münich.
[4] Ivan (John), son of Kouzma.
[5] Little father (batyushka). A familiar idiom peculiar to the Russian language.
[6] Diminutive of Maria or Mary.
[7] Mary, daughter of Ivan (i.e., Masha).
[8] The technical name for serfs.
[9] The Russians do not keep the actual day of their birth, but their name-day—
that is, the day kept in honour of the saint after whom they are called.

CHAPTER IV.

THE DUEL.

Several weeks passed by, and my life in the fortress of Bailogorsk became
not only endurable, but even agreeable. In the house of the Commandant I
was received as one of the family. Both husband and wife were very worthy
persons. Ivan Kouzmitch, who had risen from the ranks, was a simple and

unaffected man, but exceedingly honest and good-natured. His wife
managed things generally for him, and this was quite in harmony with his
easy-going disposition. Vassilissa Egorovna looked after the business of the
service as well as her own domestic affairs, and ruled the fortress precisely
as she did her own house. Maria Ivanovna soon ceased to be shy in my
presence. We became acquainted. I found her a sensible and feeling girl. In
an imperceptible manner I became attached to this good family, even to
Ivan Ignatitch, the one-eyed garrison lieutenant, whom Shvabrin accused of
being on terms of undue intimacy with Vassilissa Egorovna, an accusation
which had not a shadow of probability to give countenance to it; but
Shvabrin did not trouble himself about that.
I was promoted to the rank of officer. My duties were not very heavy. In
this God-protected fortress there was neither parade, nor drill, nor guard-
mounting. The Commandant sometimes instructed the soldiers for his own
amusement, but he had not yet got so far as teaching them which was the
right-hand side and which the left. Shvabrin had several French books in his
possession. I began to read them, and this awakened within me a taste for
literature. In the morning I read, exercised myself in translating, and
sometimes even attempted to compose verses. I dined nearly always at the
Commandants, where I generally spent the rest of the day, and where
sometimes of an evening came Father Gerasim, with his wife, Akoulina
Pamphilovna, the greatest gossip in the whole neighbourhood. It is
unnecessary for me to mention that Shvabrin and I saw each other every
day, but his conversation began to be more disagreeable the more I saw of
him. His continual ridiculing of the Commandant’s family, and especially
his sarcastic observations concerning Maria Ivanovna, annoyed me
exceedingly. There was no other society in the fortress, and I wished for no
other.
In spite of the predictions, the Bashkirs did not revolt. Tranquillity reigned
around, our fortress. But the peace was suddenly disturbed by civil
dissensions.
I have already mentioned that I occupied myself with literature. My essays
were tolerable for those days, and Alexander Petrovitch Soumarokoff,[1]
some years afterwards, praised them very much. One day I contrived to
write a little song with which I was much pleased. It is well-known that,
under the appearance of asking advice, authors frequently endeavour to

secure a well-disposed listener. And so, writing out my little song, I took it
to Shvabrin, who was the only person in the whole fortress who could
appreciate a poetical production. After a short preamble, I drew my
manuscript out of my pocket, and read to him the following verses:
“I banish thoughts of love, and try
My fair one to forget;
And, to be free again, I fly
From Masha with regret.

‘My troubled soul no rest can know,
No peace of mind for me;
For wheresoever I may go,
Those eyes I still shall see.

“Take pity, Masha, on this heart
Oppressed by grief and care;
And let compassion rend apart
The clouds of dark despair.”
“What do you think of it?” I asked Shvabrin, expecting that praise which I
considered I was justly entitled to. But, to my great disappointment,
Shvabrin, who was generally complaisant; declared very peremptorily that
the verses were not worth much.
“And why?” I asked, hiding my vexation.
“Because,” he replied, “such verses are worthy of my instructor
Tredyakovsky,[2] and remind me very much of his love couplets.”
Then he took the manuscript from me and began unmercifully to pull to
pieces every verse and word, jeering at me in the most sarcastic manner.
This was more than I could endure, and snatching my manuscript out of his
hand, I told him that I would never show him any more of my
compositions. Shvabrin laughed at my threat.
“We shall see,” said he, “if you will keep your word. A poet needs a listener,
just as Ivan Kouzmitch needs his decanter of brandy before dinner. And
who is this Masha to whom you declare your tender passion and your
amorous distress? Can it be Maria Ivanovna?”

“That is not your business,” replied I, frowning; “it is nothing to do with
you who she is. I want neither your opinion nor your conjectures.”
“Oho! my vain poet and discreet lover!” continued Shvabrin, irritating me
more and more. “But listen to a friend’s advice; if you wish to succeed, I
advise you not to have recourse to writing verses.”
“What do you mean, sir? Please explain yourself.”
“With pleasure. I mean that if you wish Masha Mironoff to meet you at
dusk, instead of tender verses, you must make her a present of a pair of
earrings.”
My blood began to boil.
“Why have you such an opinion of her?” I asked, with difficulty restraining
my anger.
“Because,” replied he, with a fiendish smile, “I know from experience her
ways and habits.”
“You lie, scoundrel!” I exclaimed with fury. “You lie in the most shameless
manner!”
Shvabrin changed colour.
“This shall not be overlooked,” said he, pressing my hand. “You shall give
me satisfaction.” “With pleasure, whenever you like,” I replied, delighted
beyond measure.
At that moment I was ready to tear him in pieces.
I immediately hastened to Ivan Ignatitch, and found him with a needle in
his hand; in obedience to the commands of the Commandant’s wife he was
stringing mushrooms for drying during the winter.
“Ah, Peter Andreitch,” said he, on seeing me, “you are welcome. May I ask
on what business Heaven has brought you here?”
In a few words I explained to him that, having had a quarrel with Shvabrin,
I came to ask him—Ivan Ignatitch—to be my second.
Ivan Ignatitch listened to me with great attention, keeping his one eye fixed
upon me all the while.

“You wish to say,” he said to me, “that you want to kill Shvabrin, and that
you would like me to be a witness to it? Is that so, may I ask?
“Exactly so.”
“In the name of Heaven, Peter Andreitch, whatever are you thinking of! You
have had a quarrel with Shvabrin. What a great misfortune! A quarrel
should not be hung round one’s neck. He has insulted you, and you have
insulted him; he gives you one in the face, and you give him one behind the
ear; a second blow from him, another from you—and then each goes his
own way; in a little while we bring about a reconciliation.... Is it right to kill
one’s neighbour, may I ask? And suppose that you do kill him—God be
with him! I have no particular love for him. But what if he were to let
daylight through you? How about the matter in that case? Who would be
the worst off then, may I ask?”
The reasonings of the discreet lieutenant produced no effect upon me; I
remained firm in my resolution.
“As you please,” said Ivan Ignatitch; “do as you like. But why should I be a
witness to it? People fight,—what is there wonderful in that, may I ask?
Thank Heaven! I have fought against the Swedes and the Turks, and have
seen enough of every kind of fighting.”
I endeavoured to explain to him, as well as I could, the duty of a second;
but Ivan Ignatitch could not understand me at all.
“Have your own way,” said he; “but if I ought to mix myself up in the
matter at all, it should be to go to Ivan Kouzmitch and report to him, in
accordance with the rules of the service, that there was a design on foot to
commit a crime within the fortress, contrary to the interest of the crown,
and to request him to take the necessary measures——”
I felt alarmed, and implored Ivan Ignatitch not to say anything about the
matter to the Commandant; after much difficulty I succeeded in talking him
over, he gave me his word, and then I took leave of him.
I spent the evening as usual at the Commandant’s house. I endeavoured to
appear gay and indifferent, so as not to excite suspicion, and in order to
avoid importunate questions; but I confess that I had not that cool assurance
which those who find themselves in my position nearly always boast about.
That evening I was disposed to be tender and sentimental. Maria Ivanovna

pleased me more than usual. The thought that perhaps I was looking at her
for the last time, imparted to her in my eyes something touching. Shvabrin
likewise put in an appearance. I took him aside and informed him of my
interview with Ivan Ignatitch.
“What do we want seconds for?” said he, drily; “we can do without them.”
We agreed to fight behind the hayricks which stood near the fortress, and to
appear on the ground at seven o’clock the next morning.
We conversed together in such an apparently amicable manner that Ivan
Ignatitch was nearly betraying us in the excess of his joy.
“You should have done that long ago,” he said to me, with a look of
satisfaction; “a bad reconciliation is better than a good quarrel.”
“What’s that, what’s that, Ivan Ignatitch?” said the Commandant’s wife,
who was playing at cards in a corner. “I did not hear what you said.”
Ivan Ignatitch, perceiving signs of dissatisfaction upon my face, and
remembering his promise, became confused, and knew not what reply to
make. Shvabrin hastened to his assistance.
“Ivan Ignatitch,” said he, “approves of our reconciliation.”
“And with whom have you been quarrelling, my little father?”
“Peter Andreitch and I have had rather a serious fall out.”
“What about?”
“About a mere trifle—about a song, Vassilissa Egorovna.”
“A nice thing to quarrel about, a song! But how did it happen?”
“In this way. Peter Andreitch composed a song a short time ago, and this
morning he began to sing it to me, and I began to hum my favourite ditty:
‘Daughter of the Captain,
Walk not out at midnight.’
Then there arose a disagreement. Peter Andreitch grew angry, but then he
reflected that everyone likes to sing what pleases him best, and there the
matter ended.”

Shvabrin’s insolence nearly made me boil over with fury; but nobody
except myself understood his coarse insinuations; at least, nobody paid any
attention to them. From songs the conversation turned upon poets, and the
Commandant observed that they were all rakes and terrible drunkards, and
advised me in a friendly manner to have nothing to do with poetry, as it was
contrary to the rules of the service, and would lead to no good.
Shvabrin’s presence was insupportable to me. I soon took, leave of the
Commandant and his family, and returned home. I examined my sword,
tried the point of it, and then lay down to sleep, after giving Savelitch
orders to wake me at seven o’clock.
The next morning, at the appointed hour, I stood ready behind the hayricks,
awaiting my adversary. He soon made his appearance.
“We may be surprised,” he said to me, “so we must make haste.”
We took off our uniforms, remaining in our waistcoats, and drew our
swords. At that moment Ivan Ignatitch and five of the old soldiers suddenly
made their appearance from behind a hayrick, and summoned us to go
before the Commandant. We obeyed with very great reluctance; the soldiers
surrounded us, and we followed behind Ivan Ignatitch, who led the way in
triumph, striding along with majestic importance.
We reached the Commandant’s house. Ivan Ignatitch threw open the door,
exclaiming triumphantly:
“Here they are!”
Vassilissa Egorovna came towards us.
“What is the meaning of all this, my dears? A plot to commit murder in our
fortress! Ivan Kouzmitch, put them under arrest immediately! Peter
Andreitch! Alexei Ivanitch! Give up your swords—give them up at once!
Palashka, take the swords into the pantry. Peter Andreitch, I did not expect
this of you! Are you not ashamed? As regards Alexei Ivanitch, he was
turned out of the Guards for killing a man; he does not believe in God. Do
you wish to be like him?”
Ivan Kouzmitch agreed with everything that his wife said, and added:
“Yes, Vassilissa Egorovna speaks the truth; duels are strictly forbidden by
the articles of war.”

In the meanwhile Palashka had taken our swords and carried them to the
pantry. I could not help smiling. Shvabrin preserved his gravity.
“With all due respect to you,” he said coldly to her, “I cannot but observe
that you give yourself unnecessary trouble in constituting yourself our
judge. Leave that to Ivan Kouzmitch; it is his business.”
“What do you say, my dear!” exclaimed the Commandant’s wife. “Are not
husband and wife, then, one soul and one body? Ivan Kouzmitch! what are
you staring at? Place them at once in separate corners on bread and water,
so that they may be brought to their proper senses, and then let Father
Gerasim impose a penance upon them, that they may pray to God for
forgiveness, and show themselves repentant before men.”
Ivan Kouzmitch knew not what to do. Maria Ivanovna was exceedingly
pale. Gradually the storm blew over; the Commandant’s wife recovered her
composure, and ordered us to embrace each other. Palashka brought back
our swords to us. We left the Commandant’s house to all appearance
perfectly reconciled. Ivan Ignatitch accompanied us.
“Were you not ashamed,” I said angrily to him, “to go and report us to the
Commandant, after having given me your word that you would not do so?”
“As true as there is a heaven above us, I did not mention I a word about the
matter to Ivan Kouzmitch,” he replied. “Vassilissa Egorovna got everything
out of me. She arranged the whole business without the Commandant’s
knowledge. However, Heaven be thanked that it has all ended in the way
that it has!”
With these words he returned home, and Shvabrin and I remained alone.
“Our business cannot end in this manner,” I said to him. “Certainly not,”
replied Shvabrin; “your blood shall answer for your insolence to me; but we
shall doubtless be watched. For a few days, therefore, we must dissemble.
Farewell, till we meet again.”
And we parted as if nothing were the matter.
Returning to the Commandant’s house I seated myself, as usual, near Maria
Ivanovna. Ivan Kouzmitch was not at home. Vassilissa Egorovna was
occupied with household matters. We were conversing together in an under

tone. Maria Ivanovna reproached me tenderly for the uneasiness which I
had caused them all by my quarrel with Shvabrin.
“I almost fainted away,” said she, “when they told us that you intended to
fight with swords. What strange beings men are! For a single word, which
they would probably forget a week afterwards, they are ready to murder
each other and to sacrifice not only their life, but their conscience and the
happiness of those——But I am quite sure that you did not begin the
quarrel. Without doubt, Alexei Ivanitch first began it.”
“Why do you think so, Maria Ivanovna?”
“Because—he is so sarcastic. I do not like Alexei Ivanitch. He is very
disagreeable to me; yet it is strange: I should not like to displease him. That
would cause me great uneasiness.”
“And what do you think, Maria Ivanovna—do you please him or not?”
Maria Ivanovna blushed and grew confused.
“I think,” said she, “I believe that I please him.”
“And why do you think so?”
“Because he once proposed to me.”
“Proposed! He proposed to you? And when?”
“Last year; two months before your arrival.”
“And you refused?”
“As you see. Alexei Ivanitch is, to be sure, a sensible man and of good
family, and possesses property; but when I think that I should have to kiss
him under the crown[3] in the presence of everybody—no! not for anything
in the world!”
Maria Ivanovna’s words opened my eyes and explained a great many
things. I now understood why Shvabrin calumniated her so remorselessly.
He had probably observed our mutual inclination towards each other, and
endeavoured to produce a coolness between us. The words which had been
the cause of our quarrel appeared to me still more abominable, when,
instead of a coarse and indecent jest, I was compelled to look upon them in
the light of a deliberate calumny. The wish to chastise the insolent slanderer

became still stronger within me, and I waited impatiently for a favourable
opportunity for putting it into execution.
I did not wait long. The next day, when I was occupied in composing an
elegy, and sat biting my pen while trying to think of a rhyme, Shvabrin
tapped at my window. I threw down my pen, took up my sword, and went
out to him.
“Why should we delay any longer?” said Shvabrin; “nobody is observing
us. Let us go down to the river; there no one will disturb us.”
We set out in silence. Descending a winding path, we stopped at the edge of
the river and drew our swords. Shvabrin was more skilful in the use of the
weapon than I, but I was stronger and more daring, and Monsieur Beaupré,
who had formerly been a soldier, had given me some lessons in fencing
which I had turned to good account. Shvabrin had not expected to find in
me such a dangerous adversary. For a long time neither of us was able to
inflict any injury upon the other; at last, observing that Shvabrin was
beginning to relax his endeavours, I commenced to attack him with
increased ardour, and almost forced him back into the river. All at once I
heard my name pronounced in a loud tone. I looked round and perceived
Savelitch hastening down the path towards me.... At that same moment I
felt a sharp thrust in the breast, beneath the right shoulder, and I fell
senseless to the ground.

[1] A Russian dramatic poet, once celebrated, but now almost forgotten. His most
popular works were two tragedies, “Khoreff,” and “Pemetrius the Pretender.”
[2] A minor poet of the last century.
[3] Crowns are held above the heads of the bride and bridegroom during the
marriage ceremony in Russia.

CHAPTER V.

LOVE.

On recovering consciousness I for some time could neither understand nor
remember what had happened to me. I was lying in bed in a strange room,
and felt very weak. Before me stood Savelitch with a candle in his hand.
Someone was carefully unwinding the bandages which were wrapped round
my chest and shoulder. Little by little my thoughts became more collected. I
remembered my duel and conjectured that I was wounded. At that moment
the door creaked.
“Well, how is he?” whispered a voice which sent a thrill through me.
“Still in the same condition,” replied Savelitch with a sigh; “still
unconscious, and this makes the fifth day that he has been like it.”
I wanted to turn round, but I was unable to do so.
“Where am I? Who is here?” said I with an effort. Maria Ivanovna
approached my bed and leaned over me. “Well, how do you feel?” said she.
“God be thanked!” replied I in a weak voice. “Is it you, Maria Ivanovna?
Tell me——”
I had not the strength to continue and I became silent. Savelitch uttered a
shout and his face beamed with delight.
“He has come to himself again! He has come to himself again!” he kept on
repeating. “Thanks be to Thee, O Lord! Come, little father, Peter Andreitch!
What a fright you have given me! It is no light matter; this is the fifth day
——”
Maria Ivanovna interrupted him.
“Do not speak to him too much, Savelitch,” said she, “he is still very
weak.”
She went out of the room and closed the door very quietly after her. My
thoughts became agitated. And so I was in the house of the Commandant;
Maria Ivanovna had been to see me. I wanted to ask Savelitch a few
questions, but the old man shook his head and stopped his ears. Filled with
vexation, I closed my eyes and soon fell asleep.
When I awoke I called Savelitch, but instead of him I saw Maria Ivanovna
standing before me; she spoke to me in her angelic voice. I cannot describe
the delightful sensation which took possession of me at that moment. I

seized her hand, pressed it to my lips, and watered it with my tears. Maria
did not withdraw it.... and suddenly her lips touched my cheek, and I felt a
hot fresh kiss imprinted upon it. A fiery thrill passed through me.
“Dear, good Maria Ivanovna,” I said to her, “be my wife, consent to make
me happy.”
She recovered herself.
“For Heaven’s sake, calm yourself,” said she, withdrawing her hand from
my grasp; “you are not yet out of danger: your wound may re-open. Take
care of yourself, if only for my sake.”
With these words she left the room, leaving me in a transport of bliss.
Happiness saved me. “She will be mine! She loves me!” This thought filled
my whole being.
From that moment I grew hourly better. The regimental barber attended to
the dressing of my wound, for there was no other doctor in the fortress, and,
thank heaven, he did not assume any airs of professional wisdom. Youth
and nature accelerated my recovery. The whole family of the Commandant
attended upon me. Maria Ivanovna scarcely ever left my side. As will
naturally be supposed, I seized the first favourable opportunity for renewing
my interrupted declaration of love, and this time Maria Ivanovna listened to
me more patiently.
Without the least affectation she confessed that she was favourably
disposed towards me, and said that her parents, without doubt, would be
pleased at her good fortune.
“But think well,” she added; “will there not be opposition on the part of
your relations?”
This set me thinking. I was not at all uneasy on the score of my mother’s
affection; but, knowing my father’s disposition and way of thinking, I felt
that my love would not move him very much, and that he would look upon
it as a mere outcome of youthful folly.
I candidly confessed this to Maria Ivanovna, but I resolved, nevertheless, to
write to my father as eloquently as possible, to implore his paternal
blessing. I showed the letter to Maria Ivanovna, who found it so convincing
and touching, that she entertained no doubts about the success, of it, and

abandoned herself to the feelings of her tender heart with all the confidence
of youth and love.
With Shvabrin I became reconciled during the first days of my
convalescence. Ivan Kouzmitch, reproaching me for,’ having engaged in the
duel, said to me:
“See now, Peter Andreitch, I ought really to put you under arrest, but you
have been punished enough already without that. As for Alexei Ivanitch, he
is confined under guard in the corn magazine, and Vassilissa Egorovna has
got his sword under lock and key. He will now have plenty of time to reflect
and repent.”
I was too happy to cherish any unfriendly feeling in my heart. I began to
intercede for Shvabrin, and the good Commandant, with the consent of his
wife, agreed to restore him to liberty.
Shvabrin came to me; he expressed deep regret for all that had happened,
confessed that he alone was to blame, and begged of me to forget the past.
Not being by nature of a rancorous disposition, I readily forgave him the
quarrel which he had caused between us, and the wound which I had
received at his hands. In his slander I saw nothing but the chagrin of
wounded vanity and slighted love, and l generously extended pardon to my
unhappy rival.
I soon recovered my health and was able to return to my own quarters. I
waited impatiently for a reply to my letter, not daring to hope, and
endeavouring to stifle the sad presentiment that was ever uppermost within
me. To Vassilissa Egorovna and her husband I had not yet given an
explanation; but my proposal would certainly not come as a surprise to
them. Neither Maria Ivanovna nor I had endeavoured to hide our feelings
from them, and we felt assured of their consent beforehand.
At last, one morning, Savelitch came to me carrying a letter in his hand. I
seized it with trembling fingers. The address was in the handwriting of my
father. This prepared me for something serious, for the letters I received
from home were generally written by my mother, my father merely adding a
few lines at the end as a postscript. For a long time I could not make up my
mind to break the seal, but kept reading again and again the solemn
superscription:

“To my son, Peter Andreitch Grineff,
“Government[1] of Orenburg,
“Fortress of Bailogorsk.”
I endeavoured to discover from the handwriting the disposition of mind
which my father was in when the letter was written. At last I resolved to
open it, and I saw at the very first glance that all my hopes were
shipwrecked. The letter ran as follows:—
“MY SON PETER,

“Your letter, in which you ask for our paternal blessing and our
consent to your marriage with Maria Ivanovna, the daughter of
Mironoff, reached us the 15th inst., and not only do I intend to refuse
to give you my blessing and my consent, but, furthermore, I intend to
come and teach you a lesson for your follies, as I would a child,
notwithstanding your officer’s rank; for you have shown yourself
unworthy to carry the sword which was entrusted to you for the
defence of your native country, and not for the’ purpose of fighting
duels with fools like yourself. I shall write at once to Andrei
Karlovitch to ask him to transfer you from the fortress of Bailogorsk to
some place farther away, where you will be cured of your folly. Your
mother, on hearing of your duel and your wound, was taken ill through
grief, and she is now confined to her bed. I pray to God that He may
correct you, although I hardly dare to put my trust in His great
goodness.
“Your father—A. G.”

The reading of this letter excited within me various feelings. The harsh
expressions which my father had so unsparingly indulged in afflicted me
deeply. The contempt with which he referred to Maria Ivanovna appeared to
me as indecent as it was unjust. The thought of my being transferred from
the fortress of Bailogorsk to some other military station terrified me, but
that which grieved me more than everything else was the’ intelligence of
my mother’s illness. I was very much displeased with Savelitch, not
doubting that my parents had obtained information of my duel through him.

After pacing up and down my narrow room for some time, I stopped before
him and said, as I looked frowningly at him:
“It seems that you are not satisfied that, thanks to you, I should be wounded
and for a whole month lie at the door of death, but you wish to kill my
mother also.”
Savelitch gazed at me as if he were thunderstruck.
“In the name of Heaven, master,” said he, almost sobbing, “what do you
mean? I the cause of your being wounded! God knows that I was running to
screen you with my own breast from the sword of Alexei Ivanovitch! My
accursed old age prevented me from doing so. But what have I done to your
mother?”
“What have you done?” replied I. “Who asked you to write and denounce
me? Have you then been placed near me to act as a spy upon me?”
“I write and denounce you?” replied Savelitch, with tears in his eyes. “O
Lord, King of Heaven! Be pleased to read what my master has written to
me—you will then see whether I have denounced you or not.”
And with these words he took from his pocket a letter and handed it to me.
It ran as follows:—
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you old hound, for not having—in
spite of my strict injunctions to you to do so—written to me and informed
me of the conduct of my son, Peter Andreitch, and leaving it to strangers to
acquaint me with his follies. Is it thus that you fulfil your duty and your
master’s will? I will send you to tend the pigs, you old hound, for
concealing the truth and for indulging the young man. On receipt of this, I
command you to write back to me without delay, and inform me of the
present state of his health, of the exact place of his wound, and whether he
has been well attended to.”
It was evident that Savelitch was perfectly innocent, and that I had insulted
him with my reproaches and suspicions for no reason at all. I asked his
pardon; but the old man was inconsolable.
“That I should have lived to come to this!” he kept on repeating; “these are
the thanks that I receive from my master. I am an old hound, a keeper of
pigs, and I am the cause of your being wounded. No, little father, Peter

Andreitch, it is not I, but that accursed mossoo who is to blame: it was he
who taught you to thrust with those iron spits and to stamp your foot, as if
by thrusting and stamping one could protect himself from a bad man. It was
very necessary to engage that mossoo and so throw good money to the
winds!”
But who then had taken upon himself the trouble to denounce my conduct
to my father? The general? But he did not appear to trouble himself in the
least about me; and Ivan Kouzmitch had not considered it necessary to
report my duel to him. I became lost in conjecture. My suspicions settled
upon Shvabrin. He alone could derive any advantage from the denunciation,
the result of which might be my removal from the fortress and separation
from the Commandant’s family. I went to inform Maria Ivanovna of
everything. She met me on the steps leading up to the door.
“What has happened, to you?” said she, on seeing me; “how pale you are!”
“It is all over,” replied I, and I gave her my father’s letter.
She now grew pale in her turn. Having read the letter, she returned it to me
with a trembling hand, and said, with a quivering voice:
“Fate ordains that I should not be your wife.... Your parents will not receive
me into their family. God’s will be done! God knows better than we do,
what is good for us. There is nothing to be done, Peter Andreitch; may you
be happy——”
“It shall not be!” I exclaimed, seizing hold of her hand. “You love me; I am
prepared for everything. Let us go and throw ourselves at the feet of your
parents; they are simple people, not hard-hearted and proud. They will give
us their blessing; we will get married ... and then, with time, I feel quite
certain that we shall succeed in bringing my father round; my mother will
be on our side; he will forgive me——”
“No, Peter Andreitch,” replied Masha, “I will not marry you without the
blessing of your parents. Without their blessing you will not be happy. Let
us submit to the will of God. If you meet with somebody else, if you love
another God be with you, Peter Andreitch, I will pray for you both——”
Then she burst into tears and left me. I wanted to follow her into her room,
but I felt that I was not in a condition to control myself, and I returned home
to my quarters.

I was sitting down, absorbed in profound thoughtfulness, when Savelitch
interrupted my meditations.
“Here, sir,” said he, handing me a written sheet of paper: “see whether I am
a spy upon my master, and whether I try to cause trouble between father and
son.”
I took the paper out of his hand. It was the reply of Savelitch to the letter
which he had received. Here it is, word for word:

“LORD ANDREI PETROVITCH, our gracious father,
“I have received your gracious letter, in which you are pleased to be
angry with me, your slave, telling me that I ought to be ashamed of
myself for not fulfilling my master’s orders. I am not an old hound, but
your faithful servant, and I do obey my master’s orders, and I have
always served you zealously till my grey hairs. I did not write anything
to you about Peter Andreitch’s wound, in order that I might not alarm
you without a reason, and now I hear that our lady, our mother,
Avdotia Vassilevna, is ill from fright, and I am going to pray to God to
restore her to health. Peter Andreitch was wounded under the right
shoulder, in the breast, exactly under a rib, to the depth of nearly three
inches, and he was put to bed in the Commandant’s house, whither we
carried him from the bank of the river, and he was healed by Stepan
Paramonoff, the barber of this place, and now, thank God, Peter
Andreitch is well, and I have nothing but good to write about him. His
superior officers, I hear, are satisfied with him; and Vassilissa
Egorovna treats him as if he were her own son. And because such an
accident occurred to him, the young man ought not to be reproached:
the horse has four legs, and yet he stumbles. And if it please you to
write that I should go and feed the pigs, let your lordly will be done.
Herewith I humbly bow down before you.
“Your faithful slave,
“ARKHIP SAVELITCH.”

I could not help smiling several times while reading the good old man’s
letter. I was not in a condition to reply to my father, and Savelitch’s letter
seemed to me quite sufficient to calm my mother’s fears.

From this time my situation changed. Maria Ivanovna scarcely ever spoke
to me, nay, she even tried to avoid me. The Commandant’s house began to
become insupportable to me. Little by little I accustomed myself to
remaining at home alone. Vassilissa Egorovna reproached me for it at first,
but perceiving my obstinacy, she left me in peace. Ivan Kouzmitch I only
saw when the service demanded it; with Shvabrin I rarely came into
contact, and then against my will, all the more so because I observed in him
a secret enmity towards me, which confirmed me in my suspicions. My life
became unbearable to me. I sank into a profound melancholy, which was
enhanced by loneliness and inaction. My love grew more intense in my
solitude, and became more and more tormenting to me. I lost all pleasure in
reading and literature. I grew dejected. I was afraid that I should either go
out of my mind or that I should give way to dissipation. But an unexpected
event, which exercised an important influence upon my after life, suddenly
occurred to give to my soul a powerful and salutary shock.

[1] For administrative purposes Russia is divided into seventy-two governments,
exclusive of Finland, which enjoys a separate administration.

CHAPTER VI.

POUGATCHEFF.

Before I proceed to write a description of the strange events of which I was
a witness, I must say a few words concerning the condition of the
government of Orenburg towards the end of the year 1773.
This rich and extensive government was inhabited by horde? of half-savage
people, who had only recently acknowledged the sovereignty of the Russian
Czars. Their continual revolts, their disinclination to a civilized life and an
existence regulated by laws, their fickleness and cruelty, demanded on the
part of the government a constant vigilance in order to keep them in
subjection. Fortresses had been erected in convenient places, and were
garrisoned for the most part by Cossacks, who had formerly held possession
of the shores of the Yaik. But these Yaikian Cossacks, whose duty it was to

preserve peace and to watch over the security of this district, had
themselves for some time past become very troublesome and dangerous to
the government. In the year 1772 an insurrection broke out in their principal
city. The causes of it were the severe measures taken by General
Traubenberg to bring the army into a state of obedience. The result was the
barbarous murder of Traubenberg, the selection of new leaders, and finally
the suppression of the revolt by grapeshot and cruel punishments.
This happened a little while before my arrival at the fortress of Bailogorsk.
All was now quiet, or at least appeared so; but the authorities believed too
easily in the pretended repentance of the cunning rebels, who nursed their
hatred in secret and only waited for a favourable opportunity to
recommence the struggle.
I now return to my narrative.
One evening (it was in the beginning of October in the year. 1773) I was
sitting indoors alone, listening to the moaning of the autumn wind, and
gazing out of the window at the clouds, as they sailed rapidly over the face
of the moon. A message was brought to me to wait upon the Commandant. I
immediately repaired to his quarters. I there found Shvabrin, Ivan Ignatitch,
and the Cossack orderly. Neither Vassilissa Egorovna nor Maria Ivanova
was in the room. The Commandant greeted me with a pre-occupied air. He
closed the door, made us all sit-down except the orderly, who remained
standing near the door, drew a paper out of his pocket, and said to us:—
“Gentlemen, we have here important news! Hear what the general writes.”
Then he put on his spectacles and read as follows:

“To the Commandant of the Fortress of Bailogorsk, Captain Mironoff.
(Confidential.)
“I hereby inform you that the fugitive and schismatic Don Cossack,
Emelian Pougatcheff, after having been guilty of the unpardonable
insolence of assuming the name of the deceased Emperor Peter III.,[1]
has collected a band of evil-disposed persons, has excited disturbances
in the settlements along the banks of the Yaik, and has already taken
and destroyed several fortresses, pillaging and murdering on every
side. Therefore, on the receipt of this letter, you, Captain, will at once

take the necessary measures to repel the above-mentioned villain and
impostor, and, if possible, to completely annihilate him, if he should
turn his arms against the fortress entrusted to your care.”

“Take the necessary measures,” said the Commandant, taking off his
spectacles and folding up the letter; “you see that it is very easy to say that.
The villain is evidently strong in numbers, whereas we have but 130 men
altogether, not counting the Cossacks, upon whom we can place very little
dependence—without intending any reproach to you, Maximitch.” The
orderly smiled. “Still, there is no help for it, but to do the best we can,
gentlemen. Let us be on our guard and establish night patrols; in case of
attack, shut the gates and assemble the soldiers. You, Maximitch, keep a
strict eye on your Cossacks. See that the cannon be examined and
thoroughly cleaned. Above all things, keep what I have said a secret, so that
nobody in the fortress may know anything before the time.”
After giving these orders, Ivan Kouzmitch dismissed us. I walked away
with Shvabrin, reflecting upon what we had heard.
“How do you think that this will end?” I asked him.
“God knows,” he replied; “we shall see. I do not see anything to be alarmed
about at present. If, however——”
Then he began to reflect and to whistle abstractedly a French air.
In spite of all our precautions, the news of the appearance of Pougatcheff
soon spread through the fortress. Although Ivan Kouzmitch entertained the
greatest respect for his wife, he would not for anything in the world have
confided to her a secret entrusted to him in connection with the service.
After having received the general’s letter, he contrived in a tolerably
dexterous manner to get Vassilissa Egorovna out of the way, telling her that
Father Gerasim had received some extraordinary news from Orenburg,
which he kept a great secret. Vassilissa Egorovna immediately wished to go
and pay a visit to the pope’s wife and, by the advice of Ivan Kouzmitch, she
took Masha with her, lest she should feel dull by herself.
Ivan Kouzmitch, being thus left sole master of the situation, immediately
sent for us, having locked Palashka in the pantry, so that she might not be
able to overhear what we had to say.

Vassilissa Egorovna returned home, without having succeeded in getting
anything out of the pope’s wife, and she learned that, during her absence, a
council of war had been held in Ivan Kouzmitch’s house, and that Palashka
had been under lock and key. She suspected that she had been duped by her
husband, and she began to assail him with questions. But Ivan Kouzmitch
was prepared for the attack. He was not in the least perturbed, and boldly
made answer to his inquisitive consort:
“Hark you, mother dear, our women hereabouts have taken a notion into
their heads to heat their ovens with straw, and as some misfortune might be
the outcome of it, I gave strict orders that the women should not heat their
ovens with straw, but should burn brushwood and branches of trees
instead.”
“But why did you lock up Palashka, then?” asked his wife. “Why was the
poor girl compelled to sit in the kitchen till we returned?”
Ivan Kouzmitch was not prepared for such a question; he became confused,
and stammered out something very incoherent. Vassilissa Egorovna
perceived her husband’s perfidy, but, knowing that she would get nothing
out of him just then, she abstained from asking any further questions and
turned the conversation to the subject of the pickled; cucumbers, which
Akoulina Pamphilovna knew how to prepare in such an excellent manner.
But all that night Vassilissa Egorovna could not sleep a wink, nor could she
understand what it was that was in her husband’s head that; she was not
permitted to know.
The next day, as she was returning home from mass, she saw Ivan Ignatitch,
who was busily engaged in clearing the cannon of pieces of rag, small
stones, bits of bone, and rubbish of every sort, which had been deposited
there by the little boys of the place.
“What mean these warlike preparations?” thought the Commandant’s wife.
“Can it be that they fear an attack on the part of the Kirghises? But is it
possible that Ivan Kouzmitch could conceal such a trifle from me?”
She called Ivan Ignatitch to her with the firm determination of learning
from him the secret which tormented her woman’s curiosity.
Vassillissa Egorovna began by making a few observations to him about
household matters, like a judge who commences an examination with

questions foreign to the matter in hand, in order to lull the suspicions of the
person accused. Then, after a silence of a few moments, she heaved a deep
sigh, and said, shaking her head:
“Oh, Lord God! What news! What will be the end of all this?”
“Well, well, mother!” replied Ivan Ignatitch; “God is merciful; we have
soldiers enough, plenty of powder, and I have cleaned the cannon. Perhaps
we shall be able to offer a successful resistance to this Pougatcheff; if God
will only not abandon us, we shall be safe enough here.”
“And what sort of a man is this Pougatcheff?” asked the Commandant’s
wife.
Then Ivan Ignatitch perceived that he had said more ban he ought to have
done, and he bit his tongue. But it was now too late. Vassilissa Egorovna
compelled him to inform her of everything, having given him her word that
she would not mention the matter to anybody.
Vassilissa Egorovna kept her promise and said not a word to anybody,
except to the pope’s wife, and to her only because her cow was still feeding
upon the steppe, and might be captured by the brigands.
Soon everybody was talking about Pougatcheff. The reports concerning him
varied very much. The Commandant sent his orderly to glean as much
information as possible about him in all the neighbouring villages and
fortresses. The orderly returned after an absence of two days, and reported
that, at about sixty versts from the fortress, he had seen a large number of
fires upon the steppe, and that he had heard from the Bashkirs that an
immense force was advancing. He could not say anything more positive,
because he had feared to venture further.
An unusual agitation now began to be observed among the Cossacks of the
fortress; in all the streets they congregated in small groups, quietly
conversing among themselves, and dispersing whenever they caught sight
of a dragoon or any other soldier belonging to the garrison. They were
closely watched by spies. Youlai, a converted Calmuck, made an important
communication to the commandant. The orderly’s report, according to
Youlai, was a false one; on his return the treacherous Cossack announced to
his companions that he had been among the rebels, and had been presented
to their leader, who had given him his hand and had conversed with him for

a long time. The Commandant immediately placed the orderly under arrest,
and appointed Youlai in his place. This change was the cause of manifest
dissatisfaction among the Cossacks. They murmured loudly, and Ivan
Ignatitch, who executed the Commandant’s instructions, with his own ears
heard them say:
“Just wait a little while, you garrison rat!”
The Commandant had intended interrogating the prisoner that very same
day, but the orderly had made his escape, no doubt with the assistance of his
partisans.
A fresh event served to increase the Commandant’s uneasiness. A Bashkir,
carrying seditious letters, was seized. On this occasion the Commandant
again decided upon assembling his officers, and therefore he wished once
more to get Vassilissa Egorovna out of the way under some plausible
pretext. But as Ivan Kouzmitch was a most upright and sincere man, he
could find no other method than that employed on the previous occasion.
“Listen, Vassilissa Egorovna,” he said to her, coughing to conceal his
embarrassment: “they say that Father Gerasim has received——”
“That’s enough, Ivan Kouzmitch,” said his wife, interrupting him: “you
wish to assemble a council of war to talk about Emelian Pougatcheff
without my being present; but you shall not deceive me this time.”
Ivan Kouzmitch opened his eyes.
“Well, little mother,” he said, “if you know everything, you may remain; we
shall speak in your presence.”
“Very well, my little father,” replied she; “you should not try to be so
cunning; send for the officers.”
We assembled again. Ivan Kouzmitch, in the presence of his wife, read to us
Pougatcheff’s proclamation, drawn up probably by some half-educated
Cossack. The robber announced therein his intention of immediately
marching upon our fortress; he invited the Cossacks and soldiers to join
him, and advised the superior officers not to offer any resistance,
threatening them with death in the event of their doing so. The proclamation
was couched in coarse but vigorous language, and could not but produce a
powerful impression upon the minds of simple people.

“What a rascal!” exclaimed the Commandant’s wife; “that he should
propose such a thing to us. To go out to meet him and lay our flags at his
feet! Ah! the son of a dog! He does not know then that we have been forty
years in the service, and that, thanks to God, we have seen a good deal
during that time. Is it possible that there are commandants who would be
cowardly enough to yield to a robber like him?”
“There ought not to be,” replied Ivan Kouzmitch; “but it is reported that the
scoundrel has already taken several fortresses.”
“He seems to have great power,” observed Shvabrin.
“We shall soon find out the real extent of his power,” said the Commandant.
“Vassilissa Egorovna, give me the key of the loft. Ivan Ignatitch, bring
hither the Bashkir, and tell Youlai to fetch a whip.”
“Wait a moment, Ivan Kouzmitch,” said his wife, rising from her seat. “Let
me take Masha somewhere out of the house; otherwise she will hear the
cries and will feel frightened. And I myself, to tell the truth, am no lover of
inquisitions. So good-bye for the present.”
Torture, in former times, was so rooted in our judicial proceedings, that the
benevolent ukase[2] ordering its abolition remained for a long time a dead
letter. It was thought that the confession of the criminal was indispensable
for his full conviction—an idea not only unreasonable, but even contrary to
common sense from a jurisprudential point of view; for if the denial of the
accused person be not accepted as proof of his innocence, the confession
that has been wrung from him ought still less to be accepted as a proof of
his guilt. Even in our days I sometimes hear old judges regretting the
abolition of the barbarous custom. But in those days nobody had any doubt
about the necessity of torture, neither the judges nor even the accused
persons themselves. Therefore it was that the Commandant’s order did not
astonish or alarm any of us. Ivan Ignatitch went to fetch the Bashkir, who
was confined in the loft, under lock and key, and a few minutes afterwards
he was led prisoner into the ante-room. The Commandant ordered the
captive to be brought before him.—
The Bashkir stepped with difficulty across the threshold (for his feet were in
fetters) and, taking off his high cap, remained standing near the door. I
glanced at him and shuddered. Never shall I forget that man. He appeared to

be about seventy years of age, and had neither nose nor ears. His head was
shaved, and instead of a beard he had a few grey hairs upon his chin; he was
of short stature, thin and bent; but his small eyes still flashed fire.
“Ah, ah!” said the Commandant, recognizing by these dreadful marks one
of the rebels punished in the year 1741, “I see you are an old wolf; you have
already been caught in our traps. It is not the first time that you have
rebelled, since your head is planed so smoothly. Come nearer; speak, who
sent you here?”
The old Bashkir remained silent and gazed at the Commandant with an air
of complete stolidity.
“Why do you not answer?” continued Ivan Kouzmitch. “Don’t you
understand Russian? Youlai, ask him in your language, who sent him to our
fortress.”
Youlai repeated the Commandant’s question in the Tartar language. But the
Bashkir looked at him with the same expression and answered not a word.
“By heaven!” exclaimed the Commandant, “you shall answer me. My lads!
take off that ridiculous striped gown of his, and tickle his back. Youlai, see
that it is carried out properly.”
Two soldiers began to undress the Bashkir. The face of the unhappy man
assumed an expression of uneasiness. He looked round on every side, like a
poor little animal f that has been captured by children. But when one of the
soldiers seized his hands to twine them round his neck, and raised the old
man upon his shoulders, and Youlai grasped the whip and began to flourish
it round his head, then the Bashkir uttered a feeble groan, and, raising his
head, opened his mouth, in which, instead of a tongue, moved a short
stump.
When I reflect that this happened during my lifetime, and that I now live
under the mild government of the Emperor Alexander, I cannot but feel
astonished at the rapid progress of civilization, and the diffusion of humane
ideas. Young man! if these lines of mine should fall into your hands,
remember that those changes which proceed from an amelioration of
manners and customs are much better and more lasting than those which are
the outcome of acts of violence.
We were all horror-stricken.

“Well,” said the Commandant, “it is evident that we shall get nothing out of
him. Youlai, lead the Bashkir back to the loft; and let us, gentlemen, have a
little further talk about the matter.”
We were yet considering our position, when Vassilissa Egorovna suddenly
rushed into the room, panting for breath, and beside herself with
excitement.
“What has happened to you?” asked the astonished Commandant.
“I have to inform you of a great misfortune!” replied Vassilissa Egorovna.
“Nijniosern was taken this morning. Father Gerasim’s servant has just
returned from there. He saw how they took it. The Commandant and all the
officers are hanged, and all the soldiers are taken prisoners. In a little while
the villains will be here.”
This unexpected intelligence produced a deep impression upon me. The
Commandant of the fortress of Nijniosem, a quiet and modest young man,
was an acquaintance of mine; two months before he had visited our fortress
when on his way from Orenburg along with his young wife, and had
stopped for a little while in the house of Ivan Kouzmitch. Nijniosern was
about twenty-five versts from our fortress. We might therefore expect to be
attacked by Pougatcheff at any moment. The fate in store for Maria
Ivanovna presented itself vividly to my imagination, and my heart sank
within me.
“Listen, Ivan Kouzmitch,” said I to the Commandant; “our duty is to defend
the fortress to the last gasp; there is no question about that. But we must
think about the safety of the women. Send them on to Orenburg, if the road
be still open, or to some safer and more distant fortress where these villains
will not be able to make their way.”
Ivan Kouzmitch turned round to his wife and said to her:
“Listen, mother; would it not be just as well if we sent you away to some
place farther off until we have settled matters with these rebels?”
“What nonsense!” said the Commandant’s wife. “Where is there a fortress
that would be safe from bullets? Why is Bailogorsk not safe? Thank God,
we have lived in it for two-and-twenty years! We have seen Bashkirs and
Kirghises; perhaps we shall also escape the clutches of Pougatcheff.”

“Well, mother,” replied Ivan Kouzmitch, “stay if you like, if you have such
confidence in our fortress. But what shall we do with Masha? All well and
good if we offer a successful resistance, or can hold out till we obtain help;
but what if the villains should take the fortress?”
“Why, then——”
But at this juncture Vassilissa Egorovna began to stammer and then
remained silent, evidently agitated by deep emotion.
“No, Vassilissa Egorovna,” continued the Commandant, observing that his
words had produced an impression upon her, perhaps for the first time in his
life, “Masha must not remain here. Let us send her to Orenburg, to her
godmother; there are plenty of soldiers and cannon there, and the walls are
of stone. And I would advise you to go there with her; for although you are
an old woman, think what might happen to you if the fortress should be
taken by storm.”
“Very well,” replied the Commandant’s wife; “let it be so: we will send
Masha away. As for me, you need not trouble yourself about asking me to
go; I will remain here. Nothing shall make me part from you in my old age
to go and seek a lonely grave in a strange country. Together we have lived,
together we will die.”
“Well, you are right,” said the Commandant; “but let us not delay any
longer. Go and get Masha ready for the journey. She must set out at
daybreak to-morrow, and we shall let her have an escort, although we have
not too many men in the fortress to be able to spare any of them. But where
is Masha?”
“Along with Akoulina Pamphilovna,” replied the Commandant’s wife. “She
fainted away when she heard of the capture of Nijniosern; I am afraid that
she will be ill. Lord God of heaven, what have we lived to see!”
Vassilissa Egorovna went to prepare for her daughter’s departure. The
consultation with the Commandant was then continued; but I no longer took
any part in it, nor did I listen to anything that was said. Maria Ivanovna
appeared at supper, her face pale and her eyes red with weeping. We supped
in silence, and rose from the table sooner than usual; then taking leave of
the family, we all returned to our respective quarters. But I intentionally
forgot my sword, and went back for it: I had a presentiment that I should

find Maria alone. True enough I met her in the doorway, and she handed me
my sword.
“Farewell, Peter Andreitch!” she said to me, with tears in her eyes; “they
are going to send me to Orenburg. May you be well and happy. God may be
pleased to ordain that we should see each other again; if not——”
Here she burst out sobbing. I clasped her in my arms.
“Farewell, my angel!” said I. “Farewell, my darling, my heart’s desire!
Whatever may happen to me, rest assured that my last thought and last
prayer shall be for you.”
Masha still continued to weep, resting her head upon my breast. I kissed her
fervently, and hastily quitted the room.

[1] Husband of the Empress Catherine II. The latter, whom the Emperor had
threatened to divorce, having won over to her side a considerable portion of the
army, had compelled her unpopular consort to sign an act of abdication in 1762.
Having been removed as a prisoner to Ropscha, it was shortly afterwards
announced that He had died of colic, though the truth was, he had been strangled
to death by Alexis Orloff, one of Catherine’s numerous admirers.
[2] Torture was abolished in 1768 by an edict of Catherine II.

CHAPTER VII.

THE ASSAULT.

That night I neither slept nor undressed. It was my intention to proceed
early in the morning to the gate of the fortress through which Maria
Ivanovna would have to pass, so that I might take leave of her for the last
time. I felt within myself a great change; the agitation of my soul was far
less burdensome to me than the melancholy into which I had lately fallen.
With the grief of separation there was mingled a vague, but sweet hope, an
impatient expectation of danger, a feeling of noble ambition.
The night passed away imperceptibly. I was just about to leave the house
when my door opened, and the corporal entered the room with the

information that our Cossacks had quitted the fortress during the night,
taking Youlai by force along with them, and that strange people were riding
round the fortress. The thought that Maria Ivanovna would not be able to
get away filled me with alarm. I hurriedly gave some orders to the corporal,
and then hastened at once to the Commandant’s quarters.
Day had already begun to dawn. I was hurrying along the street when I
heard someone call out my name. I stopped.
“Where are you going?” said Ivan Ignatitch, overtaking me. “Ivan
Kouzmitch is on the rampart, and he has sent me for you. Pougatch[1] has
come.”
“Has Maria Ivanovna left the fortress?” I asked, with a trembling heart.
“She was unable to do so,” replied Ivan Ignatitch; “the road to Orenburg is
cut off and the fortress is surrounded. It is a bad look-out, Peter Andreitch.”
We made our way to the rampart, an elevation formed by nature and
fortified by a palisade. The inhabitants of the fortress were already
assembled there. The garrison stood drawn up under arms. The cannon had
been dragged thither the day before. The Commandant was walking up and
down in front of his little troop. The approach of danger had inspired the
old warrior with unusual vigour. On the steppe, not very far from the
fortress, about a score of men could be seen riding about on horseback.
They seemed to be Cossacks, but among them were some Bashkirs, who
were easily recognized by their hairy caps, and by their quivers.
The Commandant walked along the ranks of his little army, saying to the
soldiers:
“Now, my children, let us stand firm to-day for our mother the Empress and
let us show the whole world that we are brave people, and true to our oath.”
The soldiers responded to his appeal with loud shouts. Shvabrin stood near
me and attentively observed the enemy. The people riding about on the
steppe, perceiving some movement in the fortress, gathered together in a
group and began conversing among themselves. The Commandant ordered
Ivan Ignatitch to point the cannon at them, and then applied the match to it
with his own hand. The ball whistled over their heads, without doing any

harm. The horsemen dispersed, galloping out of sight almost immediately,
and the steppe was deserted.
At that moment Vassilissa Egorovna appeared upon the rampart, followed
by Masha, who was unwilling to leave her.
“Well,” said the Commandant’s wife, “how goes the battle? Where is the
enemy?”
“The enemy is not far off,” replied Ivan Kouzmitch. “God grant that all may
go well!... Well, Masha, do you feel afraid?”
“No, papa,” replied Maria Ivanovna; “I feel more afraid being at home
alone.”
Then she looked at me and made an effort to smile. I involuntarily grasped
the hilt of my sword, remembering that I had received it from her hand the
evening before—as if for the protection of my beloved. My heart throbbed.
I imagined myself her champion. I longed to prove that I was worthy of her
confidence, and waited impatiently for the decisive moment.
All of a sudden some fresh bodies of mounted men made their appearance
from behind an elevation situated about half a mile from the fortress, and
soon the steppe was covered with crowds of persons armed with lances and
quivers. Among them, upon a white horse, was a man in a red caftan[2],
holding a naked sword in his hand; this was Pougatcheff himself. He
stopped his horse, and the others gathered round him, and, in obedience to
his order as it seemed, four men detached themselves from the crowd and
galloped at full speed towards the fortress. We recognized among them
some of our traitors. One of them held a sheet of paper above his head,
while another bore upon the top of his lance the head of Youlai, which he
threw over the palisade among us. The head of the poor Calmuck fell at the
feet of the Commandant.
The traitors cried out:
“Do not fire! Come out and pay homage to the Czar. The Czar is here!”
“Look out for yourselves!” cried Ivan Kouzmitch, “Ready, lads—fire!”
Our soldiers fired a volley. The Cossack who held the letter staggered and
fell from his horse; the others galloped back. I turned and looked at Maria
Ivanovna. Terror-stricken by the sight of the bloodstained head of Youlai,

and stunned by the din of the discharge, she seemed perfectly paralyzed.
The Commandant called the corporal and ordered him to fetch the paper
from the hands of the fallen Cossack. The corporal went out into the plain,
and returned leading by the bridle the horse of the dead man. He handed the
letter to the Commandant. Ivan Kouzmitch read it to himself and then tore it
into pieces. In the meantime we could see the rebels preparing for the
attack. Soon the bullets began to whistle about our ears, and several arrows
fell close to us, sticking in the ground and in the palisade.
“Vassilissa Egorovna!” said the Commandant; “women have no business
here. Take Masha away; you see that the girl is more dead than alive.”
Vassilissa Egorovna, tamed by the bullets, cast a glance at the steppe, where
a great commotion was observable, and then turned round to her husband
and said to him:
“Ivan Kouzmitch, life and death are in the hands of God; bless Masha.
Masha, come near to your father.”
Masha, pale and trembling, approached Ivan Kouzmitch, knelt down before
him, and bowed herself to the ground. The old Commandant made the sign
of the cross over her three times, then raised her up, and kissing her, said in
a voice of deep emotion:
“Well, Masha, be happy. Pray to God; He will never forsake you. If you
find a good man, may God give you love and counsel. Live together as your
mother and I have lived. And now, farewell, Masha. Vassilissa Egorovna,
take her away quickly.”
Masha threw her arms round his neck and sobbed aloud.
“Let us kiss each other also,” said the Commandant’s wife, weeping.
“Farewell, my Ivan Kouzmitch. Forgive me if I have ever vexed you in any
way!”
“Farewell, farewell, little mother!” said the Commandant, embracing the
partner of his joys and sorrows for so many years. “Come now, that is
enough! Make haste home; and if you can manage it, put a sarafan[3] on
Masha.”
The Commandant’s wife walked away along with her daughter. I followed
Maria Ivanovna with my eyes; she turned round and nodded her head to me.

Ivan Kouzmitch then returned to us, and bestowed all his attention upon the
enemy. The rebels gathered round their leader and suddenly dismounted
from their horses.
“Stand firm now,” said the Commandant, “the assault is going to begin.”
At that moment frightful yells and cries rose in the air; the rebels dashed
forward towards the fortress. Our cannon was loaded with grape-shot.
The Commandant allowed them to come very close, and then suddenly
fired again. The grape fell into the very midst of the crowd. The rebels
recoiled and then dispersed on every side. Their leader alone remained
facing us. He heaved his sword and seemed to be vehemently exhorting his
followers to return to the attack. The shrieks and yells, which had ceased for
a minute, were immediately renewed.
“Now, lads!” said the Commandant; “open the gate, beat the drum, and let
us make a sally. Forward, and follow me!”
The Commandant, Ivan Ignatitch, and I were outside the wall of the fortress
in a twinkling; but the timid garrison did not move.
“Why do you hold back, my children?” cried Ivan Kouzmitch. “If we are to
die, let us die doing our duty!”
At that moment the rebels rushed upon us and forced an entrance into the
fortress. The drum ceased to beat; the garrison flung down their arms. I was
thrown to the ground, but I rose up and entered the fortress along with the
rebels. The Commandant, wounded in the head, was surrounded by a crowd
of the robbers, who demanded of him the keys. I was about to rush to his
assistance, but several powerful Cossacks seized hold of me and bound me
with their sashes, exclaiming:
“Just wait a little while and see what you will get, you traitors to the Czar!”
They dragged us through the streets; the inhabitants came out of their
houses with bread and salt;[4] the bells began to ring. Suddenly among the
crowd a cry was raised that the Czar was in the square waiting for the
prisoners to take their oath of allegiance to him. The throng pressed towards
the market-place, and our captors dragged us thither also.
Pougatcheff was seated in an armchair on the steps of the Commandant’s
house. He was attired in an elegant Cossack caftan, ornamented with lace.

A tall cap of sable, with gold tassels, came right down to his flashing eyes.
His face seemed familiar to me. He was surrounded by the Cossack chiefs.
Father Gerasim, pale and trembling, stood upon the steps with a cross in his
hands, and seemed to be silently imploring mercy for the victims brought
forward. In the square a gallows was being hastily erected. As we
approached, the Bashkirs drove back the crowd, and we were brought
before Pougatcheff. The bells had ceased ringing, and a deep silence
reigned around.
“Which is the Commandant?” asked the pretender.
Our orderly stepped forward out of the crowd and pointed to Ivan
Kouzmitch.
Pougatcheff regarded the old man with a menacing look, and said to him:
“How dared you oppose me—your emperor?”
The Commandant, weakened by his wound, summoned ill his remaining
strength and replied in a firm voice:
“You are not my emperor; you are a robber and a pretender, that is what you
are!”
Pougatcheff frowned savagely and waved his white handkerchief. Several
Cossacks seized the old captain and dragged him towards the gallows.
Astride upon the cross-beam could be seen the mutilated Bashkir whom we
had examined the day before. He held in his hand a rope, and a minute
afterwards I saw poor Ivan Kouzmitch suspended in the air. Then Ivan
Ignatitch was brought before Pougatcheff.
“Take the oath of fealty,” said Pougatcheff to him, “to the Emperor Peter
Fedorovitch!”
“You are not our emperor,” replied Ivan Ignatitch, repeating the words of
his captain; “you, uncle, are a robber and a pretender!”
Pougatcheff again waved his handkerchief, and the good lieutenant was
soon hanging near his old chief.
It was now my turn. I looked defiantly at Pougatcheff, prepared to repeat
the answer of my brave comrades, when, to my inexpressible astonishment,
I perceived, among the rebels, Shvabrin, his hair cut close, and wearing a

Cossack kaftan. He stepped up to Pougatcheff and whispered a few words
in his ear.
“Let him be hanged!” said Pougatcheff, without even looking at me.
The rope was thrown round my neck. I began to repeat a prayer to myself,
expressing sincere repentance for all my sins, and imploring God to save all
those who were dear to me. I was led beneath the gibbet.
“Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid,” said my executioners, wishing sincerely,
perhaps, to encourage me.
Suddenly I heard a cry:
“Stop, villains! hold!”
The executioners paused. I looked round. Savelitch was on his knees at the
feet of Pougatcheff.
“Oh, my father!” said my poor servant, “why should you wish for the death
of this noble child? Let him go you will get a good ransom for him; if you
want to make an example of somebody for the sake of terrifying others
order me to be hanged—an old man!”
Pougatcheff gave a sign, and I was immediately unbound and set at liberty.
“Our father pardons you,” said the rebels who had charge of me.
I cannot say that at that moment I rejoiced at my deliverance, neither will I
say that I was sorry for it. My feelings were too confused. I was again led
before the usurper and compelled to kneel down in front of him.
Pougatcheff stretched out to me his sinewy hand.
“Kiss his hand, kiss his hand!” exclaimed voices on every side of me.
But I would have preferred the most cruel punishment to such contemptible
degradation.
“My little father, Peter Andreitch,” whispered Savelitch standing behind me
and nudging my elbow, “do not be obstinate. What will it cost you? Spit[5]
and kiss the brig——pshaw! kiss his hand!”
I did not move. Pougatcheff withdrew his hand, saying with a smile:
“His lordship seems bewildered with joy. Lift him up!”

I was raised to my feet and released. I then stood by to observe the
continuation of the terrible comedy.
The inhabitants began to take the oath of allegiance. They approached one
after another, kissed the crucifix and then bowed to the usurper. Then came
the turn of the soldiers of the garrison. The regimental barber, armed with
his blunt scissors, cut off their hair. Then, after shaking their heads, they
went and kissed the hand of Pougatcheff, who declared them pardoned, and
then enrolled them among his followers.
All this lasted for about three hours. At length Pougatcheff rose up from his
armchair and descended the steps, accompanied by his chiefs. A white
horse, richly caparisoned, was led forward to him. Two Cossacks took hold
of him under the arms and assisted him into the saddle. He informed Father
Gerasim that he would dine with him. At that moment a woman’s scream
was heard. Some of the brigands were dragging Vassilissa Egorovna, with
her hair dishevelled and her clothes half torn off her body, towards the
steps. One of them had already arrayed himself in her gown. The others
were carrying off beds, chests, tea-services, linen, and all kinds of furniture.
“My fathers!” cried the poor old woman, “have pity upon me and let me go.
Kind fathers! take me to Ivan Kouzmitch.”
Suddenly she caught sight of the gibbet and recognized her husband.
“Villains!” she cried, almost beside herself; “what have you done to him?
My Ivan Kouzmitch! light of my life! brave soldier heart! Neither Prussian
bayonets nor Turkish bullets have touched you; not in honourable fight have
you yielded up your life; you received your death at the hand of a runaway
galley-slave!”
“Make the old witch hold her tongue!” said Pougatcheff.
A young Cossack struck her on the head with his sabre, and she fell dead at
the foot of the steps. Pougatcheff rode off; the crowd followed him.

[1] A pun on the name of the rebel chief. Literally, “a scarecrow.”
[2] A kind of overcoat.
[3] A wide open robe without sleeves, beneath which is worn a full long-sleeved
gown. It is usually made of velvet, richly embroidered, he embroidery varying
according to the rank of the wearer. It is the custom among the Russians to bury
the dead in their richest dress.
[4] The customary offering to a Russian emperor on entering a town. The act is
indicative of submission.
[5] A sign of contempt among Russians and Orientals.

CHAPTER VIII.

AN UNINVITED GUEST.

The square was deserted. I remained standing in the same place, unable to
collect my thoughts, bewildered as I was by so many terrible emotions.
Uncertainty with respect to the fate of Maria Ivanovna tortured me more
than anything else. Where was she? What had become of her? Had she
contrived to hide herself? Was her place of refuge safe?
Filled, with these distracting thoughts, I made my way to the
Commandant’s house. It was empty. The chairs, tables, and chests were
broken, the crockery dashed to pieces, and everything in confusion. I ran up
the little staircase which led to Maria’s room, and which I now entered for
the first time in my life. Her bed had been ransacked by the robbers; the
wardrobe was broken open and plundered; the small lamp was still burning
before the empty image case.[1] There was also left a small mirror hanging
on the partition wall.... Where was the mistress of his humble, virginal cell?
A terrible thought passed through my mind; I imagined her in the hands of
the robbers.... My heart sank within me.... I wept bitterly, most bitterly, and
called aloud the name of my beloved.... At that moment I heard a slight
noise, and from behind the ward-robe appeared Palasha, pale and trembling.
“Ah, Peter Andreitch!” said she, clasping her hands, “What a day! what
horrors!”

“And Maria Ivanovna?” I asked impatiently. “What has become of Maria
Ivanovna?”
“The young lady is alive,” replied Palasha; “she is hiding in the house of
Akoulina Pamphilovna.”
“With the priest’s wife!” I exclaimed in alarm. “My God! Pougatcheff is
there!”
I dashed out of the room, and in the twinkling of an eye I was in the street
and hurrying off to the clergyman’s house, without devoting the slightest
attention to anything else. Shouts, songs, and bursts of laughter resounded
from within.... Pougatcheff was feasting with his companions. Palasha had
followed me thither. I sent her to call out Akoulina Pamphilovna secretly. In
about a minute the priest’s wife came out to me in the vestibule, with an
empty bottle in her hand.
“In Heaven’s name! where is Maria Ivanovna?” I asked with indescribable
agitation.
“The dear little dove is lying down on my bed behind the partition,” replied
the priest’s wife. “But a terrible misfortune had very nearly happened, Peter
Andreitch! Thanks be to God, however, everything has passed off happily.
The villain had just sat down to dine, when the poor child uttered a moan!...
I felt as if I should have died. He heard it. ‘Who is that moaning in your
room, old woman?’—I bowed myself to the ground, and replied: ‘My niece,
Czar; she has been lying ill for about a fortnight.’—‘And is your niece
young?’—‘She is young, Czar.’ —‘Show me your niece then, old woman.’
My heart sank within me, but there was no help for it. ‘Very well, Czar; but
the girl will not have the strength to get up and come before your
Grace.’—‘Never mind, old woman, I will go and see her myself.’ And the
villain went behind the partition and, will you believe it?—actually drew
aside the curtain and looked at her with his hawk-like eyes—but nothing
came of it,—God helped us! Will you believe it? I and the father were
prepared for a martyr’s death. Fortunately, my little dove did not recognize
him. Lord God! what have we lived to see! Poor Ivan Kouzmitch! who
would have thought it!... And Vassilissa Egorovna? And Ivan Ignatitch?
What was he killed for? And how came they to spare you? And what do you
think of Shvabrin? He has had his hair cut, and is now feasting inside along
with them! He is a very sharp fellow, there is no gainsaying that! When I

spoke of my sick niece—will you believe it?—he looked at me as if he
would have stabbed me; but he did not betray me. I am thankful to him for
that, anyway.”
At that moment I heard the drunken shouts of the guests and the voice of
Father Gerasim. The guests were demanding wine, and the host was calling
for his wife.
“Go back home, Peter Andreitch,” said the priest’s wife, somewhat alarmed;
“I cannot stop to speak to you now; I must go and wait upon the drunken
scoundrels. It might be unfortunate for you if you fell into their hands.
Farewell, Peter Andreitch. What is to be, will be; perhaps God will not
abandon us!”
The priest’s wife went back inside the house. Somewhat more easy in mind,
I returned to my quarters. As I crossed the square I saw several Bashkirs
assembled round the gibbets, engaged in dragging off the boots of those
who had been hanged. With difficulty I repressed my indignation, feeling
convinced that if I gave expression to it, it would have been perfectly
useless. The brigands invaded every part of the fortress, and plundered the
officers’ houses. On every side resounded the shouts of the drunken
mutineers. I reached home. Savelitch met me on the threshold.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed when he saw me; “I was beginning to think
that the villains had seized you again. Ah! my little father, Peter Andreitch,
will you believe it, the robbers have plundered us of everything—clothes,
linen, furniture, plate—they have not left us a single thing. But what does it
matter? Thank God! they have spared your life. But, my lord, did you
recognize their leader?”
“No, I did not recognize him. Who is he then?”
“How, my little father! Have you forgotten that drunken scoundrel who
swindled you out of the pelisse at the inn? A brand new hareskin pelisse;
and the beast burst the seams in putting it on.”
I was astounded. In truth, the resemblance of Pougatcheff to my guide was
very striking. I felt convinced that Pougatcheff and he were one and the
same person, and then I understood why he had spared my life. I could not
but feel surprised at the strange connection of events—a child’s pelisse,
given to a roving vagrant, had saved me from the hangman’s noose, and a

drunkard, who had passed his life in wandering from one inn to another,
was now besieging fortresses and shaking the empire!
“Will you not eat something?” asked Savelitch, still faithful to his old
habits. “There is nothing in the house; but I will go and search, and get
something ready for you.”
When I was left alone, I began to reflect. What was I to do? To remain in
the fortress now that it was in the hands of the villain, or to join his band,
was unworthy of an officer. Duty demanded that I should go wherever my
services might still be of use to my fatherland in the present critical position
of its affairs.... But love strongly urged me to remain near Maria Ivanovna
and be her protector and defender. Although I foresaw a speedy and
inevitable change in the course of affairs, yet I could not help trembling
when I thought of the danger of her situation.
My reflections were interrupted by the arrival of one of the Cossacks, who
came to inform me that “the great Czar required me to appear before him.”
“Where is he?” I asked, preparing to obey.
“In the Commandant’s house,” replied the Cossack. “After dinner our father
took a bath, but at present he is resting. Ah! your Excellency, it is very
evident that he is a distinguished person; at dinner he deigned to eat two
roasted sucking pigs, then he entered the bath, where the I water was so hot
that even Tarass Kourotchkin could not bear it; he had to give the besom to
Tomka Bikbaieff, and only came to himself through having cold water
poured over him. There is no denying it; all his ways are majestic.... And I
was told that in the bath he showed his Czar’s signs upon his breast: on one
side a two-headed eagle as large as a five-copeck piece, and on the other his
own likeness.”
I did not consider it necessary to contradict the Cossack’s statement, and I
accompanied him to the Commandant’s house, trying to imagine
beforehand what kind of a reception I should meet with from Pougatcheff,
and endeavouring to guess how it would end. The reader will easily
understand that I did not by any means feel easy within myself.
It was beginning to get dark when I reached the Commandant’s house. The
gibbet, with its victims, loomed black and terrible before me. The body of
the poor Commandant’s wife still lay at the bottom of the steps, near which

two Cossacks stood on guard. The Cossack who accompanied me went in to
announce me, and, returning almost immediately, conducted me into the
room where, the evening before, I had taken a tender farewell of Maria
Ivanovna.
An unusual spectacle presented itself to my gaze. At a table, covered with a
cloth and loaded with bottles and glasses, sat Pougatcheff and some half-a-
score of Cossack chiefs, in coloured caps and shirts, heated with wine, with
flushed faces and flashing eyes. I did not see among then: Shvabrin and his
fellow traitor, the orderly.
“Ah! your Excellency!” said Pougatcheff, seeing me, “Welcome; honour to
you and a place at our banquet.”
The guests moved closer together. I sat down silently at the end of the table.
My neighbour, a young Cossack, tall and handsome, poured out for me a
glass of wine, which, however, I did not touch. I began to observe the
company with curiosity. Pougatcheff occupied the seat of honour, his
elbows resting on the table, and his broad fist propped under his black
beard. His features, regular and sufficiently agreeable, had nothing fierce
about them. He frequently turned to speak to a man of about fifty years of
age, addressing him sometimes as Count, sometimes as Timofeitch,
sometimes as uncle. All those present treated each other as comrades, and
did not show any particular respect for their leader. The conversation was
upon the subject of the assault of the morning, of the success of the revolt,
and of their future operations. Each one boasted of what he had done,
expressed his opinion, and fearlessly contradicted Pougatcheff. And in this
strange council of war it was resolved to march upon Orenburg; a bold
movement, and which was to be very nearly crowned with success! The
march was fixed for the following day.
“Now, lads,” said Pougatcheff, “before we retire to rest, let us have my
favourite song. Choumakoff, begin!”
My neighbour sang, in a shrill voice, the following melancholy peasants’
song, and all joined in the chorus:
“Stir not, mother, green forest of oak,
Disturb me not in my meditation;
For to-morrow before the court I must go,

Before the stern judge, before the Czar himself.
The great Lord Czar will begin to question me:
‘Tell me, young man, tell me, thou peasant’s son,
With whom have you stolen, with whom have you robbed?
Did you have many companions with you?’
‘I will tell you, true-believing Czar,
The whole truth I will confess to you.
My companions were four in number:
My first companion was the dark night,
My second companion was a steel knife,
My third companion was my good horse,
My fourth companion was my taut bow,
My messengers were my tempered arrows.’
Then speaks my hope, the true-believing Czar:
‘Well done! my lad, brave peasant’s son;
You knew how to steal, you knew how to reply:
Therefore, my lad, I will make you a present
Of a very high structure in the midst of a field—
Of two upright posts with a cross-beam above.’”
It is impossible to describe the effect produced upon me by this popular
gallows song, trolled out by men destined for the gallows. Their ferocious
countenances, their sonorous voices, and the melancholy expression which
they imparted to the words, which in themselves were not very expressive,
filled me with a sort of poetical terror.
The guests drank another glass, then rose from the table and took leave of
Pougatcheff.
I wanted to follow them, but Pougatcheff said to me:
“Sit down; I want to speak to you.”
We remained face to face.
For some moments we both continued silent. Pougatcheff looked at me
fixedly, every now and then winking his left eye with a curious expression
of craftiness and drollery. At last he burst out laughing, and with such
unfeigned merriment, that I, too, looking at him, began to laugh, without
knowing why.

“Well, your lordship,” he said to me, “confess now, you were in a terrible
fright when my fellows put the rope round your neck. I do not believe that
the sky appeared bigger than a sheepskin to you just then.... You would
have been strung up to the crossbeam if it had not been for your servant. I
knew the old fellow at once. Well, would your lordship have thought that
the man who conducted you to the inn, was the great Czar himself?”
Here he assumed an air of mystery and importance.
“You have been guilty of a serious offence against me,” continued he, “but I
pardoned you on account of your virtue, and because you rendered me a
service when I was compelled to hide myself from my enemies. But you
will see something very different presently! You will see how I will reward
you when I enter into possession of my kingdom! Will you promise to serve
me with zeal?”
The rascal’s question, and his insolence, appeared to me so amusing, that I
could not help smiling.
“Why do you smile?” he asked, frowning. “Perhaps you do not believe that
I am the great Czar? Is that so?—answer plainly.”
I became confused. To acknowledge a vagabond as emperor was quite out
of the question; to do so seemed to me unpardonable cowardice. To tell him
to his face that he was an impostor was to expose myself to certain death,
and that which I was prepared to say beneath the gibbet before the eyes of
the crowd, in the first outburst of my indignation, appeared to me now a
useless boast. I hesitated. In gloomy silence Pougatcheff awaited my reply.
At last (and even now I remember that moment with self-satisfaction) the
sentiment of duty triumphed over my human weakness. I replied to
Pougatcheff:
“Listen, I will tell you the whole truth. Judge yourself: can I acknowledge
you as emperor? You, as a sensible man, would know that it would not be
saying what I really thought.”
“Who am I, then, in your opinion?”
“God only knows; but whoever you may be, you are playing a dangerous
game.”
Pougatcheff threw a rapid glance at me.

“Then you do not believe,” said he, “that I am the Emperor Peter? Well, be
it so. But is not success the reward of the bold? Did not Grishka Otrepieff[2]
reign in former days? Think of me what you please, but do not leave me.
What does it matter to you one way or the other? Whoever is pope is father.
Serve me faithfully and truly, and I will make you a field-marshal and a
prince. What do you say?”
“No,” I replied with firmness. “I am by birth a nobleman; I have taken the
oath of fealty to the empress: I cannot serve you. If you really wish me well,
send me back to Orenburg.”
Pougatcheff reflected.
“But if I let you go,” said he, “will you at least promise not to serve against
me?”
“How can I promise you that?” I replied. “You yourself know that it does
not depend upon my own will. If I am ordered to march against you, I must
go—there is no help for it. You yourself are now a chief; you demand
obedience from your followers. How would it seem, if I refused to serve
when my services were needed? My life is in your hands: if you set me free,
I will thank you; if you put me to death, God will be your judge; but I have
told you the truth.”
My frankness struck Pougatcheff.
“Be it so,” said he, slapping me upon the shoulder. “One should either
punish completely or pardon completely. Go then where you like, and do
what you like. Come to-morrow to say good-bye to me, and now go to bed.
I feel very drowsy myself.”
I left Pougatcheff and went out into the street. The night was calm and cold.
The moon and stars were shining brightly, lighting up the square and the
gibbet. In the fortress all was dark and still. Only in the tavern was a light
visible, where could be heard the noise of late revellers.
I glanced at the pope’s house. The shutters and doors were closed.
Everything seemed quiet within.
I made my way to my own quarters and found Savelitch grieving about my
absence. The news of my being set at liberty filled him with unutterable joy.

“Thanks be to Thee, Almighty God!” said he, making the sign of the cross.
“At daybreak to-morrow we will leave the fortress and go wherever God
will direct us. I have prepared something for you; eat it, my little father, and
then rest yourself till the morning, as if you were in the bosom of Christ.”
I followed his advice and, having eaten with a good appetite, I fell asleep
upon the bare floor, worn out both in body and mind.

[1] The small wardrobe, with glass doors, in which the sacred images are kept,
and which forms a domestic altar.
[2] The first false Demetrius, the Perkin Warbeck of Russia. The real Demetrius
was the son of Ivan the Terrible (Ivan IV.), and is generally believed to have been
assassinated by order of Boris Godunoff, a nobleman of Tartar origin, who was
afterwards elected Czar. Otrepieff’s story was that his physician had pretended to
comply with the orders of Boris, but had substituted the son of a serf for him.
Being supported in his claims by the Poles, the pretender succeeded in gaining
the throne, but his partiality for everything Polish aroused the national jealousy
of the Russians, and he was slain by the infuriated populace of Moscow, after a
brief reign of one year.

CHAPTER IX.

THE PARTING.

Early next morning I was awakened by the drum. I went to the place of
assembly. There Pougatcheff’s followers were already drawn up round the
gibbet, where the victims of the day before were still hanging. The
Cossacks were on horseback, the soldiers were under arms. Flags were
waving. Several cannon, among which I recognized our own, were mounted
on travelling gun-carriages. All the inhabitants were gathered together there,
awaiting the usurper. Before the steps of the Commandant’s house a
Cossack stood holding by the bridle a magnificent white horse of Kirghis
breed. I looked about for the corpse of the Commandant’s wife. It had been
pushed a little on one side and covered with a mat. At length Pougatcheff
came out of the house. The crowd took off their caps. Pougatcheff stood
still upon the steps and greeted his followers. One of the chiefs gave him a
bag filled with copper coins, and he began to scatter them by handfuls. The

crowd commenced scrambling for them with eager cries, and there was no
lack of pushing and scuffling in the attempts to get possession of them.
Pougatcheff’s chief followers assembled round him. Among them stood
Shvabrin. Our eyes met; in mine he could read contempt, and he turned
away with an expression of genuine hate and affected scorn. Pougatcheff,
seeing me among the crowd, nodded his head to me and called me to him.
“Listen,” said he to me, “set off at once for Orenburg and tell the governor
and all the generals from me, that they may expect me in about a week.
Advise them to receive me with filial love and submission; otherwise they
shall not escape a terrible punishment. A pleasant journey, your lordship!”
Then turning round to the crowd and pointing to Shvabrin, he said:
“There, children, is your new Commandant. Obey him in everything; he is
answerable to me for you and for the fortress.”
I heard these words with alarm: Shvabrin being made governor of the
fortress, Maria Ivanovna remained in his power! Great God! what would
become of her!
Pougatcheff descended the steps. His horse was brought to him. He vaulted
nimbly into the saddle, without waiting for the Cossacks, who were going
to help him to mount.
At that moment I saw my Savelitch emerge from the midst of the crowd; he
approached Pougatcheff and gave him a sheet of paper. I could not imagine
what was the meaning of this proceeding on his part.
“What is this?” asked Pougatcheff, with an air of importance.
“Read it, then you will see,” replied Savelitch. Pougatcheff took the paper
and examined it for a long time with a consequential look.
“Why do you write so illegibly?” said he at last. “Our lucid eyes[1] cannot
decipher a word. Where is my chief secretary?”
A young man, in the uniform of a corporal, immediately ran up to
Pougatcheff.
“Read it aloud,” said the usurper, giving him the paper.
I was exceedingly curious to know what my follower could have written to
Pougatcheff about. The chief secretary, in a loud voice, began to spell out as

follows:
“Two dressing-gowns, one of linen and one of striped silk, six roubles.”
“What does this mean?” said Pougatcheff, frowning.
“Order him to read on,” replied Savelitch coolly.
The chief secretary continued:
“One uniform coat of fine green cloth, seven roubles.
“One pair of white cloth breeches, five roubles.
“Twelve Holland linen shirts with ruffles, ten roubles.
“A chest and tea-service, two roubles and a half....”
“What is all this nonsense?” exclaimed Pougatcheff. “What are these chests
and breeches with ruffles to do with me?”
Savelitch cleared his throat and began to explain.
“This, my father, you will please to understand is a list of my master’s
goods that have been stolen by those scoundrels——”
“What scoundrels?” said Pougatcheff, threateningly.
“I beg your pardon, that was a slip on my part,” replied Savelitch. “They
were not scoundrels, but your fellows, who have rummaged and plundered
everything. Do not be angry: the horse has got four legs, and yet he
stumbles. Order him to read to the end.”
“Read on to the end,” said Pougatcheff.
The secretary continued:
“One chintz counterpane, another of taffety quilted with cotton wool, four
roubles.
“A fox-skin pelisse, covered with red flannel, forty roubles.
“Likewise a hare-skin morning-gown, presented to your Grace at the inn on
the steppe, fifteen roubles.”
“What’s that’!” exclaimed Pougatcheff, his eyes flashing fire.

I confess that I began to feel alarmed for my poor servant. He was about to
enter again into explanations, but Pougatcheff interrupted him.
“How dare you pester me with such nonsense!” he cried, snatching the
paper out of the secretary’s hands and flinging it in Savelitch’s face. “Stupid
old man! You have been robbed; what a misfortune! Why, old greybeard,
you ought to be eternally praying to God for me and my lads, that you and
your master are not hanging yonder along with the other traitors to me.... A
hare-skin morning-gown! Do you know that I could order you to be flayed
alive and have your skin made into a morning-gown?”
“As you please,” replied Savelitch; “but I am not a free man, and must be
answerable for my lord’s goods.”
Pougatcheff was evidently in a magnanimous humour. He turned round and
rode off without saying another word. Shvabrin and the chiefs followed
him. The troops marched out of the fortress in order. The crowd pressed
forward to accompany Pougatcheff. I remained in the square alone with
Savelitch. My servant held in his hand the list of my things and stood
looking at it with an air of deep regret.
Seeing me on such good terms with Pougatcheff, he thought that he might
take advantage of the circumstance; but his sage scheme did not succeed. I
was on the point of scolding him for his misplaced zeal, but I could not
restrain myself from laughing.
“Laugh away, my lord,” replied Savelitch: “laugh away; but when the time
comes for you to procure a new outfit, we shall see if you will laugh then.”
I hastened to the priest’s house to see Maria Ivanovna. The priest’s wife met
me with sad news. During the night Maria Ivanovna had been seized with a
violent attack of fever. She lay unconscious and in a delirium. The priest’s
wife conducted me into her room. I softly approached her bed. The change
in her face startled me. She did not recognize me. For a long time I stood
beside her without paying any heed either to Father Gerasim or to his good
wife, who endeavoured to console me. Gloomy thoughts took possession of
me. The condition of the poor defenceless orphan, left alone in the midst of
the lawless rebels, as well as my own powerlessness, terrified me. But it
was the thought of Shvabrin more than anything else that filled my
imagination with alarm. Invested with power by the usurper, and entrusted

with the command of the fortress, in which the unhappy girl—the innocent
object of his hatred—remained, he was capable of any villainous act. What
was I to do? How should I help her? How could I rescue her out of the
hands of the brigands? There remained only one way. I resolved to set out
immediately for Orenburg, in order to hasten the deliverance of Bailogorsk,
and, as far as possible, to co-operate in the undertaking. I took leave of the
priest and of Akoulina Pamphilovna, recommending to their care her whom
I already considered as my wife. I seized the hand of the poor girl and
kissed it, bedewing it with my tears.
“Farewell,” said the pope’s wife to me, accompanying me to the door
“farewell, Peter Andreitch. Perhaps we shall see each other again in happier
times. Do not forget us, and write to us often. Poor Maria Ivanovna has
nobody now, except you, to console and protect her.”
On reaching the square, I stopped for a moment and looked at the gibbet,
then, bowing my head before it, I quitted the fortress and took the road to
Orenburg, accompanied by Savelitch, who had not left my side.
I was walking on, occupied with my reflections, when suddenly I heard
behind me the trampling of horses’ feet. Looking round, I saw, galloping
out of the fortress, a Cossack, holding a Bashkir horse by the rein and
making signs to me from afar. I stopped and soon recognized our orderly.
Galloping up to us, he dismounted from his own horse, and giving me the
rein of the other, said:
“Your lordship! our father sends you a horse, and a pelisse from his own
shoulders.” (To the saddle was attached a sheepskin pelisse.) “Moreover,”
continued the orderly with some hesitation, “he sends you—half-a-rouble—
but I have lost it on the road; be generous and pardon me.”
Savelitch eyed him askance and growled out:
“You lost it on the road! What is that chinking in your pocket, then, you
shameless rascal!”
“What is that chinking in my pocket?” replied the orderly, without being in
the least confused. “God be with you, old man! It is a horse’s bit, and not
half-a-rouble.”
“Very well,” said I, putting an end to the dispute. “Give my thanks to him
who sent you; and as you go back, try and find the lost half-rouble and keep

it for drink-money.”
“Many thanks, your lordship,” replied he, turning his horse round; “I will
pray to God for you without ceasing.” With these words he galloped back
again, holding one hand to his pocket, and in about a minute he was hidden
from sight.
I put on the pelisse and mounted the horse, taking Savelitch up behind me.
“Now do you see, my lord,” said the old man, “that I did not give the
petition to the rascal in vain? The robber felt ashamed of himself. Although
this lean-looking Bashkir jade and this sheepskin pelisse are not worth half
of what the rascals stole from us, and what you chose to give him yourself,
they may yet be of some use to us; from a vicious dog, even a tuft of hair.”

[1] An allusion to the customary form of speech on presenting a petition to the
Czar: “I strike the earth with my forehead, and present my petition to your lucid
eyes.”

CHAPTER X.

THE SIEGE.

In approaching Orenburg, we saw a crowd of convicts, with shaven heads,
and with faces disfigured by the hangman’s pincers. They were at work on
the fortifications, under the direction of the soldiers of the garrison. Some
were carrying away in wheel-barrows the earth and refuse which filled the
moat, others with shovels were digging up the ground; on the rampart the
masons were carrying stones and repairing the walls. The sentinels stopped
us at the gate and demanded our passports. As soon as the sergeant heard
that I came from Bailogorsk, he took me straight to the General’s house.
I found him in the garden. He was inspecting the apple-trees, which the
autumn winds had stripped of their leaves, and, with the help of an old
gardener, was carefully covering them with straw. His face expressed
tranquillity, health, and good-nature. He was much pleased to see me, and

began questioning me about the terrible events of which I had been an eye-
witness. I related everything to him. The old man listened to me with
attention, and continued the meantime to lop off the dry twigs.
“Poor Mironoff!” said he, when I had finished my sad story; “I feel very
sorry for him, he was a good officer; and Madame Mironoff was a good
woman,—how clever she was at pickling mushrooms! And what has
become of Masha, the Captain’s daughter?”
I replied that she was still at the fortress in the hands of the pope and his
wife.
“That is bad, very bad. Nobody can place any dependence upon the
discipline of robbers. What will become of the poor girl?”
I replied that the fortress of Bailogorsk was not far off and that, without
doubt, his Excellency would not delay in sending thither a detachment of
soldiers to deliver the poor inhabitants.
The General shook his head dubiously.
“We shall see, we shall see,” said he, “we have plenty of time to talk about
that. Do me the pleasure of taking a cup of tea with me: a council of war is
to be held at my house this evening. You may be able to give us some
trustworthy information concerning this rascal Pougatcheff and his army.
And now go and rest yourself for a little while.”
I went to the quarter assigned to me, where Savelitch had already installed
himself, and where I awaited with impatience the appointed time. The
reader will easily imagine that I did not fail to make my appearance at the
council which was to have such an influence upon my fate At the appointed
hour I repaired to the General’s house.
I found with him one of the civil officials of the town, the director of the
custom-house, if I remember rightly, a stout, red-faced old man in a silk
coat. He began to question me about the fate of Ivan Kouzmitch, whom he
called his gossip, and frequently interrupted my discourse with additional
questions and moral observations, which, if they did not prove him to be a
man well versed in military matters, showed at least that he possessed
sagacity and common sense. In the meantime the other persons who had
been invited to the council had assembled. When they were all seated, and a

cup of tea had been handed round to each, the General entered into a clear
and detailed account of the business in question.
“And now, gentlemen,” continued he, “we must decide in what way we are
to act against the rebels: offensively or defensively? Each of these methods
has its advantages and disadvantages. Offensive warfare holds out a greater
prospect of a quicker extermination of the enemy; defensive action is safer
and less dangerous.... Therefore let us commence by putting the question to
the vote in legal order, that is, beginning with the youngest in rank.
Ensign,” continued he, turning to me, “will you please favour us with your
opinion?”
I rose, and after having described, in a few words, Pougatcheff and his
followers, I expressed my firm opinion that the usurper was not in a
position to withstand disciplined troops.
My opinion was received by the civil officials with evident dissatisfaction.
They saw in it only the rashness and temerity of a young man. There arose a
murmur, and I distinctly heard the word “greenhorn” pronounced in a
whisper. The General turned to me and said with a smile:
“Ensign, the first voices in councils of war are generally in favour of
adopting offensive measures. We will now continue and hear what others
have to say. Mr. Counsellor of the College, tell us your opinion.”
The little old man in the silk coat hastily swallowed his third cup of tea, into
which he had poured some rum, and then replied:
“I think, your Excellency, that we ought to act neither offensively nor
defensively.”
“How, Sir Counsellor?” replied the astonished General. “Tactics present no
other methods of action; offensive action or defensive....”
“Your Excellency, act diplomatically.”
“Ah! your idea is a very sensible one. Diplomatic action is allowed by the
laws of tactics, and we will profit by your advice. We might offer for the
head of the rascal ... seventy or even a hundred roubles ... out of the secret
funds....”
“And then,” interrupted the Director of the Customs, “may I become a
Kirghis ram, and not a College Counsellor, if these robbers do not deliver

up to us their leader, bound hand and foot.”
“We will think about it, and speak of it again,” replied: the General. “But, in
any case, we must take military precautions. Gentlemen, give your votes in
regular order.”
The opinions of all were contrary to mine. All the civil officials expatiated
upon the untrustworthiness of the troops, the uncertainty of success, the
necessity of being cautious, and the like. All agreed’ that it was more
prudent to remain behind the stone walls of the fortress under the protection
of the cannon, than to try the fortune of arms in the open field. At length the
General, having heard all their opinions, shook the ashes from his pipe and
spoke as follows:
“Gentlemen, I must declare to you that, for my part, I am entirely of the
same opinion as the ensign; because this opinion is founded upon sound
rules of tactics, which nearly always give the preference to offensive action
rather than to defensive.”
Then he paused and began to fill his pipe. My vanity triumphed. I cast a
proud glance at the civil officials, who were whispering among themselves
with looks of displeasure and uneasiness.
“But, gentlemen,” continued the General, heaving a deep sigh, and emitting
at the same time a thick cloud of tobacco smoke, “I dare not take upon
myself such a great responsibility, when it is a question of the safety of the
provinces confided to me by Her Imperial Majesty, my Most Gracious
Sovereign. Therefore it is that I fall in with the views of the majority, who
have decided that it is safer and more prudent to await the siege inside the
town, and to repel the attack of the enemy by the use of artillery and—if
possible—by sallies.”
The officials in their turn now glanced at me ironically. The council
separated. I could not but deplore the weakness of this estimable soldier,
who, contrary to his own conviction, resolved to follow the advice of
ignorant and inexperienced persons.
Some days after this memorable council we heard that Pougatcheff, faithful
to his promise, was marching on Orenburg. From the lofty walls of the town
I observed the army of the rebels. It seemed to me that their numbers had
increased since the last assault, of which I had been a witness. They had

with them also some pieces of artillery which had been taken by
Pougatcheff from the small fortresses that had been conquered by him.
Remembering the decision of the council, I foresaw a long incarceration
within the walls of Orenburg, and I was almost ready to weep with
vexation.
I do not intend to describe the siege of Orenburg, which belongs to history
and not to family memoirs. I will merely observe that this siege, through
want of caution on the part of the local authorities, was a disastrous one for
the inhabitants, who had to endure hunger and every possible privation. It
can easily be imagined that life in Orenburg was almost unbearable. All
awaited in melancholy anxiety the decision of fate; all complained of the
famine, which was really terrible. The inhabitants became accustomed to
the cannon-balls falling upon their houses; even Pougatcheff’s assaults no
longer produced any excitement. I was dying of ennui. Time wore on. I
received no letters from Bailogorsk. All the roads were cut off. Separation
from Marla Ivanovna became insupportable to me. Uncertainty with respect
to her fate tortured me. My only diversion consisted in making excursions
outside the city. Thanks to the kindness of Pougatcheff, I had a good horse,
with which I shared my scanty allowance of food, and upon whose back I
used to ride out daily beyond the walls and open fire upon Pougatcheff’s
partisans. In these skirmishes the advantage was generally on the side of the
rebels, who had plenty to eat and drink, and possessed good horses. Our
miserable cavalry were unable to cope with them. Sometimes our famished
infantry made a sally; but the depth of the snow prevented their operations
being successful against the flying cavalry of the enemy. The artillery
thundered in vain from the summit of the ramparts, and had it been in the
field, it could not have advanced on account of our emaciated horses. Such
was our style of warfare! And this was what the civil officials of Orenburg
called prudence and foresight!
One day, when we had succeeded in dispersing and driving off a tolerably
large body of the enemy, I came up with a Cossack who had remained
behind his companions, and I was just about to strike him with my Turkish
sabre, when he suddenly took off his cap and cried out:
“Good day, Peter Andreitch; how do you do?”

I looked at him and recognized our orderly. I cannot say how delighted I
was to see him.
“Good day, Maximitch,” said I to him. “How long is it since you left
Bailogorsk?”
“Not long, Peter Andreitch; I only returned from there yesterday. I have a
letter for you.”
“Where is it?” cried I, perfectly beside myself with excitement.
“I have it here,” replied Maximitch, placing his hand upon his bosom. “I
promised Palasha that I would give it to you somehow.”
He then gave me a folded paper and immediately galloped off. I opened it
and, deeply agitated, read the following lines:

“It has pleased God to deprive me suddenly of both father and mother:
I have now on earth neither a relation nor a protector. I therefore turn
to you, because I know that you have always wished me well, and that
you are ever ready to help others. I pray to God that this letter may
reach you in some way! Maximitch has promised to give it to you.
Palasha has also heard from Maximitch that he has frequently seen you
from a distance in the sorties, and that you do not take the least care of
yourself, not thinking about those who pray to God for you in tears. I
was ill a long time, and, when I recovered, Alexei Ivanovitch, who
commands here in place of my deceased father, compelled Father
Gerasim to deliver me up to him, threatening him with Pougatcheff’s
anger if he refused. I live in our house which is guarded by a sentry.
Alexei Ivanovitch wants to compel me to marry him. He says that he
saved my life because he did not reveal the deception practised by
Akoulina Pamphilovna, who told the rebels that I was her niece. But I
would rather die than become the wife of such a man as Alexei
Ivanovitch. He treats me very cruelly, and threatens that if I do not
change my mind and agree to his proposal, he will conduct me to the
rebels’ camp, where I shall suffer the same fate as Elizabeth Kharloff.
[1]
I have begged Alexei Ivanovitch to give me time to reflect. He has
consented to give me three days longer, and if at the end of that time I
do not agree to become his wife, he will show me no further mercy.
Oh, Peter Andreitch! you are my only protector; save a poor helpless

girl! Implore the General and all the commanders to send us help as
soon as possible, and come yourself if you can.
“I remain your poor obedient orphan,
“MARIA MIRONOFF.”

The reading of this letter almost drove me out of my mind. I galloped back
to the town, spurring my poor horse without mercy. On the way I turned
over in my I mind one plan and another for the rescue of the poor girl, but I
could not come to any definite conclusion. On reaching the town I
immediately repaired to the General’s, and presented myself before him
without the least delay.
He was walking up and down the room, smoking his meerschaum pipe. On
seeing me he stopped. Probably; he was struck by my appearance, for he
anxiously inquired the reason of my hasty visit.
“Your Excellency,” said I to him, “I come to you as I would to my own
father: for Heaven’s sake, do not refuse my request; the happiness of my
whole life depends upon it!”
“What is the matter?” asked the astonished old soldier. “What can I do for
you? Speak!”
“Your Excellency, allow me to take a battalion of soldiers and a company of
Cossacks to recapture the fortress of Bailogorsk.”
The General looked at me earnestly, imagining, without doubt, that I had
taken leave of my senses—and, for the matter of that, he was not very far
out in his supposition.
“How?—what? Recapture the fortress of Bailogorsk?” said he at last.
“I will answer for the success of the undertaking,” I replied with ardour;
“only let me go.”
“No, young man,” said he, shaking his head. “At such a great distance the
enemy would easily cut off your communication with the principal
strategical point, and gain a complete victory over you. Communication
being cut off....”

I became alarmed when I perceived that he was about to enter upon a
military dissertation, and I hastened to interrupt him.
“The daughter of Captain Mironoff has written a letter to me,” I said to him;
“she asks for help: Shvabrin wants to compel her to become his wife.”
“Indeed! Oh, this Shvabrin is a great rascal, and if he should fall into my
hands I will order him to be tried within twenty-four hours, and we will
have him shot on the parapet of the fortress. But in the meantime we must
have patience.”
“Have patience!” I cried, perfectly beside myself. “But in the meantime he
will force Maria Ivanovna to become his wife!”
“Oh!” exclaimed the General. “But even that would be no great misfortune
for her. It would be better for her to become the wife of Shvabrin, he would
then take her under his protection; and when we have shot him we will soon
find a sweetheart for her, please God. Pretty widows do not remain single
long; I mean that a widow finds a husband much quicker than a spinster.”
“I would rather die,” said I in a passion, “than resign her to Shvabrin.”
“Oh, oh!” said the old man, “now I understand. You are evidently in love
with Maria Ivanovna, and that alters the case altogether. Poor fellow! But,
for all that, I cannot give you a battalion of soldiers and fifty Cossacks.
Such an expedition would be the height of folly, and I cannot take the
responsibility of it upon myself.”
I cast down my head; despair took possession of me. Suddenly a thought
flashed through my mind: what it was, the reader will discover in the
following chapter, as the old romance writers used to say.

[1] A Commandant’s daughter, whom Pougatcheff outraged and then put to
death.

CHAPTER XI.

THE REBEL ENCAMPMENT.

I left the General and hastened to my own quarters. Savelitch received me
with his usual admonitions.
“What pleasure do you find, my lord, in fighting against drunken robbers?
Is that the kind of occupation for a nobleman? All hours are not alike, and
you will sacrifice your life for nothing. It would be all well and good if you
were fighting against the Turks or the Swedes, but it is a shame to mention
the name of the enemy that you are dealing with now.”
I interrupted him in his speech by the question:
“How much money have I left?”
“You have a tolerably good sum still left,” he replied, with a look of
satisfaction. “In spite of their searching and rummaging, I succeeded in
hiding it from the robbers.” So saying, he drew from his pocket a long
knitted purse, filled with silver pieces.
“Well, Savelitch,” said I to him, “give me half of what you have, and keep
the rest yourself. I am going to Fortress Bailogorsk.”
“My little father, Peter Andreitch!” said my good old servant in a trembling
voice; “do not tempt God! How can you travel at the present time, when
none of the roads are free from the robbers? Have compassion upon your
parents, if you have no pity for yourself. Where do you Want to go? And
why? Wait a little while. The troops will soon be here and will quickly
make short work of the robbers. Then you may go in whatever direction you
like.” But my resolution was not to be shaken.
“It is too late to reflect,” I said to the old man. “I must go, I cannot do
otherwise than go. Do not grieve, Savelitch: God is merciful, perhaps we
may see each other again. Have no scruples about spending the money, and
don’t be sparing of it. Buy whatever you require, even though you have to
pay three times the value of it. I give this money to you. If in three days I do
not return——”
“What are you talking about, my lord?” said Savelitch, interrupting me.
“Do you think that I could let you go alone? Do not imagine anything of the
kind. If you have resolved to go, I will accompany you, even though it be
on foot; I will not leave you. The idea of my sitting down behind a stone
wall without you! Do you think then that I have gone out of my mind? Do
as you please, my lord, but I will not leave you.”

I knew that it was useless to dispute with Savelitch, and I allowed him to
prepare for the journey. In half an hour I was seated upon the back of my
good horse, while Savelitch was mounted upon a lean and limping jade,
which one of the inhabitants of the town had given to him for nothing, not
having the means to keep it any longer. We reached the gates of the town;
the sentinels allowed us to pass, and we left Orenburg behind us.
It was beginning to grow dark. My road led past the village of Berd, one of
Pougatcheff’s haunts. The way was covered with snow, but over the whole
of the steppe could be seen the footprints of horses, renewed every day. I
rode forward at a quick trot. Savelitch could hardly keep pace with me, and
kept calling out:
“Not so fast, my lord, for Heaven’s sake, not so fast! My accursed hack
cannot keep up with your long-legged devil. Where are you off to in such a
hurry? It would be all very well if we were going to a feast, but we are more
likely going to run our heads into a noose.... Peter Andreitch ... little father
... Peter Andreitch! Lord God! the child is rushing to destruction!”
We soon caught sight of the fires of Berd glimmering in the distance. We
approached some ravines, which served as natural defences to the hamlet.
Savelitch still followed me, and did not cease to utter his plaintive
entreaties. I hoped to be able to ride round the village without being
observed, when suddenly I perceived through the darkness, straight in front
of me, five peasants armed with clubs; it was the advanced guard of
Pougatcheff’s camp. They challenged us. Not knowing the password, I
wanted to ride on without saying anything; but they immediately
surrounded me, and one of them seized hold of my horse’s bridle. I drew
my sword and struck the peasant on the head. His cap saved him, but he
staggered and let the reins fall from his hand. The others grew frightened
and took to their heels; I seized the opportunity, and, setting spurs to my
horse, I galloped off.
The increasing darkness of the night might have saved me from further
dangers, but, turning round all at once, I perceived that Savelitch was no
longer with me. The poor old man, with his lame horse, had not been able to
get clear of the robbers. What was to be done? After waiting a few minutes
for him, and feeling convinced that he had been stopped, I turned my horse
round to hasten to his assistance.

Approaching the ravine, I heard in the distance confused cries, and the
voice of my Savelitch. I quickened my pace, and soon found myself in the
midst of the peasants who had stopped me a few minutes before. Savelitch
was among them. With loud shouts they threw themselves upon me and
dragged me from my horse in a twinkling. One of them, apparently the
leader of the band, informed us that he was going to conduct us
immediately before the Czar. I “And our father,” added he, “will decide
whether you shall be hanged immediately or wait till daylight.”
I offered no resistance; Savelitch followed my example, and the sentinels
led us away in triumph.
We crossed the ravine and entered the village. In all the huts fires were
burning. Noise and shouts resounded on every side. In the streets I met a
large number of people; but nobody observed us in the darkness, and no one
recognized in me an officer from Orenburg. We were conducted straight to
a cottage which stood at the corner where two streets met. Before the door
stood several wine-casks and two pieces of artillery.
“This is the palace,” said one of the peasants; “we will announce you at
once.”
He entered the cottage. I glanced at Savelitch: the old man was making the
sign of the cross and muttering his prayers to himself.
I waited a long time; at last the peasant returned and said to me:
“Come inside; our father has given orders for the officer to be brought
before him.”
I entered the cottage, or the palace, as the peasants called it. It was lighted
by two tallow candles, and the walls were covered with gilt paper;
otherwise, the benches, the table, the little wash-hand basin suspended by a
cord, the towel hanging on a nail, the oven-fork in the corner, the broad
shelf loaded with pots—everything was the same as in an ordinary cottage.
Pougatcheff was seated under the holy picture,[1] dressed in a red caftan and
wearing a tall cap, and with his arms set akimbo in a very self-important
manner. Around him stood several of his principal followers, with looks of
feigned respect and submission upon their faces. It was evident that the
news of the arrival of an officer from Orenburg had awakened a great
curiosity among the rebels, and that they had prepared to receive me with as

much pomp as possible. Pougatcheff recognized me at the first glance. His
assumed importance vanished all at once.
“Ah! your lordship!” said he gaily. “How do you do?”
“What, in Heaven’s name, has brought you here?”
I replied that I was travelling on my own business, and that his people had
stopped me.
“What business?” asked he.
I knew not what to reply. Pougatcheff, supposing that I did not like to
explain in the presence of witnesses, turned to his companions and ordered
them to go out of the room. All obeyed, except two, who did not stir from
their places.
“Speak boldly before them,” said Pougatcheff, “I do not hide anything from
them.”
I glanced stealthily at the impostor’s confidants. One of them, a weazen-
faced, crooked old man, with a short grey beard, had nothing remarkable
about him except a blue riband, which he wore across his grey tunic. But
never shall I forget his companion. He was a tall, powerful, broad-
shouldered man, and seemed to me to be about forty-five years of age. A
thick red beard, grey piercing eyes, a nose without nostrils, and reddish
scars upon his forehead and cheeks, gave to his broad, pock-marked face an
indescribable expression. He had on a red shirt, a Kirghis robe, and Cossack
trousers. The first, as I learned afterwards, was the runaway corporal
Bailoborodoff; the other, Afanassy Sokoloff, surnamed Khlopousha,[2] a
condemned criminal, who had three times escaped from the mines of
Siberia. In spite of the feelings of agitation which so exclusively occupied
my mind at that time, the society in the midst of which I so unexpectedly
found myself awakened my curiosity in a powerful degree. But Pougatcheff
soon recalled me to myself by his question:
“Speak! on what business did you leave Orenburg?”
A strange thought came into my head: it seemed to me that Providence, by
conducting me a second time into the presence of Pougatcheff, gave me the
opportunity of carrying my project into execution. I determined to take

advantage of it, and, without any further reflection, I replied to
Pougatcheff’s question:
“I was going to the fortress of Bailogorsk to rescue an orphan who is
oppressed there.”
Pougatcheff’s eyes sparkled.
“Which of my people dares to oppress the orphan?” cried he. “Were he
seven feet high he should not escape my judgment. Speak! who is the
culprit?”
“Shvabrin is the culprit,” replied I. “He holds captive the young girl whom
you saw ill at the priest’s house, and wants to force her to marry him.”
“I will soon put Shvabrin in his right place,” said Pougatcheff fiercely. “He
shall learn what it is to oppress my people according to his own will and
pleasure. I will have him hanged.”
“Allow me to speak a word,” said Khlopousha in a hoarse; voice. “You
were in too great a hurry in appointing Shvabrin to the command of the
fortress, and now you are in too great a hurry to hang him. You have already
offended the Cossacks by placing a nobleman over them as their chief; do
not now alarm the nobles by hanging them at the first accusation.”
“They ought neither to be pitied nor favoured,” said the little old man with
the blue riband. “To hang Shvabrin would be no great misfortune, neither
would it be amiss to put this officer through a regular course of questions.
Why has he deigned to pay us a visit? If he does not recognize you as Czar,
he cannot come to seek justice from you; and if he does recognize you, why
has he remained up to the present time in Orenburg along with your
enemies? Will you not order him to be conducted to the court-house, and
have a fire lit there?[3] It seems to me that his Grace is sent to us from the
generals in Orenburg.”
The logic of the old rascal seemed to me to be plausible enough. A shudder
passed through the whole of my body, when I thought into whose hands I
had fallen. Pougatcheff observed my agitation.
“Well, your lordship,” said he to me, winking his eyes; “my Field-Marshal,
it seems to me, speaks to the point. What do you think?”

Pougatcheff’s raillery restored my courage. I calmly replied that I was in his
power, and that he could deal with me in whatever way he pleased.
“Good,” said Pougatcheff. “Now tell me, in what condition is your town?”
“Thank God!” I replied, “everything is all right.”
“All right!” repeated Pougatcheff, “and the people are dying of hunger!”
The impostor spoke the truth; but in accordance with the duty imposed
upon me by my oath, I assured him that what he had heard were only idle
reports, and that in Orenburg there was a sufficiency of all kinds of
provisions.
“You see,” observed the little old man, “that he deceives you to your face.
All the deserters unanimously declare that famine and sickness are rife in
Orenburg, that they are eating carrion there and think themselves fortunate
to get it to eat; and yet his Grace assures us that there is plenty of
everything there. If you wish to hang Shvabrin, then hang this young fellow
on the same gallows, that they may have nothing to reproach each other
with.”
The words of the accursed old man seemed to produce an effect upon
Pougatcheff. Fortunately, Khlopousha began to contradict his companion.
“That will do, Naoumitch,” said he to him: “you only think of strangling
and hanging. What sort of a hero are you? To look at you, one is puzzled to
imagine how your body and soul contrive to hang together. You have one
foot in the grave yourself, and you want to kill others. Haven’t you enough
blood on your conscience?”
“And what sort of a saint are you?” replied Bailoborodoff. “Whence this
compassion on your side?”
“Without doubt,” replied Khlopousha, “I also am a sinner, and this hand”—
here he clenched his bony fist and, pushing back his sleeve, disclosed his
hairy arm—“and this hand is guilty of having shed Christian blood. But I
killed my enemy, and not my guest; on the open highway or in a dark wood,
and not in the house, sitting behind the stove; with the axe and club, and not
with old woman’s chatter.”
The old man turned round and muttered the words: “Slit nostrils!”

“What are you muttering, you old greybeard?” cried Khlopousha. “I will
give you slit nostrils. Just wait a little, and your turn will come too. Heaven
grant that your nose may smell the pincers.... In the meantime, take care
that I don’t pull out your ugly beard by the roots.” “Gentlemen, generals!”
said Pougatcheff loftily, “there has been enough of this quarrelling between
you. It would be no great misfortune if all the Orenburg dogs were hanging
by the heels from the same crossbeam; but it would be a very great
misfortune if our own dogs were to begin devouring each other. So now
make it up and be friends again.”
Khlopousha and Bailoborodoff said not a word, but glared furiously at each
other. I felt the necessity of changing the subject of a conversation which
might end in a very disagreeable manner for me, and turning to
Pougatcheff, I said to him with a cheerful look:
“Ah! I had almost forgotten to thank you for the horse and pelisse. Without
you I should never have reached the town, and I should have been frozen to
death on the road.”
My stratagem succeeded. Pougatcheff became good-humoured again.
“The payment of a debt is its beauty,” said he, winking his eyes. “And now
tell me, what have you to do with this young girl whom Shvabrin
persecutes? Has she kindled a flame in your young heart, eh?”
“She is my betrothed,” I replied, observing a favourable change in the
storm, and hot deeming it necessary to conceal the truth.
“Your betrothed!” exclaimed Pougatcheff. “Why did you not say so before?
We will marry you, then, and have some merriment at your wedding!”
Then turning to Bailoborodoff:
“Listen, Field-Marshal!” said he to him: “his lordship and I are old friends;
let us sit down to supper; morning’s judgment is wiser than that of evening
—so we will see to-morrow what is to be done with him.”
I would gladly have declined the proposed honour, but there was no help for
it. Two young Cossack girls, daughters of the owner of the cottage, covered
the table with a white cloth, and brought in some bread, fish-soup, and
several bottles of wine and beer, and for the second time I found myself
seated at the same table with Pougatcheff and his terrible companions.

The drunken revel, of which, I was an involuntary witness, continued till
late into the night. At last, intoxication began; to overcome the three
associates. Pougatcheff fell off to sleep where he was sitting: his
companions rose and made signs to me to leave him where he was. I went
out with them. By order of Khlopousha, the sentinel conducted me; to the
justice-room, where I found Savelitch, and where they left me shut up with
him. My servant was so astonished at all he saw and heard, that he could
not ask me a single question. He lay down in the dark, and continued to sigh
and moan for a long time; but at length he began to snore, and I gave myself
up to meditations, which hindered me from obtaining sleep for a single
minute during the whole of the night.
The next morning, Pougatcheff gave orders for me to be brought before
him. I went to him. In front of his door stood a kibitka, with three Tartar
horses harnessed to it. The crowd filled the street. I encountered
Pougatcheff in the hall. He was dressed for a journey, being attired in a fur
cloak and a Kirghis cap. His companions of the night before stood around
him, exhibiting an appearance of submission, which contrasted strongly
with everything that I had witnessed the previous evening. Pougatcheff
saluted me in a cheerful tone, and ordered me to sit down beside him in the
kibitka.
We took our seats.
“To the fortress of Bailogorsk!” said Pougatcheff to the broad-shouldered
Tartar who drove the vehicle. My heart beat violently. The horses broke into
a gallop, the little bell tinkled, and the kibitka flew over the snow.
“Stop! stop!” cried a voice which I knew only too well, and I saw Savelitch
running towards us.
Pougatcheff ordered the driver to stop.
“Little father, Peter Andreitch!” cried my servant; “do not leave me in my
old age among these scoun——”
“Ah, old greybeard!” said Pougatcheff to him. “It is God’s will that we
should meet again. Well, spring up behind.”
“Thanks, Czar, thanks, my own father!” replied Savelitch, taking his seat.
“May God give you a hundred years of life and good health for deigning to

cast your eyes upon and console an old man. I will pray to God for you all
the days of my life, and I will never again speak about the hareskin pelisse.”
This allusion to the hareskin pelisse might have made Pougatcheff seriously
angry. Fortunately, the usurper did not hear, or pretended not to hear, the
misplaced remark. The horses again broke into a gallop; the people in the
streets stood still and made obeisance. Pougatcheff bowed his head from
side to side. In about a minute we had left the village behind us and were
flying along over the smooth surface of the road.
One can easily imagine what my feelings were at that moment. In a few
hours I should again set eyes upon her whom I had already considered as
lost to me for ever. I pictured to myself the moment of our meeting.... I
thought also of the man in whose hands lay my fate, and who, by a strange
concourse of circumstances, had become mysteriously connected with me. I
remembered the thoughtless cruelty and the bloodthirsty habits of him, who
now constituted himself the deliverer of my beloved. Pougatcheff did not
know that she was the daughter of Captain Mironoff; the exasperated
Shvabrin might reveal everything to him; it was also possible that
Pougatcheff might find out the truth in some other way.... Then what would
become of Maria Ivanovna? A shudder passed through my frame, and my
hair stood on end.
Suddenly Pougatcheff interrupted my meditations, by turning to me with
the question:
“What is your lordship thinking of?”
“What should I not be thinking of,” I replied. “I am an officer and a
gentleman; only yesterday I was fighting against you, and now to-day I am
riding side by side with you in the same carriage, and the happiness of my
whole life depends upon you.”
“How so?” asked Pougatcheff. “Are you afraid?”
I replied that, having already had my life spared by him,
I hoped, not only for his mercy, but even for his assistance.
“And you are right; by God, you are right!” said the impostor. “You saw
that my fellows looked askant at you; and this morning the old man
persisted in his statement that you were a spy, and that it was necessary that

you should be interrogated by means of torture and then hanged. But I
would not consent to it,” he added, lowering his voice, so that Savelitch and
the Tartar should not be able to hear him, “because I remembered your glass
of wine and hareskin pelisse. You see now that I am not such a bloodthirsty
creature as your brethren maintain.”
I recalled to mind the capture of the fortress of Bailogorsk but I did not
think it advisable to contradict him, and so I made no reply.
“What do they say of me in Orenburg?” asked Pougatcheff, after a short
interval of silence.
“They say that it will be no easy matter to get the upper hand of you; and
there is no denying that you have made yourself felt.”
The face of the impostor betokened how much his vanity was gratified by
this remark.
“Yes,” said he, with a look of self-satisfaction, “I wage war to some
purpose. Do you people in Orenburg know about the battle of Youzeiff?[4]
Forty general officers killed, four armies taken captive. Do you think the
King of Prussia could do as well as that?”
The boasting of the brigand appeared to me to be somewhat amusing.
“What do you think about it yourself?” I said to him: “do you think that you
could beat Frederick?”
“Fedor Fedorovitch?[5] And why not? I beat your generals, and they have
beaten him. My arms have always been successful up till now. But only
wait awhile, you will see something very different when I march to
Moscow.”
“And do you intend marching to Moscow?”
The impostor reflected for a moment and then said in a low voice:
“God knows. My road is narrow; my will is weak. My followers do not
obey me. They are scoundrels. I must keep a sharp look-out; at the first
reverse they will save their own necks at the expense of my head.”
“That is quite true,” I said to Pougatcheff. “Would it not be better for you to
separate yourself from them in good time, and throw yourself upon the
mercy of the Empress?”

Pougatcheff smiled bitterly.
“No,” replied he: “it is too late for me to repent now. There would be no
pardon for me. I will go on as I have begun. Who knows? Perhaps I shall be
successful. Grishka Otrepieff was made Czar at Moscow.”
“And do you know what his end was? He was flung out of a window, his
body was cut to pieces and burnt, and then his ashes were placed in a
cannon and scattered to the winds!”
“Listen,” said Pougatcheff with a certain wild inspiration. “I will tell you a
tale which was told to me in my childhood by an old Calmuck. ‘The eagle
once said to the crow: “Tell me, crow, why is it that you live in this bright
world for three hundred years, and I only for thirty-three years?” “Because,
little father,” replied the crow, “you drink live blood, and I live on
carrion.”—The eagle reflected for a little while and then said: “Let us both
try and live on the same food.”—“Good! agreed!” The eagle and the crow
flew away. Suddenly they caught sight of a fallen horse, and they alighted
upon it. The crow began to pick its flesh and found it very good. The eagle
tasted it once, then a second time, then shook its pinions and said to the
crow: “No, brother crow; rather than live on carrion for three hundred
years, I would prefer to drink live blood but once, and trust in God for what
might happen afterwards!”’ What do you think of the Calmuck’s story?”
“It is very ingenious,” I replied. “But to live by murder and robbery is, in
my opinion, nothing else than living on carrion.”
Pougatcheff looked at me in astonishment and made no reply. We both
became silent, each being wrapped in his own thoughts. The Tartar began to
hum a plaintive song. Savelitch, dozing, swayed from side to side. The
kibitka glided along rapidly over the smooth frozen road.... Suddenly I
caught sight of a little village on the steep bank of the Yaik, with its palisade
and belfry, and about a quarter of an hour afterwards we entered the fortress
of Bailogorsk.

[1] The picture of some saint, usually painted on wood. There is generally one of
them hung in the corner of every room in the houses of the Russians.
[2] The name of a celebrated bandit of the last century, who for a long time
offered resistance to the Imperial troops.
[3] For the purpose of torture.

[4] An engagement in which Pougatcheff had the advantage.
[5] The name given to Frederick the Great by the Russian soldiers.

CHAPTER XII.

THE ORPHAN.

The kibitka drew up in front of the Commandant’s house. The inhabitants
had recognized Pougatcheff’s little bell, and came crowding around us.
Shvabrin met the impostor at the foot of the steps. He was dressed as a
Cossack, and had allowed his beard to grow. The traitor helped Pougatcheff
to alight from the kibitka, expressing, in obsequious terms, his joy and zeal.
On seeing me, he became confused; but quickly recovering himself, he
stretched out his hand to me, saying:
“And are you also one of us? You should have been so long ago!”
I turned away from him and made no reply.
My heart ached when we entered the well-known room, on the wall of
which still hung the commission of the late Commandant, as a mournful
epitaph of the past. Pougatcheff seated himself upon the same sofa on
which Ivan Kouzmitch was accustomed to fall asleep, lulled by the scolding
of his wife. Shvabrin himself brought him some brandy. Pougatcheff drank
a glass, and said to him, pointing to me:
“Give his lordship a glass.”
Shvabrin approached me with his tray, but I turned away from him a second
time. He seemed to have become quite another person. With his usual
sagacity, he had certainly perceived that Pougatcheff was dissatisfied with
him. He cowered before him, and glanced at me with distrust.
Pougatcheff asked some questions concerning the condition of the fortress,
the reports referring to the enemy’s army, and the like. Then suddenly and
unexpectedly he said to him:

“Tell me, my friend, who is this young girl that you hold a prisoner here?
Show her to me.”
Shvabrin turned as pale as death.
“Czar,” said he, in a trembling voice... “Czar, she is not a prisoner ... she is
ill ... she is in bed.”
“Lead me to her,” said the impostor, rising from his seat.
Refusal was impossible. Shvabrin conducted Pougatcheff to Maria
Ivanovna’s room. I followed behind them.
Shvabrin stopped upon the stairs.
“Czar,” said he: “you may demand of me whatever you please; but do not
permit a stranger to enter my wife’s bedroom.”
I shuddered.
“So you are married!” I said to Shvabrin, ready to tear him to pieces.
“Silence!” interrupted Pougatcheff: “that is my business. And you,” he
continued, turning to Shvabrin, “keep your airs and graces to yourself:
whether she be your wife or whether she be not, I will take to her
whomsoever I please. Your lordship, follow me.”
At the door of the room Shvabrin stopped again, and said in a faltering
voice:
“Czar, I must inform you that she is in a high fever, and has been raving
incessantly for the last three days.”
“Open the door!” said Pougatcheff.
Shvabrin began to search in his pockets and then said that he had not
brought the key with him. Pougatcheff pushed the door with his foot; the
lock gave way, the door opened, and we entered.
I glanced round the room—and nearly fainted away. On the floor, clad in a
ragged peasant’s dress, sat Maria Ivanovna, pale, thin, and with dishevelled
hair. Before her stood a pitcher of water, covered with a piece of bread.
Seeing me, she shuddered and uttered a piercing cry. What I felt at that
moment I cannot describe.

Pougatcheff looked at Shvabrin and said with a sarcastic smile:
“You have a very nice hospital here!”
Then approaching Maria Ivanovna:
“Tell me, my little dove, why does your husband punish you in this
manner?”
“My husband!” repeated she. “He is not my husband. I will never be his
wife! I would rather die, and I will die, if I am not set free.”
Pougatcheff cast a threatening glance at Shvabrin.
“And you have dared to deceive me!” he said to him. “Do you know,
scoundrel, what you deserve?”
Shvabrin fell upon his knees.... At that moment contempt extinguished
within me all feelings of hatred and resentment. I looked with disgust at the
sight of a nobleman grovelling at the feet of a runaway Cossack.
Pougatcheff relented.
“I forgive you this time,” he said to Shvabrin: “but bear in mind that the
next time you are guilty of an offence, I will remember this one also.”
Then he turned to Maria Ivanovna and said to her kindly:
“Go, my pretty girl; I give you your liberty. I am the Czar.”
Maria Ivanovna glanced rapidly at him, and intuitively divined that before
her stood the murderer of her parents. She covered her face with both hands
and fainted away. I hastened towards her; but at that moment my old
acquaintance, Palasha, very boldly entered the room, and began to attend to
her young mistress. Pougatcheff quitted the apartment, and we all three
entered the parlour.
“Well, your lordship,” said Pougatcheff smiling, “we have set the pretty girl
free! What do you say to sending for the pope and making him marry his
niece to you? If you like, I will act as father, and Shvabrin shall be your best
man. We will then smoke and drink and make ourselves merry to our
hearts’ content!”
What I feared took place. Shvabrin, hearing Pougatcheff’s proposal, was
beside himself with rage.

“Czar!” he exclaimed, in a transport of passion, “I am guilty; I have lied to
you; but Grineff is deceiving you also. This young girl is not the pope’s
niece: she is the daughter of Ivan Mironoff, who was hanged at the taking
of the fortress.”
Pougatcheff glanced at me with gleaming eyes.
“What does this mean?” he asked in a gloomy tone.
“Shvabrin has told you the truth,” I replied in a firm voice.
“You did not tell me that,” replied Pougatcheff, whose face had become
clouded.
“Judge of the matter yourself,” I replied: “could I, in the presence of your
people, declare that she was the daughter of Mironoff? They would have
torn her to pieces! Nothing would have saved her!”
“You are right,” said Pougatcheff smiling. “My drunkards would not have
spared the poor girl; the pope’s wife did well to deceive them.”
“Listen,” I continued, seeing him so well disposed; “I know not what to call
you, and I do not wish to know.... But God is my witness that I would
willingly repay you with my life for what you have done for me. But do not
demand of me anything that is against my honour and my Christian
conscience. You are my benefactor. End as you have begun: let me go away
with that poor orphan wherever God will direct us. And wherever you may
be, and whatever may happen to you, we will pray to God every day for the
salvation of your soul....”
Pougatcheff’s fierce soul seemed touched.
“Be it as you wish!” said he. “Punish thoroughly or pardon thoroughly: that
is my way. Take your beautiful one, take her wherever you like, and may
God grant you love and counsel!”
Then he turned to Shvabrin and ordered him to give me a safe conduct for
all barriers and fortresses subjected to his authority. Shvabrin, completely
dumbfounded, stood as if petrified. Pougatcheff then went off to inspect the
fortress. Shvabrin accompanied him, and I remained behind under the
pretext of making preparations for my departure.
I hastened to Maria’s room. The door was locked. I knocked.

“Who is there?” asked Palasha.
I called out my name. The sweet voice of Maria Ivanovna sounded from
behind the door:
“Wait a moment, Peter Andreitch. I am changing my dress. Go to Akoulina
Pamphilovna; I shall be there presently.”
I obeyed and made my way to the house of Father Jerasim. He and his wife
came forward to meet me Savelitch had already informed them of what had
happened.
“You are welcome, Peter Andreitch,” said the pope’s wife. “God has
ordained that we should meet again. And how are you? Not a day has
passed without our talking about you. And Maria Ivanovna, the poor little
dove, what has she not suffered while you have been away! But tell us, little
father, how did you manage to arrange matters with Pougatcheff? How was
it that he did not put you to death? The villain be thanked for that, at all
events!”
“Enough, old woman,” interrupted Father Gerasim. “Don’t babble about
everything that you know. There is; no salvation for chatterers. Come in,
Peter Andreitch, I beg of you. It is a long, long time since we saw each
other.” The pope’s wife set before me everything that she had in the house,
without ceasing to chatter away for a single moment. She related to me in
what manner Shvabrin had compelled them to deliver Maria Ivanovna up to
him; how the poor girl wept and did not wish to be parted from them; how
she had kept up a constant communication with them; by means of
Palashka[1] (a bold girl who compelled the orderly himself to dance to her
pipe); how she had advised Maria Ivanovna to write a letter to me, and so
forth.
I then, in my turn, briefly related to them my story. The pope and his wife
made the sign of the cross on hearing that; Pougatcheff had become
acquainted with their deception.
“The power of the Cross defend us!” ejaculated Akoulina Pamphilovna.
“May God grant that the cloud will pass over. Well, well, Alexei Ivanitch,
you are a very nice fellow: there is no denying that!”

At that moment the door opened, and Maria Ivanovna entered the room
with a smile upon her pale face. She had doffed her peasant’s dress, and was
attired as before, plainly and becomingly.
I grasped her hand and for some time could not utter a single word. We
were both silent from fulness of heart. Our hosts felt that their presence was
unnecessary to us, and so they withdrew. We were left by ourselves.
Everything else was forgotten. We talked and talked and could not say
enough to each other. Maria related to me all that had happened to her since
the capture of the fortress; she described to me all the horror of her
situation, all the trials which she had experienced at the hands of the
detestable Shvabrin. We recalled to mind the happy days of the past, and we
could not prevent the tears coming into our eyes. At last I began to explain
to her my project. For her to remain in the fortress, subjected to Pougatcheff
and commanded by Shvabrin, was impossible. Neither could I think of
taking her to Orenburg, just then undergoing all the calamities of a siege.
She had not a single relative in the whole world. I proposed to her that she
should seek shelter with my parents. She hesitated at first: my father’s
unfriendly disposition towards her frightened her. I made her mind easy on
that score. I knew that my father would consider himself bound in honour to
receive into his house the daughter of a brave and deserving soldier who
had lost his life in the service of his country.
“Dear Maria Ivanovna,” I said at last: “I look upon you as my wife. Strange
circumstances have united us together indissolubly; nothing in the world
can separate us.”
Maria Ivanovna listened to me without any assumption of affectation. She
felt that her fate was linked with mine. But she repeated that she would
never be my wife, except with the consent of my parents. I did not
contradict her. We kissed each other fervently and passionately, and in this
manner everything was resolved upon between us.
About an hour afterwards, the orderly brought me my safe conduct,
inscribed with Pougatcheff’s scrawl, and informed me that his master
wished to see me. I found him ready to st out on his road. I cannot describe
what I felt on taking leave of this terrible man, this outcast, so villainously
cruel to all except myself alone. But why should I not tell the truth? At that
moment I felt drawn towards him by a powerful sympathy. I ardently

wished to tear him away! from the midst of the scoundrels, whom he
commanded, and save his head while there was yet time. Shvabrin, and the
crowd gathered around us, prevented me from giving expression to all that
filled my heart.
We parted as friends. Pougatcheff, catching sight of Akoulina Pamphilovna
among the crowd, threatened her with his finger and winked significantly;
then he seated himself in his kibitka[2] and gave orders to return to Berd;
and when the horses started off, he leaned once out of the carriage, and
cried out to me: “Farewell, your lordship! Perhaps we shall see each other
again!”
We did indeed see each other again, but under what circumstances!
Pougatcheff was gone. I stood for a long time gazing across the white
steppe, over which his troika[6] went gliding rapidly. The crowd dispersed.
Shvabrin disappeared. I returned to the pope’s house. Everything was ready
for our departure; I did not wish to delay any longer. Our luggage had
already been deposited in the Commandant’s old travelling carriage. The
horses were harnessed in a twinkling. Maria Ivanovna went to pay a
farewell visit to the graves of her parents, who were buried behind the
church. I wished to accompany her, but she begged of me to let her go
alone. After a few minutes she returned silently weeping. The carriage was
ready. Father Gerasim and his wife came out upon the steps. Maria
Ivanovna, Palasha and I took our places inside the kibitka, while Savelitch
seated himself in the front.
“Farewell, Maria Ivanovna, my little dove; farewell, Peter Andreitch, my
fine falcon!” said the pope’s good wife. “A safe journey, and may God bless
you both and make you happy!”
We drove off. At the window of the Commandant’s house I perceived
Shvabrin standing. His face wore an expression of gloomy malignity. I did
not wish to triumph over a defeated enemy, so I turned my eyes the other
way.
At last we passed out of the gate, and left the fortress of Bailogorsk behind
us for ever.

[1] Diminutive of Palasha.

[2] An open vehicle drawn by three horses yoked abreast.

CHAPTER XIII.

THE ARREST.

United so unexpectedly with the dear girl, about whom I was so terribly
uneasy that very morning, I could scarcely believe the evidence of my
senses, and imagined that everything that had happened to me was nothing
but an empty dream. Maria Ivanovna gazed thoughtfully, now at me, now at
the road, and seemed as if she had not yet succeeded in recovering her
senses. We were both silent. Our hearts were too full of emotion. The time
passed almost imperceptibly, and after journeying for about two hours, we
reached the next fortress, which was also subject to Pougatcheff. Here we
changed horses. By the rapidity with which this was effected, and by the
obliging manner of the bearded Cossack who had been appointed
Commandant by Pougatcheff, I perceived that, thanks to the gossip of our
driver, I was taken for a favourite of their master.
We continued our journey. It began to grow dark. We approached a small
town, where, according to the bearded Commandant, there was a strong
detachment on its way to join the impostor. We were stopped by the
sentries. In answer to the challenge: “Who goes there?” our driver replied in
a loud voice: “The Czar’s friend with his little, wife.”
Suddenly a troop of hussars surrounded us, uttering the most terrible curses.
“Step down, friend of the devil!” said a moustached sergeant-major. “We
will make it warm for you and your little wife!”
I got out of the kibitka and requested to be brought before their commander.
On seeing my officer’s uniform, the soldiers ceased their imprecations, and
the sergeant conducted me to the major.
Savelitch followed me, muttering:
“So much for your being a friend of the Czar! Out of the frying-pan into the
fire. Lord Almighty! how is all this going to end?”

The kibitka followed behind us at a slow pace.
In about five minutes we arrived at a small, well-lighted house. The
sergeant-major left me under a guard and entered to announce me. He
returned immediately and informed me that his Highness had no time to
receive me, but that he had ordered that I should be taken to prison, and my
wife conducted into his presence.
“What does this mean?” I exclaimed in a rage. “Has he taken leave of his
senses?”
“I do not know, your lordship,” replied the sergeant-major. “Only his
Highness has ordered that your lordship should be taken to prison, and her
ladyship conducted into his presence, your lordship!”
I dashed up the steps. The sentinel did not think of detaining me, and I
made my way straight into the room, where six Jiussar officers were
playing at cards. The major was dealing. What was my astonishment when,
looking at him attentively, I recognized Ivan Ivanovitch Zourin, who had
once beaten me at play in the Simbirsk tavern.
“Is it possible?” I exclaimed. “Ivan Ivanovitch! Is it really you?”
“Zounds! Peter Andreitch! What chance has brought you here? Where have
you come from? How is it with you, brother? Won’t you join in a game of
cards?”
“Thank you, but I would much rather you give orders for quarters to be
assigned to me.”
“What sort of quarters do you want? Stay with me.”
“I cannot: I am not alone.”
“Well, bring your comrade with you.”
“I have no comrade with me; I am with a—lady.”
“A lady! Where did you pick her up? Aha, brother mine!”
And with these words, Zourin whistled so significantly that all the others
burst out laughing, and I felt perfectly confused.
“Well,” continued Zourin: “let it be so. You shall have quarters. But it is a
pity.... We should have had one of our old sprees.... I say, boy! Why don’t

you bring in Pougatcheff’s lady friend? Or is she obstinate? Tell her that she
need not be afraid, that the gentleman is very kind and will do her no harm
—then bring her in by the collar.”
“What do you mean?” said I to Zourin. “What lady-friend of Pougatcheff’s
are you talking of? It is the daughter of the late Captain Mironoff. I have
released her from captivity, and I am now conducting her to my father’s
country seat, where I am going to leave her.”
“What! Was it you then who was announced to me just now? In the name of
Heaven! what does all this mean?”
“I will tell you later on. For the present, I beg of you to set at ease the mind
of this poor girl, who has been terribly frightened by your hussars.”
Zourin immediately issued the necessary orders. He went out himself into
the street to apologize to Maria Ivanovna for the involuntary
misunderstanding, and ordered the sergeant-major to conduct her to the best
lodging in the town. I remained to spend the night with him.
We had supper, and when we two were left together, I related to him my
adventures. Zourin listened to me with the greatest attention. When I had
finished, he shook his head, and said:
“That is all very well, brother; but there is one thing which is not so; why
the devil do you want to get married? As an officer and a man of honour, I
do not wish to deceive you; but, believe me, marriage is all nonsense. Why
should you saddle yourself with a wife and be compelled to dandle
children? Scout the idea. Listen to me: shake off this Captain’s daughter. I
have cleared the road to Simbirsk, and it is quite safe. Send her to-morrow
by herself to your parents, and you remain with my detachment. There is no
need for you to return to Orenburg. If you should again fall into the hands
of the rebels, you may not escape from them so easily a second time. In this
way your love folly will die a natural death, and everything will end
satisfactorily.”
Although I did not altogether agree with him, yet I felt that duty and honour
demanded my presence in the army of the Empress. I resolved to follow
Zourin’s advice: to send Maria Ivanovna to my father’s estate, and to
remain with his detachment.

Savelitch came in to help me to undress; I told him that he was to get ready
the next day to accompany Maria Ivanovna on her journey. He began to
make excuses.
“What do you say, my lord? How can I leave you? Who will look after you?
What will your parents say?”
Knowing the obstinate disposition of my follower, I resolved to get round
him by wheedling and coaxing him.
“My dear friend, Arkhip Savelitch!” I said to him: “do not refuse me; be my
benefactor. I do not require a servant here, and I should not feel easy if
Maria Ivanovna were to set out on her journey without you. By serving her
you will be serving me, for I am firmly resolved to marry her, as soon as
circumstances will permit.”
Here Savelitch clasped his hands with an indescribable look of
astonishment.
“To marry!” he repeated: “the child wants to marry! But what will your
father say? And your mother, what will she think?”
“They will give their consent, without a doubt, when they know Maria
Ivanovna,” I replied. “I count upon you. My father and mother have great
confidence in you; you will therefore intercede for us, won’t you?”
The old man was touched.
“Oh, my father, Peter Andreitch!” he replied, “although you are thinking of
getting married a little too early, yet Maria Ivanovna is such a good young
lady, that it would be a pity to let the opportunity escape. I will do as you
wish. I will accompany her, the angel, and I will humbly say to your
parents, that such a bride does not need a dowry.”
I thanked Savelitch, and then lay down to sleep in the same room with
Zourin. Feeling very much excited, I began to chatter. At first Zourin
listened to my remarks very willingly; but little by little his words became
rarer and more disconnected, and at last, instead of replying to’ one of my
questions, he began to snore. I stopped talking and soon followed his
example.
The next morning I betook myself to Maria Ivanovna. I communicated to
her my plans. She recognized the reasonableness of them, and immediately

agreed to carry them out. Zourin’s detachment was to leave the town that
day. There was no time to be lost. I at once took leave of Maria Ivanovna,
confiding her to the care of Savelitch, and giving her a letter to my parents.
Maria burst into tears.
“Farewell, Peter Andreitch,” said she in a gentle voice. “God alone knows
whether we shall ever see each other again or not; but I will never forget
you; till my dying day you alone shall live in my heart!”
I was unable to reply. There was a crowd of people around us, and I did not
wish to give way to my feelings before them. At last she departed. I
returned to Zourin, silent and depressed. He endeavoured to cheer me up,
and I tried to divert my thoughts; we spent the day in noisy mirth, and in the
evening we set out on our march.
It was now near the end of February. The winter, which had rendered all
military movements extremely difficult, was drawing to its close, and our
generals began to make preparations for combined action. Pougatcheff was
still under the walls of Orenburg, but our divisions united and began to
close in from every side upon the rebel camp. On the appearance of our
troops, the revolted villages returned to their allegiance; the rebel bands
everywhere retreated before us, and everything gave promise of a speedy
and successful termination to the campaign.
Soon afterwards Prince Golitzin defeated Pougatcheff under the walls of the
fortress of Tatischtscheff, routed his troops, relieved Orenburg, and to all
appearances seemed to have given the final and decisive blow to the
rebellion. Zourin was sent at this time against a band of rebellious Bashkirs,
who, however, dispersed before we were able to come up with them. The
spring found us in a little Tartar village. The rivers overflowed their banks,
and the roads became impassable. We consoled ourselves for our inaction
with the thought that there would soon be an end to this tedious petty
warfare with brigands and savages.
But Pougatcheff was not yet taken. He soon made his appearance in the
manufacturing districts of Siberia, where he collected new bands of
followers and once more commenced his marauding expeditions. Reports of
fresh successes on his part were soon in circulation. We heard of the
destruction of several Siberian fortresses. Then came the news of the

capture of Kazan, and the march of the impostor to Moscow, which greatly
disturbed the leaders of the army, who had fondly imagined that the power
of the despised rebel had been completely broken. Zourin received orders to
cross the Volga.
I will not describe our march and the conclusion of the war. I will only say
that the campaign was as calamitous as it possibly could be. Law and order
came to an end everywhere, and the land-holders concealed themselves in
the woods. Bands of robbers scoured the country in all directions; the
commanders of isolated detachments punished and pardoned as they
pleased; and the condition of the extensive territory in which the
conflagration raged, was terrible.... Heaven grant that we may never see
such, a senseless and merciless revolt again!
Pougatcheff took to flight, pursued by Ivan Ivanovitch Michelson. We soon
heard of his complete overthrow. At last Zourin received news of the
capture of the impostor, and, at the same time, orders to halt. The war was
ended. At last it was possible for me to return to my parents. The thought of
embracing them, and of seeing Maria Ivanovna, again, of whom I had
received no information, filled me with delight. I danced about like a child.
Zourin laughed and said with a shrug of his shoulders:
“No good will come of it! If you get married, you are lost!”
In the meantime a strange feeling poisoned my joy: the thought of that evil-
doer, covered with the blood of so many innocent victims, and of the
punishment that awaited him, troubled me involuntarily.
“Emelia, Emelia!”[1] I said to myself with vexation, “why did you not dash
yourself against the bayonets, or fall beneath the bullets? That was the best
thing you could have done.”[2]
And how could I feel otherwise? The thought of him was inseparably
connected with the thought of the mercy which he had shown to me in one
of the most terrible moments of my life, and with the deliverance of my
bride from the hands of the detested Shvabrin.
Zourin granted me leave of absence. In a few days’ time I should again be
in the midst of my family, and should once again set eyes upon the face of
my Maria Ivanovna.... Suddenly an unexpected storm burst upon me.

On the day of my departure, and at the very moment when I was preparing
to set out, Zourin came to my hut, holding in his hand a paper, and looking
exceedingly troubled. A pang went through my heart. I felt alarmed, without
knowing why. He sent my servant out of the room, and said that he had
something to tell me.
“What is it?” I asked with uneasiness.
“Something rather disagreeable,” replied he, giving me the paper. “Read
what I have just received.”
I read it: it was a secret order to all the commanders of detachments to
arrest me wherever I might be found, and to send me without delay under a
strong guard to Kazan, to appear before the Commission instituted for the
trial of Pougatcheff.
The paper nearly fell from my hands.
“There is no help for it,” said Zourin, “my duty is to obey orders. Probably
the report of your intimacy with Pougatcheff has in some way reached the
ears of the authorities. I hope that the affair will have no serious
consequences, and that you will be able to justify yourself before the
Commission. Keep up your spirits and set out at once.”
My conscience was clear, and I did not fear having to appear before the
tribunal; but the thought that the hour of my meeting with Maria might be
deferred for several months, filled me with misgivings.
The telega[3] was ready. Zourin took a friendly leave of me, and I took my
place in the vehicle. Two hussars with drawn swords seated themselves, one
on each side of me, and we set out for our destination.

[1] Diminutive of Emelian.
[2] After having advanced to the gates of Moscow, Pougatcheff was defeated,
and being afterwards sold by his accomplices for 100,000 roubles, he was
imprisoned in an iron cage and carried to Moscow, where he was executed in the
year 1775.
[3] An open vehicle without springs.

CHAPTER XIV.

THE SENTENCE.

I felt convinced that the cause of my arrest was my absenting myself from
Orenburg without leave. I could easily justify myself on that score: for
sallying out against the enemy had not only not been prohibited, but had
even been encouraged. I might be accused of undue rashness instead of
disobedience of orders. But my friendly intercourse with Pougatcheff could
be proved by several witnesses, and could not but at least appear very
suspicious. During the whole of the journey I thought of the examination
that awaited me, and mentally prepared the answers that I should make. I
resolved to tell the plain unvarnished truth before the court, feeling
convinced that this was the simplest and, at the same time, the surest way of
justifying myself.
I arrived at Kazan—the town had been plundered and set on fire. In the
streets, instead of houses, there were to be seen heaps of burnt stones, and
blackened walls without roofs or windows. Such were the traces left by
Pougatcheff! I was conducted to the fortress which had escaped the ravages
of the fire. The hussars delivered me over to the officer of the guard. The
latter ordered a blacksmith to be sent for. Chains were placed round my feet
and fastened together. Then I was taken to the prison and left alone in a dark
and narrow dungeon, with four blank walls and a small window protected
by iron gratings.
Such a beginning boded no good to me. For all that, I did not lose hope nor
courage. I had recourse to the consolation of all those in affliction, and after
having tasted for the first time the sweet comforting of prayer poured out
from a pure but sorrow-stricken heart, I went off into a calm sleep, without
thinking of what might happen to me.
The next morning the gaoler awoke me with the announcement that I was to
appear before the Commission. Two soldiers conducted me through a
courtyard to the Commandant’s house: they stopped in the ante-room and
allowed me to enter the inner room by myself.
I found myself in a good-sized apartment At the table, which was covered
with papers, sat two men: an elderly general, of a cold and stem aspect, and

a young captain of the Guards, of about twenty-eight years of age, and of
very agreeable and affable appearance. Near the window, at a separate table,
sat the secretary, with a pen behind his ear, and bending over his paper,
ready to write down my depositions.
The examination began. I was asked my name and profession. The General
inquired if I was the son of Andrei Petrovitch Grineff, and on my replying
in the affirmative, he exclaimed in a stem tone:
“It is a pity that such an honourable man should have such an unworthy
son!”
I calmly replied that whatever were the accusations against me, I hoped to
be able to refute them by the candid avowal of the truth.
My assurance did not please him.
“You are very audacious, my friend,” said he, frowning: “but we have dealt
with others like you.”
Then the young officer asked me under what circumstances and at what
time I had entered Pougatcheff’s service, and in what affairs I had been
employed by him.
I replied indignantly, that, as an officer and a nobleman, I could never have
entered Pougatcheff’s service, and could never have received any
commission from him whatever.
“How comes it then,” continued the interrogator, “that the nobleman and
officer was the only one spared by the impostor, while all his comrades
were cruelly murdered? How comes it that this same officer and nobleman
could revel with the rebellious scoundrels, and receive from the leader of
the villains presents, consisting of a pelisse, a horse, and half a rouble?
Whence came such strange friendship, and upon what does it rest, if not
upon treason, or at least upon abominable and unpardonable cowardice?”
I was deeply offended by the words of the officer of the Guards, and I
began to defend myself with great warmth. I related how my acquaintance
with Pougatcheff began upon the steppe during a snow-storm, how he had
recognized me at the capture of the fortress of Bailogorsk and spared my
life. I admitted that I had received a pelisse and a horse from the impostor,
but that I had defended the fortress of Bailogorsk against the rebels to the

last extremity. In conclusion I appealed to my General, who could bear
witness to my zeal during the disastrous siege of Orenburg.
The stern old man took up from the table an open letter and began to read it
aloud:
“In reply to your Excellency’s inquiry respecting Ensign Grineff, who is
charged with being implicated in the present insurrection and with entering
into communication with the leader of the robbers, contrary to the rules of
the service and the oath of allegiance, I have the honour to report that the
said Ensign Grineff formed part of the garrison in Orenburg from the
beginning of October 1773 to the twenty-fourth of February of the present
year, on which date he quitted the town, and since that time he has not made
his appearance again. We have heard from some deserters that he was in
Pougatcheff’s camp, and that he accompanied him to the fortress of
Bailogorsk, where he had formerly been garrisoned. With respect to his
conduct, I can only....”
Here the General interrupted his reading and said to me harshly:
“What do you say now by way of justification?”
I was about to continue as I began and explain the state of affairs between
myself and Maria Ivanovna as frankly as all the rest, but suddenly I felt an
invincible disgust at the thought of doing so. It occurred to my mind, that if
I mentioned her name, the Commission would summon her to appear, and
the thought of connecting her name with the vile doings of hardened
villains, and of herself being confronted with them—this terrible idea
produced such an impression upon me, that I became confused and
maintained silence.
My judges, who seemed at first to have listened to my answers with a
certain amount of good-will, were once more prejudiced against me on
perceiving my confusion. The officer of the Guards demanded that I should
be confronted with my principal accuser. The General ordered that the
“rascal of yesterday” should be summoned. I turned round quickly towards
the door, to await the appearance of my accuser. After a few moments I
heard the clanking of chains, the door opened, and—Shvabrin entered the
room. I was astonished at the change in his appearance. He was terribly thin
and pale. His hair, but a short time ago as black as pitch, was now quite

grey; his long beard was unkempt. He repeated all his accusations in a weak
but determined voice. According to his account, I had been sent by
Pougatcheff to Orenburg as a spy; every day I used to ride out to the
advanced posts, in order to transmit written information of all that took
place within the town; that at last I had gone quite over to the side of the
usurper and had accompanied him from fortress to fortress, endeavouring in
every way to injure my companions in crime, in order to occupy their
places and profit the better by the rewards of the impostor.
I listened to him in silence, and I rejoiced on account of one thing: the name
of Maria was not mentioned by the scoundrel, whether it was that his self-
love could not bear the thought of one who had rejected him with contempt,
or that within his heart there was a spark of that self-same feeling which
had induced me to remain silent. Whatever it was, the name of the daughter
of the Commandant of Bailogorsk was not pronounced in the presence of
the Commission. I became still more confirmed in my resolution, and when
the judges asked me what I had to say in answer to Shvabrin’s evidence, I
replied that I still stood by my first statement and that I had nothing else to
add in justification of myself.
The General ordered us to be led away. We quitted the room together. I
looked calmly at Shvabrin, but did not say a word to him. He looked at me
with a malicious smile, lifted up his fetters and passed out quickly in front
of me. I was conducted back to prison, and was not compelled to undergo a-
second examination.
I was not a witness of all that now remains for me to impart to the reader;
but I have heard it related so often, that the most minute details are indelibly
engraven upon my memory, and it seems to me as if I had taken a part in
them unseen.
Maria Ivanovna was received by my parents with that sincere kindness
which distinguished people in the olden time. They regarded it as a favour
from God that the opportunity was afforded them of sheltering and
consoling the poor orphan. They soon became sincerely attached to her,
because it was impossible to know her and not to love her. My love for her
no longer appeared mere folly to my father, and my mother had one wish
only, that her Peter should marry the pretty Captain’s daughter.

The news of my arrest filled all my family with consternation. Maria
Ivanovna had related so simply to my parents my strange acquaintance with
Pougatcheff, that not only had they felt quite easy about the matter, but had
often been obliged to laugh heartily at the whole story. My father would not
believe that I could be implicated in an infamous rebellion, the aim of
which was the destruction of the throne and the extermination of the nobles.
He questioned Savelitch severely. My retainer did not deny that I had been
the guest of Pougatcheff, and that the villain had acted very generously
towards me, but he affirmed with a solemn oath that he had never heard a
word about treason. My old parents became easier in mind, and waited
impatiently for more favourable news. Maria Ivanovna, however, was in a
state of great agitation, but she kept silent, as she was modest and prudent
in the highest degree.
Several weeks passed.... Then my father unexpectedly received from St.
Petersburg a letter from our relative, Prince B——. The letter was about
me. After the usual compliments, he informed him that the suspicions which
had been raised concerning my participation in the plots of the rebels, had
unfortunately been shown to be only too well founded; that capital
punishment would have been meted out to me, but that the Empress, in
consideration of the faithful services and the grey hairs of my father, had
resolved to be gracious towards his criminal son, and, instead of
condemning him to suffer an ignominious death, had ordered that he should
be sent to the most remote part of Siberia for the rest of his life.
This unexpected blow nearly killed my father. He lost his usual firmness,
and his grief, usually silent, found vent in bitter complaints.
“What!” he cried, as if beside himself: “my son has taken part in
Pougatcheff’s plots! God of Justice, that I should live to see this! The
Empress spares his life! Does that make it any better for me? It is not death
at the hands of the executioner that is so terrible: my great-grandfather died
upon the scaffold for the defence of that which his conscience regarded as
sacred;[1] my father suffered with Volinsky and Khrouschtcheff.[2] But that a
nobleman should be false to his oath, should associate with robbers, with
murderers and with runaway slaves!... Shame and disgrace upon our race!”
Frightened by his despair, my mother dared not weep in his presence; she
endeavoured to console him by speaking of the uncertainty of reports, and

the little dependency to be placed upon the opinions of other people. But
my father was inconsolable.
Maria Ivanovna suffered more than anybody. Being firmly convinced that I
could have justified myself if I had only wished to do so, she guessed the
reason of my silence, and considered herself the cause of my misfortune.
She hid from everyone her tears and sufferings, and was incessantly
thinking of the means by which I might be saved.
One evening my father was seated upon the sofa turning over the leaves’ of
the “Court Calendar,” but his thoughts were far away, and the reading of the
book failed to produce upon him its usual effect. He was whistling an old
march. My mother was silently knitting a woollen waistcoat, and from time
to time her tears ran down upon her work. All at once, Maria Ivanovna, who
was also at work in the same room, declared that it was absolutely
necessary that she should go to St. Petersburg, and she begged of my
parents to furnish her with the means of doing so. My mother was very
much hurt at this resolution.
“Why do you wish to go to St. Petersburg?” said she. “Is it possible, Maria
Ivanovna, that you want to forsake us also?”
Maria replied that her fate depended upon this journey, that she was going
to seek help and protection from powerful persons, as the daughter of a man
who had fallen a victim to his fidelity.
My father lowered his head; every word that recalled to mind the supposed
crime of his son, was painful to him, and seemed like a bitter reproach.
“Go, my child,” he said to her at last with a sigh; “we do not wish to stand
in the way of your happiness. May God give you an honest man for a
husband, and not an infamous traitor.”
He rose and left the room.
Maria Ivanovna, left alone with my mother, confided to her a part of her
plan. My mother, with tears in her eyes, embraced her and prayed to God
that her undertaking might be crowned with success. Maria Ivanovna made
all her preparations, and a few days afterwards she set out on her road with
the faithful Palasha and the equally faithful Savelitch, who, forcibly
separated from me, consoled himself at least with the thought that he was
serving my betrothed.

Maria Ivanovna arrived safely at Sofia, and learning that the Court was at
that time at Tsarskoe Selo, she resolved to stop there. At the post-house, a
small recess behind a. partition was assigned to her. The postmaster’s wife
came immediately to chat with her, and she informed Maria that she was
niece to one of the stove-lighters of the Court, and she initiated her into all
the mysteries of Court life. She told her at what hour the Empress usually
got up, when she took coffee, and when she went out for a walk; what great
lords were then with her; what she had deigned to say the day before at
table, and whom she had received in the evening. In a word, the
conversation of Anna Vlassievna was as good as a volume of historical
memoirs, and would be very precious to the present generation.
Maria Ivanovna listened to her with great attention. They went together into
the palace garden. Anna Vlassievna related the history of every alley and of
every little bridge, and after seeing all that they wished to see, they returned
to the post-house, highly satisfied with each other.

The next day, early in the morning, Maria Ivanovna awoke, dressed herself,
and quietly betook herself to the palace garden. It was a lovely morning; the
sun was gilding the tops of the linden trees, already turning yellow beneath
the cold breath of autumn. The broad lake glittered in the light. The swans,
just awake, came sailing majestically out from under the bushes
overhanging the banks. Maria Ivanovna walked towards a delightful lawn,
where a monument had just been erected in honour of the recent victories
gained by Count Peter Alexandrovitch Roumyanzoff.[3] Suddenly a little
white dog of English breed ran barking towards her. Maria grew frightened
and stood still. At the same moment she heard an agreeable female voice
call out:
“Do not be afraid, it will not bite.”
Maria saw a lady seated on the bench opposite the monument. Maria sat
down on the other end of the bench. The lady looked at her attentively;
Maria on her side, by a succession of stolen glances, contrived to examine
the stranger from head to foot. She was attired in a white morning gown, a
light cap, and a short mantle. She seemed to be about forty years of age.
Her face, which was full; and red, wore an expression of calmness and

dignity, and her blue eyes and smiling lips had an indescribable charm
about them. The lady was the first to break silence.
“You are doubtless a stranger here?” said she.
“Yes, I only arrived yesterday from the country.”
“Did you come with your parents?”
“No, I came alone.”
“Alone! But you are very young to travel alone.”
“I have neither father nor mother.”
“Perhaps you have come here on some business?”
“Yes, I have come to present a petition to the Empress.”
“You are an orphan: probably you have come to complain of some
injustice.”
“No, I have come to ask for mercy, not justice.”
“May I ask you who you are?”
“I am the daughter of Captain Mironoff.”
“Of Captain Mironoff! the same who was Commandant of one of the
Orenburg fortresses?”
“The same, Madam.”
The lady appeared moved.
“Forgive me,” said she, in a still kinder voice, “for interesting myself in
your business; but I am frequently at Court; explain to me the nature of
your request, and perhaps I may be able to help you.”
Maria Ivanovna arose and thanked her respectfully. Everything about this
unknown lady drew her towards her and inspired her with confidence.
Maria drew from her pocket a folded paper and gave it to her unknown
protectress, who read it to herself.
At first she began reading with an attentive and benevolent expression; but
suddenly her countenance changed, and Maria, whose eyes followed all her

movements, became frightened by the severe expression of that face, which
a moment before had been so calm and gracious.
“You are supplicating for Grineff?” said the lady in a cold tone. “The
Empress cannot pardon him. He went over to the usurper, not out of
ignorance and credulity, but as a depraved and dangerous scoundrel.”
“Oh! it is not true!” exclaimed Maria.
“How, not true?” replied the lady, her face flushing.
“It is not true; as God is above us, it is not true! I know all, I will tell you
everything. It was for my sake alone that he exposed himself to all the
misfortunes that have overtaken him. And if he did not justify himself
before the Commission, it was only because he did not wish to implicate
me.”
She then related with great warmth all that is already known to the reader.
The lady listened to her attentively.
“Where are you staying?” she asked, when Maria had finished her story;
and hearing that it was with Anna Vlassievna, she added with a smile:
“Ah, I know. Farewell; do not speak to anybody about our meeting. I hope
that you will not have to wait long for an answer to your letter.”
With these words she rose from her seat and proceeded down a covered
alley, while Maria Ivanovna returned to Anna Vlassievna, filled with joyful
hopes.
Her hostess scolded her for going out so early; the autumn air, she said, was
not good for a young girl’s health. She brought an urn, and over a cup of tea
she was about to begin her endless discourse about the Court, when
suddenly a carriage with armorial bearings stopped before the door, and a
lackey entered with the announcement that the Empress summoned to her
presence the daughter of Captain Mironoff.
Anna Vlassievna was perfectly amazed.
“Good Lord!” she exclaimed: “the Empress summons you to Court. How
did she get to know anything about you? And how will you present yourself
before Her Majesty, my little mother? I do not think that you even know
how to walk according to Court manners.... Shall I conduct you? I could at

any rate give you a little caution. And how can you go in your travelling
dress? Shall I send to the nurse for her yellow gown?”
The lackey announced that it was the Empress’s pleasure that Maria
Ivanovna should go alone and in the dress that she had on. There was
nothing else to be done: Maria took her seat in the carriage and was driven
off, accompanied by the counsels and blessings of Anna Vlassievna.
Maria felt that our fate was about to be decided; her heart beat violently. In
a few moments the carriage stopped at the gate of the palace. Maria
descended the steps with trembling feet. The doors flew open before her.
She traversed a large number of empty but magnificent rooms, guided by
the lackey. At last, coming to a closed door, he informed her that she would
be announced directly, and then left her by herself.
The thought of meeting the Empress face to face so terrified her, that she
could scarcely stand upon her feet. In about a minute the door was opened,
and she was ushered into the Empress’s boudoir.
The Empress was seated at her toilette-table, surrounded by a number of
Court ladies, who respectfully made way for Maria Ivanovna. The Empress
turned round to her with an amiable smile, and Maria recognized in her the
lady with whom she had spoken so freely a few minutes before. The
Empress bade her approach, and said with a smile:
“I am glad that I am able to keep my word and grant your petition. Your
business is arranged. I am convinced of the innocence of your lover. Here is
a letter which you will give to your future father-in-law.”
Maria took the letter with trembling hands and, bursting into tears, fell at
the feet of the Empress, who raised her up and kissed her upon the
forehead.
“I know that you are not rich,” said she; “but I owe a debt to the daughter of
Captain Mironoff. Do not be uneasy about the future. I will see to your
welfare.”
After having consoled the poor orphan in this way, the Empress allowed her
to depart. Maria left the palace in the same carriage that had brought her
thither. Anna Vlassievna, who was impatiently awaiting her return,
overwhelmed her with questions, to which Maria returned very vague
answers. Although dissatisfied with the weakness of her memory, Anna

Vlassievna ascribed it to her provincial bashfulness, and magnanimously
excused her. The same day Maria, without even desiring to glance at St.
Petersburg, set out on her return journey.

The memoirs of Peter Andreitch Grineff end here. But from a family
Tradition we learn that he was released from his imprisonment towards the
end of the year 1774 by order of the Empress, and that he was present at the
execution of Pougatcheff, who recognized him in the crowd and nodded to
him with his head, which, a few moments afterwards, was shown lifeless
and bleeding to the people.[4] Shortly afterwards, Peter Andreitch and Maria
Ivanovna were married. Their descendants still flourish in the government
of Simbirsk. About thirty versts from ----, there is a village belonging to ten
landholders. In the house of one of them, there may still be seen, framed
and glazed, the autograph letter of Catherine II. It is addressed to the father
of Peter Andreitch, and contains the justification of his son, and a tribute of
praise to the heart and intellect of Captain Mironoff’s daughter.

[1] One of Poushkin’s ancestors was condemned to death by Peter the Great.
[2] Chiefs of the Russian party against Biren, the unscrupulous German
Favourite of the Empress Anne. They were put to death under circumstances of
great cruelty.
[3] A famous Russian general who distinguished himself in the war against the
Turks.
[4] It is said that even at the present day the peasants in the south-east of Russia
are firmly convinced that Pougatcheff was really the Emperor Peter III., and not
an impostor.

DOUBROVSKY.
CHAPTER I.

Some years ago, there lived on one of his estates a Russian gentleman of the
old school named Kirila Petrovitch Troekouroff. His wealth, distinguished
birth, and connections gave him great weight in the government where his

property was situated. Completely spoilt by his surroundings, he was in the
habit of giving way to every impulse of his passionate nature, to every
caprice of his sufficiently narrow mind. The neighbours were ready to
gratify his slightest whim; the government officials trembled at his name.
Kirila Petrovitch accepted all these signs of servility as homage due to him.
His house was always full of guests, ready to amuse his lordship’s leisure,
and to join his noisy and sometimes boisterous mirth. Nobody dared to
refuse his invitations or, on certain days, omit to put in an appearance at the
village of Pokrovskoe. Kirila Petrovitch was very hospitable, and in spite of
the extraordinary vigour of his constitution, he suffered two or three times a
week from surfeit, and became tipsy every evening.
Very few of the young women of his household escaped the amorous
attentions of this old man of fifty. Moreover, in one of the wings of his
house lived sixteen girls engaged in needlework. The windows of this wing
were protected by wooden bars, the doors were kept locked, and the keys
retained by Kirila Petrovitch. The young recluses at an appointed hour went
into the garden for a walk under the surveillance of two old women. From
time to time Kirila Petrovitch married some of them off, and new comers
took their places. He treated his peasants and domestics in a severe and
arbitrary fashion, in spite of which they were very devoted to him: they
loved to boast of the wealth and influence of their master, and in their turn
took many a liberty with their neighbours, trusting to his powerful
protection.
The ordinary occupations of Troekouroff consisted in driving over his vast
domains, passing his nights in prolonged revels, and playing practical jokes,
specially invented from time to time, the victims being generally new
acquaintances, though his old friends did not always escape, one only—
Andrei Gavrilovitch Doubrovsky—excepted.
This Doubrovsky, a retired lieutenant of the Guards, was his nearest
neighbour, and possessed seventy serfs. Troekouroff, haughty in his
dealings with people of the highest rank, respected Doubrovsky, in spite of
his humble fortune. They had been friends in the service, and Troekouroff
knew from experience the impatience and decision of his character. The
celebrated events of the year 1762[1] separated them for a long time.
Troekouroff, a relative of the Princess Dashkoff,[2] received rapid
promotion; Doubrovsky with his reduced fortune, was compelled to leave

the service and settle down in the only village that remained to him. Kirila
Petrovitch, hearing of this, offered him his protection but Doubrovsky
thanked him and remained poor and independent. Some years later,
Troekouroff, having obtained the rank of general, and retired to his estate,
they met again and were delighted with each other. After that they saw each
other every day, and Kirila Petrovitch, who had never deigned to visit
anybody in his life, came quite as a matter of course to the little house of his
old comrade. Being of the same age, born in the same rank of society, and
having received the same education, they resembled each other somewhat
in character and inclinations. In some respects their fates had been similar:
both had married for love, both had soon become widowers, and both had
been left with an only child. The son of Doubrovsky was studying at St.
Petersburg; the daughter of Kirila Petrovitch grew up under the eyes of her
father, and Troekouroff often said to Doubrovsky:
“Listen, brother Andrei Gavrilovitch; if your Volodka[3] should be
successful, I will give him Masha[4] for his wife, in spite of his being as
naked as a goshawk.”
Andrei Gavrilovitch used to shake his head, and generally replied:
“No’, Kirila Petrovitch; my Volodka is no match for Maria Kirilovna. A
poor petty noble, such as he, would do better to marry a poor girl of the
petty nobility, and be the head of his house, rather than become the bailiff of
some spoilt little woman.”
Everybody envied the good understanding existing between the haughty
Troekouroff and his poor neighbour, and wondered at the boldness of the
latter when, at the table of Kirila Petrovitch, he expressed his own opinion
frankly, and did not hesitate to maintain an opinion contrary to that of his
host Some attempted to imitate him and ventured to overstep the limits of
the license accorded them; but Kirila Petrovitch taught them such a lesson,
that they never afterwards felt any desire to repeat the experiment.
Doubrovsky alone remained beyond the range of this general law. But an
unexpected incident deranged and altered all this.
One day, in the beginning of autumn, Kirila Petrovitch prepared to go out
hunting. Orders had been given the evening before for the huntsmen and
gamekeepers to be ready at five o’clock in the morning. The tent and
kitchen had been sent on beforehand to the place where Kirila Petrovitch

was to dine. The host and his guests went to the kennel, where more than
five hundred harriers and greyhounds lived in luxury and warmth, praising
the generosity of Kirila Petrovitch in their canine language. There was also
a hospital for the sick dogs, under the care of staff-surgeon Timoshka, and a
separate place where the bitches brought forth and suckled their pups. Kirila
Petrovitch was proud of this magnificent establishment, and never missed
an opportunity of boasting about it, before his guests, each of whom had
inspected it at least twenty times. He walked through the kennel,
surrounded by his guests and accompanied by Timoshka and the head
gamekeepers, pausing before some of the compartments, either to ask, after
the health of some sick dog, to make some observation more or less just and
severe, or to call some dog to him; by name and speak caressingly to it. The
guests considered it their duty to go into raptures over Kirila Petrovitch’s
kennel; Doubrovsky alone remained silent and frowned. He was an ardent
sportsman; but his modest fortune only permitted him to keep two harriers
and one greyhound, and he could not restrain a certain feeling of envy at the
sight of this magnificent establishment.
“Why do you frown, brother?” Kirila Petrovitch asked him. “Does not my
kennel please you?”
“No,” replied Doubrovsky abruptly: “the kennel, is marvellous, but I doubt
whether your people live as well as your dogs.”
One of the gamekeepers took offence.
“Thanks to God and our master, we have nothing to complain of,” said he;
“but if the truth must be told, there are certain nobles who would not do
badly if they exchanged their manor-house for one of the compartments of
this kennel: they would be better fed and feel warmer.”
Kirila Petrovitch burst out laughing at this insolent remark from his servant,
and the guests followed his example, although they felt that the
gamekeeper’s joke I might apply to them also. Doubrovsky turned pale and
said not a word. At that moment a basket, containing some new-born
puppies, was brought to Kirila Petrovitch; he chose two out of the litter and
ordered the rest to be drowned. In the meantime Andrei Gavrilovitch had
disappeared without anybody having observed it.

On returning with his guests from the kennel, Kirila Petrovitch sat down to
supper, and it was only then that he noticed the absence of Doubrovsky. His
people informed him that Andrei Gavrilovitch had gone home. Troekouroff
immediately gave orders that he was to be overtaken and brought back
without fail. He had never gone hunting without Doubrovsky, who was a
fine and experienced connoisseur in all matters relating to dogs, and an
infallible umpire in all possible disputes connected with sport. The servant
who had galloped after him, returned while they were still seated at table,
and informed his master that Andrei Gavrilovitch had refused to listen to
him and would not return. Kirila Petrovitch, as usual, was heated with
liquor, and becoming very angry, he sent the same servant a second time to
tell Andrei Gavrilovitch that if he did not return at once to spend the night at
Pokrovskoe, he, Troekouroff, would break off all friendly intercourse with
him for ever. The servant galloped off again. Kirila Petrovitch rose from the
table, dismissed his guests retired to bed.
The next day his first question was: “Is Andrei Gavrilovitch here?” A
triangular-shaped letter was handed to him. Kirila Petrovitch ordered his
secretary to read it aloud, and the following is what he heard:

“Gracious Sir!
“I do not intend to return to Pokrovskoe until you send the dog-feeder
Paramoshka to me with an apology: I shall retain the liberty of
punishing or for forgiving him. I cannot put up with jokes from your
servants, nor do I intend to put up with them from you, as I am not a
buffoon, but a gentleman of ancient family. I remain your obedient
servant,
“ANDREI DOUBROVSKY.”

According to present ideas of etiquette, such a letter would be very
unbecoming; it irritated Kirila Petrovitch, not by its strange style, but by its
substance.
“What!” exclaimed Troekouroff, springing barefooted out of bed; “send my
people to him with an apology! And he to be at liberty to punish or pardon
them! What can he be thinking of? Does he know with whom he is dealing?
I’ll teach him a lesson! He shall know what it is to oppose Troekouroff!”

Kirila Petrovitch dressed himself and set out for the hunt with his usual
ostentation. But the chase was not successful; during the whole of the day
one hare only was seen, and that escaped. The dinner in the field, under the
tent, was also a failure, or at least it was not to the taste of Kirila Petrovitch,
who struck the cook, abused the guests, and on the return journey rode
intentionally, with all his suite, through the fields of Doubrovsky.

[1] Alluding to the deposition and assassination of Peter III., and the accession of
his wife Catherine II.
[2] One of Catherine’s partisans in the revolution of 1762.
[3] Diminutive of Vladimir.
[4] Diminutive of Maria or Mary.

CHAPTER II.

Several days passed, and the animosity between the two neighbours did not
subside. Andrei Gavrilovitch returned no more to Pokrovskoe, and Kirila
Petrovitch, feeling dull without him, vented his spleen in the most insulting
expressions, which, thanks to the zeal of the neighbouring nobles, reached
Doubrovsky revised and augmented. A fresh incident destroyed the last
hope of a reconciliation.
One day, Doubrovsky was going the round of his little estate, when, on
approaching a grove of birch trees, he heard the blows of an axe, and a
minute afterwards the crash of a falling tree; he hastened to the spot and
found some of the Pokrovskoe peasants stealing his wood. Seeing him, they
took to flight; but Doubrovsky, with the assistance of his coachman, caught
two of them, whom he brought home bound. Moreover, two horses,
belonging to the enemy, fell into the hands of the conqueror.
Doubrovsky was exceedingly angry. Before this, Troekouroff’s people, who
were well-known robbers, had never dared to play tricks within the
boundaries of his property, being aware of the friendship which existed
between him and their master. Doubrovsky now perceived that they were
taking advantage of the rupture which had occurred between him and his
neighbour, and he resolved, contrary to all ideas of the rules of war, to teach
his prisoners a lesson with the rods which they themselves had collected in
his grove, and to send the horses to work and to incorporate them with his
own cattle.
The news of these proceedings reached the ears of Kirila Petrovitch that
very same day. He was almost beside himself with rage, and in the first
moment of his passion, he wanted to take all his domestics and make an

attack upon Kistenevka (for such was the name of his neighbour’s village),
raze it to the ground, and besiege the landholder in his own residence. Such
exploits were not rare with him; but his thoughts soon took another
direction. Pacing with heavy steps up and down the hall, he glanced
casually out of the window, and saw a troika in the act of stopping at his,
gate. A man in a leather travelling-cap and a frieze cloak stepped out of the
telega and proceeded towards the wing occupied by the bailiff. Troekouroff
recognized the assessor Shabashkin, and gave orders for him to be sent in to
him. A minute afterwards Shabashkin stood before Kirila Petrovitch, and
bowing repeatedly, waited respectfully to hear what he had to say to him.
“Good day—what is your name?” said Troekouroff: “Why have you
come?”
“I was going to the town, Your Excellency,” replied Shabashkin, “and I
called on Ivan Demyanoff to know if there; were any orders.”
“You have come at a very opportune moment—what is your name? I have
need of you. Take a glass of brandy and listen to me.”
Such a friendly welcome agreeably surprised the assessor: he declined the
brandy, and listened to Kirila Petrovitch with all possible attention.
“I have a neighbour,” said Troekouroff, “a small proprietor, a rude fellow,
and I want to take his property from him.... What do you think of that?”
“Your Excellency, are there any documents—?”
“Don’t talk nonsense, brother,[1] what documents are you talking about?
The business in this case is to take his property away from him, with or
without documents. But stop! This estate belonged to us at one time. It was
bought from a certain Spitsin, and then sold to Doubrovsky’s father. Can’t
you make a case out of that?”
“It would be difficult, Your Excellency: probably the sale was effected in
strict accordance with the law.”
“Think, brother; try your hardest.”
“If, for example, Your Excellency could in some way obtain from your
neighbour the contract, in virtue of which he holds possession of his estate,
then, without doubt—”

“I understand, but that is the misfortune: all his papers were burnt at the
time of the fire.”
“What! Your Excellency, his papers were burnt? What could be better? In
that case, take proceedings according to law; without the slightest doubt
you will receive complete satisfaction.”
“You think so? Well, see to it, I rely upon your zeal, and you can rest
assured of my gratitude.”
Shabashkin, bowing almost to the ground, took his departure; from that day
he began to devote all his energies to the business intrusted to him and,
thanks to his prompt action, exactly a fortnight afterwards Doubrovsky
received from the town a summons to appear in court and to produce the
documents, in virtue of which he held possession of the village of
Kistenevka.
Andrei Gavrilovitch, greatly astonished by this unexpected request, wrote
that very same day a somewhat rude reply, in which he explained that the
village of Kistenevka became his on the death of his father, that he held it
by right of inheritance, that Troekouroff had nothing to do with the matter,
and that all adventitious pretensions to his property were nothing but the
outcome of chicanery and roguery. Doubrovsky had no experience in
litigation. He generally followed the dictates of common sense, a guide
rarely safe, and nearly always insufficient.
This letter produced a very agreeable impression on the mind of
Shabashkin; he saw, in the first place, that Doubrovsky knew very little
about legal matters; and, in the second, that it would not be difficult to place
such a passionate and indiscreet man in a very disadvantageous position.
Andrei Gavrilovitch, after a more careful consideration of the questions
addressed to him, saw the necessity of replying more circumstantially. He
wrote a sufficiently pertinent paper, but in the end this proved insufficient
also.
The business dragged on. Confident in his own right, Andrei Gavrilovitch
troubled himself very little about the matter; he had neither the inclination
nor the means to scatter money about him, and he began to deride the
mercenary consciences of the scribbling fraternity. The idea of being made
the victim of treachery never entered his head. Troekouroff, on his side,

thought as little of winning the case he had devised. Shabashkin took the
matter in hand for him, acting in his name, threatening and bribing the
judges and quoting and interpreting the ordinances in the most distorted
manner possible.
At last, on the 9th day of February, in the year 18—, Doubrovsky received,
through the town police, an invitation to appear at the district court to hear
the decision in the matter of the disputed property between himself—
Lieutenant Doubrovsky, and General-in-Chief Troekouroff, and to sign his
approval or disapproval of the verdict. That same day Doubrovsky set out
for the town. On the road he was overtaken by Troekouroff. They glared
haughtily at each other, and Doubrovsky observed a malicious smile upon
the face of his adversary.
Arriving in town, Andrei Gavrilovitch stopped at the house of an
acquaintance, a merchant, with whom he spent the night, and the next
morning he appeared before the Court. Nobody paid any attention, to him.
After him arrived Kirila Petrovitch. The members of the Court received him
with every manifestation of the deepest submission, and an armchair was
brought to him out of consideration for his rank, years and corpulence. He
sat down; Andrei Gavrilovitch stood leaning against the wall. A deep
silence ensued, and the secretary began in a sonorous voice to read the
decree of the Court.
When the secretary had ceased reading, the assessor arose and, with a low
bow, turned to Troekouroff, inviting him to sign the paper which he held out
to him. Troekouroff, quite triumphant, took the pen and wrote beneath the
decision of the Court his complete satisfaction.
It was now Doubrovsky’s turn. The secretary handed the paper to him, but
Doubrovsky stood immovable, with his head bent down. The secretary
repeated his invitation: “To subscribe his full and complete satisfaction, or
his manifest dissatisfaction, if he felt in his conscience that his case was
just, and intended to appeal against the decision of the Court.”
Doubrovsky remained silent ... Suddenly he raised his head, his eyes
sparkled, he stamped his foot, pushed back the secretary, with such force,
that he fell, seized the inkstand, hurled it at the assessor, and cried in a wild
voice:

“What! you don’t respect the Church of God! Away, you race of Shem!”
Then turning to Kirila Petrovitch:
“Has such a thing ever been heard of, Your Excellency?” he continued.
“The huntsmen lead greyhounds into the Church of God! The dogs are
running about the church! I will teach them a lesson presently!”
Everybody was terrified. The guards rushed in on hearing the noise, and
with difficulty overpowered him. They led him out and placed him in a
sledge. Troekouroff went out after him, accompanied by the whole Court
Doubrovsky’s sudden madness had produced a deep impression upon his
imagination; the judges, who had counted upon his gratitude, were not
honoured by receiving a single affable word from him. He returned
immediately to Pokrovskoe, secretly tortured by his conscience, and not at
all satisfied with the triumph of his hatred. Doubrovsky, in the meantime,
lay in bed. The district doctor—not altogether a blockhead—bled him and
applied leeches and mustard-plasters to him. Towards evening he began to
feel better, and the next day he was taken to Kistenevka, which scarcely
belonged to him any longer.

[1] Superiors in Russia frequently make use of this term in addressing their
inferiors.

CHAPTER III.

Some time elapsed, but the health of the stricken Doubrovsky showed no
signs of improvement. It is true that the fits of madness did not recur, but
his strength became visibly less. He forgot his former occupations, rarely
left his room, and for days together remained absorbed in his own
reflections. Egorovna, a kind-hearted old woman who had once tended his
son, now became his nurse. She waited upon him like a child, reminded him
when it was time to eat and sleep, fed him and even put him to bed. Andrei
Gavrilovitch obeyed her, and had no intercourse with anybody else. He was
not in a condition to think about his affairs or to look after his property, and
Egorovna saw the necessity of informing young Doubrovsky, who was then

serving in one of the regiments of Foot Guards stationed in St. Petersburg,
of everything that had happened. And so, tearing a leaf from the account-
book, she dictated to Khariton the cook, the only literate person in
Kistenevka, a letter, which she sent off that same day to the town post.
But it is time for the reader to become acquainted with the real hero of this
story.
Vladimir Doubrovsky had been educated at the cadet school and, on leaving
it, had entered the Guards as sub-lieutenant. His father spared nothing that
was necessary to enable him to live in a becoming manner, and the young
man received from home a great deal more than he had any right to expect.
Being imprudent and ambitious, he indulged in extravagant habits, ran into
debt, and troubled himself very little about the future. Occasionally the
thought crossed his mind that sooner or later he would be obliged to take to
himself a rich bride.
One evening, when several officers were spending a few hours with him,
lolling on the couches and smoking pipes with amber mouth-pieces, Grisha,
[1]
his valet, handed him a letter, the address and seal of which immediately
attracted the young man’s attention. He hastily opened it and read the
following:

“Our Lord Vladimir Andreivitch, I, your old nurse, venture to inform
you of the health of your papa. He is very poorly, sometimes he
wanders in his talk, and the whole day long he sits like a stupid child—
but life and death are in the hands of God. Come to us, my bright little
falcon, and, we will send horses to meet you at Pesotchnoe. We hear
that the Court is going to hand us over to Kirila Petrovitch
Troekouroff, because it is said that we belong to him, although we
have always belonged to you, and have always heard so ever since we
can remember. You might, living in St. Petersburg, inform our Father
the Czar of this, and he will not allow us to be wronged. It has been
raining here for the last fortnight, and the shepherd Rodia died about
Michaelmas Day. I send my maternal blessing to Grisha. Does he serve
you well? I remain your faithful nurse,
“ARINA EGOROVNA BOUZIREVA.”

Vladimir Doubrovsky read these somewhat unintelligible lines several
times with great agitation. He had lost his mother during his childhood, and,
hardly knowing his father, had been taken to St. Petersburg when he was
eight years of age. In spite of that, he was romantically attached to his
father, and having had but little opportunity of enjoying the pleasures of
family life, he loved it all the more in consequence.
The thought of losing his father pained him exceedingly, and the condition
of the poor invalid, which he guessed from his nurse’s letter, horrified him.
He imagined his father, left in an out-of-the-way village, in the hands of a
stupid old woman and her fellow servants, threatened by some misfortune,
and expiring without help in the midst of tortures both mental and physical.
Vladimir Andreivitch reproached himself with criminal neglect. Not having
received any news of his father for a long time, he had not even thought of
making inquiries about him, supposing him to be travelling about or
engaged in the management of his estate. That same evening he began to
take the necessary steps for obtaining leave of absence, and two days
afterwards he set out in the stage coach, accompanied by his faithful Grisha.
Vladimir Andreivitch neared the post station at which he was to take the
turning for Kistenevka. His heart was filled with sad forebodings; he feared
that he would no longer find his father alive. He pictured to himself the
dreary kind of life that “awaited him in the village: the loneliness, solitude,
poverty and cares of business of which he knew nothing. Arriving at the
station, he went to the postmaster and asked for fresh horses. The
postmaster, having inquired where he was going, informed him that horses
sent from Kistenevka had been waiting for him for the last four days. Soon
appeared before Vladimir Andreivitch the old coachman Anton, who used
formerly to take him over the stables and look after his pony. Anton’s eyes
filled with tears on seeing his young master, and bowing to the ground, he
told him that his old master was still alive, and then hastened to harness the
horses. Vladimir Andreivitch declined the proffered breakfast, and hastened
to depart. Anton drove him along the cross country roads, and conversation
began between them.
“Tell me, if you please, Anton, what is this business between my father and
Troekouroff?”

“God knows, my little father Vladimir Andreivitch; our master, they say,
had a dispute with Kirila Petrovitch, and the latter summoned him before
the judge, though very often he himself is the judge. It is not the business of
servants to discuss the affairs of their masters, but it was useless of your
father to contend against Kirila Petrovitch: better had it been if he had not
opposed him.”
“It seems, then, that this Kirila Petrovitch does just what he pleases among
you?”
“He certainly does, master: he does not care a rap for the assessor, and the
chief of police runs on errands for him. The nobles repair to his house to do
homage to him, for as the proverb says: ‘Where there is a trough, there will
the pigs be also.’”
“Is it true that he wants to take our estate from us?”
“Oh, master, that is what we have heard. A few days ago, the sexton from
Pokrovskoe said at the christening held at the house of our overseer: ‘You
do well to enjoy yourselves while you are able, for you’ll not have much
chance of doing so when Kirila Petrovitch takes you in hand;’ and Nikita
the blacksmith said to him: ‘Savelitch, don’t distress your fellow sponsor,
don’t disturb the guests. Kirila Petrovitch is what he is, and Andrei
Gavrilovitch is the same—and we are all God’s and the Czar’s.’ But you
cannot sew a button upon another person’s mouth.”
“Then you do not wish to pass into the possession of Troekouroff?”
“Into the possession of Kirila Petrovitch! The Lord save and preserve us!
His own people fare badly enough, and if he got possession of strangers, he
would strip off, not only their skin, but their flesh also. No, may God grant
long life to Andrei Gavrilovitch; and if God should take him to Himself, we
want nobody but you, our benefactor. Do not give us up, and we will stand
by you.”
With these words, Anton flourished his whip, shook the reins, and the
horses broke into a brisk trot.
Touched by the devotion of the old coachman, Doubrovsky became silent
and gave himself up to his own reflections. More than an hour passed;
suddenly Grisha roused him by exclaiming: “There is Pokrovskoe!”
Doubrovsky raised his head. They were just then driving along the bank of

a broad lake, out of which flowed a small stream winding among the hills.
On one of these, above a thick green wood, rose the green roof and
belvedere of a huge stone house, together with a five-domed church with an
ancient belfry; round about were scattered the village huts with their
gardens and wells. Doubrovsky recognized these places; he remembered
that on that very hill he had played with little Masha Troekouroff, who was
two years younger than he, and who even then gave promise of being very
beautiful. He wanted to make inquiries of Anton about her, but a certain
bashfulness restrained him.
On approaching the castle, he perceived a white dress flitting among the
trees in the garden. At that moment Anton whipped the horses, and impelled
by that vanity, common to village coachmen as to drivers in general, he
drove at full speed over the bridge and past the garden. On emerging from
the village, they ascended the hill, and Vladimir perceived the little wood of
birch trees, and to the left, in an open place, a small grey house with a red
roof. His heart began to beat—before him was Kistenevka, the humble
abode of his father.
About ten minutes afterwards he drove into the courtyard He looked around
him with indescribable emotion: twelve years had elapsed since he last saw
’his native place. The little birches, which had just then been planted near
the wooden fence, had now become tall trees with long branches. The
courtyard, formerly ornamented with three regular flower-beds, between
which ran a broad path carefully swept, had been converted into a meadow,
in which was grazing a tethered horse. The dogs began to bark, but
recognizing Anton, they became silent and commenced wagging their
shaggy tails. The servants came rushing out of the house and surrounded the
young master with loud manifestations of joy. It was with difficulty that he
was able to make his way through the enthusiastic crowd. He ran up the
well-worn steps; in the vestibule he was met by Egorovna, who tearfully
embraced him.
“How do you do, how do you do, nurse?” he repeated, pressing the good
old woman to his heart. “And my father? Where is he? How is he?”
At that moment a tall old man, pale and thin, in a dressing-gown and cap,
entered the room, dragging one foot after the other with difficulty.

“Where is Volodka?” said he in a weak voice, and Vladimir embraced his
father with affectionate emotion.
The joy proved too much for the sick man; he grew weak, his legs gave way
beneath him, and he would have fallen, if his son had not held him up.
“Why did you get out of bed?” said Egorovna to him. “He cannot stand
upon his feet, and yet he wants to do the same as other people.”
The old man was carried back to his bedroom. He tried to converse with his
son, but he could not collect his thoughts, and his words had no connection
with each other. He became silent and fell into a kind of somnolence.
Vladimir was struck by his condition. He installed himself in the bedroom
and requested to be left alone with his father. The household obeyed, and
then all turned towards Grisha and led him away to the servants’ hall, where
they gave him a hearty welcome according to the rustic custom, the while
they wearied him with questions and compliments.

[1] Diminutive of Gregory.

CHAPTER IV.

A few days after his arrival, young Doubrovsky wished to turn his attention
to business, but his father was not in a condition to give him the necessary
explanations, and Andrei Gavrilovitch had no confidential adviser.
Examining his papers, Vladimir only found the first letter of the assessor
and a rough copy of his father’s reply to it. From these he could not obtain
any clear idea of the lawsuit, and he determined to await the result, trusting
in the justice of his father’s cause.
Meanwhile the health of Andrei Gavrilovitch grew worse from hour to hour.
Vladimir foresaw that his end was not far off, and he never left the old man,
now fallen into complete childishness.
In the meantime the period of delay had expired and no appeal had been
presented. Kistenevka therefore belonged to Troekouroff. Shabashkin came
to him, and with a profusion of salutations and congratulations, inquired

when His Excellency intended to enter into possession of his newly-
acquired property—would he go and do so himself, or would he deign to
commission somebody else to act as his representative?
Kirila Petrovitch felt troubled. By nature he was not avaricious; his desire
for revenge had carried him too far, and he now felt the rebukings of his
conscience. He knew in what condition his adversary, the old comrade of
his youth, lay, and his victory brought no joy to his heart. He glared sternly
at Shabashkin, seeking for some pretext to vent his displeasure upon him,
but not finding a suitable one, he said to him in an angry tone:
“Be off! I do not want you!”
Shabashkin, seeing that he was not in a good humour, bowed and hastened
to withdraw, and Kirila Petrovitch, left alone, began to pace up and down,
whistling: “Thunder of victory resound!” which, with him, was always a
sure sign of unusual agitation of mind.
At last he gave orders for the droshky[1] to be got ready, wrapped himself up
warmly (it was already the end of September), and, himself holding the
reins, drove out of the courtyard.
He soon caught sight of the house of Andrei Gavrilovitch. Contradictory
feelings filled his soul. Satisfied vengeance and love of power had, to a
certain extent, deadened his more noble sentiments, but at last these latter
prevailed. He resolved to effect a reconciliation with his old neighbour, to
efface the traces of the quarrel and restore to him his property. Having eased
his soul with this good intention, Kirila Petrovitch set off at a gallop
towards the residence of his neighbour and drove straight into the
courtyard.
At that moment the invalid was sitting at his bedroom window. He
recognized Kirila Petrovitch—and his face assumed an expression of
terrible emotion: a livid flush replaced his usual pallor, his eyes gleamed
and he uttered a few unintelligible sounds. His son, who was sitting there
examining the account books, raised his head and was struck by the change
in his father’s condition. The sick man pointed with his finger towards the
courtyard with an expression of rage and horror. At that moment the voice
and heavy tread of Egorovna were heard:

“Master, master! Kirila Petrovitch has come! Kirila Petrovitch is on the
steps!” she cried.... “Lord God! What is the matter? What has happened to
him?”
Andrei Gavrilovitch had hastily gathered up the skirts of his dressing-gown
and was preparing to rise from his armchair. He succeeded in getting upon
his feet—and then suddenly fell. His son rushed towards him; the old man
lay insensible and without breathing: he had been attacked by paralysis.
“Quick, quick! hasten to the town for a doctor!” cried Vladimir.
“Kirila Petrovitch is asking for you,” said a servant, entering the room.
Vladimir gave him a terrible look.
“Tell Kirila Petrovitch to take himself off as quickly as possible, before I
have him turned out—go!”
The servant gladly left the room to execute his master’s orders. Egorovna
raised her hands to heaven.
“Little father,” she exclaimed in a piping voice, “you will lose your head!
Kirila Petrovitch will eat us all up.”
“Silence, nurse,” said Vladimir angrily: “send Anton at once to the town for
a doctor.”
Egorovna left the room. There was nobody in the antechamber; all the
domestics had run out into the courtyard to look at Kirila Petrovitch. She
went out on the steps and heard the servant deliver his young master’s reply.
Kirila Petrovitch heard it, seated in the droshky; his face became darker
than night; he smiled contemptuously, looked threateningly at the
assembled domestics, and then drove slowly out of the courtyard. He
glanced up at the window where, a minute before, Andrei Gavrilovitch had
been sitting, but he was no longer there. The nurse remained standing on the
steps, forgetful of her master’s injunctions. The domestics were noisily
talking of what had just occurred. Suddenly Vladimir appeared in the midst
of them, and said abruptly:
“There is no need for a doctor—my father is dead!” General consternation
followed these words. The domestics rushed to the room of their old master.
He was lying in the armchair in which Vladimir had placed him; his right
arm hung down to the ground, his head was bent forward upon his chest—

there was not the least sign of life in his body, which, not yet cold, was
already disfigured by death. Egorovna set up a howl. The domestics
surrounded the corpse, which was left to their care, washed it, dressed it in a
uniform made in the year 1797, and laid it out on the same table at which
for so many years they had waited upon their master.

[1] A low four-wheeled carriage.

CHAPTER V.

The funeral took place the third day. The body of the poor old man lay in
the coffin, covered with a shroud and surrounded by candles. The dining-
room was filled with domestics, ready to carry out the corpse. Vladimir and
the servants raised the coffin. The priest went in front, followed by the
clerk, chanting the prayers for the dead. The master of Kistenevka crossed
the threshold of his house for the last time. The coffin was carried through
the wood—the church lay just behind it. The day was clear and cold; the
autumn leaves were falling from the trees. On emerging from the wood,
they saw before them the wooden church of Kistenevka and the cemetery
shaded by old lime trees. There reposed the body of Vladimir’s mother;
there, beside her tomb, a new grave had been dug the day before. The
church was full of the Kistenevka peasantry, come to render the last homage
to their master. Young Doubrovsky stood in the chancel; he neither wept nor
prayed, but the expression of his face was terrible. The sad ceremony came
to an end. Vladimir approached first to take leave of the corpse, after him
came the domestics. The lid was brought and nailed upon the coffin. The
women wept aloud, and the men frequently wiped away their tears with
their fists. Vladimir and three of the servants carried the coffin to the
cemetery, accompanied by the whole village. The coffin was lowered into
the grave, all present threw upon it a handful of earth, the pit was filled up,
the crowd saluted for the last time and then dispersed. Vladimir hastily
departed, got ahead of everybody, and disappeared into the Kistenevka
wood.

Egorovna, in the name of her master, invited the pope and all the clergy to a
funeral dinner, informing them that her young master did not intend being
present.
Then Father Anissim, his wife Fedorovna and the clerk took their way to
the manor-house, discoursing with Egorovna upon the virtues of the
deceased and upon what, in all probability, awaited his heir. The visit of
Troekouroff and the reception given to him were already known to the
whole neighbourhood, and the local politicians predicted that serious
consequences would result from it.
“What is to be, will be,” said the pope’s wife: “but it will be a pity if
Vladimir Andreivitch does not become our master. He is a fine young
fellow, there is no denying that.”
“And who is to be our master if he is not to be?” interrupted Egorovna.
“Kirila Petrovitch need not put himself out—he has not got a coward to deal
with. My young falcon will know how to defend himself, and with God’s
help, he will not lack friends. Kirila Petrovitch is too overweening; and yet
he slunk away with his tail between his legs when my Grishka[1] cried out
to him: ‘Be off, you old cur! Clear out of the place!’”
“Oh! Egorovna,” said the clerk, “however could he bring his tongue to utter
such words? I think I would rather bring myself to face the devil, than look
askant at Kirila Petrovitch. As you look at him, you become terrified, and
your very backbone seems to curve!”
“Vanity, vanity!” said the priest: “the service for the dead will some day be
chanted for Kirila Petrovitch, as today for Andrei Gavrilovitch; the funeral
may perhaps be more imposing, and more guests may be invited; but are
not all equal in the sight of God?”
“Oh, father, we wanted to invite all the neighbourhood, but Vladimir
Andreivitch did not wish it. Don’t be alarmed, we have plenty to entertain
people with.... but what would you have had us do? At all events, if there
are not many people, I can treat you well, my dear friends.”
This enticing promise and the hope of finding a toothsome pie, caused the
talkers to quicken their steps, and they safely reached the manor-house,
where the table was already laid and brandy served out.

Meanwhile Vladimir advanced further into the depth of the wood,
endeavouring by exercise and fatigue to deaden the affliction of his soul. He
walked on without taking any notice of the road; the branches constantly
grazed and scratched him, and his feet continually sank into the swamp—he
observed nothing. At last he reached a small glade surrounded by trees on
every side; a little stream wound silently through the trees, half-stripped of
their leaves by the autumn. Vladimir stopped, sat down upon the cold turf,
and thoughts, each more gloomy than the other, oppressed his soul.... He
felt his loneliness very keenly; the future appeared to him enveloped in
terrible clouds. Troekouroff’s enmity foreboded fresh misfortunes for him.
His modest heritage might pass from him into the hands of a stranger, in
which case beggary awaited him. For a long time he sat quite motionless in
the same place, observing the gentle flow of the stream, bearing along on its
surface a few withered leaves, and vividly representing to him the analogy
of life. At last he observed that it began to grow dark; he arose and sought
for the road home, but for a long time he wandered about the unknown
wood before he stumbled upon the path which led straight up to the gate of
his house.
He had not gone far before he met the priest coming towards him with all
his clergy. The thought immediately occurred to him that this foreboded
misfortune.[2] He involuntarily turned aside and disappeared behind the
trees. The priests had not observed him, and they continued talking very
earnestly among themselves.
“Fly from evil and do good,” said the priest to his wife. “There is no need
for us to remain here; it does not concern us, however the business may
end.”
The priest’s wife made some reply, but Vladimir could not hear what she
said.
Approaching the house, he saw a crowd of people; peasants and servants of
the household were flocking into the courtyard. In the distance Vladimir
could hear an unusual noise and murmur of voices. Near the coach-house
stood two troikas. On the steps several unknown men in uniform were
seemingly engaged in conversation.
“What does this mean?” he asked angrily of Anton, who ran forward to
meet him. “Who are these people, and what do they want?”

“Oh, father Vladimir Andreivitch,” replied Anton, out of breath, “the Court
has come. They are giving us over to Troekouroff, they are taking us from
your Honour!...”
Vladimir hung down his head; his people surrounded their unhappy master.
“You are our father,” they cried, kissing his hands.
“We want no other master but you. We will die, but we will not leave you.
Give us the order, Your Lordship, and we will soon settle matters with the
Court.”
Vladimir looked at them, and dark thoughts rose within him.
“Keep quiet,” he said to them: “I will speak to the officers.”
“That’s it—speak to them, father,” shouted the crowd: “put the accursed
wretches to shame!”
Vladimir, approached the officials. Shabashkin, with his cap on his head,
stood with his arms akimbo, looking proudly around him. The sheriff, a tall
stout man, of about fifty years of age, with a red face and a moustache,
seeing Doubrovsky approach, cleared his throat and called out in a hoarse
voice:
“And therefore I repeat to you what I have already said: by the decision of
the district Court, you now belong to Kirila Petrovitch Troekouroff, who is
here represented by M. Shabashkin. Obey him in everything that he orders
you; and you, women, love and honour him, as he loves you.”
At this witty joke the sheriff began to laugh. Shabashkin and the other
officials followed his example. Vladimir boiled over with indignation.
“Allow me to ask, what does all this mean?” he inquired, with pretended
calmness, of the jocular sheriff.
“It means,” replied the witty official, “that we have come to place Kirila
Petrovitch Troekouroff in possession of this property, and to request certain
others to take themselves off for good and all!”
“But I think that you could have communicated all this to me first, rather
than to my peasants, and announced to the landholder the decision of the
authorities——”

“The former landowner, Andrei Gavrilovitch, is dead according to the will
of God; but who are you?” said Shabashkin, with an insolent look. “We do
not know you, and we don’t want to know you.”
“Your Honour, that is our young master,” said a voice in the crowd.
“Who dared to open his mouth?” said the sheriff, in a terrible tone. “That
your master? Your master is Kirila Petrovitch Troekouroff.... do you hear,
idiots?”
“Nothing of the kind!” said the same voice.
“But this is a revolt!” shrieked the sheriff. “Hi, bailiff, this way!”
The bailiff stepped forward.
“Find out immediately who it was that dared to answer me. I’ll teach him a
lesson!”
The bailiff turned towards the crowd and asked who had spoken. But all
remained silent. Soon a murmur was heard at the back; it gradually grew
louder, and in a minute it broke out into a terrible wail. The sheriff lowered
his voice and was about to try to persuade them to be calm.
“Why do you stand looking at him?” cried the servants: “Come on, lads,
forward!” And the crowd began to move.
Shabashkin and the other members of the Court rushed into the vestibule,
and closed the door behind them.
“Seize them, lads!” cried the same voice, and the crowd pressed forward.
“Hold!” cried Doubrovsky: “idiots! what are you doing? You will ruin
yourselves and me, too. Go home all of you, and leave me to myself. Don’t
fear, the Czar is merciful: I will present a petition to him—he will not let us
be made the victims of an injustice. We are all his children. But how can he
take your part, if you begin rebelling and plundering?”
This speech of young Doubrovsky’s, his sonorous voice and imposing
appearance, produced the desired effect. The crowd became quiet and
dispersed; the courtyard became empty, the officials of the Court still
remained inside the house. Vladimir sadly ascended the steps. Shabashkin
opened the door, and with obsequious bows began to thank Doubrovsky for
his generous intervention.

Vladimir listened to him with contempt and made no reply.
“We have resolved,” continued the assessor, “with your permission, to
remain here for the night, as it is already dark, and your peasants might
attack us on the road. Be kind enough to order some hay to be put down for
us on the parlour floor, as soon as it is daylight, we will take our departure.”
“Do what you please,” replied Doubrovsky drily: “I am no longer master
here.”
With these words he entered into his fathers room and locked the door
behind him.

[1] Diminutive of Gregory.
[2] To meet a priest is considered a bad omen in Russia.

CHAPTER VI.

“And so, all is finished!” said Vladimir to himself. “This morning I had a
corner and a piece of bread; to-morrow I must leave the house where I was
born. My father, with the ground where he reposes, will belong to that
hateful man, the cause of his death and of my ruin!”... Vladimir clenched
his teeth and fixed his eyes upon the portrait of his mother. The artist had
represented her leaning upon a balustrade, in a white morning dress, with a
rose in her hair.
“And that portrait will fall into the hands of the enemy of my family,”
thought Vladimir. “It will be thrown into a lumber room together with
broken chairs, or hung up in the ante-room, to become an object of derision
for his dog-keepers; and in her bedroom, in the room where my father died,
will be installed his bailiff, or his harem. No, no! he shall not have
possession of the house of mourning, from which he is driving me out.”
Vladimir clenched his teeth again; terrible thoughts rose up in his mind. The
voices of the officials reached him; they were giving their orders,

demanding first one thing and then another, and disagreeably disturbing
him in the midst of his painful meditations.
At last all became quiet.
Vladimir unlocked the drawers and boxes and began to examine the papers
of the deceased. They consisted for the most part of farming accounts and
letters connected with various matters of business. Vladimir tore them up
without reading them. Among them he came across a packet with the
inscription: “Letters from my wife.” A prey to deep emotion, Vladimir
began to read them. They had been written during the Turkish campaign,
and were addressed to the army from Kistenevka. Madame Doubrovsky
described to her husband her life in the country and her business concerns,
complained with tenderness of the separation, and implored him to return
home as soon as possible to the arms of his loving wife. In one of these
letters, she expressed to him her anxiety concerning the health of little
Vladimir; in another she rejoiced over his early intelligence, and predicted
for him a happy and brilliant future. Vladimir was so absorbed in his
reading, that he forgot everything else in the world as his mind conjured up
visions of domestic happiness, and he did not observe how the time was
passing: the clock upon the wall struck eleven. Vladimir placed the letters
in his pocket, took up a candle and left the room. In the parlour the officials
were sleeping on the floor. Upon the table were tumblers which they had
emptied, and a strong smell of rum pervaded the entire room. Vladimir
turned from them with disgust, and passed into the anteroom. There all was
dark. Somebody, seeing the light, crouched into a corner. Turning the light
towards him, Vladimir recognized Arkhip the blacksmith.
“Why are you here?” he asked, in surprise.
“I wanted—I came to find out if they were all in the house,” replied Arkhip,
in a low faltering voice.
“And why have you got your axe?”
“Why have I got my axe? Can anybody go about nowadays without an axe?
These officials are such impudent knaves, that one never knows——”
“You are drunk; throw the axe down and go to bed.”
“I drunk? Father Vladimir Andreivitch, God is my witness that not a single
drop of brandy has passed my lips, nor has the thought of such a thing

entered my mind. Was ever such a thing heard of? These clerks have taken
it into their heads to rule over us and to drive our master out of the manor-
house.... How they snore, the wretches! I should like to put an end to the
whole lot of them at once.”
Doubrovsky frowned.
“Listen, Arkhip,” said he, after a short pause: “Get such ideas out of your
head. It is not the fault of the officials. Light the lantern and follow me.”
Arkhip took the candle out of his master’s hand, found the lantern behind
the stove, lit it, and then both of them softly descended the steps and
proceeded around the courtyard. The watchman began beating upon an iron
plate; the dogs commenced to bark.
“Who is on the watch?” asked Doubrovsky.
“We, little father,” replied a thin voice: “Vassilissa and Loukeria.”
“Go home,” said Doubrovsky to them, “you are not wanted.”
“You can have a holiday,” added Arkhip.
“Thank you, benefactor,” replied the women, and they immediately
returned home.
Doubrovsky walked on further. Two men approached him: they challenged
him, and Doubrovsky recognized the voices of Anton and Grisha.
“Why are you not in bed and asleep?” he asked them.
“This is no time for us to think of sleep,” replied Anton. “Who would have
thought that we should ever have come to this?”
“Softly,” interrupted Doubrovsky. “Where is Egorovna?”
“In the manor-house, in her room,” replied Grisha.
“Go and bring her here, and make all our people get out of the house; let not
a soul remain in it except the officials; and you, Anton, get the cart ready.”
Grisha departed; a minute afterwards he returned with his mother. The old
woman had not undressed that night; with the exception of the officials,
nobody closed an eye.
“Are all here?” asked Doubrovsky. “Has anybody been left in the house?”

“Nobody, except the clerks,” replied Grisha.
“Bring here some hay or some straw,” said Doubrovsky. The servants ran to
the stables and returned with armfuls of hay.
“Put it under the steps—that’s it. Now, my lads, a light!”
Arkhip opened the lantern and Doubrovsky kindled a torch.
“Wait a moment,” said he to Arkhip: “I think, in my hurry, that I locked the
doors of the hall. Go quickly and open them.”
Arkhip ran to the vestibule: the doors were open. He locked them,
muttering in an undertone: “It’s likely that I’ll leave them open!” and then
returned to Doubrovsky.
Doubrovsky applied the torch to the hay, which burst into a blaze, the
flames rising to a great height and illuminating the whole courtyard.
“Alas!” cried Egorovna plaintively: “Vladimir Andreivitch, what are you
doing?”
“Silence!” said Doubrovsky. “Now, children, farewell; I am going where
God may direct me. Be happy with your new master.”
“Our father, our benefactor!” cried the peasants, “we will die—but we will
not leave you, we will go with you.”
The horses were ready. Doubrovsky took his seat in the cart with Grisha;
Anton whipped the horses and they drove out of the courtyard.
In one moment the whole house was enveloped in flames. The floors
cracked and gave way; the burning beams began to fall; a red smoke rose
above the roof, and there arose piteous groans and cries of “Help, help!”
“Shout away!” said Arkhip, with a malicious smile, contemplating the fire.
“Dear Arkhip,” said Egorovna to him, “save them, the scoundrels, and God
will reward you.”
“Let them shout,” replied the blacksmith.
At that moment the officials appeared at the window, endeavouring to burst
the double sash. But at the same instant the roof fell in with a crash—and
the cries ceased.

Soon all the peasants came pouring into the courtyard. The women,
screaming wildly, hastened to save their effects; the children danced about
admiring the conflagration. The sparks flew up in a fiery shower, setting
light to the huts.
“Now everything is right!” said Arkhip. “How it burns! It must be a grand
sight from Pokrovskoe.”
At that moment a new apparition attracted his attention. A cat ran along the
roof of a burning barn, without knowing where to leap from. Flames
surrounded it on every side. The poor creature cried for help with plaintive
mewings; the children screamed with laughter on seeing its despair.
“What are you laughing at, you little demons?” said the blacksmith, angrily.
“Do you not fear God? One of God’s creatures is perishing, and you rejoice
over it.” Then placing a ladder against the burning roof, he mounted up
towards the cat. She understood his intention, and, with grateful eagerness,
clutched hold of his sleeve. The half-burnt blacksmith descended with his
burden.
“And now, lads, good bye,” he said to the dismayed peasants: “there is
nothing more for me to do here. May you be happy. Do not think too badly
of me.”
The blacksmith took his departure. The fire raged for some time longer, and
at last went out. Piles of red-hot embers glowed brightly in the darkness of
the night, while round about them wandered the burnt-out inhabitants of
Kistenevka.

CHAPTER VII.

The next day the news of the fire spread through all the neighbourhood.
Everybody explained it in a different way. Some maintained that
Doubrovsky’s servants, having got drunk at the funeral, had set fire to the
house through carelessness; others blamed the officials, who were drunk
also in their new quarters. Some guessed the truth, and affirmed that the
author of the terrible calamity was Doubrovsky himself, urged on to the

committal of the deed by the promptings of resentment and despair. Many
maintained that he had himself perished in the flames with the officials and
all his servants.
Troekouroff came the next day to the scene of the conflagration, and
conducted the inquest himself. It was stated that the sheriff, the assessor of
the land Court, the attorney and his clerk, as well as Vladimir Doubrovsky,
the nurse Egorovna, the servant Grisha, the coachman Anton, and the
blacksmith Arkhip had disappeared—nobody knew where. All the servants
declared that the officials perished at the moment when the roof fell in.
Their charred remains in fact were discovered. The women, Vassilissa and
Loukeria, said that they had seen Doubrovsky and Arkhip the blacksmith a
few minutes before the fire. The blacksmith Arkhip, according to the
general showing, was alive, and was probably the principal, if not the sole
author of the fire. Strong suspicions fell upon Doubrovsky. Kirila Petrovitch
sent to the Governor a detailed account of all that had happened, and a new
suit was commenced.
Soon other reports furnished fresh food for curiosity and gossip. Brigands
appeared and spread terror throughout the whole neighbourhood. The
measures taken against them proved unavailing. Robberies; each more
daring than the other, followed one after another. There was no security
either on the roads or in the villages. Several troikas, filled with brigands,
traversed the whole province in open daylight, stopping travellers and the
mail. The villages were visited by them, and the manor-houses were
attacked and set on fire. The chief of the band had acquired a great
reputation for intelligence, daring, and a sort of generosity. Wonders were
related of him. The name of Doubrovsky was upon every lip. Everybody
was convinced that it was he, and nobody else, who commanded the daring
robbers. One thing was remarkable: the domains and property of
Troekouroff were spared. The brigands had not attacked a single barn of his,
nor stopped a single load belonging to him. With his usual arrogance,
Troekouroff attributed this exception to the fear which he had inspired
throughout the whole province, as well as to the excellent police which he
had organized in his villages. At first the neighbours smiled at the
presumption of Troekouroff, and everyone expected that the uninvited
guests would visit Pokrovskoe, where they would find something worth
having, but at last they were compelled to agree and confess that the

brigands showed him unaccountable respect. Troekouroff triumphed, and at
the news of each fresh exploit on the part of Doubrovsky, he indulged in
ironical remarks at the expense of the Governor, the sheriffs, and the
regimental commanders, who always allowed the brigand chief to escape
with impunity.
Meanwhile the 1st of October arrived, the day of the annual church festival
in Troekouroff’s village. But before we proceed to describe further events,
we must acquaint the reader with some personages who are new to him, or
whom we merely mentioned at the beginning of our story.

CHAPTER VIII.

The reader has probably already divined that the daughter of Kirila
Petrovitch, of whom we have as yet said but very little, is the heroine of our
story. At the period about which we are writing, she was seventeen years
old, and in the full bloom of her beauty. Her father loved her to the verge of
folly, but treated her with his characteristic wilfulness, at one time
endeavouring to gratify her slightest whims, at another terrifying her by his
coarse and sometimes brutal behaviour. Convinced of her attachment, he
could yet never gain her confidence. She was accustomed to conceal from
him her thoughts and feelings, because she never knew in what manner they
would be received. She had no companions, and had grown up in solitude.
The wives and daughters of the neighbours rarely visited at the house of
Kirila Petrovitch, whose usual conversation and amusements demanded the
companionship of men, and not the presence of ladies. Our beauty rarely
appeared among the guests who were invited to her father’s house. The
extensive library, consisting for the most part of works of French writers of
the eighteenth century, was given over to her charge. Her father never read
anything except the “Perfect Cook,” and could not guide her in the choice
of books, and Masha, after having dipped into works of various kinds, had
naturally given her preference to romances. In this manner she went on
completing her education, first begun under the direction of Mademoiselle
Micheau, in whom Kirila Petrovitch reposed great confidence, and whom

he was at last obliged to send away secretly to another estate, when the
results of this friendship became too apparent.
Mademoiselle Micheau left behind her a rather agreeable recollection. She
was a good-natured girl, and had never misused the influence which she
evidently exercised over Kirila Petrovitch, in which she differed from the
other confidants, whom he constantly kept changing. Kirila Petrovitch
himself seemed to like her more than the others, and a dark-eyed, roguish-
looking little fellow of nine, recalling the southern features of
Mademoiselle Micheau, was being brought up by him and was recognized
as his son, notwithstanding the fact that quite a number of bare-footed lads
ran about in front of his windows, who were as like Kirila Petrovitch as one
drop of water is to another, and who were inscribed as forming part of his
household. Kirila Petrovitch had sent to Moscow for a French tutor for his
little son, Sasha,[1] and this tutor came to Pokrovskoe at the time of the
events that we are now describing.
This tutor, by his prepossessing appearance and simple manners, produced a
very agreeable impression upon the mind of Kirila Petrovitch. He presented
to the latter his credentials, and a letter from one of Troekouroff’s relations,
with whom he had lived as tutor for four years. Kirila Petrovitch examined
all these, and was dissatisfied only with the youthfulness of the Frenchman,
not because he considered this agreeable defect incompatible with the
patience and experience necessary for the unhappy calling of a tutor, but
because he had doubts of his own, which he immediately resolved to have
cleared up. For this purpose he ordered Masha to be sent to him. Kirila
Petrovitch did not speak French, and she acted as interpreter for him.
“Come here, Masha: tell this Monsieur that I accept him only on condition
that he does not venture to pay court to my girls, for if he should do so, the
son of a dog, I’ll... Translate that to him, Masha.”
Masha blushed, and turning to the tutor, told him in French that her father
counted upon his modesty and orderly conduct.
The Frenchman bowed to her, and replied that he hoped to merit esteem,
even if favour were not shown to him. Masha translated his reply word for
word.

“Very well, very well,” said Kirila Petrovitch, “he needs neither favour nor
esteem. His business is to look after Sasha and teach him grammar and
geography—translate that to him.”
Maria Kirilovna softened the rude expressions of her father in translating
them, and Kirila Petrovitch dismissed his Frenchman to the wing of the
house in which his room was situated.
Masha had not given a thought to the young Frenchman. Brought up with
aristocratic prejudices, a tutor, in her eyes, was only a sort of servant or
artizan; and servants or artizans did not seem to her to be men at all. Nor
did she observe the impression that she had produced upon Monsieur
Desforges, nor his confusion, nor his agitation, nor the tremor in his voice.
For several days afterwards, she met him very frequently, but without
honouring him with much attention. In an unexpected manner, however, she
received quite a new impression with respect to him.
In the courtyard of Kirila Petrovitch there were usually kept several young
bears, and they formed one of the chief amusements of the master of
Pokrovskoe. While they were young, they were brought every day into the
parlour, where Kirila Petrovitch used to spend whole hours in amusing
himself with them, setting them at cats and young dogs. When they were
grown up, they were attached to a chain, to await being baited in earnest.
Sometimes they were brought out in front of the windows of the manor-
house, and an empty wine-cask, studded with nails, was put before them.
The bear would sniff it, then touch it gently, and getting its paws pricked, it
would become angry and push the cask with greater force, and so wound
itself still more. The beast would then work itself into a perfect frenzy, and
fling itself upon the cask, growling furiously, until they removed from the
poor animal the object of its vain rage. Sometimes a pair of bears were
harnessed to a telega, then, willingly or unwillingly, guests were placed in
it, and the bears were allowed to gallop wherever chance might direct them.
But the best joke of Kirila Petrovitch’s was as follows:
A starving bear used to be shut up in an empty room and fastened by a rope
to a ring screwed into the wall. The rope was nearly the length of the room,
so that only the opposite corner was out of the reach of the ferocious beast.
A novice was generally brought to the door of this room, and, as if by
accident, pushed in along with the bear; the door was then locked, and the

unhappy victim was left alone with the shaggy hermit. The poor guest, with
torn skirts and scratched hands, soon sought the safe corner, but he was
sometimes compelled to stand for three whole hours, pressed against the
wall, watching the savage beast, two steps from him, leaping and standing
on its hind legs, growling, tugging at the rope and endeavouring to reach
him. Such were the noble amusements of a Russian gentleman!
Some days after the arrival of the French tutor, Troekouroff thought of him,
and resolved to give him a taste of the bear’s room. For this purpose, he
summoned him one morning, and conducted him along several dark
corridors; suddenly a side door opened—two servants pushed the
Frenchman into the room and locked the door after him. Recovering from
his surprise, the tutor perceived the chained bear. The animal began to snort
and to sniff at his visitor from a distance, and suddenly raising himself upon
his hind legs, he advanced towards him.... The Frenchman was not alarmed;
he did not retreat but awaited the attack. The bear drew near; Desforges
drew from his pocket a small pistol, inserted it in the ear of the hungry
animal, and fired. The bear rolled over. Everybody was attracted to the spot
by the report, the door was opened, and Kirila Petrovitch entered,
astonished at the result of his joke.
Kirila Petrovitch wanted an explanation of the whole affair. Who had
warned Desforges of the joke, or how came he to have a loaded pistol in his
pocket? He sent for Masha. Masha came and interpreted her father’s
questions to the Frenchman.
“I never heard even of the existence of the bear,” replied Desforges, “but I
always carry a pistol about with me, because I do not intend to put up with
an offence for which, on account of my calling, I cannot demand
satisfaction.”
Masha looked at him in astonishment and translated his words to Kirila
Petrovitch. Kirila Petrovitch made no reply; he ordered the bear to be
removed and its skin to be taken off; then turning to his people, he said:
“What a brave fellow! There is nothing of the coward about him. By the
Lord, he is certainly no coward!”
From that moment he took a liking to Desforges, and never thought again of
putting him to the proof.

But this incident produced a still greater impression upon Maria Kirilovna.
Her imagination had been struck: she had seen the dead bear, and Desforges
standing calmly over it and talking tranquilly to her. She saw that bravery
and proud self-respect did not belong exclusively to one class, and from that
moment she began to show regard for the young tutor, and this regard
increased from day to day. A certain intimacy sprang up between them.
Masha had a beautiful voice and great musical ability; Desforges proposed
to give her lessons. After that it will not be difficult for the reader to
understand that Masha fell in love with him without acknowledging it to
herself.

[1] Diminutive of Alexander.

CHAPTER IX.

On the eve of the festival, of which we have already spoken, the guests
began to arrive at Pokrovskoe. Some were accommodated at the manor-
house and in the wings attached to it; others in the house of the bailiff; a
third party was quartered upon the priest; and the remainder upon the better
class of peasants. The stables were filled with the horses of the visitors, and
the yards and coach-houses were crowded with vehicles of every sort. At
nine o’clock in the morning the bells rang for mass, and everybody repaired
to the new stone church, built by Kirila Petrovitch and annually enriched by
his offerings. The church was soon crowded with such a number of
distinguished worshippers, that the simple peasants could find no room
within the edifice, and had to stand beneath the porch and inside the
railings. The mass had not yet begun: they were waiting for Kirila
Petrovitch. He arrived at last in a caliche drawn by six horses, and walked
proudly to his place, accompanied by Maria Kirilovna. The eyes of both
men and women were turned upon her—the former were astonished at her
beauty, the latter examined her dress with great attention.
The mass began. The household singers sang in the choir, and Kirila
Petrovitch joined in with them. He prayed without looking either to the

right or to the left, and with proud humility he bowed himself to the ground
when the deacon in a loud voice mentioned the name of the founder of the
church.
The mass came to an end.[1] Kirila Petrovitch was the first to kiss the
crucifix. All the others followed him; the neighbours approached him with
respect, the ladies surrounded Masha. Kirila Petrovitch, on issuing from the
church, invited everybody to dine with him, then he seated himself in the
caliche and drove home. All the guests followed after him.
The rooms began to fill with the visitors; every moment new faces
appeared, and it was with difficulty that the host could be approached. The
ladies sat decorously in a semicircle, dressed in antiquated fashion, in
dresses of faded but expensive material, all covered with pearls and
brilliants. The men crowded round the caviar[2] and the vodka,[3]
conversing among themselves with great animation. In the dining-room the
table was laid for eighty persons; the servants were bustling about,
arranging the bottles and decanters and adjusting the table-cloths.
At last the house-steward announced that dinner was ready. Kirila
Petrovitch went first and took his seat at the table; the ladies followed after
him, and took their places with an air of great gravity, observing a sort of
precedence as they did so. The young ladies crowded together like a timid
herd of kids, and took their places next to one another. Opposite to them sat
the gentlemen. At the end of the table sat the tutor by the side of the little
Sasha.
The servants began to pass the plates round according to the rank of the
guests; when they were in doubt about the latter point, they allowed
themselves to be guided by instinct, and their guesses were nearly always
correct. The noise of the plates and spoons mingled with the loud talk of the
guests. Kirila Petrovitch looked gaily round his table and thoroughly
enjoyed the happiness of being able to provide such a hospitable
entertainment. At that moment a calèche, drawn by six horses, drove into
the yard.
“Who is that?” asked the host.
“Anton Pafnoutitch,” replied several voices.

The doors opened, and Anton Pafnoutitch Spitsin, a stout man of about fifty
years of age, with a round pockmarked face, adorned with a treble chin,
rolled into the-dining-room, bowing, smiling, and preparing to make his
excuses.
“A cover here!” cried Kirila Petrovitch. “Pray sit down, Anton Pafnoutitch,
and tell us what this means: you were not at my mass, and you are late for
dinner. This is not like you. You are devout, and you love good cheer.”
“Pardon me,” replied Anton Pafnoutitch, fastening his serviette in the
button-hole of his coat: “pardon me, little father Kirila Petrovitch, I started
early on my journey, but I had not gone ten versts, when suddenly the tire of
the front wheel snapped in two. What was to be done? Fortunately it was
not far from the village. But by the time we had arrived there, and had
found a blacksmith, and had got everything put to rights, three hours had
elapsed. It could not be helped. To take the shortest route through the wood
of Kistenevka, I did not dare, so we came the longest way round.”
“Ah, ah!” interrupted Kirila Petrovitch, “it is evident that you do not belong
to the brave ten. What are you afraid of?”
“How, what am I afraid of, little father Kirila Petrovitch? And Doubrovsky?
I might have fallen into his clutches. He is a young man who never misses
his aim—he lets nobody off; and I am afraid he would have flayed me twice
over, had he got hold of me.”
“Why, brother, such a distinction?”
“Why, father Kirila Petrovitch? Have you forgotten the lawsuit of the late
Andrei Gavrilovitch? Was it not I who, to please you, that is to say,
according to conscience and justice, showed that Doubrovsky held
possession of Kistenevka without having any right to it, and solely through
your condescension; and did not the deceased—God rest his soul!—vow
that he would settle with me in his own way, and might not the son keep his
father’s word? Hitherto the Lord has been merciful to me. Up to the present
they have only plundered one of my barns, but one of these days they may
find their way to the manor-house.”
“Where they would find a rich booty,” observed Kirila Petrovitch: “I have
no doubt that the little red cash-box is as full as it can be.”

“Not so, father Kirila Petrovitch; there was a time when it was full, but now
it is perfectly empty.”
“Don’t tell lies, Anton Pafnoutitch. We know you. Where do you spend
money? At home you live like a pig, you never receive anybody, and you
fleece your peasants. You do nothing with your money but hoard it up.”
“You are only joking, father Kirila Petrovitch,” murmured Anton
Pafnoutitch, smiling; “but I swear to you that we are ruined,” and Anton
Pafnoutitch swallowed his host’s joke with a greasy piece of fish pasty.
Kirila Petrovitch left him and turned to the new sheriff, who was his guest
for the first time and who was sitting at the other end of the table, near the
tutor.
“Well, Mr. Sheriff, give us a proof of your cleverness: catch Doubrovsky for
us.”
The sheriff looked disconcerted, bowed, smiled, stammered, and said at
last:
“We will try, Your Excellency.”
“H’m! ‘we will try!’ You have been trying for a long time to rid our country
of brigands. Nobody knows how to set about the business. And, after all,
why try to catch him? Doubrovsky’s robberies are a blessing to the sheriffs:
what with investigations, travelling expenses, and the money they put into
their pockets. He will never be caught Why should such a benefactor be put
down? Isn’t that true, Mr. Sheriff?”
“Perfectly true, Your Excellency,” replied the completely confused sheriff.
The guests roared with laughter.
“I like the fellow for his frankness,” said Kirila Petrovitch: “but it is a pity
that our late sheriff is no longer with us. If he had not been burnt, the
neighbourhood would have been quieter. And what news of Doubrovsky?
Where was he last seen?”
“At my house, Kirila Petrovitch,” said a female voice: “last Tuesday he
dined with me.”
All eyes were turned towards Anna Savishna Globova, a very simple
widow, beloved by everybody for her kind and cheerful disposition.

Everyone prepared to listen to her story with the deepest interest.
“You must know that three weeks ago I sent my steward to the post with a
letter for my Vaniusha.[4] I do not spoil my son, and moreover I haven’t the
means of spoiling him, even if I wished to do so. However, you know very
well that an officer of the Guards must live in a suitable style, and I share
my income with Vaniusha as well as I can. Well, I sent two thousand
roubles to him; and although the thought of Doubrovsky came more than
once into my mind, I thought to myself: the town is not far off—only seven,
versts altogether, perhaps God will order all things for the best. But what
happens? In the evening my steward returns, pale, tattered, and on foot.
‘What is the matter? What has happened to you?’ I exclaimed. ‘Little
mother Anna Savishna,’ he replied, ‘the brigands have robbed and almost
killed me. Doubrovsky himself was there, and he wanted to hang me, but he
afterwards had pity upon me and let me go. But he plundered me of
everything—money, horse, and cart,’ A faintness came over me. Heavenly
Lord! What will become of my Vaniusha? There was nothing to be done. I
wrote a fresh letter, telling him all that had happened, and sent him my
blessing without a farthing of money. One week passed, and then another.
Suddenly, one day, a calèche drove into my courtyard. Some general asked
to see me: I gave orders for him to be shown in. He entered the room, and I
saw before me a man of about thirty-five years of age, dark, with black hair,
moustache and beard—the exact portrait of Koulneff. He introduced
himself to me as a friend and comrade of my late husband, Ivan
Andreivitch. He happened to be passing by, and he could not resist paying a
visit to his old friend’s widow, knowing that I lived there. I invited him to
dine, and I set before him what God had sent me. We spoke of this and that,
and at last we began to talk about Doubrovsky. I told him of my trouble. My
general frowned. ‘That is strange,’ said he: ‘I have heard that Doubrovsky
does not attack everybody, but only people who are well known to be rich,
and that even then he leaves them a part of their possessions and does not
plunder them of everything. As for murdering people, nobody has yet
accused him of that. Is there not some roguery here? Oblige me by sending
for your steward.’
“The steward was sent for, and quickly made his appearance. But as soon as
he caught sight of the general he stood as if petrified.

“‘Tell me, brother, in what manner did Doubrovsky plunder you, and how
was it that he wanted to hang you?’ My steward began to tremble and fell at
the general’s feet.
“‘Little father, I am guilty. The evil one led me astray. I have lied.’
“‘If that is so,’ replied the general, ‘have the goodness to relate to your
mistress how it all happened, and I will listen.’
“My steward could not recover himself.
“‘Well, then,’ continued the general, ‘tell us where you met Doubrovsky.’
“‘At the two pine trees, little father, at the two pine trees.’
“‘What did he say to you?
“‘He asked me who I was, where I was going, and why.’
“‘Well, and after that?’
“‘After that he demanded the letter and the money from me, and I gave
them to him.’
“‘And he?’
“‘Well, and he ... little father, pardon me!’
“‘Well, what did he do?’
“‘He returned me the money and the letter, and said ‘Go, in the name of
God, and put this in the post.’
“‘Well!’
“‘Little father, pardon me!’
“‘I will settle with you, my pigeon,’ said the general sternly. ‘And you,
madam, order this scoundrel’s trunk to be searched, and then give him into
my hands; I will teach him a lesson.’
“I guessed who his Excellency was, but I did not make any observation.
The coachmen tied the steward to the box of the calèche; the money was
found; the general remained to dine with me, and departed immediately
afterwards, taking with him my steward. The steward was found the next
day in the wood, tied to an oak, and as ragged as a lime tree.”

Everybody listened in silence to Anna Savishna’s story, especially the
young ladies. Many of them secretly wished well to Doubrovsky, seeing in
him a romantic hero, particularly Maria Kirilovna, an impulsive,
sentimental girl, imbued with the mysterious horrors of Mrs. Anne
Radcliffe.[5]
“And do you think, Anna Savishna, that it was Doubrovsky himself who
visited you?” asked Kirila Petrovitch. “You are very much mistaken. I do
not know who your guest may have been, but I feel quite sure that it was
not Doubrovsky.”
“How, little father, not Doubrovsky? But who is it then, if not he, who stops
travellers on the high road in order to search them?”
“I don’t know; but I feel confident that it is not Doubrovsky. I remember
him as a child; I do, not know whether his hair has turned black, but at that
time he was a curly flaxen-haired boy. But I do know for a positive fact,
that Doubrovsky is five years older than my Masha, and that consequently
he is not thirty-five, but about twenty-three.”
“Exactly so, Your Excellency,” observed the sheriff: “I have in my pocket
the description of Vladimir Doubrovsky. In that it is distinctly stated that he
is twenty-three years of age.”
“Ah!” said Kirila Petrovitch. “By the way, read it, and we will listen: it will
not be a bad thing for us to know his description. Perhaps he may fall into
our clutches, and if so, he will not escape in a hurry.”
The sheriff drew from his pocket a rather dirty sheet of paper, unfolded it
with an air of great importance, and began to read in a monotonous tone:
“Description of Doubrovsky, based upon the depositions of his former
servants:
“Twenty-three years of age, medium height, clear complexion, shaves his
beard, has brown eyes, flaxen hair, straight nose. Does not seem to have any
particular marks.”
“And is that all?” said Kirila Petrovitch.
“That is all,” replied the sheriff, folding up the paper.

“I congratulate you, Mr. Sheriff. A very valuable document With that
description it will not be difficult for you to find Doubrovsky! Who is not of
medium height? Who has not flaxen hair, a straight nose and brown eyes? I
would wager that you would talk for three hours at a stretch to Doubrovsky
himself, and you would never guess in whose company you were. There is
no denying that these officials have wise heads.”
The sheriff, meekly replacing the paper in his pocket, silently busied
himself with his goose and cabbage. Meanwhile the servants had already
gone the round of the guests several times, filling up each one’s glass.
Several bottles of Caucasus wine had been opened with a great deal of
noise, and had been thankfully accepted under the name of champagne.
Faces began to glow, and the conversation grew louder, more incoherent
and more lively.
“No,” continued Kirila Petrovitch, “we shall never see another sheriff like
the late Taras Alexeievitch! He was not the man to be thrown off the scent
very easily. I am very sorry that the fellow was burnt, for otherwise not one
of the band would have got away from him. He would have laid his hands
upon the whole lot of them, and not even Doubrovsky himself would have
escaped. Taras Alexeievitch would perhaps have taken money from him, but
he would not have let him go. Such was the way of the deceased. Evidently
there is nothing else to be done but for me to take the matter in hand and go
after the brigands with my people. I will begin by sending out twenty men
to scour the wood. My people are not cowards. Each of them would attack a
bear single-handed, and they certainly would not fall back before a
brigand.”
“How is your bear, father Kirila Petrovitch?” asked Anton Pafnoutitch,
being reminded by these words of his shaggy acquaintance and of certain
pleasantries of which he had once been the victim.
“Misha[6] wishes you a long life,[7] replied Karila Petrovitch: “he died a
glorious death at the hands of the enemy. There is his conqueror!” Kirila
Petrovitch pointed to the french tutor. “He has avenged your—if you will
allow me to say so—do you remember?”
“How should I not remember?” said Anton Pafnoutitch, scratching his head:
“I remember it only too well. So Misha is dead. I am very sorry for Misha

—upon my word, I am very sorry! How amusing he was! How intelligent!
You will not find another bear like him. And why did monsieur kill him?”
Kirila Petrovitch began, with great satisfaction, to relate the exploit of his
Frenchman, for he possessed the happy faculty of boasting of everything
that was about him. The guests listened with great attention to the story of
Misha’s death, and gazed in astonishment at Desforges, who, not suspecting
that his bravery was the subject of conversation, sat tranquilly in his place,
giving advice to his restive pupil.
The dinner, after lasting about three hours, came to an end; the host placed
his serviette upon the table, and everybody rose and repaired to the parlour,
where awaited them coffee, cards, and a continuation of the carouse so
excellently begun in the dining-room.

[1] At the end of the service in the Russian Church, all the members of the
congregation kiss the crucifix.
[2] The roes of sturgeons prepared and salted.
[3] Brandy.
[4] Diminutive of Ivan.
[5] A now almost forgotten romance writer, whose “Romance of the Forest,”
“Mysteries of Udolpho,” and “Italian,” were very popular a century ago.
[6] Diminutive of Michael—the familiar name for a bear in Russia.
[7] A Russian figure of speech which signifies that the person spoken of is dead.

CHAPTER X.

About seven o’clock in the evening, some of the guests wished to depart,
but the host, merry with punch, ordered the gates to be locked, and declared
that nobody should leave the house until the next morning. Music soon
resounded, the doors of the saloon were thrown open and the ball began.
The host and his familiar acquaintances sat in a corner, draining glass after
glass, and admiring the gaiety of the young people. The old ladies played at
cards. The gentlemen, as is always the case, except where a brigade of
uhlans is stationed, were less in number than the ladies, and all the men,

suitable for partners, were soon engaged for the dance. The tutor
particularly distinguished himself among them; all the ladies wanted to
have him as a partner, as they found it so exceedingly easy to waltz with
him. He danced several times with Maria Kirilovna, and the ladies observed
them with great interest. At last, about midnight, the tired host stopped the
dancing, ordered supper to be served, and then betook himself off to bed.
The retirement of Kirila Petrovitch gave to the company more freedom and
animation. The gentlemen ventured to sit near the ladies; the girls laughed
and spoke in whispers to their neighbours; the ladies spoke in loud voices
across the table; the gentlemen drank, disputed, and laughed boisterously. In
a word, the supper was exceedingly merry, and left behind it a very
agreeable impression.
One man only did not share in the general joy. Anton Pafnoutitch sat
gloomy and silent in his place, ate absently, and seemed extremely uneasy.
The conversation about the brigands had worked upon his imagination. We
shall soon see that he had good cause to fear them.
Anton Pafnoutitch, in invoking God as a witness that the little red cash-box
was empty, had not lied and sinned. The little red cash-box was really
empty. The bank notes, which had at one time been in it, had been
transferred to a leather pouch, which he carried on his breast under his shirt.
This precaution alone quieted his distrust of everybody and his constant
fear. Being compelled to spend the night in a strange house, he was afraid
that he might be lodged in some solitary room, where thieves could easily
break in. He looked round in search of a trustworthy companion, and at last
his choice fell upon Desforges. His appearance,—indicative of strength,—
but especially the bravery shown by him in his encounter with the bear,
which poor Anton Pafnoutitch could never think of without a shudder,
decided his choice. When they rose from the table, Anton Pafnoutitch began
moving round the young Frenchman, clearing his throat and coughing, and
at last he turned to him and addressed him:
“Hm! hm! Couldn’t I spend the night in your room, mossoo, because you
see——”
“Que desire monsieur?” asked Desforges, with a polite bow.

“Ah! what a pity, mossoo, that you have not yet learnt Russian. Je vais moa
chez vous coucher. Do you understand?”
“Monsieur, très volontiers,” replied Desforges, “veuillez donner des ordres
en conséquence.”
Anton Pafnoutitch, well satisfied with his knowledge of the French
language, went off at once to make the necessary arrangements.
The guests began to wish each other good night, and each retired to the
room assigned to him, while Anton Pafnoutitch accompanied the tutor to
the wing. The night was dark. Desforges lighted the way with a lantern.
Anton Pafnoutitch followed him boldly enough, pressing the hidden
treasure occasionally against his breast, in order to convince himself that his
money was still there.
On arriving at the wing, the tutor lit a candle and both began to undress; in
the meantime Anton Pafnoutitch was walking about the room, examining
the locks and windows, and shaking his head at the unassuring inspection.
The doors fastened with only one bolt, and the windows had not yet their
double frames.[1] He tried to complain to Desforges, but his knowledge of
the French language was too limited to enable him to express himself with
sufficient clearness. The Frenchman did not understand him, and Anton
Pafnoutitch was obliged to cease his complaints. Their beds stood opposite
each other; they both lay down, and the tutor extinguished the light.
“Pourquoi vous toucher; pourquoi vous toucher?” cried Anton Pafnoutitch,
conjugating the Russian verb to extinguish, after the French manner. “I
cannot dormir in the dark.”
Desforges did not understand his exclamations, and wished him good night.
“Accursed pagan!” muttered Spitsin, wrapping himself up in the
bedclothes: “he couldn’t do without extinguishing the light. So much the
worse for him. I cannot sleep without a light—Mossoo, mossoo,” he
continued: “Je ve avec vous parler.”
But the Frenchman did not reply, and soon began to snore.
“He is snoring, the French brute,” thought Anton Pafnoutitch, “while I can’t
even think of going to sleep. Thieves might walk in at any moment through

the open doors or climb in through the window, and the firing of a cannon
would not wake him, the beast!”
“Mossoo! mossoo!—the devil take you!”
Anton Pafnoutitch became silent. Fatigue and the effects of wine gradually
overcame his fear. He began to doze, and soon fell into a deep sleep. A
strange sensation aroused him. He felt in his sleep that someone was gently
pulling him by the collar of his shirt. Anton Pafnoutitch opened his eyes
and, by the pale light of an autumn morning, he saw Desforges standing
before him. In one hand the Frenchman held a pocket pistol, and with the
other he was unfastening the strings of the precious leather pouch. Anton
Pafnoutitch felt faint.
“Qu’est ce que c’est, Mossoo, qu’est ce que c’est?” said he, in a trembling
voice.
“Hush! Silence!” replied the tutor in pure Russian.
“Silence! or you are lost. I am Doubrovsky.”

[1] The Russians put double frames to their windows in winter.

CHAPTER XI.

We will now ask the permission of the reader to explain the last incidents of
our story, by referring to the circumstances that preceded them, and which
we have not yet had time to relate.
At the station of ——, at the house of the postmaster, of whom we have
already spoken, sat a traveller in a corner, looking very modest and
resigned, and having the appearance of a plebeian or a foreigner, that is to
say, of a man having no voice in connection with the post route. His
britchka[1] stood in the courtyard, waiting for the wheels to be greased.
Within it lay a small portmanteau, evidence of a very modest fortune. The
traveller ordered neither tea nor coffee, but sat looking out of the window

and whistling, to the great annoyance of the postmistress sitting behind the
partition.
“The Lord has sent us a whistler,” said she, in a low voice. “How he does
whistle! I wish he would burst, the accursed pagan!”
“What does it matter?” said her husband. “Let him whistle!”
“What does it matter?” retorted his angry spouse; “don’t you know the
saying?”
“What saying? That whistling drives money away? Oh, Pakhomovna,
whether he whistles or not, we shall get precious little money out of him.”
“Then let him go, Sidoritch. What pleasure have you in keeping him here?
Give him the horses, and let him go to the devil.”
“He can wait, Pakhomovna. I have only three troikas in the stable, the
fourth is resting. Besides, travellers of more importance may arrive at any
moment, and I don’t wish to risk my neck for a Frenchman.... Hallo! there
you are! Don’t you hear the sound of galloping! What a rate! Can it be a
general?”
A caliche stopped in front of the steps. The servant jumped down from the
box, opened the door, and a moment afterwards a young man in a military
cloak and white cap entered the station. Behind him followed his servant,
carrying a small box which he placed upon the window-ledge.
“Horses!” said the officer, in an imperious voice.
“Directly!” replied the postmaster: “your road-pass, if you please.”
“I have no road-pass: I am not going to take the main road.... Besides, don’t
you recognize me?”
The postmaster hastened to hurry the postilions. The young man began to
pace up and down the room. Then he went behind the partition, and
inquired of the postmistress in a low voice:
“Who is that traveller?”
“God knows!” replied the postmistress: “some Frenchman or other. He has
been five hours waiting for horses, and has done nothing but whistle the
whole of the time. He has quite wearied me, the heathen!”

The young man spoke to the traveller in French.
“Where are you going to?” he asked.
“To the neighbouring town,” replied the Frenchman: “and from there I am
going to a landed proprietor who has engaged me as tutor without ever
having seen me. I thought I should have reached the place to-day, but the
postmaster has evidently decided otherwise. In this country it is difficult to
procure horses, monsieur l’officier.”
“And to which of the landed proprietors about here have you engaged
yourself?” asked the officer.
“To Troekouroff,” replied the Frenchman.
“To Troekouroff? Who is this Troekouroff?”
“Ma foi, monsieur. I have heard very little good of him. They say that he is
a proud and wilful noble, and so harsh towards the members of his
household, that nobody can live on good terms with him: that all tremble at
his name, and that with his tutors he stands upon no ceremony whatever.”
“And you have decided to engage yourself to such a monster?”
“What is to be done, monsieur l’officier? He proposes to give me good
wages: three thousand roubles a year and everything found. Perhaps I may
be more fortunate than the others. I have an aged mother: one half of my
salary I will send to her for her support, and out of the rest of my money I
shall be able in five years to save a small capital sufficient to make me
independent for the rest of my life. Then, bon soir, I return to Paris and set
up in business.”
“Does anybody at Troekouroff’s know you?” asked the officer.
“Nobody,” replied the tutor. “He engaged me at Moscow, through one of his
friends, whose cook is a countryman of mine, and who recommended me. I
must tell you that I did not intend to be a tutor, but a confectioner; but I was
told that in your country the profession of tutor is more lucrative.”
The officer reflected.
“Listen to me,” he said to the Frenchman: “What would you say if, instead
of this engagement, you were offered ten thousand roubles, ready money,
on condition that you returned immediately to Paris?”

The Frenchman looked at the officer in astonishment, smiled, and shook his
head.
“The horses are ready,” said the postmaster, entering the room at that
moment.
The servant confirmed this statement.
“Presently,” replied the officer: “leave the room for a moment.” The
postmaster and the servant withdrew “I am not joking,” he continued in
French. “I can give you ten thousand roubles; I only want your absence and
your papers.”
So saying, he opened his small box and took out of it several bank notes.
The Frenchman opened his eyes. He did not know what to think.
“My absence ... my papers!” he repeated in astonishment. “Here are my
papers ... but you are surely joking. What do you want my papers for?”
“That does not concern you. I ask you, do you consent or not?”
The Frenchman, still unable to believe his own ears, handed his papers to
the young officer, who rapidly examined them.
“Your passport ... very well; your letter of recommendation ... let us see; the
certificate of your birth ... capital! Well, here is your money; return home.
Farewell.”
The Frenchman stood as if glued to the spot. The officer came back.
“I had almost forgotten the most important thing of all. Give me your word
of honour that all this will remain a secret between us.... Your word of
honour.”
“My word of honour,” replied the Frenchman. “But my papers? What shall
I do without them?”
“In the first town you come to, announce that you have been robbed by
Doubrovsky. They will believe you, and give you fresh papers. Farewell:
God grant you a safe and speedy return to Paris, and may you find your
mother in good health.”
Doubrovsky left the room, mounted the caliche, and galloped off.

The postmaster stood looking out of the window, and when the caliche had
driven off, he turned to his wife, exclaiming:
“Pakhomovna, do you know who that was? That was Doubrovsky!”
The postmistress rushed towards the window, but it was too late.
Doubrovsky was already a long way off. Then she began to scold her
husband.
“You have no fear of God. Why did you not tell me sooner, I should at least
have had a glimpse of Doubrovsky. But now I shall have to wait long
enough before I get a chance of seeing him again. Shameless creature that
you are!”
The Frenchman stood as if petrified. The agreement with the officer, the
money—everything seemed like a dream to him. But the bundle of bank
notes was there in his pocket, eloquently confirming the reality of the
wonderful adventure.
He resolved to hire horses to take him to the next town. The postilion drove
him very slowly, and he reached the town at nightfall.
On approaching the barrier, where, in place of a sentinel, stood a dilapidated
sentry-box, the Frenchman told the postilion to stop, got out of the britchka
and proceeded on foot, explaining by signs to the driver that he might keep
the vehicle and the portmanteau and buy brandy with them. The driver was
as much astonished at his generosity as the Frenchman himself had been by
Doubrovsky’s proposal. But concluding that the “German”[2] had taken
leave of his senses, the driver thanked him with a very profound bow, and
not caring about entering the town, he made his way to a house of
entertainment that was well known to him, and the proprietor of which was
a friend of his. There he passed the whole night, and the next morning he
started back on his return journey with the troika, without the britchka and
without the portmanteau, but with a swollen face and red eyes.
Doubrovsky, having possession of the Frenchman’s papers, boldly
appeared, as we have already seen, at the house of Troekouroff, and there
established himself. Whatever, were his secret intentions—we shall know
them later on—there was nothing in his behaviour to excite suspicion. It is
true that he did not occupy himself very much with the education of little
Sasha, to whom he allowed full liberty, nor was he very exacting in the

matter of his lessons, which were only given for form’s sake, but he paid
great attention to the musical studies of his fair pupil, and frequently sat for
hours beside her at the piano.
Everybody liked the young tutor: Kirila Petrovitch for his boldness and
dexterity in the hunting-field; Maria Kirilovna for his unbounded zeal and
slavish attentiveness; Sasha for his tolerance, and the members of the
household for his kindness and generosity, apparently incompatible with his
means. He himself seemed to be attached to the whole family, and already
regarded himself as a member of it.
About a month had elapsed from the time of his entering upon the calling of
tutor to the date of the memorable fête, and nobody suspected that the
modest young Frenchman was in reality the terrible brigand whose name
was a source of terror to all the landed proprietors of the neighbourhood.
During all this time, Doubrovsky had never quitted Pokrovskoe, but the
reports of his depredations did not cease for all that, thanks to the inventive
imagination of the country people. It is possible, too, that his band may
have continued their exploits during the absence of the chief.
Passing the night in the same room with a man whom he could only regard
as a personal enemy, and one of the principal authors of his misfortune,
Doubrovsky had not been able to resist temptation. He knew of the
existence of the pouch, and had resolved to take possession of it.
We have seen how he frightened poor Anton Pafnoutitch by his unexpected
transformation from a tutor into a brigand.

[1] A kind of open four-wheeled carriage, with a top and shutters to close at
pleasure.
[2] A general name for all foreigners in Russia.

CHAPTER XII.

At nine o’clock in the morning, the guests who had passed the night at
Pokrovskoe repaired one after the other to the sitting-room, where the tea-

urn was already boiling, and before which sat Maria Kirilovna in a morning
gown, and Kirila Petrovitch in a frieze coat and slippers, drinking his tea
out of a large cup like a wash-hand basin.
The last to appear was Anton Pafnoutitch; he was so pale, and seemed so
troubled, that everybody was struck by his appearance, and Kirila
Petrovitch inquired after his health. Spitsin replied in an evasive manner,
glaring with horror at the tutor, who sat there as if nothing had happened. A
few minutes afterwards a servant entered and announced to Spitsin that his
carriage was ready. Anton Pafnoutitch hastened to take his leave of the
company, and then hurried out of the room and started off immediately. The
guests and the host could not understand what had happened to him, and
Kirila Petrovitch came to the conclusion that he was suffering from an
attack of indigestion.
After tea and the farewell breakfast, the other guests began to take their
leave, and soon Pokrovskoe became empty, and everything went on in the
usual manner.
Several days passed, and nothing remarkable had happened. The life of the
inhabitants of Pokrovskoe became very monotonous. Kirila Petrovitch went
out hunting every day; while Maria Kirilovna devoted her time to reading,
walking, and especially to musical exercises. She was beginning to
understand her own heart, and acknowledged to herself with involuntary
vexation that she was not indifferent to the good qualities of the young
Frenchman. He, on his side, never overstepped the limits of respect and
strict decorum, and thereby quieted her pride and her timid suspicions. With
more and more confidence she gave herself up to the alluring habit of
seeing him. She felt dull without Desforges, and in his presence she was
constantly occupied with him, wishing to know his opinion of everything,
and always agreeing with him. She was not yet in love with him perhaps;
but at the first accidental obstacle or unexpected reverse of destiny, the
flame of passion would burst forth within her heart.
One day, on entering the parlour, where the tutor awaited her, Maria
Kirilovna observed with astonishment that he looked pale and troubled. She
opened the piano and sang a few notes; but Doubrovsky, under the pretext
of a headaches, apologized, interrupted the lesson, closed the music, and
slipped a note into her hand. Maria Kirilovna, without pausing to reflect,

took it, and repented almost at the same moment for having done so. But
Doubrovsky was no longer in the room. Maria Kirilovna went to her room,
unfolded the note, and read as follows:
“Be in the arbour near the brook this evening, at seven o’clock: it is
necessary that I should speak to you.”
Her curiosity was strongly excited. She had long expected a declaration,
desiring it and dreading it at one and the same time. It would have been
agreeable to her to hear the confirmation of what she divined; but she felt
that it would have been unbecoming to hear such a declaration from a man
who, on account of his position, ought never to aspire to win her hand. She
resolved to go to the meeting-place, but she hesitated about one thing: in
what manner she ought to receive the tutor’s declaration—with aristocratic
indignation, with friendly admonition, with good-humoured banter, or with
silent sympathy. In the meantime she kept constantly looking at the clock. It
grew-; dark: candles were brought in. Kirila Petrovitch sat down to play at
“Boston”[1] with some of his neighbours who had come to pay him a visit.
The clock struck a quarter to seven, and Maria Kirilovna walked quietly out
on to the steps, looked round on every side, and then hastened into the
garden.
The night was dark, the sky was covered with clouds, and it was impossible
to see anything at a distance of two paces; but Maria Kirilovna went
forward in the darkness along paths that were quite familiar to her, and in a
few minutes she reached the arbour. There she paused in order to draw
breath and to present herself before Desforges with an air of calm
indifference. But Desforges already stood before her.
“I thank you,” he said in a low, sad voice, “for having granted my request. I
should have been in despair if you had not complied with it.”
Maria Kirilovna answered him in the words she had prepared beforehand.
“I hope you will not cause me to repent of my condescension.”
He was silent, and seemed to be collecting himself.
“Circumstances demand—I am obliged to leave you,” he said at last. “It
may be that you will soon hear—but before going away, I must have an
explanation with you.”

Maria Kirilovna made no reply. In these words she saw the preface to the
expected declaration.
“I am not what you suppose,” continued he, lowering his head: “I am not
the Frenchman Desforges—I am Doubrovsky.”
Maria Kirilovna uttered a cry.
“Do not be alarmed, for God’s sake! You need not be afraid of my name.
Yes, I am that unhappy person, whom your father, after depriving him of his
last crust of bread, drove out of his paternal home and sent on to the
highway to rob. But you need not be afraid, either on your own account or
on his. All is over.... I have forgiven him; you have saved him. My first
crime of blood was to have been accomplished upon him. I prowled round
his house, determining where the fire should burst out, where I should enter
his bedroom, and how I should cut him off from all means of escape; at that
moment you passed by me like a heavenly vision, and my heart was
subdued. I understood that the house, in which you dwelt, was sacred; that
not a single person, connected with you by the ties of blood, could lie
beneath my curse. I looked upon vengeance as madness, and dismissed the
thought of it from my mind. Whole days I wandered around the gardens of
Pokrovskoe, in the hope of seeing your white robe in the distance. In your
incautious walks I followed you, stealing from bush to bush, happy in the
thought that for you there was no danger, where I was secretly present. At
last an opportunity presented itself.... I established myself in your house.
Those three weeks were for me days of happiness; the recollection of them
will be the joy of my sad life.... To-day I received news which renders it
impossible for me to remain here any longer. I part from you to-day—at this
very moment.... But before doing so, I felt that it was necessary that I
should reveal myself to you, so that you might not curse me nor despise me.
Think sometimes of Doubrovsky. Know that he was born for another fate,
that his soul was capable of loving you, that never——”
Just then a loud whistle resounded, and Doubrovsky became silent. He
seized her hand and pressed it to his burning lips. The whistle was repeated.
“Farewell,” said Doubrovsky: “they are calling me. A moment’s delay may
destroy me.”

He moved away.... Maria Kirilovna stood motionless. Doubrovsky returned
and once more took her by the hand.
“If misfortune should ever overtake you, and you are unable to obtain help
or protection from anybody, will you promise to apply to me, to demand
from me everything that may be necessary for your happiness? Will you
promise not to reject my devotion?”
Maria Kirilovna wept silently. The whistle resounded for the third time.
“You will destroy me!” cried Doubrovsky: “but I will not leave you until
you give me a reply. Do you promise me or not?”
“I promise!” murmured the poor girl.
Greatly agitated by her interview with Doubrovsky, Maria Kirilovna
returned from the garden. As she approached the house, she perceived a
great crowd of people in the courtyard; a troika was standing in front of the
steps, the servants were running hither and thither, and the whole house was
in a commotion. In the distance she heard the voice of Kirila Petrovitch, and
she hastened to reach her room, fearing that her absence might be noticed.
Kirila Petrovitch met her in the hall. The visitors were pressing round our
old acquaintance the sheriff, and were overwhelming him with questions.
The sheriff, in travelling dress, and armed from head to foot, answered them
with a mysterious and anxious air.
“Where have you been, Masha?” asked Kirila Petrovitch. “Have you seen
Monsieur Desforges?”
Masha could scarcely answer in the negative.
“Just imagine,” continued Kirila Petrovitch: “the sheriff has come to arrest
him, and assures me that he is Doubrovsky.”
“He answers the description in every respect, Your Excellency,” said the
sheriff respectfully.
“Oh! brother,” interrupted Kirila Petrovitch, “go to—you know where—
with your descriptions. I will not surrender my Frenchman to you until I
have investigated the matter myself. How can anyone believe the word of
Anton Pafnoutitch, a coward and a clown? He must have dreamt that the
tutor wanted to rob him. Why didn’t he tell me about it the next morning?
He never said a word about the matter.

“The Frenchman threatened him, Your Excellency,” replied the sheriff, “and
made him swear that he would preserve silence.”
“A pack of lies!” exclaimed Kirila Petrovitch: “I will have this mystery
cleared up immediately. Where is the tutor?” he asked of a servant who
entered at that moment.
“He cannot be found anywhere,” replied the servant.
“Then search for him!” cried Troekouroff, beginning to entertain doubts.
“Show me your vaunted description,” said he to the sheriff, who
immediately handed him the paper.
“Hm! hm! twenty-three years old, etc., etc. That is so, but yet that does not
prove anything. Well, what about the tutor?”
“He is not to be found,” was again the answer.
Kirila Petrovitch began to be uneasy; Maria Kirilovna was neither dead nor
alive.
“You are pale, Masha,” remarked her father to her; “have they frightened
you?”
“No, papa,” replied Masha; “I have a headache.”
“Go to your own room, Masha, and don’t be alarmed.”
Masha kissed his hand and retired hastily to her room. There she threw
herself upon her bed and burst into a hysterical flood of tears. The maids
hastened to her assistance, undressed her with difficulty, and with difficulty
succeeded in calming her by means of cold water and all possible kinds of
smelling salts. They put her to bed and she fell into a slumber.
In the meantime the Frenchman could not be found. Kirila Petrovitch paced
up and down the room, loudly whistling his favourite military air. The
visitors whispered among themselves; the sheriff looked foolish; the
Frenchman was not to be found. Probably he had managed to escape
through being warned beforehand. But by whom and how? That remained a
mystery.
It was eleven o’clock, but nobody thought of sleep. At last Kirila Petrovitch
said angrily to the sheriff:

“Well, do you wish to stop here till daylight? My house is not an inn. It is
not by any cleverness on your part, brother, that Doubrovsky will be taken
—if he really be Doubrovsky. Return home, and in future be a little quicker.
And it is time for you to go home, too,” he continued, addressing his guests.
“Order the horses to be got ready. I want to go to bed.”
In this ungracious manner did Troekouroff take leave of his guests.

[1] A card game that was very popular on the Continent at the beginning of the
present century.

CHAPTER XIII.

Some time elapsed without anything remarkable happening. But at the
beginning of the following summer, many changes occurred in the family
arrangements of Kirila Petrovitch.
About thirty versts from Pokrovskoe was the wealthy estate of Prince
Vereisky. The Prince had lived abroad for a long time, and his estate was
managed by a retired major. No intercourse existed between Pokrovskoe
and Arbatova. But at the end of the month of May, the Prince returned from
abroad and took up his abode in his own village, which he had never seen
since he was born. Accustomed to social pleasures, he could not endure
solitude, and the third day after his arrival, he set out to dine with
Troekouroff, with whom he had formerly been acquainted. The Prince was
about fifty years of age, but he looked much older. Excesses of every kind
had ruined his health, and had placed upon him their indelible stamp. In
spite of that, his appearance was agreeable and distinguished, and his
having always been accustomed to society gave him a certain affability of
demeanour, especially towards ladies. He had a constant need of
amusement, and he was a constant victim to ennui.
Kirila Petrovitch was exceedingly gratified by this visit, which he regarded
as a mark of respect from a man who knew the world. In accordance with
his usual custom, he began to entertain his visitor by conducting him to
inspect his establishments and kennels. But the Prince could hardly breathe

in the atmosphere of the dogs, and he hurried out, holding a scented
handkerchief to his nose. The old garden, with its clipped limes, square
pond and regular walks, did not please him; he did not like the English
gardens and the so-called natural style, but he praised them and went into
ecstasies over everything. The servant came to announce that dinner was
served, and they repaired to the dining-room. The Prince limped, being
fatigued after his walk, and already repenting for having paid his visit.
But in the dining-hall Maria Kirilovna met them—and the old sensualist
was struck by her beauty. Troekouroff placed his guest beside her. The
Prince was resuscitated by her presence; he became quite cheerful, and
succeeded several times in arresting her attention by the recital of some of
his curious stories. After dinner Kirila Petrovitch proposed a ride on
horseback, but the Prince excused himself, pointing to his velvet boots and
joking about his gout. He proposed a drive in a carriage, so that he should
not be separated from his charming neighbour. The carriage was got ready.
The two old men and the beautiful young girl took their seats in it, and they
started off. The conversation did not flag. Maria Kirilovna listened with
pleasure to the flattering compliments and witty remarks of the man of the
world, when suddenly Vereisky, turning to Kirila Petrovitch, said to him:
“What is the meaning of that burnt building—does it belong to you?”
Kirila Petrovitch frowned: the memories awakened by the burnt manor-
house were disagreeable to him. He replied that the land was his now, but
that formerly it had belonged to Doubrovsky.
“To Doubrovsky?” repeated Vereisky. “What! to the famous brigand?”
“To his father,” replied Troekouroff: “and the father himself was a true
brigand.”
“And what has become of our Rinaldo? Have they caught him? Is he still
alive?”
“He is still alive and at liberty. By the way, Prince, Doubrovsky paid you a
visit at Arbatova.”
“Yes, last year, I think, he burnt or plundered something or other. Don’t you
think, Maria Kirilovna, that it would be very interesting to make a closer
acquaintance with this romantic hero?”

“Interesting!” said Troekouroff: “she knows him already. He taught her
music for three whole weeks, and thank God, took nothing for his lessons.”
Then Kirila Petrovitch began to relate the story of the pretended French
tutor. Maria Kirilovna felt as if she were sitting upon needles. Vereisky,
listening with deep attention, found it all very strange, and changed the
subject of conversation. On returning from the drive, he ordered his carriage
to be brought, and in spite of the earnest requests of Kirila Petrovitch to stay
for the night, he took his departure immediately after tea. Before setting out,
however, he invited Kirila Petrovitch to pay him a visit and to bring Maria
Kirilovna with him, and the proud Troekouroff promised to do so’; for
taking into consideration his princely dignity, his two stars, and the three
thousand serfs belonging to his estate, he regarded Prince Vereisky in some
degree as his equal.

CHAPTER XIV.

Two days after this visit, Kirila Petrovitch set out with his daughter for the
abode of Prince Vereisky. On approaching Arbatova, he could not
sufficiently admire the clean and cheerful-looking huts of the peasants, and
the stone manor-house built in the style of an English castle. In front of the
house stretched a close green lawn, upon which were grazing some Swiss
cows tinkling their bells. A spacious park surrounded the house on every
side. The master met the guests on the steps, and gave his arm to the young
beauty. She was then conducted into a magnificent hall, where the table was
laid for three. The Prince led his guests to a window, and a charming view
opened out before them. The Volga flowed past the windows, and upon its
bosom floated laden barges under full sail, and small fishing-boats known
by the expressive name of “soul-destroyers.” Beyond the river stretched
hills and fields, and several little villages animated the landscape.
Then they proceeded to inspect the galleries of pictures bought by the
Prince in foreign countries. The Prince explained to Maria Kirilovna their
various characteristics, related the history of the painters, and pointed out
their merits and defects. He did not speak of pictures in the pretentious

language of the pedantic connoisseur, but with feeling and imagination.
Maria Kirilovna listened to him with pleasure.
They sat down to table. Troekouroff rendered full justice to the wines of his
Amphytrion, and to the skill of his cook; while Maria Kirilovna did not feel
at all confused or constrained in her conversation with a man whom she
now saw for the second time in her life. After dinner the host proposed to
his guests that they should go into the garden. They drank coffee in the
arbour on the bank of a broad lake studded with little islands. Suddenly
resounded the music of wind instruments, and a six-oared boat drew up
before the arbour. They rowed on the lake, round the islands, and visited
some of them. On one they found a marble statue; on another, a lonely
grotto; on a third, a monument with a mysterious inscription, which
awakened within Maria Kirilovna a girlish curiosity not completely
satisfied by the polite but reticent explanations of the Prince. The time
passed imperceptibly. It began to grow dark. The Prince, under the pretext
of the cold and the dew, hastened to return to the house, where the tea-urn
awaited them. The Prince requested Maria Kirilovna to discharge the
functions of hostess in his bachelor’s home. She poured out the tea,
listening to the inexhaustible stories of the charming talker. Suddenly a shot
was heard, and a rocket illuminated the sky. The Prince gave Maria
Kirilovna a shawl, and led her and Troekouroff on to the balcony. In front of
the house, in the darkness, different coloured fires blazed up, whirled round,
rose up in sheaves, poured out in fountains, fell in showers of rain and stars,
went out and then burst into a blaze again. Maria Kirilovna was as delighted
as a child. Prince Vereisky was delighted with her enjoyment, and
Troekouroff was very well satisfied with him, for he accepted tous les frais
of the Prince as signs of respect and a desire to please him.
The supper was quite equal to the dinner in every respect. Then the guests
retired to the rooms assigned to them, and the next morning took leave of
their amiable host, promising each other soon to meet again.

CHAPTER XV.

Aria Kirilovna was sitting in her room, embroidering at her frame before
the open window. She did not entangle her threads like Conrad’s mistress,
who, in her amorous distraction, embroidered a rose with green silk. Under
her needle, the canvas repeated unerringly the design of the original; but in
spite of that, her thoughts did not follow her work—they were far away.
Suddenly an arm passed silently through the window, placed a letter upon
the frame and disappeared before Maria Kirilovna could recover herself. At
the same moment a servant entered to call her to Kirila Petrovitch.
Trembling very much, she hid the letter under her fichu and hastened to her
father in his study.
Kirila Petrovitch was not alone. Prince Vereisky was sitting in the room
with him. On the appearance of Maria Kirilovna, the Prince rose and
silently bowed, with a confusion that was quite unusual in him.
“Come here, Masha,” said Kirila Petrovitch: “I have a piece of news to tell
you which I hope will please you very much. Here is a sweetheart for you:
the Prince proposes for your hand.”
Masha was dumfounded; a deadly pallor overspread her countenance. She
was silent. The Prince approached her, took her hand, and with a tender
look, asked her if she would consent to make him happy. Masha remained
silent.
“Consent? Of course she will consent,” said Kirila Petrovitch; “but you
know, Prince, it is difficult for a girl to say such a word as that. Well,
children, kiss one another and be happy.”
Masha stood motionless; the old Prince kissed her hand. Suddenly the tears
began to stream down her pale cheeks. The Prince frowned slightly.
“Go, go, go!” said Kirila Petrovitch: “dry your tears and come back to us in
a merry humour. They all weep at the moment of being betrothed,” he
continued, turning to Vereisky; “it is their custom. Now, Prince, let us talk
about business, that is to say, about the dowry.”
Maria Kirilovna eagerly took advantage of the permission to retire. She ran
to her room, locked herself in and gave way to her tears, already imagining
herself the wife of the old Prince. He had suddenly become repugnant and
hateful to her. Marriage terrified her, like the block, like the grave.

“No, no,” She repeated in, despair; “I would rather go into a convent, I
would rather marry Doubrovsky....”
Then she remembered the letter and eagerly began to read it, having a
presentiment that it was from him. In fact, it was written by him, and
contained only the following words:
“This evening, at ten o’clock, in the same place as before.”
The moon was shining; the night was calm; the wind rose now and then,
and a gentle rustle ran over the garden.
Like a light shadow, the beautiful young girl drew near to the appointed
meeting-place. Nobody was yet visible, when suddenly, from behind the
arbour, Doubrovsky appeared before her.
“I know all,” he said to her in a low, sad voice; “remember your promise.”
“You offer me your protection,” replied Masha; “do not be angry—but the
idea alarms me. In what way can you help me?”
“I can deliver you from a detested man....”
“For God’s sake, do not touch him, do not venture to touch him, if you love
me. I do not wish to be the cause of any horror....”
“I will not touch him: your wish is sacred for me. He owes his life to you.
Never shall a crime be committed in your name. You shall not be
stigmatized on account of my misdeeds. But how can I save you from a
cruel father?”
“There is still hope; I hope to touch him with my tears—my despair. He is
obstinate, but he loves me very dearly.”
“Do not put your trust in a vain hope. In those tears he will see only the
usual timidity and aversion common to all young girls, when they marry
from motives of interest and not from affection. But if he takes it into his
head to accomplish your happiness in spite of yourself? If you are
conducted to the altar by force, in order that your destiny may be placed for
ever in the hands of an old man?”
“Then—then there will be nothing else to do. Come for me—I will be your
wife.”

Doubrovsky trembled; his pale face became covered with a deep flush, and
the next minute he became paler than before. He remained silent for a long
time, with his head bent down.
“Muster the full strength of your soul, implore your father, throw yourself at
his feet; represent to him all the horror of the future that he is preparing for
you, your youth fading away by the side of a feeble and dissipated old man.
Tell him that riches will not procure for you a single moment of happiness.
Luxury consoles poverty alone, and even in that case only for a brief
season. Do not be put off by him, and do not be frightened either by his
anger or by his threats, as long as there remains the least shadow of hope.
For God’s sake do not leave off importuning him. If, however, you have no
other resource left, decide upon a plain speaking explanation; tell him that if
he remains inexorable, then—then you will find a terrible protector.”
Here Doubrovsky covered his face with his hands; he seemed to be
choking. Masha wept.
“My miserable, miserable fate!” said he, with a bitter sigh. “For you I
would have given my life. To see you from afar, to touch your hand was for
me happiness beyond expression; and when there opens up before me the
possibility of pressing you to my agitated heart, and saying to you: ‘I am
yours for ever’—miserable creature that I am! I must fly from such
happiness, I must repel it from me with all my strength. I dare not throw
myself at your feet and thank Heaven for an incomprehensible, unmerited
reward. Oh! how I ought to hate him who—but I feel that now there is no
place in my heart for hatred.”
He gently passed his arm round her slender figure and pressed her tenderly
to his heart. She confidingly leaned her head upon the young brigand’s
shoulder and both remained silent.... The time flew past.
“It is time,” said Masha at last.
Doubrovsky seemed as if awakening from a dream. He took her hand and
placed a ring on her finger.
“If you decide upon having recourse to me,” said he, “then bring the ring
here and place it in the hollow of this oak. I shall know what to do.”
Doubrovsky kissed her hand and disappeared among the trees.

CHAPTER XVI.

Prince Vereisky’s intention of getting married was no longer a secret in the
neighbourhood. Kirila Petrovitch received the congratulations of his
acquaintances, and preparations were made for the wedding. Masha
postponed from day to day the decisive explanation. In the meantime her
manner towards her elderly lover was cold and constrained. The Prince did
not trouble himself about that; the question of love gave him no concern;
her silent consent was quite sufficient for him.
But the time went past. Masha at last decided to act, and wrote a letter to
Prince Vereisky. She tried to awaken within his heart a feeling of
magnanimity, candidly confessing that she had not the least attachment for
him, and entreating him to renounce her hand and even to protect her from
the tyranny of her father. She furtively delivered the letter to Prince
Vereisky. The latter read it alone, but was not in the least moved by the
candour of his betrothed. On the contrary, he perceived the necessity of
hastening the marriage, and therefore he showed the letter to his future
father-in-law.
Kirila Petrovitch was furious, and it was with difficulty that the Prince
succeeded in persuading him not to let Masha see that he was acquainted
with the contents of the letter. Kirila Petrovitch promised not to speak about
the matter to her, but he resolved to lose no time and fixed the wedding for
the next day. The Prince found this very reasonable, and he went to his
betrothed and told her that her letter had grieved him very much, but that he
hoped in time to gain her affection; that the thought of resigning her was too
much for him to bear, and that he had not the strength to consent to his own
sentence of death. Then he kissed her hand respectfully and took his
departure, without saying a word to her about Kirila Petrovitch’s decision.
But scarcely had he left the house, when her father entered and
peremptorily ordered her to be ready for the next day. Maria Kirilovna,
already agitated by the interview with Prince Vereisky, burst into tears and
threw herself at her father’s feet.
“Papa!” she cried in a plaintive voice, “papa! do not destroy me. I do not
love the Prince, I do not wish to be his wife.”

“What does this mean?” said Kirila Petrovitch, fiercely. “Up till the present
you have kept silent and consented, and now, when everything is decided
upon, you become capricious and refuse to accept him. Don’t act the fool;
you will gain nothing from me by so doing.”
“Do not destroy me!” repeated poor Masha. “Why are you sending me
away from you and giving me to a man that I do not love? Do I weary you?
I want to stay with you as before. Papa, you will be sad without me, and
sadder still when you know that I am unhappy. Papa, do not force me: I do
not wish to marry.”
Kirila Petrovitch was touched, but he concealed his emotion, and pushing
her away from him, said harshly:
“That is all nonsense, do you hear? I know better than you what is
necessary for your happiness. Tears will not help you. The day after to-
morrow your wedding will take place.
“The day after to-morrow!” exclaimed Masha. “My God! No, no,
impossible; it cannot be! Papa, hear me: if you have resolved to destroy me,
then I will find a protector that you do not dream of. You will see, and then
you will regret having driven me to despair.”
“What? What?” said Troekouroff. “Threats! threats to me? Insolent girl! Do
you know that I will do with you what you little imagine. You dare to
frighten me, you worthless girl! We will see who this protector will be.”
“Vladimir Doubrovsky,” replied Masha, in despair.
Kirila Petrovitch thought that she had gone out of her mind, and looked at
her in astonishment.
“Very well!” said he to her, after an interval of silence; “expect whom you
please to deliver you, but, in the meantime, remain in this room—you shall
not leave it till the very moment of the wedding.”
With these words Kirila Petrovitch went out, locking the door behind him.
For a long time the poor girl wept, imagining all that awaited her. But the
stormy interview had lightened her soul, and she could more calmly
consider the question of her future and what it behoved her to do. The
principal thing was—to free herself from this odious marriage. The lot of a
brigand’s wife seemed paradise to her in comparison with the fate prepared

for her. She glanced at the ring given to her by Doubrovsky. Ardently did
she long to see him alone once more before the decisive moment, so that
she might concert measures with him. A presentiment told her that in the
evening she would find Doubrovsky in the garden, near the arbour; she
resolved to go and wait for him there.
As soon as it began to grow dark, Masha prepared to carry out her intention,
but the door of her room was locked. Her maid told her from the other side
of the door, that Kirila Petrovitch had given orders that she was not to be let
out. She was under arrest. Deeply hurt, she sat down by the window and
remained there till late in the night, without undressing, gazing fixedly at
the dark sky. Towards dawn she began to doze; but her light sleep was
disturbed by sad visions, and she was soon awakened by the rays of the
rising sun.

CHAPTER XVII.

She awoke, and all the horror of her position rose up in her mind. She rang.
The maid entered, and in answer to her questions, replied that Kirila
Petrovitch had set out the evening before for Arbatova, and had returned
very late; that he had given strict orders that she was not to be allowed out
of her room and that nobody was to be permitted to speak to her; that
otherwise, there were no signs of any particular preparations for the
wedding, except that the pope had been ordered not to leave the village
under any pretext whatever. After disburdening herself of this news, the
maid left Maria Kirilovna and again locked the door.
Her words hardened the young prisoner. Her head burned, her blood boiled.
She resolved to inform Doubrovsky of everything, and she began to think of
some means by which she could get the ring conveyed to the hole in the
sacred oak. At that moment a stone struck against her window; the glass
rattled, and Maria Kirilovna, looking out into the courtyard, saw the little
Sasha making signs to her. She knew that he was attached to her, and she
was pleased to see him.
“Good morning, Sasha; why do you call me?”

“I came, sister, to know if you wanted anything. Papa is angry, and has
forbidden the whole house to obey you; but order me to do whatever you
like, and I will do it for you.”
“Thank you, my dear Sasha. Listen; you know the old hollow oak near the
arbour?”
“Yes, I know it, sister.”
“Then, if you love me, run there as quickly as you can and put this ring in
the hollow; but take care that nobody sees you.”
With these words, she threw the ring to him and closed the window.
The lad picked up the ring, and ran off with all his might, and in three
minutes he arrived at the sacred tree. There he paused, quite out of breath,
and after looking round on every side, placed the ring in the hollow. Having
successfully accomplished his mission, he wanted to inform Maria
Kirilovna of the fact at once, when suddenly a red-haired ragged boy darted
out from behind the arbour, dashed towards the oak and thrust his hand into
the hole. Sasha, quicker than a squirrel, threw himself upon him and seized
him with both hands.
“What are you doing here?” said he sternly.
“What business is that of yours?” said the boy, trying to disengage himself.
“Leave that ring alone, red head,” cried Sasha, “or I will teach you a lesson
in my own style.”
Instead of replying, the boy gave him a blow in the face with his fist; but
Sasha still held him firmly in his grasp, and cried out at the top of his voice:
“Thieves! thieves! help! help!”
The boy tried to get away from him. He seemed to be about two years older
than Sasha, and very much stronger; but Sasha was more agile. They
struggled together for some minutes; at last the red-headed boy gained the
advantage. He threw Sasha upon the ground and seized him by the throat.
But at that moment a strong hand grasped hold of his shaggy red hair, and
Stepan, the gardener, lifted him half a yard from the ground.
“Ah! you red-headed beast!” said the gardener. “How dare you strike the
young gentleman?”

In the meantime, Sasha had jumped to his feet and recovered himself.
“You caught me under the arm-pits,” said he, “or you would never have
thrown me. Give me the ring at once and be off.”
“It’s likely!” replied the red-headed one, and suddenly twisting himself
round, he disengaged his bristles from Stepan’s hand.
Then he started off running, but Sasha overtook him, gave him a blow in the
back, and the boy fell. The gardener again seized him and bound him with
his belt.
“Give me the ring!” cried Sasha.
“Wait a moment, young master,” said Stepan; “we will lead him to the
bailiff to be questioned.”.
The gardener led the captive into the courtyard of the manor-house,
accompanied by Sasha, who glanced uneasily at his trousers, torn and
stained with the grass. Suddenly all three found themselves face to face
with Kirila Petrovitch, who was going to inspect his stables.
“What is the meaning of this?” he said to Stepan.
Stepan in a few words related all that had happened.
Kirila Petrovitch listened to him with attention.
“You rascal,” said he, turning to Sasha: “why did you wrestle with him?”
“He stole a ring out of the hollow tree, papa; make him give up the ring.”
“What ring? Out of what hollow tree?”
“The one that Maria Kirilovna ... the ring....” Sasha stammered and became
confused. Kirila Petrovitch frowned and said, shaking his head:
“Ah! Maria Kirilovna is mixed up in this. Confess everything, or I will give
you such a birching as you have never had in your life.”
“As true as heaven, papa, I ... papa ... Maria Kirilovna never told me to do
anything, papa.”
“Stepan, go and cut me some fine, fresh birch twigs.”
“Stop, papa, I will tell you all. I was running about the courtyard to-day,
when sister Maria Kirilovna opened the window. I ran towards her, and she

accidentally dropped a ring, and I went and hid it in the hollow tree, and ...
and this red-headed fellow wanted to steal the ring.”
“She did not drop it accidentally,—you wanted to hide it ... Stepan, go and
get the birch twigs.”
“Papa, wait, I will tell you everything. Sister Maria Kirilovna told me to run
to the oak tree and put the ring in the hollow; I ran and did so, but this nasty
fellow——”
Kirila Petrovitch turned to the “nasty fellow” and said to him sternly:
“To whom do you belong?”
“I belong to my master Doubrovsky.”
Kirila Petrovitch’s face grew dark.
“It seems, then, that you do not recognize me as your master. Very well.
What were you doing in my garden?”
“I was stealing raspberries.”
“Ah, ah! the servant is like his master. As the pope is, so is his parish. And
do my raspberries grow upon oak trees? Have you ever heard so?”
The boy did not reply.
“Papa, make him give up the ring,” said Sasha.
“Silence, Alexander!” replied Kirila Petrovitch; “don’t forget that I intend
to settle with you presently. Go to your room. And you, squint-eyes, you
seem to me to be a knowing sort of lad; if you confess everything to me, I
will not whip you, but will give you a five copeck piece to buy nuts with.
Give up the ring and go.”
The boy opened his fist and showed that there was nothing in his hand.
“If you don’t, I shall do something to you that you little expect. Now!”
The boy did not answer a word, but stood with his head bent down, looking
like a perfect simpleton.
“Very well!” said Kirila Petrovitch: “lock him up somewhere, and see that
he does not escape, or I’ll skin the whole household.”

Stepan conducted the boy to the pigeon loft, locked him in there, and
ordered the old poultry woman, Agatha, to keep a watch upon him.
“There is no doubt about it: she has kept up intercourse with that accursed
Doubrovsky. But if she has really invoked his aid——” thought Kirila
Petrovitch, pacing up and down the room, and angrily whistling his
favourite air,——“I am hot upon his track, at all events, and he shall not
escape me. We shall take advantage of this opportunity.... Hark! a bell;
thank God, that is the sheriff. Bring here the boy that is locked up.”
In the meantime, a small telega drove into the courtyard, and our old
acquaintance, the sheriff, entered the room, all covered with dust.
“Glorious news!” said Kirila Petrovitch: “I have caught Doubrovsky.”
“Thank God, Your Excellency!” said the sheriff, his face beaming with
delight. “Where is he?”
“That is to say, not Doubrovsky himself, but one of his band. He will be
here presently. He will help us to apprehend his chief. Here he is.”
The sheriff, who expected to see some fierce-looking brigand, was
astonished to perceive a lad of thirteen years of age, of somewhat delicate
appearance. He turned to Kirila Petrovitch with an incredulous look, and
awaited an explanation. Kirila Petrovitch then began to relate the events of
the morning, without, however, mentioning the name of Maria Kirilovna.
The sheriff listened to him attentively, glancing from time to time at the
young rogue, who, assuming a look of imbecility, seemed to be paying no
attention to all that was going on around him.
“Will Your Excellency allow me to speak to you apart?” said the sheriff at
last.
Kirila Petrovitch conducted him into the next room and locked the door
after him.
Half an hour afterwards they returned to the hall, where the captive was
awaiting the decision respecting his fate.
“The master wished,” said the sheriff to him, “to have you locked up in the
town gaol, to be whipped, and then to be sent to the convict settlement; but
I interceded for you and have obtained your pardon. Untie him!”

The lad was unbound.
“Thank the master,” said the sheriff.
The lad went up to Kirila Petrovitch and kissed his hand.
“Run away home,” said Kirila Petrovitch to him, “and in future do not steal
raspberries from oak trees.”
The lad went out, ran merrily down the steps, and without looking behind
him, dashed off across the fields in the direction of Kistenevka. On reaching
the village, he stopped at a half-ruined hut, the first from the corner, and
tapped at the window. The window was opened, and an old woman
appeared.
“Grandmother, some bread!” said the boy: “I have eaten nothing since this
morning; I am dying of hunger.”
“Ah! it is you, Mitia;[1] but where have you been all this time, you little
devil?” asked the old woman.
“I will tell you afterwards, grandmother. For God’s sake, some bread!”
“Come into the hut, then.”
“I haven’t the time, grandmother; I’ve got to run on to another place. Bread,
for the Lord’s sake, bread!”
“What a fidget!” grumbled the old woman: “there’s a piece for you,” and
she pushed through the window a slice of black bread.
The boy bit it with avidity, and then continued his course, eating it as he
went.
It was beginning to grow dark. Mitia made his way along by the corn kilns
and kitchen gardens into the Kistenevka wood. On arriving at the two pine
trees, standing like advanced guards before the wood, he paused, looked
round on every side, gave a shrill, abrupt whistle, and then listened. A light
and prolonged whistle was heard in reply, and somebody came out of the
wood and advanced towards him.

[1] Diminutive of Dimitry (Demetrius).

CHAPTER XVIII.

Kirila Petrovitch was pacing up and down the hall, whistling his favourite
air louder than usual. The whole house was in a commotion; the servants
were running about, and the maids were busy. In the courtyard there was a
crowd of people. In Maria Kirilovna’s dressing-room, before the looking-
glass, a lady, surrounded by maidservants, was attiring the pale, motionless
young bride. Her head bent languidly beneath the weight of her diamonds;
she started slightly when a careless hand pricked her, but she remained
silent, gazing absently into the mirror.
“Aren’t you nearly finished?” said the voice of Kirila Petrovitch at the door.
“In a minute!” replied the lady. “Maria Kirilovna, get up and look at
yourself. Is everything right?”
Maria Kirilovna rose, but made no reply. The door was opened.
“The bride is ready,” said the lady to Kirila Petrovitch; “order the carriage.”
“With God!” replied Kirila Petrovitch, and taking a sacred image from the
table, “Approach, Masha,” said he, in a voice of emotion; “I bless you....”
The poor girl fell at his feet and began to sob.
“Papa ... papa ...” she said through her tears, and then her voice failed her.
Kirila Petrovitch hastened to give her his blessing. She was raised up and
almost carried into the carriage. Her godmother and one of the maidservants
got in with her, and they drove off to the church. There the bridegroom was
already waiting for them. He came forward to meet the bride, and was
struck by her pallor and her strange look. They entered the cold deserted
church together, and the door was locked behind them. The priest came out
from the altar, and the ceremony at once began.
Maria Kirilovna saw nothing, heard nothing; she had been thinking of but
one thing the whole morning: she expected Doubrovsky; nor did her hope
abandon her for one moment. But when the priest turned to her with the

usual question, she started and felt faint; but still she hesitated, still she
expected. The priest, without waiting for her reply, pronounced the
irrevocable words.
The ceremony was over. She felt the cold kiss of her hated husband; she
heard the flattering congratulations of those present; and yet she could not
believe that her life was bound for ever, that Doubrovsky had not arrived to
deliver her. The Prince turned to her with tender words—she did not
understand them. They left the church; in the porch was a crowd of peasants
from Pokrovskoe. Her glance rapidly scanned them, and again she exhibited
her former insensibility. The newly-married couple seated themselves in the
carriage and drove off to Arbatova, whither Kirila Petrovitch had already
gone on before, in order to welcome the wedded pair there.
Alone with his young wife, the Prince was not in the least piqued by her
cold manner. He did not begin to weary her with amorous protestations and
ridiculous enthusiasm; his words were simple and required no answer. In
this way they travelled about ten versts. The horses dashed rapidly along the
uneven country roads, and the carriage scarcely shook upon its English
springs. Suddenly were heard cries of pursuit. The carriage stopped, and a
crowd of armed men surrounded it. A man in a half-mask opened the door
on the side where the young Princess sat, and said to her:
“You are free! Alight.”
“What does this mean?” cried the Prince. “Who are you that——”
“It is Doubrovsky,” replied the Princess.
The Prince, without losing his presence of mind, drew from his side pocket
a travelling pistol and fired at the masked brigand. The Princess shrieked,
and, filled with horror, covered her face with both her hands. Doubrovsky
was wounded in the shoulder; the blood was flowing. The Prince, without
losing a moment, drew another pistol; but he was not allowed time to fire;
the door was opened, and several strong arms dragged him out of the
carriage and snatched the pistol from him. Above him flashed several
knives.
“Do not touch him!” cried Doubrovsky, and his terrible associates drew
back.
“Your are free!” continued Doubrovsky, turning to the pale Princess.

“No!” replied she; “it is too late! I am married. I am the wife of Prince
Vereisky.”
“What do you say?” cried Doubrovsky in despair. “No! you are not his
wife. You were forced, you could never have consented.”
“I have consented, I have taken the oath,” she answered with firmness. “The
Prince is my husband; give orders for him to be set at liberty, and leave me
with him. I have not deceived you. I waited for you till the last moment ...
but now, I tell you, now, it is too late. Let us go.”
But Doubrovsky no longer heard her. The pain of his wound, and the
violent emotion of his mind had deprived him of all power over himself. He
fell against the wheel; the brigands surrounded him. He managed to say a
few words to them. They placed him on horseback; two of them held him
up, a third took the horse by the bridle, and all withdrew from the spot,
leaving the carriage in the middle of the road, the servants bound, the horses
unharnessed, but without carrying anything away with them, and without
shedding one drop of blood in revenge for the blood of their chief.

CHAPTER XIX.

In the middle of a dense wood, on a narrow grass-plot, rose a small
earthwork, consisting of a rampart and ditch, behind which were some huts
and tents. Within the inclosed space, a crowd of persons who, by their
varied garments and by their arms, could at once be recognized as brigands,
were having their dinner, seated bareheaded around a large cauldron. On the
rampart, by the side of a small cannon, sat a sentinel, with his legs crossed
under him. He was sewing a patch upon a certain part of his attire, handling
his needle with a dexterity that bespoke the experienced tailor, and every
now and then raising his head and glancing round on every side.
Although a certain ladle had passed from hand to hand several times, a
strange silence reigned among this crowd. The brigands finished their
dinner; one after another rose and said a prayer to God; some dispersed
among the huts, others strolled away into the wood or lay down to sleep,
according to the Russian habit.

The sentinel finished his work, shook his garment, gazed admiringly at the
patch, stuck the needle in his sleeve, sat astride the cannon, and began to
sing a melancholy old song with all the power of his lungs.
At that moment the door of one of the huts opened, and an old woman in a
white cap, neatly and even pretentiously dressed, appeared upon the
threshold.
“Enough of that, Stepka,”[1] said she angrily. “The master is sleeping, and
yet you must make that frightful noise; you have neither conscience nor
pity.”
“I beg pardon, Petrovna,” replied Stepka. “I won’t do it any more. Let our
little father sleep on and get well.”
The old woman withdrew into the hut, and Stepka began to pace to and fro
upon the rampart.
Within the hut, from which the old woman had emerged, lay the wounded
Doubrovsky upon a cold bed behind a partition. Before him, upon a small
table, lay his pistols, and a sword hung near his head. The mud hut was
hung round and covered with rich carpets. In the corner was a lady’s silver
toilet and mirror. Doubrovsky held in his hand an open book, but his eyes
were closed, and the old woman, peeping at him from behind the partition,
could not tell whether he was asleep or only thinking.
Suddenly Doubrovsky started. In the fort there was a great commotion, and
Stepka came and thrust his head in through the window of the hut.
“Father Vladimir Andreivitch!” he cried; “our men are signalling—they are
on our track!”
Doubrovsky leaped from his bed, seized his arms and issued from the hut.
The brigands were noisily crowding together in the inclosure, but on the
appearance of their chief a deep silence reigned.
“Are all here?” asked Doubrovsky.
“All except the patrols,” was the reply.
“To your places!” cried Doubrovsky, and the brigands took up each his
appointed place.

At that moment, three of the patrols ran up to the gate of the fort.
Doubrovsky went to meet them.
“What is it?” he asked.
“The soldiers are in the wood,” was the reply; “they are surrounding us.”
Doubrovsky ordered the gate to be locked, and then went himself to
examine the cannon. In the wood could be heard the sound of many voices,
every moment drawing nearer and nearer. The brigands waited in silence.
Suddenly three or four soldiers appeared from the wood, but immediately
fell back again, firing their guns as a signal to their comrades.
“Prepare for battle!” cried Doubrovsky. There was a movement among the
brigands, then all was silent again.
Then was heard the noise of an approaching column; arms glittered among
the trees, and about a hundred and fifty soldiers dashed out of the wood and
rushed with a wild shout towards the rampart. Doubrovsky applied the
match to the cannon; the shot was successful—one soldier had his head shot
off, and two others were wounded. The troops were thrown into confusion,
but the officer in command rushed forward, the soldiers followed him and
jumped down into the ditch. The brigands fired down at them with muskets
and pistols, and then, with axes in their hands, they began to defend the
rampart, up which the infuriated soldiers were now climbing, leaving
twenty of their comrades wounded in the ditch below. A hand to hand
struggle began. The soldiers were already upon the rampart, the brigands
were beginning to give way; but Doubrovsky advanced towards the officer
in command, presented his pistol at his breast, and fired. The officer fell
backwards to the ground. Several soldiers raised him in their arms and
hastened to carry him into the wood; the others, having lost their chief,
stopped fighting. The emboldened brigands took advantage of this moment
of hesitation, and surging forward, hurled their assailants back into the
ditch. The besiegers began to run; the brigands with fierce yells started in
pursuit of them. The victory was decisive. Doubrovsky, trusting to the
complete confusion of the enemy, stopped his followers and shut himself up
in the fortress, doubled the sentinels, forbade anyone to absent himself, and
ordered the wounded to be collected.

This last event drew the serious attention of the government to the daring
exploits of Doubrovsky. Information was obtained of his place of retreat,
and a detachment of soldiers was sent to take him, dead or alive. Several of
his band were captured, and from these it was ascertained that Doubrovsky
was no longer among them. A few days after the battle that we have just
described, he collected all his followers and informed them that it was his
intention to leave them for ever, and advised them to change their mode of
life:
“You have become rich under my command. Each of you has a passport
with which he will be able to make his way safely to some distant province,
where he can pass the rest of his life in ease and honest labour. But you are
all rascals, and probably do not wish to abandon your trade.”
After this speech he left them, taking with him only one of his followers.
Nobody knew what became of him. At first the truth of this testimony was
doubted, for the devotion of the brigands to their chief was well known, and
it was supposed that they had concocted the story to secure his safety; but
after events confirmed their statement. The terrible visits, burnings, and
robberies ceased; the roads again became safe. According to another report,
Doubrovsky had fled to some foreign country.

[1] Diminutive of Stepan (Stephen).

THE QUEEN OF SPADES.
CHAPTER I.

There was a card party at the rooms of Naroumoff of the Horse Guards. The
long winter night passed away imperceptibly, and it was five o’clock in the
morning before the company sat down to supper. Those who had won, ate
with a good appetite; the others sat staring absently at their empty plates.
When the champagne appeared, however, the conversation became more
animated, and all took a part in it.

“And how did you fare, Sourin?” asked the host.
“Oh, I lost, as usual. I must confess that I am unlucky: I play mirandole, I
always keep cool, I never allow anything to put me out, and yet I always
lose!”
“And you did not once allow yourself to be tempted to back the red?... Your
firmness astonishes me.”
“But what do you think of Hermann?” said one of the guests, pointing to a
young Engineer: “he has never had a card in his hand in his life, he has
never in his life laid a wager, and yet he sits here till five o’clock in the
morning watching our play.”
“Play interests me very much,” said Hermann: “but I am not in the position
to sacrifice the necessary in the hope of winning the superfluous.”
“Hermann is a German: he is economical—that is all!” observed Tomsky.
“But if there is one person that I cannot understand, it is my grandmother,
the Countess Anna Fedorovna.”
“How so?” inquired the guests.
“I cannot understand,” continued Tomsky, “how it is that my grandmother
does not punt.”
“What is there remarkable about an old lady of eighty not punting?” said
Naroumoff.
“Then you do not know the reason why?”
“No, really; haven’t the faintest idea.”
“Oh! then listen. You must know that, about sixty years ago, my
grandmother went to Paris, where she created quite a sensation. People used
to run after her to catch a glimpse of the ‘Muscovite Venus.’ Richelieu made
love to her, and my grandmother maintains that he almost blew out his
brains in consequence of her cruelty. At that time ladies used to play at faro.
On one occasion at the Court, she lost a very considerable sum to the Duke
of Orleans. On returning home, my grandmother removed the patches from
her face, took off her hoops, informed my grandfather of her loss at the
gaming-table, and ordered him to pay the money. My deceased grandfather,
as far as I remember, was a sort of house-steward to my grandmother. He

dreaded her like fire; but, on hearing of such a heavy loss, he almost went
out of his mind; he calculated the various sums she had lost, and pointed out
to her that in six months she had spent half a million of francs, that neither
their Moscow nor Saratoff estates were in Paris, and finally refused point
blank to pay the debt. My grandmother gave him a box on the ear and slept
by herself as a sign of her displeasure. The next day she sent for her
husband, hoping that this domestic punishment had produced an effect upon
him, but she found him inflexible. For the first time in her life, she entered
into reasonings and explanations with him, thinking to be able to convince
him by pointing out to him that there are debts and debts, and that there is a
great difference between a Prince and a coachmaker. But it was all in vain,
my grandfather still remained obdurate. But the matter did not rest there.
My grandmother did not know what to do. She had shortly before become
acquainted with a very remarkable man. You have heard of Count St.
Germain, about whom so many marvellous stories are told. You know that
he represented himself as the Wandering Jew, as the discoverer of the elixir
of life, of the philosopher’s stone, and so forth. Some laughed at him as a
charlatan; but Casanova, in his memoirs, says that he was a spy. But be that
as it may, St. Germain, in spite of the mystery surrounding him, was a very
fascinating person, and was much sought after in the best circles of society.
Even to this day my grandmother retains an affectionate recollection of him,
and becomes quite angry if anyone speaks disrespectfully of him. My
grandmother knew that St. Germain had large sums of money at his
disposal. She resolved to have recourse to him, and she wrote a letter to him
asking him to come to her without delay. The queer old man immediately
waited upon her and found her overwhelmed with grief. She described to
him in the blackest colours the barbarity of her husband, and ended by
declaring that her whole hope depended upon his friendship and amiability.
“St. Germain reflected.
“‘I could advance you the sum you want,’ said he; ‘but I know that you
would not rest easy until you had paid me back, and I should not like to
bring fresh troubles upon you. But there is another way of getting out of
your difficulty: you can win back your money.’
“‘But, my dear Count,’ replied my grandmother, ‘I tell you that I haven’t
any money left.’

“‘Money is not necessary,’ replied St. Germain: ‘be pleased to listen to me.’
“Then he revealed to her a secret, for which each of us would give a good
deal....”
The young officers listened with increased attention. Tomsky lit his pipe,
puffed away for a moment and then continued:
“That same evening my grandmother went to Versailles to the jeu de la
reine. The Duke of Orleans kept the bank; my grandmother excused herself
in an off-handed manner for not having yet paid her debt, by inventing
some little story, and then began to play against him. She chose three cards
and played them one after the other: all three won sonika,[1] and my
grandmother recovered every farthing that she had lost.”
“Mere chance!” said one of the guests.
“A tale!” observed Hermann.
“Perhaps they were marked cards!” said a third.
“I do not think so,” replied Tomsky gravely.
“What!” said Naroumoff, “you have a grandmother who knows how to hit
upon three lucky cards in succession, and you have never yet succeeded in
getting the secret of it out of her?”
“That’s the deuce of it!” replied Tomsky: “she had four sons, one of whom
was my father; all four were determined gamblers, and yet not to one of
them did she ever reveal her secret, although it would not have been a bad
thing either for them or for me. But this is what I heard from my uncle,
Count Ivan Hitch, and he assured me, on his honour, that it was true. The
late Chaplitsky—the same who died in poverty after having squandered
millions—once lost, in his youth, about three hundred thousand roubles—to
Zoritch, if I remember rightly. He was in despair. My grandmother, who
was always very severe upon the extravagance of young men, took pity,
however, upon Chaplitsky. She gave him three cards, telling him to play
them one after the other, at the same time exacting from him a solemn
promise that he would never play at cards again as long as he lived.
Chaplitsky then went to his victorious opponent, and they began a fresh
game. On the first card he staked fifty thousand roubles and won sonika; he

doubled the stake and won again, till at last, by pursuing the same tactics,
he won back more than he had lost....
“But it is time to go to bed: it is a quarter to six already.”
And indeed it was already beginning to dawn: the young men emptied their
glasses and then took leave of each other.

[1] Said of a card when it wins or loses in the quickest possible time.

CHAPTER II.

The old Countess A—— was seated in her dressings room in front of her
looking-glass. Three waiting maids stood around her. One held a small pot
of rouge, another a box of hair-pins, and the third a tall cap with bright red
ribbons. The Countess had no longer the slightest pretensions to beauty, but
she still preserved the habits of her youth, dressed in strict accordance with
the fashion of seventy years before, and made as long and as careful a
toilette as she would have done sixty years previously. Near the window, at
an embroidery frame, sat a young lady, her ward.
“Good morning, grandmamma,” said a young officer, entering the room.
“Bonjour, Mademoiselle Lise. Grandmamma, I want to ask you something.”
“What is it, Paul?”
“I want you to let me introduce one of my friends to you, and to allow me
to bring him to the ball on Friday.”
“Bring him direct to the ball and introduce him to me there. Were you at B
——’s yesterday?”
“Yes; everything went off very pleasantly, and dancing was kept up until
five o’clock. How charming Eletskaia was!”
“But, my dear, what is there charming about her? Isn’t she like her
grandmother, the Princess Daria Petrovna? By the way, she must be very
old, the Princess Daria Petrovna.”

“How do you mean, old?” cried Tomsky thoughtlessly; “she died seven
years ago.”
The young lady raised her head and made a sign to the young officer. He
then remembered that the old Countess was never to be informed of the
death of any of her contemporaries, and he bit his lips. But the old Countess
heard the news with the greatest indifference.
“Dead!” said she; “and I did not know it. We were appointed maids of
honour at the same time, and when we were presented to the Empress....”
And the Countess for the hundredth time related to her grandson one of her
anecdotes.
“Come, Paul,” said she, when she had finished her story, “help me to get up.
Lizanka,[1] where is my snuff-box?”
And the Countess with her three maids went behind a screen to finish her
toilette. Tomsky was left alone with the young lady.
“Who is the gentleman you wish to introduce to the Countess?” asked
Lizaveta Ivanovna in a whisper.
“Naroumoff. Do you know him?”
“No. Is he a soldier or a civilian?”
“A soldier.”
“Is he in the Engineers?”
“No, in the Cavalry. What made you think that he was in the Engineers?”
The young lady smiled, but made no reply.
“Paul,” cried the Countess from behind the screen, “send me some new
novel, only pray don’t let it be one of the present day style.”
“What do you mean, grandmother?”
“That is, a novel, in which the hero strangles neither his father nor his
mother, and in which there are no drowned bodies. I have a great horror of
drowned persons.”
“There are no such novels nowadays. Would you like a Russian one?”

“Are there any Russian novels? Send me one, my dear, pray send me one!”
“Good-bye, grandmother: I am in a hurry.... Goodbye, Lizaveta Ivanovna.
What made you think that Naroumoff was in the Engineers?”
And Tomsky left the boudoir.
Lizaveta Ivanovna was left alone: she laid aside her work and began to look
out of the window. A few moments afterwards, at a corner house on the
other side of the street, a young officer appeared. A deep blush covered her
cheeks; she took up her work again and bent her head down over the frame.
At the same moment the Countess returned completely dressed.
“Order the carriage, Lizaveta,” said she; “we will go out for a drive.”
Lizaveta arose from the frame and began to arrange her work.
“What is the matter with you, my child, are you deaf?” cried the Countess.
“Order the carriage to be got ready at once.”
“I will do so this moment,” replied the young lady, hastening into the ante-
room.
A servant entered and gave the Countess some books from Prince Paul
Alexandrovitch.
“Tell him that I am much obliged to him,” said the Countess. “Lizaveta!
Lizaveta! where are you running to?”
“I am going to dress.”
“There is plenty of time, my dear. Sit down here. Open the first volume and
read to me aloud.”
Her companion took the book and read a few lines.
“Louder,” said the Countess. “What is the matter with you, my child? Have
you lost your voice? Wait—give me that footstool—a little nearer—that
will do!”
Lizaveta read two more pages. The Countess yawned.
“Put the book down,” said she: “what a lot of nonsense! Send it back to
Prince Paul with my thanks.... But where is the carriage?”
“The carriage is ready,” said Lizaveta, looking out into the street.

“How is it that you are not dressed?” said the Countess: “I must always wait
for you. It is intolerable, my dear!”
Liza hastened to her room. She had not been there two minutes, before the
Countess began to ring with all her might. The three waiting-maids came
running in at one door and the valet at another.
“How is it that you cannot hear me when I ring for you?” said the Countess.
“Tell Lizaveta Ivanovna that I am waiting for her.”
Lizaveta returned with her hat and cloak on.
“At last you are here!” said the Countess. “But why such an elaborate
toilette? Whom do you intend to captivate? What sort of weather is it? It
seems rather windy.”
“No, Your Ladyship, it is very calm,” replied the valet.
“You never think of what you are talking about. Open the window. So it is:
windy and bitterly cold. Unharness the horses. Lizaveta, we won’t go out—
there was no need for you to deck yourself like that.”
“What a life is mine!” thought Lizaveta Ivanovna.
And, in truth, Lizaveta Ivanovna was a very unfortunate creature. “The
bread of the stranger is bitter,” says Dante, “and his staircase hard to
climb.” But who can know what the bitterness of dependence is so well as
the poor companion of an old lady of quality? The Countess A—— had by
no means a bad heart, but she was capricious, like a woman who had been
spoilt by the world, as well as being avaricious and egotistical, like all old
people who have seen their best days, and whose thoughts are with the past
and not the present. She participated in all the vanities of the great world,
went to balls, where she sat in a corner, painted and dressed in old-
fashioned style, like a deformed but indispensable ornament of the ball-
room; all the guests on entering approached her and made a profound bow,
as if in accordance with a set ceremony, but after that nobody took any
further notice of her. She received the whole town at her house, and
observed the strictest etiquette, although she could no longer recognize the
faces of people. Her numerous domestics, growing fat and old in her ante-
chamber and servants’ hall, did just as they liked, and vied with each other
in robbing the aged Countess in the most bare-faced manner. Lizaveta
Ivanovna was the martyr of the household. She made tea, and was

reproached with using too much sugar; she read novels aloud to the
Countess, and the faults of the author were visited upon her head; she
accompanied the Countess in her walks, and was held answerable for the
weather or the state of the pavement. A salary was attached to the post, but
she very rarely received it, although she was expected to dress like
everybody else, that is to say, like very few indeed. In society she played
the most pitiable rôle. Everybody knew her, and nobody paid her any
attention. At balls she danced only when a partner was wanted, and ladies
would only take hold of her arm when it was necessary to lead her out of
the room to attend to their dresses. She was very self-conscious, and felt her
position keenly, and she looked about her with impatience for a deliverer to
come to her rescue; but the young men, calculating in their giddiness,
honoured her with but very little attention, although Lizaveta Ivanovna was
a hundred times prettier than the bare-faced and cold-hearted marriageable
girls around whom they hovered. Many a time did she quietly slink away
from the glittering but wearisome drawing-room, to go and cry in her own
poor little room, in which stood a screen, a chest of drawers, a looking-glass
and a painted bedstead, and where a tallow candle burnt feebly in a copper
candle-stick.
One morning—this was about two days after the evening party described at
the beginning of this story, and a week previous to the scene at which we
have just assisted—Lizaveta Ivanovna was seated near the window at her
embroidery frame, when, happening to look out into the street, she caught
sight of a young Engineer officer, standing motionless with his eyes fixed
upon her window. She lowered her head and went on again with her work.
About five minutes afterwards she looked out again—the young officer was
still standing in the same place. Not being in the habit of coquetting with
passing officers, she did not continue to gaze out into the street, but went on
sewing for, a couple of hours, without raising her head. Dinner was
announced. She rose up and began to put her embroidery away, but
glancing casually out of the window, she perceived the officer again. This
seemed to her very strange. After dinner she went to the window with a
certain feeling of uneasiness, but the officer was no longer there—and she
thought no more about him.
A couple of days afterwards, just as she was stepping into the carriage with
the Countess, she saw him again. He was standing close behind the door,

with his face half-concealed by his fur collar, but his dark eyes sparkled
beneath his cap. Lizaveta felt alarmed, though she knew not why, and she
trembled as she seated herself in the carriage.
On returning home, she hastened to the window—the officer was standing
in his accustomed place, with his eyes fixed upon her. She drew back, a
prey to curiosity and agitated by a feeling which was quite new to her.
From that time forward’ not a day passed without the young officer making
his appearance under the window at the customary hour, and between him
and her there was established a sort of mute acquaintance. Sitting in her
place at work, she used to feel his approach; and raising her head, she
would look at him longer and longer each day. The young man seemed to
be very grateful to her: she saw with the sharp eye of youth, how a sudden
flush covered his pale cheeks each time that their glances met. After about a
week she commenced to smile at him....
When Tomsky asked permission of his grandmother the Countess to present
one of his friends to her, the young girl’s heart beat violently. But hearing
that Naroumoff was not an Engineer, she regretted that by her thoughtless
question, she had betrayed her secret to the volatile Tomsky.
Hermann was the son of a German who had become a naturalized Russian,
and from whom he had inherited a small capital. Being firmly convinced of
the necessity of preserving his independence, Hermann did not touch his
private income, but lived on his pay, without allowing himself the slightest
luxury. Moreover, he was reserved and ambitious, and his companions
rarely had an opportunity of making merry at the expense of his extreme
parsimony. He had strong passions and an ardent imagination, but his
firmness of disposition preserved him from the ordinary errors of young
men. Thus, though a gamester at heart, he never touched a card, for he
considered his position did not allow him—as he said—“to risk the
necessary in the hope of winning the superfluous,” yet he would sit for
nights together at the card table and follow with feverish anxiety the
different turns of the game.
The story of the three cards had produced a powerful impression upon his
imagination, and all night long he could think of nothing else. “If,” he
thought to himself the following evening, as he walked along the streets of
St. Petersburg, “if the old Countess would but reveal her secret to me! if she

would only tell me the names of the three winning cards. Why should I not
try my fortune? I must get introduced to her and win her favour—become
her lover.... But all that will take time, and she is eighty-seven years old: she
might be dead in a week, in a couple of days even!... But the story itself:
can it really be true?... No! Economy, temperance and industry: those are
my three winning cards; by means of them I shall be able to double my
capital—increase it sevenfold, and procure for myself ease and
independence.”
Musing in this manner, he walked on until he found himself in one of the
principal streets of St. Petersburg, in front of a house of antiquated
architecture. The street was blocked with equipage; carriages one after the
other drew up in front of the brilliantly illuminated doorway. At one
moment there stepped out on to the pavement the well-shaped little foot of
some young beauty, at another the heavy boot of a cavalry officer, and then
the silk stockings and shoes of a member of the diplomatic world. Furs and
cloaks passed in rapid succession before the gigantic porter at the entrance.
Hermann stopped. “Who’s house is this?” he asked of the watchman at the
corner.
“The Countess A——’s,” replied the watchman.
Hermann started. The strange story of the three cards again presented itself
to his imagination. He began walking up and down before the house,
thinking of its owner and her strange secret. Returning late to his modest
lodging, he could not go to sleep for a long time, and when at last he did
doze off, he could dream of nothing but cards, green tables, piles of
banknotes and heaps of ducats. He played one card after the other, winning
uninterruptedly, and then he gathered up the gold and filled his pockets with
the notes. When he woke up late the next morning, he sighed over the loss
of his imaginary wealth, and then sallying out into the town, he found
himself once more in front of the Countess’s residence. Some unknown
power seemed to have attracted him thither. He stopped and looked up at
the windows. At one of these he saw a head with luxuriant black hair, which
was bent down probably over some book or an embroidery frame. The head
was raised. Hermann saw a fresh complexion and a pair of dark eyes. That
moment decided his fate.

[1] Diminutive of Lizaveta (Elizabeth).

CHAPTER III.

Lizaveta Ivanovna had scarcely taken off her hat and cloak, when the
Countess sent for her and again ordered her to get the carriage ready. The
vehicle drew up before the door, and they prepared to take their seats. Just
at the moment when two footmen were assisting the old lady to enter the
carriage, Lizaveta saw her Engineer standing close beside the wheel; he
grasped her hand; alarm caused her to lose her presence of mind, and the
young man disappeared—but not before he had left a letter between her
fingers. She concealed it in her glove, and during the whole of the drive she
neither saw nor heard anything. It was the custom of the Countess, when
out for an airing in her carriage, to be constantly asking such questions as:
“Who was that person that met us just now? What is the name of this
bridge? What is written on that signboard?” On this occasion, however,
Lizaveta returned such vague and absurd answers, that the Countess became
angry with her.
“What is the matter with you, my dear?” she exclaimed. “Have you taken
leave of your senses, or what is it? Do you not hear me or understand what I
say?... Heaven be thanked, I am still in my right mind and speak plainly
enough!”
Lizaveta Ivanovna did not hear her. On returning home she ran to her room,
and drew the letter out of her glove: it was not sealed. Lizaveta read it. The
letter contained a declaration of love; it was tender, respectful, and copied
word for word from a German novel. But Lizaveta did not know anything
of the German language, and she was quite delighted.
For all that, the letter caused her to feel exceedingly uneasy. For the first
time in her life she was entering into secret and confidential relations with a
young man. His boldness alarmed her. She reproached herself for her
imprudent behaviour, and knew not what to do. Should she cease to sit at
the window and, by assuming an appearance of indifference towards him,
put a check upon the young officer’s desire for further acquaintance with
her? Should she send his letter back to him, or should she answer him in a

cold and decided manner? There was nobody to whom she could turn in her
perplexity, for she had neither female friend nor adviser.... At length she
resolved to reply to him.
She sat down at her little writing-table, took pen and paper, and began to
think. Several times she began her letter, and then tore it up: the way she
had expressed herself seemed to her either too inviting or too cold and
decisive. At last she succeeded in writing a few lines with which she felt
satisfied.
“I am convinced,” she wrote, “that your intentions are honourable, and that
you do not wish to offend me by any imprudent behaviour, but our
acquaintance must not begin in such a manner. I return you your letter, and I
hope that I shall never have any cause to complain of this undeserved
slight.”
The next day, as soon as Hermann made his appearance, Lizaveta rose from
her embroidery, went into the drawing-room, opened the ventilator and
threw the letter into the street, trusting that the young officer would have the
perception to pick it up.
Hermann hastened forward, picked it up and then repaired to a
confectioner’s shop. Breaking the seal of the envelope, he found inside it
his own letter and Lizaveta’s reply. He had expected this, and he returned
home, his mind deeply occupied with his intrigue.
Three days afterwards, a bright-eyed young girl from a milliner’s
establishment brought Lizaveta a letter. Lizaveta opened it with great
uneasiness, fearing that it was a demand for money, when suddenly she
recognized Hermann’s handwriting.
“You have made a mistake, my dear,” said she: “this letter is not for me.”
“Oh, yes, it is for you,” replied the girl, smiling very knowingly. “Have the
goodness to read it.”
Lizaveta glanced at the letter. Hermann requested an interview.
“It cannot be,” she cried, alarmed at the audacious request, and the manner
in which it was made. “This letter is certainly not for me.”
And she tore it into fragments.

“If the letter was not for you, why have you torn it up?” I said the girl. “I
should have given it back to the person who sent it.”
“Be good enough, my dear,” said Lizaveta, disconcerted by this remark,
“not to bring me any more letters for the future, and tell the person who sent
you that he ought to be ashamed....”
But Hermann was not the man to be thus put off. Every day Lizaveta
received from him a letter, sent now in this way, now in that. They were no
longer translated from the German. Hermann wrote them under the
inspiration of passion, and spoke in his own language, and they bore full
testimony to the inflexibility of his desire and the disordered condition of
his uncontrollable imagination. Lizaveta no longer thought of sending them
back to him: she became intoxicated with them and began to reply to them,
and little by little her answers became longer and more affectionate. At last
she threw out of the window to him the following letter:
“This evening there is going to be a ball at the Embassy. The Countess will
be there. We shall remain until two o’clock. You have now an opportunity
of seeing me alone. As soon as the Countess is gone, the servants will very
probably go out, and there will be nobody left but the Swiss, but he usually
goes to sleep in his lodge. Come about half-past eleven. Walk straight
upstairs. If you meet anybody in the ante-room, ask if the Countess is at
home. You will be told ‘No,’ in which case there will be nothing left for you
to do but to go away again. But it is most probable that you will meet
nobody. The maidservants will all be together in one room. On leaving the
ante-room, turn to the left, and walk straight on until you reach the
Countess’s bedroom. In the bedroom, behind a screen, you will find two
doors: the one on the right leads to a cabinet, which the Countess never
enters; the one on the left leads to a corridor, at the end of which is a little
winding staircase; this leads to my room.”
Hermann trembled like a tiger, as he waited for the appointed time to arrive.
At ten o’clock in the evening he was already in front of the Countess’s
house. The weather was terrible; the wind blew with great violence; the
sleety snow fell in large flakes; the lamps emitted a feeble light, the streets
were deserted; from time to time a sledge, drawn by a sorry-looking hack,
passed by, on the look-out for a belated passenger. Hermann was enveloped
in a thick overcoat, and felt neither wind nor snow.

At last the Countess’s carriage drew up. Hermann saw two footmen carry
out in their arms the bent form of the old lady, wrapped in sable fur, and
immediately behind her, clad in a warm mantle, and with her head
ornamented with a wreath of fresh flowers, followed Lizaveta. The door
was closed. The carriage rolled away heavily through the yielding snow.
The porter shut the street-door; the windows became dark.
Hermann began walking up and down near the deserted house; at length he
stopped under a lamp, and glanced at his watch: it was twenty minutes past
eleven. He remained standing under the lamp, his eyes fixed upon the
watch, impatiently waiting for the remaining minutes to pass. At half-past
eleven precisely, Hermann ascended the steps of the house, and made his
way into the brightly-illuminated vestibule. The porter was not there.
Hermann hastily ascended the staircase, opened the door of the ante-room
and saw a footman sitting asleep in an antique chair by the side of a lamp.
With a light firm step Hermann passed by him. The drawing-room and
dining-room were in darkness, but a feeble reflection penetrated thither
from the lamp in the ante-room.
Hermann reached the Countess’s bedroom. Before a shrine, which was full
of old images, a golden lamp was burning. Faded stuffed chairs and divans
with soft cushions stood in melancholy symmetry around the room, the
walls of which were hung with China silk. On one side of the room hung
two portraits painted in Paris by Madame Lebrun. One of these represented
a stout, red-faced man of about forty years of age in a bright-green uniform
and with a star upon his breast; the other—a beautiful young woman, with
an aquiline nose, forehead curls and a rose in her powdered hair. In the
corners stood porcelain shepherds and shepherdesses, dining-room clocks
from the workshop of the celebrated Lefroy, bandboxes, roulettes, fans and
the various playthings for the amusement of ladies that were in vogue at the
end of the last century, when Montgolfier’s balloons and Mesmer’s
magnetism were the rage. Hermann stepped behind the screen. At the back
of it stood a little iron bedstead; on the right was the door which led to the
cabinet; on the left—the other which led to the corridor. He opened the
latter, and saw the little winding staircase which led to the room of the poor
companion.... But he retraced his steps and entered the dark cabinet.
The time passed slowly. All was still. The clock in the drawing-room struck
twelve; the strokes echoed through the room one after the other, and

everything was quiet again. Hermann stood leaning against the cold stove.
He was calm; his heart beat regularly, like that of a man resolved upon a
dangerous but inevitable undertaking. One o’clock in the morning struck;
then two; and he heard the distant noise of carriage-wheels. An involuntary
agitation took possession of him. The carriage drew near and stopped. He
heard the sound of the carriage-steps’ being let down. All was bustle within
the house. The servants were running hither and thither, there was a
confusion of voices, and the rooms were lit up. Three antiquated chamber-
maids entered the bedroom, and they were shortly afterwards followed by
the Countess who, more dead than alive, sank into a Voltaire armchair.
Hermann peeped through a chink. Lizaveta Ivanovna passed close by him,
and he heard her hurried steps as she hastened up the little spiral staircase.
For a moment his heart way assailed by something like a pricking of
conscience, but the emotion was only transitory, and his heart became
petrified as before.
The Countess began to undress before her looking-glass. Her rose-bedecked
cap was taken off, and then her powdered wig was removed from off her
white and closely-cut hair. Hairpins fell in showers around her. Her yellow
satin dress, brocaded with silver, fell down at her swollen feet Hermann was
a witness of the repugnant mysteries of her toilette; at last the Countess was
in her night-cap and dressing-gown, and in this costume, more suitable to
her age, she appeared less hideous and deformed.
Like all old people in general, the Countess suffered from sleeplessness.
Having undressed, she seated herself at the window in a Voltaire armchair
and dismissed her maids. The candles were taken away, and once more the
room was left with only one lamp burning in it. The Countess sat there
looking quite yellow, mumbling with her flaccid lips and swaying to and
fro. Her dull eyes expressed complete vacancy of mind, and, looking at her,
one would have thought that the rocking of her body was not a voluntary
action of her own, but was produced by the action of some concealed
galvanic mechanism.
Suddenly the death-like face assumed an inexplicable expression. The lips
ceased to tremble, the eyes became animated: before the Countess stood an
unknown man.

“Do not be alarmed, for Heaven’s sake, do not be alarmed!” said he in a low
but distinct voice. “I have no intention of doing you any harm, I have only
come to ask a favour of you.”
The old woman looked at him in silence, as if she had not heard what he
had said. Hermann thought that she was deaf, and, bending down towards
her ear, he repeated what he had said. The aged Countess remained silent as
before.
“You can insure the happiness of my life,” continued Hermann, “and it will
cost you nothing. I know that you can name three cards in order——”
Hermann stopped. The Countess appeared now to understand what he
wanted; she seemed as if seeking for words to reply.
“It was a joke,” she replied at last: “I assure you it was only a joke.”
“There is no joking about the matter,” replied Hermann angrily. “Remember
Chaplitsky, whom you helped to win.”
The Countess became visibly uneasy. Her features expressed strong
emotion, but they quickly resumed their former immobility.
“Can you not name me these three winning cards?” continued Hermann.
The Countess remained silent; Hermann continued:
“For whom are you preserving your secret? For your grandsons? They are
rich enough without it; they do not know the worth of money. Your cards
would be of no use to a spendthrift. He who cannot preserve his paternal
inheritance, will die in want, even though he had a demon at his service. I
am not a man of that sort; I know the value of money. Your three cards will
not be thrown away upon me. Come!”...
He paused and tremblingly awaited her reply. The Countess remained
silent; Hermann fell upon his knees.
“If your heart has ever known the feeling of love,” said he, “if you
remember its rapture, if you have ever smiled at the cry of your new-born
child, if any human feeling has ever entered into your breast, I entreat you
by the feelings of a wife, a lover, a mother, by all that is most sacred in life,
not to reject my prayer. Reveal to me your secret. Of what use is it to you?...
May be it is connected with some terrible sin, with the loss of eternal

salvation, with some bargain with the devil.... Reflect,—you are old; you
have not long to live—I am ready to take your sins upon my soul. Only
reveal to me your secret. Remember that the happiness of a man is in your
hands, that not only I, but my children, and grandchildren will bless your
memory and reverence you as a saint....”
The old Countess answered not a word.
Hermann rose to his feet.
“You old hag!” he exclaimed, grinding his teeth, “then I will make you
answer!”
With these words he drew a pistol from his pocket.
At the sight of the pistol, the Countess for the second time exhibited strong
emotion. She shook her head and raised her hands as if to protect herself
from the shot ... then she fell backwards and remained motionless.
“Come, an end to this childish nonsense!” said Hermann, taking hold of her
hand. “I ask you for the last time: will you tell me the names of your three
cards, or will you not?”
The Countess made no reply. Hermann perceived that she was dead!

CHAPTER IV.

Izaveta Ivanovna was sitting in her room, still in her ball dress, lost in deep
thought. On returning home, she had hastily dismissed the chambermaid
who very reluctantly came forward, to assist her, saying that she would
undress herself, and with a trembling heart had gone up to her own room,
expecting to find Hermann there, but yet hoping not to find him. At the first
glance she convinced herself that he was not there, and she thanked her fate
for having prevented him keeping the appointment. She sat down without
undressing, and began to recall to mind all the circumstances which in so
short a time had carried her so far. It was not three weeks since the time
when she first saw the young officer from the window—and yet she was
already in correspondence with him, and he had succeeded in inducing her

to grant him a nocturnal interview! She knew his name only through his
having written it at the bottom of some of his letters; she had never spoken
to him, had never heard his voice, and had never heard him spoken of until
that evening. But, strange to say, that very evening at the ball, Tomsky,
being piqued with the young Princess Pauline N——, who, contrary to her
usual custom, did not flirt with him, wished to revenge himself by assuming
an air of indifference: he therefore engaged Lizaveta Ivanovna and danced
an endless mazurka with her. During the whole of the time he kept teasing
her about her partiality for Engineer officers; he assured her that he knew
far more than she imagined, and some of his jests were so happily aimed,
that Lizaveta thought several times that her secret was known to him.
“From whom have you learnt all this?” she asked, smiling.
“From a friend of a person very well known to you,” replied Tomsky, “from
a very distinguished man.”
“And who is this distinguished man?”
“His name is Hermann.”
Lizaveta made no reply; but her hands and feet lost all sense of feeling.
“This Hermann,” continued Tomsky, “is a man of romantic personality. He
has the profile of a Napoleon, and the soul of a Mephistopheles. I believe
that he has at least three crimes upon his conscience.... How pale you have
become!”
“I have a headache.... But what did this Hermann—or whatever his name is
—tell you?”
“Hermann is very much dissatisfied with his friend: he says that in his place
he would act very differently ... I even think that Hermann himself has
designs upon you; at least, he listens very attentively to all that his friend
has to say about you.”
“And where has he seen me?”
“In church, perhaps; or on the parade—God alone knows where. It may
have been in your room, while you were asleep, for there is nothing that he
——”

Three ladies approaching him with the question: “oubli ou regret?”
interrupted the conversation, which had become so tantalizingly interesting
to Lizaveta.
The lady chosen by Tomsky was the Princess Pauline herself. She
succeeded in effecting a reconciliation with him during the numerous turns
of the dance, after which he conducted her to her chair. On returning to his
place, Tomsky thought no more either of Hermann or Lizaveta. She longed
to renew the interrupted conversation, but the mazurka came to an end, and
shortly afterwards the old Countess took her departure.
Tomsky’s words were nothing more than the customary small talk of the
dance, but they sank deep into the soul of the young dreamer. The portrait,
sketched by Tomsky, coincided with the picture she had formed within her
own mind, and thanks to the latest romances, the ordinary countenance of
her admirer became invested with attributes capable of alarming her and
fascinating her imagination at the same time. She was now sitting with her
bare arms crossed and with her head, still adorned with flowers, sunk upon
her uncovered bosom. Suddenly the door opened and Hermann entered. She
shuddered.
“Where were you?” she asked in a terrified whisper.
“In the old Countess’s bedroom,” replied Hermann: “I have just left her.
The Countess is dead.”
“My God! What do you say?”
“And I am afraid,” added Hermann, “that I am the cause of her death.”
Lizaveta looked at him, and Tomsky’s words found an echo in her soul:
“This man has at least three crimes upon his conscience!” Hermann sat
down by the window near her, and related all that had happened.
Lizaveta listened to him in terror. So all those passionate letters, those
ardent desires, this bold obstinate pursuit—all this was not love! Money—
that was what his soul yearned for! She could not satisfy his desire and
make him happy! The poor girl had been nothing but the blind tool of a
robber, of the murderer of her aged benefactress!... She wept bitter tears of
agonized repentance. Hermann gazed at her in silence: his heart, too, was a
prey to violent emotion, but neither the tears of the poor girl, nor the
wonderful charm of her beauty, enhanced by her grief, could produce any

impression upon his hardened soul. He felt no pricking of conscience at the
thought of the dead old woman. One thing only grieved him: the irreparable
loss of the secret from which he had expected to obtain great wealth.
“You are a monster!” said Lizaveta at last.
“I did not wish for her death,” replied Hermann: “my pistol was not
loaded.”
Both remained silent.
The day began to dawn. Lizaveta extinguished her candle: a pale light
illumined her room. She wiped her tear-stained eyes and raised them
towards Hermann: he was sitting near the window, with his arms crossed
and with a fierce frown upon his forehead. In this attitude he bore a striking
resemblance to the portrait of Napoleon. This resemblance struck Lizaveta
even.
“How shall I get you out of the house?” said she at last. “I thought of
conducting you down the secret staircase, but in that case it would be
necessary to go through the Countess’s bedroom, and I am afraid.”
“Tell me how to find this secret staircase—I will go alone.”
Lizaveta arose, took from her drawer a key, handed it to Hermann and gave
him the necessary instructions. Hermann pressed her cold, powerless hand,
kissed her bowed head, and left the room.
He descended the winding staircase, and once more entered the Countess’s
bedroom. The dead old lady sat as if petrified; her face expressed profound
tranquillity. Hermann stopped before her, and gazed long and earnestly at
her, as if he wished to convince himself of the terrible reality; at last he
entered the cabinet, felt behind the tapestry for the door, and then began to
descend the dark staircase, filled with strange emotions. “Down this very
staircase,” thought he, “perhaps coming from the very same room, and at
this very same hour sixty years ago, there may have glided, in an
embroidered coat, with his hair dressed à l’oiseau royal and pressing to his
heart his three-cornered hat, some young gallant who has long been
mouldering in the grave, but the heart of his aged mistress has only to-day
ceased to beat....”

At the bottom of the staircase Hermann found a door, which he opened with
a key, and then traversed a corridor which conducted him into the street.

CHAPTER V.

Three days after the fatal night, at nine o’clock in the morning, Hermann
repaired to the Convent of where the last honours were to be paid to the
mortal remains of the old Countess. Although feeling no remorse, he could
not altogether stifle the voice of conscience, which said to him: “You are
the murderer of the old woman!” In spite of his entertaining very little
religious belief, he was exceedingly superstitious; and believing that the
dead Countess might exercise an evil influence on his life, he resolved to be
present at her obsequies in order to implore her pardon.
The church was full. It was with difficulty that Hermann made his way
through the crowd of people. The coffin was placed upon a rich catafalque
beneath a velvet baldachin. The deceased Countess lay within it, with her
hands crossed upon her breast, with a lace cap upon her head and dressed in
a white satin robe. Around the catafalque stood the members of her
household: the servants in black caftans, with armorial ribbons upon their
shoulders, and candles in their hands; the relatives—children,
grandchildren, and great-grandchildren—in deep mourning.
Nobody wept; tears would have been une affectation. The Countess was so
old, that her death could have surprised nobody, and her relatives had long
looked upon her as being out of the world. A famous preacher pronounced
the funeral sermon. In simple and touching words he described the peaceful
passing away of the righteous, who had passed long years in calm
preparation for a Christian end. “The angel of death found her,” said the
orator, “engaged in pious meditation and waiting for the midnight
bridegroom.”
The service concluded amidst profound silence. The relatives went forward
first to take farewell of the corpse. Then followed the numerous guests, who
had come to render the last homage to her who for so many years had been
a participator in their frivolous amusements. After these followed the

members of the Countess’s household. The last of these was an old woman
of the same age as the deceased. Two young women led her forward by the
hand. She had not strength enough to bow down to the ground—she merely
shed a few tears and kissed the cold hand of her mistress.
Hermann now resolved to approach the coffin. He knelt down upon the cold
stones and remained in that position for some minutes; at last he arose, as
pale as the deceased Countess herself; he ascended the steps of the
catafalque and bent over the corpse.... At that moment it seemed to him that
the dead woman darted a mocking look at him and winked with one eye.
Hermann started back, took a false step and fell to the ground. Several
persons hurried forward and raised him up. At the same moment Lizaveta
Ivanovna was borne fainting into the porch of the church. This episode
disturbed for some minutes the solemnity of the gloomy ceremony. Among
the congregation arose a deep murmur, and a tall thin chamberlain, a near
relative of the deceased, whispered, in the ear of an Englishman who was
standing near him, that the young officer was a natural son of the Countess,
to which the Englishman coldly replied: “Oh!”
During the whole of that day, Hermann was strangely excited. Repairing to
an out-of-the-way restaurant to dine, he drank a great deal of wine, contrary
to his usual custom, in the hope of deadening his inward agitation. But the
wine only served to excite his imagination still more. On returning home,
he threw himself upon his bed without undressing, and fell into a deep
sleep.
When he woke up it was already night, and the moon was shining into the
room. He looked at his watch: it was a quarter to three. Sleep had left him;
he sat down upon his bed and thought of the funeral of the old Countess.
At that moment somebody in the street looked in at his window, and
immediately passed on again. Hermann paid no attention to this incident. A
few moments afterwards he heard the door of his ante-room open. Hermann
thought that it was his orderly, drunk as usual, returning from some
nocturnal expedition, but presently he heard footsteps that were unknown to
him: somebody was walking softly over the floor in slippers. The door
opened, and a woman dressed in white, entered the room. Hermann mistook
her for his old nurse, and wondered what could bring her there at that hour

of, the night. But the white woman glided rapidly across the room and stood
before him and Hermann recognized the Countess!
“I have come to you against my wish,” she said in a firm voice: “but I have
been ordered to grant your request. Three, seven, ace, will win for you if
played in succession, but only on these conditions: that you do not play
more than one card in twenty-four hours, and that you never play again
during the rest of your life. I forgive you my death, on condition that you
marry my companion, Lizaveta Ivanovna.”
With these words she turned round very quietly, walked with a shuffling
gait towards the door and disappeared. Hermann heard the street-door open
and shut, and again he saw someone look in at him through the window.
For a long time Hermann could not recover himself. He then rose up and
entered the next room. His orderly was lying asleep upon the floor, and he
had much difficulty in waking him. The orderly was drunk as usual, and no
information could be obtained from him. The street-door was locked.
Hermann returned to his room, lit his candle, and wrote down all the details
of his vision.

CHAPTER VI.

Two fixed ideas can no more exist together in the moral world than two
bodies can occupy one and the same place in the physical world. “Three,
seven, ace” soon drove out of Hermann’s mind the thought of the dead
countess. “Three, seven, ace” were perpetually running through his head
and continually being repeated by his lips, If he saw a young girl, he would
say: “How slender she is! quite like the three of hearts.” If anybody asked:
“What is the time?” he would reply: “Five minutes to seven.” Every stout
man that he saw reminded him of the ace. “Three, seven, ace” haunted him
in his sleep, and assumed all possible shapes. The threes bloomed before
him in the storms of magnificent flowers, the sevens were represented by
gothic portals, and the aces became transformed into gigantic spiders. One
thought alone occupied his whole mind—to make a profitable use of the
secret which he had purchased so dearly. He thought of applying for a

furlough so as to travel abroad. He wanted to go to Paris and tempt fortune
in some of the public gambling-houses that abounded there. Chance spared
him all this trouble.
There was in Moscow a society of rich gamesters, presided over by the
celebrated Chekalinsky, who had passed all his life at the card-table and had
amassed millions, accepting bills of exchange for his winnings and paying
his losses in ready money. His long experience secured for him the
confidence of his companions, and his open house, his famous cook, and his
agreeable and fascinating manners gained for him the respect of the public.
He came to St. Petersburg. The young men of the capital flocked to his
rooms, forgetting balls for cards, and preferring the emotions of faro to the
seductions of flirting. Naroumoff conducted Hermann to Chekalinsky’s
residence.
They passed through a suite of magnificent rooms, filled with attentive
domestics. The place was crowded. Generals and Privy Counsellors were
playing at whist; young men were lolling carelessly upon the velvet-
covered sofas, eating ices and smoking pipes. In the drawing-room, at the
head of a long table, around which were assembled about a score of players,
sat the master of the house keeping the bank. He was a man of about sixty
years of age, of a very dignified appearance; his head was covered with
silvery-white hair; his full, florid countenance expressed good-nature, and
his eyes twinkled with a perpetual smile. Naroumoff introduced Hermann to
him. Chekalinsky shook him by the hand in a friendly manner, requested
him not to stand on ceremony, and then went on dealing.
The game occupied some time. On the table lay more than thirty cards.
Chekalinsky paused after each throw, in order to give the players time to
arrange their cards and note down their losses, listened politely to their
requests, and more politely still, put straight the corners of cards that some
player’s hand had chanced to bend. At last the game was finished.
Chekalinsky shuffled the cards and prepared to deal again.
“Will you allow me to take a card?” said Hermann, stretching out his hand
from behind a stout gentleman who was punting.
Chekalinsky smiled and bowed silently, as a sign of acquiescence.
Naroumoff laughingly congratulated Hermann on his abjuration of that

abstention from cards which he had practised for so long a period, and
wished him a lucky beginning.
“Stake!” said Hermann, writing some figures with chalk on the back of his
card.
“How much?” asked the banker, contracting the muscles of his eyes;
“excuse me, I cannot see quite clearly.”
“Forty-seven thousand roubles,” replied Hermann.
At these words every head in the room turned suddenly round, and all eyes
were fixed upon Hermann.
“He has taken leave of his senses!” thought Naroumoff.
“Allow me to inform you,” said Chekalinsky, with his eternal smile, “that
you are playing very high; nobody here has ever staked more than two
hundred and seventy-five roubles at once.”
“Very well,” replied Hermann; “but do you accept my card or not?”
Chekalinsky bowed in token of consent.
“I only wish to observe,” said he, “that although I have the greatest
confidence in my friends, I can only play against ready money. For my own
part, I am quite convinced that your word is sufficient, but for the sake of
the order of the game, and to facilitate the reckoning up, I must ask you to
put the money on your card.”
Hermann drew from his pocket a bank-note and handed it to Chekalinsky,
who, after examining it in a cursory manner, placed it on Hermann’s card.
He began to deal. On the right a nine turned up, and on the left a three.
“I have won!” said Hermann, showing his card.
A murmur of astonishment arose among the players. Chekalinsky frowned,
but the smile quickly returned to his face.
“Do you wish me to settle with you?” he said to Hermann.
“If you please,” replied the latter.
Chekalinsky drew from his pocket a number of banknotes and paid at once.
Hermann took up his money and left the table. Naroumoff could not recover

from his astonishment. Hermann drank a glass of lemonade and returned
home.
The next evening he again repaired to Chekalinsky’s. The host was dealing.
Hermann walked up to the table; the punters immediately made room for
him. Chekalinsky greeted him with a gracious bow.
Hermann waited for the next deal, took a card and placed upon it his forty-
seven thousand roubles, together with his winnings of the previous evening.
Chekalinsky began to deal. A knave turned up on the right, a seven on the
left.
Hermann showed his seven.
There was a general exclamation. Chekalinsky was evidently ill at ease, but
he counted out the ninety-four thousand roubles and handed them over to
Hermann, who pocketed them in the coolest manner possible and
immediately left the house.
The next evening Hermann appeared again at the table. Everyone was
expecting him. The generals and Privy Counsellors left their whist in order
to watch such extraordinary play. The young officers quitted their sofas, and
even the servants crowded into the room. All pressed round Hermann. The
other players left off punting, impatient to see how it would end. Hermann
stood at the table and prepared to play alone against the pale, but still
smiling Chekalinsky. Each opened a pack of cards. Chekalinsky shuffled.
Hermann took a card and covered it with a pile of bank-notes. It was like a
duel. Deep silence reigned around.
Chekalinsky began to deal; his hands trembled. On the right a queen turned
up, and on the left an ace. “Ace has won!” cried Hermann, showing his
card.
“Your queen has lost,” said Chekalinsky, politely.
Hermann started; instead of an ace, there lay before him the queen of
spades! He could not believe his eyes, nor could he understand how he had
made such a mistake.
At that moment it seemed to him that the queen of spades smiled ironically
and winked her eye at him. He was struck by her remarkable resemblance....

“The old Countess!” he exclaimed, seized with terror.
Chekalinsky gathered up his winnings. For some time, Hermann remained
perfectly motionless. When at last he left the table, there was a general
commotion in the room.
“Splendidly punted!” said the players. Chekalinsky shuffled the cards
afresh, and the game went on as usual.

Hermann went out 01 ms mind, and is now confined in room Number 17 of
the Oboukhoff Hospital. He never answers any questions, but he constantly
mutters with unusual rapidity: “Three, seven, ace! Three, seven, queen!”
Lizaveta Ivanovna has married a very amiable young man, a son of the
former steward of the old Countess. He is in the service of the State
somewhere, and is in receipt of a good income. Lizaveta is also supporting
a poor relative.
Tomsky has been promoted to the rank of captain, and has become the
husband of the Princess Pauline.

AN AMATEUR PEASANT GIRL.

In one of our most distant governments was situated the domain of Ivan
Petrovitch Berestoff. In his youth he had served in the Guards, but having
quitted the service at the beginning of the year 1797, he repaired to his
estate, and since that time he had not stirred away from it. He had married a
poor but noble lady, who died in child-bed at a time when he was absent
from home on a visit to one of the outlying fields of his domain. He soon
found consolation in domestic occupations. He built a house on a plan of
his own, established a cloth manufactory, made good use of his revenues,
and began to consider himself the most sensible man in the whole country
roundabout, and in this he was not contradicted by those of his neighbours
who came to visit him with their families and their dogs. On week-days he

wore a plush jacket, but on Sundays and holidays he appeared in a surtout
of cloth that had been manufactured on his own premises. He himself kept
an account of all his expenses, and he never read anything except the
“Senate Gazette.”
In general he was liked, although he was considered proud. There was only
one person who was not on good terms with him, and that was Gregory
Ivanovitch Mouromsky, his nearest neighbour. This latter was a genuine
Russian noble of the old stamp. After having squandered in Moscow the
greater part of his fortune, and having become a widower about the same
time, he retired to his last remaining estate, where he continued to indulge
in habits of extravagance, but of a new kind. He laid out an English garden,
on which he expended nearly the whole of his remaining revenue. His
grooms were dressed like English jockeys, his daughter had an English
governess, and his fields were cultivated after the English method.
“But after the foreign manner Russian corn does not bear fruit,” and in spite
of a considerable reduction in his expenses, the revenues of Gregory
Ivanovitch did not increase. He found means, even in the country, of
contracting new debts. Nevertheless he was not considered a fool, for he
was the first landowner in his government who conceived the idea of
placing his estate under the safeguard of a council of tutelage—a
proceeding which at that time was considered exceedingly complicated and
venturesome. Of all those who censured him, Berestoff showed himself the
most severe. Hatred of all innovation was a distinguishing trait in his
character. He could not bring himself to speak calmly of the Anglomania of
his neighbour, and he constantly found occasion to criticise him. If he
showed his possessions to a guest, in reply to the praises bestowed upon
him for his economical arrangements, he would say with a sly smile:—
“Ah yes, it is not the same with me as with my neighbour Gregory
Ivanovitch. What need have we to ruin ourselves in the English style, when
we have enough to do to keep the wolf from the door in the Russian style?”
These, and similar sarcastic remarks, thanks to the zeal of obliging
neighbours, did not fail to reach the ears of Gregory Ivanovitch greatly
embellished. The Anglomaniac bore criticism as impatiently as our
journalists. He became furious, and called his traducer a bear and a
countryman.

Such were the relations between the two proprietors, when the son of
Berestoff returned home to his father’s estate. He had been educated at the
University of ——, and was anxious to enter the military service, but to this
his father would not give his consent. For the civil service the young man
had not the slightest inclination, and as neither felt inclined to yield to the
other, the young Alexei lived in; the meantime like a nobleman, and
allowed his moustache to grow at all events.[1]
Alexei was indeed a fine young fellow, and it would really have been a pity
were his slender figure never to be set off to advantage by a military
uniform, and were he to be compelled to spend his youth in bending over
the papers of the chancery office, instead of bestriding a gallant steed. The
neighbours, observing how he was always first in the chase, and always out
of the beaten tracks, unanimously agreed that he would never make a useful
official. The young ladies gazed after him, and sometimes cast stolen
glances at him, but Alexei troubled himself very little about them, and they
attributed this insensibility to some secret love affair. Indeed, there passed
from hand to hand a copy of the address of one of his letters: “To Akoulina
Petrovna Kourotchkin, in Moscow, opposite the Alexeivsky Monastery, in
the house of the coppersmith Saveleff, with the request that she will
forward this letter to A. N. R.”
Those of my readers who have never lived in the country, cannot imagine
how charming these provincial young ladies are! Brought up in the pure air,
under the shadow of the apple trees of their gardens, they derive their
knowledge of the world and of life chiefly from books. Solitude, freedom,
and reading develop very early within them sentiments and passions
unknown to our town-bred beauties. For the young ladies of the country the
sound of the post-bell is an event; a journey to the nearest town marks an
epoch in their lives, and the visit of a guest leaves behind a long, and
sometimes an eternal recollection. Of course everybody is at liberty to
laugh at some of their peculiarities, but the jokes of a superficial observer
cannot nullify their essential merits, the chief of which is that personality of
character, that individualité without which, in Jean Paul’s opinion, there can
be no human greatness. In the capitals, women receive perhaps a better
instruction, but intercourse with the world soon levels the character and
makes their souls as uniform as their head-dresses. This is said neither by

way of praise nor yet by way of censure, but “nota nostra manet,” as one of
the old commentators writes.
It can easily be imagined what impression Alexei would produce among the
circle of our young ladies. He was the first who appeared before them
gloomy and disenchanted, the first who spoke to them of lost happiness and
of his blighted youth; in addition to which he wore a mourning ring
engraved with a death’s head. All this was something quite new in that
distant government. The young ladies simply went, out of their minds about
him.
But not one of them felt so much interest in him as the daughter of our
Anglomaniac Liza, or Betsy, as Gregory Ivanovitch usually called her. As
their parents did not visit each other, she had not yet seen Alexei, even
when he had become the sole topic of conversation among all the young
ladies of the neighbourhood. She was seventeen years of age. Dark eyes
illuminated her swarthy and exceedingly pleasant countenance. She was an
only child, and consequently she was perfectly spoiled. Her wantonness and
continual pranks delighted her father and filled with despair the heart of
Miss Jackson, her governess, an affected old maid of forty, who powdered
her face and darkened her eyebrows, read through “Pamela”[2] twice a year,
for which she received two thousand roubles, and felt almost bored to death
in this barbarous Russia of ours.
Liza was waited upon by Nastia, who, although somewhat older, was quite
as giddy as her mistress. Liza was very fond of her, revealed to her all her
secrets, and planned pranks together with her; in a word, Nastia was a far
more important person in the village of Priloutchina, than the trusted
confidante in a French tragedy.
“Will you allow me to go out to-day on a visit?” said Nastia one morning,
as she was dressing her mistress.
“Very well; but where are you going to?”
“To Tougilovo, to the Berestoffs. The wife of their cook is going to
celebrate her name-day to-day, and she came over yesterday to invite us to
dinner.”
“That’s curious,” said Liza: “the masters are at daggers drawn, but the
servants fête each other.”

“What have the masters to do with us?” replied Nastia. “Besides, I belong
to you, and not to your papa. You have not had any quarrel with young
Berestoff; let the old ones quarrel and fight, if it gives them any pleasure.”
“Try and see Alexei Berestoff, Nastia, and then tell me what he looks like
and what sort of a person he is.”
Nastia promised to do so, and all day long Liza waited with impatience for
her return. In the evening Nastia made her appearance.
“Well, Lizaveta Gregorievna,” said she, on entering the room, “I have seen
young Berestoff, and I had ample opportunity for taking a good look at him,
for we have been together all day.”
“How did that happen? Tell me about it, tell me everything about it.”
“Very well. We set out, I, Anissia Egorovna, Nenila, Dounka....”
“Yes, yes, I know. And then?”
“With your leave, I will tell you everything in detail. We arrived just in time
for dinner. The room was full of people. The Kolbinskys were there, as well
as the Zakharevskys, the Khloupinskys, the bailiff’s wife and her
daughters....”
“Well, and Berestoff?”
“Wait a moment. We sat down to table; the bailiff’s wife had the place of
honour. I sat next to her ... the daughters pouted and didn’t like it, but I
didn’t care about them....”
“Good heavens, Nastia, how tiresome you are with your never-ending
details!”
“How impatient you are! Well, we rose from the table we had been sitting
down for three hours, and the dinner was excellent: pastry, blanc-manges,
blue, red and striped.... Well, we left the table and went into the garden to
have a game at catching one another, and it was then that the young lord
made his appearance.”
“Well, and is it true that he is so very handsome?”
“Exceedingly handsome: tall, well-built, and with red cheeks....”

“Really? And I was under the impression that he was fair. Well, and how
did he seem to you? Sad, thoughtful?”
“Nothing of the kind! I have never in my life seen such a frolicsome person.
He wanted to join in the game with us.”
“Join in the game with you? Impossible!”
“Not all impossible. And what else do you think he wanted to do? To kiss us
all round!”
“With your permission, Nastia, you are talking nonsense.”
“With your permission, I am not talking nonsense. I had the greatest trouble
in the world to get away from him, He spent the whole day along with us.”
“But they say that he is in love, and hasn’t eyes for anybody.”
“I don’t know anything about that, but I know that he looked at me a good
deal, and so he did at Tania, the bailiff’s daughter, and at Pasha[3] Kolbinsky
also. But it cannot be said that he offended anybody—he is so very
agreeable.”
“That is extraordinary! And what do they say about him in the house?”
“They say that he is an excellent master—so kind, so cheerful. They have
only one fault to find with him: he is too fond of running after the young
girls. But for my part, I don’t think that is a very great fault: he will grow
steady with age.”
“How I should like to see him!” said Liza, with a sigh.
“What is there to hinder you from doing so? Tougilovo is not far from us—
only about three versts. Go and take a walk in that direction, or a ride on
horseback, and you will assuredly meet him. He goes out early every
morning with his gun.”
“No, no, that would not do. He might think that I was running after him.
Besides, our fathers are not on good terms, so that I cannot make his
acquaintance.... Ah! Nastia, do you know what I’ll do? I will dress myself
up as a peasant girl!”
“Exactly! Put on a coarse chemise and a sarafan, and then go boldly to
Tougilovo; I will answer for it that Berestoff will not pass by without taking

notice of you.”
“And I know how to imitate the style of speech of the peasants about here.
Ah, Nastia! my dear Nastia! what an excellent idea!”
And Liza went to bed, firmly resolved on putting her plan into execution.
The next morning she began to prepare for the accomplishment of her
scheme. She sent to the bazaar and bought some coarse linen, some blue
nankeen and some copper buttons, and with the help of Nastia she cut out
for herself a chemise and sarafan. She then set all the female servants to
work to do the necessary sewing, so that by the evening everything was
ready. Liza tried on the new costume, and as she stood before the mirror,
she confessed to herself that she had never looked so charming. Then she
practised her part. As she walked she made a low bow, and then tossed her
head several times, after the manner of a china cat, spoke in the peasants’
dialect, smiled behind her sleeve, and did everything to Nastia’s complete
satisfaction. One thing only proved irksome to her: she tried to walk
barefooted across the courtyard, but the turf pricked her tender feet, and she
found the stones and gravel unbearable. Nastia immediately came to her
assistance. She took the measurement of Liza’s foot, ran to the fields to find
Trophim the shepherd, and ordered him to make a pair of bast shoes of the
same measurement.
The next morning, almost before it was dawn, Liza was already awake.
Everybody in the house was still asleep. Nastia went to the gate to wait for
the shepherd. The sound of a horn was heard, and the village flock defiled
past the manor-house. Trophim, on passing by Nastia, gave her a small pair
of coloured bast shoes, and received from her a half-rouble in exchange.
Liza quietly dressed herself in the peasant’s costume, whispered her
instructions to Nastia with reference to Miss Jackson, descended the back
staircase and made her way through the garden into the field beyond.
The eastern sky was all aglow, and the golden lines of clouds seemed to be
awaiting the sun, like courtiers await their monarch. The bright sky, the
freshness of the morning, the dew, the light breeze, and the singing of the
birds filled the heart of Liza with childish joy. The fear of meeting some
acquaintance seemed to give her wings, for she flew rather than walked.
But as she approached the wood which formed the boundary of her father’s
estate, she slackened her pace. Here she resolved to wait for Alexei.

Her heart beat violently, she knew not why; but is not the fear which
accompanies our youthful escapades that which constitutes their greatest
charm? Liza advanced into the depth of the wood. The deep murmur of the
waving branches seemed to welcome the young girl. Her gaiety vanished.
Little by little she abandoned herself to sweet reveries. She thought—but
who cap say exactly what a young lady of seventeen thinks of, alone in a
wood, at six o’clock of a spring morning? And so she walked musingly
along the pathway, which was shaded on both sides by tall trees, when
suddenly a magnificent hunting dog came barking and bounding towards
her. Liza became alarmed and cried out. But at the same moment a voice
called out: “Tout beau, Sbogar, ici!”... and a young hunter emerged from
behind a clump of bushes.
“Don’t be afraid, my dear,” said he to Liza: “my dog does not bite.”
Liza had already recovered from her alarm, and she immediately took
advantage of her opportunity.
“But, sir,” said she, assuming a half-frightened, half-bashful expression, “I
am so afraid; he looks so fierce—he might fly at me again.”
Alexei—for the reader has already recognized him—gazed fixedly at the
young peasant-girl.
“I will accompany you if you are afraid,” said he to her: “will you allow me
to walk along with you?”
“Who is to hinder you?” replied Liza. “Wills are free, and the road is open
to everybody.”
“Where do you come from?”
“From Priloutchina; I am the daughter of Vassili the blacksmith, and I am
going to gather mushrooms.” (Liza carried a basket on her arm.) “And you,
sir? From Tougilovo, I have no doubt.”
“Exactly so,” replied Alexei: “I am the young master’s valet-de-chambre.”
Alexei wanted to put himself on an equality with her, but Liza looked at
him and began to smile.
“That is a fib,” said she: “I am not such a fool as you may think. I see very
well that you are the young master himself.”

“Why do you think so?”
“I think so for a great many reasons.”
“But——”
“As if it were not possible to distinguish the master from the servant! You
are not dressed like a servant, you do not speak like one, and you address
your dog in a different way to us.”
Liza began to please Alexei more and more. As he was not accustomed to
standing upon ceremony with peasant girls, he wanted to embrace her; but
Liza drew back from him, and suddenly assumed such a cold and severe
look, that Alexei, although much amused, did not venture to renew the
attempt.
“If you wish that we should remain good friends,” said she with dignity, “be
good enough not to forget yourself.”
“Who taught you such wisdom?” asked Alexei, bursting into a laugh. “Can
it be my friend Nastenka,[4] the chambermaid to your young mistress? See
by what paths enlightenment becomes diffused!”
Liza felt that she had stepped out of her rôle, and she immediately
recovered herself.
“Do you think,” said she, “that I have never been to the manor-house?
Don’t alarm yourself; I have seen and heard a great many things.... But,”
continued she, “if I talk to you, I shall not gather my mushrooms. Go your
way, sir, and I will go mine. Pray excuse me.”
And she was about to move off, but Alexei seized hold of her hand.
“What is your name, my dear?”
“Akoulina,” replied Liza, endeavouring to disengage her fingers from his
grasp: “but let me go, sir; it is time for me to return home.”
“Well, my friend Akoulina, I will certainly pay a visit to your father, Vassili
the blacksmith.”
“What do you say?” replied Liza quickly: “for Heaven’s sake, don’t think of
doing such a thing! If it were known at home that I had been talking to a

gentleman alone in the wood, I should fare very badly,—my father, Vassili
the blacksmith, would beat me to death.”
“But I really must see you again.”
“Well, then, I will come here again some time to gather mushrooms.”
“When?”
“Well, to-morrow, if you wish it.”
“My dear Akoulina, I would kiss you, but I dare not.... To-morrow, then, at
the same time, isn’t that so?”
“Yes, yes!”
“And you will not deceive me?”
“I will not deceive you.”
“Swear it.”
“Well, then, I swear by Holy Friday that I will come.”
The young people separated. Liza emerged from the wood, crossed the
field, stole into the garden and hastened to the place where Nastia awaited
her. There she changed her costume, replying absently to the questions of
her impatient confidante, and then she repaired to the parlour. The cloth was
laid, the breakfast was ready, and Miss Jackson, already powdered and
laced up, so that she looked like a wine-glass, was cutting thin slices of
bread and butter.
Her father praised her for her early walk.
“There is nothing so healthy,” said he, “as getting up at daybreak.”
Then he cited several instances of human longevity, which he had derived
from the English journals, and observed that all persons who had lived to be
upwards of a hundred, abstained from brandy and rose at daybreak, winter
and summer.
Liza did not listen to him. In her thoughts she was going over all the
circumstances of the meeting of that morning, all the conversation of
Akoulina with the young hunter, and her conscience began to torment her.
In vain did she try to persuade herself that their conversation had not gone

beyond the bounds of propriety, and that the frolic would be followed by no
serious consequences—her conscience spoke louder than her reason. The
promise given for the following day troubled her more than anything else,
and she almost felt resolved not to keep her solemn oath. But then, might
not Alexei, after waiting for her in vain, make his way to the village and
search out the daughter of Vassili the blacksmith, the veritable Akoulina—a
fat, pockmarked peasant girl—and so discover the prank she had played
upon him? This thought frightened Liza, and she resolved to repair again to
the little wood the next morning in the same disguise as at first.
On his side, Alexei was in an ecstasy of delight. All day long he thought of
his new acquaintance; and in his dreams at night the form of the dark-
skinned beauty appeared before him. The morning had scarcely begun to
dawn, when he was already dressed. Without giving himself time to load his
gun, he set out for the fields with his faithful Sbogar, and hastened to the
place of the promised rendezvous. A half hour of intolerable waiting passed
by; at last he caught a glimpse of a blue sarafan between the bushes, and he
rushed forward to meet his charming Akoulina. She smiled at the ecstatic
nature of his thanks, but Alexei immediately observed upon her face traces
of sadness and uneasiness. He wished to know the cause. Liza confessed to
him that her act seemed to her very frivolous, that she repented of it, that
this time she did not wish to break her promised word, but that this meeting
would be the last, and she therefore entreated him to break off an
acquaintanceship which could not lead to any good.
All this, of course, was expressed in the language of a peasant; but such
thoughts and sentiments, so unusual in a simple girl of the lower class,
struck Alexei with astonishment. He employed all his eloquence to divert
Akoulina from her purpose; he assured her that his intentions were
honourable, promised her that he would never give her cause to repent, that
he would obey her in everything, and earnestly entreated her not to deprive
him of the joy of seeing her alone, if only once a day, or even only twice a
week. He spoke the language of true passion, and at that moment he was
really in love. Liza listened to him in silence.
“Give me your word,” said she at last, “that you will never come to the
village in search of me, and that you will never seek a meeting with me
except those that I shall appoint myself.”