But at this age my
life underwent a great change.
life underwent a great change.
Pushkin - Daughter of the Commandant
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 "_moussie_," 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 "_moussie_" was giving me a lesson. My father
ran to my room. Beaupre 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 Beaupre'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 Beaupre's bed, and, awaking him without any consideration, he
began to assail him with reproaches. In his trouble and confusion
Beaupre 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
Saveliitch.
Thus was my education finished.
I lived like a stay-at-home son (_nedoross'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 Vassilieva,"[6] said he, sharply addressing my mother, "how
old is Petrousha? "[7]
"His seventeenth year has just begun," replied my mother. "Petrousha 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.
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 "_moussie_," 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 "_moussie_" was giving me a lesson. My father
ran to my room. Beaupre 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 Beaupre'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 Beaupre's bed, and, awaking him without any consideration, he
began to assail him with reproaches. In his trouble and confusion
Beaupre 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
Saveliitch.
Thus was my education finished.
I lived like a stay-at-home son (_nedoross'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 Vassilieva,"[6] said he, sharply addressing my mother, "how
old is Petrousha? "[7]
"His seventeenth year has just begun," replied my mother. "Petrousha 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.
