At last, one pleasant day Saveliitch came to my room, letter in hand.  The address was written in my father’s hand.  This sight prepared me for something grave, for usually my mother wrote me, and he only added a few lines at the end.  Long I hesitated to break the seal.  I read again and again the solemn superscription: 

“To my Son,
Peter Grineff,
Principality of Orenbourg,
Fortress of Belogorsk.”

I tried to discover by my father’s writing his mood of mind when he wrote that letter.  At last I broke that seal.  I saw from the first lines that our hopes were crushed!  Here is the letter: 

“My son Peter:  We received the 15th of this month the letter in which you ask our paternal benediction and consent to your marriage with Mironoff’s daughter.  Not only have I no intention of giving either my consent or benediction, but I have a great mind to go to you and punish you for your childish follies, notwithstanding your officer’s rank, because you have proved that you are not worthy to bear the sword which was given you for the defense of your country, and not for the purpose of fighting a duel with a fool of your own stamp.  I shall write instantly to Andrew Karlovitch to transfer you from the fortress of Belogorsk to some still more distant place.  Upon hearing of your wound your mother was taken ill, and is still confined to her bed.  What will become of you?  I pray God to reform you, but can scarcely hope for so much from his goodness.  Your father, A.G.”

The harsh expressions which my father had not spared, wounded me sorely; the contempt with which he treated Marie seemed to me as unjust as it was undignified.  Then the mere idea of being sent from this fortress alarmed me; but above all, I grieved for my mother’s illness.  Saveliitch came in for a share of my indignation, not doubting but that he informed my parents of the duel.  After having paced up and down my little chamber, I stopped suddenly before the old man and said:  “It seems that it is not enough that you caused my wound, and brought me almost to the brink of the grave, but that you want to kill my mother too!”

Saveliitch was as motionless as if lightning had struck him.  “Have mercy on me! my lord,” said he, “what do you deign to tell me?  I caused your wound?  God sees that I was running to put my breast before you, to receive the sword of Alexis.  This cursed age of mine hindered me.  But what have I done to your mother?”

“What have you done?  Who charged you to write an accusation against me?  Were you taken into my service to play the spy on me?”

“I write an accusation?” replied the old man, quite broken down, “O God!  King of heaven!  Here, read what the master writes me, and you shall see if I denounced thee.”  At the same time he drew from his pocket a letter which he gave me, and I read what follows: