“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you old hound, for not having—in spite of my strict injunctions to you to do so—written to me and informed me of the conduct of my son, Peter Andreitch, and leaving it to strangers to acquaint me with his follies. Is it thus that you fulfil your duty and your master’s will? I will send you to tend the pigs, you old hound, for concealing the truth and for indulging the young man. On receipt of this, I command you to write back to me without delay, and inform me of the present state of his health, of the exact place of his wound, and whether he has been well attended to.”
It was evident that Savelitch was perfectly innocent, and that I had insulted him with my reproaches and suspicions for no reason at all. I asked his pardon; but the old man was inconsolable.
“That I should have lived to come to this!” he kept on repeating; “these are the thanks that I receive from my master. I am an old hound, a keeper of pigs, and I am the cause of your being wounded. No, little father, Peter Andreitch, it is not I, but that accursed mossoo who is to blame: it was he who taught you to thrust with those iron spits and to stamp your foot, as if by thrusting and stamping one could protect himself from a bad man. It was very necessary to engage that mossoo and so throw good money to the winds!”
But who then had taken upon himself the trouble to denounce my conduct to my father? The general? But he did not appear to trouble himself in the least about me; and Ivan Kouzmitch had not considered it necessary to report my duel to him. I became lost in conjecture. My suspicions settled upon Shvabrin. He alone could derive any advantage from the denunciation, the result of which might be my removal from the fortress and separation from the Commandant’s family. I went to inform Maria Ivanovna of everything. She met me on the steps leading up to the door.
“What has happened, to you?” said she, on seeing me; “how pale you are!”
“It is all over,” replied I, and I gave her my father’s letter.
She now grew pale in her turn. Having read the letter, she returned it to me with a trembling hand, and said, with a quivering voice:
“Fate ordains that I should not be your wife.... Your parents will not receive me into their family. God’s will be done! God knows better than we do, what is good for us. There is nothing to be done, Peter Andreitch; may you be happy——”
“It shall not be!” I exclaimed, seizing hold of her hand. “You love me; I am prepared for everything. Let us go and throw ourselves at the feet of your parents; they are simple people, not hard-hearted and proud. They will give us their blessing; we will get married ... and then, with time, I feel quite certain that we shall succeed in bringing my father round; my mother will be on our side; he will forgive me——”
“No, Peter Andreitch,” replied Masha, “I will not marry you without the blessing of your parents. Without their blessing you will not be happy. Let us submit to the will of God. If you meet with somebody else, if you love another God be with you, Peter Andreitch, I will pray for you both——”