The Daughter of the Commandant Part 5

Chvabrine had described Marya, the Commandant's daughter, to me as being rather silly. She went and sat down in a corner, and began to sew. Still the "_chtchi_"[40] had been brought in. Va.s.silissa Igorofna, not seeing her husband come back, sent Palashka for the second time to call him.

"Tell the master that the visitors are waiting, and the soup is getting cold. Thank heaven, the drill will not run away. He will have plenty of time to shout as much as he likes."

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

"What does all this mean, my little father?" said his wife to him.

"Dinner has been ready a long time, and we cannot make you come."

"But don't you see, Va.s.silissa Igorofna," replied Ivan Kouzmitch, "I was very busy drilling my little soldiers."

"Nonsense," replied she, "that's only a boast; they are past service, and you don't know much about it. You should have stayed at home, and said your prayers; that would have been much better for you. My dear guests, pray sit down to table."

We took our places. Va.s.silissa Igorofna never ceased talking for a moment, and overwhelmed me with questions. Who were my parents, were they alive, where did they live, and what was their income? When she learnt that my father had three hundred serfs--

"Well!" she exclaimed, "there are rich people in this world! And as to us, my little father, we have as to souls[41] only the servant girl, Palashka. Well, thank heaven, we get along little by little. We have only one care on our minds--Masha, a girl who must be married. And what dowry has she got? A comb and two-pence to pay for a bath twice a year.

If only she could light on some honest man! If not she must remain an old maid!"

I glanced at Marya Ivanofna.[42] She had become quite red, and tears were rolling down, even into her plate. I was sorry for her, and I hastened to change the conversation.

"I have heard," I exclaimed (very much to the point), "that the Bashkirs intend to attack your fort."

"Who told you that, my little father?" replied Ivan Kouzmitch.

"I heard it said at Orenburg," replied I.

"That's all rubbish," said the Commandant. "We have not heard a word of it for ever so long. The Bashkir people have been thoroughly awed, and the Kirghiz, too, have had some good lessons. They won't dare to attack us, and if they venture to do so I'll give them such a fright that they won't stir for ten years at least."

"And you are not afraid," I continued, addressing the Commandant's wife, "to stay in a fort liable to such dangers?"

"It's all a question of custom, my little father," answered she. "It's twenty years ago now since we were transferred from the regiment here.

You would never believe how frightened I used to be of those confounded Pagans. If ever I chanced to see their hairy caps, or hear their howls, believe me, my little father, I nearly died of it. And now I am so accustomed to it that I should not budge an inch if I was told that the rascals were prowling all around the fort."

"Va.s.silissa Igorofna is a very brave lady," remarked Chvabrine, gravely.

"Ivan Kouzmitch knows something of that."

"Oh! yes, indeed," said Ivan Kouzmitch, "she's no coward."

"And Marya Ivanofna," I asked her mother, "is she as bold as you?"

"Masha!" replied the lady; "no, Masha is a coward. Till now she has never been able to hear a gun fired without trembling all over. It is two years ago now since Ivan Kouzmitch took it into his head to fire his cannon on my birthday; she was so frightened, the poor little dove, she nearly ran away into the other world. Since that day we have never fired that confounded cannon any more."

We got up from table; the Commandant and his wife went to take their siesta, and I went to Chvabrine's quarters, where we pa.s.sed the evening together.

CHAPTER IV.

THE DUEL.

Several weeks pa.s.sed, during which my life in Fort Belogorsk became not merely endurable, but even pleasant. I was received like one of the family in the household of the Commandant. The husband and wife were excellent people. Ivan Kouzmitch, who had been a child of the regiment, had become an officer, and was a simple, uneducated man, but good and true. His wife led him completely, which, by the way, very well suited his natural laziness.

It was Va.s.silissa Igorofna who directed all military business as she did that of her household, and commanded in the little fort as she did in her house. Marya Ivanofna soon ceased being shy, and we became better acquainted. I found her a warm-hearted and sensible girl. By degrees I became attached to this honest family, even to Iwan Ignatiitch, the one-eyed lieutenant, whom Chvabrine accused of secret intrigue with Va.s.silissa Igorofna, an accusation which had not even a shadow of probability. But that did not matter to Chvabrine.

I became an officer. My work did not weigh heavily upon me. In this heaven-blest fort there was no drill to do, no guard to mount, nor review to pa.s.s. Sometimes the Commandant instructed his soldiers for his own pleasure. But he had not yet succeeded in teaching them to know their right hand from their left. Chvabrine had some French books; I took to reading, and I acquired a taste for literature. In the morning I used to read, and I tried my hand at translations, sometimes even at compositions in verse. Nearly every day I dined at the Commandant's, where I usually pa.s.sed the rest of the day. In the evening, Father Garasim used to drop in, accompanied by his wife, Akoulina, who was the st.u.r.diest gossip of the neighbourhood. It is scarcely necessary to say that every day we met, Chvabrine and I. Still hour by hour his conversation pleased me less. His everlasting jokes about the Commandant's family, and, above all, his witty remarks upon Marya Ivanofna, displeased me very much. I had no other society but that of this family within the little fort, but I did not want any other.

In spite of all the prophecies, the Bashkirs did not revolt. Peace reigned around our little fort. But this peace was suddenly troubled by war within.

I have already said I dabbled a little in literature. My attempts were tolerable for the time, and Soumarokoff[43] himself did justice to them many years later. One day I happened to write a little song which pleased me. It is well-known that under colour of asking advice, authors willingly seek a benevolent listener; I copied out my little song, and took it to Chvabrine, the only person in the fort who could appreciate a poetical work.

After a short preface, I drew my ma.n.u.script from my pocket, and read to him the following verses:[44]

"By waging war with thoughts of love I try to forget my beauty; Alas! by flight from Masha, I hope my freedom to regain!

"But the eyes which enslaved me are ever before me.

My soul have they troubled and ruined my rest.

"Oh! Masha, who knowest my sorrows, Seeing me in this miserable plight, Take pity on thy captive."

"What do you think of that?" I said to Chvabrine, expecting praise as a tribute due to me. But to my great displeasure Chvabrine, who usually showed kindness, told me flatly my song was worth nothing.

"Why?" I asked, trying to hide my vexation.

"Because such verses," replied he, "are only worthy of my master Trediakofski,[45] and, indeed, remind me very much of his little erotic couplets."

He took the MSS. from my hand and began unmercifully criticizing each verse, each word, cutting me up in the most spiteful way. That was too much for me; I s.n.a.t.c.hed the MSS. out of his hands, and declared that never, no never, would I ever again show him one of my compositions.

Chvabrine did not laugh the less at this threat.

"Let us see," said he, "if you will be able to keep your word; poets have as much need of an audience as Ivan Kouzmitch has need of his '_pet.i.t verre_' before dinner. And who is this Masha to whom you declare your tender sentiments and your ardent flame? Surely it must be Marya Ivanofna?"

"That does not concern you," replied I, frowning; "I don't ask for your advice nor your suppositions."

"Oh! oh! a vain poet and a discreet lover," continued Chvabrine, irritating me more and more. "Listen to a little friendly advice: if you wish to succeed, I advise you not to stick at songs."

"What do you mean, sir?" I exclaimed; "explain yourself if you please."

"With pleasure," rejoined he. "I mean that if you want to be well with Masha Mironoff, you need only make her a present of a pair of earrings instead of your languishing verses."

My blood boiled.

"Why have you such an opinion of her?" I asked him, restraining with difficulty my indignation.

"Because," replied he, with a satanic smile, "because I know by experience her views and habits."

"You lie, you rascal!" I shouted at him, in fury. "You are a shameless liar."