The Captain’s Daughter

ALEXANDER
SERGEYEVITCH PUSHKIN
translated by Gillon Aitken

This translation © Gillon Aitken 1966, 1978, 2008

THE SELECTED TALES OF ALEXANDR SERGEYEVITCH PUSHKIN

Alexandr Sergeyevitch Pushkin was born on 26 May 1799 in Moscow. He studied at the Lyceum at Tsarkoye Selo and began writing poetry at a young age. His first major work, Ruslan and Ludmilla, was published in 1820, the same year he was expelled from St Petersburg for composing revolutionary epigrams. Eugene Onegin, his masterpiece, was published in 1823–31. Pushkin married Natalya Goncharova in 1832 and died in a duel defending her honour on 29 January 1837.

INTRODUCTION

Pushkin has always held the supreme position in Russian literature. It was his genius, in his prose as well as in his verse, which laid the foundations upon which a national literature could be built. Until his emergence, writing in Russia, excepting a handful of works, had been predominantly imitative, pursuing pseudo-classical principles and closely reflecting the trends of various Western European cultures – French in particular. The lyrical simplicity and precision of Pushkin’s poetry and the natural, straightforward grace of his prose perfectly expressed the Russian mood; and in that expression Pushkin gave to Russia for the first time in her history a literature whose inspiration came from herself, and which succeeded in setting the tone for successive generations of Russian writers. But his achievements were more than national: his universality of vision, his ability to transmute what he saw and what he understood into language of the utmost purity and point have created for him a permanent place in the literature of the world.

Alexandr Sergeyevitch Pushkin was born in Moscow on May 26th, 1799. On his father’s side, he was of ancient boyar stock; on his mother’s, and as his physical appearance hinted at, he was descended from an Abyssinian Prince whose son was taken from his father as a hostage and later presented to the Emperor Peter the Great. Pushkin’s pride in his unusual ancestry is reflected in the unfinished novel about his great-grandfather, The Moor of Peter the Great, which forms part of this collection.

Pushkin’s early childhood was unremarkable. He was brought up in a literary household – both his father and his uncle wrote verse – but the influence of his parents was a remote one. Stronger, certainly, was that of his nurse, Arina Rodionovna, whose deep knowledge of Russian folklore instilled in him a love of the Russian language and engendered much material for his later and more popular compositions. As a counterweight to the effect of the widespread usage of the French language in Russia at that time, Arina Rodionovna’s place in Pushkin’s life is important: in educated circles, French was the language of the day; Pushkin received a primarily French education, and his early reading – by the age of ten, he was a voracious reader – was drawn from his father’s excellent French library.

At the age of twelve, Pushkin was sent to the Lyceum at Tsarskoye Selo. He remained there for six years. Discipline was lax, and his poetic instinct was quick to show itself. He wrote first in French, then in Russian. By 1814, his poems had begun to be printed; by the time he left the Lyceum and went to St Petersburg in 1817, Pushkin had already been acclaimed as the new voice of Russian poetry. Derzhavin, Zhukovsky, Karamzin, eminent writers of an older generation, were among those swiftly to recognise in the ease and fluency of Pushkin’s early verse the careless quality of genius.

Pushkin’s first important work, Ruslan and Ludmilla, was published in 1820: a long poem in the romantic vein, it brought him to the attention of a wide public and firmly established his reputation.

At the time of its publication, Pushkin was serving as an official in Southern Russia – exiled by the Tsar Alexander I for his part in a revolutionary movement against the government. His exile lasted over five years, spent mostly in the South – at Ekaterinoslav, at Kishinev and in Odessa. It was a period in which his poetic genius flowered and he grew to maturity. He became aware of the richness and diversity of his gifts, responding to new influences available to him in the Crimea and the Caucasus. With the leisure that exile entailed, he learned English and Italian — and ‘discovered’ Byron, who opened up another world to him and left a lasting impression.

Between 1820 and 1826, Pushkin’s output was prodigious: he wrote two long poems in the Byronic manner, The Prisoner of the Caucasus and The Bakhchisarai Fountain, numerous lyrics and ballads, and a further long poem, The Gypsies, which had a considerable popular success; in addition, he completed Boris Godunov, his play based on the claim of ‘false’ Demetrius to be the son of Ivan the Terrible. He also began the masterpiece for which he is best known, Eugene Onegin, a vivid ‘novel in verse’ of great technical brilliance and virtuosity.

Pushkin completed the final canto of Eugene Onegin in 1831; at once a story of the emotions and a picture of contemporary Russian life, it is the work by which, if he had written nothing else, his reputation would be uniquely assured. Thereafter, prose was to concern him more than verse – although, before his death in 1837, he wrote a number of verse dramas and, in 1833, one of his finest poetic works, The Bronze Horseman.

In 1829, on his return from a second visit to the Caucasus, Pushkin became engaged to Natalya Goncharova, a young society beauty. His engagement marked a turning-point in his life: until that time he had been recklessly passionate and hot-headed, and his liberal political views had incurred the disapproval of both church and state. His work had been subjected to constant censorship – even the personal censorship of Tsar Nicholas I, who succeeded Tsar Alexander I a few months before the ill-fated Decembrists’ Revolt in 1825, with which Pushkin had been incidentally involved. From the age of thirty, and particularly following his marriage in 1831, he began to conform: he had become more serious; the effects of censorship had been wearying. This turning-point coincided with the composition of his earlier prose writing.

In 1836, Pushkin received an anonymous letter suggesting that his wife was having a love affair with Baron Georges d’Anthès, an Alsatian nobleman in the Russian diplomatic service. He was persuaded to withdraw his challenge to d’Anthès to a pistol duel. However, fresh insinuations made a duel inevitable. It took place on January 27th, 1837. d’Anthès was slightly wounded; Pushkin received injuries which proved fatal, and he died on January 29th at the age of thirty-seven.

Written in 1827-28, The Moor of Peter the Great, which Pushkin intended as a novel but left unfinished after seven chapters, was the first of his prose tales; it aroused great interest, containing as it does some of Pushkin’s finest prose. Less ornate in style, and closer to the mood of his verse – models of simplicity and precision – are The Tales of the Late Ivan Petrovitch Belkin, published in 1831 and, as their title suggests, attributed to the hand of a narrator. Although Pushkin attached great importance to these five tales, which were to him experimental in nature, he was nervous as to how they would be received and preferred to shelter behind the touchingly created figure of Belkin. The History of the Village of Goryukhino, ascribed also to Belkin, was written in 1830, but not published until 1857. A Novel in Letters and Roslavlev, both intended as larger works, were written in 1829 and 1831 respectively.

In 1832, Pushkin completed the eighteen chapters that exist of Dubrovsky; he had worked out a detailed plan for the novel’s conclusion but never returned to it. Written with great vividness, elaborately contrived, simple in style, Dubrovsky offers, as well as a thrilling story, a valuable impression of Russian country life at that time. The Queen of Spades and Kirdjali were both published in 1834: the former is Pushkin’s most successful prose work of a short kind – and is surely one of the greatest short stories in world literature: scarcely more than 10,000 words in length, brilliantly compressed, it achieves an altogether unforgettable effect. Kirdjali is the stirring account of the life of a Moldavian brigand.

The Captains Daughter, the longest of Pushkin’s completed prose tales, was written between 1833 and 1836: based on true events which Pushkin wrote as history in his The History of the Pugachev Rebellion, it is a masterpiece of narrative and construction. Egyptian Nights, in which both prose and poetry have a place, is one of the more exotic of Pushkin’s unfinished works. Written in 1835, it displays the extraordinary ease and vitality of Pushkin’s style and his ability at once to bring a situation or a character brilliantly to life.

This volume comprises, in chronological order, all of Pushkin’s prose tales. The present edition is a revision of the translation originally published in 1966, and the translator wishes again to register his appreciation of the help given to him by Mrs Bobby Ullstein in the final preparation of that text. He wishes, too, to thank Dr David Budgen for his scholarly assistance in the publication, by Angel Classics, of a separate edition of The Tales of the Late Ivan Petrovitch Belkin in 1983. As to the process of revision, it is the translator’s hope that the modifications, almost entirely of nuance, he has brought to his earlier efforts will play some part, however small, in perpetuating a regard among English readers for Pushkin’s extraordinary genius.

G. A., 2008

The Captain’s Daughter

Loo after your honour when it is young.

SAYING

Chapter One

A SERGEANT OF THE GUARDS

He could enter the Guards as a captain tomorrow.’

‘But there’s no need for that; let him serve in the ranks.’

‘Well spoken! Let him learn the hard way . . .

And who is his father?’

KNYAZHNIN

My father, Andrey Petrovitch Grinev, served under Count Münnich in his youth and retired from the Service in the year 17** as a lieutenant-colonel. He then went to live on his estate in the district of Simbirsk, where he married Avdotya Vassilyevna Yu**, the daughter of a poor local nobleman. There were nine of us children. Every one of my brothers and sisters died in their infancy. Thanks to Prince B**, a major in the Guards and a close relative of the family, I was registered as a sergeant in the Semyonovsky Regiment while my mother was still carrying me. If, contrary to all expectations, my mother had given birth to a daughter, my father would have informed the appropriate quarters of the death of the sergeant who had failed to come into this world, and there the matter would have ended. I was considered to be on leave of absence until the completion of my studies. Children were not brought up in those days as they are today. At the age of five, I was entrusted to the care of our senior groom, Savelyitch, whose sober conduct had rendered him worthy of being my personal attendant. By the age of twelve, under his supervision, I had learned to read and write Russian and I was a sound judge of the qualities of a greyhound. At this time my father engaged for me a Frenchman, a Monsieur Beaupré, who had been sent for from Moscow together with the yearly supply of wine and olive oil. His arrival greatly displeased Savelyitch.

‘Heaven be thanked,’ he used to grumble to himself, ‘that the child is apparently washed, combed and well-fed. Why waste money getting a “Monsoo”? – as if we hadn’t enough of our own people here!’

In his own country, Beaupré had been a hairdresser, then a soldier in Prussia, and he had then come to Russia pour être ‘outchitel’ without a very clear idea of the meaning of the word. He was a good-natured fellow, but flighty and extremely dissolute. His chief weakness was a passion for the fair sex; his tender advances were not infrequently met with slaps, which caused him to groan for whole days at a time. Furthermore, he was (to use his expression) ‘no enemy of the bottle’, which (in Russian) means that he liked a drop too much. But since, with us, wine was only served at dinner, and then only one glass each, and since the tutor’s glass was generally passed over, my Beaupré very soon became accustomed to home-made Russian brews and even began to prefer them to the wines of his own country, claiming that they were far better for the stomach. We made friends immediately, and although the contract obliged him to teach me French, German and all the sciences, he was quick to show that he preferred to learn some scraps of Russian from me – after which we each did as we wished. Our relationship was one of the utmost harmony. I wished for no other mentor. But fate soon parted us, and here is how:

It so happened that one day the laundress, Palashka, a fat, pock-marked wench and the one-eyed dairymaid, Akulka, decided jointly to throw themselves at my mother’s feet and, confessing to a criminal weakness, tearfully complained that ‘Monsoo’ had taken advantage of their inexperience. My mother did not treat such affairs lightly and conferred with my father on the subject. With him, justice was swiftly executed. He instantly sent for that rogue, the Frenchman. He was informed that ‘Monsoo’ was giving me my lesson. My father went up to my room.

At that moment Beaupré was on the bed, sleeping the sleep of the innocent. I was amusing myself in my own way. I should say that a geographical map had been sent from Moscow for me. It used to hang on the wall, where it was put to no use whatever, and I had long been tempted by the size and quality of its paper. I decided to make a kite of it and, taking advantage of the sleeping Beaupré, I set to work. My father came in at the very moment I was fitting a bast tail to the Cape of Good Hope. Seeing the extent of my geographical exercises, my father boxed me round the ear; then, hastening over to Beaupré, he roused him in extremely brusque fashion and began to heap reproaches upon him. In his confusion, Beaupré attempted to stand up but was unable to do so: the unfortunate Frenchman was dead drunk. As well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb. My father lifted him off the bed by his collar, pushed him out of the door and banished him from the premises that very same day, to the indescribable joy of Savelyitch. Thus ended my education.

I now lived a life of youthful leisure, chasing pigeons and playing leap-frog with the other boys on the estate. Meanwhile, I had turned sixteen, and at that point my fate underwent a change.

One autumn day, my mother was making some honey-jam in the parlour while I, licking my lips, looked on at the boiling scum. My father was sitting at the window, reading the Court Calendar which he received annually. This book always had a powerful effect upon him: he would read it with particular interest, and his reading of it always stirred his bile in the most remarkable fashion. My mother, who had a sure knowledge of all his ways and habits, always endeavoured to shove the wretched book as far out of sight as possible, and in this way the Court Calendar would sometimes evade his eyes for whole months at a time. But when my father did happen to find it, he would not let it out of his hands for hours on end. Thus, my father was reading the Court Calendar, from time to time shrugging his shoulders and muttering:

‘Lieutenant-general . . . ! He was a sergeant in my company . . .! Knight of both Russian orders . . . ! How long ago was it that we . . . ?’

At length my father flung the Calendar down on the sofa and sank into a reverie, a habit of his which boded nothing but ill.

Suddenly he turned to my mother.

‘Avdotya Vassilyevna, how old is Petrusha?’

‘He’s nearly seventeen,’ replied my mother. ‘Petrusha was born the same year that aunt Nastasya Gerassimovna lost her eye, and when . . .’

‘Very well,’ interrupted my father. ‘It’s time he entered the Service. He’s had enough of running about the maids’ workrooms and climbing the dovecotes.’

The thought that she should soon be parted from me had such an effect upon my mother that she dropped the spoon into the saucepan, and the tears poured down her face. My own delight, on the other hand, could scarcely be described. The thought of the Service was connected in my mind with thoughts of freedom and the pleasures of life in Petersburg. I pictured myself as an officer of the Guards – in my opinion, the summit of worldly happiness.

My father liked neither to alter his intentions nor to delay their execution. A day was appointed for my departure. On the evening before, my father announced that he proposed to send a letter by me to my future commanding officer and he demanded pen and paper.

‘Don’t forget, Andrey Petrovitch,’ my mother said, ‘to send my best wishes to Prince B**, and say that I hope he’ll treat Petrusha kindly.’

‘What nonsense is this!’ my father replied, frowning. ‘Why should I be writing to Prince B**?’

‘But you said a moment ago that you were going to write to Petrusha’s commanding officer.’

‘Well, and so what?’

‘But Petrusha’s commanding officer is Prince B**. Petrusha’s registered with the Semyonovsky Regiment.’

‘Registered! What do I care whether he’s registered? Petrusha’s not going to Petersburg. What would he learn by serving in Petersburg? To squander his money and behave like a rake. No, let him serve in the real army; let him learn to toil and drudge, to smell powder; let him be a soldier and not a mere idler. Registered with the Guards! Where’s his passport? Bring it here.’

My mother got out my passport, which she kept in her little box together with my christening robe, and gave it to my father with a trembling hand. My father read it through carefully, put it on the table before him and began his letter.

I was tormented by curiosity. Where was I to be sent, if not to Petersburg? I could not tear my eyes away from my father’s pen which moved slowly enough over the paper. At last he finished, sealed the letter in the same packet as my passport, removed his spectacles and, calling me to him, said:

‘Here is a letter for Andrey Karlovitch R**, an old friend and comrade of mine. You’re going to Orenburg to serve under his command.’

And so all my brilliant hopes were shattered! Instead of a gay life in Petersburg, boredom awaited me in some dreary and distant part of the country. The Service, which, until a moment before, I had thought of with such rapture, now struck me as a grievous misfortune. But it was useless to argue.

On the morning of the following day a travelling-carriage was brought round to the steps; in it were packed my trunk and a hamper containing a tea-service and parcels of buns and pies – final tokens of home indulgence. My parents gave me their blessing. My father said to me:

‘Goodbye, Pyotr. Serve faithfully whom you have sworn to serve; obey your superiors, do not seek their favours; don’t thrust yourself forward for service, but don’t shirk your duty; and remember the proverb: “Look after your clothes when they’re new and your honour when it’s young.”’

My mother tearfully besought me to take care of my health, and Savelyitch to watch over his charge. They helped me on with my hareskin coat and, over that, another one of fox fur. I sat down in the carriage with Savelyitch and set off on my journey, the tears streaming down my face.

That same night I arrived at Simbirsk where I was to spend the whole of the next day so that Savelyitch, who had been entrusted with the task, could buy several articles I needed. I stayed at an inn. In the morning, Savelyitch set off for the shops. Tired of looking out of the window on to a dirty alley-way, I began to wander about the other rooms of the inn. Entering the billiards-room, I saw a tall gentleman of about thirty-five with a long black moustache; he was in his dressing-gown and had a cue in one hand and a pipe between his teeth. He was playing with the marker, who drank down a glass of vodka every time he won, but who, when he lost, was obliged to crawl on all fours under the billiard-table. I stopped to watch them play. The longer the game went on, the more frequently did the marker have to crawl about on all fours, until eventually he remained beneath the table. The gentleman uttered several forceful expressions over him as a sort of funeral oration and invited me to have a game with him. Not knowing how to play, I refused. This seemed to strike him as strange. He looked at me as if with commiseration. However, we got into conversation and I learned that he was called Ivan Ivanovitch Zurin, that he was a captain in the *** Hussar Regiment, that he was in Simbirsk for the reception of some recruits, and that he was staying at the inn.

Zurin invited me to take pot-luck and dine with him in military fashion. I readily accepted his invitation. We sat down at table. Zurin drank a great deal and urged me to do the same, saying that I must become accustomed to the ways of the Service. He related several military anecdotes which nearly made me die of laughter, and we got up from the table firm friends. He then offered to teach me to play billiards.

‘It’s essential that we soldiers should know how to play. On the march, for instance, you arrive at some small town. How are you going to amuse yourself? One can’t always be beating up the Jews. And so, for want of something better, you go to the inn and start to play billiards; and to do that you must know how to play!’

I was completely convinced and set about learning the game with great diligence. Zurin loudly encouraged me, showed surprise at my rapid progress and after a few lessons proposed that we should play for money – only a small stake and not for the sake of gain, but merely so we should not play for nothing, which he held to be a most odious practice. I agreed with him, and Zurin ordered some punch which he persuaded me to try, repeating that I must get used to the life in the Service. What kind of a Service would it be without punch! I obeyed him. In the meantime we continued our game. The more frequently I sipped from my glass, the more daring I became. The balls kept flying across the cushions. I became heated, abused the marker, who was keeping the score heaven only knows how, increased the stake from time to time – in short, behaved like a boy with his first taste of freedom. Meanwhile time slipped imperceptibly by. Zurin glanced at his watch, put down his cue, and announced that I had lost one hundred roubles. I was somewhat confused by this declaration. Savelyitch had my money. I began to apologise. Zurin interrupted me:

‘Pray, don’t bother yourself worrying. I can wait, and meanwhile while let’s go to Arinushka’s.’

What would you have me do? I finished the day as dissolutely as I had begun it. We had supper at Arinushka’s. Zurin kept filling my glass, repeating that I must get used to the ways of the Service. When I rose from the table, I could scarcely stand up straight. At midnight Zurin drove me back to the inn.

Savelyitch met us on the steps. He groaned as he saw the unmistakable signs of my enthusiasm for the Service.

‘What’s happened to you, master?’ he said in a sorrowful voice. ‘Wherever did you get so drunk? Oh Lord, never before have you done such a dreadful thing!’

‘Silence, you old grumbler!’ I replied in an unsteady voice. ‘You must be drunk yourself. Go to sleep . . . and put me to bed.’

I woke the next morning with a splitting headache and a hazy recollection of the events of the previous evening. My reflections were interrupted by Savelyitch, who entered my room with a cup of tea.

‘You’ve started early on your pranks, Pyotr Andreitch,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘And who is it that you take after? Certainly, neither your father nor grandfather were drunkards. It goes without saying that your mother isn’t – since the day of her birth she has never touched anything but kvass. Who is to blame for all this? That accursed “Monsoo”. He was for ever running round to Antipyevna’s with “Madame, zhe voo pree, vodkyoo.” Well there’s zhe voo pree for you! It can’t be denied that son of a bitch taught you some pretty habits! And why was the infidel tutor engaged for you in the first place – as if the master hadn’t enough of his own people!’

I was ashamed. I turned away from him and said:

‘Go away, Savelyitch. I don’t want any tea.’

But it was a difficult matter to quieten Savelyitch when he was bent on delivering a sermon.

‘Now you can see, Pyotr Andreitch, what it is to get drunk. You’ve got a bad head and don’t want to eat anything. A man who drinks is fit for nothing. Drink up some cucumber pickle with honey or, best of all for the morning after, half a glass of home-made brandy. What do you say?’

At that moment a boy entered the room and handed me a note from Ivan Ivanovitch Zurin. I opened it and read the following:

‘Dear Pyotr Andreyevitch,

‘Be so good as to send me, by the boy, the hundred roubles you lost to me yesterday. I am in urgent need of money.

‘Always at your service,

‘Ivan Zurin’

There was nothing for it. I assumed an air of indifference and turning to Savelyitch, who was my treasurer, housekeeper and agent all in one, I ordered him to give the boy one hundred roubles.

‘What? Why? What for?’ asked the astonished Savelyitch.

‘I owe them to him,’ I replied as coolly as I could.

‘Owe!’ exclaimed Savelyitch, becoming more and more astonished. ‘And when, master, did you find time to get into his debt? I don’t like the sound of this. You may do as you please, master, but I’m not going to give you the money.’

I thought that if, at this decisive moment, I did not gain the upper hand of the obstinate old man, it would be difficult to free myself from his tutelage later on, and so, looking at him haughtily, I said:

‘I am your master and you are my servant. It is my money. I lost it gambling because I took it into my head to do so. I advise you not to philosophise about it and do as you are told.’

Savelyitch was so struck by my words that he clasped his hands and stood as if turned to stone.

‘What are you standing there like that for?’ I shouted angrily.

Savelyitch began to weep.

‘Pyotr Andreitch, my dear,’ he said in a trembling voice, ‘do not cause me to die of a broken heart. Light of my life, listen to me, an old man! Write to that brigand and say that you were joking, that we are not in the habit even of having that much money. One hundred roubles! God be merciful! Tell him that your parents expressly forbade you to gamble with anything but nuts . . .’

‘That’s enough!’ I interrupted him severely. ‘Hand over the money or I’ll throw you out by the scruff of your neck.’

Savelyitch looked at me with the deepest grief and went to fetch my debt. I felt sorry for the poor old man, but I wanted to assert my independence and show him that I was no longer a child. The money was delivered to Zurin. Savelyitch made haste to take me away from the accursed inn. He came to me with the news that the horses were ready. With an uneasy conscience and filled with silent remorse, I left Simbirsk, without saying goodbye to my billiards-teacher and without thinking that I should ever see him again.

Chapter Two

THE GUIDE

O land of mine,

Unfamiliar land!

It is not I who wished to go to you,

It is not my good horse which took me,

But youth and liveliness,

A young man’s spirit,

And tavern wine.

AN OLD SONG

My reflections during the journey were not particularly agreeable. My loss, in terms of the value of money at that time, was of no small importance. In my heart, I could not but confess that my behaviour at the inn in Simbirsk had been foolish, and I felt guilty before Savelyitch. All this distressed me. The old man sat sullenly on the box, his face turned away from me and but for an occasional sigh he was silent. I wanted at all costs to make it up with him but I did not know how to begin. Finally, I said to him:

‘Come now, Savelyitch! That’s enough, let us be friends. It was all my fault; I can see myself that I was wrong. I behaved extremely foolishly yesterday and offended you for no reason. I promise that I’ll conduct myself more sensibly in future and listen to you. Now don’t be angry. Let us make our peace.’

‘Ah, Pyotr Andreitch, my dear,’ he answered with a deep sigh. ‘I’m angry with myself; it is I alone who am to blame.

How could I have left you alone in the inn! But what could I do? I was tempted by the devil: I took it into my head to drop in on the clerk’s wife who is an old friend of mine. And there it is: I drop in on an old friend, and see what happens. A real calamity! How shall I ever be able to show myself before my master and mistress again? What will they say when they learn that their child is a drunkard and a gambler?’

In order to console poor Savelyitch, I gave him my word that in future I would not spend a single kopeck without his consent. He gradually calmed down, although from time to time, shaking his head, he continued to mutter to himself:

‘One hundred roubles! It’s no joke!’

I was drawing near to my destination. All around me stretched a desolate wilderness, intersected by hills and ravines. Everything was covered with snow. The sun was setting. The sledge was travelling along the narrow road or, to be more precise, along the track made by the sledges of the peasants. Suddenly, the driver began to look around him and eventually, taking off his cap, he turned to me and said:

‘Won’t you order me to turn back, sir?’

‘Why?’

‘The weather doesn’t look too hopeful: the wind is beginning to rise. See how it’s heaping up the newly-fallen snow.’

‘There’s no great harm in that.’

‘And do you see over there?’

The driver pointed eastwards with his whip.

‘I see nothing but white steppe and a clear sky.’

‘But there – over there – that small cloud.’

Indeed, on the edge of the horizon, I saw a small white cloud, which at first I had wrongly taken for a distant hill. The driver explained to me that the little cloud presaged a snow-storm.

I had heard about the snow-storms in that part of the country, and knew that whole wagon-trains were sometimes buried by them. Savelyitch agreed with the driver and advised that we should turn back. But the wind did not strike me as being especially strong. I was hoping to be able to reach the next posting-station in good time, and ordered the driver to go on faster.

The driver set the horses at a gallop, but he still continued to look eastwards. The horses ran on harmoniously. The wind, meanwhile, was growing stronger every minute. The little cloud changed into a great white mass, which rose heavily, grew, and gradually began to spread across the whole sky. At first a fine snow – and then, suddenly, big snowflakes – began to fall. The wind howled; the storm burst upon us. In a moment the dark sky merged with the sea of snow; everything vanished.

‘Well, sir,’ cried the driver. ‘We are in for it – a blizzard!’

I looked out of the sledge: all was darkness and whirl-wind. The wind howled with such ferocious violence that it seemed as though it were alive. Savelyitch and I became covered with snow. The horses slowed down to a walking pace and soon stopped altogether.

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

‘What’s the use?’ he asked, jumping down from the box. ‘God knows where we’re going to as it is. There’s no road and all around is darkness.’

I began to scold him. Savelyitch took his part.

‘Why didn’t you want to listen to him?’ he said angrily. ‘You should have returned to the posting-station, where you could have had some tea and slept undisturbed until morning, when the storm would have abated and we could have gone on. Anyway, what’s the hurry? It would be all very well if we were going to a wedding!’

Savelyitch was right. There was nothing we could do. The snow was falling hard. A snowdrift was piling up around the sledge. The horses stood with heads bent, and from time to time a shudder would run through their bodies. Having nothing else to do, the driver kept walking round them, arranging the harness. Savelyitch grumbled. I looked everywhere around me in the hope of catching sight of some sign of a house or a road, but could distinguish nothing save the dense, whirling snow-storm . . . Suddenly I saw something black.

‘Hey, driver!’ I shouted. ‘Look! What’s that black thing over there?’

The driver began to peer in the direction I was pointing.

‘Heaven knows, sir,’ he said, sitting down in his seat again. ‘It’s certainly not a cart or a tree, and it seems to be moving. It must be a wolf or a man.’

I ordered him to drive towards the unknown object, which immediately started to move towards us. A couple of minutes later we had drawn level with the man.

‘Hey, my good man!’ the driver shouted to him. ‘Do you know where the road is?’

‘The road’s here; I am standing on a firm strip,’ the wayfarer replied, ‘but what’s the good in that?’

‘Listen here, my man,’ I said to him, ‘do you know this part of the country? Can you take me to a night’s lodgings?’

‘I know the country well,’ the wayfarer replied. ‘Heaven be thanked, I have tramped and driven over it in every direction. But you can see what the weather’s like: we would be sure to lose the way. You’d do better to stop here and wait – perhaps the storm will abate and the sky clear, and then we can find our way by the stars.’

His composure encouraged me. I had already resolved to commit myself into the hands of God and spend the night in the middle of the steppe, when suddenly the wayfarer climbed nimbly up on to the box and said to the driver:

‘Heaven be thanked, there’s a house nearby. Turn to the right and then go straight on.’

‘But why should I turn to the right?’ the driver asked with irritation. ‘Where do you see the road? I know, I know, the horses don’t belong to you and neither does the harness, so drive on, eh, drive on.’

The driver seemed to me to be right.

‘Indeed,’ I said, ‘what makes you think that we’re not far from a house?’

‘Because the wind came from that direction,’ the traveller replied, ‘and I smelt smoke. That shows that there’s a village nearby.’

His resourcefulness and keen sense of smell astonished me. I ordered the driver to go on. The horses stepped heavily through the thick snow. The sledge advanced slowly, now mounting a snowdrift, now sinking into a hollow, at one moment rolling to one side, at the next to the other. It was like being aboard a ship in a stormy sea. Savelyitch groaned as he continually jostled against my side. I let down the matting which served as a hood to the sledge, wrapped myself up in my cloak and dozed off, lulled by the song of the storm and by the rocking of our slow journey.

I had a dream which I have never been able to forget, and in which, to this day, I still see something prophetic when I compare it with the strange events of my life. The reader will forgive me for mentioning it since he probably knows from experience that man is naturally given to superstition, however great is his contempt for such prejudices.

I was in that condition of mind and feeling when reality gives way to dreaming and becomes merged into the hazy visions of the first stages of sleep. It seemed to me that the storm was still raging, and that we were still roaming about in the wilderness of snow . . . Suddenly I saw a gateway and drove into the courtyard of our estate. My first thought was one of fear that my father would be angry with me for my involuntary return to the paternal roof, and that he would look upon it as a deliberate act of disobedience. With a feeling of unease I jumped down from the sledge, and saw my mother coming down the steps to meet me, a look of deep grief upon her face.

‘Quietly,’ she says to me. ‘Your father is ill and dying and wishes to take leave of you.’

Struck with fear, I follow her into the bedroom. I see that the room is weakly lit and that a collection of sad-faced people stand by the bed. I approach the bed softly; my mother raises the curtain and says:

‘Andrey Petrovitch, Petrusha has arrived; he came back when he heard that you were ill. Give him your blessing.’

I went down on my knees and fixed my eyes on the sick man. But what’s happened? . . . I see, in place of my father, a black-bearded peasant gaily looking at me.

Perplexed, I turned to my mother and said:

‘What does this mean? This isn’t my father. Why must I ask this peasant for his blessing?’

‘It’s all the same, Petrusha,’ my mother answered me. ‘This is your father by proxy. Kiss his hand and allow him to give you his blessing.’

I did not consent to this. Then the peasant leapt out of bed, seized an axe from behind his back and began to swing it about in every direction. I wanted to run . . . but I could not. The room was full of dead bodies; I kept stumbling against them and slipping in the pools of blood . . . The terrible peasant called to me gently and said:

‘Don’t be frightened. Come and receive my blessing.’

Horror and perplexity took hold of me . . . At that moment I awoke. The horses had stopped; Savelyitch was pulling my arm and saying:

‘Get out, master, come on. We’ve arrived.’

‘Where have we arrived?’ I asked, rubbing my eyes.

‘At a country inn. The Lord came to our aid, and we bumped straight into the fence. Quickly, master, come and warm yourself.’

I got out of the sledge. The storm still continued, although with less violence. It was pitch dark. The innkeeper met us at the gate, holding a lantern under the skirt of his overcoat, and led me into a room which was small but reasonably clean; it was lit by a pine torch. On the wall hung a rifle and a tall Cossack cap.

The innkeeper, a Yaikian Cossack by birth, seemed to be a peasant of about sixty, still quite hale and fresh-faced. Savelyitch followed me in with the hamper and demanded a fire so that he could make some tea, which had never before seemed so necessary to me. The innkeeper went out to see to this.

‘Where is the guide?’ I asked Savelyitch.

‘Here, your Honour,’ replied a voice from above.

I looked up at the sleeping shelf above the stove and saw a black beard and two sparkling eyes.

‘Well, friend, are you thoroughly frozen?’

‘How otherwise in a single thin overcoat! But I’ll be frank with you – I did have a sheepskin coat, but I pawned it yesterday with a publican. The frost did not seem to me to be so sharp.’

At that moment the innkeeper came in with a boiling samovar. I offered our guide a cup of tea; the peasant climbed down from the shelf. His appearance struck me as remarkable. He was about forty, of medium height, lean and broad-shouldered. His black beard was beginning to go grey; his large lively eyes were for ever darting about. His face had quite an agreeable but roguish expression to it. His hair had been cropped in a circle round his head; he wore a tattered overcoat and Tartar trousers. I handed him a cup of tea; he tasted it and pulled a face.

‘Your Honour, be so good as to tell them to bring me a glass of wine; tea is not the drink for us Cossacks.’

I readily fulfilled his wish. The innkeeper took a square bottle and a glass from the cupboard, went up to him and, looking him in the face, said:

‘Oh, so you’re back in this area again! Where have you come from?’

My guide winked significantly and replied with this saying:

‘I was flying about the kitchen-garden, pecking hempseed. The old woman threw a stone at me, but it missed. And what about your people?’

‘Oh, our people!’ replied the innkeeper, continuing the allegorical conversation. ‘They were about to ring the bells for vespers, but the priest’s wife refused to allow it: when the priest is out visiting, the devils play pranks in the graveyard.’

‘Silence, uncle,’ replied my vagabond. ‘If it rains, there’ll be mushrooms, and when there are mushrooms, there’s a bark basket too. But now’ – and here he winked again – ‘hide your axe behind your back: the forester’s about. Your Honour – your health!’

With these words he took his glass, crossed himself and drank down the contents in a single gulp. He then bowed to me and returned to his shelf.

I could not understand a single word of this thieves’ slang at the time; but afterwards I guessed that it referred to the affairs of the Yaikian Army who had only just been brought to order after the revolt of 1772. Savelyitch listened with an air of profound displeasure. He kept looking suspiciously now at the innkeeper, now at the guide. The inn, or ‘umyot’ as it was called locally, lay on its own in the middle of the steppe, far from any village, and looked very much as though it was a thieves’ meeting-place. But there was no help for it. It was impossible to think of continuing our journey. Savelyitch’s anxiety gave me great amusement. Meanwhile, I made arrangements for the night and lay down on the bench. Savelyitch decided to make a place for himself on the stove; the innkeeper lay down on the floor. Soon the whole hut was snoring and I fell into a deep sleep.

Waking rather late the following morning, I saw that the storm had abated. The sun was shining. The snow lay like a dazzling shroud over the boundless steppe. The horses were harnessed. I settled my account with the innkeeper, who charged us such a moderate sum that even Savelyitch made no attempt to quarrel and bargain with him as he usually did, and his suspicions of the previous evening vanished entirely from his head. I called the guide, thanked him for the help he had given us, and ordered Savelyitch to tip him half a rouble. Savelyitch frowned.

‘Tip him half a rouble!’ he said. ‘What for? Because you were pleased to bring him with you to the inn. Do as you wish, master, but we haven’t any half-roubles to spare. If we start handing round tips to everyone we meet, we’ll soon be starving ourselves.’

I could not argue with Savelyitch. I had promised that he should be completely in charge of the money. I felt vexed, however, at not being able to reward the man who had rescued me, if not from utter disaster, at least from a very unpleasant situation.

‘All right,’ I said coldly, ‘if you don’t want to give him half a rouble, then give him something of mine to wear. He is too lightly dressed. Give him my hareskin coat.’

‘Mercy on us, dear Pyotr Andreitch!’ Savelyitch said. ‘Why give him your hareskin coat? The dog will only sell it for a drink at the first pub he gets to.’

‘It’s none of your business, old man,’ my vagabond said, ‘whether I sell it or not. His Honour wishes to give me a coat from off his own shoulders: it is the will of your master, and your duty as a serf is not to argue but to obey.’

‘Have you no fear of God, you brigand?’ Savelyitch answered him in an angry voice. ‘You can see that the child is still completely ignorant, and yet you are only too glad to take advantage of his innocence. Why do you want my master’s coat? You’ll not be able to fit it across your accursed shoulders.’

‘Will you please be quiet,’ I said, ‘and bring the coat here immediately.’

‘Good Lord above!’ Savelyitch groaned. ‘Your hareskin coat is almost brand-new! Give it to someone who deserves it, not to a bare-faced drunkard!’

However, the hareskin coat appeared. The peasant instantly began to try it on. Indeed, the coat, which even I had outgrown, was a little too tight on him. Nevertheless, he managed to struggle into it somehow, bursting the seams as he did so. Savelyitch nearly howled as he heard the stitches give way. The vagabond was extremely pleased with my present. He went with me to the sledge and said with a low bow:

‘Thank you, your Honour! May the Lord reward you for your kindness. As long as I live, I shall never forget your goodness.’

He went his own way and I again set out on mine, paying no attention to Savelyitch’s vexed condition, and I soon forgot about the snow-storm of the previous day, about my guide and the hareskin coat.

On arriving at Orenburg, I immediately presented myself to the general. I saw a tall man, already somewhat bent with age. His long hair was completely white. His old and faded uniform recalled a soldier of the time of the Empress Anna Ioannovna, and he spoke with a strong German accent. I handed him my father’s letter. At his name, he glanced at me quickly.

‘ Mein Gott!’ he said. ‘It doesn’t seem long ago that Andrey Petrovitch was himself your age, and now what a fine young son he’s got for himself! Ach, how times flies!’

He unsealed the letter and began to read it in a low voice, making his own observations as he did so.

‘“Esteemed Sir, Andrey Karlovitch, I hope that your Excellency . . . ” Why so formal? Pshaw, he should be ashamed of himself! Of course, discipline before everything, but is that the way to write to an old comrade? . . . ” Your Excellency will not have forgotten . . .” Hm . . . “And when with the late Field-Marshal Münnich . . . in the campaign . . . little Caroline also . . . ” Ach, Bruder! So he still remembers our old pranks? “Now to business . . . I’m sending my young rascal to you . . .” Hm . . . “Handle him with hedgehog gloves . . . ” What are hedgehog gloves? It must be a Russian saying . . .What does “handle him with hedgehog gloves” mean?’ he repeated, turning to me.

‘It means,’ I replied, looking as innocent as I possibly could, ‘to treat someone kindly, not to be too severe, to allow as much freedom as possible – that’s “to handle with hedgehog gloves”.’

‘Hm, I understand . . . “and do not allow him too much freedom . . .” No, it’s clear that “to handle with hedgehog gloves” doesn’t mean that . . . “Enclosed . . . his passport . . .” Where is it, though? Ah, here we are . . . “Strike him off the register of the Semyonovsky Regiment . . .” All right, all right: everything shall be done . . . “Permit me to embrace you without ceremony and . . . as an old friend and comrade . . .” Ah, at last he’s come to it! . . . etc., etc. . . . Well, my boy,’ he said when he had finished reading the letter and had put my passport to one side, ‘everything shall be attended to: you will be transferred as an officer into the *** regiment, and, so as not to lose time, you will leave tomorrow for the Belogorsky fortress, where you will be under the command of Captain Mironov, a good and honourable man. There you will see some real service and be taught the meaning of discipline. There’s nothing for you to do here in Orenburg. Dissipation is harmful to a young man. Do me the favour of dining with me this evening.’

‘It’s getting worse and worse,’ I thought to myself. ‘What’s the use of having been a sergeant in the Guards since the time I was in my mother’s womb! Where has it led me? To the *** regiment, and to an out-of-the-way fortress on the borders of the Kirghiz-Kaissak steppes!’

I dined with Andrey Karlovitch, in company with his aged adjutant. A strict German economy governed the table, and I believe that the fear of an additional guest now and then at his bachelor’s table was in part the cause of my speedy banishment to the garrison.

The next day I took my leave of the general and set out for my destination.

Chapter Three

THE FORTRESS

In this fortress we live,

Bread we eat and water we drinks

But when the fierce enemy

Comes to try out our pies,

A great feast we will prepare for our guests,

And our cannon we will load with grape-shot.

SOLDIERS’ SONG

They are old-fashioned people, dear sir.

FONVIZIN

The Belogorsky fortress was situated forty versts from Orenburg. The road ran along the steep bank of the Yaik. The river was not yet frozen and its leaden-coloured waves looked black and melancholy between the monotonous, snow-covered banks. Beyond it stretched the Kirghiz steppes. I was deep in reflection, for the most part of a gloomy nature. Garrison life held little attraction for me. I tried to picture Captain Mironov, my future commanding officer, and the picture that came to my mind was that of a strict, bad-tempered old man, knowing nothing outside the Service, and ready to put me under arrest on bread and water for the merest trifle. Meanwhile, it was beginning to grow dark. We were driving pretty fast.

‘Is it far to the fortress?’ I asked my driver.

‘Not far,’ he replied. ‘You can see it over there.’

I looked around me in every direction, expecting to see menacing bastions, towers and a rampart; but all I could see was a little village surrounded by a thick wooden fence. On one side of it stood three or four haystacks, half-concealed beneath the snow; on the other, a dilapidated windmill with idly-hanging bark sails.

‘But where is the fortress?’ I asked in surprise.

‘There it is,’ replied the driver, indicating the little village, and as he spoke, we drove into it.

At the gates I saw an old cast-iron cannon; the streets were narrow and twisting; the cottages small and for the most part thatched. I ordered the driver to take me to the commandant, and a minute later the sledge stopped before a small wooden house, built on a rise in the ground near the church, which was also made of wood.

Nobody came out to meet me. I went up to the entrance and opened a door into the front hall. An old soldier, seated on a table, was sewing a blue patch on the elbow of a green uniform. I told him to announce me.

‘Go in, my good chap,’ the old soldier replied. ‘Our people are at home.’

I entered a neat, clean room, furnished in the old-fashioned style. In one corner stood a china cupboard; attached to the wall was an officer’s diploma, glazed and framed; in bright array around it hung cheap, coloured prints representing ‘The Taking of Küstrin’, ‘The Taking of Ochakov’, ‘The Choice of a Bride’ and ‘The Cat’s Funeral’. An old woman wearing a warm sleeveless jacket and with a handkerchief over her head was sitting at the window. She was unwinding some thread which a one-eyed old man in officer’s uniform was holding outstretched in his hands.

‘What can I do for you, good sir?’ she asked, continuing with her work.

I replied that I had come to enter the Service and to present myself to the captain in accordance with my duty, and with these words I turned to the one-eyed old man, whom I took to be the commandant. The lady of the house, however, interrupted the speech that I had prepared.

‘Ivan Kuzmitch is not at home,’ she said. ‘He has gone to visit Father Gerassim; but it’s all the same, dear sir, for I am his wife. I hope that we shall become friends. Please sit down.’

She summoned the maid and ordered her to call for the sergeant. The old man looked at me curiously with his one eye.

‘May I venture to ask,’ he said, ‘in which regiment you have been serving?’

I satisfied his curiosity.

‘And may I ask,’ he continued, ‘why you have transferred from the Guards to this garrison?’

I replied that such was the wish of the authorities.

‘For conduct unbecoming an officer of the Guards, I expect,’ continued my tireless interrogator.

‘That’s enough of your chatter,’ the captain’s wife said to him. ‘You can see that the young man is tired after his journey; he can’t be bothered with listening to you . . . Hold your hands straighter now . . . And you, my good sir,’ she continued, turning to me, ‘you mustn’t grieve at being sent to this godforsaken place. You are not the first, and you won’t be the last. You will grow to like it after a time. Shvabrin – Alexey Ivanytch – was transferred to us five years ago for manslaughter. Heaven knows what made him do it. You see, he went out of town with a lieutenant; they both had their swords with them and soon started to prod each other, and Alexey Ivanytch stabbed the lieutenant – before a couple of witnesses at that! Well, there you are – the most learned are lible to err.’

At that moment, the sergeant, a well-built young Cossack, entered the room.

‘Maximytch,’ the captain’s wife addressed him, ‘find some quarters for this officer and make sure that they’re clean.’

‘As you say, Vassilissa Yegorovna,’ the sergeant replied. ‘Could his Honour not lodge at Ivan Polezhayev’s?’

‘Don’t talk nonsense, Maximytch,’ said the captain’s wife. ‘Polezhayev’s is crowded out as it is. Anyway, he’s a friend of mine and will remember that we are his superiors. Take the officer . . . what is your name, my dear sir?’

‘Pyotr Andreitch.’

‘Take Pyotr Andreitch to Semyon Kuzov’s. It was he, the rascal, who allowed his horse into my kitchen-garden. Well, and is everything in order, Maximytch?’

‘Everything’s all right, heaven be thanked!’ the Cossack replied. ‘Only Corporal Prokhorov had a fight in the bathhouse with Ustinya Negulina over a tub of hot water.’

‘Ivan Ignatyitch,’ said the captain’s wife to the one-eyed old man, ‘find out which of the two, Prokhorov or Ustinya, is to blame and then punish them both. Well, Maximytch, go now and may God be with you. Pyotr Andreitch, Maximytch will accompany you to your quarters.’

I bowed and took my leave. The sergeant led me to a cottage standing on the steep bank of the river at the extreme end of the fortress. One half of the cottage was occupied by the family of Semyon Kuzov, and the other half was given over for my own use. It consisted of one fairly clean room, divided into two by a partition. Savelyitch began to unpack while I stood looking out of the narrow window. The gloomy steppe stretched away before me. On one side stood a few small cottages; several chickens were wandering about in the street. An old woman, standing on the steps with a trough in her hands, was calling to some pigs, who were answering her with good-natured grunts. And this was the spot in which I was fated to spend my youth! I was overcome by dejection. I came away from the window and went to bed without any supper, in spite of the exhortations of Savelyitch, who kept repeating:

‘Good Lord above! He won’t eat anything! What will the mistress say if the child is taken ill?’

The following morning, I had only just finished dressing when the door opened and a young officer, short and with a swarthy, extremely ugly but most lively face, entered my room.

‘Forgive me,’ he said in French, ‘for coming so informally to make your acquaintance. I learned yesterday of your arrival; and the desire to see at last a new human face so overwhelmed me that I lost patience. You will understand this when you have lived here a little longer.’

I guessed that this was the officer who had been dismissed from the Guards for duelling. We quickly became acquainted. Shvabrin was certainly no fool. His conversation was sharp and entertaining. He gave me a most hilarious description of the commandant’s family and friends, and the spot to which fate had brought me. I was laughing fit to burst when the same old soldier who had been mending his uniform in the commandant’s front hall came into the room with an invitation from Vassilissa Yegorovna to dine with her and her husband. Shvabrin volunteered to go with me.

Approaching the commandant’s house, we saw on the square about twenty old soldiers with long pig-tails and three-cornered hats. They were standing to attention. Before them stood the commandant, a tall, vigorous old man in a nightcap and nankeen dressing-gown. Seeing us, he came up, said a few kind words to me, and then continued to drill his men. We were going to stop and watch, but he asked us to go and join Vassilissa Yegorovna, promising that he would follow us.

‘There’s nothing for you to see here,’ he added.

Vassilissa Ycgorovna received us simply and cordially and treated me as if she had known me all her life. The old soldier and Palashka were laying the table.

‘And what’s keeping my Ivan Kuzmitch so long at his drill today?’ said the commandant’s wife. ‘Palashka, call your master in to dinner. And where is Masha?’

At that point a girl of about eighteen entered the room; she had a round, rosy face and light-brown hair, combed smoothly away behind her ears, which had gone quite red with embarrassment. I did not take to her very much at first sight. I looked at her with prejudiced eyes: Shvabrin had described Masha, the captain’s daughter, as a perfect little fool to me. Marya Ivanovna sat down in a corner and began to sew. In the meantime, the cabbage-soup was brought in. Vassilissa Yegorovna, seeing that her husband was still absent, sent Palashka for a second time to fetch him.

‘Tell your master that the guests are waiting and that the soup will get cold. Thank heaven the drill isn’t going to run away; he’ll have plenty of time to shout himself hoarse later on.’

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

‘What’s been keeping you, my dear?’ his wife said to him. ‘The food’s been ready for an age, yet you wouldn’t come in.’

‘But I was taken up with my service duties, Vassilissa Yegorovna,’ replied Ivan Kuzmitch: ‘I was instructing my soldiers.’

‘That’ll do!’ retorted the captain’s wife. ‘It’s all a lot of chatter about your instructing the soldiers; they’re not fit for the Service and you don’t know the first thing about it either. You would do better to stay at home and pray to God. My dear guests, please take your seats at the table.’

We sat down to dinner. Vassilissa Yegorovna never stopped talking for a single moment and overwhelmed me with questions. Who were my parents? Were they alive? Where did they live, and how much were they worth? On hearing that my father had three hundred serfs, she exclaimed:

‘Fancy that now! There really are some rich people in the world! And we, my dear, have only got the one maid, Palashka; but, thank God, we live well enough. Masha is a problem though – she’s of marriageable age, but what has she got for a dowry? A fine tooth-comb, a broom and three kopecks (God forgive me!) for a visit to the bath-house. It’ll be all right if she can find a good man; if not, however, she’ll have to resign herself to being left on the shelf.’

I glanced at Marya Ivanovna; she had blushed all over, and tears were even dropping into her plate. I felt sorry for her, and hastened to change the conversation.

‘I have heard,’ I said somewhat inconsequentially, ‘that the Bashkirs are forming up for an attack on your fortress.’

‘Whom did you hear that from, sir?’ asked Ivan Kuzmitch.

‘I was told so in Orenburg,’ I replied.

‘It’s all rubbish!’ said the commandant. ‘We’ve heard nothing of them for a long time. The Bashkirs are a frightened lot now, and the Kirghiz have been taught a lesson, too. Have no fear that they’ll attack us; if they tried anything like that, I’d give them such a ticking off as would keep them quiet for the next ten years.’

‘And aren’t you frightened,’ I said, turning to the captain’s wife, ‘to remain in a fortress which is exposed to such dangers?’

‘It’s just a question of habit, my dear,’ she replied. ‘Twenty years ago, when we were transferred here from the regiment – heavens above, how terrified I was of those accursed infidels! If I happened to catch a glimpse of their lynx caps, or if I heard their shrieking – believe me, my heart would freeze! But now I have got so used to it that I wouldn’t move a fraction if someone were to tell me that the villains were prowling round the fortress.’

‘Vassilissa Yegorovna is a very brave woman,’ Shvabrin observed solemnly. ‘Ivan Kuzmitch can bear witness to that.’

‘Yes, indeed,’ said Ivan Kuzmitch, ‘my wife isn’t one of the timid sort.’

‘And Marya Ivanovna?’ I asked. ‘Is she also as brave as you?’

‘Masha brave?’ her mother replied. ‘No, Masha is a coward. Even now, she can’t bear to hear the report of a gun; it makes her tremble all over like a leaf. And when, two years ago, Ivan Kuzmitch took it into his head to fire our cannon on my name-day, the little darling nearly died of fright. Since that date we’ve never fired the accursed cannon again.’

We rose from the table. The captain and his wife went off to lie down; I went to Shvabrin’s quarters, where we spent the whole evening together.

Chapter Four

THE DUEL

Right then, take up your stance,

And you will see how I shall run your

person through!

KNYAZHNIN

Several weeks passed and my life in the Belogorsky fortress became not only endurable, but even pleasant. I was received as one of the family in the commandant’s house. Both husband and wife were most worthy people. Ivan Kuzmitch, who had risen from the ranks, was a simple, uneducated man, but extremely honest and kind. His wife ruled him, which suited his easy-going nature. Vassilissa Yegorovna looked upon the affairs of the Service in the same way as she regarded her own household duties and controlled the fortress as she did her own home. Marya Ivanovna soon ceased to be shy with me. We became friends. I found her a sensible and feeling girl. Imperceptibly, I grew attached to this kind family and even to Ivan Ignatyitch, the one-eyed garrison lieutenant, for whom Shvabrin had invented an illicit relationship with Vassilissa Yegorovna, an accusation devoid of even a vestige of truth; however, Shvabrin did not worry about that.

I received my commission. My service duties were no burden to me. In this God-protected fortress, there were neither parades, nor drill nor guard-duty. The commandant sometimes instructed the soldiers for his own amusement; but he had not yet been able to teach all of them the difference between their right and left hands, although many, so as not to make a mistake, crossed themselves at each turn. Shvabrin owned several French books. I began to read them, and a taste for literature awakened in me. In the mornings I read, practised translating, and sometimes wrote verse. I almost always dined at the commandant’s, where I usually spent the rest of the day and whither, sometimes of an evening, Father Gerassim repaired with his wife, Akulina Pamfilovna, the biggest gossip in the entire neighbourhood. Alexey Ivanytch Shvabrin, needless to say, I saw every day; his conversation, however, I found increasingly less agreeable. His incessant jokes at the expense of the commandant’s family greatly displeased me, and in particular, his sarcastic comments about Marya Ivanovna. There was no other society in the fortress, and I wished for no other.

Despite predictions, the Bashkirs did not rise. Peace reigned over our fortress. But this peace was suddenly interrupted by internal dissension.

I have already mentioned that I was occupying myself with literature. My attempts, for those days, were tolerable, and Alexandr Petrovitch Sumarokov praised them highly a few years later. One day I succeeded in writing a song which greatly satisfied me. It is well-known that authors, under pretext of seeking advice, sometimes attempt to find a benevolent listener. And so, having written my song, I took it to Shvabrin, the only person in the whole fortress with any poetical appreciation. After a few introductory words, I drew my notebook from my pocket and read him the following lines:

‘I banish thoughts of love and try

My fair one to forget;

And to be free again I fly

From Masha with regret.

‘But wheresoever I may go,

Those eyes I still do see.

My troubled soul no peace may know,

There is no rest for me.

‘Oh, when thou dost learn my torment,

Pity, Masha, oh pity me!

My cruel fate is plain to see —

I am prisoner held by thee.’

‘What do you think of it?’ I asked Shvabrin, expecting the praise I certainly felt entitled to. But to my great irritation, Shvabrin, who was usually pretty indulgent, resolutely announced that my song was bad.

‘Why?’ I asked him, concealing my annoyance.

‘Because,’ he replied, ‘such verses are of the kind my tutor, Vasily Kirilitch Tredyakovsky, would write, and remind me very much of his love couplets.’

Here he took my notebook from me and mercilessly began to tear every verse and every word to bits, sneering at me in the most sarcastic fashion. I could not stand it and, tearing my book from his hands, I told him I would never again show him my verses. Shvabrin made fun of this threat, too.

‘We’ll see,’ he said, ‘if you keep your word. Every poet needs an audience, just as Ivan Kuzmitch needs his quota of vodka before dinner. And who is this Masha, to whom you confess your tender passion and amorous grief? Not Marya Ivanovna by any chance?’

‘It’s none of your business,’ I replied, frowning, ‘who this Masha is. I ask neither for your opinion nor your conjectures.’

‘Oho, the proud poet and discreet lover!’ Shvabrin continued, irritating me more and more. ‘But listen to the advice of a friend: if you wish to succeed, don’t write songs.’

‘What do you mean, sir? Be good enough to explain yourself.’

‘With pleasure. I mean that if you wish that Masha Mironov should meet you at dusk, give her, instead of your tender verses, a pair of earrings.’

My blood boiled.

‘Why do you have such an opinion of her?’ I asked, with difficulty restraining my indignation.

‘Because,’ he replied with a devilish smile, ‘I know her nature and habits from experience.’

‘You’re lying, you scoundrel!’ I exclaimed with rage. ‘You’re lying in the most shameless fashion.’

Shvabrin’s expression changed.

‘That will not be overlooked,’ he said, gripping my hand. ‘You will give me satisfaction.’

‘Certainly. Whenever you wish,’ I replied, delighted.

At that moment I was ready to tear him to pieces.

I instantly made my way to Ivan Ignatyitch, whom I found with a needle in his hand: the commandant’s wife had charged him with the task of threading mushrooms to be dried for use in winter.

‘Ah, welcome, Pyotr Andreitch!’ he said, seeing me. ‘For what purpose has God brought you here, may I ask?’

Briefly I explained that I had had a quarrel with Alexey Ivanytch, and that I had come to ask him, Ivan Ignatyitch, to be my second. Ivan Ignatyitch listened attentively, staring at me with his single eye.

‘You mean to say,’ he said, ‘that you want to kill Alexey Ivanytch, and that you would like me to be a witness to it? Is that so, may I ask?’

‘Exactly so.’

‘Mercy on us, Pyotr Andreitch! Whatever are you thinking of? You’ve quarrelled with Alexey Ivanytch – a great misfortune! Words do no injury. He has insulted you, and you have given it to him hot. He lands you a punch on the nose, you give him a box on the ear, another, a third – and then each goes his own way and before long we make the peace between the two of you. Is it right to kill one’s fellow man, may I ask? If you were to kill Alexey Ivanytch – all right; I wouldn’t care much; I’m not too keen on him myself. But what if he were to run you through? What then? Who would be the loser then, may I ask?’

The logic of the sensible lieutenant had no effect on me. I held to my intention.

‘As you wish,’ said Ivan Ignatyitch. ‘Do as you like. But why should I be a witness to it? To what purpose? People fight, but what’s so wonderful about that, may I ask? Heaven be thanked, I’ve fought against the Swedes and the Turks, and I have seen enough fighting!’

I tried to explain to him as best I could the duties of a second, but Ivan Ignatyitch could not understand me at all.

‘Do as you wish,’ he said, ‘but if I am to be involved in this affair, it will be to go to Ivan Kuzmitch and report to him, as is my duty, that a crime against the interests of the State is being plotted within the fortress, and to ask him to take the necessary measures . . .’

I became alarmed and besought Ivan Ignatyitch not to say anything about it to the commandant. I persuaded him with difficulty; he gave me his word, and I gave up the idea of seeking his active assistance.

As usual, I spent the evening at the commandant’s house. I tried to appear gay and indifferent, so as not to arouse suspicion and to avoid a lot of troublesome questions; but I confess that I did not share that coolness which people in my position almost always boast about. That evening I felt disposed to be tender and emotional. I found Marya Ivanovna more than usually attractive. The thought that perhaps I was seeing her for the last time endowed her, in my eyes, with something rather touching. Shvabrin was there too. I took him aside and informed him of my conversation with Ivan Ignatyitch.

‘Why should we have seconds?’ he said drily. ‘We can do without them.’

We agreed to fight behind the haystacks near the fortress, and to be there by seven o’clock the next morning. We appeared to be conversing together in such a friendly fashion that Ivan Ignatyitch nearly let the cat out of the bag in his joy.

‘You should have arrived at that long ago,’ he said to me with a satisfied expression. ‘A bad peace is better than a good quarrel, and an unscarred body more important than honour.’

‘What’s that, Ivan Ignatyitch?’ said the commandant’s wife, who was sitting in the corner, telling her fortune by the cards. ‘What’s that? I did not hear you.’

Ivan Ignatyitch, noting my signs of displeasure and remembering his promise, grew confused and did not know how to reply. Shvabrin came to his rescue.

‘Ivan Ignatyitch,’ he said, ‘approves our reconciliation.’

‘And with whom have you been quarrelling, my dear?’

‘I had a quite serious row with Pyotr Andreitch.’

‘What about?’

‘The merest trifle – about a song, Vassilissa Yegorovna.’

‘What a thing to quarrel about – a song! How did it happen?’

‘In this way: not long ago Pyotr Andreitch composed a song and, while he was singing it to me today, I struck up with my favourite ditty:

‘Captain’s daughter, oh captain’s daughter,

Walk not out at the midnight hour.’

‘Discord arose. Pyotr Andreitch became angry, but then considered that everyone is free to sing what he likes, and there the matter ended.’

Shvabrin’s brazenness nearly sent me out of my mind with fury; nobody but myself, however, understood his coarse insinuations – at any rate, nobody paid any attention to them. From songs the conversation turned to poets, and the commandant observed that they were all utterly dissolute and terrible drunkards, and advised me, as a friend, to give up writing verse, since such activities did not go with service life and led to nothing but bad.

Shvabrin’s presence was intolerable to me. I soon took leave of the commandant and his family. When I got home, I examined my sword, tested its point and went to bed after giving Savelyitch instructions to wake me soon after six o’clock.

At the appointed hour on the following morning, I stood behind the haystacks awaiting my adversary. He soon appeared.

‘We may be disturbed,’ he said to me, ‘so we’ll have to be quick.’

We took off our uniforms and, wearing our waistcoats only, we drew our swords. At that moment Ivan Ignatyitch, with about five old soldiers, suddenly appeared from behind a haystack. He summoned us to the commandant. Unwillingly, we obeyed him. The soldiers surrounded us and we set off for the fortress, following after Ivan Ignatyitch who, walking with extreme importance, led us in triumph.

We entered the commandant’s house. Ivan Ignatyitch opened the door, and announced triumphantly:

‘Here they are!’

Vassilissa Yegorovna met us.

‘Ah, my good men! Now what’s all this about? How? What? You planned to commit murder in our fortress? Ivan Kuzmitch, place them under arrest immediately! Pyotr Andreitch, Alexey Ivanytch, surrender your swords this instant! Hand them over now, hand them over! Palashka, take these swords into the lumber-room. Pyotr Andreitch, I did not expect this of you! Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? It’s all right for Alexey Ivanytch – he was expelled from the Guards for killing a man and he does not believe in God. But you? Do you wish to follow in his footsteps?’

Ivan Kuzmitch agreed fully with everything his wife said, and kept saying:

‘Yes, indeed, Vassilissa Yegorovna is speaking the truth. Duels are expressly forbidden by the regulations.’

In the meantime, Palashka took our swords and carried them off to the lumber-room. I could not help bursting into laughter. Shvabrin preserved his solemnity.

‘With all due respect to you,’ he said to her coldly, ‘I cannot but observe that you cause yourself unnecessary trouble in setting yourself up as our judge. Leave it to Ivan Kuzmitch – it is his affair.’

‘Ah, my good sir,’ retorted the commandant’s wife, ‘are not husband and wife one in spirit and flesh? Ivan Kuzmitch, what are you gaping at? Have them separated at once and placed under arrest on bread and water until they’ve regained their proper senses. Then let Father Gerassim impose a penance on them, that they may pray to God for forgiveness and repent before all men.’

Ivan Kuzmitch did not know what to do. Marya Ivanovna was extremely pale. Little by little the storm abated; the commandant’s wife calmed down and forced us to embrace one another. Palashka brought us back our swords. We left the commandant’s house apparently reconciled. Ivan Ignatyitch accompanied us.

‘Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?’ I asked angrily. ‘Reporting us to the commandant after giving your word that you wouldn’t?’

‘As God is holy, I didn’t say a word of it to Ivan Kuzmitch!’ he replied. ‘Vassilissa Yegorovna wormed it out of me. She arranged everything without the commandant knowing. Anyway, heaven be thanked that it’s ended as it has!’

With these words he turned for home, and Shvabrin and I were left alone.

‘Our affair cannot end here,’ I said to him.

‘Of course not,’ replied Shvabrin. ‘You will have to answer with your blood for your insolence, but they’ll probably be keeping an eye on us. We will have to dissemble for a few days. Goodbye.’

And we parted as if nothing had happened.

Returning to the commandant’s house, I sat down, as usual, near Marya Ivanovna. Ivan Kuzmitch was not at home. Vassilissa Yegorovna was occupied with household affairs. We conversed in an undertone. Marya Ivanovna reproached me tenderly for the anxiety my quarrel with Shvabrin had caused them all.

‘I nearly fainted,’ she said, ‘when I heard that you intended to fight with swords. How strange men are! For a single word, which they would probably forget in a week, they are ready to murder each other and sacrifice not only their lives but their consciences, and the happiness of those who . . . But I am sure that you were not the cause of the quarrel. Alexey Ivanytch was doubtless to blame.’

‘And why do you think that, Marya Ivanovna?’

‘Because . . . because he is so sarcastic. I do not like Alexey Ivanytch. I find him very repulsive, and yet, strangely enough, not for anything would I have him dislike me. It would worry me dreadfully.’

‘And what do you think, Marya Ivanovna? Does he like you or not?’

Marya Ivanovna stammered and blushed.

‘It seems to me . . .’ she said, ‘. . . I think he does like me.’

‘Why do you think that?’

‘Because he asked me to marry him.’

‘Marry! He asked you to marry him! When?’

‘Last year. Two months before you arrived.’

‘And you refused?’

‘As you can see. Alexey Ivanytch, of course, is an intelligent man, of good family and rich; but when I think that I should have to kiss him beneath the crown before everyone . . . no, not for anything!’

Marya Ivanovna’s words opened my eyes and explained many things to me. I now understood the persistent calumny with which Shvabrin pursued her. He had probably noticed our mutual attraction and had tried to turn us against each other. The words which had brought about our quarrel seemed all the more base to me when I recognised that they were not coarse, indecent mockery, but premeditated slander. My desire to chastise the insolent traducer became yet stronger within me, and I impatiently awaited a favourable opportunity to do so.

I did not have to wait long. The next day, as I sat composing an elegy and biting my pen in search of a rhyme, Shvabrin tapped at my window. I put my pen down, took up my sword and went out to him.

‘Why delay any further?’ Shvabrin said to me. ‘Nobody’s watching us. Let’s go down to the river. We won’t be disturbed there.’

We set off in silence. Stepping down a winding path, we stopped at the edge of the river and drew our swords. Shvabrin was more skilful than I, but I was stronger and more daring, and Monsieur Beaupré, who had once been a soldier, had given me several lessons in fencing, which I turned to good account. Shvabrin had not expected to find in me so dangerous an opponent. For a long time neither gave the other the opportunity to do any injury; at length, noticing that Shvabrin was weakening, I began to bear down upon him vigorously and almost forced him into the river itself. Suddenly I heard my name being loudly called. I glanced round and saw Savelyitch running down the steep path towards me . . . At that same moment, I felt a sharp jab in my chest, just beneath my right shoulder. I fell and lost consciousness.

Chapter Five

LOVE

Ah, you maiden, pretty maiden!

Do not marry while you are yet so young;

You must ask your father, ask your mother;

Father, mother and all your kin;

Gather, maiden, wisdom and intelligence;

Wisdom and intelligence: these shall be your dowry.

FOLK SONG

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

Worse than me, and you’ll remember.

FOLK SONG

On recovering consciousness, I was unable for some time to collect my senses or understand what had happened to me. I was lying in bed in a strange room and felt extremely weak. Savelyitch was standing before me with a candle in his hand. Somebody was carefully unwinding the bandages which had been bound round my chest and shoulders. Gradually my thoughts cleared. I remembered the duel and guessed that I had been wounded. At that moment the door creaked.

‘Well, how is he?’ whispered a voice which sent a tremor through my body.

‘Still in the same condition,’ replied Savelyitch with a sigh.

‘Still unconscious, and this is the fifth day now.’

I tried to turn my head but could not.

‘Where am I? Who’s there?’ I said with an effort.

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

‘Well, and how are you feeling?’ she said.

‘Heaven be thanked!’ I replied in a weak voice. ‘Is that you, Marya Ivanovna? Tell me . . .’

I had not the strength to continue and fell silent. Savelyitch gave a cry and his face lit up with joy.

‘He has come to himself, he has come to himself!’ he repeated. ‘Thanks be to Thee, good Lord! Well, Pyotr Andreitch, my dear, what a fright you gave me! It was no joke – five whole days!’

Marya Ivanovna interrupted him.

‘Don’t talk to him too much, Savelyitch,’ she said. ‘He’s still weak.’

She went out and closed the door softly behind her. My thoughts were in a turmoil. So I was in the commandant’s house: Marya Ivanovna had been in to see me. I wanted to ask Savelyitch some questions, but the old man shook his head and stopped up his ears. Vexed, I closed my eyes and soon fell asleep.

When I awoke, I called Savelyitch, but, instead of him, I saw Marya Ivanovna standing before me. She greeted me in her angelic voice. I cannot describe the delightful sensation which took hold of me at that moment. I seized her hand and pressed it to me, watering it with tears of emotion. Masha did not withdraw it . . . and suddenly her lips touched my cheek and I felt their hot, fresh kiss. A surge of fire ran through me.

‘Dear, good Marya Ivanovna,’ I said to her, ‘be my wife, consent to make me happy.’

She regained her composure.

‘For Heaven’s sake, keep calm,’ she said, removing her hand from mine. ‘You’re not out of danger yet: your wound may reopen. Look after yourself, if only for my sake.’

With these words she left, leaving me in an ecstasy of bliss. Happiness revived me. She will be mine! She loves me! This thought filled my entire being.

From that moment I grew hourly better. The regimental barber – there was no other doctor in the fortress – treated my wound and, thank heaven, he did not try to be too clever. Youth and nature accelerated my recovery. I was nursed by the commandant’s whole family. Marya Ivanovna never left my side. It goes without saying that, at the first favourable opportunity, I took up my interrupted declaration of love, and Marya Ivanovna listened to me with greater patience. Without any affectation she confessed her attachment to me, and said that her parents would undoubtedly be pleased at her happiness.

‘But think it over well,’ she added: ‘won’t there be some opposition on the part of your parents?’

I considered the matter. Of my mother’s affection I had no doubts but, knowing my father’s nature and way of thinking, I felt that my love would not move him very much and that he would regard it as a young man’s fancy. I candidly confessed this to Marya Ivanovna but resolved, all the same, to write to my father as eloquently as I could and implore his paternal blessing. I showed the letter to Marya Ivanovna, who found it so convincing and moving that she had no doubts as to its success and abandoned herself to the feelings of her tender heart with all the confidence of youth and love.

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

‘Well, I should really put you under arrest, Pyotr Andreitch, but you have been punished enough already without that. Alexey Ivanytch, however, I have placed under guard in the granary, and Vassilissa Yegorovna has got his sword under lock and key. It’ll give him time to think it over and repent.’

I was too happy to cherish any feelings of hostility in my heart. I began to intercede for Shvabrin, and the good commandant agreed with his wife in deciding to set him free. Shvabrin called on me; he expressed deep regret for what had happened between us, confessed that he was entirely to blame and besought me to forget the past. Not being a resentful person by nature, I sincerely forgave him for the quarrel, and the wound I had received at his hands. I attributed his calumny to the vexation of wounded vanity and slighted love and magnanimously pardoned my unhappy rival.

I was soon well again and able to return to my own quarters. I impatiently awaited an answer to my letter, not daring to hope and trying to suppress my sad forebodings. I had not yet mentioned the matter to Vassilissa Yegorovna and her husband; my proposal, however, would come as no surprise to them. Neither I nor Marya Ivanovna made any attempt to conceal our feelings from them, and we felt certain of their consent beforehand.

At last one morning Savelyitch came into my room with a letter in his hand. I seized it with trembling fingers. The address was written in my father’s hand. This prepared me for something important since it was usually my mother who wrote to me, he merely adding a few lines at the end.

For a long time I could not unseal the packet, but kept on reading the solemn superscription:

‘To my son, Pyotr Andreyevitch Grinev,

The Belogorsky Fortress,

The Province of Orenburg.’

I attempted to divine from the handwriting the mood in which the letter had been written. At last I resolved to open it and saw from the first few lines that all my hopes were lost. The letter read as follows:

‘My son Pyotr,

‘your letter, in which you ask us for our parental blessing and consent to your marriage with Marya Ivanovna, Mironov’s daughter, reached us on the 15th of this month, and not only do I not intend to give you either my blessing or consent, but I propose to come and teach you a lesson for your pranks, as I would a small boy, in spite of your officer’s rank; for you have shown that you are not yet worthy to carry the sword, entrusted to you for the defence of our native country and not for the purpose of fighting duels with other madcaps like yourself. I shall write instantly to Andrey Karlovitch, asking him to transfer you from the Belogorsky fortress to some place further away, where you will be cured of your folly. Your mother, on hearing the news of your duel and that you have been wounded, fell ill with grief and now lies in bed. What will become of you? I pray God that you will mend your ways, although I do not dare to hope in His great mercy.

‘Your father, A.G.’

The reading of this letter aroused various feelings within me. The harsh expressions so unsparingly used by my father wounded me deeply. The disdain with which he referred to Marya Ivanovna seemed to me to be as unbecoming as it was unjust. The thought of my being transferred from the Belogorsky fortress appalled me, but the thing that grieved me most of all was the news of my mother’s illness. I felt indignant with Savelyitch and had no doubt that it was he who had told my parents of my duel. After pacing up and down my narrow room, I stopped in front of him and said with a menacing look:

‘It seems that you are not content that, thanks to you, I should be wounded and at death’s door for a whole month; you wish to kill my mother as well.’

Savelyitch looked thunderstruck.

‘In heaven’s name, master,’ he said, ‘what do you mean? My fault that you were wounded? As God is my witness, I was running to shield you with my own chest from Alexey Ivanytch’s sword! It was my age – curse it – that prevented me! But what have I done to your mother?’

‘What have you done?’ I replied. ‘Who asked you to write back and inform against me? Have you been placed here to spy on me?’

‘I wrote back and informed against you?’ Savelyitch replied tearfully. ‘Heavenly Father! Be pleased to read what my master has written to me: then you will see how I informed against you.’

He drew a letter from his pocket and I read the following:

‘You should be ashamed of yourself, you old dog, for ignoring my strict instructions that you should write to me about my son, Pyotr Andreyevitch, and for leaving it to strangers to tell me of his pranks. Is this how you fulfil your duty and the will of your master? I will send you to tend pigs, you old dog, for concealing the truth and indulging the young man. On receipt of this, I order you to write back to me instantly and inform me of the present state of his health which, I am told, is better; also of the exact place of his wound and whether he has been properly looked after.’

It was clear that Savelyitch was completely innocent and that I had been wrong to insult him with my reproaches and suspicions. I asked his forgiveness, but the old man was inconsolable.

‘That I should have lived to see this!’ he kept on repeating. ‘These are the thanks I receive from my masters! I am an old dog, and a swineherd and the cause of your wound as well! No, my dear Pyotr Andreitch, it is not I, but that accursed “Monsoo” who is to blame: it was he who taught you to thrust with those iron spits and to stamp your feet, as if by thrusting and stamping you could protect yourself from a wicked man! And we had to take on that “Monsoo” and throw good money down the drain!’

But who was it then who had taken it upon himself to inform my father of my behaviour? The general? But he had shown extremely little interest in me, and Ivan Kuzmitch had not considered it necessary to report my duel to him. I was lost in conjectures. My suspicions finally rested on Shvabrin. He alone would profit by the denunciation, the consequence of which could be my removal from the fortress and my separation from the commandant’s family. I went off to tell Marya Ivanovna everything. She met me on the steps.

‘What’s happened to you?’ she said when she saw me. ‘How pale you are!’

‘It’s all over,’ I replied, and I handed her my father’s letter.

She in turn grew pale. Having read the letter, she returned it to me with a trembling hand and said in an unsteady voice:

‘It was clearly not for me . . . Your parents do not want me in your family. In all things may God’s will be done! God knows better than we what is good for US. There’s nothing to be done, Pyotr Andreitch; may you at any rate be happy . . .’

‘This is not to be!’ I cried, seizing her hand. ‘You love me; I am prepared for anything. Let us go and throw ourselves at your parents’ feet; they are simple people, not hard-hearted and proud . . . They will give us their blessing; we will be married . . . And then, in time, I’m sure we’ll gain my father’s approval; my mother will be on our side; he will forgive me . . .’

‘No, Pyotr Andreitch,’ Masha replied. ‘I will not marry you without your parents’ blessing. Without it you would never be happy. Let us submit to the will of God. If you find the one destined for you, if you grow to love another – God be with you, Pyotr Andreitch; I will pray for you both . . .’

She burst into tears and left me. I wanted to follow her into her room, but I felt in no condition to control myself and thus returned home.

I was sitting in my room, plunged in deep thought, when Savelyitch suddenly interrupted my reflections.

‘Here, master,’ he said, handing me a written sheet of paper. ‘See whether I am here to inform against my master, or to try to stir up trouble between father and son.’

I took the paper from his hand: it was Savelyitch’s answer to the letter he had received. Here it is, word for word:

‘Dear Sir, Andrey Petrovitch, our gracious father!

‘I have received your gracious letter in which you are pleased to be angry with me, your servant, telling me that I should be ashamed of myself for not fulfilling my master’s orders; but I am not an old dog but your faithful servant, and I do obey my master’s orders, and I have always served you zealously to my grey hairs. I did not write to you about Pyotr Andreitch’s wound, because I did not wish to alarm you for no reason, and I hear that the mistress, our mother Avdotya Vassilyevna took to her bed with fright and I will pray to God for her recovery. Pyotr Andreitch was wounded under the right shoulder, in the chest, immediately beneath the bone to the depth of one and a half vershoks, and he was put to bed in the commandant’s house whither we carried him from the river-bank, and the local barber, Stepan Paramonov, treated him; and now, Pyotr Andreitch, thank God, is well, and I have nothing but good to write about him. I have heard that his superior officers are satisfied with him; and Vassilissa Yegorovna treats him as if he were her own son. And as for the incident that happened to him, the young man should not be reproached: a horse has four legs and yet it stumbles. It also pleased you to write that you will send me to tend pigs; be that your masters will. Herewith I humbly bow before you.

‘Your faithful serf, Arkhip Savelyev’

I could not help smiling occasionally as I read the good old man’s letter. I was in no condition to write an answer to my father, and Savelyitch’s letter seemed sufficient to calm my mother’s fears.

From that time my position changed. Marya Ivanovna scarcely ever spoke to me and in every way tried to avoid me. The commandant’s house became hateful to me. I gradually grew accustomed to sitting by myself at home. Vassilissa Yegorovna reproached me for this at first but, noticing my obstinacy, she left me in peace. I only saw Ivan Kuzmitch when the Service demanded it. I rarely met Shvabrin, and then unwillingly, the more so since I noticed his veiled antipathy towards me, which confirmed me in my suspicions. My life became intolerable. I fell into a State of gloomy brooding, which was fed by loneliness and inaction. My love grew stronger in solitude and became more and more oppressive to me. I lost the desire for reading and literature. My spirits sank. I feared that I would either go out of my mind or give way to dissipation. Unexpected events, which were to have an important influence on my whole life, suddenly gave my soul a powerful and salutary shock.

Chapter Six

THE PUGACHEV RISING

Listen then, my young lads,

To what we, the old ones, will tell you.

SONG

Before proceeding to a description of the strange events of which I was a witness, I must say a few words concerning the situation in the province of Orenburg at the end of the year 1773.

This vast and rich province was inhabited by a number of half-savage peoples, who had but recently acknowledged the sovereignty of the Russian Tsars. Their continual risings, their unfamiliarity with laws and civic life, their thoughtlessness and cruelty demanded ceaseless vigilance on the part of the Government to keep them in subjection. Fortresses had been erected in suitable places and were garrisoned to a large extent by Cossacks, who had long since held possession of the banks of the Yaik. But these Yaikian Cossacks, whose duty it was to preserve peace and watch over the security of the district, had for some time themselves been a source of anxiety and danger to the Government. In 1772 an insurrection broke out in their principal township. It was caused by the stern measures taken by Major-General Traubenberg to enforce dutiful obedience from the troops. The outcome was the barbarous murder of Traubenberg, self-appointed changes in the administration and, eventually, the suppression of the revolt by cannon-shot and cruel punishments.

This occurred a short while before my arrival at the Belogorsky fortress. All was now quiet, or so it seemed: the authorities had too readily believed in the pretended repentance of the cunning rebels, who bore their malice in secret, and only awaited a suitable opportunity for a renewal of the disorders.

I will now return to my story.

One evening (it was at the beginning of October in the year 1773) I was sitting alone at home, listening to the howling of the autumn wind and staring out of the window at the clouds which raced past the moon. Someone arrived to tell me that I was wanted at the commandant’s. I set off immediately for his house. There I found Shvabrin, Ivan Ignatyitch and the Cossack sergeant. Neither Vassilissa Yegorovna nor Marya Ivanovna were in the room. The commandant greeted me with an air of preoccupation. He closed the door, made us all sit down with the exception of the sergeant who was standing by the door and, drawing a paper from his pocket, he said to us:

‘Gentlemen, I have important news! Listen to what the general writes.’

He then put on his spectacles and read out the following:

‘To the Commandant of the Belogorsky Fortress,

Captain Mironov

CONFIDENTIAL

‘I hereby inform you that the fugitive and dissident Don Cossack, Yemelyan Pugachev, having committed the unpardonable insolence of assuming the name of the deceased Emperor Peter III, has collected a band of evilly-disposed persons, has excited a revolt in the Yaikian settlements, and has already taken and destroyed several fortresses, looting and murdering on every side. Therefore, on receipt of this, you, Captain, will at once take the necessary measures to repel the above-mentioned villain and pretender, and if possible, to annihilate him totally, should he attack the fortress entrusted to your care.’

‘Take the necessary measures!’ said the commandant, removing his spectacles and folding up the paper. ‘As you know, it’s easy enough to say. This villain is apparently powerful; and we have only got one hundred and thirty men in all, not counting the Cossacks, upon whom we can place little reliance — don’t take that as a reproach, Maximytch.’ (The sergeant smiled.) ‘Still, we must do the best we can, gentlemen. Ensure that we are prepared and establish guard-duty and night patrols. In the event of an attack, close the gates and assemble the soldiers. You, Maximytch, keep a sharp eye on your Cossacks. Have the cannon inspected and thoroughly cleaned. Most important of all, keep all that I have told you to yourselves, so that nobody in the fortress knows about it beforehand.’

Having given these orders, Ivan Kuzmitch dismissed us. I walked away with Shvabrin, reflecting upon what we had heard.

‘How do you think it’ll end?’ I asked him.

‘God knows,’ he replied. ‘We shall see. At this stage I see nothing to be alarmed about. If, however . . .’

He then became thoughtful and began absent-mindedly to whistle a French air.

In spite of all our precautions, news of the appearance of Pugachev soon spread through the fortress. Ivan Kuzmitch, while having the greatest respect for his wife, would not for anything in the world have confided in her a secret entrusted to him in connection with the Service. On receipt of the general’s letter, he managed fairly skilfully to get Vassilissa Yegorovna out of the way by telling her that Father Gerassim had received some remarkable news from Orenburg, which he was keeping as a great secret. Vassilissa Yegorovna immediately resolved to call on the priest’s wife and, on the advice of Ivan Kuzmitch, took Masha with her, lest she should feel bored on her own.

Ivan Kuzmitch, in sole occupation of the house, had instantly sent for us, after locking Palashka in the lumber-room to prevent her from overhearing us.

Vassilissa Yegorovna returned home, without having succeeded in getting anything out of the priest’s wife, and learned that Ivan Kuzmitch had held a council during her absence, and that Palashka had been under lock and key. She guessed that her husband had deceived her and immediately set about interrogating him. But Ivan Kuzmitch had prepared himself for the onslaught. Not in the least confused, he replied decisively to his inquisitive consort:

‘You see, my dear, the women hereabouts have taken it into their heads to heat their stoves with straw, and since some misfortune might result from this, I have given strict instructions that from now on the women are not to heat their stoves with straw, but should use dry branches and brushwood instead.’

‘But why did you have to lock up Palashka then?’ asked the commandant’s wife. ‘Why did the poor girl have to sit in the lumber-room until we returned?’

Ivan Kuzmitch was not prepared for such a question; he became confused and muttered something incoherently. Vassilissa Yegorovna perceived her husband’s artfulness but, knowing that she would get nothing out of him, she ceased her questioning and changed the conversation to the pickled cucumbers Akulina Pamfilovna had prepared in some very special way. Vassilissa Yegorovna could not sleep a wink all that night, unable to guess what was in her husband’s mind that she should not be allowed to know.

Returning from mass the following day, she saw Ivan Ignatyitch pulling from the cannon bits of rag, small stones, wood-chips, knuckle-bones and rubbish of every sort which had been stuffed into it by the children.

‘What can these military preparations mean?’ thought the commandant’s wife. ‘Can it be that they’re expecting an attack from the Kirghiz? Surely Ivan Kuzmitch would not hide such trifles from me?’

She called Ivan Ignatyitch with the firm intention of discovering from him the secret which tormented her feminine curiosity.

Vassilissa Yegorovna made a few observations concerning her household affairs to him, like a judge who begins an investigation with irrelevant questions so as to put the defendant off his guard from the start. Then, after a pause of a few minutes, she sighed deeply, and said, shaking her head:

‘Oh, good Lord, what news ! What will be the end of it?’

‘Oh well, ma’am,’ answered Ivan Ignatyitch, ‘God is merciful: we have soldiers enough, plenty of powder, and I have cleaned out the cannon. Perhaps we’ll manage to repulse Pugachev. Whom God helps nobody can harm.’

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

At this point Ivan Ignatyitch perceived that he had said too much and bit his tongue. But it was too late. Vassilissa Yegorovna forced him to tell her everything, after giving him her word that she would not say a word of it to anyone.

Vassilissa Yegorovna kept her promise and said not a word of it to anyone except the priest’s wife, and that merely because her cow was still grazing in the steppe and might be seized by the villains.

Soon everybody was talking about Pugachev. The rumours about him varied. The commandant sent his sergeant to glean as much as he could from the neighbouring villages and fortresses. The sergeant returned after a couple of days and announced that he had seen a number of fires in the steppe about sixty versts from the fortress, and that he had heard from the Bashkirs that an unknown force was on its way. Beyond that he could say nothing positive since he had been afraid to go further.

Signs of unusual agitation became apparent among the Cossacks in the fortress; they crowded together in little groups in all the streets, conversing quietly among themselves and dispersing at the sight of a dragoon or a garrison soldier. Spies were sent among them. Yulay, a Kalmuck converted to Christianity, reported some important information to the commandant. The sergeant’s evidence, according to Yulay, was false; on his return, the treacherous Cossack had announced to his comrades that he had been among the rebels and had presented himself to their leader, who had permitted him to kiss his hand and with whom he had conversed for a long time. The commandant immediately arrested the sergeant and appointed Yulay in his place. This change was received by the Cossacks with manifest displeasure. They murmured loudly and Ivan Ignatyitch, who saw to it that the commandant’s instructions were carried out, with his own ears heard them say:

‘You’ll have it coming to you later, you garrison rat!’

The commandant had intended interrogating his prisoner that same day; but the sergeant had escaped guard, doubtless with the help of his partisans.

A new circumstance served to increase the commandant’s anxiety. A Bashkir was caught carrying seditious letters. On this occasion, the commandant again decided to assemble his officers, and for this purpose he again wished to send Vassilissa Yegorovna away under some plausible pretext. But since Ivan Kuzmitch was a most upright and truthful man, he could think of no other method than that which he had employed on the previous occasion.

‘Listen, Vassilissa Yegorovna,’ he said to her with a slight cough. ‘They say that Father Gerassim has received from the town . . .’

‘Enough of that, Ivan Kuzmitch!’ the commandant’s wife interrupted him. ‘It’s clear that you propose to assemble a council of war to discuss Yemelyan Pugachev without me. You can’t fool me!’

Ivan Kuzmitch stared at her.

‘Well, my dear,’ he said, ‘if you know everything already, you may as well stay. We’ll talk in front of you.’

‘You shouldn’t try to be so cunning, my dear,’ she replied. ‘Call for the officers.’

We assembled again. In the presence of his wife, Ivan Kuzmitch read to us Pugachev’s proclamation, which had been written by some illiterate Cossack. The outlaw announced his intention of marching at once against our fortress; he invited the Cossacks and the soldiers to join his band and exhorted the commanders to offer no resistance, threatening execution if they did so. The proclamation was written in coarse but powerful language and must have had a dangerous influence on the minds of simple people.

‘What an impostor!’ exclaimed the commandant’s wife.

‘That he should dare to make such a proposal to us! To go out and meet him and lay our flags at his feet! Ah, the son of a dog! Surely he knows that we’ve been forty years in the Service and that, thanks to God, we’ve seen a thing or two in that time! Surely no commanders have listened to the brigand?’

‘I shouldn’t have thought so,’ Ivan Kuzmitch replied. ‘But I’ve heard that the villain has already taken many fortresses.’

‘It certainly seems that he is powerful, then,’ observed Shvabrin.

‘We shall soon know his real strength,’ said the commandant. ‘Vassilissa Yegorovna, give me the key to the storehouse. Ivan Ignatyitch, go and bring the Bashkir here, and tell Yulay to fetch the whip.’

‘Wait, Ivan Kuzmitch,’ said the commandant’s wife, rising from the seat. ‘Let me take Masha somewhere out of the house, otherwise she’ll hear the screaming and be terrified. And, to tell you the truth, I’m not keen on being a witness to the torturing myself. Good-bye for the present.’

In the old days, torture was so rooted in our judicial system that the beneficent edict ordering its abolition remained for a long time unheeded. It was thought that the criminal’s own confession was indispensable for his full conviction — a thought not only illogical, but even totally opposed to sound juridical thinking: for, if the denial of the accused person is not accepted as proof of his innocence, his confession still less should be accepted as proof of his guilt. Even nowadays I sometimes hear old judges regretting the abolition of this barbarous custom. But in those days, nobody, neither the judge nor the accused, doubted the necessity of torture. Thus, the commandant’s order caused no alarm or astonishment to any of us. Ivan Ignatyitch went off to fetch the Bashkir, who was under lock and key in the commandant’s wife’s storehouse, and a few minutes later the prisoner was led into the hall. The commandant ordered him to be brought before him.

The Bashkir stepped across the threshold with difficulty (a block of wood, in the form of stocks, had been attached to his feet) and, removing his tall cap, he stopped by the door. I looked up at him and shuddered. Never will I forget that man. He seemed to be over seventy. He had neither nose nor ears. His head was shaved; instead of a beard, a few grey hairs sprouted from his chin; he was small, thin and bent; however, his narrow little eyes still flashed fire.

‘Aha!’ said the commandant, recognising by these terrible signs one of the rebels punished in the year 1741. ‘It seems you’re an old wolf and have fallen into our traps before. With your nut so smoothly planed, it’s apparently not the first time you’ve rebelled. Come nearer; tell me who sent you.’

The old Bashkir was silent and looked at the commandant with an utterly vacant expression.

‘Why don’t you answer?’ continued I van Kuzmitch, ‘Or don’t you understand the Russian language? Yulay, ask him in your own tongue who sent him to our fortress.’

Yulay repeated Ivan Kuzmitch’s question in Tartar. But the Bashkir looked at him with the same expression and answered not a word.

‘All right, then,’ said the commandant. ‘I will make you answer my question. Right, lads, take off that ridiculous striped gown of his and stroke his back for him. Yulay, see to it that it’s properly done!’

Two old soldiers began to undress the Bashkir. The unfortunate man’s face expressed anxiety. He looked all around him like a small wild animal caught by children. When one of the old soldiers seized his hands to twine them round his neck, and lifted the old man on to his shoulders, and when Yulay took up the whip and began to brandish it, the Bashkir uttered a weak, imploring groan and, nodding his head, he opened his mouth, in which, in place of a tongue, moved a short stump.

When I reflect that this happened during my lifetime, and that I now live under the mild reign of Emperor Alexander, I cannot help but feel amazed at the rapid progress of civilisation and the spread of the laws of humanity. Young man, if these lines of mine should ever fall into your hands, remember that those changes which come as a result of moral improvements are better and more durable than any which are the outcome of violent events.

We were all horror-stricken.

‘Well,’ said the commandant, ‘it’s evident that we won’t get anything out of him. Yulay, take the Bashkir back to the storehouse. And we, gentlemen, have further matters to discuss.’

We were beginning to consider our situation when Vassilissa Yegorovna suddenly burst into the room, out of breath and with an expression of extreme alarm.

‘What’s happened to you?’ asked the astonished commandant

‘Very bad news, my dear!’ answered Vassilissa Yegorovna. ‘Nizhneozerny was captured this morning. Father Gerassim’s servant has just got back from there. He saw it being taken. The commandant and all the officers were hanged. All the soldiers were taken prisoner. The villains will be here at any moment.’

This unexpected news came as a great shock to me. The commandant of the Nizhneozerny fortress, a quiet and modest young man, was known to me; a month or two before, he and his young wife had stayed with Ivan Kuzmitch while on their way from Orenburg. Nizhneozerny was about twenty-five versts away from our fortress. We had therefore to expect an attack from Pugachev at any moment. The fate in Store for Marya Ivanovna came vividly to my mind, and my heart sank within me.

‘Listen, Ivan Kuzmitch,’ I said to the commandant. ‘Our duty is to defend the fortress to the last breath; of that no more need be said. But we must consider the safety of the women. Send them to Orenburg, if the road is still free, or to some safer, more distant fortress out of reach of the villains.’

Ivan Kuzmitch turned to his wife and said to her:

‘Indeed, my dear, don’t you feel that you should go away until we’ve settled with the rebels?’

‘Nonsense!’ said the commandant’s wife. ‘Name a fortress safe from bullets. What’s wrong with Belogorsky? Thanks to God, we’ve lived here for twenty-two years. We’ve seen off the Bashkirs and the Kirghiz: I dare say we’ll manage to hold out against Pugachev!’

‘Well, my dear,’ replied Ivan Kuzmitch, ‘stay if you like, if you have confidence in our fortress. But what shall we do with Masha? It’ll be all right if we can successfully resist the enemy or hold out until help comes, but what if the villains capture the fortress?’

‘Well, then . . .’

And Vassilissa Yegorovna began to stutter and fell silent, with an expression of extreme agitation on her face.

‘No, Vassilissa Yegorovna,’ continued the commandant, observing that his words had produced an effect upon her, possibly for the first time in his life. ‘It won’t do for Masha to stay here. Let us send her to Orenburg, to her godmother; there are plenty of soldiers and cannons there and the walls are made of stone. And I would advise you to go there with her; although you’re an old woman, consider what would happen to you if the fortress were taken.’

‘All right,’ said the commandant’s wife, ‘so be it: we’ll send Masha away. But don’t dream of asking me: I won’t go. Nothing would make me part with you in my old age, to go and seek a lonely grave in a strange corner of the world. We have lived together, we will die together.’

‘That’s reasonable enough,’ said the commandant. ‘But we must hurry. Go and get Masha ready for the journey. We’ll send her off before dawn to-morrow, and we’ll give her an escort, even though we have no men to spare. But where is Masha?’

‘At Akulina Pamfilovna’s,’ replied the commandant’s wife. ‘She fainted when she heard of the capture of Nizhneozerny; I fear she might fall ill. Heavens above, to have lived for this!’

Vassilissa Yegorovna went off to prepare her daughter’s departure. We continued with our discussions. However, I no longer took any part in them, and did not listen to what was said. Marya Ivanovna appeared at supper, pale and tear-stained. We finished our meal in silence and rose from the table earlier than usual; taking leave of the whole family, we returned to our quarters. But I deliberately forgot my sword and went back for it: I had a feeling that I would find Marya Ivanovna alone. Indeed, she met me in the doorway and handed me my sword.

‘Good-bye, Pyotr Andreitch,’ she said to me with tears in her eyes. ‘They are sending me to Orenburg. Keep well and be happy. Perhaps it will please God to let us see each other again; if not . . .’

And she began to sob. I embraced her.

‘Good-bye, my angel,’ I said. ‘Good-bye, my dear one, my heart’s desire! Whatever happens to me, trust that my last thought and my last prayer will be for you!’

Masha sobbed and pressed her head against my chest. I kissed her passionately and hastened out of the room.

Chapter Seven

THE ASSAULT

Oh my head, my head,

Oh my head, that has served,

Has served my country well

For three and thirty years,

And yet has obtained for itself,

Neither gold nor joy,

Neither words of praise

Nor rank on high.

All that my head has obtained

Is two upright posts,

With a beech-wood cross-beam,

And a silken noose.

FOLK SONG

That night I neither slept nor undressed. 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 within myself: my agitation of mind was far less burdensome to me than my recent despondency. Mingled with the grief of separation was vague but sweet hope, an impatient expectation of danger and feelings of noble ambition.

The night slipped by unnoticed. I was on the point of leaving my quarters when the door opened and a corporal came in to announce that our Cossacks had left the fortress during the night, taking Yulay with them by force, and that strange people were riding round the fortress. The thought that Marya Ivanovna would not be able to get away terrified me; I issued a few hasty instructions to the corporal and rushed off at once to the commandant’s.

Day had already begun to dawn. I was flying down the street when I heard someone calling me. I stopped.

‘Where are you going?’ asked Ivan Ignatyitch, overtaking me. ‘Ivan Kuzmitch is on the rampart and has sent me to get you. Pugachev has come.’

‘Has Marya Ivanovna left?’ I asked with a trembling heart.

‘No, she was too late,’ replied Ivan Ignatyitch. ‘The road to Orenburg is cut off; the fortress is surrounded. It looks bad, Pyotr Andreitch!’

We made our way to the rampart, a natural elevation of the ground and fortified by a palisade. All the inhabitants of the fortress were already crowded there. The garrison was under arms. The cannon had been dragged up to the rampart the previous day. The commandant was walking up and down in front of his meagre ranks. The approach of danger had inspired the old warrior with unusual vigour. Riding up and down in the steppe, not far from the fortress, were about twenty horsemen. They seemed to be Cossacks, but among them were also some Bashkirs, easily recognisable by their lynx caps and their quivers.

The commandant made the round of his little army, saying to the soldiers:

‘Well, children, let us stand firm to-day for our mother the Empress, and show the whole world that we are brave men, and true to our oaths!’

The soldiers loudly expressed their zeal. Shvabrin stood next to me, looking intently at the enemy. The horsemen riding about the steppe, noticing movement in the fortress, gathered in a little cluster and began to talk among themselves. The commandant ordered Ivan Ignatyitch to point the cannon at the group, and he himself applied the match to it. The cannonball whistled over their heads without doing any damage. The horsemen dispersed and immediately galloped out of sight, leaving the steppe deserted.

At that moment Vassilissa Yegorovna appeared on the rampart, accompanied by Masha, who did not wish to be parted from her mother.

‘Well?’ said the commandant’s wife. ‘How goes the battle? Where is the enemy?’

‘The enemy’s not far off,’ replied Ivan Kuzmitch. ‘God grant that everything will be all right. Well, Masha, are you afraid?’

‘No, papa,’ replied Marya Ivanovna; ‘I should be more afraid alone at home.’

And she looked at me and made an effort to smile. I involuntarily grasped the hilt of my sword, remembering that I had received it from her hands the evening before, as if to defend my beloved. My heart burned. I imagined myself as her knight-protector. I longed to prove that I was worthy of her trust, and waited impatiently for the decisive moment.

At that moment, from behind a rise in the ground about half a verst from the fortress, some fresh groups of horsemen appeared, and soon the steppe was covered by a great number of men, armed with lances and bows and arrows. In the midst of them, on a white horse, rode a man in a red kaftan with a drawn sword in his hand; it was Pugachev himself. He stopped; his followers gathered round him and, on his command as it seemed, four men broke away from the main body of people and galloped at full speed right up to the fortress. We recognised them as our Cossack traitors. One of them held a sheet of paper above his cap; stuck on the lance of another was the head of Yulay, which was shaken off and hurled over the palisade towards us. The head of the unfortunate Kalmuck fell at the commandant’s feet. The traitors cried:

‘Don’t fire. Come out to the Tsar. The Tsar is here!’

‘I’ll give it to you!’ shouted Ivan Kuzmitch. ‘Right, lads – fire!’

Our soldiers fired a volley. The Cossack who held the letter reeled and fell from his horse; the others galloped back. I glanced at Marya Ivanovna. Appalled by the sight of Yulay’s bloodstained head and deafened by the volley, she seemed to have lost her senses. The commandant summoned a corporal and ordered him to take the sheet of paper from the dead Cossack. The corporal went out into the plain and returned, leading the dead man’s horse by the bridle. He handed the letter to the commandant. Ivan Kuzmitch read it through to himself and then tore it up into little pieces. Meanwhile, the rebels seemed to be preparing for action. Soon the bullets began to whistle about our ears and several arrows fell close to us, sticking in the ground and in the palisade.

‘Vassilissa Yegorovna,’ said the commandant, ‘this is no place for women! Take Masha away; you can see that the girl is more dead than alive.’

Vassilissa Yegorovna, quietened by the bullets, glanced at the steppe where much movement could be observed; then she turned to her husband and said to him:

‘Ivan Kuzmitch, life and death are in God’s hands: give Masha your blessing. Masha, go up to your father.’

Masha, pale and trembling, approached Ivan Kuzmitch, knelt down before him and bowed to the ground. The old commandant made the sign of the cross over her three times; then he raised her and, kissing her, said in a faltering voice:

‘Well, Masha, be happy. Pray to God: He will never abandon you. If you find a good man, may God give you his love and counsel. Live as Vassilissa Yegorovna and I have lived. Well, good-bye, Masha. Vassilissa Yegorovna, take her away as quickly as you can.’

Masha threw her arms round her father’s neck and burst into sobs.

‘Let us kiss each other also,’ said the commandant’s wife, weeping. ‘Good-bye, my Ivan Kuzmitch. Forgive me if I have ever angered you!’

‘Good-bye, good-bye, my dear,’ said the commandant, embracing his old wife. ‘Now, that’s enough! Go home now; and if you have time, get Masha to put on a smock.’

The commandant’s wife and daughter went away. I followed Marya Ivanovna with my eyes; she glanced back and nodded to me.

Ivan Kuzmitch then turned back to us and fixed all his attention upon the enemy. The rebels gathered round their leader and suddenly began to dismount from their horses.

‘Now, stand firm,’ said the commandant. ‘They’re going to attac . . .’

At that moment frightful yells and cries were heard; the rebels were running forward towards the fortress. Our cannon was loaded with grape-shot. The commandant allowed the enemy to come very close and then suddenly fired again. The shot fell right in the middle of the crowd. The rebels recoiled on either side and fell back. Their leader was the only one to stay out in front . . . He was brandishing his sword, and he seemed heatedly to be exhorting the others to follow him. The yells and cries, which had subsided for a moment, were immediately renewed.

‘Well, lads,’ said the commandant, ‘open the gates now and sound the drum. Forward, lads, for a sally! Follow me!’

The commandant, Ivan Ignatyitch and I were over the rampart in a twinkling; but the frightened garrison made no move.

‘Why do you hold back, children?’ cried Ivan Kuzmitch. ‘If we’ve got to die, let us die doing our duty!’

At that moment the rebels rushed upon us and burst into the fortress. The drum fell silent; the garrison threw down their arms; I was hurled to the ground, but I got up again and entered the fortress with the rebels. The commandant, wounded in the head, stood in the midst of a group of villains who demanded the keys from him. I was on the point of rushing to his aid when several sturdy Cossacks seized me and bound me with their belts, exclaiming:

‘You’ll see what’ll happen to you, you traitors of the Tsar!’

We were dragged along the streets. The inhabitants came out of their houses, offering bread and salt. The bells began to ring. Suddenly a cry was taken up among the crowd that the Tsar was awaiting the prisoners in the square and receiving oaths of allegiance. The people thronged towards the square; we also were driven thither.

Pugachev sat in an armchair on the steps of the commandant’s house. He was wearing a braided, red Cossack kaftan. A tall sable cap with gold tassels was drawn down to his flashing eyes. His face seemed familiar to me. He was surrounded by Cossack elders. Father Gerassim, pale and trembling, stood by the steps with a cross in his hands and seemed silently to be imploring mercy for the forthcoming victims. A gallows was being hastily erected in the square. As we drew near, the Bashkirs drove back the people and presented us to Pugachev. The bells were silent; a deep hush reigned.

‘Which is the commandant?’ asked the pretender.

Our sergeant stepped out of the crowd and pointed at Ivan Kuzmitch. Pugachev looked menacingly at the old man and said to him:

‘How dared you resist me – me, your Tsar?’

The commandant, weakened by his wound, summoned up his remaining strength and answered in a firm voice.’

‘You are not my Tsar; you are a thief and an impostor, do you hear?’

Pugachev frowned darkly and waved a white handkerchief. Several Cossacks seized the old captain and dragged him to the gallows. Astride the cross-beam sat the mutilated Bashkir whom we had interrogated the previous day. He held a rope in his hand and a minute later I saw poor Ivan Kuzmitch hanging from the gallows. Ivan Ignatyitch was then brought before Pugachev.

‘Swear allegiance,’ Pugachev said to him, ‘to your Tsar, Pyotr Fyodorovitch!’

‘You are not our Tsar,’ replied Ivan Ignatyitch, repeating the words of his captain. ‘You’re a thief and an impostor, my dear fellow.’

Pugachev again waved the handkerchief and the good lieutenant was hanged beside his old commanding officer.

It was my turn. I looked boldly at Pugachev, ready to repeat the answer of my courageous comrades. Then, to my indescribable astonishment, I saw Shvabrin, his hair cut in peasant style and wearing a Cossack kaftan, in the midst of the rebel elders. He went up to Pugachev and said a few words in his ear.

‘Hang him!’ said Pugachev, without even looking at me.

The noose was thrown round my neck. I began to pray to myself, expressing to God a sincere repentance for all my sins and beseeching Him to keep in safety all those who were close to my heart. I was dragged up to the gallows.

‘Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid,’ repeated my executioners, wishing, in all truth perhaps, to give me courage.

Suddenly I heard a cry:

‘Stop, you wretches! Hold!’

The hangmen paused. I saw Savelyitch lying at Pugachev’s feet.

‘Oh, my dear father!’ the poor old man was saying. ‘What will you gain by the death of this noble child? Set him free: you’ll get a good ransom for him; as an example and for the sake of terrifying the others, hang me if you like – an old man!’

Pugachev made a sign and I was immediately unbound and released.

‘Our father pardons you,’ the rebels said to me.

I could not say at that moment whether I was glad or sorry at my deliverance. My feelings were too confused. I was again brought before the pretender and compelled to kneel at his feet. Pugachev stretched out his sinewy hand to me.

‘Kiss his hand, kiss his hand!’ said the people around me.

But I would have preferred the most ferocious punishment to such ignoble degradation.

‘Pyotr Andreitch, my dear,’ whispered Savelyitch, standing behind me and nudging me forward, ‘don’t be obstinate. What is it to you? Spit and kiss the villains . . . pfui! . . . kiss his hand!’

I made no movement. Pugachev let his hand drop and said with a smile:

‘His Honour seems bewildered with joy. Lift him up!’

I was raised to my feet and set free. I stood watching the continuation of the terrible comedy.

The inhabitants of the fortress began to swear allegiance. They approached one after the other, kissing the cross and then bowing to the pretender. The garrison soldiers were there, too. The regimental tailor, armed with his blunt scissors, cut off their plaits. Then, shaking themselves, they went forward to kiss the hand of Pugachev, who declared them pardoned and received them into his band.

All this went on for about three hours. At last, Pugachev rose from the armchair and, accompanied by his elders, descended the steps. A white horse, richly harnessed, was led up to him. Two Cossacks took him under the arms and placed him in the saddle. He announced to Father Gerassim that he would have dinner at his house. At that moment a woman’s scream was heard. Some of the brigands were dragging Vassilissa Yegorovna, stripped naked, and her hair dishevelled, to the steps. One of them had already managed to attire himself in her jacket. The others were carrying off feather-beds, chests, tea-services, linen and chattels of every sort.

‘My fathers,’ the poor old woman cried, ‘spare my life! Kind fathers, take me to Ivan Kuzmitch!’

Suddenly she caught sight of the gallows and recognised her husband.

‘Villains!’ she cried in a frenzy of rage. ‘What have you done to him? Light of my life, Ivan Kuzmitch, my valiant soldier! You were not harmed by Prussian bayonets or Turkish bullets; not on the field of honour have you laid down your life: you have been killed by a fugitive galley-slave!’

‘Quieten the old witch!’ said Pugachev.

A young Cossack struck her over the head with his sword and she fell dead at the foot of the steps. Pugachev rode off; the crowd rushed after him.

Chapter Eight

AN UNINVITED GUEST

An uninvited guest is worse than a Tartar.

PROVERB

The square was deserted. I was still standing in the same place, unable to collect my thoughts, confused as I was by so many terrible impressions.

Uncertainty as to the fate of Marya Ivanovna tormented me more than anything else. Where was she? What had happened to her? Had she had time to hide? Was her place of refuge safe? Filled with these alarming thoughts, I entered the commandant’s house . . . It was completely empty; the chairs, tables and chests had been smashed, the crockery broken and everything else stolen. I ran up the small staircase which led to Marya Ivanovna’s bedroom, and for the first time in my life I entered her room. I saw that her bed had been pulled to pieces by the brigands; the wardrobe had been smashed and plundered; the small lamp was still burning before the empty icon-case; the little looking-glass between the windows had survived . . . Where was the mistress of this humble, virginal cell? A terrible thought flashed through my mind: I imagined her in the hands of the brigands . . . My heart sank . . . I wept, bitterly I wept, and loudly called out the name of my beloved . . . At that moment I heard a slight noise and Palashka, pale and trembling, came out from behind the wardrobe.

‘Ah, Pyotr Andreitch!’ she said, clasping her hands. ‘What a day! What horror . . . !’

‘And Marya Ivanovna?’ I asked impatiently. ‘What has become of Marya Ivanovna?’

‘The young lady is alive,’ answered Palashka. ‘She is hiding at Akulina Pamfilovna’s.’

‘At the priest’s wife’s!’ I exclaimed in horror. ‘My God! Pugachev’s there!’

I rushed out of the room, was in the street and tearing headlong to the priest’s house in a flash, neither seeing nor feeling a thing. Shouts, bursts of laughter and songs resounded from within . . . Pugachev was feasting with his comrades. Palashka had followed me there. I sent her to go and fetch Akulina Pamfilovna as quietly as she could. A minute later the priest’s wife came to me in the entrance, an empty bottle in her hand.

‘For God’s sake, where’s Marya Ivanovna?’ I asked with indescribable agitation.

‘The dear girl’s lying on my bed, there, behind the partition,’ the priest’s wife replied. ‘A misfortune nearly befell us, Pyotr Andreitch, but, thank God, everything went off all right: the villain had only just sat down to dinner when the poor little thing came to and uttered a groan! I nearly died of fright. He heard it and said: “Who’s that groaning there, old woman?” I made a very low bow to the thief. “My niece, Tsar; she fell ill about two weeks ago.” “And is your niece young?” “She is young, Tsar.” “Show me your niece then, old woman.” My heart sank within me but there was nothing I could do. “As you wish, Tsar, only the girl’s not well enough to get up and come before your Grace.”“Never mind, old woman, I’ll go and see her myself.” And sure enough the wretch went behind the partition, and would you believe it? He actually drew back the curtain and looked at her with his hawklike eyes – but nothing happened . . . God helped us out! But, believe you me, the priest and I were prepared for a martyr’s death. Fortunately, the little dear did not know his face. Good Lord above, what things we have lived to see! It can’t be denied! Poor Ivan Kuzmitch! Who would have thought it? And Vassilissa Yegorovna . . . And Ivan Ignatyitch? Why did they kill him . . . ? And how did they come to spare you? And what about Alexey Ivanytch Shvabrin? You know he’s had his hair cropped in peasant style, and is now feasting with the rebels at our house! He’s a sharp one, and no mistake! When I spoke of my sick niece, would you believe it – he looked daggers at me. However, he didn’t give me away, and I can be thankful for that.’

At that moment the drunken shouts of the guests and the voice of Father Gerassim were heard. The guests were demanding wine, and the host was calling for his wife. The priest’s wife became flustered.

‘Go back home, Pyotr Andreitch,’ she said. ‘I have no time for you now: the villains are drinking themselves under the table. It would be the worse for you if you fell into their drunken hands. Good-bye, Pyotr Andreitch. What is to be, will be, and maybe God won’t desert us.’

The priest’s wife went back into the house. Somewhat relieved, I returned to my quarters. As I crossed the square, I saw several Bashkirs assembled around the gallows, dragging the boots off the hanged men’s feet; with difficulty I restrained my indignation, feeling that it would be utterly useless to intervene. The brigands were running all over the fortress, looting the officers’ quarters. The shouts of the drunken rebels could be heard everywhere. I arrived home. Savelyitch met me on the threshold.

‘Thank God!’ he cried when he saw me. ‘I was beginning to think that the villains had got hold of you again. Well, Pyotr Andreitch my dear, would you believe it – the rogues have robbed us of everything: clothes, linen, our belongings, crockery – there’s nothing left. But what of that! Heaven be thanked that you have been spared your life! But did you recognise their leader, master?’

‘No, I didn’t. Who is he then?’

‘What, my dear Pyotr Andreitch? Have you forgotten that drunkard who took your hareskin coat from you at the inn? A brand-new hareskin coat, and the animal burst the seams as he pulled it on!’

I was astonished. Indeed, the resemblance between Pugachev and my guide was striking. I felt sure that Pugachev and he were one and the same person, and now understood why he had spared my life. I could not help but marvel at the strange chain of circumstances: a child’s coat given to a tramp had saved me from the hangman’s noose, and a drunkard roaming from inn to inn was besieging fortresses and shaking the Government!

‘Won’t you have something to eat?’ asked Savelyitch, his habits unchanged. ‘There is nothing in the house, but I’ll go out and rummage for something and prepare it for you.’

Left alone, I became lost in thought. What was I to do? To remain in the fortress occupied by the villain, or to join his band, was unworthy of an officer. Duty demanded that I should go where my service could still be of use to my country in its present critical position. But love urged me strongly to stay near Marya Ivanovna and be her defender and protector. Although I foresaw a speedy and inevitable change in the present state of affairs, I trembled at the thought of the danger she was in.

My reflections were interrupted by the arrival of one of the Cossacks, who ran up to inform me that the “great Tsar”wished to see me.

‘Where is he?’ I asked, preparing to obey.

‘In the commandant’s house,’ the Cossack answered. ‘Our master went to the bath-house after dinner and now he’s resting. Well, your Honour, he is quite clearly a person of distinction: at dinner he was pleased to eat two roast sucking-pigs, and he had his steam-bath so hot that Taras Kurotchkin could not bear it – he had to give the bath-broom to Fomka Bikbayev and only came to when he was doused with cold water. It cannot be denied: his ways are all so dignified . . . And I was told that he showed his Tsar’s signs on his chest in the bath-house: on one breast a two-headed eagle the size of a five-kopeck piece, and on the other his own likeness.’

I did not consider it necessary to contradict the Cossack’s opinion and went with him to the commandant’s house, picturing to myself in advance my meeting with Pugachev, and trying to guess how it would all end. The reader will easily imagine that I did not feel altogether comfortable.

Dusk had begun to fall when I reached the commandant’s house. The gallows and its victims loomed black and terrible before me. The body of the poor commandant’s wife still lay at the bottom of the steps, where two Cossacks stood on guard. The Cossack accompanying me went in to announce me and, returning at once, led me into the room where, the evening before, I had taken such a tender farewell of Marya Ivanovna.

I was met by an unusual scene. Behind the table, which was covered by a table-cloth and littered with bottles and glasses, sat Pugachev and about ten Cossack elders, wearing hats and coloured shirts, flushed by wine, with purple faces and flashing eyes. Neither Shvabrin nor our sergeant, newly-recruited traitors, were among them.

‘Ah, your Honour!’ said Pugachev, seeing me. ‘You are welcome; come in and take a seat at our table.’

The company moved closer together. I silently sat down at the end of the table. My neighbour, a handsome, well-built young Cossack, filled my glass with some ordinary wine which I did not touch. I began to examine the company with curiosity. Pugachev occupied the seat of honour, his elbows on the table and his broad fist propped against his black beard. His features, which were regular and pleasant enough, had nothing ferocious about them. He frequently turned to a man of about fifty, addressing him sometimes as Count, sometimes as Timofeitch and sometimes as uncle. All treated each other as comrades, and showed no particular deference to their leader. The conversation turned on the morning’s assault, the success of the rising and its future activities. Everyone boasted, advanced his own opinion, and freely contradicted Pugachev. And at this strange council of war it was resolved to march on Orenburg: a bold move and one which was nearly crowned with disastrous success! The march was fixed for the following day.

‘Well, lads!’ said Pugachev. ‘Before we go to bed, let’s have my favourite song. Come on, Tchumakov!’

In a high voice, my neighbour started the following doleful bargeman’s song and all joined in the chorus:

‘Make no sound, mother-forest green,

Do not hinder me, brave lad, from thinking,

For to-morrow I, brave lad, must go before the court,

Before the stern judge, before the great Tsar himself.

And the great Lord Tsar will begin to question me:

“Tell me, young man, tell me, peasant’s son,

With whom you have stolen, with whom you have robbed,

And of the companions you had with you?”

“I will tell you, our hope-true Tsar,

I will tell you the truth, always the truth.

My companions were four in number:

My first companion was the dark night,

My second companion was my knife of damask steel,

My third companion was my good horse,

My fourth companion was my taut bow,

And my messengers were red-hot arrows.’

Then up speaks our hope-true Tsar:

“Praise be to thee, young man, thou peasant’s son!

You knew how to steal, you knew how to make answer,

And I will therefore make you a present, young man—

Of a tall dwelling-house in the midst of a field,

Of two upright posts and a cross-beam above.”’

It is impossible to describe the effect that this peasants’ song about the gallows, sung by men themselves already destined for the gallows, produced upon me. Their menacing faces, their tuneful voices, the sad expression they imparted to words already expressive in themselves – all this shook me with some form of poetic terror.

Each of the guests drained a last glass, rose from the table and took leave of Pugachev. I was about to follow them, but Pugachev said to me:

‘Sit down; I want to talk to you.’

We remained facing each other.

For some moments the silence continued between us. Pugachev looked intently at me, occasionally screwing up his left eye with an extraordinary expression of foxiness and mockery. At last he burst out laughing with such unaffected merriment that, as I looked at him, I began to laugh myself, without knowing why.

‘Well, your Honour?’ he said to me. ‘Confess that you were scared to death when my lads put the rope round your neck. I expect that you were frightened out of your wits . . . And you would have swung from that cross-beam had it not been for your servant. I recognised the old grumbler immediately. Well, your Honour, would you have thought that the man who led you to the “umyot” was the great Tsar himself?’ (Here he assumed an expression of mystery and importance.) ‘You are guilty of a serious offence against me,’ he continued, ‘but I pardoned you for your kindness, and because you did me a service when I was forced to hide from my enemies. But you will see greater things! You will see how I shall reward you, when I take possession of my kingdom! Do you promise to serve me zealously?’

The blackguard’s question and his insolence struck me as so amusing that I could not help smiling.

‘Why do you smile?’ he asked me, frowning. ‘Do you not believe that I am the great Tsar? Answer me straight.’

I was confused. I could not acknowledge the tramp as Tsar: to do so would have displayed unpardonable faintheartedness. To call him an impostor to his face would be sentencing myself to death, and what I had been ready to do at the gallows before the eyes of all the people, in the first burst of indignation, now seemed to me useless boasting. I hesitated. Pugachev awaited my answer in gloomy silence. Finally (and even now I remember the moment with satisfaction), feelings of duty triumphed over human weakness. I replied to Pugachev:

‘Listen, I’ll tell you the whole truth. Judge for yourself – how can I acknowledge you as Tsar? You are an intelligent man: you would see that I was merely being artful.’

‘Who am I, then, in your opinion?’

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

Pugachev looked at me quickly.

‘Then you don’t believe,’ he said, ‘that I am Tsar Pyotr Fyodorovitch? All right. But is not success for the bold? Did not Grishka Otrepyev reign in the old days? Think what you like about me, but do not leave me. What is it to you one way or the other? One master’s as good as another. Serve me faithfully and truly and I will make you field-marshal and prince. What do you say?’

‘No,’ I replied firmly. ‘I am a nobleman by birth; I have sworn allegiance to my Sovereign Lady, the Empress: I cannot serve you. If you really wish me well, then let me return to Orenburg.’

Pugachev considered.

‘And if I let you go,’ he said, ‘will you at least promise not to serve against me?’

‘How can I promise that?’ I replied. ‘You yourself know that it’s not up to me: if I am ordered to march against you, I will – there’s nothing for it. You yourself are now a commander; you demand obedience from your men. How would it seem if I refused to serve when my services were needed? My life is in your hands: if you let me go – thank you; if you put me to death – God will be your judge; but I have told you the truth.’

My sincerity struck Pugachev.

‘So be it,’ he said, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘Either put to death or pardon – one or the other. Go where you like and do what you like. Come and say good-bye to me tomorrow, and now go off to bed. I feel quite sleepy myself.’

I left Pugachev and went out into the street. The night was calm and frosty. The moon and the stars were shining brightly, lighting up the square and the gallows. In the fortress all was still and dark. Only in the tavern was there a light, and from it came the cries of late revellers. I glanced at the priest’s house. The shutters and gates were closed. It seemed that all was quiet within.

I arrived back at my quarters and found Savelyitch fretting ting over my absence. The news of my freedom filled him with unspeakable joy.

‘Thanks be to Thee, oh Lord!’ he said, crossing himself. ‘We will leave the fortress before daybreak to-morrow and follow our noses. I have prepared something for you; eat it up, my dear Pyotr Andreitch, and then sleep safely until the morning.’

I followed his advice and, having eaten my supper with a good appetite, I fell asleep on the bare floor, worn out in mind and body.

Chapter Nine

THE PARTING

Sweet it was to me, my dear,

To learn to know thee;

Sad, sad it is to part;

As though from my soul I am torn.

KHERASKOV

I was awakened by the drum the following morning. I went to the place of assembly. There, Pugachev’s men were already drawn up around the gallows, from which the previous day’s victims were still hanging. The Cossacks were on horseback, the soldiers under arms. Flags were flying. Several cannons, among which I recognised ours, were mounted on travelling gun-carriages. All the inhabitants of the fortress were also there, awaiting the pretender. At the steps of the commandant’s house, a Cossack was holding a magnificent white Kirghiz horse by the bridle. I sought the body of the commandant’s wife with my eyes. It had been moved a little to one side and covered with matting. Pugachev finally appeared at the entrance. The people took off their caps. Pugachev paused at the top of the steps and greeted them all. One of his elders gave him a bag filled with copper coins, which he began to scatter among the crowd by the handful. With cries, the people rushed forward to pick them up, and the affair was not without its casualties. Pugachev was surrounded by his chief accomplices. Shvabrin was among them. Our glances met. In mine he could read contempt, and he turned away with an expression of genuine loathing and affected scorn. Pugachev, catching sight of me in the crowd, nodded and beckoned me to him.

‘Listen,’ he said to me. ‘Set off at once for Orenburg and tell the Governor and all the generals from me that they can expect me within a week. Advise them to receive me with childlike love and obedience; otherwise, they’ll not escape a savage death. A pleasant journey, your Honour!’

Then he turned to the crowd and, indicating Shvabrin, he said:

‘Here, children, is your new commandant. Obey him in everything; he is answerable to me for you and the fortress.’

I heard these words with horror: with Shvabrin in command of the fortress, Marya Ivanovna would be in his power! Oh God, what would become of her!

Pugachev descended the steps. His horse was brought up to him. He sprang nimbly up into the saddle, without waiting for the Cossacks who were ready to help him mount.

At that moment I saw Savelyitch step out from the crowd; he went up to Pugachev and handed him a sheet of paper. I could not imagine what it was all about.

‘What’s this?’ asked Pugachev importantly.

‘Read it and you’ll see,’ Savelyitch replied.

Pugachev took the paper and examined it significantly for a long time.

‘Why do you write so badly?’ he said at length. ‘My royal eyes cannot distinguish a single word. Where is my chief secretary?’

A young lad in corporal’s uniform ran smartly up to Pugachev.

‘Read it aloud,’ the pretender said, giving him the paper.

I was extremely curious to know what had prompted my servant to write to Pugachev. In a loud voice the chief secretary began to spell out the following:

‘Two dressing-gowns, one cotton and one striped silk — six roubles.’

‘What does this mean?’ said Pugachev, frowning.

‘Order him to continue,’ Savelyitch replied calmly.

The chief secretary went on:

‘One uniform of fine green cloth — seven roubles.

‘One pair of white cloth breeches — five roubles.

‘Twelve holland linen shirts with cuffs — ten roubles.

‘One hamper containing a tea-service — two and a half roubles . . .’

‘What is this rubbish?’ Pugachev interrupted. ‘What have I to do with hampers and breeches with cuffs?’

Savelyitch cleared his throat and began to explain.

‘This, sir, you will be pleased to see, is an account of those of my master’s articles which were stolen by the villains . . .’

‘The villains?’ Pugachev asked threateningly.

‘I beg your pardon: a slip of the tongue,’ replied Savelyitch. ‘Even if they’re not villains, but your lads, they ransacked the place and stole everything. Don’t be angry: a horse has four legs and yet it stumbles. Order him to read on to the end.’

‘Read on,’ said Pugachev.

The secretary continued:

‘One chintz bedspread, another of taffeta quilted with cotton wool — four roubles.

‘A fox-fur coat covered in crimson flannel — forty roubles.

‘Likewise, a hareskin coat given to your Grace at the inn — fifteen roubles.’

‘What’s this now!’ cried Pugachev, his eyes flashing fire.

I confess that I began to fear for the life of my poor servant.

He was about to enter into further explanations, but Pugachev interrupted him:

‘How dare you intrude upon me with such nonsense?’ he cried, snatching the paper from the secretary’s hands and throwing it in Savelyitch’s face. ‘You stupid old man! You’ve been fleeced: what a misfortune! Why, you old grumbler, you should for ever be praying for me and my lads, and thanking God that you and your master didn’t swing from the gallows along with the other traitors . . . Hareskin coat! I’ll give you hareskin coat! Why, I’ll have your bare skin made into a coat!’

‘As you please,’ replied Savelyitch, ‘but I’m not a free man and must answer for my master’s goods.’

Pugachev was evidently in a magnanimous frame of mind. He turned away and rode off without another word to Savelyitch. Shvabrin and the elders followed him. The band set forth from the fortress in orderly fashion. The people moved forward to see Pugachev off. I stayed behind in the square alone with Savelyitch. My servant was holding his list of my goods in his hands, looking at it with an expression of profound regret.

Seeing that I was on good terms with Pugachev, he had thought to take advantage of it; but his sage intention had not succeeded. I was about to upbraid him for his misplaced zeal, but could not restrain myself from laughing.

‘Laugh, master,’ Savelyitch answered, ‘go on, laugh; but when we have to equip ourselves completely afresh — then 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. Marya Ivanovna had developed a strong fever during the night. She lay unconscious and in a delirium. The priest’s wife led me to her room. I softly drew near to the bed. The change in her face shocked me. The sick girl did not recognise me. I stood in front of her for a long time, deaf to Father Gerassim and his good wife who, it seemed, were trying to console me. I was agitated by gloomy thoughts. The condition of the poor, defenceless orphan, left alone among ferocious rebels, terrified me, as did my own powerlessness. Shvabrin, Shvabrin more than anything, tortured my imagination. Invested with power by the pretender, and entrusted with the command of the fortress, where the unhappy girl — the innocent object of his hatred — remained, he was in a position to do anything he wished. What could I do? How could I help her? How could I free her from the villain’s hands? There was only one course of action open to me: I decided to leave for Orenburg immediately, in order to speed up the deliverance of the Belogorsky fortress and, if possible, to take a part in that operation. I said good-bye to the priest and Akulina Pamfilovna, warmly entrusting Marya Ivanovna, whom I already considered to be my wife, to their care. I took the poor girl’s hand and kissed it, damping it with my tears.

‘Good-bye,’ the priest’s wife said to me, as she accompanied me out of the house. ‘Good-bye, Pyotr Andreitch. Perhaps we’ll meet again in happier circumstances. Do not forget us and write often. Poor Marya Ivanovna has now no one but you to look to for consolation and protection.’

Going out on to the square, I stopped for a moment, glanced up at the gallows, bowed my head and then left the fortress by the Orenburg road, accompanied by Savelyitch who had never left my side.

I was walking on, occupied with my thoughts, when suddenly I heard the sound of a horse’s hooves behind me. I looked round and saw a Cossack galloping out of the fortress, holding a Bashkir horse by the bridle and making signs to me from the distance. I stopped and soon recognised our sergeant. Galloping up to us, he dismounted his own horse and, handing me the bridle of the other, he said:

‘Your Honour! Our father wishes you to have this horse and a coat from his own shoulders’ (A sheepskin coat was tied to the horse’s saddle). ‘And he also . . .,’ the sergeant added hesitatingly, ‘. . . wishes to give you . . . half a rouble . . . but I lost it on the road: be merciful and forgive me.’

Savelyitch looked at him sharply and grumbled:

‘Lost it on the road! And what’s that clinking under your shirt, you shameless villain?’

‘What’s that clinking under my shirt?’ the sergeant retorted, not in the least put out. ‘God be with you, old man! That‘s the horse’s snaffle, and not the half-rouble.’

‘All right,’ I said, breaking up the argument. ‘Give my thanks to him who sent you, and try to find the lost half-rouble on the journey back and keep it for vodka.’

‘I’m very grateful, your Honour,’ he replied, turning his horse. ‘I shall pray for you all my life.’

With these words he galloped back, holding one hand to his shirt and, a minute later, he vanished from sight.

I put on the coat and mounted the horse, Savelyitch taking his seat behind me.

‘Well, you can see, master,’ said the old man, ‘that it was not in vain that I gave that petition to the rogue; the thief’s conscience pricked him. Even so, this spindle-shanked nag and the sheepskin coat aren’t worth half what the rogues stole from us and what you yourself gave him, but you may be able to find some use for them: from a fierce dog, even a tuft of hair.’

Chapter Ten

THE SIEGE OF THE TOWN

Pitched in hill and meadow,

From the height, like an eagle he gazed on the city,

Behind his camp he ordered a rampart to be built,

In which to hide his thunderbolts,
which he brought by night up to the city.

KHERASKOV

As we approached Orenburg, we saw a crowd of convicts with shaven heads and faces disfigured by the hangman’s pincers. They were working near the fortifications, under the supervision of the garrison soldiers. Some were carting away the rubbish that had filled the moat; others were digging up the ground with spades; on the rampart masons were carrying bricks and repairing the town wall. Sentries stopped us at the gates and demanded our passports. As soon as the sergeant heard that I was from the Belogorsky fortress, he took me straight to the general’s house.

I found the general in the garden. He was inspecting the apple-trees which had been stripped of their leaves by the autumn wind and, with the help of an old gardener, was carefully covering them with warm straw. His face expressed calm, health and good nature. He was delighted to see me and began to question me about the terrible events I had witnessed. I related everything to him. The old man listened to me attentively as he cut off the dry twigs.

‘Poor Mironov!’ he said when I had finished my sad story. ‘I feel very sorry: he was a good officer. And Madame Mironov – she was a fine woman, and what an expert at pickling mushrooms! But what of Masha, the captain’s daughter?’

I replied that she had remained at the fortress in the care of the priest and his wife.

‘Oh dear, oh dear!’ observed the general. ‘That’s bad, very bad. It’s quite impossible to rely on the discipline of these brigands. What will become of the poor girl?’

I replied that the fortress was not far away, and that doubtless his Excellency would not delay in dispatching a force of men to rescue its poor inhabitants. The general nodded his head dubiously.

‘We shall see, we shall see,’ he said. ‘We’ve got plenty of time to discuss that. Do me the pleasure of having a cup of tea with me; a council of war is to be held at my house today. You can give us some trustworthy information concerning this rogue Pugachev and his army. But now go and rest a while.’

I went to the quarters assigned to me, where Savelyitch had already installed himself, and impatiently began to await the appointed time. The reader will easily imagine that I did not fail to make my appearance at the council, which was to have such an influence on my fate. I arrived at the general’s at the appointed hour.

I found with him one of the town officials, the director of the customs-house if I remember rightly, a fat, red-faced old man in a brocade coat. He began to question me about the fate of Ivan Kuzmitch, who had been a friend of his, and frequently interrupted me with additional questions and moral observations which, if not showing him to be a man well-versed in the military art, at least indicated that he possessed sagacity and common sense. Meanwhile, the others invited to the council began to assemble. Apart from the general himself, there was not a military man among them.

When everybody had taken his seat and been handed a cup of tea, the general gave an extremely clear and detailed account of the situation at hand.

‘Now, gentlemen,’ he continued, ‘we must decide in what way to oppose these rebels: offensively or defensively? Each of these means has its advantages and its disadvantages. Offensive action holds out greater hope for the quickest possible destruction of the enemy; defensive action is safer and less dangerous . . . And so, let us begin by putting the issue to the vote in the accepted fashion – that is, beginning with the youngest in rank. Mr Ensign,’ he continued, addressing me, ‘be good enough to give us your opinion.’

I rose and after giving a brief description of Pugachev and his band, I stated firmly that the pretender had not the means to stand up against a force of professional soldiers.

It was clear that my opinion was received by the officials with disfavour. They saw in it the rashness and temerity of a young man. A murmur arose among them, and I distinctly heard the word ‘greenhorn’ pronounced in a whisper by someone. The general turned to me and said with a smile:

‘Mr Ensign, the first votes in councils of war are usually in favour of offensive action; it is as it ought to be. But now let us get on with the voting. Mr Collegiate Councillor, tell us your opinion.’

The old man in the brocade coat hastily finished his third cup of tea, considerably diluted with rum, and answered the general:

‘I think, your Excellency, that we should act neither offensively nor defensively.’

‘How so, Mr Collegiate Councillor?’ the general replied, surprised. ‘What other tactics are there besides offensive and defensive . . . ?’

‘Your Excellency, let us proceed by bribery.’

‘Ha, ha! Your idea is an extremely sensible one. Military tactics permit bribery, and we will make use of your advice. We could promise for the head of this rogue . . . seventy roubles, or even a hundred . . . from the secret funds . . .’

‘And if,’ interrupted the director of the customs-house, ‘and if that doesn’t induce these robbers to give up their leader, bound hand and foot, may I be a Kirghiz ram and not a Collegiate Councillor.’

‘We will consider it further and discuss it again,’ the general replied. ‘We must, however, in any event, take military measures. Gentlemen, give your votes in the customary fashion.’

All the opinions were opposed to mine. All the officials spoke of the unreliability of the troops, the uncertainty of success, the need for caution and so on. All were agreed that it was more sensible to stay behind strong stone walls, protected by cannons, than to try the fortune of arms in the open field. At length, the general, having listened to everyone’s opinion, shook the ashes from his pipe and delivered the following speech:

‘Gentlemen, I must state that for my own part I am in complete accord with the opinion of the ensign, since his opinion is based on all the rules of sound military tactics, which are almost always in favour of offensive rather than defensive action.’

Here he paused and began to fill his pipe. My self-esteem was triumphant. I cast a proud glance at the officials, who were whispering among themselves with an air of displeasure and anxiety.

‘But, gentlemen,’ he continued, exhaling, together with a deep sigh, a thick cloud of tobacco smoke, ‘I dare not take upon myself so great a responsibility, when the affair involves the safety of the provinces entrusted to me by Her Imperial Majesty, my Most Gracious Sovereign. And so I fall in with the majority vote, which has decided that it would be safer and more sensible to await a siege within the town, and to repel the enemy’s attacks with powerful artillery and if possible by sorties.’

The officials in their turn now glanced scornfully at me. The council dispersed. I could not but regret the weakness of this estimable soldier who, contrary to his own convictions, had decided to follow the advice of ignorant and inexperienced people.

Some days after this memorable council, we learned that Pugachev, true to his promise, was approaching Orenburg. I saw the rebel army from the height of the town wall. It seemed to me that their numbers had increased tenfold since the last assault, which I had witnessed. They now had some pieces of artillery, taken from the small fortresses Pugachev had conquered. Recalling the decision of the council, I foresaw a long confinement within the walls of Orenburg, and nearly wept with vexation.

I will not describe the siege of Orenburg, which belongs to history and has no place in a family memoir. I will merely say that this siege, due to carelessness on the part of the local authorities, was disastrous for the inhabitants, who had to endure hunger and every possible privation. It is easy to imagine how quite unbearable life in Orenburg was. Everyone dejectedly awaited the resolution of his fate; everyone groaned about the high prices, which were indeed terrible. The inhabitants grew accustomed to cannon-balls falling in their courtyards; even Pugachev’s assaults no longer aroused any excitement. I was dying of boredom. Time wore on. I received no letters from the Belogorsky fortress. All the roads were cut off. My separation from Marya Ivanovna was becoming unendurable to me. Uncertainty as to her fate tortured me. My only diversion consisted in reconnoitring outside the town. Thanks to Pugachev, I had a good horse, with which I shared my meagre ration of food and upon which I daily left the town to exchange fire with Pugachev’s horsemen. In these sorties, the advantage was generally with the villains, who were well-fed, had plenty to drink and were well-mounted. The emaciated cavalry from the town was no match for them. On occasions our hungry infantry also went out into the field; but the depth of the snow prevented any successful action against the enemy’s scattered horsemen. The artillery thundered fruitlessly from the height of the rampart and, once in the field, got stuck, since our horses were too weak to pull it. Such was the pattern of our military activity! This was what the Orenburg officials called cautious and sensible!

One day, when we had somehow succeeded in dispersing and driving off a fairly large body of the enemy, I caught up with a Cossack who had fallen behind his comrades. I was about to strike him down with my Turkish sword when he suddenly took off his cap and cried:

‘Greetings, Pyotr Andreitch! How’s God treating you?’

I looked at him and recognised our sergeant. I was delighted beyond words to see him.

‘Greetings, Maximytch,’ I said to him. ‘Is it long since you left Belogorsky?’

‘Not long, Pyotr Andreitch, my dear; I went back there only yesterday. I have a letter for you.’

‘Where is it?’ I cried, crimson with excitement.

‘I have it here,’ answered Maximytch, putting his hand inside his shirt. ‘I promised Palashka that I would get it to you somehow.’

He then gave me a folded piece of paper and immediately galloped off. I opened it and, with a tremor, read the following lines:

‘It has pleased God to deprive me suddenly of both father and mother: I have no relatives or protectors on this earth. I turn to you, knowing that you have always wished me well and that you are ready to help any person. I pray to God that this letter may reach you somehow! Maximytch has promised to deliver it to you. Palashka has also heard from Maximytch that he often sees you from a distance in the sorties, and that you take absolutely no care of yourself and do not thinly of those who pray for you with tears. I was ill for a long time; when I recovered, Alexey Ivanytch, who commands here in place of my late father, forced Father Gerassim to give me up to him, threatening him with Pugachev. I live under guard at our house. Alexey Ivanytch is forcing me to marry him. He says that he saved my life by not exposing Akulina Pamfilovna when she told the villains that I was her niece. But I would rather die than become the wife of such a man as Alexey Ivanytch. He treats me very cruelly and threatens that unless I change my mind and consent, he will take me to the brigands’ camp where, he says, the same will happen to me as happened to Lisaveta Kharlova. I have asked Alexey Ivanytch to give me time to think. He has agreed to wait three days; if I do not marry him in three days’ time, I can expect no mercy from him whatever. My dear Pyotr Andreitch, you are my only protector: save a poor helpless girl! Beseech the general and all the commanders to send us help as soon as possible, and come yourself if you can.

‘I remain your poor, obedient orphan,

‘Marya Mironov’

Having read this letter, I nearly went out of my mind. I started back for the town, spurring on my poor horse without mercy. On the way I devised one plan after another for the rescue of the poor girl, but could settle on nothing. Galloping into the town, I rode straight for the general’s house and rushed headlong up to him.

The general was walking up and down the room, smoking his meerschaum pipe. He stopped when he saw me. He was doubtless struck by my appearance; he anxiously asked after the reason for my hasty arrival.

‘Your Excellency,’ I said to him, ‘I come to you as to my own father. For God’s sake do not refuse me in my request: the happiness of my whole life is involved.’

‘What is it, my dear sir?’ asked the astonished old man.

‘What can I do for you? Tell me.’

‘Your Excellency, allow me to take a company of soldiers and fifty Cossacks, and let me free the Belogorsky fortress.’

The general looked at me intensely, doubtless supposing that I had taken leave of my senses (in which he was not far mistaken).

‘How? Free the Belogorsky fortress?’ he said at last.

‘I guarantee success,’ I replied with ardour. ‘Only let me go.’

‘No, young man,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘At such a great distance, the enemy could easily cut off your communications with the main strategic point, and gain a complete victory over you. Your communications severed . . .’

I became alarmed when I saw that he was about to enter into a military discourse and I hastened to interrupt him.

‘The daughter of Captain Mironov,’ I said, ‘has written me a letter. She asks for help; Shvabrin is forcing her to marry him.’

‘Really? Oh, that Shvabrin is a great rascal, and if he falls into my hands, I’ll have him tried within twenty-four hours, and we’ll shoot him on the fortress parapet! But meanwhile we must have patience . . .’

‘Have patience!’ I cried, beside myself. ‘But meanwhile he marries Marya Ivanovna . . . !’

‘Oh!’ retorted the general. ‘That won’t be such a bad thing. It would be better for her, for the time being, to be Shvabrin’s wife: he could show her his protection; and then, when we shoot him, God willing, suitors will be found for her. Pretty widows don’t stay single for long; I mean, a young widow will find a husband more quickly than an unmarried girl.’

‘I would rather die,’ I said in a fury, ‘than give her up to Shvabrin!’

‘Oho!’ said the old man. ‘Now I understand: it seems that you’re in love with Marya Ivanovna. Oh, that’s quite another matter! Poor fellow! But all the same, I cannot give you a company of soldiers and fifty Cossacks. Such an expedition would be mad; I cannot take the responsibility for it.’

I hung my head; despair took possession of me. Suddenly a thought flashed through my mind: what it was, the reader will discover in the following chapter, as the old-fashioned novelists say.

Chapter Eleven

THE REBEL CAMP

At that time the lion was replete, and, although by nature he is ferocious, He asked kindly: ‘What has pleased you to come to my den?’

(SUMAROKOV)

I left the general and hastened to my own quarters. Savelyitch met me with his customary admonitions.

‘What satisfaction can you get from fighting these drunken outlaws? Is such the occupation of a nobleman? You never know what may happen: you may lose your life for nothing. It would be all right if you were fighting the Turks or the Swedes, but it would be a sin even to mention the lot you’re fighting at the moment!’

I interrupted him with a question: ‘How much money have we got altogether?’

‘There’s enough for you,’ he replied with a satisfied expression. ‘In spite of the rebels’ rummaging about, I managed to hide some.’

And with these words he drew from his pocket a long knitted purse filled with silver.

‘Well, Savelyitch,’ I said to him, ‘give me half of it now, and keep the rest for yourself. I am going to the Belogorsky fortress.’

‘Pyotr Andreitch, my dear!’ said my good old servant in a trembling voice. ‘Have fear of God. How can you travel in times like these, when all the roads are swarming with outlaws! Have pity on your parents, even if you have none for yourself. Where do you want to go? And why? Wait a little while: the troops will soon be here, and they’ll catch the rebels, and then you can go wherever you like.’

But I had fully made up my mind.

‘It’s too late to argue now,’ I answered the old man. ‘I must go; I cannot not go. Don’t grieve, Savelyitch. God is merciful; perhaps we shall see each other again! And don’t have any scruples about the money, but spend it as you will. Buy whatever you want, even if it’s three times as expensive as usual. This money I give to you. If I am not back after three days . . .’

‘What are you saying, master?’ Savelyitch interrupted me. ‘That I should let you go alone! Don’t imagine that. If you have quite decided to go, I will follow you; even if I have to go on foot, I will not leave you. That I should sit behind a stone wall while you are away! Do you suppose that I’ve taken leave of my senses? Do as you please, master, but I’ll not leave you.’

I knew that it was pointless to argue with Savelyitch, and I allowed him to prepare for the journey. Half an hour later, I mounted my good horse and Savelyitch a lean, limping nag, which one of the inhabitants of the town had given to him for nothing, no longer having the means with which to feed it. We reached the gates of the town; the sentries let us through and we left Orenburg.

It was beginning to grow dark. My way led past the village of Berda, one of Pugachev’s haunts. The straight road was covered with snow; but the imprint of horses’ hooves, daily renewed, could be seen all over the steppe. I rode at a fast trot. Savelyitch could scarcely keep up with me, and kept calling out:

‘Slower, master, for God’s sake, slower! My accursed nag cannot keep up with your long-legged devil. What’s the hurry? It would be all very well if we were going to a feast, but we’re more likely going to our deaths. I fear . . . Pyotr Andreitch . . . ! Pyotr Andreitch, my dear . . . ! Don’t destroy me . . . ! Good Lord above, the master’s child will surely perish!’

The lights of Berda soon began to sparkle. We approached the ravines which formed the natural fortifications of the village. Savelyitch was still with me, never ceasing his plaintive entreaties. I was hoping to go round the village without being observed when, suddenly, five peasants, armed with clubs, appeared right in front of me in the darkness. It was the advance guard of Pugachev’s camp. They challenged us. Not knowing the password, I wanted to ride past them without saying a word; but they immediately surrounded me and one of them seized my horse by the bridle. I took hold of my sword and struck the peasant over the head; his cap saved him, but he stumbled and the bridle fell from his hands. The others became confused and fled; I took advantage of this moment, spurred on my horse and galloped off.

The darkness of the approaching night might have saved me from any further danger but, turning round suddenly, I saw that Savelyitch was no longer with me. The poor old man had not been able to gallop away from the brigands on his lame horse. What was I to do? After waiting for a few moments and assuring myself that he really was caught, I turned my horse about and went back to rescue him.

Approaching the ravine, I heard the noise of cries and my Savelyitch’s voice in the distance. I rode faster and soon found myself once more among the peasant sentries who had stopped me a few minutes before. Savelyitch was with them. They had dragged the old man off his nag and were preparing to tie him up. They were delighted at my arrival. They threw themselves upon me with shouts and dragged me off my horse in a twinkling. One of them, apparently the leader, announced that he was going to take us before the Tsar immediately.

‘And our father,’ he added, ‘will be able to decide whether you be hanged now or whether we should wait until dawn.’

I did not resist; Savelyitch followed my example and the sentries led us away in triumph.

We crossed the ravine and entered the village. Lights were burning in all the huts. Noise and shouting resounded everywhere. I met a large number of people in the street; but no-one noticed us in the darkness, and I was not recognised as an officer from Orenburg. We were taken straight to a hut which stood at a corner where two streets met. Several wine-casks and a couple of cannons stood at the gate.

‘Here is the palace,’ ‘said one of the peasants. ‘We’ll announce you immediately.’

He went into the hut. I glanced at Savelyitch; the old man was making the sign of the cross and saying a prayer to himself. I waited for a long time. At last the peasant returned and said to me:

‘Come inside. Our father has given orders for the officer to be taken before him.’

I went into the hut, or the palace as the peasants called it. It was lit by two tallow candles and the walls were covered with gold paper; otherwise, the benches, the table, the hand-basin on a cord, the towel hanging on a nail, the oven-fork in the corner and the wide hearth piled up with cooking-pots – all were the same as in any other cottage. Pugachev was sitting beneath the icons in a red kaftan and a tall cap, his arms importantly akimbo. Several of his chief confederates were standing near him with expressions of feigned servility on their faces. It was evident that the news of the arrival of an officer from Orenburg had aroused considerable curiosity among the rebels, and that they had prepared to meet me with pomp. Pugachev recognised me at first glance. His assumed importance immediately vanished.

‘Ah, your Honour!’ he said to me in a lively way. ‘How are you? What’s brought you here?’

I replied that I was travelling on personal business and that his people had stopped me.

‘And what is your business?’ he asked me.

I did not know how to reply. Pugachev, supposing that I was reluctant to explain myself before witnesses, turned to his comrades and ordered them to leave the room. All obeyed with the exception of two, who did not move from their places.

‘You can say what you like in front of them,’ Pugachev said to me. ‘I keep nothing secret from them.’

I glanced out of the corner of my eye at the pretender’s confidants. One of them, a puny, bent old man with a grey beard had nothing remarkable about him except for a blue ribbon which he wore across the shoulder of his grey overcoat. But in all my life I shall never forget his companion. He was a tall, corpulent, broad-shouldered man who seemed to me to be about forty-five. A thick red beard, brilliant grey eyes, a nose without nostrils and reddish scars upon his forehead and cheeks gave his broad, pockmarked face an indescribable expression. He wore a red shirt, a Kirghiz robe and Cossack trousers. The first (as I afterwards learned) was a deserter, Corporal Beloborodov, the second, Afanassy Sokolov (nick-named Khlopusha), an exiled convict who had three times escaped from the mines in Siberia. Despite the exceptional feelings of agitation that filled my mind, the company in which I so unexpectedly found myself strongly aroused my imagination. But Pugachev brought me to myself by repeating his question:

‘Speak; on what business did you leave Orenburg?’

A strange thought entered my head; it seemed to me that providence, by leading me for a second time to Pugachev, was giving me an opportunity to fulfil my intention. I made up my mind to take advantage of it and, without waiting to consider my decision, I replied to Pugachev’s question:

‘I was going to the Belogorsky fortress to rescue an orphan who is being persecuted there.’

Pugachev’s eyes glittered.

‘Which of my people dares to persecute an orphan?’ he cried. ‘Be he as wise as Solomon, he will not escape my judgement. Speak: who is guilty?’

‘Shvabrin is guilty,’ I replied. ‘He is holding against her will the girl whom you saw ill at the priest’s wife’s, and wishes to marry her by force.’

I’ll show Shvabrin!’ Pugachev said menacingly. ‘He’ll find out what it means to act on his own and persecute the people when I am master. I’ll hang him.’

‘Allow me to say a word,’ said Khlopusha in a hoarse voice. ‘You were in a hurry to appoint Shvabrin as commandant of the fortress, and now you’re in a hurry to hang him. You have already offended the Cossacks by putting them under the authority of a nobleman; do not now alarm the noblemen by hanging them at the first accusation.’

‘They should neither be pitied nor favoured,’ said the old man with the blue ribbon. ‘To hang Shvabrin would be no great misfortune; and neither would it be amiss to give this officer a regular questioning: why has he decided to pay us a call? If he does not acknowledge you as Tsar, he cannot appeal to you for justice; if he does acknowledge you as Tsar, why has he been with your enemies in Orenburg until now? Will you not order him to be taken to the prison-office, and there have a fire prepared for him: I reckon that his Grace has been sent here by the Orenburg commanders.’

The old villain’s logic seemed pretty convincing to me. My flesh began to creep at the thought of whose hands I was in. Pugachev observed my perplexity.

‘Well, your Honour?’ he said to me with a wink. ‘My field-marshal seems to be talking sense. What do you think?’

Pugachev’s mockery gave me back my courage. I replied calmly that I was in his hands, and that he could do with me as he wished.

‘Good,’ said Pugachev. ‘Now tell me, how are things in your town?’

‘Thank God,’ I replied, ‘everything’s all right!’

‘All right?’ repeated Pugachev. ‘With the people dying of hunger!’

The pretender spoke the truth; but from duty to my oath of loyalty, I began to assure him that these were idle rumours, and that there was enough of every sort of provision at Orenburg.

‘See,’ broke in the little old man, ‘he’s deceiving you to your face. All the fugitives unanimously declare that there is famine and sickness in Orenburg, that they’re eating carrion there, and think themselves lucky for that; but his Grace assures us that there is plenty of everything. If you want to hang Shvabrin, then hang this young fellow on the same gallows, and then neither will be jealous of the other.’

The accursed old man’s words seemed to cause Pugachev to hesitate. Fortunately, Khlopusha began to contradict his comrade.

‘That’s enough, Naumitch,’ he said to him. ‘You would do nothing but strangle and cut throats. What sort of a hero are you? To look at you, it’s a mystery what keeps your soul in. You’ve got one foot in the grave yourself, and yet you want to destroy others. Haven’t you enough blood on your conscience?’

‘What sort of a saint are you?’ retorted Beloborodov. ‘Where do you get this compassion from?’

‘Of course, I have sinned, too,’ replied Khlopusha, ‘and this arm’ (he clenched his bony fist and, pushing back his sleeve, revealed a hairy arm)‘. . . and this arm is guilty of shedding much Christian blood. But I have killed my enemy, not my guest; on the highway at the cross-roads or in a dark wood, not at home, sitting behind the stove; with a club or an axe, not with an old woman’s slander.’

The old man turned away and muttered the words:

‘Slit nostrils . . . !’

‘What are you muttering, you old grumbler?’ cried Khlopusha. ‘I’ll give you “slit nostrils”. You wait, your time will come; God willing, you’ll smell the hangman’s pincers . . . And, meanwhile, watch out that I don’t tear your beard off!’

‘Generals!’ said Pugachev haughtily. ‘That’s enough of your quarrelling. It wouldn’t matter if all the Orenburg dogs were hanging, their legs twitching, from the same cross-beam; but it’s a bad thing if our own begin to snap at each other’s throats. Now make it up between yourselves.’

Khlopusha and Beloborodov did not utter a word and looked darkly at one another. I saw the necessity of changing a conversation which could end very unpleasantly for me and, turning to Pugachev, I said to him with a jocular expression:

‘Oh, I almost forgot to thank you for the horse and the sheepskin coat! If it hadn’t been for you, I would never have reached the town, but would have frozen to death on the road.’

My strategy succeeded. Pugachev brightened up.

‘One good turn deserves another,’ he said, winking and screwing up his eye. ‘Tell me now, why are you interested in this girl whom Shvabrin is persecuting? Is she the darling of your young heart, eh?’

‘She is betrothed to me,’ I answered Pugachev, seeing a favourable change in the weather and no longer finding it necessary to conceal the truth.

‘Your betrothed!’ cried Pugachev. ‘Why didn’t you say so before? We’ll marry you and have a feast at your wedding!’

Then, turning to Beloborodov:

‘Listen, field-marshal! His Honour and I are old friends. Let’s sit down and have supper together, and we’ll sleep on it: we shall see what we’ll do with him to-morrow.’

I would gladly have refused the proposed honour, but there was no escaping it. Two young Cossack girls, daughters of the owners of the cottage, covered the table with a white tablecloth, brought in some bread, fish-soup and several bottles of wine and beer, and for the second time I found myself at the same table as Pugachev and his gruesome associates.

The orgy of which I was an involuntary witness lasted far into the night. Finally, intoxication began to overcome the three companions. Pugachev went to sleep, sitting in his place; his comrades stood up and gave me the sign to leave him. I went out with them. On Khlopusha’s orders, a sentry took me to the prison-office, where I found Savelyitch and where we were locked up together. My servant was so stunned by all that had occurred that he did not ask me a single question. He lay down in the dark and sighed and groaned for a long time; at last he began to snore, and I gave myself over to reflections which prevented me from steeping a wink throughout the entire night.

Pugachev summoned me to him the following morning. I went to him. A sledge, drawn by three Tartar horses, stood by the gate. A crowd had gathered in the street. I met Pugachev at the entrance to the cottage; he was dressed for the road, in a fur coat and a Kirghiz cap. His companions of the previous evening stood round him with an appearance of servility which strongly contrasted with all that I had witnessed the evening before. Pugachev greeted me gaily and ordered me to take my seat beside him in the sledge.

We sat down.

‘To the Belogorsky fortress!’ said Pugachev to the broad-shouldered Tartar who was driving the troika.

My heart beat violently. The horses began to move, the little bell pealed and the sledge flew off . . .

‘Stop! Stop!’ cried a voice which was all too familiar to me, and I saw Savelyitch running towards us.

Pugachev ordered the driver to stop.

‘Pyotr Andreitch, my dear!’ cried my old servant. ‘Don’t abandon me in my old age among these ras . . .’

‘You old grumbler!’ Pugachev said to him. ‘So God has ordained that we should meet again. Well, get up on the box.’

‘Thank you, Tsar, thank you, my dear father!’ said Savelyitch as he sat down. ‘May God give you a hundred years of good health for protecting and reassuring me, an old man. All my life I will pray for you, and I’ll never mention the hareskin coat again.’

The reference to the hareskin coat might have made Pugachev extremely angry. Fortunately, the pretender either did not hear or paid no heed to the inapt remark. The horses galloped off; the crowd in the street stopped and bowed low to the pretender, who nodded his head to both sides. A minute later, we had left the village and were racing over the smooth road.

It is easy to imagine what I felt at that moment. Within a few hours I would be seeing her whom I already thought to be lost to me. I imagined the moment of our reunion . . . I also thought of that man in whose hands my fate lay and who, by a strange chain of circumstances, had become mysteriously connected with me. I recalled the thoughtless cruelty and the bloodthirsty habits of the man who had volunteered to rescue my beloved! Pugachev did not know that she was the daughter of Captain Mironov; the enraged Shvabrin might reveal everything to him; Pugachev might discover the truth in some other way . . . And then what would become of Marya Ivanovna? A cold shudder ran through my whole body and my hair stood on end . . .

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

‘What are you so pensive about, your Honour?’

‘How could I be otherwise than pensive?’ I answered him. ‘I am an officer and a nobleman; yesterday I was fighting against you, and to-day I am riding at your side in the same sledge, with the happiness of my whole life depending upon you.’

‘And what of it?’ 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!’ the pretender said. ‘You saw how my men looked askance at you; and this morning the old man again insisted that you were a spy, and said you should be tortured and then hanged. But I did not agree,’ he added, lowering his voice so that Savelyitch and the Tartar should not hear him, ‘since I remembered your glass of wine and the hareskin coat. You see, I’m not as blood-thirsty as your brethren say I am.’

I remembered the taking of the Belogorsky fortress, but I did not consider it necessary to dispute the point and made no reply.

‘What do they say about me at Orenburg?’ asked Pugachev after a pause.

‘They say that it’ll be difficult to get the better of you. There’s no denying, you’ve made yourself felt.’

The pretender’s face expressed satisfied vanity.

‘Yes!’ he said gaily. ‘I don’t fight badly. Do you people in Orenburg know of the battle of Yuzeyeva? Forty generals killed, four armies taken into captivity. What do you think: d’you think the King of Prussia could rival me?’

The brigand’s boasting amused me.

‘What do you think yourself?’ I asked him. ‘D’you think you could beat Frederick?’

‘Fyodor Fyodorovitch? But why not? I’ve beaten your generals and they’ve beaten him. Up to now my arms have been successful. Given time, you’ll see me march on Moscow.’

‘And do you propose to march on Moscow?’

The pretender thought for a while and then said softly;

‘God knows. My scope is limited. My men have got their own ideas. They are robbers. I have to keep a sharp look-out: at the first reverse they’ll save their own heads at the expense of mine.’

‘That’s just it,’ I said to Pugachev. ‘Wouldn’t it be better to cut loose from them, in good time, and then throw yourself on the mercy of the Empress?’

Pugachev smiled bitterly.

‘No,’ he replied. ‘It’s too late for me to repent. There’ll be no mercy for me. I will continue as I have begun. Who knows? Perhaps I’ll succeed. Grishka Otrepyev reigned over Moscow, didn’t he?’

‘But do you know what happened to him in the end? He was thrown from a window, torn to pieces, burned, and his ashes used to fire a cannon!’

‘Listen,’ said Pugachev with a sort of wild inspiration. ‘I’ll tell you a story, which was told to me in my childhood by an old Kalmuck woman. The eagle once asked the raven: “Tell me, raven-bird, how is it that you live in this bright world for three hundred years while I only live for thirty-three in all?” “Because, dear eagle”, the raven answered, “you drink live blood and I live off carrion”. The eagle thought: “I’ll give it a try and live off the same food as the raven.” Very well. Good. The eagle and the raven flew off. After a time they caught sight of a dead horse and they flew down and alighted upon it. The raven began to peck at it and was well pleased. The eagle tasted it once, once more, shook his beak and said to the raven: “No, brother raven, rather than live off carrion for three hundred years, I would prefer to drink live blood, and then trust to God!’ What do you think of the Kalmuck woman’s story?’

‘Ingenious,’ I replied. ‘But in my opinion to live off murder and robbery is the same as pecking at carrion.’

Pugachev looked at me with astonishment and made no reply. We both became silent, each of us absorbed in his own thoughts. The Tartar began to sing a sad song; Savelyitch, dozing, swayed on the box. The sledge flew along the smooth winter road . . . Suddenly I saw a little village on the steep bank of the Yaik, with its palisade and belfry, and a quarter of an hour later we entered the Belogorsky fortress.

Chapter Twelve

THE ORPHAN

As our little young apple-tree

Has neither branches nor a leafy top,

So our young princess

Has neither father nor mother.

No one to prepare her for life,

No one to bless her.

WEDDING SONG

The sledge drew up in front of the commandant’s house. The people had recognised Pugachev’s little bell and ran after us in a crowd. Shvabrin met the pretender on the steps. He was dressed as a Cossack and had grown a beard. The traitor helped Pugachev to climb down from the sledge, expressing, in abject terms, his delight and zeal. On seeing me, he became confused; but, quickly recovering himself, he stretched out his hand and said:

‘Are you one of us? About time, too!’

I turned away from him and made no reply.

My heart ached when we found ourselves in the long familiar room where the diploma of the late commandant still hung on the wall as a sad epitaph of the past. Pugachev sat down on the same sofa on which Ivan Kuzmitch, lulled by the scolding of his wife, used to doze. Shvabrin himself brought some vodka. Pugachev drained his glass and, pointing at me, he said:

‘Pour his Honour a glass, too.’

Shvabrin approached me with his tray; but for the second time I turned away from him. He did not seem to be himself. With his usual intelligence, he had of course guessed that Pugachev was not pleased with him. He cowered before him and glanced at me distrustfully. Pugachev made enquiries about the situation in the fortress, about reports concerning the enemy’s troops and so on and then, suddenly and unexpectedly, he said:

‘Tell me, brother, who is this young girl you’ve got locked up here? Show her to me.’

Shvabrin went as pale as death.

‘Tsar,’ he said in a trembling voice, ’. . . she is not locked up . . . she is ill . . . she is in bed.’

‘Take me to her,’ the pretender said, getting up from his place.

To refuse was impossible. Shvabrin led Pugachev to Marya Ivanovna’s bedroom. I followed them.

Shvabrin stopped on the stairway.

‘Tsar!’ he said. ‘You have power to ask of me what you wish; but do not order a stranger to enter my wife’s bedroom.’ I shuddered.

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

‘Silence!’ interrupted Pugachev. ‘This is my affair. And you,’ he continued, turning to Shvabrin, ‘stop trying to be smart and putting on all these airs and graces. Whether she’s your wife or not, I take whoever I wish. Your Honour, follow me.’

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

‘Tsar, I should warn you that she is delirious and has been raving incessantly for the last three days.’

‘Open the door!’ said Pugachev.

Shvabrin began to search through his pockets and said that he had not brought the key up with him. Pugachev kicked the door with his foot; the lock gave way; the door opened and we entered the room.

I looked and was struck dumb with horror. On the floor, in a tattered peasant’s dress, sat Marya Ivanovna, pale, thin, her hair dishevelled. Before her stood a pitcher of water covered with a piece of bread. Seeing me, she started and cried out. I do not remember what I felt at that moment.

Pugachev looked at Shvabrin and said with an ironical smile:

‘A nice hospital you’ve got here!’ Then, going up to Marya Ivanovna: ‘Tell me, my dear, what is your husband punishing you for? In what way have you offended him?’

‘My husband!’ she repeated. ‘He’s not my husband. I will never be his wife! I would rather die, and I will die, unless I am delivered.’

Pugachev looked menacingly at Shvabrin.

‘And you dared to deceive me!’ he said to him. ‘Do you know, you scoundrel, what you deserve?’

Shvabrin fell on his knees . . . At that moment contempt stifled within me all feelings of hate and anger. The sight of a nobleman at the feet of a fugitive Cossack filled me with disgust. Pugachev softened.

‘I’ll forgive you this time,’ he said to Shvabrin, ‘but the next time you commit an offence, I shall take this into account.’

He then turned to Marya Ivanovna and said to her kindly:

‘Go, my pretty girl; I give you your freedom. I am the Tsar.’

Marya Ivanovna glanced quickly at him and guessed that the murderer of her parents stood before her. She covered her eyes with both her hands and fell senseless to the ground. I rushed up to her; but at that moment my old friend Palashka very boldly entered the room and began to attend to her young mistress. Pugachev left the room, and the three of us went down into the drawing-room.

‘Well, your Honour!’ Pugachev said, laughing. ‘We have rescued the fair maiden! What do you say to sending for the priest and having him marry you to his niece! If you like, I’ll be her father by proxy and Shvabrin can be best man, and then we shall feast and drink without allowing ourselves to be disturbed!’

What I had feared now occurred. Shvabrin, on hearing Pugachev’s suggestion, went out of his mind with fury.

‘Tsar!’ he cried in a frenzy. ‘I am guilty; I have lied to you; but Grinev has also deceived you. The girl is not the local priest’s niece; she is the daughter of Ivan Mironov, who was hanged at the capture of the fortress.’

Pugachev fixed me with his fiery eyes.

‘What does this mean?’ he asked, perplexed.

‘Shvabrin has told you the truth,’ I replied firmly.

‘You did not tell me,’ remarked Pugachev, whose face became clouded.

‘Judge for yourself,’ I answered him: ‘could I have declared in front of your men that Captain Mironov’s daughter was still alive? They would have torn her to pieces. Nothing would have saved her!’

‘That’s true enough!’ said Pugachev, laughing. ‘My drunkards would not have spared the poor girl. My good friend, the priest’s wife, did well to hoodwink them.’

‘Listen,’ I continued, seeing that he was in a good mood. ‘I don’t know what to call you, and I don’t wish to know . . . But God is my witness that I would gladly repay you with my life for what you have done for me. Only do not demand of me anything which is against my honour or my Christian conscience. You are my benefactor. End as you have begun: let me go away with that poor orphan wherever God may lead us. And wherever you may be and whatever may happen to you, we will pray every day for the salvation of your sinful soul . . .’

It seemed that Pugachev’s harsh soul had been touched.

‘All right, as you say!’ he said. ‘Either punish or pardon — one or the other: that’s my custom. Take your beauty with you: take her where you want and may God give you love and advice!’

Then he turned to Shvabrin and ordered him to give me a safe-conduct for all the outposts and fortresses that were subject to his command. Shvabrin, utterly defeated, stood as if turned to stone. Pugachev set off to inspect the fortress. Shvabrin accompanied him; I remained behind under the pretext of wishing to prepare for my departure.

I ran up to Marya Ivanovna’s bedroom. The door was locked. I knocked.

‘Who’s there?’ asked Palashka.

I pronounced my name. The gentle voice of Marya Ivanovna was heard from behind the door. ‘Wait, Pyotr Andreitch. I am changing my dress. Go to Akulina Pamfilovna’s; I’ll be there presently.’

I obeyed her and went to the house of Father Gerassim. He and his wife ran out to meet me. Savelyitch had already warned them of my coming.

‘Greetings, Pyotr Andreitch,’ said the priest’s wife. ‘So God has ordained that we should meet again. How are you? There hasn’t been a day we haven’t talked about you. And Marya Ivanovna, poor soul, what she has had to endure without you . . . ! But tell me, my dear, how you manage to get on so well with Pugachev? Why hasn’t he done away with you? That’s something to be thankful to the villain for.’

‘That’s enough chatter, mother,’ interrupted Father Gerassim. ‘Don’t bubble over with everything you know. There’s no salvation in too much talking. Pyotr Andreitch, my dear, come in, I beg of you! It’s a long, long time since we’ve seen each other.’

The priest’s wife gave me to eat all the food she had in the house. In the meantime she talked incessantly. She related to me how Shvabrin had forced them to hand over Marya Ivanovna to him; how Marya Ivanovna had wept and had not wished to be parted from them; how Marya Ivanovna had kept in constant touch with them through Palashka (a quick-witted girl who had made the sergeant dance to her tune); how she had advised Marya Ivanovna to write a letter to me, and so on. I in my turn briefly related my tale. The priest and his wife crossed themselves when they heard that Pugachev knew of their deception.

‘The strength of the Cross is with us!’ said Akulina Pamfilovna. ‘May God let the cloud pass over. Well done, Alexey Ivanytch! He’s a fine fellow and no mistake!’

At the same moment the door opened and Marya Ivanovna entered the room with a smile on her pale face. She had taken off her peasant’s dress and was attired, as before, simply and charmingly.

I seized her hand and for a long time could not utter a single word. We were both silent from fullness of heart. Our hosts felt that they were not wanted and left us. We were alone. Everything else was forgotten. We talked and talked and could not say enough. Marya Ivanovna related to me all that had happened to her since the taking of the fortress; she described to me the full horror of her position, and all the ordeals she had suffered at the hands of the odious Shvabrin. We recalled former happy times . . . We were both weeping . . . Finally, I began to tell her of my proposals. For her to remain at the fortress that was subject to Pugachev but under the command of Shvabrin, was impossible. So was the idea of going to Orenburg, which was then enduring all the privations of siege. She had not a single relative in the world. I suggested that she should go to my parents in their village. At first she hesitated; she was afraid, knowing of my father’s disapproval. I allayed her anxiety. I knew that my father would consider it both a pleasure and a duty to take in the daughter of a distinguished soldier who had been killed in the service of his country.

‘Dear Marya Ivanovna!’ I said to her finally. ‘I look upon you as my wife. Miraculous circumstances have united us for ever: nothing on earth can separate us.’

Marya Ivanovna listened to me simply, with no false modesty or fanciful pretence. She felt that her fate was tied to mine. But she repeated that under no circumstances would she become my wife without the consent of my parents. I did not oppose her. We kissed passionately, sincerely – and in this way everything was decided between us.

An hour later, the sergeant brought me my safe-conduct, signed with Pugachev’s scrawl, and told me that Pugachev wished to see me. I found him ready to set off on his journey. I cannot describe what I felt on parting from this terrible man, this outcast, this villain to all but myself alone. Why not speak the truth? At that moment, I felt strongly drawn to him. I fervently wished to take him away from the environment of the criminals he commanded, and to save his head while there was still time. Shvabrin and the people who crowded round us prevented me from expressing all that filled my heart.

We parted friends. Pugachev, seeing Akulina Pamfilovna in the crowd, raised a threatening finger at her and winked significantly; he then took his seat in the sledge, ordered the driver to make for Berda and, as the horse began to move, leaned once more out of the sledge and cried out to me:

‘Farewell, your Honour! Perhaps we’ll meet again some-time.’

Indeed we did see each other again, but in what circumstances!

Pugachev was gone. For a long time I stood gazing at the white steppe over which his troika glided away. The crowd dispersed. Shvabrin disappeared. I returned to the priest’s house. Everything was prepared for our departure; I did not wish to delay any longer. All our belongings had been packed into the commandant’s old carriage. The drivers harnessed the horses in a flash. Marya Ivanovna went to say farewell to 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. She returned a few minutes later, silently weeping. The carriage was drawn up. Father Gerassim and his wife came out on to the steps. The three of us – Marya Ivanovna, Palashka and I – took our seats inside. Savelyitch climbed up on to the box.

‘Good-bye, Marya Ivanovna, my little darling! Good-bye, Pyotr Andreitch, my dear!’ said the kind priest’s wife. ‘A good journey, and may God give happiness to you both.’

We set off. I saw Shvabrin standing at the little window of the commandant’s house. His face expressed gloom and wickedness. I had no wish to triumph over a defeated enemy and turned my eyes in another direction. At last we passed through the fortress gates and left the Belogorsky fortress for the last time.

Chapter Thirteen

THE ARREST

Do not be angry, Sir; according to my duty

I must send you to prison at this very moment.

As you please, I am ready; but I hope

That you will allow me to have my say first.

(KNYAZHNIN)

United so unexpectedly with the dear girl about whom I had been so desperately worried that very morning, I could not trust myself and imagined that everything that had happened to me was an empty dream. Marya Ivanovna gazed pensively, now at me, now at the road, and it seemed that she had not yet fully come to herself. We were silent. Our hearts were too tired. The time slipped by unnoticed, and a couple of hours later we found ourselves at the next fortress, which was also held by Pugachev. Here we changed horses. The speed with which they were harnessed and the servile helpfulness of the bearded Cossack who had been put in command of the fortress by Pugachev, showed that, thanks to our driver’s loquacity, I was welcomed as one of their master’s more powerful favourites.

We set off again. Dusk was beginning to fall. We drew near to a small town where, according to the bearded commandant, we would find a strong detachment on its way to join the pretender. We were stopped by the sentries. To the challenge: ‘Who goes there?’ the driver replied in a loud voice: ‘A friend of the Tsar with his wife.’

Suddenly a crowd of Hussars surrounded us, uttering the most terrible curses.

‘Come out, friend of the devil!’ said the moustached sergeant to me. ‘We’ll make things pretty hot for you and your little wife!’

I stepped down from the sledge and demanded to be taken to their commanding officer. On seeing an officer, the soldiers stopped swearing. The sergeant took me to the major. Savelyitch never left my side, muttering to himself:

‘So much for your being a friend of the Tsar! Out of the frying pan into the fire . . . Good heavens above, how will all this end?’

The sledge followed us at walking pace.

Five minutes later, we arrived at a small, brightly-lit house. The sergeant left me under guard and went in to announce me. He returned at once and informed me that his Excellency had no time to see me, but had ordered that I be taken to the prison, and my wife to him.

‘What does this mean?’ I exclaimed in a rage. ‘Has he gone out of his mind?’

‘I don’t know, your Honour,’ replied the sergeant. ‘Only his Excellency ordered that your Honour should be taken to prison, and that her Honour be brought to his Excellency, your Honour!’

I dashed up the steps. The guards did not think of holding me back and I ran straight into the room where six Hussar officers were playing cards. The major was dealing. Imagine my astonishment when, glancing up at him, I recognised Ivan Ivanovitch Zurin, who had once fleeced me at the Simbirsk inn!

‘Is it possible?’ I cried. ‘Ivan Ivanytch! Is it really you?’

‘Well, well, well! Pyotr Andreitch! What good wind brings you here? How are you, brother? Would you care to join in the game?’

‘Thank you, but I would rather you gave orders for quarters to be found for me.’

‘What do you want with quarters? Stay with me.’

‘I cannot; I am not alone.’

‘Well, bring your comrade along too.’

‘I am not with a comrade; I am . . . with a lady.’

‘With a lady! Where did you pick her up? Aha, brother!’

With these words Zurin whistled so expressively that everyone burst out laughing, and I became thoroughly confused.

‘Well,’ continued Zurin, ‘so be it. You shall have quarters. But it’s a pity . . . We might have had a spree as before . . . Hey, boy! Why don’t they bring along Pugachev’s lady friend? Or is she being obstinate? Tell her that there’s nothing to be frightened about, that the gentleman’s very nice and won’t harm her – and then bring her in by the scruff of her neck.’

‘What are you saying?’ I said to Zurin. ‘What lady friend of Pugachev’s? It is the daughter of the late Captain Mironov. I rescued her from captivity and am now taking her to my father’s village where I shall leave her.’

‘What! So it was you who was announced just now? Gracious me, what does this mean?’

I’ll tell you later. But now, for God’s sake, set the poor girl at rest. Your Hussars have frightened her out of her wits.’

Zurin immediately made the necessary arrangements. He went out into the street himself to apologist to Marya Ivanovna for the involuntary misunderstanding, and ordered the sergeant to take her to the best quarters in the town. I stayed to spend the night with him.

We had supper, and when we were alone together, I told him of my adventures. Zurin listened most attentively.

When I had finished, he shook his head and said:

‘That’s all very well, brother. One thing is not, however: why the devil do you want to get married? As an officer and a man of honour, I have no wish to deceive you, but take it from me that marriage is all rubbish. Why take on all the trouble of a wife and be for ever fussing over children? Have done with the scheme. Listen to me: rid yourself of this captain’s daughter. I have cleared the road to Simbirsk and it’s now quite safe. Send her off on her own to your parents to-morrow, and you yourself stay in my detachment. There’s no reason why you should go back to Orenburg. If you fall into the rebels’ hands again, you might not be able to get away from them so easily a second time. In this way your foolish infatuation will die of its own accord and all will be well.’

Although I did not altogether agree with him, I did feel that duty and honour demanded my presence in the Empress’s army. I decided to follow Zurin’s advice: to send Marya Ivanovna to my father’s village, and myself to stay on in his detachment.

Savelyitch came in to help me undress. I told him to be ready the next day to continue the journey with Marya Ivanovna. He began to hedge.

‘What, master? Why should I desert you? Who’s going to look after you? What will your parents say?’

Knowing how obstinate my servant was, I decided to persuade him by kindness and sincerity.

‘My dear friend, Arkhip Savelyitch,’ I said to him, ‘do not refuse me, but be my benefactor. I shall not need a servant here and I would not feel easy if Marya Ivanovna were to continue her journey without you. By serving her, you will be serving me, since I have firmly resolved to marry her as soon as circumstances allow it.’

At this Savelyitch threw up his arms with a look of indescribable astonishment.

‘To marry!’ he repeated. ‘The child wants to marry. But what will your father say, and what will your mother think?’

‘They will give their consent, they will give their consent for sure,’ I replied, ‘when they know Marya Ivanovna. But I rely upon you. My father and mother have confidence in you. You will put in a good word for us, won’t you?’

The old man was touched.

‘Oh, Pyotr Andreitch, my dear,’ he replied, ‘although it’s early for you to start thinking of marriage, Marya Ivanovna is such a good young lady that it’d be a sin to miss the opportunity. Let it be as you wish! I will accompany her, the angel, and tell your parents respectfully that such a bride does not need a dowry.’

I thanked Savelyitch and lay down to sleep in the same room as Zurin. My mind was in a state of great turmoil and I began to chatter. Zurin was willing enough to converse with me at first; gradually, however, his words became less frequent and more disconnected; finally, instead of replying to one of my questions, he began to snore and make whistling noises. I stopped talking and soon fell asleep myself.

I went round to Marya Ivanovna the following morning. I informed her of my proposals. She admitted their good sense and at once agreed with me. Zurin’s detachment was to leave the town that same day. There was no time to be lost. I said goodbye to Marya Ivanovna there and then, entrusting her to the care of Savelyitch and giving her a letter to my parents. Marya Ivanovna burst into tears.

‘Good-bye, Pyotr Andreitch!’ she said in a soft voice. ‘Whether we shall get the chance to see each other again, God alone knows, but never in my life shall I forget you; till my dying day, you alone shall remain in my heart.’

I could not reply to her. We were surrounded by people. I did not wish to give way before them to the feelings that agitated me. Finally she departed. I returned to Zurin, silent and dejected. He tried to cheer me up, and I was in need of distraction: we spent the rest of the day in noisy and riotous fashion, and set out on our march in the evening.

It was now near the end of February. Winter, which had made military operations difficult, was drawing to its close, and our generals were preparing for concerted action. Pugachev was still besieging Orenburg. Meanwhile, our detachments were joining forces around him and moving in on the villains’ nest from all sides. The rebellious villages were restored to obedience at the sight of our troops; brigand bands everywhere fled from us, and everything gave promise of a speedy and successful conclusion of the campaign.

Shortly afterwards, Prince Golitsyn defeated Pugachev beneath the walls of the fortress of Tatishcheva, dispersed his followers, relieved Orenburg and, it seemed, struck the final and decisive blow to the rebellion. Around this time Zurin was sent out against a band of rebellious Bashkirs, who dispersed before we ever reached them. Spring found us in a little Tartar village. Rivers overflowed and roads became impassable. We consoled ourselves in our inaction with the thought that this tedious and trivial war against brigands and savages would soon come to an end.

But Pugachev had not been captured. He showed up in the industrial areas of Siberia, where he collected fresh bands of rebels and again began to perpetrate his acts of villainy. Once more reports of his successes were spread abroad. We heard of the destruction of the Siberian fortresses. Soon, news of the capture of Kazan and the pretender’s intention to march on Moscow alarmed the army leaders, who had been slumbering in the carefree hope that the despised rebel was utterly powerless. Zurin received orders to cross the Volga.

I will not describe our campaign and the conclusion of the war. I will only say that the distress became extreme. We passed through villages laid waste by the rebels, and had of necessity to requisition from their poor inhabitants what they had somehow succeeded in saving. Administration everywhere came to a stop. The landowners hid themselves in the forests. Bands of brigands ransacked the countryside; commanders of individual detachments punished and pardoned as the fancy took them; the condition of the whole vast area where the conflagration raged was terrible . . . God forbid that we should ever see a Russian rebellion — so senseless and merciless – again!

Pugachev was in flight and being pursued by Ivan Ivanovitch Mikhelson. We soon heard of his complete defeat. At last Zurin received news of the capture of the pretender and, with it, the order to halt. The war was over. At last I could go to my parents! The thought of embracing them and of seeing Marya Ivanovna, of whom I had received no news at all, filled me with delight. I danced about like a child. Zurin laughed and said with a shrug of the shoulders:

‘No, you’ll come to a bad end! Once married, you’re lost!’

But in the meantime a strange feeling poisoned my joy: the thought of the villain, smeared with the blood of so many innocent victims, and of the execution awaiting him, involuntarily troubled me.

‘Yemelya, Yemelya,’ I thought with vexation, ‘why didn’t you throw yourself on a bayonet, or get hit by grape-shot? It would have been the best thing you could have done.’

How could I think otherwise? The thought of him was inseparable from the thought of the mercy he had shown to me at one of the most terrible moments of his life, and of the deliverance of my bride from the hands of the hateful Shvabrin.

Zurin granted me leave of absence. In a few days I would be among my family again, would be seeing Marya Ivanovna once more . . . An unexpected storm suddenly burst upon me.

On the day appointed for my departure, at the very moment I was preparing to start on my journey, Zurin came to me in my quarters, holding a paper in his hand and looking exceedingly troubled. Something pricked my heart. I was frightened without knowing why. He sent my orderly away and announced that he had something to tell me.

‘What is it?’ I asked anxiously.

‘A minor unpleasantness,’ he replied, handing me the paper. ‘Read what I have just received.’

I began to read it: it was a secret order to all detachment commanders to arrest me, wherever I might be, and to send me at once under guard to Kazan, to the committee of inquiry established to investigate the Pugachev Rising.

The paper nearly fell from my hands.

‘It can’t be helped!’ said Zurin. ‘My duty is to obey orders. No doubt reports of your friendly journeys with Pugachev have somehow reached the authorities. I hope that the affair will have no serious consequences and that you will be able to clear yourself before the committee. Don’t be depressed, and set off at once.’

My conscience was clear; I had no fear of the tribunal, but the thought of deferring, perhaps for several months, the sweet moment of my reunion with Marya Ivanovna daunted me. The cart was ready. Zurin bade me a friendly farewell. I took my seat. Beside me as I drove off along the high road sat two Hussars with drawn swords.

Chapter Fourteen

THE TRIBUNAL

Popular rumour is like a sea-wave.

PROVERB

I was convinced that my unwarranted absence from Orenburg was the only reason for my arrest. I could easily justify myself: sallying out against the enemy had not only never been forbidden, but had even been most forcefully encouraged. I could be accused of excessive rashness, but not of disobedience. My friendly relations with Pugachev, however, could be proved by a number of witnesses and would appear, at the very least, extremely suspicious. Throughout the whole of the journey I thought of the interrogation that was awaiting me and considered the answers that I should make, and resolved to tell the complete truth at the tribunal, believing that this would be the simplest and, at the same time, the surest means of justification.

I arrived in Kazan, which had been devastated and set on fire. Instead of houses, one saw heaps of burnt wood and blackened walls without roofs or windows. Such were the traces left by Pugachev! I was conducted to the fortress, which had remained intact in the midst of the burnt-out town. The Hussars handed me over to the officer of the guard. He ordered a blacksmith to be sent for. Chains were put round my legs and shackled tightly together. I was then taken to the prison and left alone in a narrow, dark cell with blank walls and a small iron-barred window.

Such a beginning did not augur well for me. However, I lost neither courage nor hope. I had recourse to the consolation of all those in affliction, and, after having tasted the sweetness of prayer for the first time, poured out from a pure but tortured heart, I fell into a peaceful sleep, not caring about what might happen to me.

The next morning the gaoler awoke me with the announcement that my presence was required at the committee of inquiry. Two soldiers conducted me through the courtyard to the commandant’s house and, stopping in the front hall, sent me into the inner room on my own.

I entered a fairly large room. At a table, which was covered with papers, sat two men: an elderly general, who looked cold and severe, and a young captain of the Guards of about twenty-eight, with a very pleasant appearance and a free and easy manner. At a separate table near a little window sat a secretary with a pen behind his ear, bent over a piece of paper, ready to record my evidence.

The interrogation began. I was asked my name and profession. The general enquired whether I was the son of Andrey Petrovitch Grinev. To my reply, he retorted sternly:

‘A pity that such a worthy man should have such an unworthy son!’

I replied calmly that whatever the accusations levelled against me might be, I hoped to refute them by a frank expression of the truth. My assurance did not please him.

‘You are sharp, my friend,’ he said to me, frowning, ‘but we’ve seen your type before!’

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

I replied indignantly that, as an officer and a nobleman, I could never have entered Pugachev’s service, or accepted any missions from him.

‘How is it then,’ retorted my interrogator, ‘that this nobleman and officer was the only one to be spared by the pretender, when all his comrades were villainously murdered? How is it that this same officer and nobleman feasted with the rebels as a friend and received presents – a sheepskin coat, a horse and half a rouble – from the leader of the rebels? How did such a strange friendship come about and on what was it founded, if not on treachery or, at least, on base and criminal cowardice?’

I was deeply offended by the words of the officer of the Guards and heatedly began to justify myself. I related how my acquaintanceship with Pugachev had begun in the steppe, at the time of the storm; how, at the capture of the Belogorsky fortress, he had recognised me and spared me. I admitted that I had no scruples about accepting the sheepskin coat and the horse from the pretender; but I also said that I had defended the Belogorsky fortress against the villain to the last extremity. Finally I referred to my general, who could testify to my zeal at the time of the calamitous siege of Orenburg.

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

‘In answer to your Excellency’s inquiry concerning Ensign Grinev, who is accused of being involved in the present disturbance and of entering into communication with the villain, contrary to the regulations of the Service and the oath of allegiance, I have the honour to say that the same Ensign Grinev was in service at Orenburg from the beginning of October of last year, 1773 until 24th February of this present year, on which date he absented himself from the town, and since then has not appeared again under my command. It was heard from some deserters that he was in Pugachev’s camp and that he went with him to the Belogorsky fortress, where he had been garrisoned before. As regards his conduct, I can only . . .’

Here he broke off his reading and said to me severely: ‘What do you say for yourself now in justification?’

I was about to continue as I had begun and explain my connection with Marya Ivanovna as openly as the rest of what I had said. Suddenly, however, I felt an overwhelming revulsion. It occurred to me that if I mentioned her by name, the committee would demand her appearance at the inquiry; and the thought of involving her name with the hateful denunciations of the villains and of herself being obliged to confront them – this terrible thought so appalled me that I faltered in my speech and became confused.

My judges, who seemed at first to listen to my answers with a certain good-will, again became prejudiced against me at the sight of my confusion. The officer of the Guards demanded that I be brought face to face with my principal accuser. The general gave orders for ‘yesterday’s villain’ to be brought in. I turned quickly towards the door, awaiting the appearance of my accuser. A few minutes later, to the rattling of chains, the door opened and into the room came – Shvabrin. I was astonished at the change in his appearance. He was terribly thin and pale. His hair, not so long ago as black as soot, was now quite grey; his long beard was tousled. He repeated his accusations in a weak but determined voice. According to him, I had been sent by Pugachev as a spy to Orenburg; every day, I would ride out on sallies with the purpose of transmitting written information about all that had occurred in the town; finally, I had openly gone over to the pretender, had accompanied him from fortress to fortress, trying to bring about the ruin of my fellow-traitors so as to take over their positions and profit by the rewards handed out by the pretender.

I listened to him in silence and was pleased at one thing alone: the name of Marya Ivanovna had not been mentioned by the odious villain, either because his vanity could not bear the thought of one who had spurned him with contempt, or because there lay hidden in his heart a spark of the same feeling which had forced me to keep silent – whichever it was, the name of the daughter of the commandant of the Belogorsky fortress was not uttered in the presence of the committee. I became still more confirmed in my intention to keep her name out of the proceedings, and when the judges asked me what I had to say in refutation of Shvabrin’s evidence, I replied that I was sticking to my original statement and had nothing further to say in justification of myself.

The general ordered us to be taken away. We left the room together. I glanced calmly at Shvabrin but did not say a word to him. He smiled maliciously at me and, lifting up his chains, hastened past me. I was taken back to the prison and was not required for a further interrogation.

I was not a witness to all that now remains for me to tell the reader; but I have heard it related so often that the smallest details are engraved upon my memory, and it seems to me as if I had been invisibly present.

Marya Ivanovna was received by my parents with that sincere hospitality which distinguished people of a past age. They regarded it as a divine blessing that they had been afforded the opportunity of sheltering and giving a warm welcome to the poor orphan. They soon became sincerely attached to her, since it was impossible to know her and not love her. My love no longer appeared as mere folly to my father, and my mother wished for only one thing – that her Petrusha should marry the captain’s pretty daughter.

The news of my arrest came as a shock to my family. Marya Ivanovna had related the story of my friendship with Pugachev so simply to my parents, that not only had they not worried, but had even often been forced to laugh, about the whole affair. My father would not believe that I had been involved in the infamous rebellion, whose aim it was to overthrow the throne and exterminate the nobles. He questioned Savelyitch closely. My servant did not conceal the fact that I had been a guest of Yemelyan Pugachev and that the villain had shown me favour; but he swore that he had heard no word of any treason. My old parents were reassured and impatiently began to await favourable news. Marya Ivanovna was greatly alarmed, however, but she kept silent, for she was given in the highest degree to modesty and prudence.

Several weeks passed. Then, suddenly, my father received a letter from our relative in Petersburg, Prince B**. The prince wrote to him about me. After the usual compliments, he informed him that the suspicions concerning my participation in the rebels’ designs had unhappily proved to be only too well-founded, that capital punishment would have been meted out to me as an example to others had not the Empress, in consideration of my father’s faithful services and declining years, decided to spare his criminal son and, commuting the ignominious death sentence, to exile him to a remote part of Siberia for life.

This unexpected blow nearly killed my father. He lost his customary strength of character and his grief (normally silent) poured out in bitter complaints.

‘What!’ he used to repeat, beside himself. ‘My son participated in Pugachev’s designs! Blessed Lord, that I should have lived to see this! The Empress spares him from the death penalty! Does that make it any better for me? It’s not the death sentence that’s so terrible: my great-grandfather’s grandfather died upon the scaffold in defence of that which his conscience regarded as sacred; my father suffered together with Volynsky and Khrushchev. But that a nobleman should betray his oath of allegiance, should associate with brigands, with murderers and fugitive serfs . . . ! Shame and disgrace upon our name . . . !’

Frightened by his despair, my mother did not dare to weep in his presence and tried to cheer him up by speaking of the uncertainty of rumour and the unreliability of other people’s opinions. My father was inconsolable.

Marya Ivanovna suffered more than anybody. Being certain that I could have justified myself if only I had wished, she guessed at the truth and held herself responsible for my misfortune. She concealed her tears and suffering from everyone, all the while thinking of means by which to save me.

One evening my father was sitting on the sofa, turning the pages of the Court Calendar; but his thoughts were far away, and the reading of the Calendar did not produce its usual effect upon him. He was whistling an old march. My mother was silently knitting a woollen vest, and from time to time a tear would drop on to her work. Of a sudden, Marya Ivanovna, who was also in the room, sitting at her work, declared that it was absolutely essential that she should go to Petersburg, and she begged my parents to provide her with the means to do so. My mother was very upset.

‘Why do you want to go to Petersburg?’ she said. ‘Can it be, Marya Ivanovna, that you too wish to forsake us?’

Marya Ivanovna replied that her whole future depended upon this journey and that she was going in search of protection and help from influential people, as the daughter of a man who had suffered for his loyalty.

My father lowered his head: every word that reminded him of the alleged crime of his son was hurtful to him and seemed as a bitter reproach.

‘Go, my dear!’ he said to her with a sigh. ‘We don’t want to stand in the way of your happiness. God grant you an honest man for a husband, and not a discredited traitor.’

He stood up and left the room.

Marya Ivanovna, left alone with my mother, in part explained her plan. My mother embraced her with tears and prayed for the successful outcome of her scheme. Marya Ivanovna was fitted out and, a few days later, she set out on her journey with the faithful Palashka and the faithful Savelyitch who, forcibly separated from me, consoled himself with the thought that at least he was serving my betrothed.

Marya Ivanovna arrived safely at Sofia and, learning that the Court was then at Tsarskoye Selo, she resolved to stop there. A small recess behind a partition was assigned to her at the posting-station. The station-master’s wife immediately fell into conversation with her and informed her that she was the niece of one of the stove-tenders at the Court, and initiated her into all the mysteries of Court life. She told her at what hour the Empress usually awoke, when she drank her coffee and when she went out for a walk; which great lords were then with her; what she had been pleased to say at table the previous day; whom she had received in the evening – in a word, Anna Vlassyevna’s conversation was worth several pages of historical memoirs and would have been a precious contribution to posterity.

Marya Ivanovna listened to her attentively. They went into the grounds of the Palace. Anna Vlassyevna told her the story of every alley and every little bridge and, having strolled about as long as they wished, they returned to the posting-station, very pleased with each other.

Early the next morning, Marya Ivanovna woke, dressed and went quietly into the Palace grounds. It was a beautiful morning; the sun lit up the tops of the linden trees, already turning yellow under the cool breath of autumn. The broad lake glittered motionlessly. The swans, only just awake, came sailing majestically out from under the bushes which overhung the banks. Marya Ivanovna walked towards a beautiful lawn where a monument had just been erected in honour of Count Pyotr Alexandrovitch Rumyantsev’s recent victories. Suddenly a little white dog of English breed ran barking up towards her. Alarmed, Marya Ivanovna stopped in her tracks. At the same moment she heard a pleasant female voice saying:

‘Don’t be frightened; she won’t bite.’

And Marya Ivanovna saw a lady sitting on the bench opposite the monument. Marya Ivanovna sat down at the other end of the bench. The lady looked at her intently; Marya Ivanovna, in her turn, by throwing several sidelong glances, managed to examine her from head to foot. She was wearing a white morning-gown, a night-cap and a jacket. She seemed to be about forty. Her full, rosy face expressed dignity and calm, and her blue eyes and slight smile had indescribable charm. The lady was the first to break the silence.

‘Doubtless you are a stranger here?’ she said.

‘Yes, ma’am. I only arrived here yesterday from the country.’

‘You came with your parents?’

‘No, ma’am, I came alone.’

‘Alone! But you are still so young.’

‘I have neither father nor mother.’

‘I presume you’re here on some business or other?’

‘Yes, ma’am. I have come to present a petition to the Empress.’

‘You are an orphan: I imagine you’re complaining of some injustice or injury?’

‘No, ma’am. I have come to ask for mercy, and not justice.’

‘May I ask who you are?’

‘I am the daughter of Captain Mironov.’

‘Of Captain Mironov! The same who was commandant of one of the Orenburg fortresses?’

‘The same, ma’am.’

The lady was apparently moved.

‘Forgive me,’ she said in a still kinder voice, ‘for interfering in your affairs, but I am often at Court. Tell me the content of your petition and I may be able to help you.’

Marya Ivanovna rose and thanked her respectfully. Everything about the unknown lady involuntarily attracted her and inspired her confidence. Marya Ivanovna drew a folded paper from her pocket and handed it to her anonymous protectress, who began to read it to herself.

At first she read with an attentive and benevolent expression; but suddenly her face changed, and Marya Ivanovna, who was following her every movement with her eyes, was frightened at the severe look on her face, a moment before so pleasant and calm.

‘You are pleading for Grinev?’ the lady said coldly. ‘The Empress cannot pardon him. He sided with the pretender, not out of ignorance and credulity, but as an unprincipled and dangerous scoundrel.’

‘Oh, it isn’t true!’ cried Marya Ivanovna.

‘How, not true!’ retorted the lady, flushing all over.

‘It’s not true, in God’s name, it’s not true! I know all, I’ll tell you everything. It was for me alone that he underwent all the misfortunes that have overtaken him. And if he didn’t justify himself before the tribunal, it was because he didn’t wish to involve me.’

And she related with great ardour all that is already known to my reader.

The lady listened to her attentively.

‘Where are you staying?’ she asked when Marya Ivanovna had finished speaking. On hearing that she was at Anna Vlassyevna’s, she added with a smile: ‘Ah, I know! Goodbye, and don’t tell anyone of our meeting. I hope that you will not have to wait long for an answer to your petition.’

With these words she rose and walked away down a covered alley, and Marya Ivanovna returned to Anna Vlassyevna’s filled with joyous hope.

Her hostess scolded her for going out so early; the autumn air, so she said, was harmful to a young girl’s health. She brought in the samovar and was on the point of launching into an endless series of stories about the Court, when suddenly a Palace carriage drew up at the steps and a lackey entered the room with the announcement that the Empress was pleased to summon the daughter of Captain Mironov to her presence.

Utterly amazed, Anna Vlassyevna began to bustle about.

‘Gracious me!’ she cried. ‘The Empress summons you to the Court. How has she got to know about you? And how, my dear, will you present yourself to the Empress? I don’t suppose you know even how to walk in Court fashion . . . Hadn’t I better come with you? I could at least put you on your guard against some things. And how can you go in your travelling dress? Shall I send to the midwife’s for her yellow Court gown?’

The lackey announced that it was the Empress’s wish that Marya Ivanovna should go on her own and in the clothes she was wearing. There was nothing for it: Marya Ivanovna took her seat in the carriage and drove off to the Palace, accompanied by the blessings and advice of Anna Vlassyevna.

Marya Ivanovna felt that our fate was about to be decided; her heart beat violently. A few minutes later the carriage stopped at the Palace. Trembling, Marya Ivanovna went up the steps. The doors were flung open before her. She passed through a long series of deserted, magnificent rooms; the lackey led the way. Finally, arriving at a closed door, he said that he would go in and announce her and left her by herself.

The thought of coming face to face with the Empress so terrified her that she could scarcely stand up straight. A minute later the door opened and she entered the Empress’s dressing-room.

The Empress was seated at her dressing-table, surrounded by courtiers who respectfully made way for Marya Ivanovna. The Empress turned towards her with a kind smile, and Marya Ivanovna recognised her as the lady with whom she had recently talked so openly. The Empress summoned her to her side and said with a smile:

‘I am glad to be able to keep my word to you and – and to grant your petition. Your business is settled. I am convinced of the innocence of your betrothed. Here is a letter for your future father-in-law.’

Marya Ivanovna took the letter with a trembling hand and, bursting into tears, fell at the Empress’s feet. The Empress raised her up and kissed her, then began to talk with her.

‘I know you’re not rich,’ she said, ‘but I owe a debt to the daughter of Captain Mironov. Do not worry about the future. I shall take it upon myself to look after you.’

After encouraging the poor orphan, the Empress dismissed her. Marya Ivanovna drove away in the same Palace carriage. Anna Vlassyevna, who had been impatiently awaiting her return, overwhelmed her with questions which Marya Ivanovna somehow answered. Anna Vlassyevna, although disappointed at her poor memory, ascribed it to provincial shyness and magnanimously excused her. That same day Marya Ivanovna, without so much as a glance at Petersburg, returned to the country . . .

The memoirs of Pyotr Andreyevitch Grinev end here. It is known from family tradition that he was released from his imprisonment towards the end of the year 1774 by an edict of the Empress; that he was present at the execution of Pugachev, who recognised him in the crowd and nodded to him with his head which, a minute later, was shown lifeless and bleeding to the people. Soon afterwards Pyotr Andreyevitch married Marya Ivanovna. Their descendants still flourish in the province of Simbirsk. About thirty versts from *** there is a village belonging to ten landowners. In one of the wings of the house there can be seen, framed and glazed, a letter written in the hand of Catherine II. It is addressed to Pyotr Andreyevitch’s father and contains the justification of his son and praise to the heart and intelligence of the daughter of Captain Mironov.

Pyotr Andreyevitch Grinev’s manuscript was given to me by one of his grandchildren, who had heard that I was engaged upon a work dealing with the times described by his grandfather. With the relatives’ permission, I have decided to publish it separately, after finding a suitable epigraph for each chapter and after taking the liberty of changing some of the names.

The Editor,
19th October 1836

ADDITION TO CHAPTER THIRTEEN

(These pages were found among Pushkin’s manuscripts after his death. He had included them in his draft version, but excluded them from the final, published version, of The Captain’s Daughter. In the draft, Zurin was called Grinev and Grinev by the name of Bulanin. Pushkin did not alter these original namings in this ‘Addition to Chapter Thirteen’, and they remain unadjusted in this translation.)

We were approaching the banks of the Volga; our regiment entered the village of **, and stopped there for the night. The village-elder informed me that all the villages on the other side of the river had risen, that bands of Pugachev’s followers were roaming everywhere. I was extremely alarmed by this news. We were to cross over the following morning. I was seized with impatience. On the other side, thirty versts away, was my father’s village. I asked if there was anyone to ferry me across. All the peasants were fishermen, so there were plenty of boats. I went to Grinev and informed him of my intention.

‘Be careful,’ he said to me. ‘It is dangerous to go alone. Wait until the morning. We will be the first to cross, and we will pay a visit on your parents with fifty Hussars to cater for any event.’

I insisted in my intention. The boat was ready. I took my seat in it with two boatmen. They pushed off and took up their oars.

The sky was clear. The moon shone. The weather was mild. The Volga flowed smoothly and calmly. Swaying gently, the boat glided swiftly over the dark waves. I was sunk in reverie. About half an hour passed. We had already reached the middle of the river . . . Suddenly the boatmen began to whisper together.

‘What is it?’ I asked, returning from my reverie.

‘God knows, we can’t tell,’ the boatmen replied, looking to one side.

My eyes followed in the same direction, and I saw in the dark something floating down the Volga. The unknown object was coming closer to us. I ordered the boatmen to stop and await it. The moon went behind a cloud. The floating apparition became yet more indistinct. It was now quite near to me, and yet I still could not make it out.

‘What can it be?’ the boatmen said. ‘The sail is not a sail, the masts are not masts.’

Suddenly the moon came out from behind the cloud and lit up a terrible sight. A gallows, fitted to a raft, was floating towards us, and three bodies hung from the cross-beam. A morbid curiosity took hold of me. I wanted to look at the faces of the hanged men.

At my bidding, the boatmen seized the raft with a boat-hook, and my boat was thrust against the floating gallows. I jumped onto the raft and found myself between the dreadful posts. The bright moon illuminated the disfigured faces of the unfortunate men. One of them was an old Chuvash, the second a Russian peasant, a strong, healthy-looking young man of about twenty. Looking at the third, I was deeply shocked and could not restrain myself from an exclamation of grief: it was Vanka, our poor Vanka, who in his stupidity had joined Pugachev. A black board had been nailed above them, on which was written in bold, white letters: ‘Thieves and rebels’. The boatmen looked at all this with indifference and waited for me, holding the raft with the boat-hook. I returned to the boat and sat down again. The raft floated on down the river. For a long time the gallows showed black in the darkness. At last it disappeared, and our boat came to rest against the tall, steep bank . . .

I paid the boatmen generously. One of them led me to the elder of the village, which was situated by the landing-stage. I went with him into a hut. The elder, hearing my demand for horses, was about to receive me somewhat uncivilly, but my guide spoke a few words softly to him, and his dour attitude was immediately replaced by one of prompt obligingness. A troika was ready in a moment, and I sat down in the carriage and ordered to be driven to our village.

I galloped along the high road, past sleeping villages. I feared one thing: being stopped on the road. If my nocturnal encounter on the Volga gave proof of the presence of rebels, it was also proof of strong government counteraction. To be prepared for any event, I had in my pocket the pass given to me by Pugachev as well as Colonel Grinev’s order. But I met no one and towards morning I caught sight of the river and the pine grove behind which lay our village. The driver whipped the horses on and after a quarter of an hour I entered **.

The manor-house was at the other end of the village. The horses were tearing along at full pace. Suddenly, in the middle of the street, the driver began to draw them in.

‘What is it?’ I asked impatiently.

‘A barricade, sir,’ the driver replied, with difficulty halting his furious horses.

Indeed, I saw a chevaux-de-frise and a sentry with a club. The man came up to me and, taking off his hat, asked for my passport.

‘What does this mean?’ I asked him. ‘Why is there a barrier? Who are you watching out for?’

‘But, sir, we are rebels,’ he replied, scratching himself.

‘And where are your masters?’ I asked, my heart sinking.

‘Where are our masters?’ the man repeated. ‘Our masters are in the granary.’

‘How, in the granary?’

‘Well, Andryushka, the clerk, put them in stocks, you see, and wants to take them to the Lord Tsar.’

‘My God! Break down the barrier, you idiot! What are you gaping at?’

The sentry dawdled. I leapt out of the carriage, boxed his ears (I regret) and moved the barrier back myself. The peasant stared at me in stupid perplexity. I sat down again in the carriage and ordered to be driven with all speed to the main house. The granary was in the courtyard. Before the locked doors stood two peasants, also carrying clubs. The carriage came to a halt immediately in front of them. I jumped out and rushed right at them.

‘Open the doors!’ I said to them.

No doubt my expression alarmed them; at any rate, they both ran off, throwing away their clubs. I tried to burst the lock and break open the doors, but the doors were of oak, and the enormous padlock was indestructible. At that moment a well-built young peasant emerged from the servants’ hut and, with an arrogant expression, asked me how I dared to make such a row.

‘Where’s Andryushka the clerk?’ I shouted to him. ‘Call him to me.’

‘I am Andrey Afanassyevitch, not Andryushka,’ he answered me, his arms proudly akimbo. ‘What do you want?’

Instead of a reply, I seized him by the collar and, dragging him up to the doors of the granary, commanded him to open them. The clerk tried to resist, but paternal chastisement had its effect on him. He took out the key and opened the granary. I rushed across the threshold and, in a dark corner weakly lit by a narrow skylight, saw my mother and father. Their hands were bound, their feet in stocks. I ran forward to embrace them and could not utter a word. They both looked at me with astonishment – three years of military life had so changed me that they were unable to recognise me. My mother sighed and burst into tears.

Suddenly I heard a dear familiar voice.

‘Pyotr Andreitch! It is you!’

I was stunned . . . I looked round and in another corner saw Marya Ivanovna, also bound.

My father looked at me in silence, not daring to believe what he saw. Joy shone from his face. I hastened to cut with my sword the knots of the ropes that bound them.

‘Welcome, welcome, Petrusha!’ my father said to me, pressing me to his heart. ‘Thank God you have come at last …’

‘petrusha, my dear,’ my mother said. ‘How did the Lord bring you to us! Are you well?’

I made haste to lead them out of their prison . . . but when I went up to the door, I found it locked again.

‘Andryushka,’ I cried, ‘open up!’

‘I should say so!’ the clerk answered from behind the door. ‘You may as well stay where you are. That will teach you to kick up a disturbance and drag officials of the Tsar around by the collar!’

I began to look around the granary, seeking some way, no matter what, to get out.

‘Don’t bother yourself,’ my father said to me. ‘I am not the sort of landowner to have my granary full of holes for thieves to get in and out of.’

My mother, a moment before rejoicing at my arrival, fell into despair, seeing that I was to perish with the rest of the family. But I felt more at peace now that I found myself with them and Marya Ivanovna. I had my sword and two pistols; I could still withstand a siege. Grinev should arrive towards evening and in time to free us. I informed my parents of this and succeeded in soothing my mother. They abandoned themselves completely to the joys of reunion.

‘Well, Pyotr,’ my father said to me, ‘you got up to enough mischief, and I was thoroughly angry with you. But let bygones be bygones. I hope that you have sown your wild oats now and have reformed. I know that you have served in a manner suited to an officer of honour. I thank you. You have comforted me in my old age. If I am to be obliged to you for my deliverance, then life will be doubly pleasant.’

With tears in my eyes I kissed his hand and looked at Marya Ivanovna, who was so overjoyed by my presence that she seemed completely contented and at peace.

Around midday we heard an unusual commotion and shouting.

‘What does it mean?’ my father said. ‘Can your Colonel have come to free us?’

‘Impossible,’ I replied. ‘He will not be here before evening.’

The commotion increased. The alarm bell was rung. Mounted men were galloping across the courtyard. At that moment my poor old servant, Savelyitch, thrust his grey head through the narrow skylight and uttered in a sorrowful voice:

‘Andrey Petrovitch, Avdotya Vassilyevna, Pyotr Andreitch, my dear, Marya Ivanovna – a terrible misfortune! The villains have entered the village. And do you know, Pyotr Andreitch, who has brought them? Shvabrin, Alexey Ivanytch, devil take him!’

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

‘Listen,’ I said to Savelyitch, ‘get someone to go on horseback to the ferry at ** to meet the Hussar regiment; and tell him to let the Colonel know of our danger.’

‘But who can I send, sir? All the lads have risen, and all the horses have been seized. Oh! They are already in the courtyard. They are coming towards the granary.’

At this point we heard several voices on the other side of the door. Silently, I gave a sign to my mother and Marya Ivanovna to retire into a corner, unsheathed my sword and leaned against the wall just by the door. My father took the pistols, cocked them both and stood beside me. The lock rattled, the door opened and the head of the clerk showed itself. I struck it with my sword and the man fell, blocking the entrance. At that same moment my father fired one pistol at the doorway. The crowd, which was pressing towards us, ran away with curses. I dragged the wounded man across the threshold and bolted the door from the inside. The courtyard was full of armed men. Among them I recognised Shvabrin.

‘Don’t be afraid,’ I said to the women. ‘There is hope yet. And you, father, don’t shoot any more. Let us save the last shot.’

My mother prayed silently to God; Marya Ivanovna stood beside her, awaiting the determination of her fate with angelic calm. From the other side of the doors could be heard threats, abuse and curses. I stood at my post, prepared to hack down the first person who dared to show his face. Suddenly the villains fell silent. I heard Shvabrin’s voice calling me by name.

‘I am here. What do you want?’

‘Give up, Bulanin, it is useless to resist. Have pity on your old parents. You will not save yourself by stubbornness. I’ll get you!’

‘Try, you traitor!’

‘I shall not risk my neck to no purpose, or waste my men. I shall order the granary to be set on fire, and then we’ll see what you do, Don Quixote of Belogorsky! Now it is time for dinner. In the meantime, sit down and think it over at your leisure. Goodbye, Marya Ivanovna, I shall not apologise to you: I don’t suppose you are bored with your knight in the dark.’

Shvabrin withdrew, leaving a sentry by the granary. We were silent. Each of us thought his own thoughts, and did not dare to communicate them. I imagined to myself everything that the infuriated Shvabrin was capable of doing. I scarcely worried about myself. Shall I confess? I was not so horrified by the fate of my parents as by that of Marya Ivanovna. I knew that my mother was worshipped by the peasants and the household servants; my father, in spite of his severity, was also loved, for he was just and knew the true needs of the people subjected to him. Their rebellion was a delusion, a momentary intoxication, and not an expression of their indignation. It was probable that they would be treated with mercy. But Marya Ivanovna? What fate was that corrupt and unscrupulous man preparing for her? I did not dare to dwell on this dreadful thought and prepared myself, God forgive me, to kill her rather than see her for a second time in the hands of a cruel enemy.

About another hour passed. In the village could be heard the songs of drunken men. The sentries guarding us were envious and, turning their ill-feeling on us, swore and sought to frighten us with descriptions of torture and death. We awaited the consequence of Shvabrin’s threats. At last there was a great stir in the courtyard, and we heard Shvabrin’s voice again.

‘Well, have you thought it over? Have you decided to give yourself up to me voluntarily?’

Nobody answered him. Having waited for a short while, Shvabrin ordered some straw to be brought up. In a few minutes a fire burst out and lit up the dark granary; smoke began to force itself through the chinks of the threshold. Then Marya Ivanovna came up to me and, taking me by the hand, said softly:

‘Enough, Pyotr Andreitch! Do not allow yourself and your parents to perish on my account. Let me go out. Shvabrin will listen to me.’

‘Not for anything,’ I cried heatedly. ‘Do you know what awaits you?’

‘I could not survive dishonour,’ she replied quietly, ‘but perhaps I could save my deliverer and the family which has so generously protected a poor orphan. Farewell, Andrey Petrovitch. Farewell, Avdotya Vassilyevna. You have been more than benefactors to me. Give me your blessing. Goodbye to you also, Pyotr Andreitch. Be assured that …’

At this point she burst into tears and hid her face in her hands. I felt as if I had gone out of my mind. My mother wept.

‘Enough of this nonsense, Marya Ivanovna,’ my father said. ‘Who’s going to let you go alone to the brigands? Sit down here and be quiet. If we die, we die together. Listen, what are they saying?’

‘Do you surrender?’ cried Shvabrin. ‘Don’t you see, in five minutes you’ll be roasted.’

‘We will not surrender, villain!’ my father answered him in a firm voice.

His face, covered in wrinkles, was animated by astonishing courage, his eyes flashed menacingly from beneath his white eyebrows. Turning to me, he said:

‘Now is the time!’

He opened the door. The flames shot up and flew along the beams, which were caulked with dry moss. My father fired the pistol and stepped over the blazing threshold, shouting: ‘Everyone, follow me!’ I seized my mother and Marya Ivanovna by the hand and quickly led them out into the air. By the threshold lay Shvabrin, shot by the old hand of my father. The crowd of brigands, who had run off at our unexpected sortie, immediately took courage and began to surround us. I succeeded in delivering a few more blows, but a well-aimed brick struck me right in the chest. I fell and lost consciousness for a minute or so. Coming to myself, I saw Shvabrin sitting on the bloodstained grass and all of my family standing in front of him. I was supported under the arms. A crowd of peasants, Cossacks and Bashkirs surrounded us. Shvabrin was dreadfully pale. He had one hand pressed to his wounded side. His face expressed pain and fury. He slowly raised his head, glanced at me and uttered in a weak and indistinct voice:

‘Hang him … all of them … except her . . .’

The crowd of villains immediately closed in on us and with cries dragged us off towards the gates. But suddenly they left us and scattered: Grinev, followed by an entire squadron with drawn swords, was riding though the gates.

The rebels were fleeing in every direction; the Hussars pursued them, hacked at them with their swords and took them captive. Grinev jumped down from his horse, bowed to my father and mother and shook me warmly by the hand.

‘Well, I got here in time,’ he said to us. ‘Ah, and this is your bride!’

Marya Ivanovna blushed to the tips of her ears. My father went up to him and thanked him in a calm manner, although he was clearly moved. My mother embraced him, calling him an angel of deliverance.

‘Welcome,’ my father said to him and led him to our house.

Walking past Shvabrin, Grinev stopped.

‘Who is this?’ he asked, looking at the wounded man.

‘That is the leader of the band himself,’ my father replied with a certain pride, showing up the old soldier in him. ‘God helped my senile hand to punish the young villain and to avenge the blood of my son.’

‘It is Shvabrin,’ I said to Grinev.

‘Shvabrin! Delighted! Hussars, take him! Tell our physician to dress his wound and to watch over him like the apple of his eye. Shvabrin must without fail stand before the Kazan Secret Commission. He is one of the main offenders, and his testimony will be important.’

Shvabrin gave us a tired glance. His face expressed nothing but physical pain. The Hussars carried him away on a cloak.

We entered the house. With a tremor I looked around me, remembering my childhood years. Nothing in the house had changed, everything was in its former place. Shvabrin had not permitted it to be plundered, maintaining in his very baseness an instinctive repugnance to the dishonourable practice of cupidity. The servants appeared in the ante-room. They had not taken part in the rising and sincerely rejoiced in our deliverance. Savelyitch was triumphant. It should be known that, in the commotion caused by the brigands’ attack, he had run to the stables where Shvabrin’s horse was, had saddled and quietly led it out and, thanks to the general confusion, had galloped off unnoticed to the ferry. He had met the regiment taking a rest on this side of the Volga. Grinev, learning of our danger from him, had ordered his men to mount their horses, and had given the command to move forward at the gallop – and, thank God, had arrived in time.

The Hussars returned from their pursuit with several prisoners. These were locked up in the same granary in which we had borne our memorable siege.

Grinev insisted that the village clerk’s head be displayed on a pole outside the tavern for several hours. We all went off to our rooms. The old people needed a rest. Not having slept at all the previous night, I threw myself on my bed and was soon fast asleep. Grinev went off to give his orders.

In the evening we came together in the drawing-room, round the samovar, cheerfully discussing the danger that was now over. Marya Ivanovna poured out the tea; I sat down beside her and occupied myself exclusively with her. My parents seemed to look with favour on the tenderness of our affection for each other. To this day that evening lives in my memory. I was happy, completely happy – and are there many such minutes in this poor, human life?

On the following day my father was informed that the peasants were in the courtyard, requesting forgiveness. My father went out on to the porch to them. When he appeared, the peasants went down on their knees.

‘Well, you idiots,’ he said, ‘what put it into your heads to rebel?’

‘We are sorry, master,’ they replied in one voice.

‘So, you are sorry. You got up to mischief, and you are sorry. I forgive you for the joy that God has brought me of seeing my son, Pyotr Andreitch.’

‘We are sorry! Of course we are sorry!’

‘All right: he who confesses shall not be scourged. God has given us fine weather; it is time to gather in the hay. But you, you dolts, what have you been doing for three whole days? Village-elder! Put everyone on to haymaking; and see to it, you ginger-haired rogue, that all my hay is in stacks by St. John’s Day. Off with you!’

The peasants bowed and went about their work as if nothing had happened.

Shvabrin’s wound turned out not to be fatal. He was taken under guard to Kazan. I saw him from a window as he was being put into the carriage. Our eyes met; he lowered his head, and I hastened to move away from the window. I did not want to give the impression of triumphing over an unhappy and humiliated enemy.

Grinev was obliged to proceed further. I decided to go with him, in spite of my wish to spend a few more days among my family. On the eve of my departure, I went to my parents and, according to the custom of the day, went down on my knees before them and asked them for their blessing on my marriage with Marya Ivanovna. The old people lifted me up and with tears of joy gave their consent. I took Marya Ivanovna, pale and trembling, to them. They gave us their blessing . . . I cannot begin to describe what I felt. He who has been in my position will understand me without my having to tell him; for him who has not I can only be sorry, and advise him, while there is still time, to fall in love and receive the blessing of his parents.

The regiment was ready the following day. Grinev took final leave of my family. We all felt certain that military operations would soon cease. I was hoping to be married within a month. As she said good-bye to me, Marya Ivanovna kissed me in front of everyone. I mounted my horse. Savelyitch came with me again – and the regiment moved off.

For a long time, until I could no longer see it, I looked back at the house which I was again leaving. I was disturbed by gloomy forebodings. Someone seemed to be whispering that not all my misfortunes were over. In my heart I sensed a new storm.

I will not describe our campaign and the conclusion of the war with Pugachev. We passed through villages laid waste by him, and were obliged to take from the poor inhabitants what had been left to them by the rebels.

The people did not know whom to obey. Administration everywhere came to a stop. The landowners hid in the forests. Bands of brigands ransacked the countryside. Commanders of individual detachments, sent in pursuit of Pugachev, who was by then fleeing towards Astrakhan, punished and pardoned as the fancy took them . . . The condition of the whole area where the conflagration raged was terrible. God forbid that we should ever see a Russian rebellion – so senseless and merciless – again. Those in our midst who plan impossible revolutions are either young men who do not know our people, or cruel-hearted men who place a low value on their own necks, and an even lower value on the necks of others.

Pugachev was in flight and being pursued by Iv. Iv. Mikhelson. We soon heard of his complete defeat. At last Grinev received news from his general of the capture of the pretender, and with it the order to halt. At last I could return home. I was in raptures, but a strange feeling clouded my happiness.

Notes

THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER

Chapter One

EPIGRAPH: from The Braggart, a comedy by Yakov Knyazhnin (1742—1791), minor playwright.

COUNT MÜNNICH: (1683–1767), field-marshal and politician who served under Peter the Great and was exiled to Siberia in 1741.

SIMBIRSK (now Ulyanov): town on the Volga some 450 miles east of Moscow.

ORENBURG: town in the southern Urals some 320 miles south-east of Simbirsk.

Chapter Two

YAIKIAN COSSACK: Cossack from the region of the Yaik river, renamed the Ural river after the Pugachev uprisings. The Yaikian Cossacks constituted a separate military organisation, but after their revolt in 1772 their military privileges were annulled.

UMYOT: a military term for shelter or trench.

EMPRESS ANNA IOANNOVNA: niece of Peter the Great, Empress of Russia, 1730–1740.

KIRGHIZ-KAISSAK STEPPES: region east of the River Ural, now territory of Kazakhstan.

Chapter Three

SECOND EPIGRAPH: from The Minor by Fonvizin.

KÜSTRIN: a Prussian fortress taken in 1758 by the Russians during the Seven Years War.

OCHAKOV: Turkish fortress taken by the Russians in 1737 .

BASHKIRS: Turco-Mongolian tribe inhabiting region north of Orenburg between the River Kama and the Urals.

THE KIRGHIZ: (or Kazakhs), a Turkic nomadic tribe living in the region east of the Ural river.

Chapter Four

EPIGRAPH: from The Odd Fellows, a comedy by Knyazhnin.

TREDYAKOVSKY: Vasily (1703–1769), minor poet, translator and scientist, author of New and Brief Method of Russian Versemaking.

BENEATH THE CROWN: as part of the marriage ceremony, bride and bridegroom kissed beneath crowns held above their heads.

Chapter Five

VERSHOK: 1¾ in.

Chapter Six

MAJOR-GENERAL TRAUBENBERG: well known for his cruelty and eventually killed by the Cossacks in the Pugachev Uprising.

PETER III: (1728—1762), grandson of Peter the Great and husband of Catherine the Great, reigned for six months to July 1762 when he abdicated. He was later strangled by one of Catherine’s many admirers.

BENEFICENT EDICT: instituted by Catherine II.

THE YEAR 1741: violent uprisings took place in the district of Bashkiria in the years 1735–40 and were subdued with incredible cruelty: some 700 villages were burnt down and the noses and ears of the ringleaders cut off.

EMPEROR ALEXANDER: (1777–1825), reigned 1801–1825, grandson of Catherine II, son of Paul I, who was murdered with Alexander’s knowledge.

Chapter Seven

OFFERING BREAD AND SALT: the customary welcome to an honoured visitor.

Chapter Eight

TCHUMAKOV: a Yaik Cossack, commander of artillery in Pugachev’s army.

GRISHKA OTREPYEV: a monk who claimed to be Dmitri, the son of Ivan the Terrible, who was in fact murdered at the age of nine at Uglitch in 1591 . ‘False Dmitri’ became Tsar in 1605 and reigned for less than a year.

Chapter Nine

EPIGRAPH: from The Parting, a poem by the minor poet M. M. Kheraskov (1733–1807).

Chapter Ten

EPIGRAPH: from Kheraskov’s Rossiada, a very popular epic poem.

LISAVETA KHARLOVA: daughter and wife of fortress commanders in the Orenburg district, both of whom were captured by Pugachev; her father, mother and husband were executed by Pugachev. She became Pugachev’s mistress and was later killed by the rebels.

Chapter Eleven

EPIGRAPH: Composed by Pushkin in imitation of Sumarokov’s Parables.

YUZEYEVA: a village some 20 miles from Orenburg where, on 9th November, 1773, Pugachev inflicted a heavy defeat on Government forces sent to relieve Orenburg.

FREDERICK: Frederick II (the Great) of Prussia (1712-1786).

KALMUCK: Buddhist Mongol race of Central Asia who invaded Russia in the 16th and 17th centuries and settled along the lower Volga.

Chapter Thirteen

EPIGRAPH: Composed by Pushkin in imitation of Knyazhnin’s comedies.

PRINCE GOLITSYN . . . : defeated Pugachev on 22nd March 1774.

CAPTURE OF KAZAN: town on the Volga river some 450 miles east of Moscow and 100 miles north of Simbirsk. The capture of the town took place on 12th July 1744.

MIKHELSON: General (1740–1807), responsible for Pugachev’s final defeat near Tsaritsyn (now Volgograd, previously Stalingrad) in August 1774.

I WILL NOT DESCRIBE OUR CAMPAIGN AND THE CONCLUSION OF THE WAR: the paragraph preceding this sentence takes the place, in the originally published version of The Captain’s Daughter, of the ‘Addition to Chapter Thirteen’ printed in this edition after Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fourteen

VOLYNSKY AND KHRUSHCHEV: A. P. Volynsky (1689–1740) and A. F. Khrushchev (1691–1740) – a minister in the government of Anna Ioannovna and his assistant – were convicted of attempting to place Elizabeth, the daughter of Peter the Great, upon the throne and were executed in June 1740.

SOFIA: posting-station and small town near Tsarskoye Selo, summer residence of the Russian Imperial family.

RUMYANTSEV: Count (1725–1795), prominent general at the time of the Empress Catherine II.

Addition to Chapter Thirteen

CHUVASH: a Mongolian tribe which settled in Russia.

VANKA: a character omitted by Pushkin in his final version of The Captain’s Daughter.

CHEVEAUX-DE-FRISE: iron spikes embedded in timber to check cavalry charges.

ST. JOHN’S DAY: 20th July.

ASTRAKHAN: town on Caspian Sea at the head of the Volga delta.