That till the dawn begins to glow
I’ll weary with my sensual fires
All of my masters’ sweet desires
And sate them with my secret kiss
And wondrous languor—but I swear this:
Just when eternal Aurora spreads
Her purple robe above my bed,
The deadly axe will fall upon
The heads of all my lucky ones.”
* * *
*1 “Who is this man?” “Ah, he’s a great talent, he makes his voice into whatever he wants.” “Then he ought, madam, to make it into a pair of pants.” [From the French Almanach des calembours (1771). Translator.]
*2 “Sir…please forgive me if…”
*3 “Sir…I believed…I felt…Your Excellency must forgive me…”
*4 “Devil take it!” (Literally, “Body of Bacchus!”)
*5 The Cenci Family / The Last Day of Pompeii / Cleopatra and Her Lovers / Spring Seen from a Prison / The Triumph of Tasso.
*6 because the great queen had many of them…
The Captain’s Daughter
Look after your honor when it’s young.
PROVERB
CHAPTER ONE
A Sergeant of the Guards
“Tomorrow he could well be a captain of the guards.”
“There’s no need for that; let him serve in the ranks.”
“Rightly said! Let him suffer a bit for his thanks.”
……….
And who is his father?
KNYAZHNIN1
My father, Andrei Petrovich Grinyov, served under Count Münnich2 in his youth and retired as a lieutenant colonel in 17––. After that he lived on his estate in Simbirsk province, where he married Miss Avdotya Vasilyevna Yu., the daughter of a poor local gentleman. They had nine children. All my brothers and sisters died in infancy.
While my mother was still pregnant with me, I was already enlisted as a sergeant in the Semyonovsky regiment,3 through the graces of Prince B., a major of the guards and our close relative. If, against all expectations, my mother had given birth to a girl, my father would have informed the proper authorities of the death of the non-reporting sergeant, and the matter would have ended there. I was considered on leave until I finished my studies. Back then we were not educated as nowadays. At the age of five I was put into the hands of the groom Savelyich, who for his sober behavior was accorded the honor of being my attendant. Under his supervision, by the age of twelve I had learned to read and write in Russian and was a very sound judge of the qualities of the male borzoi. At that time father hired a French tutor for me, Monsieur Beaupré, whom he ordered from Moscow together with a year’s supply of wine and olive oil. His arrival greatly displeased Savelyich. “Thank God,” he grumbled to himself, “it seems the little one’s washed, combed, and fed. Why go spending extra money hiring a moosieu, as if his own people weren’t enough!”
In his own country, Beaupré had been a hairdresser, then in Prussia a soldier, then he came to Russia pour être outchitel,*1 not understanding very well the meaning of the word. He was a nice fellow, but flighty and extremely dissipated. His main weakness was a passion for the fair sex; not infrequently he received kicks for his tender advances, which left him groaning for whole days. What’s more, he was (to use his own expression) “no enemy of the bottle,” that is (in Russian) he liked to take a drop too much. But since in our house wine was only served with dinner, and by the glass at that, the tutor usually being passed over, my Beaupré very quickly accustomed himself to Russian liqueurs and even came to prefer them to the wines of his own country, as incomparably more wholesome for the stomach. We hit it off at once, and though by contract he was supposed to teach me “in French, in German, and all the subjects,” he preferred to pick up some Russian chatter from me—and then each of us minded his own business. We lived in perfect harmony. I wished for no other mentor. But fate soon parted us, and here is how it happened.
The laundress Palashka, a fat and pockmarked wench, and the one-eyed milkmaid Akulka decided one day to throw themselves at my mother’s feet together, confessing to a criminal weakness and tearfully complaining about the moosieu who had seduced their inexperience. Mother did not take such things lightly and complained to my father. His justice was summary. He sent for the French rascal at once. He was informed that moosieu was giving me a lesson. Father went to my room. Just then Beaupré was lying on the bed sleeping the sleep of the innocent. I was busy with my own things. It should be mentioned that a geographical map had been ordered for me from Moscow. It hung quite uselessly on the wall, and the size and quality of the paper had long been tempting me. I decided to make a kite out of it and, taking advantage of Beaupré’s sleep, set to work. Father walked in just as I was attaching a bast tail to the Cape of Good Hope. Seeing my exercises in geography, my father yanked my ear, then ran over to Beaupré, woke him up quite unceremoniously, and began to shower him with reproaches. In his confusion Beaupré tried to get up but could not: the unfortunate Frenchman was dead drunk. Seven ills, one cure. Father picked him up from the bed by the scruff of the neck, pushed him out the door, and drove him off the premises that same day, to the indescribable joy of Savelyich. And that was the end of my education.
I lived as a young dunce, chasing pigeons and playing leapfrog with the servants’ kids. Meanwhile I turned sixteen. Here my fate changed.
One autumn day mother was cooking honey preserve in the drawing room, while I, licking my lips, kept my eyes on the boiling scum. Father sat by the window reading the Court Almanac, which he received every year. This book always had a strong effect on him: he could never read it without special concern, and this reading always caused an extraordinary stirring of the bile in him. Mother, who knew all his ways and displays by heart, always tried to tuck the wretched book as far away as possible, and thus the Court Almanac sometimes did not catch his eye for whole months. But then, when he chanced to find it, for whole hours he would not let it out of his hands. And so, father was reading the Court Almanac, shrugging from time to time and repeating under his breath: “Lieutenant general!…He was a sergeant in my company!…A chevalier of both Russian orders!…Was it so long ago that we…” Finally, father flung the almanac onto the sofa and sank into a brooding that boded no good.
Suddenly he turned to mother: “Avdotya Vasilyevna, how old is Petrusha?”
“He’s going on seventeen,” mother replied. “Petrusha was born the same year that aunt Nastasya Gerasimovna went one-eyed, and when…”
“Good,” father interrupted. “It’s time he was in the service. Enough of him running around the maids’ rooms and climbing the dovecotes.”
The thought of soon parting with me so struck my mother that she dropped her spoon into the pot and tears poured down her face. On the other hand, it is hard to describe my delight. The thought of the service merged in me with thoughts of freedom and the pleasures of Petersburg life. I pictured myself as an officer of the guards, which, in my opinion, was the height of human happiness.
Father did not like either to change his intentions or to postpone their execution. The day of my departure was appointed. On the eve, father announced that he intended to send with me a letter to my future superior, and he asked for pen and paper.
“Don’t forget, Andrei Petrovich,” mother said, “to pay my respects to Prince B. as well; tell him I hope he won’t deprive Petrusha of his favors.”
“What nonsense!” father replied, frowning. “Why on earth should I write to Prince B.?”
“But you just said you were going to write to Petrusha’s superior.”
“Well, what of it?”
“Petrusha’s commander is Prince B. Petrusha is enlisted in the Semyonovsky regiment.”
“Enlisted! What do I care if he’s enlisted? Petrusha’s not going to Petersburg. What will he learn, serving in Petersburg? To squander and philander? No, let him serve in the army, pull his load, get a whiff of powder, and be a soldier, not a wastrel. Enlisted i
n the guards! Where’s his passport?4 Give it here.”
Mother found my passport, which she kept in a box along with my baptismal gown, and held it out to father with a trembling hand. Father read it attentively, placed it in front of him on the table, and began his letter.
Curiosity tormented me: where was I being sent, if not to Petersburg? I did not take my eyes off father’s quill, which moved quite slowly. He finally finished, sealed the letter in the same envelope with the passport, took off his spectacles, and, beckoning to me, said: “Here’s a letter to Andrei Karlovich R., my old comrade and friend. You’re going to Orenburg5 to serve under him.”
And so all my bright hopes were dashed! Instead of a gay Petersburg life, garrison boredom awaited me in remote and godforsaken parts. Army service, which I had thought of a moment before with such rapture, now seemed to me like a dire misfortune. But there was no point in arguing. The next morning a traveling kibitka was brought to the porch; a trunk, a cellaret with tea things, and bundles of rolls and pies—the last tokens of a pampered home life—were put into it. My parents blessed me. Father said to me:
“Good-bye, Pyotr. Serve faithfully the one you are sworn to serve; obey your commanders; don’t curry favor with them; don’t thrust yourself into service; don’t excuse yourself from service; and remember the proverb: ‘Look after your clothes when they’re new, and your honor when it’s young.’ ” Mother tearfully bade me to look after my health, and Savelyich to watch over her little one. They put a hareskin coat on me, and a fox fur over it. I got into the kibitka with Savelyich and set off, drowning myself in tears.
That same night I arrived in Simbirsk, where I was to spend a day buying necessary things, a task that had been entrusted to Savelyich. I put up at an inn. The next morning Savelyich headed off to the shops. Bored with looking out the window at the muddy alley, I went rambling about all the rooms. Going into the billiard room, I saw a tall gentleman of about thirty-five, with long black moustaches, in a dressing gown, with a cue in his hand and a pipe in his teeth. He was playing with the marker, who drank a glass of vodka when he won, and had to crawl on all fours under the table when he lost. I started watching their game. The longer it went on, the more frequent became the promenades on all fours, until the marker finally just stayed under the table. The gentleman pronounced several strong phrases over him by way of a funeral oration and offered to play a round with me. Not knowing how to play, I declined. That evidently seemed strange to him. He gave me a pitying look; nevertheless we got to talking. I learned that his name was Ivan Ivanovich Zurin, that he was a captain in the * * * hussar regiment, that he was in Simbirsk to take recruits and was staying at the inn. Zurin invited me to share a meal with him, soldier fashion, of whatever there was. I eagerly accepted. We sat down at the table. Zurin drank a lot and also treated me, saying that I needed to get used to the service; he told me army jokes that had me nearly rolling with laughter, and we got up from the table as fast friends. Here he volunteered to teach me to play billiards.
“That,” he said, “is necessary for a fellow serviceman. On campaign, for instance, you come to some little place—what are you going to do with yourself? You can’t beat Jews all the time. Willy-nilly you go to the inn and play billiards; and for that you have to know how to play!”
I was fully convinced and set about learning with great diligence. Zurin loudly cheered me on, marveled at my quick progress, and, after a few lessons, suggested that we play for money, only half-kopecks, not for gain, but just so as not to play for nothing, which was, as he put it, the nastiest of habits. I accepted that, too, and Zurin ordered punch and persuaded me to try it, repeating that I needed to get used to the service; and what was the service without punch! I obeyed him. Meanwhile our game went on. The more often I sipped from my glass, the more valiant I became. The balls kept flying over the cushion on me; I got excited, scolded the marker, who scored God knows how, increased my stakes time after time—in short, behaved like a boy broken free. Meanwhile the time passed imperceptibly. Zurin glanced at his watch, put down his cue, and announced that I had lost a hundred roubles. That threw me off a little. My money was with Savelyich. I started to apologize. Zurin interrupted me:
“For pity’s sake! Kindly don’t trouble yourself. I can wait, and meantime we’ll go to Arinushka’s.”
What was I to do? I ended the day in dissipation, just as I had begun it. We had supper at Arinushka’s. Zurin kept filling my glass, repeating that I had to get used to the service. When I got up from the table, I could barely keep my feet; at midnight Zurin took me back to the inn.
Savelyich met us on the porch. He gasped, seeing indisputable signs of my zeal for the service.
“What’s happened to you, master?” he asked in a rueful voice. “Where did you get so loaded? Ah, lordy me, you’ve never been in such a bad way!”
“Shut up, you old geezer!” I replied haltingly. “You must be drunk. Go to sleep…and put me to bed.”
The next day I woke up with a headache, vaguely recalling the events of the day before. My reflections were interrupted by Savelyich, who came in with a cup of tea.
“It’s too early, Pyotr Andreevich,” he said to me, shaking his head, “you’ve started carousing too early. Who are you taking after? It seems neither your father nor your grandfather was a drunkard, not to mention your mother: in all her born days she’s never touched anything but kvass. And whose fault is it all? That cursed moosieu. Time and again he’d go running to Antipyevna: ‘Madame, zhe voo pree, vodkyoo.’*2 There’s a zhe voo pree for you! No denying it: he taught you well, the son of a dog. And they just had to go and hire a heathen for a tutor, as if the master didn’t have people of his own!”
I was ashamed. I turned away and said: “Get out, Savelyich; I don’t want any tea.” But there was no stopping Savelyich once he started to sermonize.
“So you see, Pyotr Andreevich, where carousing gets you. Your little head is heavy, and you don’t want to eat. A drinking man is good for nothing…Have some pickling brine with honey, or best of all a half glass of liqueur for the hair of the dog. What do you say?”
Just then a boy came in and handed me a note from I. I. Zurin. I opened it and read the following lines:
My dear Pyotr Andreevich,
Please send me with my boy the hundred roubles you lost to me yesterday. I am in urgent need of money.
At your service,
Ivan Zurin
There was nothing to be done. I assumed an air of indifference and, turning to Savelyich, who was “the keeper of my money, of my linen and my affairs,”6 ordered him to give the boy a hundred roubles.
“What? Why?” asked the astonished Savelyich.
“I owe it to him,” I replied with all possible coolness.
“Owe it!” retorted Savelyich, whose astonishment was growing by the minute. “When was it, sir, that you managed to get into debt to him? Something’s not right here. Like it or not, sir, I won’t hand over the money.”
I thought that if in this decisive moment I did not argue down the stubborn old man, it would be hard for me to free myself from his tutelage later on, and, glancing haughtily at him, I said:
“I am your master, and you are my servant. The money is mine. I lost it gambling because I felt like it. I advise you not to be too clever and to do as you’re told.”
Savelyich was so shocked by my words that he clasped his hands and stood dumbstruck.
“What are you standing there for!” I shouted angrily.
Savelyich wept.
“Dearest Pyotr Andreevich,” he uttered in a trembling voice, “don’t make me die of grief. Light of my life! Listen to me, an old man: write to this robber that you were joking, that we don’t even have that kind of money. A hundred roubles! Merciful God! Tell him your parents strictly forbade you to gamble, except for nuts…”
“Enough babble,” I interrupted sternly. “Bring me the money or I’ll chuck you out.”
Savelyich looked at me with dee
p sorrow and went to fetch my debt. I pitied the poor old man; but I wanted to break free and prove that I was no longer a child. The money was delivered to Zurin. Savelyich hastened to take me away from the accursed inn. He appeared with the news that the horses were ready. With an uneasy conscience and silent remorse I drove out of Simbirsk without saying good-bye to my teacher or thinking I would ever see him again.
CHAPTER TWO
The Guide
Land of mine, dear land of mine,
Land unknown to me!
Not on my own did I come to thee,
Nor was it my good steed that brought me.
What brought me, fine lad that I am,
Was youthful swiftness, youthful boldness,
And tavern drunkenness.
AN OLD SONG
My reflections on the way were not very pleasant. My loss, by the value back then, was not inconsiderable. Deep in my heart I knew that my behavior at the Simbirsk inn had been stupid, and I felt myself guilty before Savelyich. It all tormented me. The old man sat sullenly on the box, his back turned to me, and said nothing, but only groaned now and then. I certainly wanted to make peace with him, but did not know where to begin. Finally I said to him:
“Now, now, Savelyich! Enough, let’s make peace, it was my fault; I see myself that it was my fault. I got up to some mischief yesterday, and I wrongfully offended you. I promise to behave more sensibly in the future and to listen to you. Don’t be angry; let’s make peace.”
“Eh, dearest Pyotr Andreevich!” he replied with a deep sigh. “It’s my own self I’m angry at; it’s my fault all around. How could I have left you alone at the inn! But there it is! The devil put it into my head to go and see the sexton’s wife; she’s my cousin. So there: go to your cousin, wind up in prison. It’s as bad as that!…How can I show my face to the masters? What’ll they say when they find out the little one drinks and gambles?”
Novels, Tales, Journeys: The Complete Prose of Alexander Pushkin Page 30