Novels, Tales, Journeys

CHAPTER ONE A Sergeant of the Guards

“Tomorrow he could well be a captain of the guards.”

“There’s no need for that; let him serve in the ranks.”

“Rightly said! Let him suffer a bit for his thanks.”

……….

And who is his father?

KNYAZHNIN1

My father, Andrei Petrovich Grinyov, served under Count Münnich2 in his youth and retired as a lieutenant colonel in 17––. After that he lived on his estate in Simbirsk province, where he married Miss Avdotya Vasilyevna Yu., the daughter of a poor local gentleman. They had nine children. All my brothers and sisters died in infancy.

While my mother was still pregnant with me, I was already enlisted as a sergeant in the Semyonovsky regiment,3 through the graces of Prince B., a major of the guards and our close relative. If, against all expectations, my mother had given birth to a girl, my father would have informed the proper authorities of the death of the non-reporting sergeant, and the matter would have ended there. I was considered on leave until I finished my studies. Back then we were not educated as nowadays. At the age of five I was put into the hands of the groom Savelyich, who for his sober behavior was accorded the honor of being my attendant. Under his supervision, by the age of twelve I had learned to read and write in Russian and was a very sound judge of the qualities of the male borzoi. At that time father hired a French tutor for me, Monsieur Beaupré, whom he ordered from Moscow together with a year’s supply of wine and olive oil. His arrival greatly displeased Savelyich. “Thank God,” he grumbled to himself, “it seems the little one’s washed, combed, and fed. Why go spending extra money hiring a moosieu, as if his own people weren’t enough!”

In his own country, Beaupré had been a hairdresser, then in Prussia a soldier, then he came to Russia pour être outchitel,^*1 not understanding very well the meaning of the word. He was a nice fellow, but flighty and extremely dissipated. His main weakness was a passion for the fair sex; not infrequently he received kicks for his tender advances, which left him groaning for whole days. What’s more, he was (to use his own expression) “no enemy of the bottle,” that is (in Russian) he liked to take a drop too much. But since in our house wine was only served with dinner, and by the glass at that, the tutor usually being passed over, my Beaupré very quickly accustomed himself to Russian liqueurs and even came to prefer them to the wines of his own country, as incomparably more wholesome for the stomach. We hit it off at once, and though by contract he was supposed to teach me “in French, in German, and all the subjects,” he preferred to pick up some Russian chatter from me—and then each of us minded his own business. We lived in perfect harmony. I wished for no other mentor. But fate soon parted us, and here is how it happened.

The laundress Palashka, a fat and pockmarked wench, and the one-eyed milkmaid Akulka decided one day to throw themselves at my mother’s feet together, confessing to a criminal weakness and tearfully complaining about the moosieu who had seduced their inexperience. Mother did not take such things lightly and complained to my father. His justice was summary. He sent for the French rascal at once. He was informed that moosieu was giving me a lesson. Father went to my room. Just then Beaupré was lying on the bed sleeping the sleep of the innocent. I was busy with my own things. It should be mentioned that a geographical map had been ordered for me from Moscow. It hung quite uselessly on the wall, and the size and quality of the paper had long been tempting me. I decided to make a kite out of it and, taking advantage of Beaupré’s sleep, set to work. Father walked in just as I was attaching a bast tail to the Cape of Good Hope. Seeing my exercises in geography, my father yanked my ear, then ran over to Beaupré, woke him up quite unceremoniously, and began to shower him with reproaches. In his confusion Beaupré tried to get up but could not: the unfortunate Frenchman was dead drunk. Seven ills, one cure. Father picked him up from the bed by the scruff of the neck, pushed him out the door, and drove him off the premises that same day, to the indescribable joy of Savelyich. And that was the end of my education.

I lived as a young dunce, chasing pigeons and playing leapfrog with the servants’ kids. Meanwhile I turned sixteen. Here my fate changed.

One autumn day mother was cooking honey preserve in the drawing room, while I, licking my lips, kept my eyes on the boiling scum. Father sat by the window reading the Court Almanac, which he received every year. This book always had a strong effect on him: he could never read it without special concern, and this reading always caused an extraordinary stirring of the bile in him. Mother, who knew all his ways and displays by heart, always tried to tuck the wretched book as far away as possible, and thus the Court Almanac sometimes did not catch his eye for whole months. But then, when he chanced to find it, for whole hours he would not let it out of his hands. And so, father was reading the Court Almanac, shrugging from time to time and repeating under his breath: “Lieutenant general!…He was a sergeant in my company!…A chevalier of both Russian orders!…Was it so long ago that we…” Finally, father flung the almanac onto the sofa and sank into a brooding that boded no good.

Suddenly he turned to mother: “Avdotya Vasilyevna, how old is Petrusha?”

“He’s going on seventeen,” mother replied. “Petrusha was born the same year that aunt Nastasya Gerasimovna went one-eyed, and when…”

“Good,” father interrupted. “It’s time he was in the service. Enough of him running around the maids’ rooms and climbing the dovecotes.”

The thought of soon parting with me so struck my mother that she dropped her spoon into the pot and tears poured down her face. On the other hand, it is hard to describe my delight. The thought of the service merged in me with thoughts of freedom and the pleasures of Petersburg life. I pictured myself as an officer of the guards, which, in my opinion, was the height of human happiness.

Father did not like either to change his intentions or to postpone their execution. The day of my departure was appointed. On the eve, father announced that he intended to send with me a letter to my future superior, and he asked for pen and paper.

“Don’t forget, Andrei Petrovich,” mother said, “to pay my respects to Prince B. as well; tell him I hope he won’t deprive Petrusha of his favors.”

“What nonsense!” father replied, frowning. “Why on earth should I write to Prince B.?”

“But you just said you were going to write to Petrusha’s superior.”

“Well, what of it?”

“Petrusha’s commander is Prince B. Petrusha is enlisted in the Semyonovsky regiment.”

“Enlisted! What do I care if he’s enlisted? Petrusha’s not going to Petersburg. What will he learn, serving in Petersburg? To squander and philander? No, let him serve in the army, pull his load, get a whiff of powder, and be a soldier, not a wastrel. Enlisted in the guards! Where’s his passport?4 Give it here.”

Mother found my passport, which she kept in a box along with my baptismal gown, and held it out to father with a trembling hand. Father read it attentively, placed it in front of him on the table, and began his letter.

Curiosity tormented me: where was I being sent, if not to Petersburg? I did not take my eyes off father’s quill, which moved quite slowly. He finally finished, sealed the letter in the same envelope with the passport, took off his spectacles, and, beckoning to me, said: “Here’s a letter to Andrei Karlovich R., my old comrade and friend. You’re going to Orenburg5 to serve under him.”

And so all my bright hopes were dashed! Instead of a gay Petersburg life, garrison boredom awaited me in remote and godforsaken parts. Army service, which I had thought of a moment before with such rapture, now seemed to me like a dire misfortune. But there was no point in arguing. The next morning a traveling kibitka was brought to the porch; a trunk, a cellaret with tea things, and bundles of rolls and pies—the last tokens of a pampered home life—were put into it. My parents blessed me. Father said to me:

“Good-bye, Pyotr. Serve faithfully the one you are sworn to serve; obey your commanders; don’t curry favor with them; don’t thrust yourself into service; don’t excuse yourself from service; and remember the proverb: ‘Look after your clothes when they’re new, and your honor when it’s young.’ ” Mother tearfully bade me to look after my health, and Savelyich to watch over her little one. They put a hareskin coat on me, and a fox fur over it. I got into the kibitka with Savelyich and set off, drowning myself in tears.

That same night I arrived in Simbirsk, where I was to spend a day buying necessary things, a task that had been entrusted to Savelyich. I put up at an inn. The next morning Savelyich headed off to the shops. Bored with looking out the window at the muddy alley, I went rambling about all the rooms. Going into the billiard room, I saw a tall gentleman of about thirty-five, with long black moustaches, in a dressing gown, with a cue in his hand and a pipe in his teeth. He was playing with the marker, who drank a glass of vodka when he won, and had to crawl on all fours under the table when he lost. I started watching their game. The longer it went on, the more frequent became the promenades on all fours, until the marker finally just stayed under the table. The gentleman pronounced several strong phrases over him by way of a funeral oration and offered to play a round with me. Not knowing how to play, I declined. That evidently seemed strange to him. He gave me a pitying look; nevertheless we got to talking. I learned that his name was Ivan Ivanovich Zurin, that he was a captain in the * * * hussar regiment, that he was in Simbirsk to take recruits and was staying at the inn. Zurin invited me to share a meal with him, soldier fashion, of whatever there was. I eagerly accepted. We sat down at the table. Zurin drank a lot and also treated me, saying that I needed to get used to the service; he told me army jokes that had me nearly rolling with laughter, and we got up from the table as fast friends. Here he volunteered to teach me to play billiards.

“That,” he said, “is necessary for a fellow serviceman. On campaign, for instance, you come to some little place—what are you going to do with yourself? You can’t beat Jews all the time. Willy-nilly you go to the inn and play billiards; and for that you have to know how to play!”

I was fully convinced and set about learning with great diligence. Zurin loudly cheered me on, marveled at my quick progress, and, after a few lessons, suggested that we play for money, only half-kopecks, not for gain, but just so as not to play for nothing, which was, as he put it, the nastiest of habits. I accepted that, too, and Zurin ordered punch and persuaded me to try it, repeating that I needed to get used to the service; and what was the service without punch! I obeyed him. Meanwhile our game went on. The more often I sipped from my glass, the more valiant I became. The balls kept flying over the cushion on me; I got excited, scolded the marker, who scored God knows how, increased my stakes time after time—in short, behaved like a boy broken free. Meanwhile the time passed imperceptibly. Zurin glanced at his watch, put down his cue, and announced that I had lost a hundred roubles. That threw me off a little. My money was with Savelyich. I started to apologize. Zurin interrupted me:

“For pity’s sake! Kindly don’t trouble yourself. I can wait, and meantime we’ll go to Arinushka’s.”

What was I to do? I ended the day in dissipation, just as I had begun it. We had supper at Arinushka’s. Zurin kept filling my glass, repeating that I had to get used to the service. When I got up from the table, I could barely keep my feet; at midnight Zurin took me back to the inn.

Savelyich met us on the porch. He gasped, seeing indisputable signs of my zeal for the service.

“What’s happened to you, master?” he asked in a rueful voice. “Where did you get so loaded? Ah, lordy me, you’ve never been in such a bad way!”

“Shut up, you old geezer!” I replied haltingly. “You must be drunk. Go to sleep…and put me to bed.”

The next day I woke up with a headache, vaguely recalling the events of the day before. My reflections were interrupted by Savelyich, who came in with a cup of tea.

“It’s too early, Pyotr Andreevich,” he said to me, shaking his head, “you’ve started carousing too early. Who are you taking after? It seems neither your father nor your grandfather was a drunkard, not to mention your mother: in all her born days she’s never touched anything but kvass. And whose fault is it all? That cursed moosieu. Time and again he’d go running to Antipyevna: ‘Madame, zhe voo pree, vodkyoo.’^*2 There’s a zhe voo pree for you! No denying it: he taught you well, the son of a dog. And they just had to go and hire a heathen for a tutor, as if the master didn’t have people of his own!”

I was ashamed. I turned away and said: “Get out, Savelyich; I don’t want any tea.” But there was no stopping Savelyich once he started to sermonize.

“So you see, Pyotr Andreevich, where carousing gets you. Your little head is heavy, and you don’t want to eat. A drinking man is good for nothing…Have some pickling brine with honey, or best of all a half glass of liqueur for the hair of the dog. What do you say?”

Just then a boy came in and handed me a note from I. I. Zurin. I opened it and read the following lines:

My dear Pyotr Andreevich,

Please send me with my boy the hundred roubles you lost to me yesterday. I am in urgent need of money.

At your service,

Ivan Zurin

There was nothing to be done. I assumed an air of indifference and, turning to Savelyich, who was “the keeper of my money, of my linen and my affairs,”6 ordered him to give the boy a hundred roubles.

“What? Why?” asked the astonished Savelyich.

“I owe it to him,” I replied with all possible coolness.

“Owe it!” retorted Savelyich, whose astonishment was growing by the minute. “When was it, sir, that you managed to get into debt to him? Something’s not right here. Like it or not, sir, I won’t hand over the money.”

I thought that if in this decisive moment I did not argue down the stubborn old man, it would be hard for me to free myself from his tutelage later on, and, glancing haughtily at him, I said:

“I am your master, and you are my servant. The money is mine. I lost it gambling because I felt like it. I advise you not to be too clever and to do as you’re told.”

Savelyich was so shocked by my words that he clasped his hands and stood dumbstruck.

“What are you standing there for!” I shouted angrily.

Savelyich wept.

“Dearest Pyotr Andreevich,” he uttered in a trembling voice, “don’t make me die of grief. Light of my life! Listen to me, an old man: write to this robber that you were joking, that we don’t even have that kind of money. A hundred roubles! Merciful God! Tell him your parents strictly forbade you to gamble, except for nuts…”

“Enough babble,” I interrupted sternly. “Bring me the money or I’ll chuck you out.”

Savelyich looked at me with deep sorrow and went to fetch my debt. I pitied the poor old man; but I wanted to break free and prove that I was no longer a child. The money was delivered to Zurin. Savelyich hastened to take me away from the accursed inn. He appeared with the news that the horses were ready. With an uneasy conscience and silent remorse I drove out of Simbirsk without saying good-bye to my teacher or thinking I would ever see him again.

CHAPTER TWO The Guide

Land of mine, dear land of mine,

Land unknown to me!

Not on my own did I come to thee,

Nor was it my good steed that brought me.

What brought me, fine lad that I am,

Was youthful swiftness, youthful boldness,

And tavern drunkenness.

AN OLD SONG

My reflections on the way were not very pleasant. My loss, by the value back then, was not inconsiderable. Deep in my heart I knew that my behavior at the Simbirsk inn had been stupid, and I felt myself guilty before Savelyich. It all tormented me. The old man sat sullenly on the box, his back turned to me, and said nothing, but only groaned now and then. I certainly wanted to make peace with him, but did not know where to begin. Finally I said to him:

“Now, now, Savelyich! Enough, let’s make peace, it was my fault; I see myself that it was my fault. I got up to some mischief yesterday, and I wrongfully offended you. I promise to behave more sensibly in the future and to listen to you. Don’t be angry; let’s make peace.”

“Eh, dearest Pyotr Andreevich!” he replied with a deep sigh. “It’s my own self I’m angry at; it’s my fault all around. How could I have left you alone at the inn! But there it is! The devil put it into my head to go and see the sexton’s wife; she’s my cousin. So there: go to your cousin, wind up in prison. It’s as bad as that!…How can I show my face to the masters? What’ll they say when they find out the little one drinks and gambles?”

To comfort poor Savelyich, I gave him my word that in the future I would not dispose of a single kopeck without his consent. He gradually calmed down, though he still grumbled now and then, shaking his head: “A hundred roubles! It’s no laughing matter!”

I was drawing near to my destination. Around me stretched a dismal wasteland crosscut by hills and ravines. Everything was covered with snow. The sun was setting. Our kibitka drove along the narrow road, or, rather, track, left by peasant sledges. Suddenly the driver started looking to one side, and finally, taking off his cap, turned around to me and said:

“Master, won’t you order me to turn back?”

“Why?”

“The weather’s uncertain: the wind’s picking up a little—see how it’s sweeping off the fresh snow?”

“What’s the harm in that?”

“And do you see that there?” (The driver pointed to the east with his whip.)

“I see nothing but the white steppe and the clear sky.”

“No, there—over there: that little cloud.”

I did in fact see a white cloud on the edge of the horizon, which I took at first for a distant hill. The driver explained to me that the little cloud heralded a storm.

I had heard about the blizzards in those parts and knew that they could bury whole trains of sledges. Savelyich, agreeing with the driver, advised me to turn back. But the wind did not seem strong to me; I hoped to reach the next posting station in good time and told them to speed it up.

The driver went into a gallop; but he kept glancing to the east. The horses raced swiftly. The wind meanwhile was growing stronger by the minute. The little cloud turned into a white storm-cloud, which rose heavily, grew, and gradually covered the sky. Fine snow began to fall—and suddenly thick flakes came pouring down. The wind howled; a blizzard set in. In one moment the dark sky blended with the sea of snow. Everything vanished.

“Well, master,” shouted the driver, “bad luck: it’s a snowstorm.”

I peeked out of the kibitka: everything was dark and whirling. The wind howled with such fierce expressiveness that it seemed animate; Savelyich and I were covered with snow; the horses slowed to a walk—and soon stopped.

“Why don’t you go on?” I asked the driver impatiently.

“Why go on?” he replied, climbing down from the box. “We don’t know where we’ve got to as it is: there’s no road, and darkness all around.”

I started to scold him. Savelyich interceded for him.

“Why on earth didn’t you listen to him?” he said crossly. “You should have gone back to the inn, drunk your tea, slept till morning, the storm would have died down, we would have gone on. What’s the hurry? It’s not as if there’s a wedding!”

Savelyich was right. There was nothing to be done. The snow just poured down. A drift was piling up around the kibitka. The horses stood hanging their heads and shuddering occasionally. The driver walked around and, having nothing to do, kept adjusting the harness. Savelyich grumbled; I looked in all directions, hoping to see at least some sign of a dwelling or a road, but could make out nothing except the hazy whirl of the blizzard…Suddenly I saw something black.

“Hey, driver!” I shouted. “Look: what’s that blackness over there?”

The driver strained his eyes.

“God knows, master,” he said, climbing back into his seat. “Could be a wagon, could be a tree, but it seems like it’s moving. Must be either a wolf or a man.”

I ordered him to drive towards the unknown object, which at once started to move towards us. Two minutes later we came up to a man.

“Hey, my good man!” the driver called to him. “Tell us, do you know where the road is?”

“The road’s right here; I’m standing on a firm strip of it,” the wayfarer said. “But what use is that?”

“Listen, good fellow,” I said to him, “are you familiar with these parts? Can you lead me to a night’s lodgings?”

“I know these parts,” the wayfarer replied. “By God, I’ve roamed and ridden all over them. But you see what the weather’s like: you’re sure to lose your way. Better stay here and wait it out, Maybe the storm will die down and the sky will clear: then we’ll find our way by the stars.”

His coolheadedness encouraged me. I had already resolved to entrust myself to God’s will and spend the night in the middle of the steppe, when the wayfarer suddenly climbed nimbly up to the box and said to the driver:

“Well, by God, there’s a house nearby; turn right and drive on.”

“Why should I go to the right?” the driver asked with displeasure. “Where do you see a road? Oh, yes, yes, of course: why spare another man’s horse?”

The driver seemed right to me.

“In fact,” I said, “what makes you think there’s a house nearby?”

“Because the wind blew from there,” said the wayfarer, “and I smelled smoke. We must be close to a village.”

His shrewdness and keen sense of smell amazed me. I told the driver to go there. The horses stepped heavily through the deep snow. The kibitka moved slowly, now driving up a drift, now sinking into a gully, and tilting now to one side, now to the other. It was like a ship sailing on a stormy sea. Savelyich groaned and kept lurching into me. I lowered the matting, wrapped myself in my fur coat, and dozed off, lulled by the singing of the storm and the rocking of the slowly moving kibitka.

I had a dream, which I can never forget and in which to this day I see something prophetic, when I weigh it against the strange circumstances of my life. The reader will forgive me, for he probably knows from his own experience how natural it is for a man to give himself up to superstition, despite all possible scorn for such prejudices.

I was in that state of mind and feeling when reality, yielding to reverie, merges with it in the vague visions of first sleep. It seemed to me that the storm was still raging and we were still wandering in the snowy desert…Suddenly I saw gates and drove into the courtyard of our estate. My first thought was fear that father might be angry at my involuntary return under the parental roof and would consider it deliberate disobedience. In apprehension I jumped out of the kibitka, and I see mother coming to meet me on the porch with a look of profound grief. “Quiet,” she says to me, “father is ill and dying, and he wishes to bid you farewell.” Stricken with fear, I follow her to the bedroom. I see that the room is faintly lit; by the bed stand people with sorrowful faces. I quietly approach the bed; mother lifts the curtain and says: “Andrei Petrovich, Petrusha is here; he came back, having learned of your illness; give him your blessing.” I knelt down and turned my eyes to the sick man. What’s this?…Instead of my father, I see a muzhik with a black beard lying in the bed and looking merrily at me. In bewilderment I turn to mother, I say to her: “What does this mean? This isn’t father. Why on earth should I ask a blessing from a muzhik?” “Never mind, Petrusha,” mother replied. “He is your proxy father; kiss his hand and let him bless you…” I did not consent. Then the muzhik leaped up from the bed, snatched an axe from behind his back, and started swinging it in all directions. I wanted to flee…and could not; the room became filled with dead bodies; I stumbled over bodies and slipped in pools of blood…The frightful muzhik called to me affectionately, saying: “Don’t be afeared, come, I’ll give you my blessing…” Terror and bewilderment seized me…And just then I woke up. The horses had stopped; Savelyich was pulling me by the arm, saying: “Get out, master: we’ve arrived.”

“Arrived where?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

“At a coaching inn. The Lord helped us, we ran right into the fence. Get out, master, go quickly and warm up.”

I got out of the kibitka. The storm was still going on, though with less force. It was pitch-dark. The innkeeper met us at the gate, holding a lantern under the skirt of his coat, and led me to a room, small but quite clean; it was lit by a pine splint. On the wall hung a rifle and a tall Cossack hat.

The innkeeper, a Yaik Cossack,7 seemed to be about sixty, still hale and hearty. Savelyich followed me in, carrying the cellaret, called for fire so as to prepare tea, which had never before seemed so necessary to me. The innkeeper went to see to it.

“And where is our guide?” I asked Savelyich.

“Here, Your Honor,” answered a voice from above. I looked up at the sleeping shelf above the stove8 and saw a black beard and two flashing eyes.

“What, brother, chilled through?”

“How could I not be, in nothing but a flimsy coat! There was a sheepskin, but, why hide my sins, I pawned it yesterday in the pot-house: it didn’t seem all that cold.”

Just then the innkeeper came in with a boiling samovar. I offered our guide a cup of tea; the muzhik climbed down from the shelf. His appearance struck me as remarkable: he was about forty, of average height, lean and broad-shouldered. His black beard had streaks of gray; his lively big eyes darted about. His face had a rather pleasant but sly expression. His hair was trimmed in a bowl cut. He wore a ragged coat and Tatar balloon trousers. I handed him a cup of tea; he tried it and winced.

“Your Honor, do me a favor—tell them to bring me a glass of vodka; tea’s not a Cossack drink.”

I willingly carried out his wish. The innkeeper took a bottle and a glass from the sideboard, went up to him, and, looking him in the face, said: “Aha, so you’re in our parts again! What wind blows you here?”

My guide winked meaningfully and answered with a saying: “To the garden I flew; pecked hempseed and rue; granny threw a stone—but missed. And what about your folk?”

“Our folk!” the innkeeper replied, continuing the allegorical conversation. “They were about to ring for vespers. ‘No, don’t,’ the priest’s wife whispers. The priest has gone away; the devils in the churchyard play.”

“Quiet, uncle,” my vagabond retorted. “If there’s rain, there’ll be mushrooms; and if there’s mushrooms, there’ll be a basket. But for now,” here he winked again, “hide your axe behind your back: the forester’s around. Your Honor! To your health!” With those words he took the glass, crossed himself, and drank it at one gulp. Then he bowed to me and went back to the shelf.

I could understand nothing of this thieves’ talk then; but later I realized that it had to do with the affairs of the Yaik army, just pacified after the revolt of 1772.9 Savelyich listened with an air of great displeasure. He kept glancing suspiciously now at the innkeeper, now at the guide. The coaching inn, or umyet, as it is called locally, was set apart, in the steppe, far from any village, and very much resembled a robbers’ den. But there was nothing to be done. It was impossible to think of continuing on our way. Savelyich’s anxiety amused me greatly. Meanwhile I settled down to spend the night and lay on a bench. Savelyich decided to install himself on the stove; the innkeeper lay on the floor. Soon the whole cottage was snoring, and I fell into a dead sleep.

Waking up rather late the next morning, I saw that the storm had abated. The sun was shining. Snow lay in a dazzling mantle over the boundless steppe. The horses were harnessed. I paid the innkeeper, who took such a moderate payment that even Savelyich did not argue with him and start bargaining as he usually did, and the previous day’s suspicions were completely erased from his mind. I summoned our guide, thanked him for his help, and told Savelyich to tip him fifty kopecks. Savelyich frowned.

“Tip him fifty kopecks!” he said. “What for? Because you were so good as to bring him to the inn? Say what you like, sir: we have no extra half-roubles. If we tip everybody, we’ll go hungry ourselves soon enough.”

I could not argue with Savelyich. The money, by my promise, was entirely at his disposal. I was annoyed, however, that I could not thank a man who had saved me, if not from disaster, at least from a very unpleasant situation.

“Very well,” I said coolly, “if you don’t want to give him fifty kopecks, find him something from my clothes. He’s dressed too lightly. Give him my hareskin coat.”

“Mercy me, dearest Pyotr Andreich!” said Savelyich. “Why give him your hareskin coat? The dog will drink it up at the first pot-house.”

“It’s no care of yours, old fellow,” said my vagabond, “whether I drink it up or not. His Honor is granting me a coat off his back: that’s your master’s will, and your serf business is to obey, not to argue.”

“You’ve got no fear of God, you robber!” Savelyich replied in an angry voice. “You see the little one still can’t reason, and you’re glad to fleece him on account of his simplicity. What do you need the master’s coat for? It won’t even fit on your cursed shoulders.”

“I beg you not to be too clever,” I said to my tutor. “Bring the coat here right now.”

“Lord God!” my Savelyich groaned. “The hareskin coat’s nearly brand-new! And it’s for anybody but this beggarly drunkard!”

Nevertheless, the hareskin coat appeared. The muzhik tried it on at once. Indeed, the coat, which I had already outgrown, was a bit tight on him. Nevertheless, he contrived to get into it, bursting it at the seams. Savelyich almost howled when he heard the threads rip. The vagabond was extremely pleased with my gift. He took me to the kibitka and said with a low bow: “Thank you, Your Honor! May the Lord reward you for your kindness. I’ll never forget your good turn.” He went his way, and I headed further on, paying no attention to Savelyich’s annoyance, and soon forgot about the previous day’s blizzard, my guide, and my hareskin coat.

On arriving in Orenburg, I went straight to the general. I saw a man, tall but already bent with age. His long hair was completely white. His old, faded uniform recalled the warrior from the time of Anna Ioannovna,10 and his speech strongly smacked of German pronunciation. I handed him father’s letter. Seeing his name, he gave me a quick glance.

“My Gott,” he said, “it dossn’t seem so long since Andrei Petrofich vas your age, and now see vat a fine young man he’s got for himzelf. Ach, time, time!”

He unsealed the letter and began to read it in a low voice, making his own observations:

“ ‘My dear sir, Andrei Karlovich, I hope that Your Excellency…’ Vat are dese ceremonies? Pah, he should be ashamed! Off course, discipline iss before efferyting, but iss diss the vay to write to an old kamrad?…‘Your Excellency hass not forgotten…’ Hm…‘and…when…de late field marshal Mün…campaign…and also…Karolinka…’ Aha, Bruder! So he still remembers our old pranks? ‘Now about business…to you my scapegrace’…Hm…‘keep him in hedgehog mittens’…Vat are dese ‘hedgehog mittens’? Muss be a Russian saying…Vass iss diss ‘keep him in hedgehog mittens’?” he repeated, turning to me.

“It means,” I replied, looking as innocent as I could, “to treat gently, not too strictly, allow greater freedom—keep in hedgehog mittens.”

“Hm, I see…‘and allow him no freedom’…no, ‘hedgehog mittens’ muss mean something else…‘Vit this…his passport’…Vere iss it? Ah, here it iss…‘report to the Semyonovsky’…Goot, goot: it vill all be done…‘Allow me, ignoring rank, to embrace you and…old comrade and friend’—ah! dere it iss…and so on and so forth…Well, my dear fellow,” he said, having read the letter and set my passport aside, “it will all be done: you’ll be transferred to the * * * regiment as an officer, and, so that you lose no time, you’ll go tomorrow to the Belogorsk fortress, where you will be under the command of Captain Mironov, a good and honorable man. You’ll be in real army service, and learn discipline. There’s nothing for you to do in Orenburg: dissipation is harmful for a young man. And today you are welcome to dine with me.”

“Worse and worse,” I thought to myself. “What use was it being a sergeant of the guards in my mother’s womb! Where did it get me? To the * * * regiment and a godforsaken fortress on the edge of the Kirghiz-Kaissak steppe!…”

I had dinner with Andrei Karlovich, the third man being his old adjutant. Strict German economy reigned at his table, and I think the fear of occasionally seeing an extra guest at his bachelor meals was partly the cause of my hasty removal to the garrison. The next day I took leave of the general and headed for my destination.

CHAPTER THREE The Fortress

So the fortress is our home,

Bread and water we live by;

And when our fierce foes do come

To snatch a piece of our good pie,

We prepare a merry feast

Of grapeshot for our welcome guests.

SOLDIERS’ SONG

Old-fashioned folk, my dear sir.

The Dunce11

The Belogorsk fortress was twenty-five miles from Orenburg. The road went along the steep bank of the Yaik. The river was not yet frozen over, and its leaden waves showed a dreary black between the monotonous banks covered with white snow. Beyond them stretched the Kirghiz steppe. I sank into reflections, for the most part sad. Garrison life held little attraction for me. I tried to imagine Captain Mironov, my future superior, and pictured him as a stern, cross old man, who knew nothing except his service, and ready to put me under arrest on bread and water for any trifle. Meanwhile it was getting dark. We were driving rather quickly.

“Is it far to the fortress?” I asked the driver.

“Not far,” he replied. “There, you can already see it.”

I looked all around, expecting to see formidable bastions, towers, and ramparts; but I saw nothing except a little village surrounded by a stockade. On one side stood three or four haystacks, half covered with snow; on the other, a lopsided windmill with its bast sails hanging lazily.

“Where is the fortress?” I asked in surprise.

“Here,” the driver replied, pointing to the little village, and with those words we drove into it. By the gate I saw an old cast-iron cannon; the streets were narrow and crooked, the cottages low and mostly thatch-roofed. I ordered the driver to go to the commandant’s, and a moment later the kibitka drew up in front of a little wooden house, built on a rise near a church, also wooden.

No one came out to meet me. I went into the front hall and opened the door to the anteroom. An old veteran was sitting on a table, sewing a blue patch on the elbow of a green uniform. I told him to announce me.

“Go on in, my dear man,” the veteran replied. “Our people are at home.”

I entered a clean little room, decorated in the old-fashioned way. In one corner stood a china cupboard; on the wall hung an officer’s diploma under glass and in a frame; around it were proudly displayed some woodblock prints depicting the taking of Küstrin and Ochakov,12 as well as the choosing of a bride and the burial of a cat. By the window sat an old woman in a quilted vest and with a kerchief on her head. She was unwinding yarn, which a one-eyed old man in an officer’s uniform was holding on his outstretched arms.

“What can I do for you, my dear man?” she asked, going on with her work.

I replied that I had come to serve and was reporting for duty to the captain, addressing these last words to the one-eyed old man, whom I took for the commandant; but the lady of the house interrupted my prepared speech.

“Ivan Kuzmich is not at home,” she said. “He’s gone to visit Father Gerasim. But it makes no difference, my dear, I am his missis. Come right in. Sit down, dear.”

She called the serving girl and told her to summon the sergeant. The old man kept glancing at me curiously with his solitary eye.

“Dare I ask,” he said, “in what regiment you were pleased to serve?”

I satisfied his curiosity.

“And dare I ask,” he continued, “why you were pleased to transfer from the guards to the garrison?”

I replied that such was the will of my superiors.

“I suspect it was for behavior unbecoming to a guards officer,” the indefatigable questioner continued.

“Enough nonsense,” the captain’s wife said to him. “You can see the young man’s tired from the journey; he can’t be bothered with you…Hold your arms straight…And you, my dear,” she continued, turning to me, “don’t grieve that they’ve bundled you off to our backwater. You’re not the first, and you’re not the last. Habit and love go hand in glove. Shvabrin, Alexei Ivanych, was transferred to us nearly five years ago for killing a man. God knows what devil got into him. You see, he went outside town with a certain lieutenant, and they took swords, and then up and started poking them at each other; and Alexei Ivanych stabbed the lieutenant to death, and that in front of two witnesses! What can you do? The devil knows no master.”

Just then the sergeant came in, a strapping young Cossack.

“Maximych!” the captain’s wife said to him. “Find quarters for the good officer—of the cleaner sort.”

“Yes, ma’am, Vasilisa Egorovna,” replied the sergeant. “Why not put his honor up with Ivan Polezhaev?”

“No good, Maximych,” said the captain’s wife. “It’s crowded at Polezhaev’s; besides, he’s a friend and mindful that we’re his superiors. Take the good officer…What’s your name, my dear? Pyotr Andreich?…Take Pyotr Andreich to Semyon Kuzov’s. The rascal let his horse get into my kitchen garden. Well, so, Maximych, is everything all right?”

“Yes, thank God, everything’s quiet,” replied the Cossack, “only Corporal Prokhorov had a fight in the bathhouse with Ustinya Negulina over a basin of hot water.”

“Ivan Ignatyich!” the captain’s wife said to the one-eyed old man. “Sort it out between Prokhorov and Ustinya, who’s right and who’s wrong. And punish both of them. Well, Maximych, off you go, and God be with you. Pyotr Andreich, Maximych will take you to your quarters.”

I bowed and left. The sergeant brought me to the cottage, which stood on a high riverbank at the very edge of the fortress. One half of the cottage was occupied by Semyon Kuzov’s family, the other was allotted to me. It consisted of one rather tidy room divided in two by a partition. Savelyich started putting things in order; I started looking out the narrow window. Before me stretched the dismal steppe. To one side stood several huts; several chickens were wandering in the street. An old woman, standing on the porch with a tub, was calling her pigs, who answered with friendly grunts. And such was the place where I was condemned to spend my youth! Anguish came over me; I left the window and went to bed without supper, despite the admonitions of Savelyich, who kept repeating in distress: “God Almighty! He doesn’t want to eat anything! What will the mistress say if the little one’s taken ill?”

The next morning, just as I was beginning to dress, the door opened and a young officer came in, a short man with a swarthy and singularly unattractive, but extremely animated, face.

“Excuse me,” he said in French, “for coming without ceremony to make your acquaintance. Yesterday I learned of your arrival; the wish to see a human face at last took such hold of me that I couldn’t help myself. You’ll understand when you’ve lived here a little while.”

I guessed that this was the officer discharged from the guards for fighting a duel. We became acquainted at once. Shvabrin was far from stupid. His conversation was witty and entertaining. He described for me with great merriment the commandant’s family, their society, and the place that fate had brought me to. I was laughing wholeheartedly, when that same veteran who had been mending the uniform in the commandant’s anteroom came in and told me that Vasilisa Egorovna invited me to dine with them. Shvabrin volunteered to go with me.

As we approached the commandant’s house, we saw on a little square some twenty old veterans with long queues and three-cornered hats. They were lined up at attention. Before them stood the commandant, a tall and vigorous old man in a nightcap and a nankeen dressing gown. Seeing us, he came over and said a few kind words to me, and then went back to giving orders. We were going to stop and watch the drill; but he asked us to go to Vasilisa Egorovna, promising to follow us. “And here,” he added, “there’s nothing for you to watch.”

Vasilisa Egorovna received us simply and cordially and treated me as if she had known me for ages. The veteran and Palashka were setting the table.

“Why is my Ivan Kuzmich drilling so long today?” said the commandant’s wife. “Palashka, call the master to dinner. And where is Masha?”

Just then a girl of about eighteen came in, round-faced, rosy-cheeked, with light brown hair combed smoothly behind her ears, which were burning red. At first glance I did not like her very much. I looked at her with prejudice: Shvabrin had described Masha, the captain’s daughter, as a perfect little fool. Marya Ivanovna sat down in the corner and began to sew. Meanwhile cabbage soup was served. Vasilisa Egorovna, not seeing her husband, sent Palashka for him a second time.

“Tell the master: the guests are waiting, the soup’s getting cold; thank God, the drilling won’t run away; he’ll have time to shout his fill.”

The captain soon appeared, accompanied by the one-eyed old man.

“What’s this, my dearest?” his wife said to him. “The food’s long been served and there’s no sign of you.”

“See here, Vasilisa Egorovna,” Ivan Kuzmich replied, “I’ve been busy with my duties, drilling my good soldiers.”

“Enough now!” retorted the captain’s wife. “They only call it drill: your soldiers never learn, and you don’t know the first thing about it. Sit at home and pray to God—that would be better. Dear guests, please come to the table.”

We sat down to dinner. Vasilisa Egorovna did not stop talking for a moment and showered me with questions: who were my parents, were they still living, where did they live, and what was their situation? On hearing that my father owned three hundred peasant souls, she said:

“Fancy that! So there are rich people in the world! And all we have for souls, my dear, is the wench Palashka; but, thank God, we get by. There’s just one trouble: Masha. The girl’s of marrying age, but what dowry has she got? A besom, a brush, and three kopecks in cash (God forgive me!) to go to the bathhouse. It’s fine if a good man turns up; otherwise she’ll sit there a maiden bride forevermore.”

I glanced at Marya Ivanovna. She blushed all over, and tears even fell on her plate. I felt sorry for her, and I hastened to change the conversation.

“I’ve heard,” I said, rather beside the point, “that the Bashkirs13 are preparing to attack your fortress.”

“From whom, my dear boy, were you pleased to hear that?” asked Ivan Kuzmich.

“They told me so in Orenburg,” I replied.

“Fiddlesticks!” said the commandant. “We’ve heard nothing for a long time. The Bashkirs are frightened folk, and the Kirghiz have also been taught a good lesson. They’re not likely to go poking at us; and if they do, I’ll put such a scare into them, they’ll stay quiet for ten years.”

“And you’re not afraid,” I went on, turning to the captain’s wife, “to stay in a fortress exposed to such dangers?”

“Habit, my dear,” she replied. “It’s some twenty years ago that we were transferred here from the regiment, and, Lord help me, how afraid I was of those accursed heathens! The moment I saw their lynx hats and heard their shrieks, believe me, dear, my heart would stop dead! But now I’m so used to it that, if they come and tell us the villains are roaming around the fortress, I don’t even flinch.”

“Vasilisa Egorovna is a most courageous lady,” Shvabrin observed solemnly. “Ivan Kuzmich can testify to that.”

“Yes, see here,” said Ivan Kuzmich, “the woman doesn’t scare easily.”

“And Marya Ivanovna?” I asked. “Is she as brave as you are?”

“Masha, brave?” her mother replied. “No, Masha’s a coward. To this day she can’t bear the sound of shooting: just trembles all over. And two years ago, when Ivan Kuzmich took it into his head to fire off our cannon on my name day, my little dove nearly departed this life from fright. We haven’t fired the cursed cannon again since.”

We got up from the table. The captain and his wife went off to sleep; and I went to Shvabrin’s, where I spent the whole evening.

CHAPTER FOUR The Duel

Very well, stand straight and true,

And watch me as I run you through.

KNYAZHNIN14

Several weeks went by, and my life in the Belogorsk fortress became not only tolerable for me, but even agreeable. In the commandant’s house I was received as one of their own. The husband and wife were most honorable people. Ivan Kuzmich, who had risen from the ranks to become an officer, was a simple, uneducated man, but most honest and good. His wife ruled him, which agreed with his easygoing nature. Vasilisa Egorovna looked upon matters of the service as her household chores, and ran the fortress as she did her own little house. Marya Ivanovna soon stopped being shy with me. We became acquainted. I found her to be a reasonable and sensitive girl. Imperceptibly, I became attached to this good family, even to Ivan Ignatyich, the one-eyed garrison lieutenant, for whom Shvabrin invented inadmissible relations with Vasilisa Egorovna, which did not have a shadow of plausibility; but Shvabrin was not worried about that.

I was made an officer. The service was no burden to me. In the God-protected fortress there were no reviews, nor drills, nor watches. The commandant, on his own initiative, occasionally drilled his soldiers; but he still could not get all of them to tell right from left, though many of them, to avoid making a mistake, made the sign of the cross over themselves before each turn. Shvabrin had several French books. I began to read, and an interest in literature awakened in me. In the mornings I read, practiced translation, and sometimes also wrote verses. I almost always dined at the commandant’s, where I usually spent the rest of the day, and where in the evening Father Gerasim would sometimes come with his wife, Akulina Pamfilovna, the foremost talebearer of the neighborhood. A. I. Shvabrin, naturally, I saw every day; but his conversation became less and less agreeable to me. His habitual jokes about the commandant’s family displeased me very much, especially his caustic remarks about Marya Ivanovna. There was no other society in the fortress, but I wished for no other.

In spite of the predictions, the Bashkirs did not revolt. Calm reigned around our fortress. But the peace was disrupted by sudden internecine strife.

I have already said that I occupied myself with literature. My attempts, for that time, were fairly good, and several years later Alexander Petrovich Sumarokov15 praised them highly. Once I succeeded in writing a little song that pleased me. It is a known thing that writers, under the pretext of seeking advice, occasionally look for a benevolent listener. So, having copied out my song, I took it to Shvabrin, who alone in the whole fortress could appreciate a verse writer’s production. After a brief preamble, I took my notebook out of my pocket and read him the following little verses:

Amorous thoughts in me destroying,

I strive of her beauty to be free,

And, oh, sweet Masha, thee avoiding,

Freedom at last I hope to see!

But the eyes that me have captured

Are before me all the time,

And my spirit they have raptured,

Ruining my peace of mind.

Thou, of my misfortune learning,

Take pity, Masha, upon me,

Who in this cruel trap am turning,

Being imprisoned here by thee.

“How do you find it?” I asked Shvabrin, expecting the praise that was certainly due me. But, to my great vexation, Shvabrin, usually indulgent, resolutely informed me that my song was no good.

“Why so?” I asked, concealing my vexation.

“Because,” he replied, “such verses are worthy of my tutor, Vasily Kirilych Tredyakovsky,16 and remind me very much of his love couplets.”

Here he took my notebook from me and mercilessly began to analyze each line and each word, jeering at me in the most caustic manner. I could not bear it, tore my notebook from his hands, and said I would never again show him my writings. Shvabrin laughed at that threat as well.

“We’ll see if you keep your word,” he said. “A poet has need of a listener, just as Ivan Kuzmich has need of a dram of vodka before dinner. And who is this Masha to whom you declare your tender passion and amorous tribulation? Might it not be Marya Ivanovna?”

“It’s none of your business,” I replied, frowning, “whoever this Masha might be. I ask neither for your opinions nor for your conjectures.”

“Oho! A touchy poet and a discreet lover!” Shvabrin went on, annoying me more and more all the time. “But listen to some friendly advice: if you want to succeed, I advise you to do it otherwise than by little songs.”

“What is the meaning of that, sir? Kindly explain yourself.”

“Gladly. It means that if you want Masha Mironov to meet you after dark, then instead of tender verses, give her a pair of earrings.”

My blood boiled.

“And why do you have such an opinion of her?” I asked, barely controlling my indignation.

“Because,” he replied with an infernal grin, “I know her ways and habits from experience.”

“You’re lying, scoundrel!” I cried in fury. “You’re lying most shamelessly!”

Shvabrin’s countenance changed.

“That you will not get away with,” he said, gripping my arm. “You will give me satisfaction.”

“Very well; whenever you like!” I replied joyfully. At that moment I was ready to tear him to pieces.

I went at once to Ivan Ignatyich and found him with a needle in his hand: on orders from the commandant’s wife, he was stringing mushrooms to be dried for winter.

“Ah, Pyotr Andreich!” he said, seeing me. “Welcome! What good fortune brings you here? And on what business, may I ask?”

I explained to him in a few words that I had quarreled with Alexei Ivanych, and asked him, Ivan Ignatyich, to be my second. Ivan Ignatyich listened to me attentively, goggling his only eye at me.

“You’re pleased to be saying,” he said to me, “that you want to skewer Alexei Ivanyich and wish me to be a witness to it? Is that it, may I ask?”

“Exactly.”

“For pity’s sake, Pyotr Andreich! What are you getting into! You and Alexei Ivanych have quarreled? It’s no big thing! Bad words don’t stick. He called you names, and you swore at him; he punches you in the nose, you box him on the ear two, three times—and you go your own ways; and we’ll get you to make peace. Or else what: is it a good thing to skewer your neighbor, may I ask? And good enough if you skewer him: God help Alexei Ivanych; I’m no great fancier of him myself. But what if he puts a hole in you? How will that be? Who’ll be the fool then, may I ask?”

The sensible lieutenant’s reasoning did not make me waver. I clung to my intention.

“As you like,” said Ivan Ignatyich, “do what you’ve a mind to. But why should I be a witness to it? What on earth for? Men fight, so what else is new, may I ask? Good God, I went to war with the Swedes and the Turks: I’ve seen it all.”

I tried to explain to him the duties of a second, but Ivan Ignatyich simply could not understand me.

“Have it your way,” he said. “If I’m to get mixed up in this business, I’d better go to Ivan Kuzmich and dutifully inform him that there’s some evildoing afoot in the fortress, contrary to official interest: might it be the commandant’s goodwill to take suitable measures…”

I became frightened and started begging Ivan Ignatyich to say nothing to the commandant. I barely managed to persuade him. He gave me his word, and I decided to let it go at that.

I spent the evening, as was my habit, at the commandant’s. I tried to seem cheerful and indifferent, so as not to arouse any suspicions and avoid importunate questions; but I confess, I did not have the composure of which those in my position almost always boast. That evening I was disposed to tenderness and affection. I liked Marya Ivanovna more than usual. The thought that I might be seeing her for the last time endowed her, in my eyes, with something touching. Shvabrin, too, showed up. I drew him aside and informed him of my conversation with Ivan Ignatyich.

“What do we need seconds for?” he said to me drily. “We’ll do without them.”

We arranged to fight behind the haystacks near the fortress, and to meet there by seven the next morning. We seemed to be conversing so amicably that Ivan Ignatyich, in his joy, almost blurted everything out.

“None too soon,” he said to me, looking pleased. “Better a bad peace than a good quarrel; the less honor, the more health.”

“What, what, Ivan Ignatyich?” asked the commandant’s wife, who was in the corner telling fortunes with cards. “I didn’t quite hear.”

Ivan Ignatyich, seeing signs of displeasure in me and remembering his promise, became confused and did not know how to reply. Shvabrin rushed to his aid.

“Ivan Ignatyich,” he said, “approves of our peacemaking.”

“And who did you quarrel with, my dear?”

“I had a rather big argument with Pyotr Andreich.”

“Over what?”

“Over a mere trifle: over a little song, Vasilisa Egorovna.”

“What a thing to quarrel over! A little song!…How did it happen?”

“Like this: Pyotr Andreich recently composed a song and today he sang it for me, and I struck up my favorite:

O Captain’s daughter, hark,

Don’t go wand’ring after dark…

It turned into a disagreement. Pyotr Andreich was angry at first, but then he decided that everybody’s free to sing what he likes. And the matter ended there.”

Shvabrin’s shamelessness nearly threw me into a rage; but nobody except myself understood his crude insinuations; at least nobody paid attention to them. From songs the conversation turned to poets, and the commandant observed that they were all dissipated people and hardened drunkards, and advised me in friendly fashion to give up verse writing as an occupation contrary to the service and leading to no good.

Shvabrin’s presence was unbearable to me. I quickly took leave of the commandant and his family; on coming home I examined my sword, tried the point, and went to bed, having asked Savelyich to wake me up after six.

The next day at the appointed time I was already standing behind the haystacks waiting for my adversary. He soon appeared.

“They may catch us at it,” he said to me. “We’ll have to hurry up.” We took off our uniform coats, remaining in our waistcoats, and drew our swords. Just then Ivan Ignatyich and five veterans suddenly appeared from behind the haystacks. He summoned us to the commandant. We grudgingly obeyed; the soldiers surrounded us, and we headed for the fortress, following Ivan Ignatyich, who led us in triumph, striding along with extraordinary solemnity.

We went into the commandant’s house. Ivan Ignatyich opened the door, announcing triumphantly:

“I’ve brought them!”

We were met by Vasilisa Egorovna.

“Ah, my dears! What’s this? How? Why? Bringing murder into our fortress? Ivan Kuzmich, arrest them at once! Pyotr Andreich! Alexei Ivanych! Give your swords here, give them here, give them here. Palashka, take these swords to the storeroom. Pyotr Andreich! I didn’t expect this from you! Aren’t you ashamed? Alexei Ivanych is another thing: he was dismissed from the guards for killing a man, and he doesn’t believe in the Lord God—but you? Are you going the same way?”

Ivan Kuzmich agreed completely with his wife and kept repeating: “See here, Vasilisa Egorovna’s right. Duels are formally forbidden by the articles of war.”17

Meanwhile Palashka took our swords from us and carried them to the storeroom. I could not help laughing. Shvabrin preserved his solemnity.

“With all due respect,” he said to her coolly, “I cannot help but observe that you need not trouble yourself, subjecting us to your judgment. Leave it to Ivan Kuzmich: it is his business.”

“Ah, my dear,” the commandant’s wife retorted, “aren’t husband and wife one spirit and one flesh?18 Ivan Kuzmich! What are you gawking at? Separate them at once in different corners on bread and water till their foolishness goes away; and let Father Gerasim put a penance on them, so that they ask forgiveness of God and repent before men.”

Ivan Kuzmich could not decide what to do. Marya Ivanovna was extremely pale. The storm gradually subsided: the commandant’s wife calmed down and made us kiss each other. Palashka brought us our swords. We left the commandant’s apparently reconciled. Ivan Ignatyich accompanied us.

“Weren’t you ashamed,” I said to him angrily, “to inform on us to the commandant after you promised me you wouldn’t?”

“As God is holy, I didn’t say a word to Ivan Kuzmich,” he replied. “Vasilisa Egorovna wormed it all out of me. And she gave all the orders without the commandant’s knowledge. Anyhow, thank God it’s all ended like this.” With those words he headed for home, and Shvabrin and I were left alone.

“We can’t end things like that,” I said to him.

“Of course not,” Shvabrin replied. “You’ll answer me for your impudence with your blood. But they’ll probably keep an eye on us. We’ll have to pretend for a few days. Good-bye!” And we parted as if nothing had happened.

On returning to the commandant’s, I sat down, as usual, near Marya Ivanovna. Ivan Kuzmich was not at home; Vasilisa Egorovna was busy around the house. We talked in low voices. Marya Ivanovna chided me tenderly for the worry my quarrel with Shvabrin had caused them all.

“My heart just sank,” she said, “when they said you were going to fight with swords. How strange men are! For one little word, which they’d surely forget about in a week, they’re ready to cut each other up and sacrifice not only their lives but their consciences, and the well-being of those who…But I’m sure it wasn’t you who started the quarrel. Surely Alexei Ivanych is to blame.”

“And why do you think so, Marya Ivanovna?”

“It’s just…he’s such a scoffer! I don’t like Alexei Ivanyich. He really disgusts me; but it’s strange: I wouldn’t want him to dislike me for anything. That would worry me dreadfully.”

“And what do you think, Marya Ivanovna? Does he like you or not?”

Marya Ivanovna hesitated and blushed.

“It seems to me…” she said. “I think he does.”

“Why does it seem so to you?”

“Because he asked to marry me.”

“To marry you! He asked to marry you? When was that?”

“Last year. About two months before your arrival.”

“And you didn’t accept him?”

“As you can see. Alexei Ivanych is, of course, an intelligent man, and from a good family, and he has means; but when I think that I’d have to kiss him before the altar in front of everybody…Not for anything! Not for all the blessings in the world!”

Marya Ivanovna’s words opened my eyes and explained many things to me. I understood the persistent maligning with which Shvabrin pursued her. He had probably noticed our mutual inclination and was trying to draw us away from each other. The words that had given rise to our quarrel seemed still more vile to me, now that I saw them, not as coarse and indecent mockery, but as deliberate slander. The wish to punish the insolent maligner grew still stronger in me, and I started waiting impatiently for a convenient occasion.

I did not have to wait long. The next day, as I sat over an elegy and gnawed my pen while waiting for a rhyme, Shvabrin knocked at my window. I set down the pen, took up my sword, and went out to him.

“Why put it off?” said Shvabrin. “We’re not being watched. Let’s go down to the river. Nobody will interfere with us there.”

We set off in silence. Having gone down the steep path, we stopped by the river and drew our swords. Shvabrin was more skillful than I, but I was stronger and bolder, and Monsieur Beaupré, who had once been a soldier, had given me several lessons in fencing, which I made use of. Shvabrin had not expected to find me such a dangerous opponent. For a long time we could not do each other any harm; finally, noticing that Shvabrin was weakening, I stepped up my attack and almost drove him into the river. Suddenly I heard my name uttered loudly. I turned and saw Savelyich running to me down the hillside path…At that same moment I felt a sharp stab in my chest under the right shoulder; I fell down and lost consciousness.

CHAPTER FIVE Love

Ah, you, maiden, pretty maiden,

Don’t go marrying so young.

Ask your father, ask your mother,

Father, mother, and all your kin;

Store up, maiden, wit and wisdom,

Wit and wisdom your dowry be.

FOLK SONG

If you find a better one, you’ll forget me,

If you find a worse one, you’ll remember me.

DITTO

On coming to, I could not collect my senses for a while and did not understand what had happened to me. I was lying on a bed in an unfamiliar room, and felt a great weakness. Before me stood Savelyich with a candle in his hand. Someone was carefully unwinding the bandages that bound my chest and shoulder. My thoughts gradually cleared. I remembered my duel and realized that I had been wounded. Just then the door creaked.

“Well? How is he?” whispered a voice that made me tremble.

“Still in the same condition,” Savelyich answered with a sigh, “still unconscious, for the fifth day now.”

I wanted to turn, but could not.

“Where am I? Who’s here?” I said with effort.

Marya Ivanovna came up to my bed and bent over me.

“Well? How are you feeling?” she said.

“Thank God,” I replied in a weak voice. “Is it you, Marya Ivanovna? Tell me…” I had no strength to go on and fell silent. Savelyich gasped. Joy showed on his face.

“He’s come around! He’s come around!” he repeated. “Thank the Lord! Well, dearest Pyotr Andreich, how you frightened me! Just fancy—five days!”

Marya Ivanovna interrupted him.

“Don’t talk to him much, Savelyich,” she said. “He’s still weak.”

She went out and quietly closed the door. My thoughts were in turmoil. So I was in the commandant’s house, Marya Ivanovna had come to me. I wanted to ask Savelyich some questions, but the old man shook his head and stopped his ears. I closed my eyes in vexation and soon sank into sleep.

On waking up, I called Savelyich and instead of him saw Marya Ivanovna standing there; her angelic voice greeted me. I cannot express the sweet feeling that came over me at that moment. I seized her hand and clung to it, pouring out tears of tenderness. Masha did not pull it away…and suddenly her lips touched my cheek, and I felt their ardent and fresh kiss. Fire ran through me.

“Dear, good Marya Ivanovna,” I said to her, “be my wife, consent to make my happiness.”

She came to her senses.

“For God’s sake, calm down,” she said, taking her hand from me. “You’re still in danger: the wound may open. Look after yourself, if only for my sake.” With those words she went out, leaving me in drunken ecstasy. Happiness resurrected me. She’ll be mine! She loves me! This thought filled the whole of my being.

After that I grew better by the hour. I was treated by the regimental barber, for there was no other doctor in the fortress, and, thank God, he did not get too clever. Youth and nature speeded my recovery. The commandant’s whole family took care of me. Marya Ivanovna never left my side. Naturally, at the first good opportunity I took up my interrupted declaration, and Marya Ivanovna listened to me more patiently. Without any affectation, she confessed to me her heartfelt inclination and said that her parents would of course be glad of her happiness.

“But think well,” she added. “Will there be no obstacle on your parents’ side?”

I fell to thinking. Of my mother’s fondness I had no doubt, but, knowing my father’s character and way of thinking, I sensed that my love would not move him very much and that he would regard it as a young man’s caprice. I confessed it frankly to Marya Ivanovna and resolved, nevertheless, to write to my father as eloquently as I could, asking for their parental blessing. I showed the letter to Marya Ivanovna, who found it so persuasive and moving that she had no doubts of its success and yielded to the feelings of her tender heart with all the trustfulness of youth and love.

I made peace with Shvabrin in the first days of my recovery. Ivan Kuzmich, reprimanding me for the duel, said:

“Ah, Pyotr Andreich, I ought to put you under arrest, but you’ve already been punished as it is. And I’ve got Alexei Ivanych sitting in the granary under guard, and Vasilisa Egorovna has locked up his sword. Let him think it over and repent.”

I felt too happy to go storing up hostile feelings in my heart. I began to intercede for Shvabrin, and the kind commandant, with his wife’s approval, decided to release him. Shvabrin came to me; he expressed profound regret for what had happened between us, admitted that he was roundly to blame, and begged me to forget the past. Not being rancorous by nature, I sincerely forgave him both for our quarrel and for the wound I had received from him. In his slander I saw the vexation of hurt pride and rejected love, and I magnanimously excused my unlucky rival.

I soon recovered and was able to move back to my own quarters. I waited impatiently for the reply to my letter, not daring to hope and trying to stifle my sad presentiments. I had not yet talked with Vasilisa Egorovna and her husband; but my proposal would be no surprise to them. Neither I nor Marya Ivanovna tried to conceal our feelings from them, and we were certain beforehand of their consent.

Finally one morning Savelyich came into my room holding a letter in his hand. I seized it, trembling. The address was written in my father’s hand. That prepared me for something important, for my mother usually wrote me letters, and he would add a few lines at the end. I did not open the envelope for some time and kept rereading the solemn inscription: “To my son Pyotr Andreevich Grinyov, Belogorsk Fortress, Orenburg Province.” I tried to guess from the handwriting the state of mind in which the letter had been written; finally I ventured to unseal it, and saw from the first lines that the whole thing had gone to the devil. The contents of the letter were as follows:

My son Pyotr,

The letter, in which you ask for our parental blessing and consent to your marriage with Miss Marya Ivanovna Mironov, we received on the 15th of this month, and not only do I have no intention of giving you my blessing or my consent, but I am also going to get after you and teach you a proper lesson for your mischief, little boy that you are, despite your officer’s rank: for you have proven that you are still unworthy to bear the sword, which was bestowed on you to defend your fatherland and not for duels with such madcaps as yourself. I shall write at once to Andrei Karlovich, asking him to transfer you from the Belogorsk fortress to somewhere further away, where you will be cured of your folly. Your mother, having learned of your duel and of your wound, fell ill with grief and now lies in bed. What will become of you? I pray to God that you mend your ways, though I dare not hope for His great mercy.

Your father, A. G.

The reading of this letter aroused various feelings in me. The cruel expressions, on which my father did not stint, insulted me deeply. The disdain with which he referred to Marya Ivanovna seemed to me as unseemly as it was unjust. The thought of my being transferred from the Belogorsk fortress horrified me, but what upset me most of all was the news of my mother’s illness. I was indignant with Savelyich, having no doubt that my duel became known to my parents through him. Pacing up and down my narrow room, I stopped before him and said, glaring at him menacingly:

“I see you don’t find it enough that, thanks to you, I was wounded and for a whole month was on the brink of the grave: you also want to kill my mother.”

Savelyich was thunderstruck.

“Mercy, sir,” he said, all but weeping, “what’s this you’re pleased to be saying? I’m the cause of your being wounded! God knows, I was running to shield you with my breast from Alexei Ivanych’s sword! My cursed old age prevented me. And what have I done to your mother?”

“What have you done?” I replied. “Who asked you to inform on me? Have you been attached to me as a spy?”

“Me? Inform on you?” Savelyich replied in tears. “Lord God in heaven! Kindly read what the master writes to me: you’ll see how I informed on you.” Here he took a letter from his pocket, and I read the following:

Shame on you, you old dog, that, despite my strict orders, you did not inform me about my son Pyotr Andrevich and that strangers have had to tell me about his mischief. Is this how you fulfill your duties and your master’s will? I’ll send you to herd swine, you old dog, for concealing the truth and covering up for the young man. With the receipt of this, I order you to write back to me immediately about the state of his health now, of which they write to me that it has improved, as well as the exact place of the wound and whether he has been properly treated.

It was obvious that Savelyich was in the right before me and that I had wrongfully offended him with my reproaches and suspicions. I asked his forgiveness, but the old man was inconsolable.

“So I’ve lived to see this,” he repeated. “So this is how the masters reward me for my services! I’m an old dog and a swineherd, and I’m also the cause of your wound? No, my dear Pyotr Andreich! It’s not me, it’s that cursed moosieu who’s to blame for it all: he taught you to go poking with iron skewers and stamping your feet, as if by poking and stamping you could protect yourself from a wicked man. What need was there to hire a moosieu and throw good money away?”

But who, then, had taken the trouble to inform my father of my behavior? The general? But he did not seem overly concerned with me; and Ivan Kuzmich had not considered it necessary to report my duel. I was torn by conjectures. My suspicions rested on Shvabrin. He alone would profit by the denunciation, the consequence of which could be my removal from the fortress and my break with the commandant’s family. I went to tell all this to Marya Ivanovna. She met me on the porch.

“What’s happened to you?” she said on seeing me. “You’re so pale!”

“It’s all over!” I replied and handed her my father’s letter.

She went pale in her turn. Having read it, she gave me back the letter with a trembling hand and said in a trembling voice:

“Clearly, it’s not my fate…Your parents don’t want me in their family. The Lord’s will be done in everything! God knows what we need better than we do. There’s nothing to be done, Pyotr Andreich. May you at least be happy…”

“This will not be!” I cried, seizing her by the hand. “You love me; I’m ready for anything. Let’s go and throw ourselves at your parents’ feet. They’re simple people, not hard-hearted and proud…They’ll give us their blessing; we’ll get married…and then, in time, I’m sure we’ll win my father over; mother will be for us; he’ll forgive me…”

“No, Pyotr Andreich,” Masha replied, “I won’t marry you without your parents’ blessing. Without their blessing there will be no happiness for you. Let us submit to God’s will. If you find the one who is meant for you, if you come to love another—God be with you, Pyotr Andreich; and you will both be in my…”

Here she began to weep and left me. I wanted to follow her inside, but felt that I was in no condition to control myself and went home.

I was sitting plunged in deep thought when Savelyich suddenly interrupted my reflections.

“Here, sir,” he said, handing me a sheet of paper covered with writing. “See whether I’m an informer on my master and am trying to make trouble between father and son.”

I took the paper from him: it was Savelyich’s reply to the letter he had received. Here it is word for word:

Gracious master and father, Andrei Petrovich!

I have received your gracious letter, in which you are pleased to be angry with me, your bondsman, for the shame of my not fulfilling my master’s orders; but I, not an old dog, but your faithful servant, do obey my master’s orders and have always served you zealously and have lived to be gray-haired. I did not write you anything about Pyotr Andreich’s wound, so as not to frighten you needlessly, and I hear that the mistress, our mother, Avdotya Vasilievna, has taken to her bed from fright even so, and I will pray to God for her health. And Pyotr Andreich was wounded under the right shoulder, in the chest just under the bone, two inches deep, and he lay in the commandant’s bed, where we brought him from the riverbank, and he was treated by the local barber, Stepan Paramonov; and now, thank God, Pyotr Andreich is well, and there is nothing to write about him except good things. The superiors, I hear, are pleased with him, and Vasilisa Egorovna treats him like her own son. And the boy should not be reproached for such a mishap: a horse has four legs, and still he stumbles. And you were pleased to write that you would send me to herd swine, and so be it by your lordly will. With my servile respects,

Your faithful serf,

Arkhip Savelyevich

I could not help smiling several times, reading the good old man’s letter. I was in no condition to write a reply to my father; and Savelyich’s letter seemed enough to reassure my mother.

From then on my situation changed. Marya Ivanovna hardly spoke to me and tried in every way to avoid me. The commandant’s house became hateful to me. I gradually accustomed myself to sitting at home alone. At first Vasilisa Egorovna chided me for that; but, seeing my persistence, she left me in peace. I saw Ivan Kuzmich only when the service called for it. I met Shvabrin rarely and reluctantly, the more so as I noticed in him a concealed animosity towards me, which confirmed me in my suspicions. My life became unbearable to me. I fell into a dark brooding, nourished by loneliness and inactivity. My love flared up in solitude and became more and more hard to bear. I lost the appetite for reading and literature. My spirits sank. I was afraid I would either go mad or throw myself into dissipation. Unexpected events, which were to have a significant influence on my whole life, suddenly gave my soul a strong and salutary shock.

CHAPTER SIX The Pugachev Rebellion

You young striplings, listen well

To what we oldsters have to tell.

A SONG

Before I set out to describe the strange events I was witness to, I must say a few words about the situation in which the province of Orenburg found itself at the end of 1773.

This vast and rich province was inhabited by a multitude of half-savage peoples, who had only recently recognized the sovereignty of the Russian emperors. Their constant insurrections, unfamiliarity with law and civic life, light-mindedness and cruelty, demanded constant surveillance on the part of the government to keep them in obedience. Fortresses had been built in places considered suitable, and were occupied for the most part by Cossacks, longtime inhabitants of the banks of the Yaik. But the Yaik Cossacks themselves, whose duty it was to safeguard the peace and security of the region, had for some time been troublesome and dangerous subjects for the government. In 1772 there was an insurrection in their main town. It was caused by the strict measures taken by Major General Traubenberg19 to reduce the army to proper obedience. The result was the barbarous murder of Traubenberg, a high-handed change of regime, and, finally, the putting down of the rebellion by cannon fire and severe punishments.

This happened a short time before my arrival at the Belogorsk fortress. Everything was already quiet, or seemed so; the authorities trusted all too easily in the sham repentance of the cunning rebels, who nursed their malice in secret and awaited a good opportunity for renewed upheavals.

I return to my story.

One evening (it was at the beginning of October 1773) I was sitting at home alone, listening to the howling of the autumn wind and looking through the window at the clouds racing past the moon. They came to summon me on behalf of the commandant. I went at once. At the commandant’s I found Shvabrin, Ivan Ignatyich, and the Cossack sergeant. Neither Vasilisa Egorovna nor Marya Ivanovna was in the room. The commandant greeted me with a preoccupied air. He shut the door, had us all sit down—except for the sergeant, who stood by the door—took a paper from his pocket, and said to us: “Gentlemen officers, important news! Listen to what the general writes.”

Then he put on his spectacles and read the following:

To Captain Mironov, commandant of the Belogorsk fortress.

Confidential.

I hereby inform you that the fugitive Don Cossack and schismatic Emelyan Pugachev, having committed the unpardonable impudence of taking upon himself the name of the late emperor Peter III,20 has gathered a band of villains, stirred up an insurrection in the villages of the Yaik region, and already taken and ravaged several fortresses, carrying out robberies and murders everywhere. As a result, Captain, upon receipt of this, you are immediately to take appropriate measures for repulsing the said villain and impostor, and, if possible, for his total annihilation, in case he moves against the fortress entrusted to your care.

“Take appropriate measures,” said the commandant, removing his spectacles and folding the paper. “That’s easy enough to say. The villain seems to be strong; and we have all of a hundred and thirty men, not counting the Cossacks, who are none too trusty—no offense intended, Maximych.” (The sergeant grinned.) “However, there’s nothing to be done, gentlemen! Do your duty, set up sentries and a night watch; in case of attack, lock the gate and muster your men. You, Maximych, keep a sharp eye on your Cossacks. Inspect the cannon and clean it well. And, above all, keep the whole thing secret, so that nobody in the fortress learns of it ahead of time.”

Having given these orders, Ivan Kuzmich dismissed us. I went out together with Shvabrin, discussing what we had just heard.

“How do you think it will end?” I asked him.

“God knows,” he replied. “We’ll find out. For the time being I don’t see it as anything important. But if…”

Here he became thoughtful and started absentmindedly whistling a French air.

In spite of all our precautions, news of Pugachev’s appearance spread through the fortress. Ivan Kuzmich had great respect for his wife, but not for anything in the world would he have revealed to her a secret entrusted to him by the service. On receiving the general’s letter, he had contrived to send Vasilisa Egorovna away, telling her that Father Gerasim had received some remarkable news from Orenburg, which he was keeping in great secrecy. Vasilisa Egorovna immediately wanted to go and visit the priest’s wife, and, on Ivan Kuzmich’s advice, took Masha along with her, so that she would not be bored alone.

Ivan Kuzmich, left in full control, at once sent for us and locked Palashka in the storeroom, so that she could not overhear us.

Vasilisa Egorovna came home, having failed to find out anything from the priest’s wife, and learned that during her absence Ivan Kuzmich had held a meeting and that Palashka had been locked up. She realized that her husband had tricked her and accosted him with questions. But Ivan Kuzmich was prepared for the attack. He was not put out in the least and cheerfully answered his inquisitive consort:

“You know, dearest, our womenfolk took it into their heads to heat their stoves with straw; and since that could lead to disaster, I gave strict orders that in future our womenfolk heat their stoves, not with straw, but with brushwood and fallen branches.”

“And why did you have to lock up Palashka?” asked his wife. “Why was the poor girl left sitting in the storeroom till we came back?”

Ivan Kuzmich was not prepared for such a question; he became muddled and muttered something quite incoherent. Vasilisa Egorovna saw her husband’s perfidy; but knowing that she would get nothing out of him, she broke off her questions and started talking about pickled cucumbers, which Akulina Pamfilovna prepared in a totally unusual way. Vasilisa Egorovna could not sleep all night and simply could not figure out what was in her husband’s head that she was not allowed to know.

The next day, coming back from church, she saw Ivan Ignatyich pulling out of the cannon rags, gravel, wood chips, knucklebones, and all sorts of trash that the children had stuffed into it.

“What might these military preparations mean?” the commandant’s wife thought. “Are they expecting an attack from the Kirghiz? Can it be that Ivan Kuzmich would conceal such trifles from me?”

She called Ivan Ignatyich with the firm intention of wheedling out of him the secret that tormented her feminine curiosity.

Vasilisa Egorovna made several observations to him concerning household matters, like a judge who begins an investigation with unrelated questions, so as to put the defendant off guard. Then, after a few moments’ silence, she sighed deeply and said, shaking her head: “Lord God! Such news! What will come of it?”

“Eh, dear lady!” Ivan Ignatyich replied. “God is merciful, we’ve got enough soldiers, plenty of powder, and I’ve cleaned the cannon. Maybe we’ll fend off Pugachev. If God doesn’t forget us, the pigs won’t get us.”

“And what sort of man is this Pugachev?”asked the commandant’s wife.

Here Ivan Ignatyich realized that he had made a gaffe and bit his tongue. But it was too late. Vasilisa Egorovna forced him to confess everything, giving him her word that she would not tell anybody.

Vasilisa Egorovna kept her promise and did not say a word to anybody, except for the priest’s wife, and then only because her cow grazed on the steppe and could be seized by the villains.

Soon everybody was talking about Pugachev. The rumors varied. The commandant sent the Cossack sergeant out, charging him to thoroughly reconnoiter the surrounding villages and fortresses. The sergeant came back in two days and reported that on the steppe, about forty miles from the fortress, he had seen many lights, and he had heard from the Bashkirs that an unknown force was coming. However, he could not say anything definite, because he had been afraid to go on further.

In the fortress an unusual agitation could be noticed among the Cossacks; they clustered everywhere in little groups, talked softly among themselves, and dispersed on seeing a dragoon or a garrison soldier. Spies were sent among them. Yulai, a baptized Kalmyk, brought important intelligence to the commandant. The sergeant’s information, according to Yulai, was false: on his return, the cunning Cossack told his comrades that he had gone to the rebels, had presented himself to their leader in person, who had allowed him to kiss his hand and talked at length with him. The commandant immediately put the sergeant under guard and appointed Yulai in his place. The Cossacks received this news with obvious displeasure. They murmured loudly, and Ivan Ignatyich, who carried out the commandant’s order, with his own ears heard them say: “You’re going to get it, you garrison rat!” The commandant intended to question his prisoner that same day; but the sergeant escaped from the guard, probably with the help of his accomplices.

A new circumstance increased the commandant’s anxiety. A Bashkir was seized with inflammatory leaflets. On this occasion the commandant again intended to gather his officers and for that again wanted to send Vasilisa Egorovna away on some plausible pretext. But since Ivan Kuzmich was a most straightforward and truthful man, he found no other way than the same one he had already employed.

“See here, Vasilisa Egorovna,” he said, clearing his throat, “they say Father Gerasim has received from town…”

“Enough nonsense, Ivan Kuzmich,” his wife interrupted. “So you want to call a meeting and talk about Emelyan Pugachev without me; but this time you won’t pull it off!”

Ivan Kuzmich goggled his eyes.

“Well, dearest,” he said, “since you know everything, you might as well stay; we’ll talk with you here.”

“That’s the way, my dear,” she replied. “You’re no good at trickery. Send for the officers.”

We gathered again. Ivan Kuzmich, in the presence of his wife, read to us Pugachev’s proclamation, written by some semiliterate Cossack. The brigand announced his intention to go at once against our fortress; he invited the Cossacks and the soldiers to join his band, and exhorted the commanders to put up no resistance, threatening them with execution otherwise. The proclamation was written in crude but forceful language and was bound to make a dangerous impression on the minds of simple people.

“What a fraud!” exclaimed the commandant’s wife. “How dare he make us such offers! To go out to him and lay our banners at his feet! Ah, the son of a dog! Doesn’t he know we’ve already been forty years in the service and, thank God, seen it all? Can such commanders be found as would listen to the brigand?”

“Seems like there shouldn’t be,” Ivan Kuzmich replied. “Yet they say the villain has already taken many fortresses.”

“He must be really strong, then,” observed Shvabrin.

“We’ll soon see just how strong he is,” said the commandant. “Vasilisa Egorovna, give me the key to the shed. Ivan Ignatyich, bring that Bashkir and tell Yulai to fetch us a whip.”

“Wait, Ivan Kuzmich,” said his wife, getting up. “Let me take Masha away somewhere; she’ll hear the screams and get frightened. And, to tell the truth, I’m no lover of interrogations either. Good-bye and good luck.”

In the old days torture was so ingrained in legal procedure that the beneficial decree that abolished it long remained without any effect.21 The thinking was that a criminal’s own confession was necessary for his full conviction—an idea not only without foundation, but totally contrary to juridical common sense: for if a criminal’s denial is not accepted as proof of his innocence, still less should his confession be proof of his guilt. Even now I sometimes hear old judges regretting the abolition of this barbaric custom. But in our day nobody doubted the necessity of torture, neither the judges, nor the accused. And so, the commandant’s order neither surprised nor alarmed any of us. Ivan Ignatyich went for the Bashkir, who sat locked in Vasilisa Egorovna’s shed, and a few minutes later the prisoner was led into the front hall. The commandant ordered that he be brought before him.

The Bashkir stepped across the threshold with difficulty (he was in clogs) and, taking off his tall hat, stopped by the door. I looked at him and shuddered. Never will I forget this man. He looked to be over seventy. He had no nose or ears. His head was shaved; instead of a beard several gray hairs stuck out; he was short, skinny, and bent; but his narrow eyes still flashed fire.

“Aha!” said the commandant, recognizing by his terrible marks one of the rebels punished in 1741.22 “It’s clear you’re an old wolf—you’ve visited our traps. Must be this isn’t your first rebellion, since your nob’s been planed so smooth. Come closer; tell us, who sent you?”

The old Bashkir said nothing and looked at the commandant with a totally vacant air.

“Why are you silent?” Ivan Kuzmich went on. “Or maybe you don’t have a lick of Russian? Yulai, ask him in your language who sent him to our fortress.”

Yulai repeated Ivan Kuzmich’s question in Tatar. But the Bashkir looked at him with the same expression and answered not a word.

“Yakshi,”^*3 said the commandant, “you’ll speak to me yet. Hey, lads! Take off his stupid stripy robe and hemstitch his back. Look to it, Yulai: give it to him good!”

Two veterans began to undress the Bashkir. The poor man’s face showed anxiety. He looked all around like a little animal caught by children. But when one of the veterans took his arms, put them around his neck, and raised the old man onto his shoulders, while Yulai took the whip and swung it—then the Bashkir moaned in a weak, pleading voice, and, wagging his head, opened his mouth, in which, instead of a tongue, a short stump twitched.

When I recall that this happened in my lifetime and that I have now lived to see the mild reign of the emperor Alexander,23 I cannot help marveling at the rapid success of enlightenment and the spread of the principles of humanity. Young man, if my notes find themselves in your hands, remember that the best and most lasting changes are those that proceed from the improvement of morals, without any violent upheavals.

We were all shocked.

“Well,” said the commandant, “it’s clear we won’t get any sense out of him. Yulai, take the Bashkir back to the shed. And we, gentlemen, still have a thing or two to talk over.”

We had begun to discuss our situation, when Vasilisa Egorovna suddenly came in, breathless and looking extremely alarmed.

“What’s happened to you?” asked the astonished commandant.

“Big trouble, my dears!” Vasilisa Egorovna replied. “The Nizhneozerny fortress was taken this morning. Father Gerasim’s hired man just came back from there. He saw it taken. The commandant and all the officers were hanged. All the soldiers were taken prisoner. Before you notice, the villains will be here.”

The unexpected news shocked me greatly. I knew the commandant of the Nizhneozerny fortress, a quiet and modest young man: some two months earlier he had been passing by from Orenburg with his young wife and put up at Ivan Kuzmich’s. The Nizhneozerny was about sixteen miles from our fortress. At any moment we, too, could expect Pugachev to attack. I vividly pictured Marya Ivanovna’s lot, and my heart sank.

“Listen, Ivan Kuzmich!” I said to the commandant. “Our duty is to defend the fortress to our last breath; that goes without saying. But we must think of the safety of the women. Send them to Orenburg, if the road is still open, or to some safer, more distant fortress that the villains won’t reach.”

Ivan Kuzmich turned to his wife and said:

“See here, dearest. In fact, why don’t we send you farther away, until we’ve dealt with the rebels?”

“Ehh, trifles!” said the commandant’s wife. “Where is there a fortress that hasn’t seen bullets flying? What’s unsafe about Belogorsk? Thank God, it’s twenty-two years we’ve lived in it. We’ve seen the Bashkirs and the Kirghiz; chances are we’ll outsit Pugachev, too!”

“Well, dearest,” Ivan Kuzmich rejoined, “you’re welcome to stay, since you trust in our fortress. But what are we to do with Masha? It’s fine if we sit it out or succor comes; but what if the villains take the fortress?”

“Well, then…” Here Vasilisa Egorovna hesitated and fell silent, looking extremely worried.

“No, Vasilisa Egorovna,” the commandant went on, noticing that his words had had an effect on her, perhaps for the first time in his life. “It won’t do for Masha to stay here. Let’s send her to Orenburg, to her godmother: they have troops and cannon aplenty, and the walls are stone. And I’d advise you to go there with her; never mind that you’re an old woman, just consider what would happen to you if they were to take the fortress by assault.”

“Very well,” said his wife, “so be it, we’ll send Masha off. But don’t dream of asking me to go: I won’t. Nothing will make me part from you in my old age and seek a solitary grave in strange parts somewhere. Together we’ve lived, and together we’ll die.”

“That’s it, then,” said the commandant. “Well, there’s no point in tarrying. Go, prepare Masha for the journey. Tomorrow at dawn we’ll send her off, and we’ll give her an escort, though we have no men to spare. But where is Masha?”

“At Akulina Pamfilovna’s,” his wife replied. “She felt faint when she heard that the Nizhneozerny fortress had been taken; I’m afraid she may fall ill. Lord God, that we’ve lived to see this!”

Vasilisa Egorovna went to busy herself with her daughter’s departure. The conversation at the commandant’s went on; but I no longer entered into it and was not listening. Marya Ivanovna appeared at supper pale and tear-stained. We finished supper in silence and got up from the table sooner than usual; taking leave of the whole family, we went to our homes. But I deliberately forgot my sword and went back for it; I had a feeling I would find Marya Ivanovna alone. Indeed, she met me at the door and handed me my sword.

“Good-bye, Pyotr Andreich!” she said to me in tears. “They’re sending me to Orenburg. May you live and be happy; perhaps the Lord will grant us to see each other again; but if not…”

Here she burst into sobs. I embraced her.

“Farewell, my angel,” I said, “farewell, my dear one, my heart’s desire! Whatever happens to me, trust that my last thought and last prayer will be about you!”

Masha sobbed, clinging to my breast. I kissed her ardently and hurried out of the room.

CHAPTER SEVEN The Assault

Head of mine, dear head of mine

This my dear long-serving head,

It has served, dear head of mine,

Exactly three and thirty years.

Ah, it has earned, this head of mine,

Naught of profit, naught of joy,

Naught of any kindly word

And naught of any higher rank;

All it has earned, this head of mine,

Is two lofty wooden posts,

A crossbar made of maple wood,

And a simple silken noose.

FOLK SONG

That night I did not sleep, nor did I undress. I intended to go at dawn to the fortress gate, from which Marya Ivanovna was to leave, and there say good-bye to her for the last time. I felt a great change in myself: the agitation of my soul was much less burdensome for me than the dejection I had been sunk in still recently. The sadness of separation mingled in me with vague but sweet hopes, the impatient expectation of danger, and a sense of noble ambition. The night passed imperceptibly. I was about to leave my house when the door opened and a corporal appeared with the report that the Cossacks had left the fortress during the night, taking Yulai with them by force, and that unknown men were riding around the fortress. The thought that Marya Ivanovna would not have time to leave horrified me; I quickly gave the corporal a few instructions and rushed at once to the commandant.

Dawn was breaking. I was flying down the street when I heard my name called. I stopped.

“Where are you going?” asked Ivan Ignatyich, catching up with me. “Ivan Kuzmich is on the rampart and sent me for you. Pugach has come.”

“Has Marya Ivanovna left?” I asked with a trembling heart.

“She didn’t have time,” Ivan Ignatyich replied. “The road to Orenburg has been cut; the fortress is surrounded. Things are bad, Pyotr Andreich!”

We went up to the rampart, an elevation formed by nature and fortified by a palisade. All the inhabitants of the fortress were already crowding there. The garrison stood under arms. The cannon had been moved there the day before. The commandant paced up and down in front of his scanty ranks. The proximity of danger inspired the old warrior with an extraordinary animation. On the steppe, no great distance from the fortress, some twenty horsemen were riding about. They seemed to be Cossacks, but there were also Bashkirs among them, easily recognizable by their lynx hats and their quivers. The commandant made the round of his troops, saying to his soldiers:

“Well, lads, let’s stand today for our mother empress and prove to the whole world that we are brave men faithful to our oath!”

The soldiers loudly voiced their zeal. Shvabrin stood next to me and gazed intently at the enemy. The people riding about on the steppe, noticing movement in the fortress, gathered into a little knot and started talking among themselves. The commandant ordered Ivan Ignatyich to point the cannon at them and put the match to it himself. The cannonball went whizzing over them without doing any damage. The riders, dispersing, galloped out of sight at once, and the steppe was left empty.

Then Vasilisa Egorovna appeared on the rampart, and with her Masha, who did not want to stay behind.

“Well, so?” said the commandant’s wife. “How’s the battle going? Where’s the enemy?”

“The enemy’s not far off,” replied Ivan Kuzmich. “God grant all will be well. What, Masha, are you scared?”

“No, papa,” replied Marya Ivanovna. “It’s scarier at home alone.”

Then she glanced at me and tried to smile. I involuntarily gripped the hilt of my sword, remembering that the day before I had received it from her hands, as if for the protection of my beloved. My heart glowed. I imagined myself as her knight. I longed to prove myself worthy of her trust, and waited impatiently for the decisive moment.

Just then new groups of horsemen appeared from over the rise half a mile from the fortress, and soon the steppe was strewn with a multitude of people, armed with lances and bows. Among them, on a white horse, rode a man in a red kaftan, with a drawn sword in his hand: this was Pugachev himself. He stopped; the men surrounded him, and, apparently at his command, four men separated from them and galloped at top speed right up to the fortress. We recognized them as our traitors. One of them held a sheet of paper under his hat; another had Yulai’s head stuck on his lance, which he shook off and threw over the paling to our side. The poor Kalmyk’s head landed at the commandant’s feet. The traitors shouted: “Don’t shoot; come out to the sovereign. The sovereign’s here!”

“I’ll give it to you!” cried Ivan Kuzmich. “Fire, lads!”

Our soldiers loosed a volley. The Cossack holding the letter reeled and fell off his horse; the others galloped back. I looked at Marya Ivanovna. Shocked by the sight of Yulai’s bloody head, deafened by the volley, she seemed to be in a daze. The commandant summoned the corporal and ordered him to take the piece of paper from the dead Cossack’s hand. The corporal went out to the field and came back leading the dead man’s horse by the bridle. He handed the commandant the letter. Ivan Kuzmich read it to himself and then tore it into little pieces. Meanwhile the rebels were evidently preparing for action. Soon bullets began to whistle past our ears and several arrows stuck into the ground and the palings near us.

“Vasilisa Egorovna!” said the commandant. “Women have no business here. Take Masha away. Look: the girl’s more dead than alive.”

Vasilisa Egorovna, grown quiet under the bullets, glanced at the steppe, on which great movement could be seen; then she turned to her husband and said to him:

“Ivan Kuzmich, life and death are as God wills: bless Masha. Masha, go to your father.”

Masha, pale and trembling, went to Ivan Kuzmich, knelt, and bowed to the ground before him. The old commandant crossed her three times; then he raised her up, kissed her, and said in an altered voice:

“Well, Masha, be happy. Pray to God: he won’t abandon you. If a good man comes along, God grant you love and harmony. Live as Vasilisa Egorovna and I have lived. So, farewell, Masha. Vasilisa Egorovna, take her away quickly.”

Masha threw herself on his neck and burst into sobs.

“Let’s us, too, kiss each other,” the commandant’s wife said, weeping. “Farewell, my Ivan Kuzmich. Forgive me if I’ve vexed you in any way!”

“Farewell, farewell, my dearest!” said the commandant, embracing his old woman. “Enough, now! Go, go home; and if you have time, put Masha in a peasant dress.”

The commandant’s wife and daughter went away. I followed Marya Ivanovna with my eyes; she looked back and nodded to me. Then Ivan Kuzmich turned to us, and fixed all his attention on the enemy. The rebels were gathering around their leader and suddenly began to dismount.

“Stand firm now,” said the commandant. “There’ll be an assault…”

Just then a terrible shrieking and shouting rang out; the rebels were rushing towards the fortress. Our cannon was loaded with grapeshot. The commandant let them get as close as possible and suddenly fired again. The grapeshot struck right in the middle of their crowd. The rebels shied away on either side and fell back. Their leader was left alone out in front…He brandished his sword and seemed to be heatedly exhorting them…The shouting and shrieking, which had ceased for a moment, revived again at once.

“Now, lads,” said the commandant, “open the gates, beat the drum. Forward, lads! Into the attack, follow me!”

The commandant, Ivan Ignatyich, and I instantly found ourselves outside the rampart; but the frightened soldiers did not budge.

“Why are you standing there, children?” Ivan Kuzmich shouted. “If we die, we die: it comes with the job!”

Just then the rebels overran us and burst into the fortress. The drumbeat stopped; the garrison dropped their guns; I was knocked off my feet, but I got up and entered the fortress along with the rebels. The commandant, wounded in the head, stood in a little knot of the villains, who were demanding the keys from him. I was just rushing to his aid when several stalwart Cossacks seized me and bound me with belts, repeating all the while: “Ah, you’re going to get it for disobeying the sovereign!” They dragged us down the street; people were coming out of the houses with bread and salt.24 Church bells rang. Suddenly someone in the crowd shouted that the sovereign was in the square, waiting for the prisoners and receiving oaths of allegiance. People thronged towards the square; we, too, were driven there.

Pugachev was sitting in an armchair on the porch of the commandant’s house. He was wearing a red Cossack kaftan trimmed with galloons. A tall sable hat with gold tassels was pulled down to his flashing eyes. His face seemed familiar to me. Cossack chiefs surrounded him. Father Gerasim, pale and trembling, stood by the porch with a cross in his hands and seemed to be silently pleading with him for the soon-to-be victims. A gallows was being hastily set up on the square. When we came closer, the Bashkirs drove the people aside, and we were introduced to Pugachev. The bells stopped ringing; a deep silence ensued.

“Which is the commandant?” asked the impostor. Our sergeant stepped out of the crowd and pointed to Ivan Kuzmich. Pugachev looked menacingly at the old man and said to him:

“How dared you oppose me, your sovereign?”

The commandant, growing faint from his wound, gathered his last strength and replied in a firm voice:

“You are not my sovereign, you are a thief and an impostor, see here!”

Pugachev frowned darkly and waved a white handkerchief. Several Cossacks picked up the old captain and dragged him to the gallows. The mutilated Bashkir whom we had questioned the day before turned up sitting astride the crossbar. He held a rope in his hand, and a moment later I saw poor Ivan Kuzmich hoisted into the air. Then Ivan Ignatyich was brought before Pugachev.

“Swear allegiance,” Pugachev said to him, “to the sovereign Pyotr Feodorovich!”25

“You’re not our sovereign,” Ivan Ignatyich answered, repeating his captain’s words. “You, uncle, are a thief and an impostor!”

Pugachev waved his handkerchief again, and the good lieutenant hung beside his old superior.

It was my turn. I looked boldly at Pugachev, preparing to repeat the response of my noble-hearted comrades. Then, to my indescribable amazement, I saw Shvabrin among the rebel chiefs, his hair in a bowl cut and wearing a Cossack kaftan. He went up to Pugachev and said a few words in his ear.

“Hang him!” said Pugachev, without even glancing at me.

They threw the noose around my neck. I began to recite a prayer to myself, offering God sincere repentance for all my transgressions and asking for the salvation of all who were near to my heart. They dragged me under the gallows.

“Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid,” repeated my undoers, perhaps truly wishing to hearten me. Suddenly I heard a shout:

“Stop, you fiends, wait!…”

The executioners stopped. I looked: Savelyich was lying at Pugachev’s feet.

“Dear father!” my poor tutor was saying. “What is the death of my master’s child to you? Let him go; you’ll get a ransom for him; and as an example and so as to put fear into people, have them hang my old self instead.”

Pugachev gave a sign, and they unbound me at once and let me go.

“Our father pardons you,” they said to me.

I cannot say that I was glad at that moment of my deliverance, though I also cannot say I regretted it. My feelings were too blurred. They brought me to the impostor again and made me go on my knees before him. Pugachev offered me his sinewy hand.

“Kiss his hand, kiss his hand!” said those around me. But I would have preferred the most cruel punishment to such base humiliation.

“Dearest Pyotr Andreich!” Savelyich whispered, standing behind me and prodding me. “Don’t be stubborn! What is it to you? Spit on it and kiss the vill—…pfui!…kiss his hand.”

I did not stir. Pugachev lowered his hand, saying with a little smirk:

“Seems his honor’s stupefied with joy. Stand him up!”

They stood me up and set me free. I started watching the continuation of the gruesome comedy.

The inhabitants began to swear allegiance. They went up one after the other, kissed the crucifix, and then bowed to the impostor. The garrison soldiers stood there, too. The company tailor, armed with his dull scissors, cut off their queues. They shook themselves and went up to kiss the hand of Pugachev, who declared them pardoned and received them into his band. All this took about three hours. Finally Pugachev got up from his chair and came down from the porch, accompanied by his chiefs. A white horse adorned with rich harness was brought to him. Two Cossacks took him under the arms and seated him on the saddle. He told Father Gerasim that he would dine with him. Just then I heard a woman’s shout. Several of the brigands dragged Vasilisa Egorovna out to the porch, disheveled and stripped naked. One of them had already managed to dress himself in her warm vest. Others were carrying featherbeds, trunks, tea sets, linen, and all sorts of chattels.

“My dear ones!” the poor old woman cried. “Let me go in peace. Kind people, take me to Ivan Kuzmich.”

Suddenly she glanced at the gallows and recognized her husband.

“Villains!” she cried in frenzy. “What have you done to him? Light of my life, Ivan Kuzmich, my brave soldier! Neither Prussian bayonets nor Turkish bullets could touch you; you laid down your life not in fair combat, but undone by a runaway convict!”

“Silence the old witch!” said Pugachev.

Here a young Cossack struck her on the head with his sword, and she fell dead on the steps of the porch. Pugachev rode off; the people rushed after him.

CHAPTER EIGHT An Uninvited Guest

An uninvited guest is worse than a Tatar.

PROVERB

The square was deserted. I went on standing in the same place and could not put my thoughts in order, confused as they were by such terrible impressions.

Uncertainty about the fate of Marya Ivanovna tormented me most of all. Where was she? What had happened to her? Had she had time to hide? Was her refuge safe?…Filled with anxious thoughts, I entered the commandant’s house…It was devastated; the chairs, tables, trunks were all broken; the dishes were all smashed; everything was pulled apart. I ran up the little stairway that led to the upper chamber and for the first time in my life entered Marya Ivanovna’s room. I saw her bed ransacked by the brigands; the wardrobe was broken and pillaged; a lamp still flickered before the empty icon stand. The little mirror on the wall between the windows was also intact…Where was the mistress of this humble maiden’s cell? A terrible thought flashed through my mind: I pictured her in the hands of the brigands…My heart was wrung…I wept bitter, bitter tears and loudly uttered the name of my beloved…Just then I heard a slight rustle and Palasha appeared from behind the wardrobe, pale and trembling.

“Ah, Pyotr Andreich!” she said, clasping her hands. “What a day! What horrors!…”

“And Marya Ivanovna?” I asked impatiently. “What of Marya Ivanovna?”

“The young miss is alive,” Palasha replied. “She’s in hiding at Akulina Pamfilovna’s.”

“At the priest’s!” I cried in horror. “My God! Pugachev’s there!…”

I rushed out of the room, instantly found myself in the street, and ran headlong to the priest’s house, seeing and feeling nothing. There was shouting, guffawing, and singing there…Pugachev was feasting with his comrades. Palasha came running after me. I sent her to call Akulina Pamfilovna out quietly. A moment later the priest’s wife came out to me in the front hall with an empty bottle in her hand.

“For God’s sake, where is Marya Ivanovna?” I asked with indescribable anxiety.

“She’s lying in my bed, the little dove, there, behind the partition,” the priest’s wife replied. “Well, Pyotr Andreich, misfortune nearly befell us, but, thank God, it all turned out well: the villain had just sat down to dinner when the poor thing came to and moaned!…I nearly fainted away. He heard it: ‘Who’s that groaning there, old woman?’ I bowed low to the thief: ‘My niece, Your Majesty. She was taken ill; it’s two weeks now she’s been lying there.’ ‘Is your niece young?’ ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ ‘Show me your niece, old woman.’ My heart just sank, but there was nothing to be done. ‘If you please, sir; only the girl can’t get up and come to your honor.’ ‘Never mind, old woman, I’ll go and look myself.’ And he did, the fiend, he went behind the partition; and what do you think! He pulled the curtain aside, stared with his hawk’s eyes!—and that’s all…God spared us! Would you believe, right then my husband and I were ready for a martyr’s death. Luckily, my little dove didn’t recognize him. Lord God, what high days we’ve lived to see! I must say! Poor Ivan Kuzmich, who’d have imagined!…And Vasilisa Egorovna? And Ivan Ignatyich? What harm did he do?…How is it you were spared? And what about this Shvabrin, Alexei Ivanyich? Got himself a bowl haircut and now he sits here feasting with them! A nimble one, I must say! And when I mentioned the sick niece, would you believe, he shot me a glance like the stab of a knife; didn’t give me away, though, thanks be for that.”

Just then we heard drunken shouts from the guests and the voice of Father Gerasim. The guests were demanding vodka, the host was calling for his wife. She got into a flurry.

“Go home, Pyotr Andreich,” she said. “I can’t stay with you now, the villains are carousing. It’ll be bad if you fall into their drunken hands. Good-bye, Pyotr Andreich. What will be, will be; maybe God won’t forsake us.”

The priest’s wife left. Somewhat reassured, I went back to my quarters. Walking past the square, I saw several Bashkirs crowding around the gallows and pulling the boots off the hanged men; I barely controlled a burst of indignation, sensing the uselessness of interference. The brigands ran all over the fortress, looting the officers’ houses. The shouts of the drunken rebels could be heard everywhere. I reached home. Savelyich met me on the threshold.

“Thank God!” he cried on seeing me. “I was thinking the villains had got hold of you again. Well, my dear Pyotr Andreich, would you believe it? The rascals have robbed us of everything: clothes, linen, belongings, crockery—they left us nothing. But so what! Thank God they let you go alive! Did you recognize their leader, sir?”

“No, I didn’t. Who is he?”

“What, my dearest? Have you forgotten that drunkard who wheedled the coat out of you at the inn? A hareskin coat, quite a new one; and the brute burst all the seams as he pulled it on!”

I was amazed. In fact, the resemblance between Pugachev and my guide was striking. I realized that he and Pugachev were one and the same person, and understood then the reason for the mercy he had shown me. I could only marvel at the strange chain of events: a child’s coat given to a vagabond delivered me from the noose, and a drunkard roaming the wayside inns besieged fortresses and shook the state!

“Wouldn’t you care to eat?” asked Savelyich, unchanged in his habits. “We’ve got nothing at home. I’ll go rustle something up and prepare it for you.”

Left alone, I became lost in ruminations. What was I to do? To remain in the fortress subject to the villain, or to follow his band, was unbecoming to an officer. Duty demanded that I go where my service could still be useful to the fatherland in the present difficult circumstances…But love strongly advised me to stay by Marya Ivanovna and be her defender and protector. Though I foresaw a swift and sure change of circumstances, I still could not help but tremble, picturing the danger of her situation.

My ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of one of the Cossacks, who came running to announce that “the great sovereign summons you to him.”

“Where is he?” I asked, preparing to obey.

“In the commandant’s house,” replied the Cossack. “After dinner, our good father went to the bathhouse, and now he’s resting. Well, Your Honor, by all tokens, he’s a distinguished person: at dinner he was pleased to eat two roasted suckling pigs, and he made the steam in the bath so hot that even Taras Kurochkin couldn’t stand it, gave his whisk to Fomka Bikbaev, and barely revived under cold water. I tell you true: all his ways are so grand…And they say in the bathhouse he showed the signs that he’s a tsar on his chest: on one side a double-headed eagle as big as a five-kopeck piece, and on the other his own person.”

I did not deem it necessary to dispute the Cossack’s opinion and went with him to the commandant’s house, imagining beforehand my meeting with Pugachev and trying to foresee how it would end. The reader may easily imagine that I was not entirely coolheaded.

It was getting dark when I came to the commandant’s house. The gallows with its victims loomed black and dreadful. The body of the poor commandant’s wife still lay at the foot of the porch, by which two Cossacks stood guard. The Cossack who brought me went to announce my arrival and, coming back at once, led me to the same room where, the day before, I had so tenderly bid farewell to Marya Ivanovna.

An extraordinary picture presented itself to me: at the table, covered with a tablecloth and set with bottles and glasses, Pugachev and some ten Cossack chiefs sat, wearing hats and bright-colored shirts, flushed with vodka, their mugs red and their eyes gleaming. Neither Shvabrin nor our sergeant, the newly recruited traitors, was among them.

“Ah, Your Honor!” said Pugachev on seeing me. “Welcome! Sit yourself down, be my guest.” His companions made room. I silently sat down at the edge of the table. My neighbor, a young Cossack, slender and handsome, poured me a glass of plain vodka, which I did not touch. I started examining the company with curiosity. Pugachev sat at the head, leaning his elbow on the table and propping his black beard with his broad fist. His features, regular and quite pleasant, did not betray any ferocity. He often turned to a man of about fifty, referring to him now as Count, now as Timofeich, and sometimes calling him “uncle.” They all treated one another as comrades and showed no special preference for their leader. The conversation was about the morning’s assault, the success of the rebellion, and future actions. Each man boasted, offered his opinions, and freely disputed with Pugachev. And it was at this strange military council that it was decided to march on Orenburg: a bold action, and one which was nearly crowned with calamitous success! The campaign was announced for the next day.

“Well, brothers,” said Pugachev, “before we go to bed let’s strike up my favorite song. Chumakov,26 begin!”

In a high voice, my neighbor struck up a melancholy barge hauler’s song, and they all joined in the chorus:

Rustle not, leafy mother, forest green,

Keep me not, a fine lad, from thinking my thoughts.

Tomorrow, fine lad, I must go to be questioned

Before the dread judge, the great tsar himself.

And here is what the sovereign tsar will ask me:

“Tell me, tell me, my stout peasant lad,

With whom did you steal, with whom did you rob,

And how many comrades went by your side?”

“I will tell you, trusty Orthodox tsar,

In all truth I will tell you, and in all verity,

I had four comrades by my side:

My first comrade was the pitch-dark night,

My second comrade a knife of damask steel,

For my third comrade I had my good steed,

My fourth comrade was a taut-strung bow,

And tempered steel arrows were my messengers.”

Then up speaks the trusty Orthodox tsar:

“Praise to you, my stout peasant lad,

That you know how to steal and how to reply!

For that, my stout fellow, I grant to you

A lofty mansion in the midst of the fields—

A pair of straight posts and a sturdy crossbeam.”

It is impossible to describe the effect that this simple folk song about the gallows, sung by men destined for the gallows, had on me. Their stern faces, harmonious voices, the melancholy expression they gave to words that were expressive even without that—all of it shook me with a sort of poetic dread.

The guests drank one more glass, got up from the table, and took leave of Pugachev. I was going to follow them, but Pugachev said to me:

“Sit down; I want to talk to you.”

We remained face-to-face.

Our mutual silence continued for several minutes. Pugachev looked at me intently, occasionally narrowing his left eye with an extraordinary expression of slyness and mockery. Finally he burst out laughing, and with such unfeigned gaiety that, looking at him, I, too, began to laugh, not knowing why myself.

“Well, Your Honor?” he said to me. “So you turned coward, admit it, when my lads put the rope around your neck? I bet your blood ran cold…And you’d be swinging from the crossbeam if it wasn’t for your servant. I recognized the old geezer at once. Well, did it occur to you, Your Honor, that the man who led you to that inn was the great sovereign himself?” (Here he assumed an imposing and mysterious air.) “Your guilt before me is big,” he went on, “but I had mercy on you for your goodness, because you did me a service when I was forced to hide from my foes. And you’ll see more yet! I’ll show you still more favor, when I come to rule my kingdom! Do you promise to serve me with zeal?”

The rascal’s question and his brazenness seemed so amusing that I could not help smiling.

“What are you smiling at?” he asked me, frowning. “Or don’t you believe I’m the great sovereign? Tell me straight.”

I was perplexed. To acknowledge the vagabond as sovereign was impossible: it seemed inexcusably fainthearted to me. To call him a humbug to his face was to expose myself to destruction; and what I had been ready for under the gallows in the eyes of all the people and in the first heat of indignation, now seemed to me useless bravado. I hesitated. Pugachev grimly awaited my reply. Finally (and even now I remember this moment with self-satisfaction) the sense of duty won out in me over human weakness. I replied to Pugachev:

“Listen, I’ll tell you the whole truth. Just consider, can I acknowledge you as my sovereign? You’re a sensible man: you’d see yourself that I was being devious.”

“Who am I then, to your mind?”

“God knows; but whoever you are, you’re playing a dangerous game.”

Pugachev gave me a quick glance.

“So you don’t believe that I’m the sovereign Pyotr Fyodorovich?” he said. “Well, all right. But doesn’t fortune favor the bold? Didn’t Grishka Otrepev27 reign in the old days? Think what you like of me, but stay by me. What do you care one way or the other? As I say, so I am. Serve me faithfully and truly, and I’ll make you a field marshal and a prince. What do you think?”

“No,” I replied firmly. “I was born a nobleman; I swore allegiance to our sovereign empress: I cannot serve you. If you really wish me well, let me go to Orenburg.”

Pugachev reflected.

“And if I do,” he said, “will you promise at least not to fight against me?”

“How can I promise you that?” I replied. “You know yourself that it’s not up to me: if they order me to go against you, I’ll go—there’s nothing to be done. You’re a commander now yourself; you demand obedience from your men. How would it look if I refused to serve when my service was needed? My life is in your hands: if you let me go, thank you; if you hang me, God be your judge; but I’ve told you the truth.”

My frankness struck Pugachev.

“So be it,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder. “If it’s hanging, it’s hanging; if it’s pardon, it’s pardon. Go where the wind blows you and do whatever you like. Tomorrow come and say good-bye to me, and now go to bed—I’m nodding off myself.”

I left Pugachev and went out to the street. The night was calm and cold. The moon and stars shone brightly, illuminating the square and the gallows. In the fortress all was still and dark. Only in the pot-house was there light and one could hear the shouts of the belated revelers. I looked at the priest’s house. The shutters and gates were closed. It seemed that all was quiet inside.

I came to my quarters and found Savelyich grief-stricken over my absence. The news of my freedom delighted him beyond words.

“Glory be to God!” he said, crossing himself. “At first light we’ll leave the fortress and go wherever our feet take us. I’ve prepared you a little something; eat, dearest, and sleep till morning as in Christ’s bosom.”

I followed his advice and, having eaten supper with great appetite, fell asleep on the bare floor, mentally and physically exhausted.

CHAPTER NINE Parting

Sweet was the meeting of two hearts,

Thine and mine, my lovely girl;

Sad, how sad it is to part,

As sad as parting with my soul.

KHERASKOV28

Early in the morning I was awakened by the drumroll. I went to the place of assembly. There Pugachev’s crowds were already lining up by the gallows, where yesterday’s victims were still hanging. The Cossacks were on horseback, the soldiers under arms. Banners were flying. Several cannon, among which I recognized ours, were set up on mobile gun-carriages. All the inhabitants were there awaiting the impostor. By the porch of the commandant’s house, a Cossack was holding a fine white Kirghiz horse by the bridle. I searched with my eyes for the body of the commandant’s wife. It had been carried slightly to one side and covered with a bast mat. Finally Pugachev came out. The people took their hats off. Pugachev stopped on the porch and greeted them all. One of the chiefs gave him a sack of copper coins, and he started casting them around by the handful. With shouts, the people rushed to pick them up, and the matter did not end without serious injury. Pugachev was surrounded by his chief confederates. Among them stood Shvabrin. Our eyes met; in mine he could read contempt, and he turned away with an expression of genuine malice and feigned mockery. Pugachev, seeing me in the crowd, nodded his head to me and called me to him.

“Listen,” he said to me. “Go to Orenburg at once and tell the governor and all the generals from me to expect me there in a week. Advise them to meet me with childlike love and obedience; otherwise they will not escape a cruel death. Good journey, Your Honor!”

Then he turned to the people and said, pointing at Shvabrin:

“Here, dear children, is your new commander: obey him in all things; he is answerable to me for you and for the fortress.”

I heard these words with horror: Shvabrin was made commander of the fortress; Marya Ivanovna remained in his power! My God, what would happen to her! Pugachev went down the steps. The horse was brought to him. He leaped nimbly into the saddle, without waiting for the Cossacks who wanted to help him up.

Just then I saw my Savelyich step out of the crowd, approach Pugachev, and hand him a sheet of paper. I could not imagine what it could be about.

“What is this?” Pugachev asked imposingly.

“Read it and you’ll kindly see,” replied Savelyich.

Pugachev took the paper and studied it for a long time with a significant air.

“What’s this queer handwriting?” he said finally. “Our princely eyes can make nothing of it. Where is my head secretary?”

A young fellow in a corporal’s uniform swiftly ran up to Pugachev.

“Read it aloud,” said the impostor, handing him the paper. I was very curious to know what my tutor had decided to write to Pugachev about. The head secretary loudly began to recite the following:

“Two dressing gowns, one calico and the other of striped silk: six roubles.”

“What does that mean?” said Pugachev, frowning.

“Order him to read further,” Savelyich replied calmly.

The head secretary went on:

“A uniform jacket of fine green broadcloth: seven roubles.

“White broadcloth britches: five roubles.

“Twelve shirts of Dutch linen with cuffs: ten roubles.

“A cellaret with a tea service: two roubles fifty…”

“What’s this blather?” Pugachev interrupted. “What have I got to do with cellarets and britches with cuffs?”

Savelyich cleared his throat and began to explain:

“This, my dear man, if you please, is a list of my master’s possessions stolen by the villains…”

“What villains?” Pugachev asked menacingly.

“Sorry, it just slipped out,” Savelyich replied. “Villains or not, your boys ransacked the place and took everything. Don’t be angry: a horse has four legs and still he stumbles. Tell him to finish reading.”

“Finish reading,” said Pugachev. The secretary went on:

“A chintz blanket, another of taffeta lined with cotton: four roubles.

“A crimson ratteen coat lined with fox fur: forty roubles.

“Also the hareskin coat given to Your Grace at the inn: fifteen roubles.”

“What’s this now?” Pugachev shouted, flashing his fiery eyes.

I confess I was afraid for my poor tutor. He was about to launch into his explanations again, but Pugachev interrupted him:

“How dare you get at me with such nonsense?” he cried, snatching the paper from the secretary’s hand and flinging it in Savelyich’s face. “Stupid old man! You’ve been robbed: too bad! You old geezer, you ought to pray to God eternally for me and my boys: you and your master could be hanging here with the disobedient ones…A hareskin coat! I’ll give you a hareskin coat! You know what, I’ll skin you alive and have coats made out of your hide!”

“As you please,” replied Savelyich, “but I’m a dependent man and must answer for my master’s property.”

Pugachev was obviously in a fit of magnanimity. He turned away and rode off without another word. Shvabrin and the Cossack chiefs followed him. The band left the fortress in orderly fashion. The people went to accompany Pugachev. I remained alone on the square with Savelyich. My tutor was holding his inventory and studying it with a look of deep regret.

Seeing I was on good terms with Pugachev, he had thought to make use of it, but this wise intention had not succeeded. I was about to chide him for his misplaced zeal, but could not help laughing.

“Laugh, sir,” said Savelyich, “laugh; but when we have to set up your whole household again, we’ll see how funny it is.”

I hurried to the priest’s house to see Marya Ivanovna. The priest’s wife met me with sad news. During the night Marya Ivanovna had come down with a high fever. She lay unconscious and in delirium. The priest’s wife led me to her room. I quietly approached her bed. The change in her face shocked me. The sick girl did not recognize me. I stood by her for a long time, listening neither to Father Gerasim nor to his good wife, who seemed to be comforting me. Dark thoughts troubled me. The plight of the poor, defenseless orphan, left among malicious rebels, as well as my own powerlessness, horrified me. Shvabrin, Shvabrin most of all, tormented my imagination. Invested with power by the impostor, put in command of the fortress, where the unfortunate girl, the innocent object of his hatred, remained, he could resolve on anything. What was I to do? How could I help her? How deliver her from the villain’s hands? One means was left me: I decided to go at once to Orenburg, to hasten the deliverance of the Belogorsk fortress and contribute to it as much as possible. I took leave of the priest and Akulina Pamfilovna, ardently entrusting to them the one whom I already considered my wife. I took the poor girl’s hand and kissed it, wetting it with my tears.

“Good-bye,” the priest’s wife said to me, “good-bye, Pyotr Andreich. Maybe we’ll see each other in better times. Don’t forget us and write to us often. Apart from you, poor Marya Ivanovna now has neither comfort nor protection.”

Coming out to the square, I stopped for a moment, looked at the gallows, bowed to it, left the fortress, and went down the Orenburg road, accompanied by Savelyich, who never left my side.

I walked along, caught up in my reflections, when I suddenly heard the hoofbeats of a horse behind me. I turned to look; I saw a Cossack galloping from the fortress, holding a Bashkir horse by the bridle and gesturing to me from afar. I stopped and soon recognized our sergeant. Galloping up, he got off his horse and said, handing me the bridle of the other:

“Your Honor! Our father grants you a horse and the fur coat off his back” (a sheepskin coat was tied to the saddle). “And,” the sergeant added, faltering, “he also grants you…fifty kopecks…only I lost them on the way. Have the goodness to forgive me.”

Savelyich looked at him suspiciously and growled:

“Lost them on the way! And what’s that jingling under your shirt? Shame on you!”

“What’s jingling under my shirt?” the sergeant retorted, not embarrassed in the least. “God help you, good old man! It’s the bridle, not the fifty kopecks.”

“All right,” I said, interrupting the argument. “Give my thanks to the one who sent you; as for the lost fifty kopecks, try to pick them up on the way back and treat yourself to some vodka.”

“Many thanks, Your Honor,” he replied, turning his horse around. “I’ll forever pray to God for you.”

With those words he galloped back, holding one hand to his shirt front, and in a moment he was out of sight.

I put the coat on and mounted up, seating Savelyich behind me.

“So you see, sir,” said the old man, “it was not in vain that I gave the rascal my petition: the thief felt ashamed, though the lanky Bashkir nag and the sheepskin coat aren’t worth a half of what the rascals stole from us and what you gave him yourself; still, it’s something—a clump of fur from a vicious dog.”

CHAPTER TEN The Siege of the Town

Invading fields and hills around,

From high up, like an eagle, he surveyed the town.

Behind the camp he built a wooden gun-cart and installed

His thunderbolts within it, and by night came to the wall.

KHERASKOV29

As we approached Orenburg, we saw a crowd of convicts with shaved heads, their faces disfigured by the executioner’s pincers. They were working around the fortifications under the surveillance of the garrison veterans. Some were removing cartloads of the litter that filled the moat; others were digging the earth with spades; on the rampart masons were toting bricks and repairing the town wall. At the gate the sentries stopped us and demanded our passports. As soon as the sergeant heard that I was coming from the Belogorsk fortress, he led me straight to the general’s house.

I found him in the garden. He was looking over the apple trees, bared by the breath of autumn, and, with the help of an old gardener, was carefully wrapping them in warm straw. His face was the picture of calm, health, and good nature. He was glad to see me and started questioning me about the terrible events I had witnessed. I told him everything. The old man listened to me attentively, and meanwhile kept cutting back the dead branches.

“Poor Mironov!” he said, when I finished my sad story. “I’m sorry for him: he was a good officer. And Madam Mironov was a kind lady and such an expert at pickling mushrooms! But what about Masha, the captain’s daughter?”

I replied that she remained in the fortress, in the care of the priest’s wife.

“Aie, aie, aie!” the general observed. “That’s bad, very bad. There is no relying on the bandits’ discipline. What will happen to the poor girl?”

I replied that the Belogorsk fortress was not far away and that his excellency would probably not be slow in sending an army to free its poor inhabitants. The general shook his head with a doubtful air.

“We’ll see, we’ll see,” he said. “We still have time to discuss that. Allow me to invite you for a cup of tea: there will be a council of war today at my place. You can give us reliable information about this worthless Pugachev and his troops. In the meantime go and get some rest.”

I went to the quarters assigned to me, where Savelyich was already settling in, and began to wait impatiently for the appointed time. The reader will easily imagine that I did not fail to show up at a council that was to have such influence upon my fate. At the appointed hour I was already at the general’s.

I found there one of the town officials, the director of customs, as I recall, a fat and ruddy-cheeked old man in a brocade kaftan. He started questioning me about the fate of Ivan Kuzmich, whom he called a family friend, and often interrupted my speech with additional questions and moralizing observations, which, if they did not show him to be a man well-versed in the military art, at least revealed his keen wit and innate intelligence. Meanwhile all the other invitees gathered. Among them, apart from the general himself, there was not a single military man. When they had all been seated and served a cup of tea, the general explained, very clearly and extensively, how things stood.

“Now, gentlemen,” he went on, “we must decide how to act against the rebels: offensively or defensively. Each of these methods has its advantages and its disadvantages. Offensive action offers greater hopes for the speedy destruction of the enemy; defensive action is more trustworthy and safe…And so, let us put it to a vote in lawful order, that is, beginning with the lowest in rank. Mr. Lieutenant!” he went on, turning to me. “Kindly give us your opinion.”

I rose and, first briefly describing Pugachev and his band, stated positively that there was no way the impostor could stand up against regular arms.

My opinion was met by the officials with obvious disapproval. They saw in it the recklessness and boldness of a young man. Murmuring arose, and I clearly heard the word “greenhorn” uttered by someone in a low voice. The general turned to me and said with a smile:

“Mr. Lieutenant, the first votes at military councils are usually given in favor of offensive action; that is in the order of things. We will now continue with the voting. Mr. Collegiate Councilor,30 tell us your opinion!”

The little old man in the brocade kaftan hastily finished his third cup of tea, liberally laced with rum, and answered the general:

“I think, Your Excellency, that we should act neither offensively nor defensively.”

“How’s that, Mr. Collegiate Councilor?” the amazed general rejoined. “Tactics offer no other way: either offensive action or defensive…”

“Your Excellency, act corruptively.”

“Heh-heh-heh! Your opinion is quite sensible. Tactics allow for corruptive actions, and we will make use of your advice. We could promise…maybe seventy roubles for the worthless fellow’s head…or even a hundred…from a special fund…”

“And then,” the director of customs interrupted, “I’m a Kirghiz sheep and no collegiate councilor if these thieves don’t give up their leader to us, bound hand and foot in irons.”

“We’ll think about it and discuss it further,” the general replied. “However, we ought in any case to take military measures as well. Gentlemen, give us your votes in due order.”

All the opinions turned out to be opposed to mine. All the officials spoke of the unreliability of the troops, of the uncertainty of success, of prudence and the like. They all thought it more sensible to stay under cover of the cannon, behind strong stone walls, than to try the fortune of arms in the open field. Finally the general, having listened to all the opinions, knocked the ashes from his pipe and delivered the following speech:

“My dear sirs! I must declare to you that I, for my part, agree completely with the opinion of Mr. Lieutenant: for that opinion is based on all the rules of sound tactics, which almost always prefer the offensive actions to the defensive actions.”

Here he paused and began to fill his pipe. My vanity was triumphant. I cast a proud glance at the officials, who exchanged whispers among themselves with an air of displeasure and uneasiness.

“But, my dear sirs,” he went on, letting out, along with a deep sigh, a dense stream of tobacco smoke, “I dare not take upon myself so great a responsibility, when it comes to the safety of the provinces entrusted to me by her imperial majesty, my most sovereign lady. And so I agree with the majority of voices, which have decided that it is most sensible and safe to await the siege within the town, and to repel the enemy’s assaults by force of artillery and (if it proves possible) by sorties.”

The officials in their turn glanced mockingly at me. The council broke up. I could not help regretting the weakness of the venerable soldier, who, contrary to his own conviction, decided to follow the opinions of uninformed and inexperienced people.

Several days after this illustrious council, we learned that Pugachev, faithful to his promise, was approaching Orenburg. I saw the rebel army from the height of the town wall. It seemed to me that their number had increased tenfold since the time of the last assault, of which I had been a witness. They had artillery with them, taken by Pugachev from the small fortresses he had already subjugated. Recalling the council’s decision, I foresaw a long confinement within the walls of Orenburg and all but wept with vexation.

I will not describe the Orenburg siege, which belongs to history and not to family memoirs. I will say briefly that, owing to the imprudence of the local authorities, this siege was disastrous for the inhabitants, who suffered hunger and all possible distress. It can easily be imagined that life in Orenburg was utterly unbearable. Everyone waited dejectedly for their fate to be decided; everyone groaned about the high prices, which indeed were terrible. The inhabitants got used to cannonballs flying into their courtyards; even Pugachev’s assaults no longer attracted general curiosity. I was dying of boredom. Time was passing. I received no letters from the Belogorsk fortress. All the roads were cut off. Separation from Marya Ivanovna became intolerable for me. Ignorance of her fate tormented me. My only diversion consisted in mounted sorties. Thanks to Pugachev, I had a good horse, with which I shared my scanty food and on which I rode out of town daily to exchange fire with Pugachev’s horsemen. In these skirmishes the odds were usually on the side of the villains, who were well fed, well drunk, and well mounted. The scrawny town cavalry could not overcome them. Occasionally our hungry infantry also took the field; but the deep snow prevented it from acting successfully against the scattered horsemen. The artillery thundered futilely from the high rampart, and in the field it got mired down and was unable to move because the horses were exhausted. Such was the mode of our military action! And this was what the Orenburg officials called prudence and good sense!

Once, when we somehow managed to break up and drive back a rather dense crowd, I ran into a Cossack who had lagged behind his comrades; I was about to strike him with my Turkish saber when he suddenly took off his hat and shouted:

“Hello, Pyotr Andreich! How’s God treating you?”

I looked and recognized our sergeant. I was inexpressibly glad to see him.

“Hello, Maximych,” I said to him. “Have you been away from the Belogorsk fortress for long?”

“Not long, dear Pyotr Andreich; I went back just yesterday. I’ve got a little letter for you.”

“Where is it?” I cried, flushing all over.

“With me,” replied Maximych, putting his hand under his shirt. “I promised Palasha I’d deliver it to you somehow.” Here he handed me a folded piece of paper and galloped off at once. I unfolded it and with trembling read the following lines:

It pleased God to deprive me suddenly of my father and mother: I have no family or protectors on earth. I turn to you, knowing that you always wished me well and that you are ready to help any person. I pray to God that this letter somehow reaches you! Maximych has promised to deliver it. Also Palasha has heard from Maximych that he frequently sees you from a distance on sorties, and that you show no regard for yourself at all and do not think of those who pray to God for you in tears. I was sick for a long time; and when I got well, Alexei Ivanovich, who is in command here in place of my late father, forced Father Gerasim to hand me over to him for fear of Pugachev. I live in our house under guard. Alexei Ivanovich is forcing me to marry him. He says he saved my life, because he concealed Akulina Pamfilovna’s deception in telling the villains I was her niece. For me it would be easier to die than to become the wife of a man like Alexei Ivanovich. He treats me with great cruelty and threatens that if I don’t change my mind and consent, he’ll take me to the villains’ camp and it will be the same for me as it was for Lizaveta Kharlova.31 I begged Alexei Ivanovich to let me think it over. He agreed to wait three more days. If I don’t marry him in three days, there will be no mercy. Dearest Pyotr Andreevich, you are the only protector I have! Intercede for a poor girl! Persuade the general and all the commanders to send us help quickly, and come yourself, if you can. I remain obediently yours,

The poor orphan, Marya Mironova.

After reading this letter, I nearly lost my mind. I started back to town, mercilessly spurring on my poor horse. As I rode I kept thinking over one way or another to rescue the poor girl and could not come up with anything. Galloping into town, I went straight to the general’s and burst into his room.

The general was pacing up and down, smoking his meerschaum pipe. Seeing me, he stopped. My look probably struck him; he inquired solicitously about the cause of my hasty arrival.

“Your Excellency,” I said to him, “I come to you as to my own father; for God’s sake don’t deny me my request: it’s a matter of the happiness of my whole life.”

“What is it, dear boy?” asked the astonished old man. “What can I do for you? Tell me.”

“Your Excellency, order me to take a company of soldiers and some fifty Cossacks and let me clear out the Belogorsk fortress.”

The general looked at me intently, probably thinking I had lost my mind (in which he was not far wrong).

“How’s that? Clear out the Belogorsk fortress?” he said finally.

“I guarantee success,” I replied vehemently. “Just let me go.”

“No, young man,” he said, shaking his head. “At such a great distance the enemy will easily cut you off from communications with the main strategic point and obtain a complete victory over you. The suppression of communications…”

I got frightened, seeing him going off into military explanations, and hastened to interrupt him.

“Captain Mironov’s daughter,” I said to him, “has written me a letter: she asks for help; Shvabrin is forcing her to marry him.”

“Really? Oh, that Shvabrin is a great Schelm,^*4 and if I get hold of him, I’ll order him court-martialed within twenty-four hours, and we’ll shoot him on the parapet of the fortress! But meanwhile we must take patience…”

“Take patience!” I shouted, beside myself. “And meanwhile he’ll marry Marya Ivanovna!…”

“Oh!” objected the general. “That’s not so bad: it’s better for her to be Shvabrin’s wife for a while: he can protect her now; and once we’ve shot him, then, God willing, she’ll find some little suitors for herself. Pretty widows don’t stay old maids for long—that is, I mean to say, a pretty widow will find herself a husband sooner than a maiden.”

“I’d sooner agree to die,” I said in a fury, “than yield her up to Shvabrin!”

“Oh, ho, ho, ho!” the old man said. “Now I see: you’re obviously in love with Marya Ivanovna. Oh, that’s a different matter! Poor fellow! But all the same I can’t give you a company of soldiers and fifty Cossacks. Such an expedition would be unreasonable; I cannot take responsibility for it.”

I hung my head; despair overcame me. Suddenly a thought flashed through my mind: what it was, the reader will see in the next chapter, as old-fashioned novelists say.

CHAPTER ELEVEN The Rebel Camp

The lion, though fierce by nature, was not hungry then.

“Pray tell me why this sudden visit to my den?”

He gently asked.

A. SUMAROKOV32

I left the general and hastened to my quarters. Savelyich met me with his usual admonitions.

“What makes you so eager, sir, to deal with these drunken brigands? Is it fit for a gentleman? Luck is fickle: you may perish for nothing. It would be one thing if it was against the Turks or the Swedes, but it’s sinful even to say who they are.”

I interrupted him with a question: How much money did I have all told?

“Enough for you,” he replied with a pleased look. “Much as the rascals rummaged around, I still managed to hide it.” And with those words he pulled from his pocket a long knitted purse full of silver coins.

“Well, Savelyich,” I said to him, “give me half of it now, and take the rest yourself. I’m going to the Belogorsk fortress.”

“Dearest Pyotr Andreich!” my good tutor said in a trembling voice. “Fear God: how can you take to the road in such times, when there’s no getting anywhere on account of the rogues? Have pity on your parents at least, if you have none on yourself. Where are you going? Why? Wait a little: the army will come, they’ll catch all the rascals; then go where the wind blows you.”

But my decision was firmly taken.

“It’s too late to discuss it,” I replied to the old man. “I must go, I can’t not go. Don’t grieve, Savelyich: God is merciful; maybe we’ll see each other again! Look, just don’t be ashamed and don’t scrimp. Buy whatever you may need, even at triple the price. I’m giving you this money. If I’m not back in three days…”

“What are you saying, sir?” Savelyich interrupted me. “As if I’d let you go alone! Don’t even dream of asking! If you’re determined to go, I’ll follow after you even on foot, but I won’t abandon you. As if I’d stay sitting behind a stone wall without you! Do you think I’ve lost my mind? As you please, sir, I won’t stay here without you.”

I knew there was no point in arguing with Savelyich, and I allowed him to prepare for the journey. Half an hour later I mounted my fine horse, and Savelyich a skinny and lame nag given him by one of the inhabitants, who lacked the means to go on feeding it. We rode up to the town gates; the sentries let us through; we rode out of Orenburg.

Darkness was falling. My way led past the village of Berda, Pugachev’s camp. The straight road was covered with snow; but horse tracks could be seen all over the steppe, renewed daily. I rode at a long trot. Savelyich was barely able to follow my pace and kept shouting to me:

“Slow down, sir, for God’s sake, slow down! My cursed nag can’t keep up with your long-legged demon. Where are you hurrying to? A feast would be one thing, but this is more likely under the axe, for all I know…Pyotr Andreich…dearest Pyotr Andreich!…Don’t do us in!…Lord God, the master’s child will perish!”

Soon the lights of Berda began to glimmer. We approached the ravines, the natural fortifications of the village. Savelyich did not lag behind me, nor did he break off his pitiful entreaties. I was hoping to skirt the village successfully, when suddenly I saw right in front of me in the dark some five muzhiks armed with cudgels: this was the advance guard of Pugachev’s camp. They called to us. Not knowing the password, I wanted to ride past them in silence; but they immediately surrounded me, and one of them seized my horse by the bridle. I drew my sword and struck the muzhik on the head; his hat saved him, but he staggered and let go of the bridle. The others panicked and fled; I took advantage of the moment, spurred my horse, and galloped on.

The darkness of the approaching night could have saved me from any danger, but suddenly, looking back, I saw that Savelyich was not with me. The poor old man on his lame horse had not escaped the brigands. What was I to do? After waiting a few minutes for him and making sure that he had been detained, I turned my horse around and went to rescue him.

Approaching the ravine, I heard noise, shouting, and the voice of my Savelyich in the distance. I speeded up and soon was back among the muzhik guards who had stopped me a few minutes earlier. Savelyich was among them. They had dragged the old man off his nag and were preparing to bind him. My arrival heartened them. They fell upon me with shouts and instantly dragged me off my horse. One of them, apparently the chief, told us that he would now take us to the sovereign.

“And it’s as our dear father wills,” he added, “whether we hang you now or wait till daybreak.”

I did not resist; Savelyich followed my example, and the guards led us away in triumph.

We crossed the ravine and entered the village. Lights were burning in all the cottages. Noise and shouts rang out everywhere. In the street I met many people; but in the dark no one noticed us or recognized me as an Orenburg officer. We were brought straight to a cottage that stood at the corner of an intersection. By the gate stood several wine casks and two cannons.

“Here’s the palace,” said one of the muzhiks. “We’ll announce you at once.”

He went into the cottage. I glanced at Savelyich; the old man was crossing himself, silently reciting a prayer. I waited for a long time; finally the muzhik came back and said to me:

“Go in: our dear father orders the officer to be admitted.”

I went into the cottage—or palace, as the muzhiks called it. It was lit by two tallow candles, and the walls were pasted over with gold paper; however, the benches, the table, the wash pot on a cord, the towel on a nail, the oven fork in the corner, and the wide hearth covered with pots—all of it was as in any ordinary cottage. Pugachev was sitting under the icons33 in a red kaftan and a tall hat, his arms imposingly akimbo. Around him stood several of his chief comrades, with an air of feigned obsequiousness. It was clear that the news of the arrival of an officer from Orenburg had aroused strong curiosity in the rebels, and they had prepared to meet me with ceremony. Pugachev recognized me at first glance. His pretended importance suddenly vanished.

“Ah, Your Honor!” he said with animation. “How are you doing? What brings you here?”

I told him that I was going about my own business and that his people had stopped me.

“On what sort of business?” he asked.

I did not know how to reply. Pugachev, supposing that I did not want to explain myself in front of witnesses, turned to his comrades and ordered them to leave. They all obeyed except for two, who did not budge.

“Talk freely in front of them,” said Pugachev. “I don’t hide anything from them.”

I cast a sidelong glance at the impostor’s confidants. One of them, a frail and bent old man with a gray little beard, had nothing remarkable about him, except for a blue ribbon worn over the shoulder of his gray peasant coat.34 But I will never forget his comrade. He was tall, burly, and broad-shouldered, and looked to be about forty-five. A thick red beard, flashing gray eyes, a nose without nostrils, and reddish spots on his forehead and cheeks gave his broad, pockmarked face an indescribable expression. He was wearing a red shirt, a Kirghiz robe, and Cossack balloon trousers. The first (as I learned later) was the fugitive Corporal Beloborodov; the second—Afanasy Sokolov (nicknamed Khlopusha), an exiled convict, who had escaped three times from the Siberian mines. Despite the feelings that troubled me exclusively, the company in which I so unexpectedly found myself greatly aroused my imagination. But Pugachev brought me back to myself by his question:

“Speak: On what sort of business did you leave Orenburg?”

A strange thought occurred to me: it seemed to me that Providence, which had brought me to Pugachev a second time, was giving me the chance to carry out my intention. I decided to take advantage of it and, having no time to think over what I decided, I answered Pugachev’s question:

“I was going to the Belogorsk fortress to rescue an orphan who is being mistreated there.”

Pugachev’s eyes flashed.

“Who of my people dares to mistreat an orphan?” he cried. “Though he be sly as a fox, he won’t escape my justice. Speak: Who is the guilty one?”

“Shvabrin,” I replied. “He’s holding captive the girl you saw sick at the priest’s wife’s and wants to force her to marry him.”

“I’ll teach Shvabrin,” Pugachev said menacingly. “He’ll learn from me what it means to do as he likes and mistreat people. I’ll hang him.”

“Allow me to put in a word,” said Khlopusha in a hoarse voice. “You were in a hurry to appoint Shvabrin commandant of the fortress, and now you’re in a hurry to hang him. You’ve already offended the Cossacks by setting up a nobleman as their superior; don’t frighten the nobility now by executing them at the first bit of slander.”

“There’s no cause to pity them or approve of them,” said the little old man with the blue ribbon. “Nothing’s wrong with executing Shvabrin; but it wouldn’t be bad to give Mister Officer here a proper questioning as to why he was pleased to come calling. If he doesn’t recognize you as the sovereign, he needn’t look to you for your justice, and if he does, why has he sat there in Orenburg with your enemies up to now? Why don’t you order him taken to the guardhouse and have them start a little fire there: something tells me his honor’s been sent to us by the Orenburg commanders.”

I found the old villain’s logic quite persuasive. Chills came over me at the thought of whose hands I was in. Pugachev noticed my confusion.

“Eh, Your Honor?” he said, winking at me. “My field marshal seems to be talking sense. What do you think?”

Pugachev’s mockery restored my courage. I replied calmly that I was in his power and he was free to do whatever he liked with me.

“Fine,” said Pugachev. “Now tell me, what shape is your town in?”

“Thank God,” I replied, “everything’s quite well.”

“Quite well?” Pugachev repeated. “But people are dying of hunger!”

The impostor was telling the truth; but, being duty-bound, I began to assure him that these were all empty rumors and there was enough of all sorts of supplies in Orenburg.

“You see,” the little old man broke in, “he lies to you right in your face. All the fugitives testify as one that there’s starvation and pestilence in Orenburg, that they eat carrion and are happy to have that; and his honor assures us there’s plenty of everything. If you want to hang Shvabrin, hang this fine fellow from the same gallows, so there’s no bad feelings.”

The cursed old man’s words seemed to make Pugachev hesitate. Luckily, Khlopusha began to contradict his comrade.

“Enough, Naumych,” he said to him. “With you it’s all strangling and stabbing. What kind of mighty man are you? By the look of it, you can barely keep body and soul together. You’re staring into the grave yourself, and you destroy others. Isn’t there enough blood on your conscience?”

“And what sort of saint are you?” Beloborodov retorted. “Where did you suddenly get this pity?”

“Of course,” replied Khlopusha, “I’m sinful, too, and this right arm” (here he clenched his bony fist and, pushing up his sleeve, bared his shaggy arm), “and this right arm is guilty of shedding Christian blood. But I killed my enemy, not my guest; at open crossroads and in the dark forest, not at home, sitting warm and cozy; with a bludgeon and an axe, not with womanish slander.”

The old man turned away and muttered the words: “Torn nostrils!…”

“What’s that you’re whispering, you old geezer?” cried Khlopusha. “I’ll show you torn nostrils; just wait, your time will come; God grant, you’ll get a taste of the pincers yourself…And meanwhile watch out or I’ll tear your little beard off!”

“Gentlemen yennerals!” Pugachev intoned solemnly. “Enough of your quarreling. There’s nothing wrong if all the Orenburg dogs jerk their legs under the same crossbeam; it is wrong if our own start snapping at each other. Make peace now.”

Khlopusha and Beloborodov did not say a word and looked darkly at each other. I saw it was necessary to change the conversation, which could have ended very unprofitably for me, and, turning to Pugachev, I told him with a cheerful air:

“Ah! I almost forgot to thank you for the horse and the coat. Without you I wouldn’t have made it to the town and would have frozen on the way.”

My ruse worked. Pugachev cheered up.

“One good turn deserves another,” he said, winking and narrowing his eyes. “Tell me now, what have you got to do with the girl Shvabrin’s mistreating? Not the darling of a young lad’s heart, is she?”

“She’s my bride-to-be,” I replied to Pugachev, seeing the weather change for the better and finding no need to conceal the truth.

“Your bride-to-be!” cried Pugachev. “Why didn’t you say so before? We’ll get you married and feast at your wedding!” Then, turning to Beloborodov: “Listen, Field Marshal! His honor and I are old friends; let’s sit down and have supper; morning’s wiser than evening. Tomorrow we’ll see what we’ll do with him.”

I would have been glad to decline the proposed honor, but there was no help for it. Two young Cossack women, the daughters of the cottage’s owner, covered the table with a white tablecloth, brought some bread, fish soup, and several bottles of vodka and beer, and for the second time I found myself sharing a meal with Pugachev and his frightful comrades.

The orgy of which I was an involuntary witness lasted till late in the night. Finally drunkenness began to get the better of the company. Pugachev dozed off where he sat; his comrades stood up and gave me a sign to leave him. I went out together with them. On Khlopusha’s orders, a Cossack led me to the guardhouse, where I found Savelyich and where we were locked up together. My tutor was so amazed at the sight of all that was going on that he did not ask me any questions. He lay down in the dark and sighed and groaned for a long time; finally he started snoring, and I gave myself up to reflections that did not allow me to doze off for a single moment all night.

In the morning Pugachev sent for me. I went to him. By his gate stood a kibitka hitched to a troika of Tatar horses. People crowded the street. In the entryway I ran into Pugachev: he was dressed for the road, in a fur coat and a Kirghiz hat. Yesterday’s companions surrounded him, assuming an air of obsequiousness that sharply contradicted everything I had witnessed the evening before. Pugachev greeted me cheerfully and ordered me to get into the kibitka with him.

We took our seats.

“To the Belogorsk fortress!” Pugachev said to the broad-shouldered Tatar, who drove the troika standing up. My heart beat fast. The horses started, the bell jingled, the kibitka flew off…

“Stop! Stop!” called out a voice all too familiar to me, and I saw Savelyich running towards us. Pugachev gave the order to stop. “Dearest Pyotr Andreich!” my tutor shouted. “Don’t abandon me in my old age among these rasc—”

“Ah, the old geezer!” Pugachev said to him. “So God’s brought us together again. Well, get up on the box.”

“Thank you, good sir, thank you, dear father!” Savelyich said, seating himself. “God grant you prosper a hundred years for minding and comforting an old man like me. I’ll pray to God for you all my days, and won’t even mention the hareskin coat.”

This hareskin coat could finally have made Pugachev downright angry. Luckily, the impostor either did not hear or ignored the awkward hint. The horses galloped off; people in the street stopped and bowed low. Pugachev nodded his head to both sides. A moment later we were outside the village and racing down a smooth road.

It can easily be imagined what I was feeling at that moment. In a few hours I was going to see the one whom I had already considered lost for me. I pictured the moment of our reunion…I also thought about the man who had my destiny in his hands and who by a strange concurrence of circumstances was mysteriously connected with me. I recalled the impulsive cruelty, the bloodthirsty habits, of the one who had volunteered to deliver my beloved! Pugachev did not know she was Captain Mironov’s daughter; the malicious Shvabrin might reveal everything to him; Pugachev might find out the truth in some other way…Then what would become of Marya Ivanovna? Chills came over me, and my hair stood on end…

Suddenly Pugachev interrupted my reflections, turning to me with a question:

“What might you be thinking about, Your Honor?”

“How can I not be thinking?” I replied. “I’m an officer and a gentleman; just yesterday I was fighting against you, and today I’m riding with you in the same kibitka, and the happiness of my whole life depends on you.”

“What, then?” asked Pugachev. “Are you afraid?”

I replied that, having been spared by him once already, I hoped not only for his mercy, but even for his help.

“And you’re right, by God, you’re right!” said the impostor. “You saw that my boys looked askance at you; and today, too, the old man insisted that you’re a spy and that you should be tortured and hanged; but I didn’t agree,” he added, lowering his voice, so that Savelyich and the Tatar could not hear him, “remembering the glass of vodka and the hareskin coat. You see, I’m not as bloodthirsty as your fellows say I am.”

I recalled the taking of the Belogorsk fortress; but I did not consider it necessary to contradict him and said nothing in reply.

“What do they say about me in Orenburg?” Pugachev asked after some silence.

“They say it’s pretty hard dealing with you; there’s no denying you’ve made yourself felt.”

The impostor’s face expressed satisfied vanity.

“Yes!” he said with a cheerful air. “At fighting I’m as good as they come. Do your people in Orenburg know about the battle of Yuzeevo?35 Forty yennerals killed, four armies taken captive. What do you think: could the king of Prussia vie with me?”

I found the brigand’s boasting amusing.

“What do you think yourself?” I said to him. “Could you handle Frederick?”36

“Fyodor Fyodorovich? Why not? I’ve handled your yennerals all right, and they beat him. So far my arms have been lucky. Wait and see, there’ll be more still, when I march on Moscow.”

“So you suppose you’ll march on Moscow?”

The impostor thought a little and said in a low voice:

“God knows. My street’s narrow; I’ve got little freedom. My boys play it too smart. They’re thieves. I have to keep my ears pricked up; at the first setback they’ll save their necks with my head.”

“So there!” I said to Pugachev. “Wouldn’t it be better for you to break with them yourself, in good time, and throw yourself on the empress’s mercy?”

Pugachev smiled bitterly.

“No,” he replied, “it’s too late for me to repent. There will be no pardon for me. I’ll keep on as I started. Who knows? Maybe I’ll bring it off! After all, Grishka Otrepev did reign over Moscow.”

“And do you know how he ended? They threw him out the window, slaughtered him, burned him, loaded a cannon with his ashes, and fired it off!”

“Listen,” said Pugachev with a sort of wild inspiration. “I’ll tell you a tale that I heard as a child from an old Kalmyk woman. Once an eagle asked a raven: ‘Tell me, raven-bird, why do you live three hundred years in the wide world, and I all in all only thirty-three?’ ‘Because, my dear friend,’ the raven answered him, ‘you drink living blood, while I feed on dead meat.’ The eagle thought: ‘Let’s us try feeding on the same.’ Good. So the eagle and the raven flew off. They saw a dead horse; they flew down and alighted. The raven started pecking and praising. The eagle pecked once, pecked twice, waved his wing, and said to the raven: ‘No, brother raven, rather than feed on carrion for three hundred years, it’s better to drink living blood once, and then take what God sends!’ How’s that for a Kalmyk tale?”

“Ingenious,” I replied. “But to live by murder and robbery for me means to peck at dead meat.”

Pugachev looked at me in surprise and made no reply. We both fell silent, each immersed in his own reflections. The Tatar struck up a mournful song; Savelyich, dozing, swayed on the box. The kibitka flew down the smooth winter road…Suddenly I saw a hamlet on the steep bank of the Yaik, with a palisade and a belfry—and a quarter of an hour later we drove into the Belogorsk fortress.

CHAPTER TWELVE The Orphan

Our pretty little apple tree

Has no branches and no crown;

Our pretty little princess-bride

Has no father and no mother.

There is nobody to dress her,

There is nobody to bless her.

WEDDING SONG

The kibitka drove up to the porch of the commandant’s house. The people recognized Pugachev’s harness bell and ran thronging after him. Shvabrin met the impostor on the porch. He was dressed as a Cossack and had let his beard grow. The traitor helped Pugachev out of the kibitka, expressing his joy and zeal in abject phrases. Seeing me, he was perplexed, but quickly recovered and gave me his hand, saying:

“So you’re one of us? None too soon!”

I turned away from him and made no reply.

My heart was wrung when we found ourselves in the long-familiar room, where the late commandant’s diploma still hung on the wall as a sorrowful epitaph of past times. Pugachev sat down on the same sofa on which Ivan Kuzmich used to doze, lulled by the grumbling of his spouse. Shvabrin himself served him vodka. Pugachev drank off the glass and said to him, pointing at me:

“Offer some to his honor.”

Shvabrin came up to me with his tray; but I turned away from him for the second time. He seemed not himself. With his usual sharpness he had, of course, realized that Pugachev was displeased with him. He was afraid of him and kept glancing at me suspiciously. Pugachev inquired about the condition of the fortress, the rumors about the enemy army, and so on, and suddenly asked him unexpectedly:

“Tell me, brother, who is this girl you’re keeping here under guard? Show her to me.”

Shvabrin turned deathly pale.

“My sovereign,” he said in a trembling voice, “my sovereign, she’s not under guard…She’s ill…lying in her room.”

“Take me to her,” said the impostor, standing up. It was impossible to get out of it. Shvabrin led Pugachev to Marya Ivanovna’s room. I followed them.

Shvabrin stopped on the stairs.

“My sovereign!” he said. “It is in your power to ask anything you like from me; but do not allow a stranger to enter my wife’s bedroom.”

I shuddered.

“So you’re married!” I said to Shvabrin, ready to tear him to pieces.

“Quiet!” Pugachev interrupted. “This is my business. And you,” he went on, turning to Shvabrin, “stop being clever and making difficulties: wife or not, I’ll take anyone I want to her. Follow me, Your Honor.”

At the door of the bedroom Shvabrin stopped again and said in a faltering voice:

“My sovereign, I warn you that she’s delirious and has been raving these past three days.”

“Open up!” said Pugachev.

Shvabrin started searching in his pockets and said he had not taken the key with him. Pugachev shoved the door with his foot; the latch tore loose; the door opened and we went in.

I looked and my heart sank. On the floor, in a ragged peasant dress, sat Marya Ivanovna, pale, thin, with disheveled hair. Before her stood a jug of water covered with a hunk of bread. Seeing me, she gave a start and cried out. What I felt then—I don’t remember.

Pugachev looked at Shvabrin and said with a wry grin:

“A nice sick ward you’ve got here!” Then, going to Marya Ivanovna: “Tell me, dear heart, what is your husband punishing you for? What wrong have you done him?”

“My husband!” she repeated. “He is not my husband. I will never be his wife! I’d rather die, and I will die, if nobody saves me.”

Pugachev cast a terrible glance at Shvabrin.

“So you dared to deceive me!” he said to him. “Do you know, wastrel, what you deserve for that?”

Shvabrin fell on his knees…At that moment contempt stifled all feelings of hatred and wrath in me. I looked with loathing at a nobleman lying at the feet of a fugitive Cossack. Pugachev softened.

“I’ll pardon you this time,” he said to Shvabrin, “but know that if you make another slip, I’ll also remember this one.”

Then he turned to Marya Ivanovna and said to her gently:

“Go, fair maiden; I grant you freedom. I am the sovereign.”

Marya Ivanovna glanced quickly at him and realized that before her was her parents’ murderer. She covered her face with both hands and fainted. I rushed to her, but just then my old acquaintance Palasha quite boldly thrust herself into the room and started looking after her young mistress. Pugachev left the bedroom, and the three of us went down to the drawing room.

“So, Your Honor?” Pugachev said, laughing. “We’ve rescued the fair maiden! What do you think, shall we send for the priest and have him marry off his niece? If you like, I’ll be the bride’s proxy father and Shvabrin the best man; we’ll feast, we’ll revel—and send the rest to the devil!”

What I feared was what happened. Hearing Pugachev’s suggestion, Shvabrin lost all control.

“My sovereign!” he cried in a frenzy. “I’m guilty, I lied to you; but Grinyov has also deceived you. This girl is not the local priest’s niece: she’s the daughter of Ivan Mironov, who was executed when the fortress was taken.”

Pugachev fixed his fiery eyes on me.

“What’s this now?” he asked, bewildered.

“Shvabrin is telling the truth,” I replied firmly.

“You didn’t tell me that,” remarked Pugachev, whose face darkened.

“Judge for yourself,” I replied. “Was it possible to announce in front of your people that Mironov’s daughter was alive? They’d have chewed her to pieces. Nothing could have saved her!”

“True enough,” said Pugachev, laughing. “My drunkards wouldn’t have spared the poor girl. The priest’s good wife did well to deceive them.”

“Listen,” I said, seeing his good humor. “I don’t know what to call you, and I don’t want to know…But, as God is my witness, I would gladly repay you with my life for what you’ve done for me. Only don’t demand what goes against my honor and my Christian conscience. You are my benefactor. Finish as you began: let me and the poor orphan go wherever God leads us. And wherever you may be and whatever may happen to you, we will pray to God every day for the salvation of your sinful soul…”

It seemed that Pugachev’s rude soul was touched.

“Be it as you say!” he said. “If it’s hanging, it’s hanging; if it’s mercy, it’s mercy: that’s my custom. Take your beauty; go wherever you want with her, and God grant you love and harmony.”

Here he turned to Shvabrin and ordered him to issue me a pass for all the outposts and fortresses subject to him. Shvabrin, totally crushed, stood as if dumbstruck. Pugachev went to inspect the fortress. Shvabrin went with him; but I stayed behind on the pretext of preparing for departure.

I ran to Masha’s room. The door was locked. I knocked.

“Who’s there?” asked Palasha. I gave my name. Marya Ivanovna’s dear little voice came from behind the door.

“Wait, Pyotr Andreich. I’m changing. Go to Akulina Pamfilovna’s: I’ll be there in a minute.”

I obeyed and went to Father Gerasim’s house. He and his wife came running out to meet me. Savelyich had already forewarned them.

“Greetings, Pyotr Andreich,” said the priest’s wife. “So God has granted that we meet again. How are you? We’ve talked about you every day. And Marya Ivanovna, my little dove, what she’s gone through without you!…But tell me, my dear, how is it you get along with this Pugachev? How is it he hasn’t done you in? Well, thanks to the villain for that at least.”

“Enough, old woman,” Father Gerasim interrupted. “Don’t blurt out everything in your head. There is no salvation in much talk. Dearest Pyotr Andreich, come in and be welcome. We haven’t seen you for a long, long time.”

His wife started offering me whatever they had to eat. Meanwhile she talked nonstop. She told me how Shvabrin had forced them to hand over Marya Ivanovna to him; how Marya Ivanovna had wept and had not wanted to part from them; how Marya Ivanovna had always kept in touch with them through Palashka (a pert young girl, who even made the sergeant dance to her tune); how she had advised Marya Ivanovna to write me a letter, and so on. And I in turn briefly told her my story. The priest and his wife crossed themselves on hearing that Pugachev knew of their deception.

“The power of the Cross be with us!” said Akulina Pamfilovna. “God grant that the cloud passes over. Ah, that Alexei Ivanych, really: what a fine goose he is!”

At that same moment the door opened, and Marya Ivanovna came in with a smile on her pale face. She had abandoned her peasant clothes and was dressed as before, simply and nicely.

I seized her hand and for a long time could not utter a word. Our hearts were so full we could not speak. Our hosts sensed that we had no need of them and left us. We remained alone. All else was forgotten. We talked and could not have enough of talking. Marya Ivanovna told me everything that had happened to her since the fortress was taken; she described all the horror of her situation, all the ordeals the vile Shvabrin had put her through. We also recalled the former happy time…We both wept…Finally I began to explain my proposals to her. To remain in a fortress subject to Pugachev and commanded by Shvabrin was impossible. There was no thinking of Orenburg, which was suffering all the adversities of the siege. She did not have a single relation in the world. I proposed that she go to my parents’ estate. At first she hesitated: she knew that my father was ill-disposed towards her and she was frightened. I reassured her. I knew that my father would count it as happiness and make it his duty to receive the daughter of a distinguished soldier who had died for the fatherland.

“Dear Marya Ivanovna!” I said finally. “I consider you my wife. Wondrous circumstances have united us indissolubly: nothing in the world can separate us.”

Marya Ivanovna listened to me simply, without affected shyness, without contrived reservations. She felt that her fate was united with mine. But she repeated that she would not marry me otherwise than with my parents’ consent. I did not contradict her. We kissed warmly, sincerely—and thus everything was decided between us.

An hour later the sergeant brought me a pass, signed with Pugachev’s scrawl, and told me he wished to see me. I found him ready to set out. I cannot express what I felt, parting with this terrible man, a monster, a villain for everyone but me alone. Why not tell the truth? At that moment strong compassion drew me to him. I ardently wished to snatch him away from the midst of the villains whose chief he was, and to save his head while there was still time. Shvabrin and the people crowding around us prevented me from saying all that filled my heart.

We parted friends. Pugachev, seeing Akulina Pamfilovna in the crowd, shook his finger at her and winked significantly; then he got into the kibitka, gave orders to drive to Berda, and as the horses started, stuck his head out of the kibitka once more and called to me:

“Farewell, Your Honor! Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime.”

And indeed we did see each other again, but in what circumstances!…

Pugachev was gone. I gazed for a long time at the white steppe over which his troika was racing. The people dispersed. Shvabrin disappeared. I returned to the priest’s house. Everything was ready for our departure; I did not want to tarry any longer. Our belongings were all packed in the commandant’s old wagon. The drivers hitched up the horses in an instant. Marya Ivanovna went to take leave of the graves of her parents, who had been buried behind the church. I wanted to accompany her, but she begged me to let her go alone. After a few minutes she came back, silently pouring out gentle tears. The wagon was ready. Father Gerasim and his wife came out to the porch. The three of us got into the kibitka: Marya Ivanovna, Palasha, and I. Savelyich climbed up on the box.

“Farewell, Marya Ivanovna, my little dove! Farewell, Pyotr Andreich, our bright falcon!” said the priest’s kindly wife. “Have a good journey, and God grant you both happiness!”

We drove off. I saw Shvabrin standing at the window of the commandant’s house. Dark malice was written on his face. I had no wish to triumph over a crushed enemy and turned my eyes the other way. At last we drove through the fortress gates and left the Belogorsk fortress forever.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN The Arrest

“Do not be angry, sir: my duty doth compel

That at this very hour I lock you in a cell.”

“As you please, I’m ready; but ere you take me out

I hope I may explain what this is all about.”

KNYAZHNIN37

United so unexpectedly with the dear girl about whom I had been so painfully worried that same morning, I did not believe my own self and wondered whether all that had happened to me was not an empty dream. Marya Ivanovna gazed pensively now at me, now at the road, and, it seemed, had not yet managed to recover and come to her senses. We were silent. Our hearts were too weary. In some imperceptible way, after about two hours we found ourselves in the neighboring fortress, also subject to Pugachev. Here we changed horses. By the speed with which they were harnessed, by the bustling servility of the bewhiskered Cossack Pugachev had installed as commandant, I saw that, owing to the garrulousness of the driver who had brought us, I was taken for a court favorite.

We drove on. It was getting dark. We were nearing a little town, where, according to the bearded commandant, there was a strong detachment on its way to join the impostor. We were stopped by the sentries. To the question “Who goes there?” the driver answered in a loud voice: “A friend of the sovereign and his little missis.” Suddenly a crowd of hussars surrounded us with terrible curses.

“Get out, you friend of the devil!” a moustached sergeant said to me. “You’re going to get it hot now, you and your little missis!”

I got out of the kibitka and demanded that they take me to their commander. Seeing an officer, the soldiers stopped cursing. The sergeant took me to the major. Savelyich came along behind me, muttering to himself:

“There’s a friend of the sovereign for you! Out of the frying pan into the fire…Lord God! where will it all end?”

The kibitka followed us at a walking pace.

In five minutes we came to a little house, brightly lit. The sergeant left me with the sentry and went to announce me. He came back at once and told me that his honor had no time to receive me, and that he ordered me to be taken to jail, and my little missis to himself.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I cried in fury. “Is he out of his mind?”

“It’s not for me to know, Your Honor,” the sergeant replied. “It’s just that his high honor ordered that Your Honor be taken to jail and her honor be taken to his high honor, Your Honor!”

I dashed up to the porch. The sentries did not think of holding me back, and I ran straight into the room, where some six hussar officers were playing faro. The major was keeping the bank. What was my amazement when, glancing at him, I recognized Ivan Ivanovich Zurin, who once upon a time had beaten me at billiards in the Simbirsk inn!

“Can it be?” I cried. “Ivan Ivanych! Is it you?”

“Well, well, well, Pyotr Andreich! What wind blows you here? Where from? Greetings, brother. Want to stake on a card?”

“Thanks. Better tell them to show me to some quarters.”

“What quarters? Stay with me.”

“I can’t: I’m not alone.”

“Well, bring your comrade here, too.”

“I’m not with a comrade; I’m…with a lady.”

“A lady! Where did you pick her up? Ho-ho, brother!” (With those words Zurin whistled so expressively that they all burst out laughing, and I became completely embarrassed.)

“Well,” Zurin continued, “so be it. You’ll have your quarters. A pity, though…We could have feasted a bit like the old days…Hey, boy! Why don’t they bring Pugachev’s lady friend? Or is she holding back? Tell her not to be afraid, the master’s a fine gentleman, he won’t do her any harm—and give her a good shove.”

“What do you mean?” I said to Zurin. “What Pugachev’s lady friend? She’s the daughter of the late Captain Mironov. I rescued her from captivity, and I’m now accompanying her to my father’s estate, where I will leave her.”

“How’s that? So you’re the one they just reported to me? Good Lord, what does it mean?”

“I’ll tell you everything later. But now, for God’s sake, reassure the poor girl; your hussars have frightened her badly.”

Zurin saw to it at once. He went out himself to apologize to Marya Ivanovna for the unintentional misunderstanding and ordered the sergeant to take her to the best quarters in town. I spent the night at his place.

We had supper, and when the two of us were left alone, I told him my adventures. Zurin listened to me with great attention. When I finished, he shook his head and said:

“That’s all very good, brother; just one thing isn’t good: why the devil do you want to get married? As an honest officer, I don’t want to deceive you: believe me, marriage is folly. I mean, why go bothering with a wife and fussing with little kids? Ah, spit on it. Listen to me: unhitch yourself from the captain’s daughter. I’ve cleared the road to Simbirsk and it’s safe. Send her to your parents tomorrow on her own; and you stay with my detachment. There’s no need for you to go back to Orenburg. If you wind up in the hands of the rebels again, it’s unlikely you’ll shake them off a second time. This way your amorous folly will go away by itself, and all will be well.”

Although I did not entirely agree with him, nevertheless I felt that the duty of honor demanded my presence in the empress’s army. I decided to follow Zurin’s advice: to send Marya Ivanovna to the estate and stay in his detachment.

Savelyich came to help me undress; I told him that the next day he should be ready to travel with Marya Ivanovna. He began to protest.

“What do you mean, sir? How can I abandon you? Who will take care of you? What will your parents say?”

Knowing my tutor’s stubbornness, I decided to persuade him by means of gentleness and sincerity.

“My dear friend Arkhip Savelyich!” I said to him. “Don’t refuse me, be my benefactor; I’ll have no need of a servant here, and I won’t be at peace if Marya Ivanovna travels without you. Serving her, you serve me, because, as soon as circumstances permit, I’m firmly resolved to marry her.”

Here Savelyich clasped his hands with a look of indescribable amazement.

“Marry!” he repeated. “The little one wants to marry! And what will your father say, and what will your mother think?”

“They’ll agree, they’re sure to agree,” I replied, “once they get to know Marya Ivanovna. I’m also relying on you. My father and mother trust you: you’ll intercede for us, won’t you?”

The old man was touched.

“Ah, my dearest Pyotr Andreich!” he replied. “Though it’s a bit early for you to think of marrying, still Marya Ivanovna is such a good young lady that it would be a sin to miss the chance. Let it be your way! I’ll go with the little angel, and faithfully tell your parents that such a bride even needs no dowry.”

I thanked Savelyich and went off to sleep in the same room with Zurin. Flushed and excited, I chattered away. At first Zurin talked to me willingly; but his words gradually became fewer and less coherent; finally, instead of an answer to some question, he snored and whistled. I fell silent and soon followed his example.

The next morning I went to see Marya Ivanovna. I informed her of my proposals. She acknowledged that they were sensible and agreed with me at once. Zurin’s detachment was to leave town that same day. There could be no tarrying. I took leave of Marya Ivanovna there and then, having entrusted her to Savelyich and given her a letter to my parents. Marya Ivanovna wept.

“Farewell, Pyotr Andreich!” she said in a low voice. “God alone knows if we’ll see each other again; but I’ll never forget you; till the grave you alone will remain in my heart.”

I could make no reply. We were surrounded by people. I did not want to abandon myself in front of them to the feelings that stirred in me. She finally left. I returned to Zurin sad and silent. He wanted to cheer me up; I hoped to be diverted: we spent the day noisily and wildly, and in the evening set out on the march.

That was at the end of February. Winter, which had hampered military operations, would soon be over, and our generals were preparing for concerted action. Pugachev was still encamped near Orenburg. Meanwhile our detachments were joining forces and approaching the villain’s nest from all sides. The rebellious villages, at the sight of our troops, turned submissive; the bands of brigands fled from us everywhere, and everything betokened a swift and successful end.

Prince Golitsyn38 soon crushed Pugachev near the Tatishchevo fortress, scattered his hordes, liberated Orenburg, and, it seemed, delivered the final and decisive blow to the rebellion. At that time Zurin was dispatched against a band of mutinous Bashkirs, who scattered before we even saw them. Spring besieged us in a little Tatar village. The rivers overflowed and the roads became impassable. In our inaction we comforted ourselves with the thought of the imminent cessation of the tedious and petty war with brigands and savages.

But Pugachev had not been caught. He showed up in Siberian mills, gathered new bands there, and again began his villainies. Rumors of his successes spread once more. We learned of the devastation of Siberian fortresses. Soon the army commanders, who were counting on the despicable rebel’s weakness, were aroused from their carefree slumber by news of the taking of Kazan and the impostor’s march on Moscow. Zurin received orders to cross the Volga.^*5

I will not describe our campaign and the end of the war. I will say briefly that the calamity was extreme. We passed through villages devastated by the rebels and unwillingly took from the poor inhabitants what little they had managed to save. Order broke down everywhere: the landowners hid in the forests. Bands of brigands spread their villainies everywhere; the commanders of separate detachments punished and pardoned arbitrarily; the condition of the whole vast region where the conflagration raged was terrible…God keep us from ever seeing a Russian rebellion—senseless and merciless!

Pugachev fled, pursued by Ivan Ivanovich Mikhelson.39 Soon we learned of his total defeat. Zurin finally received news of the impostor’s capture, and along with it the order to halt. The war was over. I could finally go to my parents! The thought of embracing them, of seeing Marya Ivanovna, from whom I had had no news, filled me with rapture. I leaped about like a child. Zurin laughed and said, shrugging his shoulders:

“No, you won’t end well! You’ll get married—and perish for nothing!”

But meanwhile a strange feeling poisoned my joy: the thought of the villain drenched in the blood of so many innocent victims, and of the execution that awaited him, troubled me against my will. “Emelya, Emelya!” I thought with vexation. “Why didn’t you run onto a bayonet or catch a load of grapeshot? You couldn’t have come up with anything better.” What could I do? The thought of him was inseparable in me from the thought of the mercy he granted me in one of the moments when he was most terrible, and of the deliverance of my bride-to-be from the hands of the vile Shvabrin.