ALEXANDER SERGEYEVITCH PUSHKIN

The Captain’s Daughter

Alexander Sergeyevitch Pushkin was born at Moscow on June 7, 1799.  He came of an ancient family, a strange ancestor being a favourite negro ennobled by Peter the Great, who bequeathed to him a mass of curly hair and a somewhat darker skin than usually falls to the lot of the ordinary Russian.  Early in life a daring “Ode to Liberty” brought him the displeasure of the court, and the young poet narrowly escaped a journey to Siberia by accepting an official post at Kishineff, in Southern Russia.  But on the accession of Tsar Nicholas in 182s, Pushkin was recalled and appointed imperial historiographer.  His death, which occurred on February 10, 1837, was the result of a duel fought with his brother-in-law.  Pushkin’s career was one of almost unparallelled brilliancy.  As a poet, he still remains the greatest Russia has produced; and although his prose works do not rise to the high standard of his verse, yet they are of no inconsiderable merit.  “The Captain’s Daughter, a Russian Romance,” was written about 1831, and published under the nom de plume of Ivan Byelkin.  It is a story of the times of Catherine II., and is not only told with interest and charm, but with great simplicity and reality, and with a due sense of drama.  Others of his novels are “The Pistol Shot,” “The Queen of Spades,” and “The Undertaker,” the last-named a grim story in a style that has been familiarised to English readers by Edgar Allan Poe.

I.—­I Join the Army

My father, after serving in the army, had retired with the rank of senior major.  Since that time he had always lived on his estate, where he married the eldest daughter of a poor gentleman in the neighbourhood.  All my brothers and sisters died young, and it was decided that I should enter the army.

When I was nearly seventeen, instead of being sent to join the guards’ regiment at Petersburg, my father told me I was going to Orenburg.  “You will learn nothing at Petersburg but to spend money and commit follies,” he said.  “No, you shall smell powder and become a soldier, not an idler.”

It seemed horrible to me to be doomed to the dullness of a savage and distant province, and to lose the gaiety I had been looking forward to; but there was nothing for it but to submit.

The morning arrived for my departure, the travelling carriage was at the door, and our old servant Saveluetch was in attendance to accompany me.

Two days later, when we were nearing our destination, a snowstorm overtook us.  We might have perished in the snow, for all traces of the road were lost, but for a stranger who guided us to a small and lonely inn, where we passed the night.  In the morning, to the sorrow of Saveluetch, I insisted on giving our guide, who was but thinly clad, one of my cloaks—­a hare-skin touloup.