Daughter of the Commandant , livre ebook

Pub One Info - Sergeevich Pushkin Aleksandr

Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement

Je m'inscris

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

70 pages

English

Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage

Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne
En savoir plus

A propos
Informations
Extrait

Description

ALEXKSANDR POUSHKIN, the Poet, was born at Petersburg in 1799 of good family, and died before he was forty, in the prime of his genius. The novel here offered to the public is considered by Russians his best prose work. Others are Boris Godunof, a dramatic sketch, but never intended to be put on the stage, and The Prisoner of the Caucasus. Among his poems are The Gipsies, Ruslan and Ludmilla, The Fountain of Tears, and Evgeni Oneghin. The last, if I mistake not, was translated into English some years ago. Some of Poushkin's writings having drawn suspicion on him he was banished to a distant part of the Empire, where he filled sundry administrative posts. The Tzar Nicholai, on his accession in 1825, recalled him to Petersburg and made him Historiographer. The works of the poet were much admired in society, but he was not happy in his domestic life. His outspoken language made him many enemies, and disgraceful reports were purposely spread abroad concerning him, which resulted in a duel in which he was mortally wounded by his brother-in-law, George Danthes

Informations

Publié par	Pub One Info
Date de parution	23 octobre 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9782819901020
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0100€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

PREFACE.
ALEXKSANDR POUSHKIN, the Poet, was born atPetersburg in 1799 of good family, and died before he was forty, inthe prime of his genius. The novel here offered to the public isconsidered by Russians his best prose work. Others are BorisGodúnof , a dramatic sketch, but never intended to be put on thestage, and The Prisoner of the Caucasus . Among his poems are"The Gipsies," "Rúslan and Ludmilla," "The Fountain of Tears," and"Evgeni Onéghin." The last, if I mistake not, was translated intoEnglish some years ago. Some of Poushkin's writings having drawnsuspicion on him he was banished to a distant part of the Empire,where he filled sundry administrative posts. The Tzar Nicholai, onhis accession in 1825, recalled him to Petersburg and made himHistoriographer. The works of the poet were much admired insociety, but he was not happy in his domestic life. His outspokenlanguage made him many enemies, and disgraceful reports werepurposely spread abroad concerning him, which resulted in a duel inwhich he was mortally wounded by his brother-in-law, GeorgeDanthès. His death was mourned publicly by all Russia.
M.P.M.H.
April, 1891.
CHAPTER I.
SERGEANT OF THE GUARDS.
My father, Andréj Petróvitch Grineff, after servingin his youth under Count Münich, 1 had retired in 17 – with the rank of seniormajor. Since that time he had always lived on his estate in thedistrict of Simbirsk, where he married Avdotia, the eldest daughterof a poor gentleman in the neighbourhood. Of the nine children bornof this union I alone survived; all my brothers and sisters diedyoung. I had been enrolled as sergeant in the Séménofsky regimentby favour of the major of the Guard, Prince Banojik, our nearrelation. I was supposed to be away on leave till my education wasfinished. At that time we were brought up in another manner than isusual now.
From five years old I was given over to the care ofthe huntsman, Savéliitch, 2 who from his steadiness and sobriety wasconsidered worthy of becoming my attendant. Thanks to his care, attwelve years old I could read and write, and was considered a goodjudge of the points of a greyhound. At this time, to complete myeducation, my father hired a Frenchman, M. Beaupré, who wasimported from Moscow at the same time as the annual provision ofwine and Provence oil. His arrival displeased Savéliitch very much."It seems to me, thank heaven," murmured he, "the child was washed,combed, and fed. What was the good of spending money and hiring a' moussié ,' as if there were not enough servants in thehouse?"
Beaupré, in his native country, had been ahairdresser, then a soldier in Prussia, and then had come to Russiato be " outchitel ," without very well knowing the meaning ofthis word. 3 Hewas a good creature, but wonderfully absent and hare-brained. Hisgreatest weakness was a love of the fair sex. Neither, as he saidhimself, was he averse to the bottle, that is, as we say in Russia,that his passion was drink. But, as in our house the wine onlyappeared at table, and then only in liqueur glasses, and ason these occasions it somehow never came to the turn of the" outchitel " to be served at all, my Beaupré soon accustomedhimself to the Russian brandy, and ended by even preferring it toall the wines of his native country as much better for the stomach.We became great friends, and though, according to the contract, hehad engaged himself to teach me French, German, and all thesciences , he liked better learning of me to chatter Russianindifferently. Each of us busied himself with our own affairs; ourfriendship was firm, and I did not wish for a better mentor. ButFate soon parted us, and it was through an event which I am goingto relate.
The washerwoman, Polashka, a fat girl, pitted withsmall-pox, and the one-eyed cow-girl, Akoulka, came one fine day tomy mother with such stories against the " moussié ," that she,who did not at all like these kind of jokes, in her turn complainedto my father, who, a man of hasty temperament, instantly sent forthat 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, Iwas absorbed in a deeply interesting occupation. A map had beenprocured for me from Moscow, which hung against the wall withoutever being used, and which had been tempting me for a long timefrom the size and strength of its paper. I had at last resolved tomake a kite of it, and, taking advantage of Beaupré's slumbers, Ihad set to work.
My father came in just at the very moment when I wastying a tail to the Cape of Good Hope.
At the sight of my geographical studies he boxed myears sharply, sprang forward to Beaupré's bed, and, awaking himwithout any consideration, he began to assail him with reproaches.In his trouble and confusion Beaupré vainly strove to rise; thepoor " outchitel " was dead drunk. My father pulled him up bythe collar of his coat, kicked him out of the room, and dismissedhim 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 theroofs, and playing leapfrog with the lads of the courtyard, 5 till I was pastthe age of sixteen. But at this age my life underwent a greatchange.
One autumn day, my mother was making honey jam inher parlour, while, licking my lips, I was watching the operations,and occasionally tasting the boiling liquid. My father, seated bythe window, had just opened the Court Almanack , which hereceived every year. He was very fond of this book; he never readit except with great attention, and it had the power of upsettinghis temper very much. My mother, who knew all his whims and habitsby heart, generally tried to keep the unlucky book hidden, so thatsometimes whole months passed without the Court Almanack falling beneath his eye. On the other hand, when he did chance tofind it, he never left it for hours together. He was now readingit, frequently shrugging his shoulders, and muttering, half aloud –"General! He was sergeant in my company. Knight of the Orders ofRussia! Was it so long ago that we – "
At last my father threw the Almanack awayfrom him on the sofa, and remained deep in a brown study, whichnever betokened anything good. "Avdotia Vassiliéva," 6 said he, sharplyaddressing my mother, "how old is Petróusha?" 7 "His seventeenthyear has just begun," replied my mother. "Petróusha was born thesame year our Aunt Anastasia Garasimofna 8 lost an eye, andthat – " "All right," resumed my father; "it is time he shouldserve. '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 animpression on my mother that she dropped her spoon into hersaucepan, and her eyes filled with tears. As for me, it isdifficult to express the joy which took possession of me. The ideaof service was mingled in my mind with the liberty and pleasuresoffered by the town of Petersburg. I already saw myself officer ofthe Guard, which was, in my opinion, the height of humanhappiness.
My father neither liked to change his plans, nor todefer the execution of them. The day of my departure was at oncefixed. The evening before my father told me that he was going togive me a letter for my future superior officer, and bid me bringhim pen and paper. "Don't forget, Andréj Petróvitch," said mymother, "to remember me to Prince Banojik; tell him I hope he willdo all he can for my Petróusha." "What nonsense!" cried my father,frowning. "Why do you wish me to write to Prince Banojik?" "But youhave just told us you are good enough to write to Petróusha'ssuperior officer." "Well, what of that?" "But Prince Banojik isPetróusha's superior officer. You know very well he is on the rollof the Séménofsky regiment." "On the roll! What is it to me whetherhe be on the roll or no? Petróusha shall not go to Petersburg! Whatwould he learn there? To spend money and commit follies. No, heshall serve with the army, he shall smell powder, he shall become asoldier and not an idler of the Guard, he shall wear out the strapsof his knapsack. Where is his commission? Give it to me."
My mother went to find my commission, which she keptin a box with my christening clothes, and gave it to my fatherwith, a trembling hand. My father read it with attention, laid itbefore him on the table, and began his letter.
Curiosity pricked me. "Where shall I be sent,"thought I, "if not to Petersburg?"
I never took my eyes off my father's pen as ittravelled slowly over the paper. At last he finished his letter,put it with my commission into the same cover, took off hisspectacles, called me, and said – "This letter is addressed toAndréj Karlovitch R., my old friend and comrade. You are to go toOrenburg 9 toserve under him."
All my brilliant expectations and high hopesvanished. Instead of the gay and lively life of Petersburg, I wasdoomed to a dull life in a far and wild country. Military service,which a moment before I thought would be delightful, now seemedhorrible to me. But there was nothing for it but resignation. Onthe morning of the following day a travelling kibitka stoodbefore the hall door. There were packed in it a trunk and a boxcontaining a tea service, and some napkins tied up full of rollsand little cakes, the last I should get of home pampering.
My parents gave me their blessing, and my fathersaid to me – "Good-bye, Petr'; serve faithfully he to whom you havesworn fidelity; obey your superiors; do not seek for favours; donot struggle after active service, but do not refuse it either, andremember the proverb, 'Take care of your coat while it is new, andof your honour while it is young.'"
My mother tearfully begged me not to neglect myhealth, and bade Savéliitch take great care of the darling. I wasdressed in a short " touloup " 10 of hareskin,and over it a thick pelisse of foxskin. I seated myself in the ki