The Daughter of the Commandant | Page 2

to teach me French, German, and all the sciences, he liked better
learning of me to chatter Russian indifferently. Each of us busied
himself with our own affairs; our friendship was firm, and I did not
wish for a better mentor. But Fate soon parted us, and it was through an
event which I am going to relate.
The washerwoman, Polashka, a fat girl, pitted with small-pox, and the
one-eyed cow-girl, Akoulka, came one fine day to my mother with such
stories against the "moussié," that she, who did not at all like these kind
of jokes, in her turn complained to my father, who, a man of hasty
temperament, instantly sent for that rascal of a Frenchman. He was
answered humbly that the "moussié" was giving me a lesson. My father
ran to my room. Beaupré was sleeping on his bed the sleep of the just.
As for me, I was absorbed in a deeply interesting occupation. A map
had been procured for me from Moscow, which hung against the wall
without ever being used, and which had been tempting me for a long
time from the size and strength of its paper. I had at last resolved to
make a kite of it, and, taking advantage of Beaupré's slumbers, I had set
to work.
My father came in just at the very moment when I was tying a tail to
the Cape of Good Hope.
At the sight of my geographical studies he boxed my ears sharply,
sprang forward to Beaupré's bed, and, awaking him without any
consideration, he began to assail him with reproaches. In his trouble

and confusion Beaupré vainly strove to rise; the poor "outchitel" was
dead drunk. My father pulled him up by the collar of his coat, kicked
him out of the room, and dismissed him the same day, to the
inexpressible joy of Savéliitch.
Thus was my education finished.
I lived like a stay-at-home son (nédoross'l),[4] amusing myself by
scaring the pigeons on the roofs, and playing leapfrog with the lads of
the courtyard,[5] till I was past the age of sixteen. But at this age my
life underwent a great change.
One autumn day, my mother was making honey jam in her parlour,
while, licking my lips, I was watching the operations, and occasionally
tasting the boiling liquid. My father, seated by the window, had just
opened the Court Almanack, which he received every year. He was
very fond of this book; he never read it except with great attention, and
it had the power of upsetting his temper very much. My mother, who
knew all his whims and habits by heart, generally tried to keep the
unlucky book hidden, so that sometimes whole months passed without
the Court Almanack falling beneath his eye. On the other hand, when
he did chance to find it, he never left it for hours together. He was now
reading it, frequently shrugging his shoulders, and muttering, half
aloud--
"General! He was sergeant in my company. Knight of the Orders of
Russia! Was it so long ago that we--"
At last my father threw the Almanack away from him on the sofa, and
remained deep in a brown study, which never betokened anything
good.
"Avdotia Vassiliéva,"[6] said he, sharply addressing my mother, "how
old is Petróusha?"[7]
"His seventeenth year has just begun," replied my mother. "Petróusha
was born the same year our Aunt Anastasia Garasimofna[8] lost an eye,
and that--"

"All right," resumed my father; "it is time he should serve. 'Tis time he
should cease running in and out of the maids' rooms and climbing into
the dovecote."
The thought of a coming separation made such an impression on my
mother that she dropped her spoon into her saucepan, and her eyes
filled with tears. As for me, it is difficult to express the joy which took
possession of me. The idea of service was mingled in my mind with the
liberty and pleasures offered by the town of Petersburg. I already saw
myself officer of the Guard, which was, in my opinion, the height of
human happiness.
My father neither liked to change his plans, nor to defer the execution
of them. The day of my departure was at once fixed. The evening
before my father told me that he was going to give me a letter for my
future superior officer, and bid me bring him pen and paper.
"Don't forget, Andréj Petróvitch," said my mother, "to remember me to
Prince Banojik; tell him I hope he will do all he can for my Petróusha."
"What nonsense!" cried my father, frowning. "Why do you wish me to
write to Prince Banojik?"
"But you have just told us you are good enough to write to Petróusha's
superior officer."
"Well, what of that?"
"But Prince Banojik