Novels, Tales, Journeys

Ivan Petrovich led a most frugal life, avoiding any sort of excess; never did I see him tipsy (which in our parts can be regarded as an unheard-of miracle); he had a great inclination for the female sex, but his shyness was truly maidenly.^*1

Besides the tales you are pleased to mention in your letter, Ivan Petrovich left many manuscripts, some of which are in my possession, some of which the housekeeper has put to various domestic uses. For instance, last winter she sealed all of her cottage windows with the first part of a novel he had left unfinished. The above-mentioned tales seem to have been his first experiments. They are, as Ivan Petrovich used to say, mostly true and heard by him from various persons.^*2 However, the names in them are almost all fictitious, and the names of the towns and villages are all borrowed from our neighborhood, which is why my village is also mentioned somewhere. This occurred not from any ill intention, but solely from a lack of imagination.

In the autumn of 1828, Ivan Petrovich came down with a fit of ague that turned into a high fever, and he died, despite the indefatigable efforts of our district doctor, a very skillful man, especially in treating inveterate illnesses such as corns and the like. He died in my arms at thirty years of age and is buried in the church of Goryukhino next to his late parents.

Ivan Petrovich was of medium height, had gray eyes, light brown hair, and a straight nose; his face was fair and lean.

That, my dear sir, is all I can remember concerning the way of life, occupations, character, and appearance of my late neighbor and friend. But in case you are pleased to make some use of this letter of mine, I most humbly beg you to make no mention of my name; for though I have great respect and love for writers, I consider it superfluous and, at my age, improper to join their ranks. With my sincere respects, and so on.

16 November 1830

Village of Nenaradovo

Considering it our duty to respect the will of our author’s estimable friend, we express our profound gratitude to him for the information he has provided us and hope that the public will value its sincerity and good nature.

A. P.

*1 There follows an anecdote which we do not include, supposing it to be superfluous; however, we assure the reader that it contains nothing prejudicial to the memory of Ivan Petrovich Belkin. (The Publisher)

*2 In fact, in Mr. Belkin’s manuscript, at the head of each story there is written in the author’s hand: “Heard by me from such-and-such person” with rank or title and initials. We note them down here for curious readers: “The Stationmaster” was told him by the titular councilor A. G. N., “The Shot” by Lieutenant Colonel I. L. P., “The Coffin-Maker” by the clerk B. V., “The Blizzard” and “The Young Lady Peasant” by Miss K. I. T. (The Publisher)

THE SHOT

We fought a duel.

BARATYNSKY1

I swore I would shoot him by the rules of

dueling (I had not yet taken my shot at him).

An Evening at Bivouac2

I

We were stationed in the small town of * * *. Everyone is familiar with the life of an army officer. In the morning, drill and riding practice; dinner at the regimental commander’s or in a Jewish tavern; in the evening, punch and cards. There was not a single open house in * * *, not a single marriageable girl; we gathered in one another’s rooms, where there was nothing to be seen but our uniforms.