Novels, Tales, Journeys

Zurin gave me a leave of absence. In a few days I was to find myself again in the bosom of my family, to see again my Marya Ivanovna…Suddenly an unexpected storm broke over me.

On the day appointed for my departure, at the very moment I was preparing to set off, Zurin came into my cottage with an extremely worried look, holding a paper in his hand. Something stabbed my heart. I became frightened, without knowing of what. He sent my orderly away and told me he had some business with me.

“What is it?” I asked uneasily.

“A small unpleasantness,” he replied, handing me the paper. “Read what I just received.”

I started to read: it was a secret order to all detachment commanders to arrest me wherever I might be found and send me at once under guard to Kazan, to the Investigation Commission set up for the Pugachev affair.

The paper nearly dropped from my hands.

“Nothing to be done!” said Zurin. “My duty is to obey orders. Rumors of your friendly travels with Pugachev have probably somehow reached the authorities. I hope the affair won’t have any consequences and that you’ll vindicate yourself before the commission. Don’t lose heart, just get on your way.”

My conscience was clear; I was not afraid of the tribunal; but the thought of putting off the moment of sweet reunion, maybe for several more months, appalled me. The wagon was ready. Zurin bade me a friendly farewell. I was put into the wagon. Two hussars with drawn swords got in with me, and I drove off down the high road.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN The Tribunal

Worldly rumor—

Sea waves’ murmur.

PROVERB

I was certain that my whole fault lay in my unauthorized absence from Orenburg. I could easily justify myself: sorties not only had never been forbidden, but had even been strongly encouraged. I could be accused of excessive fervor, but not of disobedience. But my friendly relations with Pugachev could be proved by many witnesses and would have to seem at the very least highly suspicious. For the whole journey I reflected on the interrogations awaiting me, thought over my responses, and decided to tell the whole truth before the tribunal, considering this means of justifying myself to be the most simple and at the same time the most reliable.

I arrived in devastated and burnt-down Kazan. In the streets, instead of houses, lay heaps of embers, and sooty walls stuck up without roofs or windows. Such were the traces left by Pugachev! They brought me to the fortress, left whole in the midst of the fire-ravaged town. The hussars handed me over to a guards officer. He ordered a blacksmith sent for. Shackles were put on my legs and riveted tightly. Then they took me to the prison and left me alone in a narrow and dark cell, with nothing but bare walls and a little window barred by an iron grille.

Such a beginning boded no good for me. However, I lost neither courage nor hope. I resorted to the consolation of all the afflicted and, tasting for the first time the sweetness of prayer poured forth from a pure but tormented heart, fell peacefully asleep, not caring what might happen to me.

The next day the prison guard woke me up with the announcement that I was summoned before the commission. Two soldiers led me across the yard to the commandant’s house, stopped in the front hall, and let me go inside alone.

I entered a rather big room. At a table covered with papers sat two men: an elderly general of stern and cold appearance, and a young captain of the guards, about twenty-eight years old, very pleasant in appearance, free and easy in manner. By the window at a special table sat a secretary with a pen behind his ear, bending over his paper, ready to take down my testimony. The interrogation began. They asked me my name and rank. The general inquired whether I was the son of Andrei Petrovich Grinyov. And to my reply retorted sternly:

“A pity such an estimable man should have such an unworthy son!”

I calmly replied that, whatever the accusations hanging over me, I hoped to dispel them by a frank explanation of the truth. He did not like my assurance.

“You’re a sharp one, brother,” he said to me, frowning, “but we’ve seen sharper!”

Then the young man asked me by what chance and at what time I had entered Pugachev’s service, and on what assignments I had been employed by him.

I replied with indignation that, as an officer and a gentleman, I could not enter into any service with Pugachev or accept any assignments from him.

“How is it, then,” my interrogator rejoined, “that the gentleman and officer was the only one spared by the impostor, while all his comrades were villainously put to death? How is it that this same officer and gentleman feasts amicably with the rebels, and accepts from the chief villain gifts of a fur coat, a horse, and fifty kopecks? How did such a strange friendship come about and what was it based on, if not on treason or at least on vile and criminal cowardice?”

I was deeply offended by the guards officer’s words and hotly began to justify myself. I told how my acquaintance with Pugachev began on the steppe, during a snowstorm; how, when the Belogorsk fortress was taken, he recognized me and spared me. I said that, in fact, I was not ashamed to have taken the coat and the horse from the impostor; but that I had defended the Belogorsk fortress from the villain to the final limit. Finally I referred to my general, who could testify to my zeal during the calamitous siege of Orenburg.

The stern old man took an opened letter from the table and began to read it aloud:

To Your Excellency’s inquiry concerning Lieutenant Grinyov, alleged to be involved in the present commotion and to have entered into relations with the villain impermissible in the service and contrary to his sworn duty, I have the honor to explain that the said Lieutenant Grinyov served in Orenburg from the beginning of October of last year, 1773, until the 24th of February of the present year, on which day he left town and thereafter has not presented himself under my command. But it has been heard from deserters that he was in Pugachev’s camp, and together with him drove to the Belogorsk fortress, where he used to serve; as concerns his behavior, I can…

Here he broke off his reading and said to me severely:

“What will you say now to justify yourself?”

I was going to go on as I had begun and explain my connection with Marya Ivanovna as frankly as all the rest. But I suddenly felt an insurmountable repugnance. It occurred to me that if I named her, the commission would call on her to testify; and the thought of mixing her name with the vile denunciations of villains and of her being brought in person to confront them—this terrible thought shocked me so much that I faltered and became confused.

My judges, who, it seemed, were beginning to listen to my responses with some benevolence, again became prejudiced against me, seeing my embarrassment. The officer of the guards requested that I be confronted with the main informer. The general ordered “yesterday’s villain” to be called. I turned briskly to the door, waiting for my accuser to appear. A few minutes later chains clanked, the door opened, and in came—Shvabrin. I was amazed at the change in him. He was terribly thin and pale. His hair, jet-black still recently, had turned completely gray; his long beard was disheveled. He repeated his accusations in a weak but resolute voice. According to him, I had been sent to Orenburg by Pugachev as a spy; I had ridden out on skirmishes every day in order to transmit news in writing about all that was going on in the town; then I had openly gone over to the impostor, had driven with him from fortress to fortress, trying in all ways to ruin my comrade-traitors, so as to take their places and profit from the rewards bestowed by the impostor. I heard him out silently and was pleased with one thing: the vile villain did not utter Marya Ivanovna’s name, either because his vanity suffered at the thought of the one who had scornfully rejected him, or because hidden in his heart was a spark of the same feeling that had also made me keep silent—however it was, the name of the Belogorsk commandant’s daughter was not uttered in the presence of the commission. I became still more firm in my resolve, and when the judges asked how I could refute Shvabrin’s testimony, I replied that I stuck to my first explanation and could say nothing more to justify myself. The general ordered us taken away. We went out together. I glanced calmly at Shvabrin, but did not say a word to him. He grinned maliciously at me and, picking up his chains, went ahead of me and quickened his pace. I was taken back to prison and was not summoned for any further questioning.

I was not a witness to everything of which it now remains for me to inform the reader; but I have so often heard stories about it that the smallest details are engraved in my memory, and it seems to me as if I had been invisibly present.

Marya Ivanovna was received by my parents with that sincere cordiality which distinguished people of the old days. They saw it as a blessing from God that they had the chance to shelter and show kindness to the poor orphan. Soon they became sincerely attached to her, because it was impossible to know her and not love her. My love no longer seemed an empty whim to my father; and my mother wished only that her Petrusha should marry the captain’s dear daughter.

The rumor of my arrest shocked my whole family. Marya Ivanovna had told my parents so simply about my strange acquaintance with Pugachev that it not only had not troubled them, but had often even made them laugh wholeheartedly. My father did not want to believe that I could have been involved in a vile rebellion, the aim of which was the overthrow of the throne and the extermination of the nobility. He closely questioned Savelyich. My tutor did not conceal that his master had visited Emelka Pugachev and that the villain had, in fact, received him well; but he swore that he had not heard of any treason. The old folks calmed down and started waiting impatiently for favorable news. Marya Ivanovna was deeply troubled, but said nothing, for she was endowed in the highest degree with modesty and prudence.

Several weeks went by…Suddenly my father received a letter from Petersburg, from our relation, Prince B. The prince wrote to him about me. After the usual preliminaries, he informed him that the suspicions concerning my participation in the rebels’ schemes had turned out, unfortunately, to be all too substantial, that exemplary punishment should have been meted out to me, but that the empress, out of respect for my father’s merits and his advanced age, decided to show mercy to his criminal son and, sparing him an ignominious execution, ordered him only to be sent to a remote corner of Siberia in perpetual exile.

This unexpected blow nearly killed my father. He lost his habitual firmness, and his grief (usually mute) poured out in bitter lamentations.

“What!” he repeated, beside himself. “My son took part in Pugachev’s schemes! Good God, that I should live to see it! The empress spares him execution! Does that make it easier for me? Execution is nothing frightening: a forebear of mine died on the scaffold defending something his conscience held sacred; my father suffered along with Volynsky and Khrushchev.40 But for a nobleman to betray his oath, to join with brigands, murderers, runaway slaves!…Shame and disgrace on our name!…”

Frightened by his despair, mother did not dare to weep in his presence, and tried to restore his good spirits, talking about the inaccuracy of rumors, the shakiness of people’s opinions. My father was inconsolable.

Marya Ivanovna was the most tormented of all. Being certain that I could justify myself if only I wanted to, she guessed the truth and considered herself the cause of my misfortune. She concealed her tears and suffering from everyone, and meanwhile kept thinking of ways to save me.

One evening my father was sitting on the sofa, turning the pages of the Court Almanac; but his thoughts were far away, and the reading did not have its usual effect on him. He was whistling an old marching tune. Mother was silently knitting a woolen vest, and tears occasionally dropped on her work. Suddenly Marya Ivanovna, who was sitting there over her own work, announced that necessity forced her to go to Petersburg and that she asked them to provide her with the means for going. Mother was very upset.

“What is there for you in Petersburg?” she said. “Can it be, Marya Ivanovna, that you, too, want to abandon us?”

Marya Ivanovna replied that her whole future fate depended on this journey, that she was going to seek protection and help from powerful people, as the daughter of a man who had suffered for his loyalty.

My father hung his head: every word that reminded him of his son’s supposed crime weighed heavily on him and seemed like a stinging reproach.

“Go, my dear!” he said with a sigh. “We don’t want to be an obstacle to your happiness. God grant you a good man for a husband, not a dishonored traitor.”

He got up and walked out of the room.

Marya Ivanovna, left alone with my mother, partly explained her intentions. Mother embraced her in tears and prayed to God for a favorable outcome of her plan. They fitted Marya Ivanovna out, and a few days later she set off with faithful Palasha and faithful Savelyich, who, forcibly separated from me, comforted himself with the thought that he was at least serving my bride-to-be.

Marya Ivanovna arrived safely in Sofia, and, learning at the posting station that the court was just then in Tsarskoe Selo, decided to stop there.41 She was given a corner behind a partition. The stationmaster’s wife at once fell to talking with her, told her she was the niece of a court stoker, and initiated her into all the mysteries of court life. She told her at what hour the empress usually awoke, had coffee, went for a stroll; what courtiers attended her then; what she had been pleased to say yesterday at the table, whom she had received in the evening—in short, Anna Vlasyevna’s conversation was worth several pages of historical memoirs and would have been of great value to posterity. Marya Ivanovna listened to her attentively. They went out to the gardens. Anna Vlasyevna told her the story of each alley and each little bridge, and, having had a good walk, they returned to the station very pleased with each other.

Early the next morning Marya Ivanovna woke up, dressed, and quietly went out to the gardens. The morning was beautiful, the sun lit up the tops of the lindens, already turned yellow under the cool breath of autumn. The wide lake shone motionlessly. The just-awakened swans glided majestically from under the bushes overshadowing the bank. Marya Ivanovna walked by a beautiful meadow where a monument had just been set up in honor of Count Pyotr Alexandrovich Rumyantsev’s recent victories.42 Suddenly a little white dog of English breed barked and ran towards her. Marya Ivanovna was frightened and stopped. At that same moment she heard a pleasant woman’s voice:

“Don’t be afraid, she doesn’t bite.”

And Marya Ivanovna saw a lady sitting on a bench opposite the monument. Marya Ivanovna sat down at the other end of the bench. The lady looked at her intently; Marya Ivanovna, for her part, casting several sidelong glances, managed to examine her from head to foot. She was wearing a white morning dress, a nightcap, and a jacket. She seemed about forty. Her face, plump and red-cheeked, expressed dignity and calm, and her light-blue eyes and slight smile had an ineffable charm. The lady was the first to break the silence.

“You’re probably not from here?” she said.

“That’s right, ma’am: I came from the provinces only yesterday.”

“You came with your family?”

“No, ma’am. I came alone.”

“Alone! But you’re still so young.”

“I have no father or mother.”

“You’re here, of course, on some kind of business?”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ve come to submit a petition to the empress.”

“You’re an orphan: you probably want to complain of injustice and offense?”

“No, ma’am. I’ve come to ask for mercy, not for justice.”

“Who are you, if I may ask?”

“I am Captain Mironov’s daughter.”

“Captain Mironov! The one who was commandant of one of the Orenburg fortresses?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The lady seemed to be moved.

“Forgive me,” she said in a still gentler voice, “if I’m interfering in your affairs; but I am received at court; tell me what your petition is about, and maybe I’ll be able to help you.”

Marya Ivanovna rose and respectfully thanked her. Everything about the unknown lady spontaneously attracted her heart and inspired trust. Marya Ivanovna took a folded paper from her pocket and gave it to her unknown protectress, who started reading it to herself.

At first she read with an attentive and benevolent air; but suddenly her countenance changed—and Marya Ivanovna, who was following all her movements with her eyes, was frightened by the severe expression of this face, which a moment before had been so pleasant and calm.

“You’re petitioning for Grinyov?” the lady said with a cold look. “The empress cannot forgive him. He joined the impostor not out of ignorance and gullibility, but as an immoral and pernicious scoundrel.”

“Oh, that’s not true!” cried Marya Ivanovna.

“How, not true!” the lady retorted, flushing all over.

“Not true, by God, not true! I know everything, I’ll tell you everything. He underwent all that befell him only for my sake. And if he did not justify himself before the judges, it was only because he didn’t want to entangle me in it.” Here she ardently recounted everything that is already known to my reader.

The lady heard her out attentively.

“Where are you staying?” she asked then; and, hearing that it was at Anna Vlasyevna’s, she added with a smile: “Ah, I know! Good-bye; don’t tell anyone about our meeting. I hope you will not have to wait long for an answer to your letter.”

With those words she stood up and went off into a covered alley, and Marya Ivanovna returned to Anna Vlasyevna filled with joyful hope.

Her hostess chided her for the early autumnal promenade, harmful, so she said, for a young girl’s health. She brought the samovar and, over a cup of tea, was just starting on her endless stories about the court, when a court carriage suddenly pulled up to the porch and an imperial footman came in and announced that her majesty was pleased to invite Miss Mironov to call on her.

Anna Vlasyevna was amazed and flustered.

“Good Lord!” she cried. “The empress is summoning you to the court. How on earth did she find out about you? How, my dear girl, are you going to present yourself to the empress? I suppose you don’t even know how to walk at court…Shouldn’t I come with you? At least I could warn you about certain things. And how are you going to go in your traveling clothes? Shouldn’t we send to the midwife for her yellow robe ronde?”

The imperial footman said that the empress wished to have Marya Ivanovna come alone and dressed just as she was. There was nothing to be done: Marya Ivanovna got into the carriage and set off for the palace accompanied by the instructions and blessings of Anna Vlasyevna.

Marya Ivanovna had a presentiment that our fate was to be decided; her heart now pounded, now sank. A few minutes later the carriage drew up to the palace. Marya Ivanovna tremblingly climbed the stairs. The doors were flung open before her. She walked through a long row of magnificent empty rooms; the imperial footman showed her the way. Finally, coming to a closed door, he said that she would presently be announced, and left her there alone.

The thought of seeing the empress face-to-face so terrified her that she could barely keep her feet. A minute later the door opened and she entered the empress’s dressing room.

The empress was sitting at her toilette table. Several courtiers surrounded her, and they deferentially made way for Marya Ivanovna. The empress turned to her kindly, and Marya Ivanovna recognized her as the lady she had talked with so candidly a few minutes earlier. The empress told her to come closer and said with a smile:

“I’m glad that I can keep my word to you and grant your petition. Your affair is settled. I am convinced of the innocence of your betrothed. Here is a letter which you yourself will be so good as to deliver to your future father-in-law.”

Marya Ivanovna took the letter with a trembling hand and, weeping, fell at the feet of the empress, who raised her up and kissed her. The empress talked more with her.

“I know you’re not rich,” she said, “but I am in debt to Captain Mironov’s daughter. Don’t worry about your future. I take it upon myself to see you established.”

Having shown the poor orphan such kindness, the empress let her go. Marya Ivanovna drove off in the same court carriage. Anna Vlasyevna, who was impatiently awaiting her return, showered her with questions, which Marya Ivanovna answered absently. Though Anna Vlasyevna was displeased by such obliviousness, she ascribed it to provincial timidity and magnanimously forgave it. That same day, Marya Ivanovna, not at all curious to have a look at Petersburg, went back to the country…

The notes of Pyotr Andreevich Grinyov end here. From family tradition it is known that he was released from prison at the end of 1774, by imperial order; that he was present at the execution of Pugachev, who recognized him in the crowd and nodded to him with his head, which a moment later was shown, dead and bloodied, to the people. Soon afterwards Pyotr Andreevich married Marya Ivanovna. Their descendants still prosper in Simbirsk province. Twenty miles from * * * there is a village belonging to ten landowners. In one wing of the manor house a letter in the hand of Catherine II is displayed under glass and in a frame. It was written to Pyotr Andreevich’s father and contains the vindication of his son and praise of the mind and heart of Captain Mironov’s daughter. Pyotr Andreevich Grinyov’s manuscript was furnished us by one of his grandsons, who learned that we were occupied with a work related to the time described by his grandfather. We have decided, with the family’s permission, to publish it separately, having found a suitable epigraph for each chapter and allowed ourselves to change some proper names.

The Publisher

19 OCT. 1836

THE OMITTED CHAPTER^*6

We were approaching the banks of the Volga; our regiment entered the village of * * * and stayed there for the night. The headman told me that all the villages on the opposite bank were in rebellion, that bands of Pugachev’s people were roaming everywhere. The news greatly alarmed me. We were supposed to cross the next morning. I was seized with impatience. My father’s estate was on the other side, twenty miles away. I asked if a ferryman could be found. All the peasants were fishermen; there were many boats. I went to Zurin and told him of my intention.

“Watch out,” he said to me. “It’s dangerous to go alone. Wait till morning. We’ll go across first and bring fifty hussars to visit your parents just in case.”

I insisted on my way. A boat was ready. I got into it with two oarsmen. They pushed off and plied their oars.

The sky was clear. The moon shone. The weather was calm. The Volga flowed smoothly and quietly. The boat, gently rocking, glided swiftly over the dark waves. I immersed myself in the dreams of my imagination. About half an hour went by. We had already reached the middle of the river…Suddenly the oarsmen began whispering to each other.

“What is it?” I asked, coming to myself.

“God only knows,” replied the oarsmen, looking off to one side. My eyes turned in the same direction, and in the darkness I saw something floating down the Volga. The unknown object was coming closer. I told the oarsmen to stop and wait for it. The moon went behind a cloud. The floating phantom became still more vague. It was already close to me, and I could not yet make it out.

“What could it be?” the oarsmen said. “A sail, a mast, or maybe not…”

Suddenly the moon came from behind the cloud and lit up a terrible sight. Floating towards us was a gallows mounted on a raft, with three bodies hanging from the crossbar. I was overcome with morbid curiosity. I wanted to look into the faces of the hanged men.

On my order the oarsmen caught the raft with a boathook, and my boat nudged against the floating gallows. I jumped out and found myself between the terrible posts. The bright moon lit up the disfigured faces of the unfortunate men. One of them was an old Chuvash, another a Russian peasant, a strong and robust lad of about twenty. But, glancing at the third, I was deeply shocked and could not help crying out pitifully: it was Vanka, my poor Vanka, who in his foolishness had joined Pugachev. Above them a black board had been nailed, on which was written in large white letters: “Thieves and Rebels.” The oarsmen looked on indifferently and waited for me, keeping hold of the raft with the boathook. I got back into the boat. The raft floated on down the river. For a long time the gallows loomed black in the darkness. Finally it disappeared, and my boat moored on the high and steep bank…

I paid the oarsmen generously. One of them took me to the headman of the village near the landing. I went into the cottage with him. The headman, hearing that I was requesting horses, received me quite rudely, but my guide quietly said a few words to him, and his severity turned at once into a hurried obligingness. In one minute a troika was ready, I got into the cart and ordered myself taken to our village.

I galloped along the high road past sleeping villages. I was afraid of one thing: being stopped on the road. If my night meeting on the Volga had proved the presence of rebels, it had proved at the same time a strong government counteraction. Just in case, I had in my pocket both the pass given to me by Pugachev and the order of Colonel Zurin. But I met no one, and by morning I caught sight of the river and the pine grove beyond which lay our village. The driver whipped up the horses, and a quarter of an hour later I drove into * * *.

The manor house was at the other end of the village. The horses raced along at full speed. Suddenly, in the middle of the village, the driver began to rein them in.

“What’s the matter?” I asked impatiently.

“A barrier,” the driver replied, barely able to stop his furious horses. Indeed, I saw a spiked bar and a sentry with a club. The muzhik came up to me and, taking off his hat, asked for my passport.

“What’s the meaning of this?” I asked him. “What’s this bar doing here? Who are you guarding?”

“You see, good sir, we’re rebelling,” he replied, scratching himself.

“And where are your masters?” I asked with a sinking heart…

“Our masters?” repeated the muzhik. “Our masters are in the granary.”

“What? In the granary?”

“You see, Andryushka, the bailiff, put them in fetters and wants to take them to our father-sovereign.”

“Good God! Raise the barrier, you fool. What are you gaping at?”

The sentry lingered. I leaped from the cart, gave him a clout (sorry) on the ear, and raised the bar myself. My muzhik stared at me in stupid perplexity. I got back into the cart and ordered the driver to gallop to the manor house. The granary was in the yard. At the door stood two muzhiks, also with clubs. The cart stopped right in front of them. I jumped out and rushed straight at them.

“Open the doors!” I said to them. My look probably terrified them. In any case, they both ran away, dropping their clubs. I tried to smash the padlock and to break down the doors, but the doors were of oak and the enormous padlock was indestructible. At that moment a stalwart young muzhik came out of the servants’ cottage and, with an arrogant air, asked me how I dared to make a row.

“Where’s Andryushka the bailiff?” I shouted. “Call him to me.”

“I myself am Andrei Afanasyevich, and not any Andryushka,” he replied, his arms proudly akimbo. “What do you want?”

Instead of an answer, I seized him by the collar and, dragging him to the granary doors, ordered him to open them. The bailiff tried to protest, but a “fatherly” punishment worked on him as well. He took out a key and opened the granary. I threw myself across the threshold and in a dark corner, dimly lit by a narrow slot cut in the ceiling, saw my mother and father. Their hands were bound and their feet were in fetters. I rushed to embrace them and could not utter a single word. They both stared at me with amazement—three years of army life had changed me so much that they could not recognize me. My mother gasped and burst into tears.

Suddenly I heard a dear, familiar voice.

“Pyotr Andreich! It’s you!” I was dumbfounded…looked around and in another corner saw Marya Ivanovna, also bound.

My father looked at me in silence, not daring to believe his own eyes. Joy shone on his face. I hurriedly cut the knots of their ropes with my sword.

“Greetings, greetings, Petrusha,” my father said, pressing me to his heart. “Thank God, we’ve been waiting…”

“Petrusha, my dearest,” my mother said. “So the Lord has brought you to us! Are you well?”

I was hurrying to bring them out of their imprisonment—but, going to the door, I found it locked again.

“Andryushka,” I shouted, “open up!”

“Nohow,” the bailiff answered through the door. “Sit yourself down there. We’ll teach you to make a row and drag state officials around by the collar!”

I started looking over the granary to see if there was some way of getting out.

“Don’t bother,” my father said to me. “I’m not the sort of landowner whose barns have holes for thieves to go in and out.”

My mother, overjoyed for a moment by my appearance, fell into despair, seeing that I, too, was to share in the doom of the whole family. But I was more at peace, since I was with them and with Marya Ivanovna. I had a sword and two pistols with me; I could still withstand a siege. Zurin was supposed to make it by evening, in time to rescue us. I told all that to my parents and managed to calm my mother down. They gave themselves fully to the joy of our reunion.

“Well, Pyotr,” my father said to me, “you got up to plenty of mischief, and I was thoroughly angry with you. But there’s no point in dwelling on the past. I hope you’ve mended your ways now and are done with foolery. I know you served as befits an honorable officer. Thank you. That’s a comfort to my old age. If I owe you my deliverance, life will be doubly agreeable to me.”

In tears I kissed his hand and looked at Marya Ivanovna, who was so overjoyed by my presence that she seemed perfectly happy and calm.

Towards noon we heard extraordinary noise and shouting.

“What does this mean?” said my father. “Can your colonel have made it in such good time?”

“Impossible,” I replied. “He won’t be here before evening.”

The noise grew louder. The alarm bell rang. Mounted men were galloping around the yard. At that moment the gray head of Savelyich thrust itself into the narrow slot cut in the wall, and my poor tutor said in a pitiful voice:

“Andrei Petrovich, Avdotya Vasilyevna, my dear Pyotr Andreich, dearest Marya Ivanovna—trouble! The brigands have entered the village. And do you know, Pyotr Andreich, who’s brought them? Shvabrin, Alexei Ivanych, deuce take him!”

Hearing the hateful name, Marya Ivanovna clasped her hands and stood motionless.

“Listen,” I said to Savelyich, “send someone on horseback to the * * * ferry, to meet the hussar regiment and give their colonel word of our danger.”

“Who can I send, sir? All the boys are rebelling, and the horses have all been taken! Oh, Lord! They’re already in the yard. They’re heading for the granary.”

Just then we heard several voices outside the door. I silently made a sign to my mother and Marya Ivanovna to retreat into a corner, drew my sword, and leaned against the wall right next to the door. My father took the pistols, cocked them both, and stood beside me. The padlock clacked, the door opened, and the bailiff’s head appeared. I struck it with my sword and he fell, blocking the entrance. At the same moment my father fired a pistol through the doorway. The crowd besieging us ran off cursing. I dragged the wounded man across the threshold and bolted the door from inside. The yard was full of armed men. Among them I recognized Shvabrin.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said to the women. “There’s hope. And you, father, don’t shoot again. Let’s save the last shot.”

Mother silently prayed to God; Marya Ivanovna stood beside her, waiting with angelic calm for our fate to be decided. Outside the door we heard threats, abuse, and curses. I stood in my place, ready to cut down the first daredevil to come in. Suddenly the villains fell silent. I heard the voice of Shvabrin calling me by name.

“I’m here. What do you want?”

“Surrender, Grinyov, it’s useless to resist. Have pity on your old ones. Obstinacy won’t save you. I’m going to get you all!”

“Just try it, traitor!”

“I won’t risk my neck for nothing, or waste my people’s lives. I’ll order them to set the granary on fire, and then we’ll see what you do, Don Quixote of Belogorsk. It’s dinnertime now. Sit there for a while and think things over at your leisure. Good-bye, Marya Ivanovna, I won’t apologize to you: you’re probably not bored there in the dark with your knight.”

Shvabrin went away and left a guard by the granary. We were silent. Each of us was thinking to himself, not daring to share his thoughts with the others. I imagined all that the resentful Shvabrin was capable of inflicting on us. I cared little about myself. Shall I confess it? Even my parents’ lot did not horrify me so much as the fate of Marya Ivanovna. I knew that my mother was adored by the peasants and the house serfs; that my father, for all his strictness, was also loved, for he was a fair man and knew the true needs of the people subject to him. Their rebellion was a delusion, a momentary drunkenness, not the expression of their indignation. Here mercy was likely. But Marya Ivanovna? What lot had the depraved and shameless man prepared for her? I did not dare to dwell on that horrible thought, and prepared myself, God forgive me, sooner to kill her than to see her a second time in the hands of the cruel enemy.

About another hour went by. There was drunken singing in the village. Our guards were envious and, vexed with us, swore and taunted us with torture and death. We awaited the sequel to Shvabrin’s threats. Finally there came a big commotion in the yard, and again we heard Shvabrin’s voice:

“So, have you made up your mind? Do you voluntarily surrender to me?”

No one answered him. Having waited a little, Shvabrin ordered straw brought. After a few minutes, a burst of fire lit up the dark granary, and smoke began to make its way through the chink under the door. Then Marya Ivanovna came to me and, taking me by the hand, said softly:

“Enough, Pyotr Andreich! Don’t destroy yourself and your parents on account of me. Let me out. Shvabrin will listen to me.”

“Not for anything,” I cried hotly. “Do you know what awaits you?”

“I won’t survive dishonor,” she replied calmly. “But maybe I’ll save my deliverer and the family that so magnanimously sheltered a poor orphan. Farewell, Andrei Petrovich. Farewell, Avdotya Vasilyevna. You were more than benefactors to me. Give me your blessing. Farewell and forgive me, Pyotr Andreich. Be assured that…that…” Here she burst into tears and buried her face in her hands…I was like a madman. My mother wept.

“Enough nonsense, Marya Ivanovna,” said my father. “Who is going to let you go to these brigands alone? Sit here and be quiet. If we’re to die, we’ll die together. Listen, what are they saying now?”

“Do you surrender?” Shvabrin shouted. “See? In five minutes you’ll be roasted.”

“We don’t surrender, villain!” my father answered him in a firm voice.

His face, covered with wrinkles, was animated by astonishing courage, his eyes flashed menacingly under his gray eyebrows. And, turning to me, he said:

“Now’s the time!”

He opened the door. Flames burst in and shot up the beams caulked with dry moss. My father fired his pistol and stepped across the blazing threshold, shouting: “Everyone, follow me!” I seized my mother and Marya Ivanovna by the hands and quickly led them outside. By the threshold lay Shvabrin, shot down by my father’s decrepit hand; the crowd of brigands, who fled before our unexpected sortie, at once took courage and began to surround us. I still managed to deal several blows, but a well-thrown brick struck me full in the chest. I fell down and lost consciousness for a moment. On coming to, I saw Shvabrin sitting on the bloody grass, and before him our whole family. I was supported under the arms. The crowd of peasants, Cossacks, and Bashkirs stood around us. Shvabrin was terribly pale. He pressed one hand to his wounded side. His face expressed suffering and spite. He slowly raised his head, looked at me, and pronounced in a weak and indistinct voice:

“Hang him…hang all of them…except her…”

The crowd of villains surrounded us at once and, shouting, dragged us to the gates. But suddenly they abandoned us and scattered; through the gates rode Zurin and behind him his entire squadron with drawn swords.

The rebels scurried off in all directions; the hussars pursued them, cut them down and took them prisoner. Zurin jumped off his horse, bowed to my mother and father, and firmly shook my hand.

“Looks like I made it just in time,” he said to us. “Ah! Here’s your bride-to-be.”

Marya Ivanovna blushed to the ears. My father came up to him and thanked him with a calm, though moved, air. My mother embraced him, calling him an angel of deliverance.

“We bid you welcome,” my father said to him and led him to our house.

Going past Shvabrin, Zurin stopped.

“Who is this?” he asked, looking at the wounded man.

“That is the leader himself, the head of the band,” my father answered with a certain pride, revealing the old warrior in him. “God helped my decrepit hand to punish the young villain and revenge my son’s blood.”

“It’s Shvabrin,” I said to Zurin.

“Shvabrin! Very glad! Hussars! Take him! And tell our doctor to bandage his wound and cherish him like the apple of his eye. Shvabrin absolutely must be brought before the Kazan secret commission. He’s one of the chief criminals, and his testimony is sure to be important.”

Shvabrin gave him a languishing look. His face showed nothing but physical pain. The hussars carried him away on a cape.

We went into the house. I trembled as I looked around, recalling my young years. Nothing in the house had changed, everything was in the same place. Shvabrin had not allowed it to be looted, preserving in his very abasement an instinctive aversion to dishonorable greed. The servants came to the front hall. They had not taken part in the rebellion and rejoiced wholeheartedly in our deliverance. Savelyich was triumphant. It should be known that during the alarm caused by the brigands’ attack, he ran to the stable where Shvabrin’s horse was, saddled it, led it out quietly, and, thanks to the tumult, galloped off unnoticed to the crossing. He met the regiment, which was already resting on this side of the Volga. Zurin, learning of our danger from him, ordered his men to saddle up, commanded them forward, forward at a gallop—and, thank God, arrived in time.

Zurin insisted that the bailiff’s head be exposed on a pole by the tavern for several hours.

The hussars came back from their pursuit, having taken several prisoners. They were locked up in the same granary in which we had withstood the memorable siege.

We went off to our separate rooms. My old parents needed rest. Not having slept all night, I threw myself on the bed and fell fast asleep. Zurin went to give his orders.

In the evening we gathered in the drawing room around the samovar, cheerfully talking about the past danger. Marya Ivanovna poured tea, I sat beside her and was occupied with her exclusively. My parents seemed to look favorably on the tenderness of our relations. That evening lives in my memory to this day. I was happy, perfectly happy, and how many such moments are there in a poor human life?

The next day my father was informed that the peasants had come to the courtyard to confess their wrong. My father went out to the porch to meet them. When he appeared, the muzhiks knelt down.

“Well, you fools,” he said to them, “what put it into your heads to rebel?”

“We were wrong, master,” they replied with one voice.

“So you were wrong. You get up to mischief, and you’re not glad of it yourselves. I forgive you out of joy that God has let me see my son Pyotr Andreich. Well, all right: a repentant head isn’t put to the sword. You were wrong! Of course you were wrong! God has sent us fair weather, it’s time to get the hay in; and you, foolish people, what did you do for a whole three days? Headman! Send every man of them to the haymaking; and see to it, you red-haired rogue, that all the hay is in stacks for me by St. Elijah’s day.43 Off with you!”

The muzhiks bowed and went to their labor as if nothing had happened.

Shvabrin’s wound turned out not to be mortal. He was sent to Kazan under convoy. I saw from the window how they laid him in a cart. Our eyes met, he lowered his head, and I quickly stepped away from the window. I was afraid to seem as if I were triumphing over my unfortunate and humiliated enemy.

Zurin had to move further on. I decided to follow him, despite my wish to spend a few more days amidst my family. On the eve of the march I came to my parents and, following the custom of the time, bowed at their feet, asking their blessing for my marriage to Marya Ivanovna. The old people raised me up and with joyful tears gave their consent. I brought Marya Ivanovna to them, pale and trembling. They blessed us…What I felt then I am not going to describe. Whoever has been in my situation will understand me without that; whoever has not, I can only pity and advise, while there is still time, to fall in love and receive the blessing of his parents.

The next day the regiment made ready. Zurin took leave of our family. We were all certain that military action would soon be over; I hoped to be a husband within a month. Marya Ivanovna, saying good-bye to me, kissed me in front of everyone. I mounted up. Savelyich again followed me—and the regiment left.

For a long time I looked back at the country house I was again abandoning. A dark foreboding troubled me. Someone was whispering to me that my misfortunes were not all behind me. My heart sensed a new storm.

I will not describe our march and the end of the war with Pugachev. We passed through villages devastated by Pugachev, and of necessity took from the poor inhabitants what the brigands had left them.

They did not know whom to obey. Order broke down everywhere. Landowners hid in the forests. Bands of brigands spread their villainies everywhere. The commanders of separate detachments, sent in pursuit of Pugachev, who was then fleeing towards Astrakhan, arbitrarily punished the guilty and the guiltless…The condition of the whole region where the conflagration raged was terrible. God keep us from ever seeing a Russian rebellion—senseless and merciless. Those among us who plot impossible revolutions are either young and do not know our people, or are hard-hearted men, for whom another man’s head is worth little, and their own but little more.

Pugachev fled, pursued by Iv. Iv. Mikhelson. Soon we learned of his total defeat. Zurin finally received from his general the news of the impostor’s capture, and with it the order to halt. I could finally go home. I was in raptures; but a strange feeling clouded my joy.

*1 to be an ouchitel (the French spelling of the Russian word for tutor)

*2 ‘Madame, please, some vodka.’ (Russified French)

*3 “Very well.” (Tatar)

*4 rogue (German)

*5 The “omitted chapter” (see this page), rejected by Pushkin and preserved only in rough draft, would have gone here. Translator.

*6 This chapter was not included in the final version of The Captain’s Daughter; it was preserved in a rough draft with the title “The Omitted Chapter.” It would have formed a continuation or extension of chapter 13. In it Grinyov is called Bulanin and Zurin is called Grinyov, but we have kept the names as they are in the rest of the novel. Translator.