THE PROSE TALES
OF
ALEXANDER POUSHKIN
TRANSLATED FROM THE RUSSIAN BY
T. KEANE
LONDON
G. BELL AND SONS, LTD.
1916
CONTENTS.
THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER
DOUBROVSKY
THE QUEEN OF SPADES
AN AMATEUR PEASANT GIRL
THE SHOT
THE SNOWSTORM
THE POST MASTER
THE COFFIN-MAKER
KIRDJALI
THE EGYPTIAN NIGHTS
PETER THE GREAT’S NEGRO
THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER.
CHAPTER I.
THE SERGEANT OF THE GUARDS.
My father, Andrei Petrovitch Grineff, after having served in his
youth under Count Münich,[1] quitted the service, in the year 17--,
with the rank of senior major. He settled down upon his estate in the
district of Simbirsk, where he married Avdotia Vassilevna U----, the
daughter of a poor nobleman of the neighbourhood. Nine children were
the result of this marriage. All my brothers and sisters died in their
infancy. I was enrolled as a sergeant in the Semenovsky Regiment,
through the influence of Prince B----, a major in the Guards, and a
near relation of our family. I was considered as being on leave of
absence until the completion of my course of studies. In those days
our system of education was very different from that in vogue at the
present time. At five years of age I was given into the hands of our
gamekeeper, Savelitch, whose sober conduct had rendered him worthy of
being selected to take charge of me. Under his instruction, at the
age of twelve I could read and write Russian, and I was by no means a
bad judge of the qualities of a greyhound. About that time my father
engaged a Frenchman, a Monsieur Beaupré, who had been imported from
Moscow, together with the yearly stock of wine and Provence oil.
Savelitch was not by any means pleased at his arrival.
“Heaven be thanked!” he muttered to himself; “the child is washed,
combed, and well-fed. What need is there for spending money and
engaging a Mossoo, as if there were not enough of our own people!”
Beaupré had been a hairdresser in his own country, then a soldier in
Prussia, then he had come to Russia _pour être outchitel_,[2] without
very well understanding the meaning of the word. He was a good sort of
fellow, but extremely flighty and thoughtless. His chief weakness was
a passion for the fair sex; but his tenderness not unfrequently met
with rebuffs, which would cause him to sigh and lament for the whole
twenty-four hours. Moreover, to use his own expression, he was no enemy
of the bottle, or, in other words, he loved to drink more than was good
for him. But as, with us, wine was only served out at dinner, and then
in small glasses only, and as, moreover, the teacher was generally
passed over on these occasions, my Beaupré very soon became accustomed
to Russian drinks, and even began to prefer them to the wines of his
own country, as being more beneficial for the stomach. We soon became
very good friends, and although, by the terms of the contract, he was
engaged to teach me French, German, and all the sciences, yet he much
preferred learning from me to chatter in Russian, and then each of us
occupied himself with what seemed best to him. Our friendship was of
the most intimate character, and I wished for no other mentor. But fate
soon separated us, owing to an event which I will now proceed to relate.
The laundress, Palashka, a thick-set woman with a face scarred by
the small-pox, and the one-eyed cowkeeper, Akoulka, made up their
minds together one day and went and threw themselves at my mother’s
feet, accusing themselves of certain guilty weaknesses, complaining,
with a flood of tears, that the Mossoo had taken advantage of their
inexperience, and had effected their ruin. My mother did not look upon
such matters in the light of a joke, so she consulted my father upon
the subject. An inquiry into the matter was promptly resolved upon.
He immediately sent for the rascally Frenchman. He was informed that
Monsieur was engaged in giving me my lesson. My father came to my room.
At that particular moment Beaupré was lying on the bed, sleeping the
sleep of innocence. I was occupied in a very different manner. I ought
to mention that a map had been obtained from Moscow, in order that I
might be instructed in geography. It hung upon the wall without ever
being made use of, and as it was a very large map, and the paper thick
and of good quality, I had long been tempted to appropriate it to my
own use. I resolved to make it into a kite, and, taking advantage of
Beaupré’s slumber, I set to work. My father entered the room just at
the moment when I was adjusting a tail to the Cape of Good Hope. Seeing
me so occupied with geography, my father saluted me with a box on the
ear, then stepped towards Beaupré, and waking him very unceremoniously,
overwhelmed him with reproaches. In his confusion, Beaupré wanted to
rise up from the bed, but he was unable to do so: the unfortunate
Frenchman was hopelessly intoxicated. There was only one course to take
after so many acts of misdemeanour. My father seized hold of him by
the collar, lifted him off the bed, hustled him out of the room, and
dismissed him that very same day from his service--to the unspeakable
delight of Savelitch. Thus ended my education.
I now lived the life of a spoiled child, frightening the pigeons,
and playing at leap-frog with the boys on the estate. I continued to
lead this kind of life until I was sixteen years of age. Then came the
turning-point in my existence.
One day in autumn, my mother was boiling some honey preserves in
the parlour, and I was looking on and licking my lips as the liquid
simmered and frothed. My father was sitting near the window, reading
the “Court Calendar,” which he received every year. This book always
had a great effect upon him; he used to read it with especial interest,
and the reading of it always stirred his bile in the most astonishing
manner. My mother, who was perfectly well acquainted with his whims and
peculiarities, always endeavoured to keep this unfortunate book out
of the way as much as she possibly could, and, on this account, his
eyes would not catch a glimpse of the volume for months together. But
when he did happen to find it, he would sit with it in his hands for
hours at a stretch.... As I have said, my father was reading the “Court
Calendar,” every now and then shrugging his shoulders, and muttering
to himself: “Lieutenant-General!... He used to be a sergeant in my
company!... Knight of both Russian Orders!... How long is it since
we----”
At last my father flung the “Calendar” down upon the sofa, and sank
into a reverie--a proceeding that was always of evil augury.
Suddenly he turned to my mother:
“Avdotia Vassilevna,[3] how old is Petrousha?”[4]
“He is getting on for seventeen,” replied my mother: “Petrousha was born
in the same year that aunt Nastasia Gerasimovna[5] lost her eye,
and----”
“Very well,” said my father, interrupting her; “it is time that he
entered the service. He has had quite enough of running about the
servants’ rooms and climbing up to the dovecots.”
The thought of soon having to part with me produced such an effect
upon my mother, that she let the spoon fall into the saucepan, and the
tears streamed down her cheeks. As for myself, it would be difficult
to describe the delight that I felt. The thought of the service was
associated in my mind with thoughts of freedom and the pleasures of a
life in St. Petersburg. I imagined myself an officer in the Guards,
that being, in my opinion, the summit of human felicity.
My father loved neither to change his intentions, nor to delay putting
them into execution. The day for my departure was fixed. On the evening
before, my father informed me that he intended to write to my future
chief, and asked for pens and paper.
“Do not forget, Andrei Petrovitch,”[6] said my mother, “to send my
salutations to Prince B----, and say that I hope he will take our
Petrousha under his protection.”
“What nonsense!” exclaimed my father, frowning. “Why should I write to
Prince B----”
“Why, you said just now that you wanted to write to Petrousha’s chief.”
“Well, and what then?”
“Why, Prince B---- is Petrousha’s chief. You know Petrousha is enrolled
in the Semenovsky Regiment.”
“Enrolled! What care I whether he is enrolled or not? Petrousha is
not going to St. Petersburg. What would he learn by serving in St.
Petersburg? To squander money and indulge in habits of dissipation. No,
let him enter a regiment of the Line; let him learn to carry knapsack
and belt, to smell powder, to become a soldier, and not an idler in the
Guards. Where is his passport? Bring it here.”
My mother went to get my passport, which she preserved in a small
box along with the shirt in which I was christened, and delivered it
to my father with a trembling hand. My father read it through very
attentively, placed it in front of him upon the table, and commenced to
write his letter.
I was tortured with curiosity. Where was I to be sent to, if I was not
going to St. Petersburg? I kept my eyes steadfastly fixed upon the pen,
which moved slowly over the paper. At last he finished the letter,
enclosed it in a cover along with my passport, took off his spectacles,
and, calling me to him, said:
“Here is a letter for Andrei Karlovitch R----, my old comrade and
friend. You are going to Orenburg to serve under his command.”
All my brilliant hopes were thus brought to the ground! Instead of a
life of gaiety in St. Petersburg, there awaited me a tedious existence
in a dreary and distant country. The service, which I had thought of
with such rapture but a moment before, now presented itself to my eyes
in the light of a great misfortune. But there was no help for it, and
arguing the matter would have been of no avail.
Early the next morning a travelling carriage drew up before the door;
my portmanteau was placed in it, as well as a small chest containing a
tea-service and a tied-up cloth full of rolls and pies--the last tokens
of home indulgence. My parents gave me their blessing. My father said
to me:
“Good-bye, Peter! Serve faithfully whom you have sworn to serve; obey
your superior officers; do not run after their favours; be not too
eager in volunteering for service, but never shirk a duty when you are
selected for it; and remember the proverb: ‘Take care of your coat
while it is new, and of your honour while it is young.’”
My mother, with tears in her eyes, enjoined me to take care of my
health, at the same time impressing upon Savelitch to look well after
the child. A cloak made of hare-skin was then put over my shoulders,
and over that another made of fox-skin. I seated myself in the carriage
with Savelitch, and started off on my journey, weeping bitterly.
That same night I arrived at Simbirsk, where I was compelled to remain
for the space of twenty-four hours, to enable Savelitch to purchase
several necessary articles which he had been commissioned to procure. I
stopped at an inn. In the morning Savelitch sallied out to the shops.
Tired of looking out of the window into a dirty alley, I began to
wander about the rooms of the inn. As I entered the billiard-room, my
eyes caught sight of a tall gentleman of about thirty-five years of
age, with long, black moustaches; he was dressed in a morning-gown, and
had a cue in his hand and a pipe between his teeth. He was playing with
the marker, who drank a glass of brandy when he scored, but crept on
all-fours beneath the table when he failed. I stopped to look at the
game. The longer it continued, the more frequent became the crawling
on all-fours, until at last the marker crept beneath the table and
remained there.
The gentleman uttered a few strong expressions over him, as a sort
of funeral oration, and then invited me to play a game with him. I
declined, on the score that I did not know how to play. This evidently
seemed very strange to him, and he looked at me with an air of
commiseration. However, we soon fell into conversation. I learned that
his name was Ivan Ivanovitch Zourin; that he was a captain in a Hussar
regiment; that he was then stopping in Simbirsk, waiting to receive
some recruits, and that he was staying at the same inn as myself.
Zourin invited me to dine with him, in military fashion, upon whatever
Heaven should be pleased to set before us. I accepted his invitation
with pleasure. We sat down to table. Zourin drank a great deal, and
pressed me to do the same, saying that it was necessary for me to
get accustomed to the ways of the service. He related to me several
military anecdotes, which convulsed me with laughter, and when we rose
from the table we had become intimate friends Then he offered to teach
me how to play at billiards.
“It is an indispensable game for soldiers like us,” said he. “When on
the march, for instance, you arrive at some insignificant village, what
can you do to occupy the time? You cannot always be thrashing the Jews.
You involuntarily make your way to the inn to play at billiards, and to
do that, you must know how to play.”
I was completely convinced, and I commenced to learn the game with
great assiduity. Zourin encouraged me with loud-voiced praise, being
astonished at my rapid progress; and after a few lessons he proposed
that we should play for money, for the smallest sums possible, not for
the sake of gain, but merely for the sake of not playing for nothing,
which, according to his opinion, was an exceedingly bad habit.
I agreed to his proposal, and Zourin ordered a supply of punch, which
he persuaded me to partake of, saying that it was necessary to become
accustomed to it in the service; for what would the service be without
punch! I followed his advice. In the meantime we continued our game.
The more frequently I had recourse to the punch, the more emboldened
I became. The balls kept continually flying in the wrong direction;
I grew angry, abused the marker--who counted the points, Heaven only
knows how,--increased the stakes from time to time--in a word, I
behaved like a boy just out of leading-strings. In the meanwhile the
time had passed away without my having observed it. Zourin glanced at
the clock, laid down his cue, and informed me that I had lost a hundred
roubles.[7] I was considerably confounded by this piece of information.
My money was in the hands of Savelitch. I began to make some excuses.
Zourin interrupted me:
“Pray, do not be uneasy. I can wait; and now let us go to
Arinoushka.”[8]
What more shall I add? I finished the day as foolishly as I had
commenced it. We took supper with Arinoushka. Zourin kept continually
filling my glass, observing as he did so, that it was necessary to
become accustomed to it in the service. When I rose from the table, I
was scarcely able to stand on my legs; at midnight, Zourin conducted me
back to the inn.
Savelitch came to the doorstep to meet us. He uttered a groan on
perceiving the indubitable signs of my zeal for the service.
“What has happened to you?” he said, in a voice of lamentation. “Where
have you been drinking so? Oh, Lord! never did such a misfortune happen
before!”
“Hold your tongue, you old greybeard!” I replied, in an unsteady voice;
“you are certainly drunk. Go to sleep ... and put me to bed.”
The next morning I awoke with a violent headache, and with a confused
recollection of the events of the day before. My reflections were
interrupted by Savelitch, who brought me a cup of tea.
“You are beginning your games early, Peter Andreitch,”[9] he said,
shaking his head. “And whom do you take after? As far as I know,
neither your father nor grandfather were ever drunkards; as for your
mother, I will say nothing; she has never drunk anything except
_kvas_[10] since the day she was born. And who is to blame for all
this? Why, that cursed Mossoo, who was ever running to Antipevna with:
‘_Madame_, _je vous prie, vodka_.’[11] You see what a pretty pass your
_je vous prie_ has brought you to! There’s no denying that the son of
a dog taught you some nice things! It was worth while to hire such a
heathen for your tutor, as if our master had not enough of his own
people!”
I felt ashamed of myself. I turned my back to him, and said:
“Go away, Savelitch; I do not want any tea.”
But it was a difficult matter to quiet Savelitch when he had set his
mind upon preaching a sermon.
“You see now, Peter Andreitch, what it is to get drunk. You have a
headache, and you do not want to eat or drink anything. A man who gets
drunk is good for nothing. Have some cucumber pickle with honey; or
perhaps half a glass of fruit wine would be better still. What do you
say?”
At that moment a boy entered the room and handed me a note from Zourin.
I opened it and read the following lines:
“DEAR PETER ANDREIVITCH,
“Be so good as to send me, by my boy, the hundred roubles which you
lost to me yesterday. I am in great need of money.
“Yours faithfully,
“IVAN ZOURIN.”
There was no help for it. I assumed an air of indifference, and
turning to Savelitch, who was my treasurer and caretaker in one, I
ordered him to give the boy a hundred roubles.
“What? why?” asked the astonished Savelitch.
“I owe them to him,” I replied, with the greatest possible coolness.
“Owe!” ejaculated Savelitch, becoming more and more astonished.
“When did you get into his debt? It looks a very suspicious piece of
business. You may do as you like, my lord, but I shall not give the
money.”
I thought that, if in this decisive moment I did not gain the upper
hand of the obstinate old man, it would be difficult for me to liberate
myself from his tutelage later on; so, looking haughtily at him, I said:
“I am your master, and you are my servant. The money is mine. I played
and lost it because I chose to do so; and I advise you not to oppose my
wishes, but to do what you are ordered.”
Savelitch was so astounded at my words, that he clasped his hands and
stood as if petrified.
“What are you standing there like that for?” I exclaimed angrily.
Savelitch began to weep.
“Father, Peter Andreitch,” he stammered in a quivering voice, “do not
break my heart with grief. You are the light of my life, so listen to
me--to an old man: write to this robber, and tell him that you were
only joking, that we have not got so much money. A hundred roubles!
Merciful Heaven! Tell him that your parents have strictly forbidden you
to play for anything except nuts----”
“That will do; let me have no more of your chatter! Give me the money,
or I will put you out by the neck!”
Savelitch looked at me with deep sadness, and went for the money. I
pitied the poor old man; but I wanted to assert my independence and to
show that I was no longer a child.
The money was paid to Zourin. Savelitch hastened to get me away from
the accursed inn. He made his appearance with the information that the
horses were ready. With an uneasy conscience, and a silent feeling
of remorse, I left Simbirsk without taking leave of my teacher of
billiards, and without thinking that I should ever see him again.
[Footnote 1: A celebrated German general who entered the service of
Russia during the reign of Peter the Great.]
[Footnote 2: _Outchitel._ A tutor.]
[Footnote 3: Avdotia, daughter of Basil.]
[Footnote 4: Diminutive of Peter.]
[Footnote 5: Anastasia, daughter of Gerasim.]
[Footnote 6: The Russians usually address each other by their Christian
name and that of their father. Thus Andrei Petrovitch means simply
Andrew, son of Peter.]
[Footnote 7: The rouble, at that time, was worth about three shillings
and four-pence.]
[Footnote 8: Diminutive of Arina.]
[Footnote 9: Peter, son of Andrew.]
[Footnote 10: A sour but refreshing drink made from rye-meal and malt.]
[Footnote 11: Brandy.]
CHAPTER II.
THE GUIDE.
My reflections during the journey were not very agreeable. My loss,
according to the value of money at that time, was of no little
importance. I could not but confess, within my own mind, that my
behaviour at the Simbirsk inn was very stupid, and I felt guilty in
the presence of Savelitch.’ All this tormented me. The old man sat in
gloomy silence upon the seat of the vehicle, with his face averted
from me, and every now and then giving vent to a sigh. I wanted at all
hazards to become reconciled to him, but I did not know how to begin.
At last I said to him:
“Come, come, Savelitch, that will do, let us be friends. I was to
blame; I see myself that I was in the wrong. I acted very foolishly
yesterday, and I offended you without cause. I promise that I will act
more wisely for the future, and listen to your advice. Come, don’t be
angry, but let us be friends again.”
“Ah! father, Peter Andreitch,” he replied, with a deep sigh, “I am
angry with myself; I alone am to blame. How could I leave you alone in
the inn! But what else could be expected? We are led astray by sin. The
thought came into my mind to go and see the clerk’s wife, who is my
gossip.[1] But so it was: I went to my gossip, and ill-luck came of
it. Was there ever such a misfortune! How shall I ever be able to look
in the face of my master and mistress? What will they say when they
know that their child is a drunkard and a gambler?”
In order to console poor Savelitch, I gave him my word that I would
never again spend a single copeck[2] without his consent. He calmed
down by degrees, although every now and again he still continued
muttering, with a shake of the head, “A hundred roubles! It’s no
laughing matter!”
I was nearing the place of my destination. On every side of me extended
a dreary-looking plain, intersected by hills and ravines. Everything
was covered with snow. The sun was setting. The _kibitka_[3] was
proceeding along the narrow road, or, to speak more precisely, along
the track made by the peasants’ sledges Suddenly the driver began
gazing intently about him, and at last, taking off his cap, he turned
to me and said:
“My lord, will you not give orders to turn back?”
“Why?”
“The weather does not look very promising: the wind is beginning to
rise; see how it whirls the freshly fallen snow along.”
“What does that matter?”
“And do you see that yonder?”
And the driver pointed with his whip towards the east.
“I see nothing, except the white steppe and the clear sky.”
“There--away in the distance: that cloud.”
I perceived, indeed, on the edge of the horizon, a white cloud, which I
had taken at first for a distant hill. The driver explained to me that
this small cloud presaged a snowstorm.
I had heard of the snowstorms of that part of the country, and I knew
that whole trains of waggons were frequently buried in the drifts.
Savelitch was of the same opinion as the driver, and advised that we
should return. But the wind did not seem to me to be very strong: I
hoped to be able to reach the next station in good time, and I gave
orders to drive on faster.
The driver urged on the horses at a gallop, but he still continued
to gaze towards the east. The horses entered into their work with a
will. In the meantime the wind had gradually increased in violence.
The little cloud had changed into a large, white, nebulous mass, which
rose heavily, and gradually began to extend over the whole sky. A fine
snow began to fall, and then all at once this gave place to large heavy
flakes. The wind roared; the snowstorm had burst upon us. In one moment
the dark sky became confounded with the sea of snow; everything had
disappeared.
“Well, my lord,” cried the driver, “this is a misfortune; it is a
regular snowstorm!”
I looked out of the _kibitka;_ all was storm and darkness. The wind
blew with such terrific violence that it seemed as if it were endowed
with life. Savelitch and I were covered with snow: the horses ploughed
their way onward at a walking pace, and soon came to a standstill.
“Why don’t you go on?” I called out impatiently to the driver.
“But where am I to drive to?” he replied, jumping down from his seat;
“I haven’t the slightest idea as to where we are; there is no road, and
it is dark all round.”
I began to scold him. Savelitch took his part.
“You ought to have taken his advice,” he said angrily. “You should have
returned to the posting-house; you could have had some tea and could
have slept there till the morning; the storm would have blown over by
that time, and then you could have proceeded on your journey. And why
such haste? It would be all very well if we were going to a wedding!”
Savelitch was right. But what was to be done? The snow still continued
to fall. A drift began to form around the _kibitka._ The horses stood
with dejected heads, and every now and then a shudder shook their
frames. The driver kept walking round them, and, being unable to do
anything else, busied himself with adjusting the harness. Savelitch
grumbled. I looked round on every side, hoping to discover some sign of
a house or a road, but I could distinguish nothing except the confused
whirling snowdrifts Suddenly I caught sight of something black.
“Hillo! driver,” I cried; “look! what is that black object yonder?”
The driver looked carefully in the direction indicated.
“God knows, my lord,” said he, seating himself in his place again; “it
is neither a sledge nor a tree, and it seems to move. It must be either
a man or a wolf.”
I ordered him to drive towards the unknown object, which was gradually
drawing nearer to us. In about two minutes we came up to it and
discovered it to be a man.
“Hi! my good man,” cried the driver to him; “say, do you know where the
road is?”
“The road is here; I am standing on a firm track,” replied the
wayfarer. “But what of it?”
“Listen, peasant,” said I to him; “do you know this country? Can you
lead me to a place where I can obtain a night’s lodging?”
“I know the country very well,” replied the peasant. “Heaven be
thanked, I have crossed it and re-crossed it in every direction. But
you see what sort of weather it is: it would be very easy to miss the
road. You had much better stay here and wait; perhaps the storm will
blow over, and the sky become clear, then we shall be able to find the
road by the help of the stars.”
His cool indifference encouraged me. I had already resolved to abandon
myself to the will of God and to pass the night upon the steppe, when
suddenly the peasant mounted to the seat of our vehicle and said to the
driver:
“Thank Heaven, there is a house not far off; turn to the right and go
straight on.”
“Why should I go to the right?” asked the driver in a dissatisfied
tone. “Where do you see a road? I am not the owner of these horses that
I should use the whip without mercy.”
The driver seemed to me to be in the right.
“In truth,” said I, “why do you think that there is a house not far
off?”
“Because the wind blows from that direction,” replied the wayfarer,
“and I can smell smoke; that is a sign that there is a village close at
hand.”
His sagacity and nicety of smell astonished me. I ordered the driver to
go on. The horses moved heavily through the deep snow. The _kibitka_
advanced very slowly, at one moment mounting to the summit of a ridge,
at another sinking into a deep hollow, now rolling to one side, and now
to the other. It was very much like being in a ship on a stormy sea.
Savelitch sighed and groaned, and continually jostled against me. I let
down the cover of the _kibitka_, wrapped myself up in my cloak, and
fell into a slumber, lulled by the music of the storm, and rocked by
the motion of the vehicle.
I had a dream which I shall never forget, and in which I still see
something prophetic when I compare it with the strange events of my
life. The reader will excuse me for mentioning the matter, for probably
he knows from experience that man is naturally given to superstition
in spite of the great contempt entertained for it.
I was in that condition of mind when reality and imagination become
confused in the vague sensations attending the first stage of
drowsiness. It seemed to me that the storm still continued, and that
we were still wandering about the wilderness of snow.... All at once I
caught sight of a gate, and we entered the courtyard of our mansion. My
first thought was a fear that my father would be angry with me for my
involuntary return to the paternal roof, and would regard it as an act
of intentional disobedience. With a feeling of uneasiness I sprang out
of the _kibitka_, and saw my mother coming down the steps to meet me,
with a look of deep affliction upon her face.
“Hush!” she said to me; “your father is on the point of death, and
wishes to take leave of you.”
Struck with awe, I followed her into the bedroom. I looked about me;
the room was dimly lighted, and round the bed stood several persons
with sorrow-stricken countenances. I approached very gently; my mother
raised the curtain and said:
“Andrei Petrovitch, Petrousha has arrived; he has returned because he
heard of your illness; give him your blessing.”
I knelt down and fixed my eyes upon the face of the sick man. But
what did I see?... Instead of my father, I saw lying in the bed a
black-bearded peasant, who looked at me with an expression of gaiety
upon his countenance. Greatly perplexed, I turned round to my mother
and said to her:
“What does all this mean? This is not my father. Why should I ask this
peasant for his blessing?”
“It is all the same, Petrousha,” replied my mother; “he is your
stepfather; kiss his hand and let him bless you.” I would not consent
to it. Then the peasant sprang out of bed, grasped the axe which hung
at his back,[4] and commenced flourishing it about on every side. I
wanted to run away, but I could not; the room began to get filled with
dead bodies; I kept stumbling against them, and my feet continually
slipped in pools of blood. The dreadful peasant called out to me in a
gentle voice, saying:
“Do not be afraid; come and receive my blessing.” Terror and doubt took
possession of me.... At that moment I awoke; the horses had come to a
standstill. Savelitch took hold of my hand, saying:
“Get out, my lord, we have arrived.”
“Where are we?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.
“At a place of refuge. God came to our help and conducted us straight
to the fence of the house. Get out as quickly as you can, my lord, and
warm yourself.”
I stepped out of the _kibitka._ The storm still raged, although with
less violence than at first. It was as dark as if we were totally
blind. The host met us at the door, holding a lantern under the skirt
of his coat, and conducted me into a room, small, but tolerably clean.
It was lit up by a pine torch. On the wall hung a long rifle, and a
tall Cossack cap.
The host, a Yaikian Cossack by birth, was a peasant of about sixty
years of age, still hale and strong. Savelitch brought in the
tea-chest, and asked for a fire in order to prepare some tea, which I
seemed to need at that moment more than at any other time in my life.
The host hastened to attend to the matter.
“Where is the guide?” I said to Savelitch.
“Here, your Excellency,” replied a voice from above.
I glanced up at the loft, and saw a black beard and two sparkling eyes.
“Well, friend, are you cold?”
“How could I be otherwise than cold in only a thin tunic! I had a fur
coat, but why should I hide my fault?--I pawned it yesterday with a
brandy-seller; the cold did not seem to be so severe.”
At that moment the host entered with a smoking tea-urn; I offered our
guide a cup of tea; the peasant came down from the loft. His exterior
seemed to me somewhat remarkable. He was about forty years of age, of
middle height, thin and broad-shouldered. In his black beard streaks
of grey were beginning to make their appearance; his large, lively
black eyes were incessantly on the roll. His face had something rather
agreeable about it, although an expression of vindictiveness could also
be detected upon it. His hair was cut close round his head. He was
dressed in a ragged tunic and Tartar trousers. I gave him a cup of tea;
he tasted it, and made a wry face.
“Your Excellency,” said he, “be so good as to order a glass of wine for
me; tea is not the drink for us Cossacks.”
I willingly complied with his request. The landlord brought a square
bottle and a glass from a cupboard, went up to him, and, looking into
his face, said:
“Oh! you are again in our neighbourhood! Where have you come from?”
My guide winked significantly, and made reply:
“Flying in the garden, pecking hempseed; the old woman threw a stone,
but it missed its aim. And how is it with--you?”
“How is it with us?” replied the landlord, continuing the allegorical
conversation, “they were beginning to ring the vespers, but the pope’s
wife would not allow it: the pope is on a visit, and the devils are in
the glebe.”
“Hold your tongue, uncle,” replied my rover; “when there is rain,
there will be mushrooms; and when there are mushrooms, there will be
a pannier; but now” (and here he winked again) “put your axe behind
your back; the ranger is going about. Your Excellency, I drink to your
health!”
With these words he took hold of the glass, made the sign of the
cross, and drank off the liquor in one draught; then, bowing to me, he
returned to the loft.
At that time I could not understand anything of this thieves’ slang,
but afterwards I understood that it referred to the Yaikian army, which
had only just then been reduced to submission after the revolt of 1772.
Savelitch listened with a look of great dissatisfaction. He glanced
very suspiciously, first at the landlord, then at the guide. The inn,
or _umet_, as it was called in those parts, was situated in the middle
of the steppe, far from every habitation or village, and had very much
the appearance of a rendezvous for thieves. But there was no help for
it. We could not think of continuing our journey. The uneasiness of
Savelitch afforded me very great amusement. In the meantime I made all
necessary arrangements for passing the night comfortably, and then
stretched myself upon a bench. Savelitch resolved to avail himself of
the stove[5]; our host lay down upon the floor. Soon all in the house
were snoring, and I fell into a sleep as sound as that of the grave.
When I awoke on the following morning, at a somewhat late hour, I
perceived that the storm was over. The sun was shining. The snow lay
like a dazzling shroud over the boundless steppe. The horses were
harnessed. I paid the reckoning to the host, the sum asked of us being
so very moderate that even Savelitch did not dispute the matter and
commence to haggle about the payment as was his usual custom; moreover,
his suspicions of the previous evening had completely vanished from
his mind. I called for our guide, thanked him for the assistance he had
rendered us, and ordered Savelitch to give him half a rouble for brandy.
Savelitch frowned.
“Half a rouble for brandy?” said he; “why so? Because you were pleased
to bring him with you to this inn? With your leave, my lord, but we
have not too many half roubles to spare. If we give money for brandy
to everybody we have to deal with, we shall very soon have to starve
ourselves.”
I could not argue with Savelitch. According to my own promise, the
disposal of my money was to be left entirely to his discretion. But I
felt rather vexed that I was not able to show my gratitude to a man
who, if he had not rescued me from certain destruction, had at least
delivered me from a very disagreeable position.
“Well,” said I, coldly, “if you will not give him half a rouble, give
him something out of my wardrobe; he is too thinly clad. Give him my
hare-skin pelisse.”
“In the name of Heaven, father, Peter Andreitch!” said Savelitch, “why
give him your pelisse? The dog will sell it for drink at the first
tavern that he comes to.”
“It is no business of yours, old man,” said my stroller, “whether I
sell it for drink or not. His Excellency is pleased to give me a cloak
from off his own shoulders; it is his lordly will, and it is your duty,
as servant, to obey, and not to dispute.”
“Have you no fear of God, you robber!” said Savelitch, in an angry
tone. “You see that the child has not yet reached the age of
discretion, and yet you are only too glad to take advantage of his
good-nature, and rob him. What do you want with my master’s pelisse?
You will not be able to stretch it across your accursed shoulders.”
“I beg of you not to show off your wit,” I said to my guardian. “Bring
the pelisse hither immediately!”
“Gracious Lord!” groaned Savelitch, “the pelisse is almost brand-new!
If it were to anybody deserving of it, it would be different, but to
give it to a ragged drunkard!”
However, the pelisse was brought. The peasant instantly commenced to
try it on. And, indeed, the garment, which I had grown out of, and
which was rather tight for me, was a great deal too small for him. But
he contrived to get it on somehow, though not without bursting the
seams in the effort. Savelitch very nearly gave vent to a groan when
he heard the stitches giving way. The stroller was exceedingly pleased
with my present. He conducted me to the _kibitka_, and said, with a low
bow:
“Many thanks, your Excellency! May God reward you for your virtue. I
shall never forget your kindness.”
He went his way, and I set out again on my journey, without paying any
attention to Savelitch, and I soon forgot all about the storm of the
previous day, the guide, and my pelisse.
On arriving at Orenburg, I immediately presented myself to the general.
He was a tall man, but somewhat bent with age. His long hair was
perfectly white. His old faded uniform recalled to mind the warrior of
the time of the Empress Anne, and he spoke with a strong German accent.
I gave him the letter from my father. On hearing the name, he glanced
at me quickly.
“_Mein Gott!_” said he, “it does not seem so very long ago since Andrei
Petrovitch was your age, and now what a fine young fellow he has got
for a son! _Ach_! time, time!”
He opened the letter and began to read it half aloud, making his own
observations upon it in the course of his reading.
“‘Esteemed Sir, Ivan Karlovitch, I hope that your Excellency’--Why
all this ceremony? Pshaw! Isn’t he ashamed of himself? To be sure,
discipline before everything, but is that the way to write to an old
comrade?--‘Your Excellency has not forgotten’--Hm!--‘and--when--with
the late Field Marshal Mün--in the campaign--also Caroline’--Ha,
brother! he still remembers our old pranks, then?--‘Now to
business.--I send you my young hopeful’--Hm!--‘Hold him with hedgehog
mittens.’--What are hedgehog mittens? That must be a Russian
proverb.--What does ‘hold him with hedgehog mittens’ mean?” he
repeated, turning to me.
“It means,” I replied, looking as innocent as I possibly could, “to
treat a person kindly, not to be too severe, and to allow as much
liberty as possible.”
“Hm! I understand--‘And do not give him too much liberty.’--No, it is
evident that ‘hedgehog mittens’ does not mean that.--‘Enclosed you
will find his passport.’--Where is it then? Ah! here it is.--‘Enrol
him in the Semenovsky Regiment.’--Very well, very well, everything
shall be attended to.--‘Allow me without ceremony to embrace you as an
old comrade and friend.’--Ah! at last he has got to it.--‘Etcetera,
etcetera.’--‘Well, my little father,’ said he, finishing the reading of
the letter, and putting my passport on one side, ‘everything shall be
arranged; you shall be an officer in the Regiment, and so that you may
lose no time, start to-morrow for the fortress of Bailogorsk, where you
will be under the command of Captain Mironoff, a good and honest man.
There you will learn real service, and be taught what real discipline
is. Orenburg is not the place for you, there is nothing for you to do
there; amusements are injurious to a young man. Favour me with your
company at dinner to-day.”
“This is getting worse and worse,” I thought to myself. “Of what use
will it be to me to have been a sergeant in the Guards almost from my
mother’s womb! Whither has it led me? To the Regiment, and to a dreary
fortress on the borders of the Kirghis-Kaisaks steppes!”
I dined with Andrei Karlovitch, in company with his old adjutant. A
strict German economy ruled his table, and I believe that the fear of
being obliged to entertain an additional guest now and again was partly
the cause of my being so promptly banished to the garrison.
The next day I took leave of the general, and set out for the place of
my destination.
[Footnote 1: Savelitch uses the word here in its old meaning of
fellow-sponsor.]
[Footnote 2: A tenth of a penny.]
[Footnote 3: A kind of rough travelling cart.]
[Footnote 4: The Russian peasant usually carries his axe behind him.]
[Footnote 5: The usual sleeping place of the Russian peasant.]
CHAPTER III.
THE FORTRESS.
The fortress of Bailogorsk was situated about forty versts[1] from
Orenburg. The road to it led along the steep bank of the Yaik.[2] The
river was not yet frozen, and its leaden-coloured waves had a dark
and melancholy aspect as they rose and fell between the dreary banks
covered with the white snow. Beyond it stretched the Kirghis steppes.
I sank into reflections, most of them of a gloomy nature. Garrison
life had little attraction for me. I endeavoured to picture to myself
Captain Mironoff, my future chief; and I imagined him to be a severe,
ill-tempered old man, knowing nothing except what was connected with
his duty, and ready to arrest me and put me on bread and water for the
merest trifle.
In the meantime it began to grow dark, and we quickened our pace.
“Is it far to the fortress?” I inquired of our driver.
“Not far,” he replied, “you can see it yonder.”
I looked around on every side, expecting to see formidable bastions,
towers, and ramparts, but I could see nothing except a small village
surrounded by a wooden palisade. On one side stood three or four
hayricks, half covered with snow; on the other a crooked looking
windmill, with its bark sails hanging idly down.
“But where is the fortress?” I asked in astonishment.
“There it is,” replied the driver, pointing to the village, and, as he
spoke, we entered into it.
At the gate I saw an old cast-iron gun; the streets were narrow and
crooked; the cottages small, and for the most part covered with thatch.
I expressed a wish to be taken to the Commandant, and, in about a
minute, the _kibitka_ stopped in front of a small wooden house, built
on an eminence, and situated near the church, which was likewise of
wood.
Nobody came out to meet me. I made my way to the entrance and then
proceeded to the ante-room. An old pensioner, seated at a table, was
engaged in sewing a blue patch on the elbow of a green uniform coat. I
ordered him to announce me.
“Go inside, little father,” replied the pensioner; “our people are at
home.”
I entered into a very clean room, furnished in the old-fashioned style.
In one corner stood a cupboard containing earthenware utensils; on
the wall hung an officers diploma, framed and glazed, and around it
were arranged a few rude wood engravings, representing the “Capture of
Kustrin and Otchakoff,”[3] the “Choice of the Bride,” and the “Burial
of the Cat.” At the window sat an old woman in a jerkin, and wearing a
handkerchief round her head. She was unwinding thread which a one-eyed
old man, dressed in an officer’s uniform, held in his outstretched
hands.
“What is your pleasure, little father?” she asked, continuing her
occupation.
I replied that I had come to enter the service, and, in accordance
with the regulations, to notify my arrival to the Captain in command.
And with these words I turned towards the one-eyed old man, whom I
supposed to be the Commandant; but the old lady interrupted me in the
speech which I had so carefully prepared beforehand.
“Ivan Kouzmitch[4] is not at home,” said she; “he has gone to visit
Father Gerasim. But it is all the same, I am his wife.”
She summoned a maid-servant and told her to call an orderly officer.
The little old man looked at me out of his one eye with much curiosity.
“May I ask,” said he, “in what regiment you have deigned to serve?”
I satisfied his curiosity.
“And may I ask,” he continued, “why you have exchanged the Guards for
this garrison?”
I replied that such was the wish of the authorities.
“Probably for conduct unbecoming an officer of the Guards?” continued
the indefatigable interrogator.
“A truce to your foolish chatter,” said the Captain’s wife to him; “you
see that the young man is tired after his journey. He has something
else to do than to listen to your nonsense.” Then turning to me she
added: “You are not the first, and you will not be the last. It is a
hard life here, but you will soon get to like it. It is five years ago
since Shvabrin Alexei Ivanitch was sent here to us for a murder. Heaven
knows what it was that caused him to go wrong. You see, he went out of
the town with a lieutenant; they had taken their swords with them, and
they began to thrust at one another, and Alexei Ivanitch stabbed the
lieutenant, and all before two witnesses! But what would you? Man is
not master of sin.”
At this moment the orderly officer, a young and well-built Cossack,
entered the room.
“Maximitch,” said the Captain’s wife to him, “conduct this officer to
his quarters, and see that everything is attended to.”
“I obey, Vassilissa Egorovna,” replied the orderly. “Is not his
Excellency to lodge with Ivan Polejaeff?”
“What a booby you are, Maximitch!” said the Captain’s wife.
“Polejaeff’s house is crowded already; besides, he is my gossip, and
remembers that we are his superiors. Take the officer--what is your
name, little father?”[5]
“Peter Andreitch.”
“Take Peter Andreitch to Simon Kouzoff. The rascal allowed his horse to
get in my kitchen-garden.... And is everything right, Maximitch?”
“Everything, thank God!” replied the Cossack; “only Corporal Prokhoroff
has been having a squabble at the bath with Ustinia Pegoulina, on
account of a can of hot water.”
“Ivan Ignatitch,” said the Captain’s wife to the one-eyed old man,
“decide between Prokhoroff and Ustinia as to who is right and who is
wrong, and then punish both. Now, Maximitch, go, and God be with you.
Peter Andreitch, Maximitch will conduct you to your quarters.”
I bowed and took my departure. The orderly conducted me to a hut,
situated on the steep bank of the river, at the extreme end of the
fortress. One half of the hut was occupied by the family of Simon
Kouzoff; the other was given up to me. It consisted of one room, of
tolerable cleanliness, and was divided into two by a partition.
Savelitch began to set the room in order, and I looked out of the
narrow window. Before me stretched a gloomy steppe. On one side stood
a few huts, and two or three fowls were wandering about the street.
An old woman, standing on a doorstep with a trough in her hands, was
calling some pigs, which answered her with friendly grunts. And this
was the place in which I was condemned to spend my youth! Grief took
possession of me; I came, away from the window and lay down to sleep
without eating any supper, in spite of the exhortations of Savelitch,
who kept repeating in a tone of distress:
“Lord of heaven! he will eat nothing! What will my mistress say if the
child falls ill?”--
The next morning I had scarcely begun to dress when the door opened,
and a young officer, somewhat short in stature, with a swarthy and
rather ill-looking countenance, though distinguished by extraordinary
vivacity, entered the room.
“Pardon me,” he said to me in French, “for coming without ceremony to
make your acquaintance. I heard yesterday of your arrival, and the
desire to see at last a fresh human face took such possession of me,
that I could not wait any longer. You will understand this when you
have lived here a little while.”
I conjectured that this was the officer who had been dismissed from the
Guards on account of the duel. We soon became acquainted. Shvabrin was
by no means a fool. His conversation was witty and entertaining. With
great liveliness he described to me the family of the Commandant, his
society, and the place to which fate had conducted me. I was laughing
with all my heart when the old soldier who had been mending his uniform
in the Commandant’s ante-chamber, came to me, and, in the name of
Vassilissa Egorovna, invited me to dinner. Shvabrin declared that he
would go with me.
On approaching the Commandant’s house, we perceived on the square
about twenty old soldiers, with long pig-tails and three-cornered hats.
They were standing to the front. Before them stood the Commandant, a
tall and sprightly old man, in a nightcap and flannel dressing-gown.
Observing us, he came forward towards us, said a few kind words to me,
and then went on again with the drilling of his men. We were going to
stop to watch the evolutions, but he requested us to go to Vassilissa
Egorovna, promising to join us in a little while. “Here,” he added,
“there is nothing for you to see.”
Vassilissa Egorovna received us with unfeigned gladness and simplicity,
and treated me as if she had known me all my life. The pensioner and
Palashka spread the tablecloth.
“What is detaining my Ivan Kouzmitch so long to-day?” said the
Commandant’s wife. “Palashka, go and call your master to dinner.... But
where is Masha?”[6]
At that moment there entered the room a young girl of about eighteen
years of age, with a round, rosy face, and light brown hair, brushed
smoothly back behind her ears, which were tinged with a deep blush.
She did not produce a very favourable impression upon me at the first
glance. I regarded her with prejudiced eyes. Shvabrin had described
Masha, the Captain’s daughter, as a perfect idiot. Maria Ivanovna[7]
sat down in a corner and began to sew. Meanwhile, the cabbage-soup was
brought in. Vassilissa Egorovna, not seeing her husband, sent Palashka
after him a second time.
“Tell your master that the guests are waiting, and that the soup is
getting cold. Thank Heaven, the drill will not run away! he will have
plenty of time to shout himself hoarse.”
The Captain soon made his appearance, accompanied by the little
one-eyed old man.
“What is the meaning of this, little father?” said his wife to him;
“the dinner has been ready a long time, and you would not come.”
“Why, you see, Vassilissa Egorovna,” said Ivan Kouzmitch, “I was
occupied with my duties; I was teaching my little soldiers.”
“Nonsense!” replied his wife; “it is all talk about your teaching
the soldiers. The service does not suit them, and you yourself don’t
understand anything about it. It would be better for you to stay at
home and pray to God. My dear guests, pray take your places at the
table.”
We sat down to dine. Vassilissa Egorovna was not silent for a single
moment, and she overwhelmed me with questions. Who were my parents?
Were they living? Where did they live? How much were they worth? On
hearing that my father owned three hundred souls:[8]
“Really now!” she exclaimed; “well, there are some rich people in the
world! As for us, my little father, we have only our one servant-girl,
Palashka; but, thank God, we manage to get along well enough! There
is only one thing that we are troubled about. Masha is an eligible
girl, but what has she got for a marriage portion? A clean comb, a
hand-broom, and three copecks--Heaven have pity upon her!--to pay for a
bath. If she can find a good man, all very well; if not, she will have
to be an old maid.”
I glanced at Maria Ivanovna; she was blushing all over, and tears
were even falling into her plate. I began to feel pity for her, and I
hastened to change the conversation.
“I have heard,” said I, as appropriately as I could, “that the
Bashkirs are assembling to make an attack upon your fortress.”
“And from whom did you hear that, my little father?” asked Ivan
Kouzmitch.
“They told me so in Orenburg,” I replied.
“All nonsense!” said the Commandant; “we have heard nothing about them
for a long time. The Bashkirs are a timid lot, and the Kirghises have
learnt a lesson. Don’t be alarmed, they will not attack us; but if they
should venture to do so, we will teach them such a lesson that they
will not make another move for the next ten years.”
“And are you not afraid,” continued I, turning to the Captain’s wife,
“to remain in a fortress exposed to so many dangers?”
“Habit, my little father,” she replied. “It is twenty years ago since
they transferred us from the regiment to this place, and you cannot
imagine how these accursed heathens used to terrify me. If I caught a
glimpse of their hairy caps now and then, or if I heard their yells,
will you believe it, my father, my heart would leap almost into my
mouth. But now I am so accustomed to it that I would not move out of my
place if anyone came to tell me that the villains were prowling round
the fortress.”
“Vassilissa Egorovna is a very courageous lady,” observed Shvabrin
earnestly; “Ivan Kouzmitch can bear witness to that.”
“Yes, I believe you,” said Ivan Kouzmitch; “the wife is not one of the
timid ones.”
“And Maria Ivanovna,” I asked, “is she as brave as you?”
“Masha brave?” replied her mother. “No, Masha is a coward. Up to the
present time she has never been able to hear the report of a gun
without trembling all over. Two years ago, when Ivan Kouzmitch took the
idea into his head to fire off our cannon on my name-day,[9] my little
dove was so frightened that she nearly died through terror. Since then
we have never fired off the accursed cannon.”
We rose from the table. The Captain and his wife went to indulge in
a nap, and I accompanied Shvabrin to his quarters, where I spent the
whole evening.
[Footnote 1: A verst is two-thirds of an English mile.]
[Footnote 2: A tributary of the Oural.]
[Footnote 3: Taken from the Turks in 1737 by the Russian troops under
Count Münich.]
[Footnote 4: Ivan (John), son of Kouzma.]
[Footnote 5: Little father (_batyushka_). A familiar idiom peculiar to
the Russian language.]
[Footnote 6: Diminutive of Maria or Mary.]
[Footnote 7: Mary, daughter of Ivan (i.e., Masha).]
[Footnote 8: The technical name for serfs.]
[Footnote 9: The Russians do not keep the actual day of their birth,
but their name-day--that is, the day kept in honour of the saint after
whom they are called.]
CHAPTER IV.
THE DUEL.
Several weeks passed by, and my life in the fortress of Bailogorsk
became not only endurable, but even agreeable. In the house of the
Commandant I was received as one of the family. Both husband and wife
were very worthy persons. Ivan Kouzmitch, who had risen from the
ranks, was a simple and unaffected man, but exceedingly honest and
good-natured. His wife managed things generally for him, and this
was quite in harmony with his easy-going disposition. Vassilissa
Egorovna looked after the business of the service as well as her own
domestic affairs, and ruled the fortress precisely as she did her
own house. Maria Ivanovna soon ceased to be shy in my presence. We
became acquainted. I found her a sensible and feeling girl. In an
imperceptible manner I became attached to this good family, even to
Ivan Ignatitch, the one-eyed garrison lieutenant, whom Shvabrin accused
of being on terms of undue intimacy with Vassilissa Egorovna, an
accusation which had not a shadow of probability to give countenance to
it; but Shvabrin did not trouble himself about that.
I was promoted to the rank of officer. My duties were not very heavy.
In this God-protected fortress there was neither parade, nor drill,
nor guard-mounting. The Commandant sometimes instructed the soldiers
for his own amusement, but he had not yet got so far as teaching them
which was the right-hand side and which the left. Shvabrin had several
French books in his possession. I began to read them, and this awakened
within me a taste for literature. In the morning I read, exercised
myself in translating, and sometimes even attempted to compose verses.
I dined nearly always at the Commandants, where I generally spent
the rest of the day, and where sometimes of an evening came Father
Gerasim, with his wife, Akoulina Pamphilovna, the greatest gossip in
the whole neighbourhood. It is unnecessary for me to mention that
Shvabrin and I saw each other every day, but his conversation began to
be more disagreeable the more I saw of him. His continual ridiculing
of the Commandant’s family, and especially his sarcastic observations
concerning Maria Ivanovna, annoyed me exceedingly. There was no other
society in the fortress, and I wished for no other.
In spite of the predictions, the Bashkirs did not revolt. Tranquillity
reigned around, our fortress. But the peace was suddenly disturbed by
civil dissensions.
I have already mentioned that I occupied myself with literature.
My essays were tolerable for those days, and Alexander Petrovitch
Soumarokoff,[1] some years afterwards, praised them very much. One
day I contrived to write a little song with which I was much pleased.
It is well-known that, under the appearance of asking advice, authors
frequently endeavour to secure a well-disposed listener. And so,
writing out my little song, I took it to Shvabrin, who was the
only person in the whole fortress who could appreciate a poetical
production. After a short preamble, I drew my manuscript out of my
pocket, and read to him the following verses:
“I banish thoughts of love, and try
My fair one to forget;
And, to be free again, I fly
From Masha with regret.
“My troubled soul no rest can know,
No peace of mind for me;
For wheresoever I may go,
Those eyes I still shall see.
“Take pity, Masha, on this heart
Oppressed by grief and care;
And let compassion rend apart
The clouds of dark despair.”
“What do you think of it?” I asked Shvabrin, expecting that praise
which I considered I was justly entitled to. But, to my great
disappointment, Shvabrin, who was generally complaisant; declared very
peremptorily that the verses were not worth much.
“And why?” I asked, hiding my vexation.
“Because,” he replied, “such verses are worthy of my instructor
Tredyakovsky,[2] and remind me very much of his love couplets.”
Then he took the manuscript from me and began unmercifully to pull
to pieces every verse and word, jeering at me in the most sarcastic
manner. This was more than I could endure, and snatching my manuscript
out of his hand, I told him that I would never show him any more of my
compositions. Shvabrin laughed at my threat.
“We shall see,” said he, “if you will keep your word. A poet needs a
listener, just as Ivan Kouzmitch needs his decanter of brandy before
dinner. And who is this Masha to whom you declare your tender passion
and your amorous distress? Can it be Maria Ivanovna?”
“That is not your business,” replied I, frowning; “it is nothing to do
with you who she is. I want neither your opinion nor your conjectures.”
“Oho! my vain poet and discreet lover!” continued Shvabrin, irritating
me more and more. “But listen to a friend’s advice; if you wish to
succeed, I advise you not to have recourse to writing verses.”
“What do you mean, sir? Please explain yourself.”
“With pleasure. I mean that if you wish Masha Mironoff to meet you at
dusk, instead of tender verses, you must make her a present of a pair
of earrings.”
My blood began to boil.
“Why have you such an opinion of her?” I asked, with difficulty
restraining my anger.
“Because,” replied he, with a fiendish smile, “I know from experience
her ways and habits.”
“You lie, scoundrel!” I exclaimed with fury. “You lie in the most
shameless manner!”
Shvabrin changed colour.
“This shall not be overlooked,” said he, pressing my hand. “You shall
give me satisfaction.” “With pleasure, whenever you like,” I replied,
delighted beyond measure.
At that moment I was ready to tear him in pieces.
I immediately hastened to Ivan Ignatitch, and found him with a needle
in his hand; in obedience to the commands of the Commandant’s wife he
was stringing mushrooms for drying during the winter.
“Ah, Peter Andreitch,” said he, on seeing me, “you are welcome. May I
ask on what business Heaven has brought you here?”
In a few words I explained to him that, having had a quarrel with
Shvabrin, I came to ask him--Ivan Ignatitch--to be my second.
Ivan Ignatitch listened to me with great attention, keeping his one eye
fixed upon me all the while.
“You wish to say,” he said to me, “that you want to kill Shvabrin, and
that you would like me to be a witness to it? Is that so, may I ask?
“Exactly so.”
“In the name of Heaven, Peter Andreitch, whatever are you thinking
of! You have had a quarrel with Shvabrin. What a great misfortune!
A quarrel should not be hung round one’s neck. He has insulted you,
and you have insulted him; he gives you one in the face, and you
give him one behind the ear; a second blow from him, another from
you--and then each goes his own way; in a little while we bring about
a reconciliation.... Is it right to kill one’s neighbour, may I ask?
And suppose that you do kill him--God be with him! I have no particular
love for him. But what if he were to let daylight through you? How
about the matter in that case? Who would be the worst off then, may I
ask?”
The reasonings of the discreet lieutenant produced no effect upon me; I
remained firm in my resolution.
“As you please,” said Ivan Ignatitch; “do as you like. But why should I
be a witness to it? People fight,--what is there wonderful in that, may
I ask? Thank Heaven! I have fought against the Swedes and the Turks,
and have seen enough of every kind of fighting.”
I endeavoured to explain to him, as well as I could, the duty of a
second; but Ivan Ignatitch could not understand me at all.
“Have your own way,” said he; “but if I ought to mix myself up in the
matter at all, it should be to go to Ivan Kouzmitch and report to him,
in accordance with the rules of the service, that there was a design on
foot to commit a crime within the fortress, contrary to the interest
of the crown, and to request him to take the necessary measures----”
I felt alarmed, and implored Ivan Ignatitch not to say anything about
the matter to the Commandant; after much difficulty I succeeded in
talking him over, he gave me his word, and then I took leave of him.
I spent the evening as usual at the Commandant’s house. I endeavoured
to appear gay and indifferent, so as not to excite suspicion, and in
order to avoid importunate questions; but I confess that I had not
that cool assurance which those who find themselves in my position
nearly always boast about. That evening I was disposed to be tender and
sentimental. Maria Ivanovna pleased me more than usual. The thought
that perhaps I was looking at her for the last time, imparted to her in
my eyes something touching. Shvabrin likewise put in an appearance. I
took him aside and informed him of my interview with Ivan Ignatitch.
“What do we want seconds for?” said he, drily; “we can do without them.”
We agreed to fight behind the hayricks which stood near the fortress,
and to appear on the ground at seven o’clock the next morning.
We conversed together in such an apparently amicable manner that Ivan
Ignatitch was nearly betraying us in the excess of his joy.
“You should have done that long ago,” he said to me, with a look of
satisfaction; “a bad reconciliation is better than a good quarrel.”
“What’s that, what’s that, Ivan Ignatitch?” said the Commandant’s wife,
who was playing at cards in a corner. “I did not hear what you said.”
Ivan Ignatitch, perceiving signs of dissatisfaction upon my face, and
remembering his promise, became confused, and knew not what reply to
make. Shvabrin hastened to his assistance.
“Ivan Ignatitch,” said he, “approves of our reconciliation.”
“And with whom have you been quarrelling, my little father?”
“Peter Andreitch and I have had rather a serious fall out.”
“What about?”
“About a mere trifle--about a song, Vassilissa Egorovna.”
“A nice thing to quarrel about, a song! But how did it happen?”
“In this way. Peter Andreitch composed a song a short time ago, and
this morning he began to sing it to me, and I began to hum my favourite
ditty:
‘Daughter of the Captain,
Walk not out at midnight.’
Then there arose a disagreement. Peter Andreitch grew angry, but then
he reflected that everyone likes to sing what pleases him best, and
there the matter ended.”
Shvabrin’s insolence nearly made me boil over with fury; but nobody
except myself understood his coarse insinuations; at least, nobody paid
any attention to them. From songs the conversation turned upon poets,
and the Commandant observed that they were all rakes and terrible
drunkards, and advised me in a friendly manner to have nothing to do
with poetry, as it was contrary to the rules of the service, and would
lead to no good.
Shvabrin’s presence was insupportable to me. I soon took, leave of the
Commandant and his family, and returned home. I examined my sword,
tried the point of it, and then lay down to sleep, after giving
Savelitch orders to wake me at seven o’clock.
The next morning, at the appointed hour, I stood ready behind the
hayricks, awaiting my adversary. He soon made his appearance.
“We may be surprised,” he said to me, “so we must make haste.”
We took off our uniforms, remaining in our waistcoats, and drew our
swords. At that moment Ivan Ignatitch and five of the old soldiers
suddenly made their appearance from behind a hayrick, and summoned us
to go before the Commandant. We obeyed with very great reluctance; the
soldiers surrounded us, and we followed behind Ivan Ignatitch, who led
the way in triumph, striding along with majestic importance.
We reached the Commandant’s house. Ivan Ignatitch threw open the door,
exclaiming triumphantly:
“Here they are!”
Vassilissa Egorovna came towards us.
“What is the meaning of all this, my dears? A plot to commit murder in
our fortress! Ivan Kouzmitch, put them under arrest immediately! Peter
Andreitch! Alexei Ivanitch! Give up your swords--give them up at once!
Palashka, take the swords into the pantry. Peter Andreitch, I did not
expect this of you! Are you not ashamed? As regards Alexei Ivanitch, he
was turned out of the Guards for killing a man_;_ he does not believe
in God. Do you wish to be like him?”
Ivan Kouzmitch agreed with everything that his wife said, and added:
“Yes, Vassilissa Egorovna speaks the truth; duels are strictly
forbidden by the articles of war.”
In the meanwhile Palashka had taken our swords and carried them to the
pantry. I could not help smiling. Shvabrin preserved his gravity.
“With all due respect to you,” he said coldly to her, “I cannot but
observe that you give yourself unnecessary trouble in constituting
yourself our judge. Leave that to Ivan Kouzmitch; it is his business.”
“What do you say, my dear!” exclaimed the Commandant’s wife. “Are not
husband and wife, then, one soul and one body? Ivan Kouzmitch! what are
you staring at? Place them at once in separate corners on bread and
water, so that they may be brought to their proper senses, and then let
Father Gerasim impose a penance upon them, that they may pray to God
for forgiveness, and show themselves repentant before men.”
Ivan Kouzmitch knew not what to do. Maria Ivanovna was exceedingly
pale. Gradually the storm blew over; the Commandant’s wife recovered
her composure, and ordered us to embrace each other. Palashka brought
back our swords to us. We left the Commandant’s house to all appearance
perfectly reconciled. Ivan Ignatitch accompanied us.
“Were you not ashamed,” I said angrily to him, “to go and report us to
the Commandant, after having given me your word that you would not do
so?”
“As true as there is a heaven above us, I did not mention I a word
about the matter to Ivan Kouzmitch,” he replied. “Vassilissa Egorovna
got everything out of me. She arranged the whole business without the
Commandant’s knowledge. However, Heaven be thanked that it has all
ended in the way that it has!”
With these words he returned home, and Shvabrin and I remained alone.
“Our business cannot end in this manner,” I said to him. “Certainly
not,” replied Shvabrin; “your blood shall answer for your insolence to
me; but we shall doubtless be watched. For a few days, therefore, we
must dissemble. Farewell, till we meet again.”
And we parted as if nothing were the matter.
Returning to the Commandant’s house I seated myself, as usual, near
Maria Ivanovna. Ivan Kouzmitch was not at home. Vassilissa Egorovna
was occupied with household matters. We were conversing together in an
under tone. Maria Ivanovna reproached me tenderly for the uneasiness
which I had caused them all by my quarrel with Shvabrin.
“I almost fainted away,” said she, “when they told us that you intended
to fight with swords. What strange beings men are! For a single word,
which they would probably forget a week afterwards, they are ready
to murder each other and to sacrifice not only their life, but their
conscience and the happiness of those----But I am quite sure that you
did not begin the quarrel. Without doubt, Alexei Ivanitch first began
it.”
“Why do you think so, Maria Ivanovna?”
“Because--he is so sarcastic. I do not like Alexei Ivanitch. He is very
disagreeable to me; yet it is strange: I should not like to displease
him. That would cause me great uneasiness.”
“And what do you think, Maria Ivanovna--do you please him or not?”
Maria Ivanovna blushed and grew confused.
“I think,” said she, “I believe that I please him.”
“And why do you think so?”
“Because he once proposed to me.”
“Proposed! He proposed to you? And when?”
“Last year; two months before your arrival.”
“And you refused?”
“As you see. Alexei Ivanitch is, to be sure, a sensible man and of good
family, and possesses property; but when I think that I should have to
kiss him under the crown[3] in the presence of everybody--no! not for
anything in the world!”
Maria Ivanovna’s words opened my eyes and explained a great many
things. I now understood why Shvabrin calumniated her so remorselessly.
He had probably observed our mutual inclination towards each other,
and endeavoured to produce a coolness between us. The words which had
been the cause of our quarrel appeared to me still more abominable,
when, instead of a coarse and indecent jest, I was compelled to look
upon them in the light of a deliberate calumny. The wish to chastise
the insolent slanderer became still stronger within me, and I waited
impatiently for a favourable opportunity for putting it into execution.
I did not wait long. The next day, when I was occupied in composing an
elegy, and sat biting my pen while trying to think of a rhyme, Shvabrin
tapped at my window. I threw down my pen, took up my sword, and went
out to him.
“Why should we delay any longer?” said Shvabrin; “nobody is observing
us. Let us go down to the river; there no one will disturb us.”
We set out in silence. Descending a winding path, we stopped at the
edge of the river and drew our swords. Shvabrin was more skilful in
the use of the weapon than I, but I was stronger and more daring, and
Monsieur Beaupré, who had formerly been a soldier, had given me some
lessons in fencing which I had turned to good account. Shvabrin had
not expected to find in me such a dangerous adversary. For a long
time neither of us was able to inflict any injury upon the other; at
last, observing that Shvabrin was beginning to relax his endeavours, I
commenced to attack him with increased ardour, and almost forced him
back into the river. All at once I heard my name pronounced in a loud
tone. I looked round and perceived Savelitch hastening down the path
towards me.... At that same moment I felt a sharp thrust in the breast,
beneath the right shoulder, and I fell senseless to the ground.
[Footnote 1: A Russian dramatic poet, once celebrated, but now almost
forgotten. His most popular works were two tragedies, “Khoreff,” and
“Pemetrius the Pretender.”]
[Footnote 2: A minor poet of the last century.]
[Footnote 3: Crowns are held above the heads of the bride and
bridegroom during the marriage ceremony in Russia.]
CHAPTER V.
LOVE.
On recovering consciousness I for some time could neither understand
nor remember what had happened to me. I was lying in bed in a strange
room, and felt very weak. Before me stood Savelitch with a candle in
his hand. Someone was carefully unwinding the bandages which were
wrapped round my chest and shoulder. Little by little my thoughts
became more collected. I remembered my duel and conjectured that I was
wounded. At that moment the door creaked.
“Well, how is he?” whispered a voice which sent a thrill through me.
“Still in the same condition,” replied Savelitch with a sigh; “still
unconscious, and this makes the fifth day that he has been like it.”
I wanted to turn round, but I was unable to do so.
“Where am I? Who is here?” said I with an effort. Maria Ivanovna
approached my bed and leaned over me. “Well, how do you feel?” said she.
“God be thanked!” replied I in a weak voice. “Is it you, Maria
Ivanovna? Tell me----”
I had not the strength to continue and I became silent. Savelitch
uttered a shout and his face beamed with delight.
“He has come to himself again! He has come to himself again!” he kept
on repeating. “Thanks be to Thee, O Lord! Come, little father, Peter
Andreitch! What a fright you have given me! It is no light matter;
this is the fifth day----”
Maria Ivanovna interrupted him.
“Do not speak to him too much, Savelitch,” said she, “he is still very
weak.”
She went out of the room and closed the door very quietly after her. My
thoughts became agitated. And so I was in the house of the Commandant;
Maria Ivanovna had been to see me. I wanted to ask Savelitch a few
questions, but the old man shook his head and stopped his ears. Filled
with vexation, I closed my eyes and soon fell asleep.
When I awoke I called Savelitch, but instead of him I saw Maria
Ivanovna standing before me; she spoke to me in her angelic voice. I
cannot describe the delightful sensation which took possession of me
at that moment. I seized her hand, pressed it to my lips, and watered
it with my tears. Maria did not withdraw it.... and suddenly her lips
touched my cheek, and I felt a hot fresh kiss imprinted upon it. A
fiery thrill passed through me.
“Dear, good Maria Ivanovna,” I said to her, “be my wife, consent to
make me happy.”
She recovered herself.
“For Heaven’s sake, calm yourself,” said she, withdrawing her hand from
my grasp; “you are not yet out of danger: your wound may re-open. Take
care of yourself, if only for my sake.”
With these words she left the room, leaving me in a transport of bliss.
Happiness saved me. “She will be mine! She loves me!” This thought
filled my whole being.
From that moment I grew hourly better. The regimental barber
attended to the dressing of my wound, for there was no other doctor
in the fortress, and, thank heaven, he did not assume any airs of
professional wisdom. Youth and nature accelerated my recovery. The
whole family of the Commandant attended upon me. Maria Ivanovna
scarcely ever left my side. As will naturally be supposed, I seized the
first favourable opportunity for renewing my interrupted declaration of
love, and this time Maria Ivanovna listened to me more patiently.
Without the least affectation she confessed that she was favourably
disposed towards me, and said that her parents, without doubt, would be
pleased at her good fortune.
“But think well,” she added; “will there not be opposition on the part
of your relations?”
This set me thinking. I was not at all uneasy on the score of my
mother’s affection; but, knowing my father’s disposition and way of
thinking, I felt that my love would not move him very much, and that he
would look upon it as a mere outcome of youthful folly.
I candidly confessed this to Maria Ivanovna, but I resolved,
nevertheless, to write to my father as eloquently as possible, to
implore his paternal blessing. I showed the letter to Maria Ivanovna,
who found it so convincing and touching, that she entertained no doubts
about the success, of it, and abandoned herself to the feelings of her
tender heart with all the confidence of youth and love.
With Shvabrin I became reconciled during the first days of my
convalescence. Ivan Kouzmitch, reproaching me for,’ having engaged in
the duel, said to me:
“See now, Peter Andreitch, I ought really to put you under arrest,
but you have been punished enough already without that. As for Alexei
Ivanitch, he is confined under guard in the corn magazine, and
Vassilissa Egorovna has got his sword under lock and key. He will now
have plenty of time to reflect and repent.”
I was too happy to cherish any unfriendly feeling in my heart. I began
to intercede for Shvabrin, and the good Commandant, with the consent of
his wife, agreed to restore him to liberty.
Shvabrin came to me; he expressed deep regret for all that had
happened, confessed that he alone was to blame, and begged of me to
forget the past. Not being by nature of a rancorous disposition, I
readily forgave him the quarrel which he had caused between us, and the
wound which I had received at his hands. In his slander I saw nothing
but the chagrin of wounded vanity and slighted love, and l generously
extended pardon to my unhappy rival.
I soon recovered my health and was able to return to my own quarters.
I waited impatiently for a reply to my letter, not daring to hope, and
endeavouring to stifle the sad presentiment that was ever uppermost
within me. To Vassilissa Egorovna and her husband I had not yet given
an explanation; but my proposal would certainly not come as a surprise
to them. Neither Maria Ivanovna nor I had endeavoured to hide our
feelings from them, and we felt assured of their consent beforehand.
At last, one morning, Savelitch came to me carrying a letter in his
hand. I seized it with trembling fingers. The address was in the
handwriting of my father. This prepared me for something serious, for
the letters I received from home were generally written by my mother,
my father merely adding a few lines at the end as a postscript. For
a long time I could not make up my mind to break the seal, but kept
reading again and again the solemn superscription:
“To my son, Peter Andreitch Grineff,
“Government[1] of Orenburg,
“Fortress of Bailogorsk.”
I endeavoured to discover from the handwriting the disposition of mind
which my father was in when the letter was written. At last I resolved
to open it, and I saw at the very first glance that all my hopes were
shipwrecked. The letter ran as follows:--
“MY SON PETER,
“Your letter, in which you ask for our paternal blessing and our
consent to your marriage with Maria Ivanovna, the daughter of
Mironoff, reached us the 15th inst., and not only do I intend to
refuse to give you my blessing and my consent, but, furthermore, I
intend to come and teach you a lesson for your follies, as I would
a child, notwithstanding your officer’s rank; for you have shown
yourself unworthy to carry the sword which was entrusted to you for
the defence of your native country, and not for the’ purpose of
fighting duels with fools like yourself. I shall write at once to
Andrei Karlovitch to ask him to transfer you from the fortress of
Bailogorsk to some place farther away, where you will be cured of
your folly. Your mother, on hearing of your duel and your wound,
was taken ill through grief, and she is now confined to her bed. I
pray to God that He may correct you, although I hardly dare to put
my trust in His great goodness.
“Your father--A. G.”
The reading of this letter excited within me various feelings. The
harsh expressions which my father had so unsparingly indulged in
afflicted me deeply. The contempt with which he referred to Maria
Ivanovna appeared to me as indecent as it was unjust. The thought of
my being transferred from the fortress of Bailogorsk to some other
military station terrified me, but that which grieved me more than
everything else was the’ intelligence of my mother’s illness. I was
very much displeased with Savelitch, not doubting that my parents had
obtained information of my duel through him. After pacing up and down
my narrow room for some time, I stopped before him and said, as I
looked frowningly at him:
“It seems that you are not satisfied that, thanks to you, I should be
wounded and for a whole month lie at the door of death, but you wish to
kill my mother also.”
Savelitch gazed at me as if he were thunderstruck.
“In the name of Heaven, master,” said he, almost sobbing, “what do you
mean? I the cause of your being wounded! God knows that I was running
to screen you with my own breast from the sword of Alexei Ivanovitch!
My accursed old age prevented me from doing so. But what have I done to
your mother?”
“What have you done?” replied I. “Who asked you to write and denounce
me? Have you then been placed near me to act as a spy upon me?”
“I write and denounce you?” replied Savelitch, with tears in his eyes.
“O Lord, King of Heaven! Be pleased to read what my master has written
to me--you will then see whether I have denounced you or not.”
And with these words he took from his pocket a letter and handed it to
me.
It ran as follows:--
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself, you old hound, for not having--in
spite of my strict injunctions to you to do so--written to me and
informed me of the conduct of my son, Peter Andreitch, and leaving
it to strangers to acquaint me with his follies. Is it thus that you
fulfil your duty and your master’s will? I will send you to tend the
pigs, you old hound, for concealing the truth and for indulging the
young man. On receipt of this, I command you to write back to me
without delay, and inform me of the present state of his health, of
the exact place of his wound, and whether he has been well attended to.”
It was evident that Savelitch was perfectly innocent, and that I had
insulted him with my reproaches and suspicions for no reason at all. I
asked his pardon; but the old man was inconsolable.
“That I should have lived to come to this!” he kept on repeating;
“these are the thanks that I receive from my master. I am an old hound,
a keeper of pigs, and I am the cause of your being wounded. No, little
father, Peter Andreitch, it is not I, but that accursed mossoo who is
to blame: it was he who taught you to thrust with those iron spits and
to stamp your foot, as if by thrusting and stamping one could protect
himself from a bad man. It was very necessary to engage that mossoo and
so throw good money to the winds!”
But who then had taken upon himself the trouble to denounce my conduct
to my father? The general? But he did not appear to trouble himself in
the least about me; and Ivan Kouzmitch had not considered it necessary
to report my duel to him. I became lost in conjecture. My suspicions
settled upon Shvabrin. He alone could derive any advantage from the
denunciation, the result of which might be my removal from the fortress
and separation from the Commandant’s family. I went to inform Maria
Ivanovna of everything. She met me on the steps leading up to the door.
“What has happened, to you?” said she, on seeing me; “how pale you are!”
“It is all over,” replied I, and I gave her my father’s letter.
She now grew pale in her turn. Having read the letter, she returned it
to me with a trembling hand, and said, with a quivering voice:
“Fate ordains that I should not be your wife.... Your parents will not
receive me into their family. God’s will be done! God knows better
than we do, what is good for us. There is nothing to be done, Peter
Andreitch; may you be happy----”
“It shall not be!” I exclaimed, seizing hold of her hand. “You love me;
I am prepared for everything. Let us go and throw ourselves at the feet
of your parents; they are simple people, not hard-hearted and proud.
They will give us their blessing; we will get married ... and then,
with time, I feel quite certain that we shall succeed in bringing my
father round; my mother will be on our side; he will forgive me----”
“No, Peter Andreitch,” replied Masha, “I will not marry you without the
blessing of your parents. Without their blessing you will not be happy.
Let us submit to the will of God. If you meet with somebody else, if
you love another God be with you, Peter Andreitch, I will pray for you
both----”
Then she burst into tears and left me. I wanted to follow her into her
room, but I felt that I was not in a condition to control myself, and I
returned home to my quarters.
I was sitting down, absorbed in profound thoughtfulness, when Savelitch
interrupted my meditations.
“Here, sir,” said he, handing me a written sheet of paper: “see whether
I am a spy upon my master, and whether I try to cause trouble between
father and son.”
I took the paper out of his hand. It was the reply of Savelitch to the
letter which he had received. Here it is, word for word:
“LORD ANDREI PETROVITCH, our gracious father,
“I have received your gracious letter, in which you are pleased
to be angry with me, your slave, telling me that I ought to be
ashamed of myself for not fulfilling my master’s orders. I am not
an old hound, but your faithful servant, and I do obey my master’s
orders, and I have always served you zealously till my grey hairs.
I did not write anything to you about Peter Andreitch’s wound, in
order that I might not alarm you without a reason, and now I hear
that our lady, our mother, Avdotia Vassilevna, is ill from fright,
and I am going to pray to God to restore her to health. Peter
Andreitch was wounded under the right shoulder, in the breast,
exactly under a rib, to the depth of nearly three inches, and he
was put to bed in the Commandant’s house, whither we carried him
from the bank of the river, and he was healed by Stepan Paramonoff,
the barber of this place, and now, thank God, Peter Andreitch is
well, and I have nothing but good to write about him. His superior
officers, I hear, are satisfied with him; and Vassilissa Egorovna
treats him as if he were her own son. And because such an accident
occurred to him, the young man ought not to be reproached: the
horse has four legs, and yet he stumbles. And if it please you to
write that I should go and feed the pigs, let your lordly will be
done. Herewith I humbly bow down before you.
“Your faithful slave,
“ARKHIP SAVELITCH.”
I could not help smiling several times while reading the good old man’s
letter. I was not in a condition to reply to my father, and Savelitch’s
letter seemed to me quite sufficient to calm my mother’s fears.
From this time my situation changed. Maria Ivanovna scarcely ever
spoke to me, nay, she even tried to avoid me. The Commandant’s house
began to become insupportable to me. Little by little I accustomed
myself to remaining at home alone. Vassilissa Egorovna reproached me
for it at first, but perceiving my obstinacy, she left me in peace.
Ivan Kouzmitch I only saw when the service demanded it; with Shvabrin
I rarely came into contact, and then against my will, all the more so
because I observed in him a secret enmity towards me, which confirmed
me in my suspicions. My life became unbearable to me. I sank into a
profound melancholy, which was enhanced by loneliness and inaction.
My love grew more intense in my solitude, and became more and more
tormenting to me. I lost all pleasure in reading and literature. I
grew dejected. I was afraid that I should either go out of my mind or
that I should give way to dissipation. But an unexpected event, which
exercised an important influence upon my after life, suddenly occurred
to give to my soul a powerful and salutary shock.
[Footnote 1: For administrative purposes Russia is divided into
seventy-two governments, exclusive of Finland, which enjoys a separate
administration.]
CHAPTER VI.
POUGATCHEFF.
Before I proceed to write a description of the strange events of which
I was a witness, I must say a few words concerning the condition of the
government of Orenburg towards the end of the year 1773.
This rich and extensive government was inhabited by horde? of
half-savage people, who had only recently acknowledged the sovereignty
of the Russian Czars. Their continual revolts, their disinclination to
a civilized life and an existence regulated by laws, their fickleness
and cruelty, demanded on the part of the government a constant
vigilance in order to keep them in subjection. Fortresses had been
erected in convenient places, and were garrisoned for the most part by
Cossacks, who had formerly held possession of the shores of the Yaik.
But these Yaikian Cossacks, whose duty it was to preserve peace and
to watch over the security of this district, had themselves for some
time past become very troublesome and dangerous to the government. In
the year 1772 an insurrection broke out in their principal city. The
causes of it were the severe measures taken by General Traubenberg to
bring the army into a state of obedience. The result was the barbarous
murder of Traubenberg, the selection of new leaders, and finally the
suppression of the revolt by grapeshot and cruel punishments.
This happened a little while before my arrival at the fortress of
Bailogorsk. All was now quiet, or at least appeared so; but the
authorities believed too easily in the pretended repentance of the
cunning rebels, who nursed their hatred in secret and only waited for a
favourable opportunity to recommence the struggle.
I now return to my narrative.
One evening (it was in the beginning of October in the year. 1773) I
was sitting indoors alone, listening to the moaning of the autumn wind,
and gazing out of the window at the clouds, as they sailed rapidly
over the face of the moon. A message was brought to me to wait upon
the Commandant. I immediately repaired to his quarters. I there found
Shvabrin, Ivan Ignatitch, and the Cossack orderly. Neither Vassilissa
Egorovna nor Maria Ivanova was in the room. The Commandant greeted
me with a pre-occupied air. He closed the door, made us all sit-down
except the orderly, who remained standing near the door, drew a paper
out of his pocket, and said to us:--
“Gentlemen, we have here important news! Hear what the general writes.”
Then he put on his spectacles and read as follows:
“To the Commandant of the Fortress of Bailogorsk, Captain Mironoff.
(_Confidential_.)
“I hereby inform you that the fugitive and schismatic Don Cossack,
Emelian Pougatcheff, after having been guilty of the unpardonable
insolence of assuming the name of the deceased Emperor Peter
III.,[1] has collected a band of evil-disposed persons, has excited
disturbances in the settlements along the banks of the Yaik, and
has already taken and destroyed several fortresses, pillaging and
murdering on every side. Therefore, on the receipt of this letter,
you, Captain, will at once take the necessary measures to repel
the above-mentioned villain and impostor, and, if possible, to
completely annihilate him, if he should turn his arms against the
fortress entrusted to your care.”
“Take the necessary measures,” said the Commandant, taking off his
spectacles and folding up the letter; “you see that it is very easy to
say that. The villain is evidently strong in numbers, whereas we have
but 130 men altogether, not counting the Cossacks, upon whom we can
place very little dependence--without intending any reproach to you,
Maximitch.” The orderly smiled. “Still, there is no help for it, but
to do the best we can, gentlemen. Let us be on our guard and establish
night patrols; in case of attack, shut the gates and assemble the
soldiers. You, Maximitch, keep a strict eye on your Cossacks. See that
the cannon be examined and thoroughly cleaned. Above all things, keep
what I have said a secret, so that nobody in the fortress may know
anything before the time.”
After giving these orders, Ivan Kouzmitch dismissed us. I walked away
with Shvabrin, reflecting upon what we had heard.
“How do you think that this will end?” I asked him.
“God knows,” he replied; “we shall see. I do not see anything to be
alarmed about at present. If, however----”
Then he began to reflect and to whistle abstractedly a French air.
In spite of all our precautions, the news of the appearance of
Pougatcheff soon spread through the fortress. Although Ivan Kouzmitch
entertained the greatest respect for his wife, he would not for
anything in the world have confided to her a secret entrusted to him
in connection with the service. After having received the general’s
letter, he contrived in a tolerably dexterous manner to get Vassilissa
Egorovna out of the way, telling her that Father Gerasim had received
some extraordinary news from Orenburg, which he kept a great secret.
Vassilissa Egorovna immediately wished to go and pay a visit to the
pope’s wife and, by the advice of Ivan Kouzmitch, she took Masha with
her, lest she should feel dull by herself.
Ivan Kouzmitch, being thus left sole master of the situation,
immediately sent for us, having locked Palashka in the pantry, so that
she might not be able to overhear what we had to say.
Vassilissa Egorovna returned home, without having succeeded in getting
anything out of the pope’s wife, and she learned that, during her
absence, a council of war had been held in Ivan Kouzmitch’s house, and
that Palashka had been under lock and key. She suspected that she had
been duped by her husband, and she began to assail him with questions.
But Ivan Kouzmitch was prepared for the attack. He was not in the least
perturbed, and boldly made answer to his inquisitive consort:
“Hark you, mother dear, our women hereabouts have taken a notion into
their heads to heat their ovens with straw, and as some misfortune
might be the outcome of it, I gave strict orders that the women should
not heat their ovens with straw, but should burn brushwood and branches
of trees instead.”
“But why did you lock up Palashka, then?” asked his wife. “Why was the
poor girl compelled to sit in the kitchen till we returned?”
Ivan Kouzmitch was not prepared for such a question; he became
confused, and stammered out something very incoherent. Vassilissa
Egorovna perceived her husband’s perfidy, but, knowing that she would
get nothing out of him just then, she abstained from asking any further
questions and turned the conversation to the subject of the pickled;
cucumbers, which Akoulina Pamphilovna knew how to prepare in such an
excellent manner. But all that night Vassilissa Egorovna could not
sleep a wink, nor could she understand what it was that was in her
husband’s head that; she was not permitted to know.
The next day, as she was returning home from mass, she saw Ivan
Ignatitch, who was busily engaged in clearing the cannon of pieces of
rag, small stones, bits of bone, and rubbish of every sort, which had
been deposited there by the little boys of the place.
“What mean these warlike preparations?” thought the Commandant’s wife.
“Can it be that they fear an attack on the part of the Kirghises? But
is it possible that Ivan Kouzmitch could conceal such a trifle from me?”
She called Ivan Ignatitch to her with the firm determination of
learning from him the secret which tormented her woman’s curiosity.
Vassillissa Egorovna began by making a few observations to him
about household matters, like a judge who commences an examination
with questions foreign to the matter in hand, in order to lull the
suspicions of the person accused. Then, after a silence of a few
moments, she heaved a deep sigh, and said, shaking her head:
“Oh, Lord God! What news! What will be the end of all this?”
“Well, well, mother!” replied Ivan Ignatitch; “God is merciful; we
have soldiers enough, plenty of powder, and I have cleaned the cannon.
Perhaps we shall be able to offer a successful resistance to this
Pougatcheff; if God will only not abandon us, we shall be safe enough
here.”
“And what sort of a man is this Pougatcheff?” asked the Commandant’s
wife.
Then Ivan Ignatitch perceived that he had said more ban he ought to
have done, and he bit his tongue. But it was now too late. Vassilissa
Egorovna compelled him to inform her of everything, having given him
her word that she would not mention the matter to anybody.
Vassilissa Egorovna kept her promise and said not a word to anybody,
except to the pope’s wife, and to her only because her cow was still
feeding upon the steppe, and might be captured by the brigands.
Soon everybody was talking about Pougatcheff. The reports concerning
him varied very much. The Commandant sent his orderly to glean as much
information as possible about him in all the neighbouring villages and
fortresses. The orderly returned after an absence of two days, and
reported that, at about sixty versts from the fortress, he had seen a
large number of fires upon the steppe, and that he had heard from the
Bashkirs that an immense force was advancing. He could not say anything
more positive, because he had feared to venture further.
An unusual agitation now began to be observed among the Cossacks of the
fortress; in all the streets they congregated in small groups, quietly
conversing among themselves, and dispersing whenever they caught
sight of a dragoon or any other soldier belonging to the garrison.
They were closely watched by spies. Youlai, a converted Calmuck, made
an important communication to the commandant. The orderly’s report,
according to Youlai, was a false one; on his return the treacherous
Cossack announced to his companions that he had been among the rebels,
and had been presented to their leader, who had given him his hand and
had conversed with him for a long time. The Commandant immediately
placed the orderly under arrest, and appointed Youlai in his place.
This change was the cause of manifest dissatisfaction among the
Cossacks. They murmured loudly, and Ivan Ignatitch, who executed the
Commandant’s instructions, with his own ears heard them say:
“Just wait a little while, you garrison rat!”
The Commandant had intended interrogating the prisoner that very same
day, but the orderly had made his escape, no doubt with the assistance
of his partisans.
A fresh event served to increase the Commandant’s uneasiness. A
Bashkir, carrying seditious letters, was seized. On this occasion the
Commandant again decided upon assembling his officers, and therefore he
wished once more to get Vassilissa Egorovna out of the way under some
plausible pretext. But as Ivan Kouzmitch was a most upright and sincere
man, he could find no other method than that employed on the previous
occasion.
“Listen, Vassilissa Egorovna,” he said to her, coughing to conceal his
embarrassment: “they say that Father Gerasim has received----”
“That’s enough, Ivan Kouzmitch,” said his wife, interrupting him: “you
wish to assemble a council of war to talk about Emelian Pougatcheff
without my being present; but you shall not deceive me this time.”
Ivan Kouzmitch opened his eyes.
“Well, little mother,” he said, “if you know everything, you may
remain; we shall speak in your presence.”
“Very well, my little father,” replied she; “you should not try to be
so cunning; send for the officers.”
We assembled again. Ivan Kouzmitch, in the presence of his wife,
read to us Pougatcheff’s proclamation, drawn up probably by some
half-educated Cossack. The robber announced therein his intention of
immediately marching upon our fortress; he invited the Cossacks and
soldiers to join him, and advised the superior officers not to offer
any resistance, threatening them with death in the event of their doing
so. The proclamation was couched in coarse but vigorous language, and
could not but produce a powerful impression upon the minds of simple
people.
“What a rascal!” exclaimed the Commandant’s wife; “that he should
propose such a thing to us. To go out to meet him and lay our flags at
his feet! Ah! the son of a dog! He does not know then that we have been
forty years in the service, and that, thanks to God, we have seen a
good deal during that time. Is it possible that there are commandants
who would be cowardly enough to yield to a robber like him?”
“There ought not to be,” replied Ivan Kouzmitch; “but it is reported
that the scoundrel has already taken several fortresses.”
“He seems to have great power,” observed Shvabrin.
“We shall soon find out the real extent of his power,” said the
Commandant. “Vassilissa Egorovna, give me the key of the loft. Ivan
Ignatitch, bring hither the Bashkir, and tell Youlai to fetch a whip.”
“Wait a moment, Ivan Kouzmitch,” said his wife, rising from her seat.
“Let me take Masha somewhere out of the house; otherwise she will hear
the cries and will feel frightened. And I myself, to tell the truth, am
no lover of inquisitions. So good-bye for the present.”
Torture, in former times, was so rooted in our judicial proceedings,
that the benevolent ukase[2] ordering its abolition remained for a
long time a dead letter. It was thought that the confession of the
criminal was indispensable for his full conviction--an idea not only
unreasonable, but even contrary to common sense from a jurisprudential
point of view; for if the denial of the accused person be not accepted
as proof of his innocence, the confession that has been wrung from
him ought still less to be accepted as a proof of his guilt. Even in
our days I sometimes hear old judges regretting the abolition of the
barbarous custom. But in those days nobody had any doubt about the
necessity of torture, neither the judges nor even the accused persons
themselves. Therefore it was that the Commandant’s order did not
astonish or alarm any of us. Ivan Ignatitch went to fetch the Bashkir,
who was confined in the loft, under lock and key, and a few minutes
afterwards he was led prisoner into the ante-room. The Commandant
ordered the captive to be brought before him.--
The Bashkir stepped with difficulty across the threshold (for his feet
were in fetters) and, taking off his high cap, remained standing near
the door. I glanced at him and shuddered. Never shall I forget that
man. He appeared to be about seventy years of age, and had neither nose
nor ears. His head was shaved, and instead of a beard he had a few grey
hairs upon his chin; he was of short stature, thin and bent; but his
small eyes still flashed fire.
“Ah, ah!” said the Commandant, recognizing by these dreadful marks one
of the rebels punished in the year 1741, “I see you are an old wolf;
you have already been caught in our traps. It is not the first time
that you have rebelled, since your head is planed so smoothly. Come
nearer; speak, who sent you here?”
The old Bashkir remained silent and gazed at the Commandant with an air
of complete stolidity.
“Why do you not answer?” continued Ivan Kouzmitch. “Don’t you
understand Russian? Youlai, ask him in your language, who sent him to
our fortress.”
Youlai repeated the Commandant’s question in the Tartar language. But
the Bashkir looked at him with the same expression and answered not a
word.
“By heaven!” exclaimed the Commandant, “you shall answer me. My lads!
take off that ridiculous striped gown of his, and tickle his back.
Youlai, see that it is carried out properly.”
Two soldiers began to undress the Bashkir. The face of the unhappy man
assumed an expression of uneasiness. He looked round on every side,
like a poor little animal f that has been captured by children. But
when one of the soldiers seized his hands to twine them round his neck,
and raised the old man upon his shoulders, and Youlai grasped the whip
and began to flourish it round his head, then the Bashkir uttered
a feeble groan, and, raising his head, opened his mouth, in which,
instead of a tongue, moved a short stump.
When I reflect that this happened during my lifetime, and that I now
live under the mild government of the Emperor Alexander, I cannot
but feel astonished at the rapid progress of civilization, and the
diffusion of humane ideas. Young man! if these lines of mine should
fall into your hands, remember that those changes which proceed from an
amelioration of manners and customs are much better and more lasting
than those which are the outcome of acts of violence.
We were all horror-stricken.
“Well,” said the Commandant, “it is evident that we shall get nothing
out of him. Youlai, lead the Bashkir back to the loft; and let us,
gentlemen, have a little further talk about the matter.”
We were yet considering our position, when Vassilissa Egorovna suddenly
rushed into the room, panting for breath, and beside herself with
excitement.
“What has happened to you?” asked the astonished Commandant.
“I have to inform you of a great misfortune!” replied Vassilissa
Egorovna. “Nijniosern was taken this morning. Father Gerasim’s servant
has just returned from there. He saw how they took it. The Commandant
and all the officers are hanged, and all the soldiers are taken
prisoners. In a little while the villains will be here.”
This unexpected intelligence produced a deep impression upon me. The
Commandant of the fortress of Nijniosem, a quiet and modest young
man, was an acquaintance of mine; two months before he had visited
our fortress when on his way from Orenburg along with his young wife,
and had stopped for a little while in the house of Ivan Kouzmitch.
Nijniosern was about twenty-five versts from our fortress. We might
therefore expect to be attacked by Pougatcheff at any moment. The fate
in store for Maria Ivanovna presented itself vividly to my imagination,
and my heart sank within me.
“Listen, Ivan Kouzmitch,” said I to the Commandant; “our duty is to
defend the fortress to the last gasp; there is no question about that.
But we must think about the safety of the women. Send them on to
Orenburg, if the road be still open, or to some safer and more distant
fortress where these villains will not be able to make their way.”
Ivan Kouzmitch turned round to his wife and said to her:
“Listen, mother; would it not be just as well if we sent you away to
some place farther off until we have settled matters with these rebels?”
“What nonsense!” said the Commandant’s wife. “Where is there a fortress
that would be safe from bullets? Why is Bailogorsk not safe? Thank God,
we have lived in it for two-and-twenty years! We have seen Bashkirs and
Kirghises; perhaps we shall also escape the clutches of Pougatcheff.”
“Well, mother,” replied Ivan Kouzmitch, “stay if you like, if you have
such confidence in our fortress. But what shall we do with Masha? All
well and good if we offer a successful resistance, or can hold out till
we obtain help; but what if the villains should take the fortress?”
“Why, then----”
But at this juncture Vassilissa Egorovna began to stammer and then
remained silent, evidently agitated by deep emotion.
“No, Vassilissa Egorovna,” continued the Commandant, observing that his
words had produced an impression upon her, perhaps for the first time
in his life, “Masha must not remain here. Let us send her to Orenburg,
to her godmother; there are plenty of soldiers and cannon there, and
the walls are of stone. And I would advise you to go there with her;
for although you are an old woman, think what might happen to you if
the fortress should be taken by storm.”
“Very well,” replied the Commandant’s wife; “let it be so: we will send
Masha away. As for me, you need not trouble yourself about asking me
to go; I will remain here. Nothing shall make me part from you in my
old age to go and seek a lonely grave in a strange country. Together we
have lived, together we will die.”
“Well, you are right,” said the Commandant; “but let us not delay any
longer. Go and get Masha ready for the journey. She must set out at
daybreak to-morrow, and we shall let her have an escort, although we
have not too many men in the fortress to be able to spare any of them.
But where is Masha?”
“Along with Akoulina Pamphilovna,” replied the Commandant’s wife. “She
fainted away when she heard of the capture of Nijniosern; I am afraid
that she will be ill. Lord God of heaven, what have we lived to see!”
Vassilissa Egorovna went to prepare for her daughter’s departure.
The consultation with the Commandant was then continued; but I no
longer took any part in it, nor did I listen to anything that was
said. Maria Ivanovna appeared at supper, her face pale and her eyes
red with weeping. We supped in silence, and rose from the table sooner
than usual; then taking leave of the family, we all returned to our
respective quarters. But I intentionally forgot my sword, and went
back for it: I had a presentiment that I should find Maria alone. True
enough I met her in the doorway, and she handed me my sword.
“Farewell, Peter Andreitch!” she said to me, with tears in her eyes;
“they are going to send me to Orenburg. May you be well and happy.
God may be pleased to ordain that we should see each other again; if
not----”
Here she burst out sobbing. I clasped her in my arms.
“Farewell, my angel!” said I. “Farewell, my darling, my heart’s desire!
Whatever may happen to me, rest assured that my last thought and last
prayer shall be for you.”
Masha still continued to weep, resting her head upon my breast. I
kissed her fervently, and hastily quitted the room.
[Footnote 1: Husband of the Empress Catherine II. The latter, whom
the Emperor had threatened to divorce, having won over to her side a
considerable portion of the army, had compelled her unpopular consort
to sign an act of abdication in 1762. Having been removed as a prisoner
to Ropscha, it was shortly afterwards announced that He had died of
colic, though the truth was, he had been strangled to death by Alexis
Orloff, one of Catherine’s numerous admirers.]
[Footnote 2: Torture was abolished in 1768 by an edict of Catherine
II.]
CHAPTER VII.
THE ASSAULT.
That night I neither slept nor undressed. It was my intention to
proceed early in the morning to the gate of the fortress through which
Maria Ivanovna would have to pass, so that I might take leave of her
for the last time. I felt within myself a great change; the agitation
of my soul was far less burdensome to me than the melancholy into which
I had lately fallen. With the grief of separation there was mingled a
vague, but sweet hope, an impatient expectation of danger, a feeling of
noble ambition.
The night passed away imperceptibly. I was just about to leave the
house when my door opened, and the corporal entered the room with the
information that our Cossacks had quitted the fortress during the
night, taking Youlai by force along with them, and that strange people
were riding round the fortress. The thought that Maria Ivanovna would
not be able to get away filled me with alarm. I hurriedly gave some
orders to the corporal, and then hastened at once to the Commandant’s
quarters.
Day had already begun to dawn. I was hurrying along the street when I
heard someone call out my name. I stopped.
“Where are you going?” said Ivan Ignatitch, overtaking me. “Ivan
Kouzmitch is on the rampart, and he has sent me for you. Pougatch[1]
has come.”
“Has Maria Ivanovna left the fortress?” I asked, with a trembling heart.
“She was unable to do so,” replied Ivan Ignatitch; “the road to
Orenburg is cut off and the fortress is surrounded. It is a bad
look-out, Peter Andreitch.”
We made our way to the rampart, an elevation formed by nature and
fortified by a palisade. The inhabitants of the fortress were already
assembled there. The garrison stood drawn up under arms. The cannon
had been dragged thither the day before. The Commandant was walking
up and down in front of his little troop. The approach of danger had
inspired the old warrior with unusual vigour. On the steppe, not very
far from the fortress, about a score of men could be seen riding about
on horseback. They seemed to be Cossacks, but among them were some
Bashkirs, who were easily recognized by their hairy caps, and by their
quivers.
The Commandant walked along the ranks of his little army, saying to the
soldiers:
“Now, my children, let us stand firm to-day for our mother the Empress
and let us show the whole world that we are brave people, and true to
our oath.”
The soldiers responded to his appeal with loud shouts. Shvabrin stood
near me and attentively observed the enemy. The people riding about on
the steppe, perceiving some movement in the fortress, gathered together
in a group and began conversing among themselves. The Commandant
ordered Ivan Ignatitch to point the cannon at them, and then applied
the match to it with his own hand. The ball whistled over their heads,
without doing any harm. The horsemen dispersed, galloping out of sight
almost immediately, and the steppe was deserted.
At that moment Vassilissa Egorovna appeared upon the rampart, followed
by Masha, who was unwilling to leave her.
“Well,” said the Commandant’s wife, “how goes the battle? Where is the
enemy?”
“The enemy is not far off,” replied Ivan Kouzmitch. “God grant that all
may go well!... Well, Masha, do you feel afraid?”
“No, papa,” replied Maria Ivanovna; “I feel more afraid being at home
alone.”
Then 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 hand the evening before--as if for the protection of my beloved. My
heart throbbed. I imagined myself her champion. I longed to prove that
I was worthy of her confidence, and waited impatiently for the decisive
moment.
All of a sudden some fresh bodies of mounted men made their appearance
from behind an elevation situated about half a mile from the fortress,
and soon the steppe was covered with crowds of persons armed with
lances and quivers. Among them, upon a white horse, was a man in a red
_caftan_[2], holding a naked sword in his hand; this was Pougatcheff
himself. He stopped his horse, and the others gathered round him, and,
in obedience to his order as it seemed, four men detached themselves
from the crowd and galloped at full speed towards the fortress. We
recognized among them some of our traitors. One of them held a sheet of
paper above his head, while another bore upon the top of his lance the
head of Youlai, which he threw over the palisade among us. The head of
the poor Calmuck fell at the feet of the Commandant.
The traitors cried out:
“Do not fire! Come out and pay homage to the Czar. The Czar is here!”
“Look out for yourselves!” cried Ivan Kouzmitch, “Ready, lads--fire!”
Our soldiers fired a volley. The Cossack who held the letter staggered
and fell from his horse; the others galloped back. I turned and looked
at Maria Ivanovna. Terror-stricken by the sight of the bloodstained
head of Youlai, and stunned by the din of the discharge, she seemed
perfectly paralyzed. The Commandant called the corporal and ordered him
to fetch the paper from the hands of the fallen Cossack. The corporal
went out into the plain, and returned leading by the bridle the horse
of the dead man. He handed the letter to the Commandant. Ivan Kouzmitch
read it to himself and then tore it into pieces. In the meantime
we could see the rebels preparing for the attack. 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 Egorovna!” said the Commandant; “women have no business
here. Take Masha away; you see that the girl is more dead than alive.”
Vassilissa Egorovna, tamed by the bullets, cast a glance at the steppe,
where a great commotion was observable, and then turned round to her
husband and said to him:
“Ivan Kouzmitch, life and death are in the hands of God; bless Masha.
Masha, come near to your father.”
Masha, pale and trembling, approached Ivan Kouzmitch, knelt down before
him, and bowed herself to the ground. The old Commandant made the sign
of the cross over her three times, then raised her up, and kissing her,
said in a voice of deep emotion:
“Well, Masha, be happy. Pray to God; He will never forsake you. If
you find a good man, may God give you love and counsel. Live together
as your mother and I have lived. And now, farewell, Masha. Vassilissa
Egorovna, take her away quickly.”
Masha threw her arms round his neck and sobbed aloud.
“Let us kiss each other also,” said the Commandant’s wife, weeping.
“Farewell, my Ivan Kouzmitch. Forgive me if I have ever vexed you in
any way!”
“Farewell, farewell, little mother!” said the Commandant, embracing the
partner of his joys and sorrows for so many years. “Come now, that is
enough! Make haste home; and if you can manage it, put a _sarafan_[3]
on Masha.”
The Commandant’s wife walked away along with her daughter. I followed
Maria Ivanovna with my eyes; she turned round and nodded her head to me.
Ivan Kouzmitch then returned to us, and bestowed all his attention
upon the enemy. The rebels gathered round their leader and suddenly
dismounted from their horses.
“Stand firm now,” said the Commandant, “the assault is going to begin.”
At that moment frightful yells and cries rose in the air; the rebels
dashed forward towards the fortress. Our cannon was loaded with
grape-shot.
The Commandant allowed them to come very close, and then suddenly fired
again. The grape fell into the very midst of the crowd. The rebels
recoiled and then dispersed on every side. Their leader alone remained
facing us. He heaved his sword and seemed to be vehemently exhorting
his followers to return to the attack. The shrieks and yells, which had
ceased for a minute, were immediately renewed.
“Now, lads!” said the Commandant; “open the gate, beat the drum, and
let us make a sally. Forward, and follow me!”
The Commandant, Ivan Ignatitch, and I were outside the wall of the
fortress in a twinkling; but the timid garrison did not move.
“Why do you hold back, my children?” cried Ivan Kouzmitch. “If we are
to die, let us die doing our duty!”
At that moment the rebels rushed upon us and forced an entrance into
the fortress. The drum ceased to beat; the garrison flung down their
arms. I was thrown to the ground, but I rose up and entered the
fortress along with the rebels. The Commandant, wounded in the head,
was surrounded by a crowd of the robbers, who demanded of him the keys.
I was about to rush to his assistance, but several powerful Cossacks
seized hold of me and bound me with their sashes, exclaiming:
“Just wait a little while and see what you will get, you traitors to
the Czar!”
They dragged us through the streets; the inhabitants came out of their
houses with bread and salt;[4] the bells began to ring. Suddenly among
the crowd a cry was raised that the Czar was in the square waiting
for the prisoners to take their oath of allegiance to him. The throng
pressed towards the market-place, and our captors dragged us thither
also.
Pougatcheff was seated in an armchair on the steps of the Commandant’s
house. He was attired in an elegant Cossack _caftan_, ornamented with
lace. A tall cap of sable, with gold tassels, came right down to his
flashing eyes. His face seemed familiar to me. He was surrounded by
the Cossack chiefs. Father Gerasim, pale and trembling, stood upon the
steps with a cross in his hands, and seemed to be silently imploring
mercy for the victims brought forward. In the square a gallows was
being hastily erected. As we approached, the Bashkirs drove back the
crowd, and we were brought before Pougatcheff. The bells had ceased
ringing, and a deep silence reigned around.
“Which is the Commandant?” asked the pretender.
Our orderly stepped forward out of the crowd and pointed to Ivan
Kouzmitch.
Pougatcheff regarded the old man with a menacing look, and said to him:
“How dared you oppose me--your emperor?”
The Commandant, weakened by his wound, summoned ill his remaining
strength and replied in a firm voice:
“You are not my emperor; you are a robber and a pretender, that is what
you are!”
Pougatcheff frowned savagely and waved his white handkerchief. Several
Cossacks seized the old captain and dragged him towards the gallows.
Astride upon the cross-beam could be seen the mutilated Bashkir whom we
had examined the day before. He held in his hand a rope, and a minute
afterwards I saw poor Ivan Kouzmitch suspended in the air. Then Ivan
Ignatitch was brought before Pougatcheff.
“Take the oath of fealty,” said Pougatcheff to him, “to the Emperor
Peter Fedorovitch!”
“You are not our emperor,” replied Ivan Ignatitch, repeating the words
of his captain; “you, uncle, are a robber and a pretender!”
Pougatcheff again waved his handkerchief, and the good lieutenant was
soon hanging near his old chief.
It was now my turn. I looked defiantly at Pougatcheff, prepared to
repeat the answer of my brave comrades, when, to my inexpressible
astonishment, I perceived, among the rebels, Shvabrin, his hair cut
close, and wearing a Cossack _kaftan._ He stepped up to Pougatcheff and
whispered a few words in his ear.
“Let him be hanged!” said Pougatcheff, without even looking at me.
The rope was thrown round my neck. I began to repeat a prayer to
myself, expressing sincere repentance for all my sins, and imploring
God to save all those who were dear to me. I was led beneath the gibbet.
“Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid,” said my executioners, wishing
sincerely, perhaps, to encourage me.
Suddenly I heard a cry:
“Stop, villains! hold!”
The executioners paused. I looked round. Savelitch was on his knees at
the feet of Pougatcheff.
“Oh, my father!” said my poor servant, “why should you wish for the
death of this noble child? Let him go you will get a good ransom
for him; if you want to make an example of somebody for the sake of
terrifying others order me to be hanged--an old man!”
Pougatcheff gave a sign, and I was immediately unbound and set at
liberty.
“Our father pardons you,” said the rebels who had charge of me.
I cannot say that at that moment I rejoiced at my deliverance, neither
will I say that I was sorry for it. My feelings were too confused. I
was again led before the usurper and compelled to kneel down in front
of him. Pougatcheff stretched out to me his sinewy hand.
“Kiss his hand, kiss his hand!” exclaimed voices on every side of me.
But I would have preferred the most cruel punishment to such
contemptible degradation.
“My little father, Peter Andreitch,” whispered Savelitch standing
behind me and nudging my elbow, “do not be obstinate. What will it cost
you? Spit[5] and kiss the brig----pshaw! kiss his hand!”
I did not move. Pougatcheff withdrew his hand, saying with a smile:
“His lordship seems bewildered with joy. Lift him up!”
I was raised to my feet and released. I then stood by to observe the
continuation of the terrible comedy.
The inhabitants began to take the oath of allegiance. They approached
one after another, kissed the crucifix and then bowed to the usurper.
Then came the turn of the soldiers of the garrison. The regimental
barber, armed with his blunt scissors, cut off their hair. Then, after
shaking their heads, they went and kissed the hand of Pougatcheff, who
declared them pardoned, and then enrolled them among his followers.
All this lasted for about three hours. At length Pougatcheff rose up
from his armchair and descended the steps, accompanied by his chiefs. A
white horse, richly caparisoned, was led forward to him. Two Cossacks
took hold of him under the arms and assisted him into the saddle. He
informed Father Gerasim that he would dine with him. At that moment a
woman’s scream was heard. Some of the brigands were dragging Vassilissa
Egorovna, with her hair dishevelled and her clothes half torn off her
body, towards the steps. One of them had already arrayed himself in her
gown. The others were carrying off beds, chests, tea-services, linen,
and all kinds of furniture.
“My fathers!” cried the poor old woman, “have pity upon me and let me
go. Kind fathers! take me to Ivan Kouzmitch.”
Suddenly she caught sight of the gibbet and recognized her husband.
“Villains!” she cried, almost beside herself; “what have you done
to him? My Ivan Kouzmitch! light of my life! brave soldier heart!
Neither Prussian bayonets nor Turkish bullets have touched you; not in
honourable fight have you yielded up your life; you received your death
at the hand of a runaway galley-slave!”
“Make the old witch hold her tongue!” said Pougatcheff.
A young Cossack struck her on the head with his sabre, and she fell
dead at the foot of the steps. Pougatcheff rode off; the crowd followed
him.
[Footnote 1: A pun on the name of the rebel chief. Literally, “a
scarecrow.”]
[Footnote 2: A kind of overcoat.]
[Footnote 3: A wide open robe without sleeves, beneath which is
worn a full long-sleeved gown. It is usually made of velvet, richly
embroidered, he embroidery varying according to the rank of the wearer.
It is the custom among the Russians to bury the dead in their richest
dress.]
[Footnote 4: The customary offering to a Russian emperor on entering a
town. The act is indicative of submission.]
[Footnote 5: A sign of contempt among Russians and Orientals.]
CHAPTER VIII.
AN UNINVITED GUEST.
The square was deserted. I remained standing in the same place, unable
to collect my thoughts, bewildered as I was by so many terrible
emotions.
Uncertainty with respect to the fate of Maria Ivanovna tortured me more
than anything else. Where was she? What had become of her? Had she
contrived to hide herself? Was her place of refuge safe?
Filled, with these distracting thoughts, I made my way to the
Commandant’s house. It was empty. The chairs, tables, and chests were
broken, the crockery dashed to pieces, and everything in confusion. I
ran up the little staircase which led to Maria’s room, and which I now
entered for the first time in my life. Her bed had been ransacked by
the robbers; the wardrobe was broken open and plundered; the small lamp
was still burning before the empty image case.[1] There was also left a
small mirror hanging on the partition wall.... Where was the mistress
of his humble, virginal cell? A terrible thought passed through my
mind; I imagined her in the hands of the robbers.... My heart sank
within me.... I wept bitterly, most bitterly, and called aloud the
name of my beloved.... At that moment I heard a slight noise, and from
behind the ward-robe appeared Palasha, pale and trembling.
“Ah, Peter Andreitch!” said she, clasping her hands, “What a day! what
horrors!”
“And Maria Ivanovna?” I asked impatiently. “What has become of Maria
Ivanovna?”
“The young lady is alive,” replied Palasha; “she is hiding in the house
of Akoulina Pamphilovna.”
“With the priest’s wife!” I exclaimed in alarm. “My God! Pougatcheff is
there!”
I dashed out of the room, and in the twinkling of an eye I was in the
street and hurrying off to the clergyman’s house, without devoting the
slightest attention to anything else. Shouts, songs, and bursts of
laughter resounded from within.... Pougatcheff was feasting with his
companions. Palasha had followed me thither. I sent her to call out
Akoulina Pamphilovna secretly. In about a minute the priest’s wife came
out to me in the vestibule, with an empty bottle in her hand.
“In Heaven’s name! where is Maria Ivanovna?” I asked with indescribable
agitation.
“The dear little dove is lying down on my bed behind the partition,”
replied the priest’s wife. “But a terrible misfortune had very nearly
happened, Peter Andreitch! Thanks be to God, however, everything has
passed off happily. The villain had just sat down to dine, when the
poor child uttered a moan!... I felt as if I should have died. He heard
it. ‘Who is that moaning in your room, old woman?’--I bowed myself to
the ground, and replied: ‘My niece, Czar; she has been lying ill for
about a fortnight.’--‘And is your niece young?’--‘She is young, Czar.’
--‘Show me your niece then, old woman.’ My heart sank within me, but
there was no help for it. ‘Very well, Czar; but the girl will not have
the strength to get up and come before your Grace.’--‘Never mind, old
woman, I will go and see her myself.’ And the villain went behind the
partition and, will you believe it?--actually drew aside the curtain
and looked at her with his hawk-like eyes--but nothing came of it,--God
helped us! Will you believe it? I and the father were prepared for a
martyr’s death. Fortunately, my little dove did not recognize him. Lord
God! what have we lived to see! Poor Ivan Kouzmitch! who would have
thought it!... And Vassilissa Egorovna? And Ivan Ignatitch? What was
he killed for? And how came they to spare you? And what do you think
of Shvabrin? He has had his hair cut, and is now feasting inside along
with them! He is a very sharp fellow, there is no gainsaying that! When
I spoke of my sick niece--will you believe it?--he looked at me as if
he would have stabbed me; but he did not betray me. I am thankful to
him for that, anyway.”
At that moment I heard the drunken shouts of the guests and the voice
of Father Gerasim. The guests were demanding wine, and the host was
calling for his wife.
“Go back home, Peter Andreitch,” said the priest’s wife, somewhat
alarmed; “I cannot stop to speak to you now; I must go and wait upon
the drunken scoundrels. It might be unfortunate for you if you fell
into their hands. Farewell, Peter Andreitch. What is to be, will be;
perhaps God will not abandon us!”
The priest’s wife went back inside the house. Somewhat more easy
in mind, I returned to my quarters. As I crossed the square I saw
several Bashkirs assembled round the gibbets, engaged in dragging off
the boots of those who had been hanged. With difficulty I repressed
my indignation, feeling convinced that if I gave expression to it,
it would have been perfectly useless. The brigands invaded every
part of the fortress, and plundered the officers’ houses. On every
side resounded the shouts of the drunken mutineers. I reached home.
Savelitch met me on the threshold.
“Thank God!” he exclaimed when he saw me; “I was beginning to think
that the villains had seized you again. Ah! my little father, Peter
Andreitch, will you believe it, the robbers have plundered us of
everything--clothes, linen, furniture, plate--they have not left us a
single thing. But what does it matter? Thank God! they have spared your
life. But, my lord, did you recognize their leader?”
“No, I did not recognize him. Who is he then?”
“How, my little father! Have you forgotten that drunken scoundrel
who swindled you out of the pelisse at the inn? A brand new hareskin
pelisse; and the beast burst the seams in putting it on.”
I was astounded. In truth, the resemblance of Pougatcheff to my guide
was very striking. I felt convinced that Pougatcheff and he were one
and the same person, and then I understood why he had spared my life.
I could not but feel surprised at the strange connection of events--a
child’s pelisse, given to a roving vagrant, had saved me from the
hangman’s noose, and a drunkard, who had passed his life in wandering
from one inn to another, was now besieging fortresses and shaking the
empire!
“Will you not eat something?” asked Savelitch, still faithful to his
old habits. “There is nothing in the house; but I will go and search,
and get something ready for you.”
When I was left alone, I began to reflect. What was I to do? To remain
in the fortress now that it was in the hands of the villain, or to
join his band, was unworthy of an officer. Duty demanded that I should
go wherever my services might still be of use to my fatherland in the
present critical position of its affairs.... But love strongly urged
me to remain near Maria Ivanovna and be her protector and defender.
Although I foresaw a speedy and inevitable change in the course of
affairs, yet I could not help trembling when I thought of the danger
of her situation.
My reflections were interrupted by the arrival of one of the Cossacks,
who came to inform me that “the great Czar required me to appear before
him.”
“Where is he?” I asked, preparing to obey.
“In the Commandant’s house,” replied the Cossack. “After dinner our
father took a bath, but at present he is resting. Ah! your Excellency,
it is very evident that he is a distinguished person; at dinner he
deigned to eat two roasted sucking pigs, then he entered the bath,
where the I water was so hot that even Tarass Kourotchkin could not
bear it; he had to give the besom to Tomka Bikbaieff, and only came to
himself through having cold water poured over him. There is no denying
it; all his ways are majestic.... And I was told that in the bath he
showed his Czar’s signs upon his breast: on one side a two-headed eagle
as large as a five-copeck piece, and on the other his own likeness.”
I did not consider it necessary to contradict the Cossack’s
statement, and I accompanied him to the Commandant’s house, trying to
imagine beforehand what kind of a reception I should meet with from
Pougatcheff, and endeavouring to guess how it would end. The reader
will easily understand that I did not by any means feel easy within
myself.
It was beginning to get dark when I reached the Commandant’s house. The
gibbet, with its victims, loomed black and terrible before me. The body
of the poor Commandant’s wife still lay at the bottom of the steps,
near which two Cossacks stood on guard. The Cossack who accompanied me
went in to announce me, and, returning almost immediately, conducted me
into the room where, the evening before, I had taken a tender farewell
of Maria Ivanovna.
An unusual spectacle presented itself to my gaze. At a table, covered
with a cloth and loaded with bottles and glasses, sat Pougatcheff and
some half-a-score of Cossack chiefs, in coloured caps and shirts,
heated with wine, with flushed faces and flashing eyes. I did not see
among then: Shvabrin and his fellow traitor, the orderly.
“Ah! your Excellency!” said Pougatcheff, seeing me, “Welcome; honour to
you and a place at our banquet.”
The guests moved closer together. I sat down silently at the end of the
table. My neighbour, a young Cossack, tall and handsome, poured out for
me a glass of wine, which, however, I did not touch. I began to observe
the company with curiosity. Pougatcheff occupied the seat of honour,
his elbows resting on the table, and his broad fist propped under his
black beard. His features, regular and sufficiently agreeable, had
nothing fierce about them. He frequently turned to speak to a man of
about fifty years of age, addressing him sometimes as Count, sometimes
as Timofeitch, sometimes as uncle. All those present treated each other
as comrades, and did not show any particular respect for their leader.
The conversation was upon the subject of the assault of the morning,
of the success of the revolt, and of their future operations. Each one
boasted of what he had done, expressed his opinion, and fearlessly
contradicted Pougatcheff. And in this strange council of war it was
resolved to march upon Orenburg; a bold movement, and which was to be
very nearly crowned with success! The march was fixed for the following
day.
“Now, lads,” said Pougatcheff, “before we retire to rest, let us have
my favourite song. Choumakoff, begin!”
My neighbour sang, in a shrill voice, the following melancholy
peasants’ song, and all joined in the chorus:
“Stir not, mother, green forest of oak,
Disturb me not in my meditation;
For to-morrow before the court I must go,
Before the stern judge, before the Czar himself.
The great Lord Czar will begin to question me:
‘Tell me, young man, tell me, thou peasant’s son,
With whom have you stolen, with whom have you robbed?
Did you have many companions with you?’
‘I will tell you, true-believing Czar,
The whole truth I will confess to you.
My companions were four in number:
My first companion was the dark night,
My second companion was a steel knife,
My third companion was my good horse,
My fourth companion was my taut bow,
My messengers were my tempered arrows.’
Then speaks my hope, the true-believing Czar:
‘Well done! my lad, brave peasant’s son;
You knew how to steal, you knew how to reply:
Therefore, my lad, I will make you a present
Of a very high structure in the midst of a field--
Of two upright posts with a cross-beam above.’”
It is impossible to describe the effect produced upon me by this
popular gallows song, trolled out by men destined for the gallows.
Their ferocious countenances, their sonorous voices, and the melancholy
expression which they imparted to the words, which in themselves were
not very expressive, filled me with a sort of poetical terror.
The guests drank another glass, then rose from the table and took leave
of Pougatcheff.
I wanted to follow them, but Pougatcheff said to me:
“Sit down; I want to speak to you.”
We remained face to face.
For some moments we both continued silent. Pougatcheff looked at
me fixedly, every now and then winking his left eye with a curious
expression of craftiness and drollery. At last he burst out laughing,
and with such unfeigned merriment, that I, too, looking at him, began
to laugh, without knowing why.
“Well, your lordship,” he said to me, “confess now, you were in a
terrible fright when my fellows put the rope round your neck. I do
not believe that the sky appeared bigger than a sheepskin to you just
then.... You would have been strung up to the crossbeam if it had not
been for your servant. I knew the old fellow at once. Well, would your
lordship have thought that the man who conducted you to the inn, was
the great Czar himself?”
Here he assumed an air of mystery and importance.
“You have been guilty of a serious offence against me,” continued he,
“but I pardoned you on account of your virtue, and because you rendered
me a service when I was compelled to hide myself from my enemies. But
you will see something very different presently! You will see how I
will reward you when I enter into possession of my kingdom! Will you
promise to serve me with zeal?”
The rascal’s question, and his insolence, appeared to me so amusing,
that I could not help smiling.
“Why do you smile?” he asked, frowning. “Perhaps you do not believe
that I am the great Czar? Is that so?--answer plainly.”
I became confused. To acknowledge a vagabond as emperor was quite out
of the question; to do so seemed to me unpardonable cowardice. To
tell him to his face that he was an impostor was to expose myself to
certain death, and that which I was prepared to say beneath the gibbet
before the eyes of the crowd, in the first outburst of my indignation,
appeared to me now a useless boast. I hesitated. In gloomy silence
Pougatcheff awaited my reply. At last (and even now I remember that
moment with self-satisfaction) the sentiment of duty triumphed over my
human weakness. I replied to Pougatcheff:
“Listen, I will tell you the whole truth. Judge yourself: can I
acknowledge you as emperor? You, as a sensible man, would know that it
would not be saying what I really thought.”
“Who am I, then, in your opinion?”
“God only knows; but whoever you may be, you are playing a dangerous
game.”
Pougatcheff threw a rapid glance at me.
“Then you do not believe,” said he, “that I am the Emperor Peter? Well,
be it so. But is not success the reward of the bold? Did not Grishka
Otrepieff[2] reign in former days? Think of me what you please, but do
not leave me. What does it matter to you one way or the other? Whoever
is pope is father. Serve me faithfully and truly, and I will make you a
field-marshal and a prince. What do you say?”
“No,” I replied with firmness. “I am by birth a nobleman; I have taken
the oath of fealty to the empress: I cannot serve you. If you really
wish me well, send me back to Orenburg.”
Pougatcheff reflected.
“But if I let you go,” said he, “will you at least promise not to serve
against me?”
“How can I promise you that?” I replied. “You yourself know that it
does not depend upon my own will. If I am ordered to march against
you, I must go--there is no help for it. You yourself are now a chief;
you demand obedience from your followers. How would it seem, if I
refused to serve when my services were needed? My life is in your
hands: if you set me free, I will thank you; if you put me to death,
God will be your judge; but I have told you the truth.”
My frankness struck Pougatcheff.
“Be it so,” said he, slapping me upon the shoulder. “One should either
punish completely or pardon completely. Go then where you like, and do
what you like. Come to-morrow to say good-bye to me, and now go to bed.
I feel very drowsy myself.”
I left Pougatcheff and went out into the street. The night was calm
and cold. The moon and stars were shining brightly, lighting up the
square and the gibbet. In the fortress all was dark and still. Only in
the tavern was a light visible, where could be heard the noise of late
revellers.
I glanced at the pope’s house. The shutters and doors were closed.
Everything seemed quiet within.
I made my way to my own quarters and found Savelitch grieving about
my absence. The news of my being set at liberty filled him with
unutterable joy.
“Thanks be to Thee, Almighty God!” said he, making the sign of the
cross. “At daybreak to-morrow we will leave the fortress and go
wherever God will direct us. I have prepared something for you; eat it,
my little father, and then rest yourself till the morning, as if you
were in the bosom of Christ.”
I followed his advice and, having eaten with a good appetite, I fell
asleep upon the bare floor, worn out both in body and mind.
[Footnote 1: The small wardrobe, with glass doors, in which the sacred
images are kept, and which forms a domestic altar.]
[Footnote 2: The first false Demetrius, the Perkin Warbeck of Russia.
The real Demetrius was the son of Ivan the Terrible (Ivan IV.), and
is generally believed to have been assassinated by order of Boris
Godunoff, a nobleman of Tartar origin, who was afterwards elected Czar.
Otrepieff’s story was that his physician had pretended to comply with
the orders of Boris, but had substituted the son of a serf for him.
Being supported in his claims by the Poles, the pretender succeeded
in gaining the throne, but his partiality for everything Polish
aroused the national jealousy of the Russians, and he was slain by the
infuriated populace of Moscow, after a brief reign of one year.]
CHAPTER IX.
THE PARTING.
Early next morning I was awakened by the drum. I went to the place of
assembly. There Pougatcheff’s followers were already drawn up round the
gibbet, where the victims of the day before were still hanging. The
Cossacks were on horseback, the soldiers were under arms. Flags were
waving. Several cannon, among which I recognized our own, were mounted
on travelling gun-carriages. All the inhabitants were gathered together
there, awaiting the usurper. Before the steps of the Commandant’s
house a Cossack stood holding by the bridle a magnificent white horse
of Kirghis breed. I looked about for the corpse of the Commandant’s
wife. It had been pushed a little on one side and covered with a mat.
At length Pougatcheff came out of the house. The crowd took off their
caps. Pougatcheff stood still upon the steps and greeted his followers.
One of the chiefs gave him a bag filled with copper coins, and he began
to scatter them by handfuls. The crowd commenced scrambling for them
with eager cries, and there was no lack of pushing and scuffling in
the attempts to get possession of them. Pougatcheff’s chief followers
assembled round him. Among them stood Shvabrin. Our eyes met; in
mine he could read contempt, and he turned away with an expression
of genuine hate and affected scorn. Pougatcheff, seeing me among the
crowd, nodded his head to me and called me to him.
“Listen,” said he to me, “set off at once for Orenburg and tell the
governor and all the generals from me, that they may expect me in about
a week. Advise them to receive me with filial love and submission;
otherwise they shall not escape a terrible punishment. A pleasant
journey, your lordship!”
Then turning round to the crowd and pointing to Shvabrin, he said:
“There, children, is your new Commandant. Obey him in everything; he is
answerable to me for you and for the fortress.”
I heard these words with alarm: Shvabrin being made governor of the
fortress, Maria Ivanovna remained in his power! Great God! what would
become of her!
Pougatcheff descended the steps. His horse was brought to him. He
vaulted nimbly into the saddle, without waiting for the Cossacks, who
were going to help him to mount.
At that moment I saw my Savelitch emerge from the midst of the crowd;
he approached Pougatcheff and gave him a sheet of paper. I could not
imagine what was the meaning of this proceeding on his part.
“What is this?” asked Pougatcheff, with an air of importance.
“Read it, then you will see,” replied Savelitch. Pougatcheff took the
paper and examined it for a long time with a consequential look.
“Why do you write so illegibly?” said he at last. “Our lucid eyes[1]
cannot decipher a word. Where is my chief secretary?”
A young man, in the uniform of a corporal, immediately ran up to
Pougatcheff.
“Read it aloud,” said the usurper, giving him the paper.
I was exceedingly curious to know what my follower could have written
to Pougatcheff about. The chief secretary, in a loud voice, began to
spell out as follows:
“Two dressing-gowns, one of linen and one of striped silk, six roubles.”
“What does this mean?” said Pougatcheff, frowning.
“Order him to read on,” replied Savelitch coolly.
The chief secretary continued:
“One uniform coat of fine green cloth, seven roubles.
“One pair of white cloth breeches, five roubles.
“Twelve Holland linen shirts with ruffles, ten roubles.
“A chest and tea-service, two roubles and a half....”
“What is all this nonsense?” exclaimed Pougatcheff. “What are these
chests and breeches with ruffles to do with me?”
Savelitch cleared his throat and began to explain.
“This, my father, you will please to understand is a list of my
master’s goods that have been stolen by those scoundrels----”
“What scoundrels?” said Pougatcheff, threateningly.
“I beg your pardon, that was a slip on my part,” replied Savelitch.
“They were not scoundrels, but your fellows, who have rummaged and
plundered everything. Do not be angry: the horse has got four legs, and
yet he stumbles. Order him to read to the end.”
“Read on to the end,” said Pougatcheff.
The secretary continued:
“One chintz counterpane, another of taffety quilted with cotton wool,
four roubles.
“A fox-skin pelisse, covered with red flannel, forty roubles.
“Likewise a hare-skin morning-gown, presented to your Grace at the inn
on the steppe, fifteen roubles.”
“What’s that’!” exclaimed Pougatcheff, his eyes flashing fire.
I confess that I began to feel alarmed for my poor servant. He was
about to enter again into explanations, but Pougatcheff interrupted him.
“How dare you pester me with such nonsense!” he cried, snatching the
paper out of the secretary’s hands and flinging it in Savelitch’s
face. “Stupid old man! You have been robbed; what a misfortune! Why,
old greybeard, you ought to be eternally praying to God for me and my
lads, that you and your master are not hanging yonder along with the
other traitors to me.... A hare-skin morning-gown! Do you know that
I could order you to be flayed alive and have your skin made into a
morning-gown?”
“As you please,” replied Savelitch; “but I am not a free man, and must
be answerable for my lord’s goods.”
Pougatcheff was evidently in a magnanimous humour. He turned round and
rode off without saying another word. Shvabrin and the chiefs followed
him. The troops marched out of the fortress in order. The crowd pressed
forward to accompany Pougatcheff. I remained in the square alone with
Savelitch. My servant held in his hand the list of my things and stood
looking at it with an air of deep regret.
Seeing me on such good terms with Pougatcheff, he thought that he
might take advantage of the circumstance; but his sage scheme did not
succeed. I was on the point of scolding him for his misplaced zeal, but
I could not restrain myself from laughing.
“Laugh away, my lord,” replied Savelitch: “laugh away; but when the
time comes for you to procure a new outfit, we shall see if you will
laugh then.”
I hastened to the priest’s house to see Maria Ivanovna. The priest’s
wife met me with sad news. During the night Maria Ivanovna had been
seized with a violent attack of fever. She lay unconscious and in
a delirium. The priest’s wife conducted me into her room. I softly
approached her bed. The change in her face startled me. She did not
recognize me. For a long time I stood beside her without paying any
heed either to Father Gerasim or to his good wife, who endeavoured to
console me. Gloomy thoughts took possession of me. The condition of
the poor defenceless orphan, left alone in the midst of the lawless
rebels, as well as my own powerlessness, terrified me. But it was the
thought of Shvabrin more than anything else that filled my imagination
with alarm. Invested with power by the usurper, and entrusted with the
command of the fortress, in which the unhappy girl--the innocent object
of his hatred--remained, he was capable of any villainous act. What
was I to do? How should I help her? How could I rescue her out of the
hands of the brigands? There remained only one way. I resolved to set
out immediately for Orenburg, in order to hasten the deliverance of
Bailogorsk, and, as far as possible, to co-operate in the undertaking.
I took leave of the priest and of Akoulina Pamphilovna, recommending to
their care her whom I already considered as my wife. I seized the hand
of the poor girl and kissed it, bedewing it with my tears.
“Farewell,” said the pope’s wife to me, accompanying me to the door
“farewell, Peter Andreitch. Perhaps we shall see each other again in
happier times. Do not forget us, and write to us often. Poor Maria
Ivanovna has nobody now, except you, to console and protect her.”
On reaching the square, I stopped for a moment and looked at the
gibbet, then, bowing my head before it, I quitted the fortress and took
the road to Orenburg, accompanied by Savelitch, who had not left my
side.
I was walking on, occupied with my reflections, when suddenly I
heard behind me the trampling of horses’ feet. Looking round, I saw,
galloping out of the fortress, a Cossack, holding a Bashkir horse
by the rein and making signs to me from afar. I stopped and soon
recognized our orderly. Galloping up to us, he dismounted from his own
horse, and giving me the rein of the other, said:
“Your lordship! our father sends you a horse, and a pelisse from his
own shoulders.” (To the saddle was attached a sheepskin pelisse.)
“Moreover,” continued the orderly with some hesitation, “he sends
you--half-a-rouble--but I have lost it on the road; be generous and
pardon me.”
Savelitch eyed him askance and growled out:
“You lost it on the road! What is that chinking in your pocket, then,
you shameless rascal!”
“What is that chinking in my pocket?” replied the orderly, without
being in the least confused. “God be with you, old man! It is a horse’s
bit, and not half-a-rouble.”
“Very well,” said I, putting an end to the dispute. “Give my thanks to
him who sent you; and as you go back, try and find the lost half-rouble
and keep it for drink-money.”
“Many thanks, your lordship,” replied he, turning his horse round; “I
will pray to God for you without ceasing.” With these words he galloped
back again, holding one hand to his pocket, and in about a minute he
was hidden from sight.
I put on the pelisse and mounted the horse, taking Savelitch up behind
me.
“Now do you see, my lord,” said the old man, “that I did not give the
petition to the rascal in vain? The robber felt ashamed of himself.
Although this lean-looking Bashkir jade and this sheepskin pelisse are
not worth half of what the rascals stole from us, and what you chose to
give him yourself, they may yet be of some use to us; from a vicious
dog, even a tuft of hair.”
[Footnote 1: An allusion to the customary form of speech on presenting
a petition to the Czar: “I strike the earth with my forehead, and
present my petition to your lucid eyes.”]
CHAPTER X.
THE SIEGE.
In approaching Orenburg, we saw a crowd of convicts, with shaven heads,
and with faces disfigured by the hangman’s pincers. They were at work
on the fortifications, under the direction of the soldiers of the
garrison. Some were carrying away in wheel-barrows the earth and refuse
which filled the moat, others with shovels were digging up the ground;
on the rampart the masons were carrying stones and repairing the walls.
The sentinels stopped us at the gate and demanded our passports. As
soon as the sergeant heard that I came from Bailogorsk, he took me
straight to the General’s house.
I found him in the garden. He was inspecting the apple-trees, which the
autumn winds had stripped of their leaves, and, with the help of an old
gardener, was carefully covering them with straw. His face expressed
tranquillity, health, and good-nature. He was much pleased to see me,
and began questioning me about the terrible events of which I had been
an eye-witness. I related everything to him. The old man listened to me
with attention, and continued the meantime to lop off the dry twigs.
“Poor Mironoff!” said he, when I had finished my sad story; “I feel
very sorry for him, he was a good officer; and Madame Mironoff was a
good woman,--how clever she was at pickling mushrooms! And what has
become of Masha, the Captain’s daughter?”
I replied that she was still at the fortress in the hands of the pope
and his wife.
“That is bad, very bad. Nobody can place any dependence upon the
discipline of robbers. What will become of the poor girl?”
I replied that the fortress of Bailogorsk was not far off and that,
without doubt, his Excellency would not delay in sending thither a
detachment of soldiers to deliver the poor inhabitants.
The General shook his head dubiously.
“We shall see, we shall see,” said he, “we have plenty of time to
talk about that. Do me the pleasure of taking a cup of tea with me:
a council of war is to be held at my house this evening. You may be
able to give us some trustworthy information concerning this rascal
Pougatcheff and his army. And now go and rest yourself for a little
while.”
I went to the quarter assigned to me, where Savelitch had already
installed himself, and where I awaited with impatience 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 upon my
fate At the appointed hour I repaired to the General’s house.
I found with him one of the civil officials of the town, the director
of the custom-house, if I remember rightly, a stout, red-faced old
man in a silk coat. He began to question me about the fate of Ivan
Kouzmitch, whom he called his gossip, and frequently interrupted my
discourse with additional questions and moral observations, which, if
they did not prove him to be a man well versed in military matters,
showed at least that he possessed sagacity and common sense. In the
meantime the other persons who had been invited to the council had
assembled. When they were all seated, and a cup of tea had been handed
round to each, the General entered into a clear and detailed account of
the business in question.
“And now, gentlemen,” continued he, “we must decide in what way we
are to act against the rebels: offensively or defensively? Each of
these methods has its advantages and disadvantages. Offensive warfare
holds out a greater prospect of a quicker extermination of the enemy;
defensive action is safer and less dangerous.... Therefore let us
commence by putting the question to the vote in legal order, that is,
beginning with the youngest in rank. Ensign,” continued he, turning to
me, “will you please favour us with your opinion?”
I rose, and after having described, in a few words, Pougatcheff and his
followers, I expressed my firm opinion that the usurper was not in a
position to withstand disciplined troops.
My opinion was received by the civil officials with evident
dissatisfaction. They saw in it only the rashness and temerity of
a young man. There arose a murmur, and I distinctly heard the word
“greenhorn” pronounced in a whisper. The General turned to me and said
with a smile:
“Ensign, the first voices in councils of war are generally in favour of
adopting offensive measures. We will now continue and hear what others
have to say. Mr. Counsellor of the College, tell us your opinion.”
The little old man in the silk coat hastily swallowed his third cup of
tea, into which he had poured some rum, and then replied:
“I think, your Excellency, that we ought to act neither offensively nor
defensively.”
“How, Sir Counsellor?” replied the astonished General. “Tactics present
no other methods of action; offensive action or defensive....”
“Your Excellency, act diplomatically.”
“Ah! your idea is a very sensible one. Diplomatic action is allowed by
the laws of tactics, and we will profit by your advice. We might offer
for the head of the rascal ... seventy or even a hundred roubles ...
out of the secret funds....”
“And then,” interrupted the Director of the Customs, “may I become a
Kirghis ram, and not a College Counsellor, if these robbers do not
deliver up to us their leader, bound hand and foot.”
“We will think about it, and speak of it again,” replied: the General.
“But, in any case, we must take military precautions. Gentlemen, give
your votes in regular order.”
The opinions of all were contrary to mine. All the civil officials
expatiated upon the untrustworthiness of the troops, the uncertainty
of success, the necessity of being cautious, and the like. All agreed’
that it was more prudent to remain behind the stone walls of the
fortress under the protection of the cannon, than to try the fortune of
arms in the open field. At length the General, having heard all their
opinions, shook the ashes from his pipe and spoke as follows:
“Gentlemen, I must declare to you that, for my part, I am entirely of
the same opinion as the ensign; because this opinion is founded upon
sound rules of tactics, which nearly always give the preference to
offensive action rather than to defensive.”
Then he paused and began to fill his pipe. My vanity triumphed. I
cast a proud glance at the civil officials, who were whispering among
themselves with looks of displeasure and uneasiness.
“But, gentlemen,” continued the General, heaving a deep sigh, and
emitting at the same time a thick cloud of tobacco smoke, “I dare not
take upon myself such a great responsibility, when it is a question of
the safety of the provinces confided to me by Her Imperial Majesty, my
Most Gracious Sovereign. Therefore it is that I fall in with the views
of the majority, who have decided that it is safer and more prudent to
await the siege inside the town, and to repel the attack of the enemy
by the use of artillery and--if possible--by sallies.”
The officials in their turn now glanced at me ironically. The council
separated. I could not but deplore the weakness of this estimable
soldier, who, contrary to his own conviction, resolved to follow the
advice of ignorant and inexperienced persons.
Some days after this memorable council we heard that Pougatcheff,
faithful to his promise, was marching on Orenburg. From the lofty walls
of the town I observed the army of the rebels. It seemed to me that
their numbers had increased since the last assault, of which I had
been a witness. They had with them also some pieces of artillery which
had been taken by Pougatcheff from the small fortresses that had been
conquered by him. Remembering the decision of the council, I foresaw a
long incarceration within the walls of Orenburg, and I was almost ready
to weep with vexation.
I do not intend to describe the siege of Orenburg, which belongs to
history and not to family memoirs. I will merely observe that this
siege, through want of caution on the part of the local authorities,
was a disastrous one for the inhabitants, who had to endure hunger
and every possible privation. It can easily be imagined that life in
Orenburg was almost unbearable. All awaited in melancholy anxiety
the decision of fate; all complained of the famine, which was really
terrible. The inhabitants became accustomed to the cannon-balls falling
upon their houses; even Pougatcheff’s assaults no longer produced any
excitement. I was dying of ennui. Time wore on. I received no letters
from Bailogorsk. All the roads were cut off. Separation from Marla
Ivanovna became insupportable to me. Uncertainty with respect to her
fate tortured me. My only diversion consisted in making excursions
outside the city. Thanks to the kindness of Pougatcheff, I had a good
horse, with which I shared my scanty allowance of food, and upon
whose back I used to ride out daily beyond the walls and open fire
upon Pougatcheff’s partisans. In these skirmishes the advantage was
generally on the side of the rebels, who had plenty to eat and drink,
and possessed good horses. Our miserable cavalry were unable to cope
with them. Sometimes our famished infantry made a sally; but the depth
of the snow prevented their operations being successful against the
flying cavalry of the enemy. The artillery thundered in vain from the
summit of the ramparts, and had it been in the field, it could not
have advanced on account of our emaciated horses. Such was our style
of warfare! And this was what the civil officials of Orenburg called
prudence and foresight!
One day, when we had succeeded in dispersing and driving off a
tolerably large body of the enemy, I came up with a Cossack who had
remained behind his companions, and I was just about to strike him with
my Turkish sabre, when he suddenly took off his cap and cried out:
“Good day, Peter Andreitch; how do you do?”
I looked at him and recognized our orderly. I cannot say how delighted
I was to see him.
“Good day, Maximitch,” said I to him. “How long is it since you left
Bailogorsk?”
“Not long, Peter Andreitch; I only returned from there yesterday. I
have a letter for you.”
“Where is it?” cried I, perfectly beside myself with excitement.
“I have it here,” replied Maximitch, placing his hand upon his bosom.
“I promised Palasha that I would give it to you somehow.”
He then gave me a folded paper and immediately galloped off. I opened
it and, deeply agitated, read the following lines:
“It has pleased God to deprive me suddenly of both father and
mother: I have now on earth neither a relation nor a protector. I
therefore turn to you, because I know that you have always wished
me well, and that you are ever ready to help others. I pray to God
that this letter may reach you in some way! Maximitch has promised
to give it to you. Palasha has also heard from Maximitch that he
has frequently seen you from a distance in the sorties, and that
you do not take the least care of yourself, not thinking about
those who pray to God for you in tears. I was ill a long time, and,
when I recovered, Alexei Ivanovitch, who commands here in place of
my deceased father, compelled Father Gerasim to deliver me up to
him, threatening him with Pougatcheff’s anger if he refused. I live
in our house which is guarded by a sentry. Alexei Ivanovitch wants
to compel me to marry him. He says that he saved my life because
he did not reveal the deception practised by Akoulina Pamphilovna,
who told the rebels that I was her niece. But I would rather die
than become the wife of such a man as Alexei Ivanovitch. He treats
me very cruelly, and threatens that if I do not change my mind and
agree to his proposal, he will conduct me to the rebels’ camp,
where I shall suffer the same fate as Elizabeth Kharloff.[1] I
have begged Alexei Ivanovitch to give me time to reflect. He has
consented to give me three days longer, and if at the end of that
time I do not agree to become his wife, he will show me no further
mercy. Oh, Peter Andreitch! you are my only protector; save a poor
helpless girl! Implore 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,
“MARIA MIRONOFF.”
The reading of this letter almost drove me out of my mind. I galloped
back to the town, spurring my poor horse without mercy. On the way I
turned over in my I mind one plan and another for the rescue of the
poor girl, but I could not come to any definite conclusion. On reaching
the town I immediately repaired to the General’s, and presented myself
before him without the least delay.
He was walking up and down the room, smoking his meerschaum pipe. On
seeing me he stopped. Probably; he was struck by my appearance, for he
anxiously inquired the reason of my hasty visit.
“Your Excellency,” said I to him, “I come to you as I would to my own
father: for Heaven’s sake, do not refuse my request; the happiness of
my whole life depends upon it!”
“What is the matter?” asked the astonished old soldier. “What can I do
for you? Speak!”
“Your Excellency, allow me to take a battalion of soldiers and a
company of Cossacks to recapture the fortress of Bailogorsk.”
The General looked at me earnestly, imagining, without doubt, that I
had taken leave of my senses--and, for the matter of that, he was not
very far out in his supposition.
“How?--what? Recapture the fortress of Bailogorsk?” said he at last.
“I will answer for the success of the undertaking,” I replied with
ardour; “only let me go.”
“No, young man,” said he, shaking his head. “At such a great distance
the enemy would easily cut off your communication with the principal
strategical point, and gain a complete victory over you. Communication
being cut off....”
I became alarmed when I perceived that he was about to enter upon a
military dissertation, and I hastened to interrupt him.
“The daughter of Captain Mironoff has written a letter to me,” I said
to him; “she asks for help: Shvabrin wants to compel her to become his
wife.”
“Indeed! Oh, this Shvabrin is a great rascal, and if he should fall
into my hands I will order him to be tried within twenty-four hours,
and we will have him shot on the parapet of the fortress. But in the
meantime we must have patience.”
“Have patience!” I cried, perfectly beside myself. “But in the meantime
he will force Maria Ivanovna to become his wife!”
“Oh!” exclaimed the General. “But even that would be no great
misfortune for her. It would be better for her to become the wife of
Shvabrin, he would then take her under his protection; and when we have
shot him we will soon find a sweetheart for her, please God. Pretty
widows do not remain single long; I mean that a widow finds a husband
much quicker than a spinster.”
“I would rather die,” said I in a passion, “than resign her to
Shvabrin.”
“Oh, oh!” said the old man, “now I understand. You are evidently in
love with Maria Ivanovna, and that alters the case altogether. Poor
fellow! But, for all that, I cannot give you a battalion of soldiers
and fifty Cossacks. Such an expedition would be the height of folly,
and I cannot take the responsibility of it upon myself.”
I cast down 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 romance writers used to say.
[Footnote 1: A Commandant’s daughter, whom Pougatcheff outraged and
then put to death.]
CHAPTER XI.
THE REBEL ENCAMPMENT.
I left the General and hastened to my own quarters. Savelitch received
me with his usual admonitions.
“What pleasure do you find, my lord, in fighting against drunken
robbers? Is that the kind of occupation for a nobleman? All hours are
not alike, and you will sacrifice your life for nothing. It would be
all well and good if you were fighting against the Turks or the Swedes,
but it is a shame to mention the name of the enemy that you are dealing
with now.”
I interrupted him in his speech by the question:
“How much money have I left?”
“You have a tolerably good sum still left,” he replied, with a look of
satisfaction. “In spite of their searching and rummaging, I succeeded
in hiding it from the robbers.” So saying, he drew from his pocket a
long knitted purse, filled with silver pieces.
“Well, Savelitch,” said I to him, “give me half of what you have, and
keep the rest yourself. I am going to Fortress Bailogorsk.”
“My little father, Peter Andreitch!” said my good old servant in a
trembling voice; “do not tempt God! How can you travel at the present
time, when none of the roads are free from the robbers? Have compassion
upon your parents, if you have no pity for yourself. Where do you Want
to go? And why? Wait a little while. The troops will soon be here
and will quickly make short work of the robbers. Then you may go in
whatever direction you like.” But my resolution was not to be shaken.
“It is too late to reflect,” I said to the old man. “I must go, I
cannot do otherwise than go. Do not grieve, Savelitch: God is merciful,
perhaps we may see each other again. Have no scruples about spending
the money, and don’t be sparing of it. Buy whatever you require, even
though you have to pay three times the value of it. I give this money
to you. If in three days I do not return----”
“What are you talking about, my lord?” said Savelitch, interrupting me.
“Do you think that I could let you go alone? Do not imagine anything of
the kind. If you have resolved to go, I will accompany you, even though
it be on foot; I will not leave you. The idea of my sitting down behind
a stone wall without you! Do you think then that I have gone out of my
mind? Do as you please, my lord, but I will not leave you.”
I knew that it was useless to dispute with Savelitch, and I allowed
him to prepare for the journey. In half an hour I was seated upon the
back of my good horse, while Savelitch was mounted upon a lean and
limping jade, which one of the inhabitants of the town had given to him
for nothing, not having the means to keep it any longer. We reached
the gates of the town; the sentinels allowed us to pass, and we left
Orenburg behind us.
It was beginning to grow dark. My road led past the village of Berd,
one of Pougatcheff’s haunts. The way was covered with snow, but over
the whole of the steppe could be seen the footprints of horses, renewed
every day. I rode forward at a quick trot. Savelitch could hardly keep
pace with me, and kept calling out:
“Not so fast, my lord, for Heaven’s sake, not so fast! My accursed hack
cannot keep up with your long-legged devil. Where are you off to in
such a hurry? It would be all very well if we were going to a feast,
but we are more likely going to run our heads into a noose.... Peter
Andreitch ... little father ... Peter Andreitch! Lord God! the child is
rushing to destruction!”
We soon caught sight of the fires of Berd glimmering in the distance.
We approached some ravines, which served as natural defences to the
hamlet. Savelitch still followed me, and did not cease to utter his
plaintive entreaties. I hoped to be able to ride round the village
without being observed, when suddenly I perceived through the darkness,
straight in front of me, five peasants armed with clubs; it was the
advanced guard of Pougatcheff’s camp. They challenged us. Not knowing
the password, I wanted to ride on without saying anything; but they
immediately surrounded me, and one of them seized hold of my horse’s
bridle. I drew my sword and struck the peasant on the head. His cap
saved him, but he staggered and let the reins fall from his hand.
The others grew frightened and took to their heels; I seized the
opportunity, and, setting spurs to my horse, I galloped off.
The increasing darkness of the night might have saved me from further
dangers, but, turning round all at once, I perceived that Savelitch was
no longer with me. The poor old man, with his lame horse, had not been
able to get clear of the robbers. What was to be done? After waiting a
few minutes for him, and feeling convinced that he had been stopped, I
turned my horse round to hasten to his assistance.
Approaching the ravine, I heard in the distance confused cries, and
the voice of my Savelitch. I quickened my pace, and soon found myself
in the midst of the peasants who had stopped me a few minutes before.
Savelitch was among them. With loud shouts they threw themselves
upon me and dragged me from my horse in a twinkling. One of them,
apparently the leader of the band, informed us that he was going to
conduct us immediately before the Czar. I “And our father,” added he,
“will decide whether you shall be hanged immediately or wait till
daylight.”
I offered no resistance; Savelitch followed my example, and the
sentinels led us away in triumph.
We crossed the ravine and entered the village. In all the huts fires
were burning. Noise and shouts resounded on every side. In the streets
I met a large number of people; but nobody observed us in the darkness,
and no one recognized in me an officer from Orenburg. We were conducted
straight to a cottage which stood at the corner where two streets met.
Before the door stood several wine-casks and two pieces of artillery.
“This is the palace,” said one of the peasants; “we will announce you
at once.”
He entered the cottage. I glanced at Savelitch: the old man was making
the sign of the cross and muttering his prayers to himself.
I waited a long time; at last the peasant returned and said to me:
“Come inside; our father has given orders for the officer to be brought
before him.”
I entered the cottage, or the palace, as the peasants called it. It was
lighted by two tallow candles, and the walls were covered with gilt
paper; otherwise, the benches, the table, the little wash-hand basin
suspended by a cord, the towel hanging on a nail, the oven-fork in the
corner, the broad shelf loaded with pots--everything was the same as in
an ordinary cottage. Pougatcheff was seated under the holy picture,[1]
dressed in a red _caftan_ and wearing a tall cap, and with his arms
set akimbo in a very self-important manner. Around him stood several of
his principal followers, with looks of feigned respect and submission
upon their faces. It was evident that the news of the arrival of an
officer from Orenburg had awakened a great curiosity among the rebels,
and that they had prepared to receive me with as much pomp as possible.
Pougatcheff recognized me at the first glance. His assumed importance
vanished all at once.
“Ah! your lordship!” said he gaily. “How do you do?”
“What, in Heaven’s name, has brought you here?”
I replied that I was travelling on my own business, and that his people
had stopped me.
“What business?” asked he.
I knew not what to reply. Pougatcheff, supposing that I did not like
to explain in the presence of witnesses, turned to his companions and
ordered them to go out of the room. All obeyed, except two, who did not
stir from their places.
“Speak boldly before them,” said Pougatcheff, “I do not hide anything
from them.”
I glanced stealthily at the impostor’s confidants. One of them, a
weazen-faced, crooked old man, with a short grey beard, had nothing
remarkable about him except a blue riband, which he wore across his
grey tunic. But never shall I forget his companion. He was a tall,
powerful, broad-shouldered man, and seemed to me to be about forty-five
years of age. A thick red beard, grey piercing eyes, a nose without
nostrils, and reddish scars upon his forehead and cheeks, gave to his
broad, pock-marked face an indescribable expression. He had on a red
shirt, a Kirghis robe, and Cossack trousers. The first, as I learned
afterwards, was the runaway corporal Bailoborodoff; the other, Afanassy
Sokoloff, surnamed Khlopousha,[2] a condemned criminal, who had three
times escaped from the mines of Siberia. In spite of the feelings of
agitation which so exclusively occupied my mind at that time, the
society in the midst of which I so unexpectedly found myself awakened
my curiosity in a powerful degree. But Pougatcheff soon recalled me to
myself by his question:
“Speak! on what business did you leave Orenburg?”
A strange thought came into my head: it seemed to me that Providence,
by conducting me a second time into the presence of Pougatcheff, gave
me the opportunity of carrying my project into execution. I determined
to take advantage of it, and, without any further reflection, I replied
to Pougatcheff’s question:
“I was going to the fortress of Bailogorsk to rescue an orphan who is
oppressed there.”
Pougatcheff’s eyes sparkled.
“Which of my people dares to oppress the orphan?” cried he. “Were he
seven feet high he should not escape my judgment. Speak! who is the
culprit?”
“Shvabrin is the culprit,” replied I. “He holds captive the young girl
whom you saw ill at the priest’s house, and wants to force her to marry
him.”
“I will soon put Shvabrin in his right place,” said Pougatcheff
fiercely. “He shall learn what it is to oppress my people according to
his own will and pleasure. I will have him hanged.”
“Allow me to speak a word,” said Khlopousha in a hoarse; voice. “You
were in too great a hurry in appointing Shvabrin to the command of
the fortress, and now you are in too great a hurry to hang him. You
have already offended the Cossacks by placing a nobleman over them as
their chief; do not now alarm the nobles by hanging them at the first
accusation.”
“They ought neither to be pitied nor favoured,” said the little
old man with the blue riband. “To hang Shvabrin would be no great
misfortune, neither would it be amiss to put this officer through a
regular course of questions. Why has he deigned to pay us a visit?
If he does not recognize you as Czar, he cannot come to seek justice
from you; and if he does recognize you, why has he remained up to the
present time in Orenburg along with your enemies? Will you not order
him to be conducted to the court-house, and have a fire lit there?[3]
It seems to me that his Grace is sent to us from the generals in
Orenburg.”
The logic of the old rascal seemed to me to be plausible enough. A
shudder passed through the whole of my body, when I thought into whose
hands I had fallen. Pougatcheff observed my agitation.
“Well, your lordship,” said he to me, winking his eyes; “my
Field-Marshal, it seems to me, speaks to the point. What do you think?”
Pougatcheff’s raillery restored my courage. I calmly replied that I was
in his power, and that he could deal with me in whatever way he pleased.
“Good,” said Pougatcheff. “Now tell me, in what condition is your town?”
“Thank God!” I replied, “everything is all right.”
“All right!” repeated Pougatcheff, “and the people are dying of hunger!”
The impostor spoke the truth; but in accordance with the duty imposed
upon me by my oath, I assured him that what he had heard were only idle
reports, and that in Orenburg there was a sufficiency of all kinds of
provisions.
“You see,” observed the little old man, “that he deceives you to your
face. All the deserters unanimously declare that famine and sickness
are rife in Orenburg, that they are eating carrion there and think
themselves fortunate to get it to eat; and yet his Grace assures us
that there is plenty of everything there. If you wish to hang Shvabrin,
then hang this young fellow on the same gallows, that they may have
nothing to reproach each other with.”
The words of the accursed old man seemed to produce an effect upon
Pougatcheff. Fortunately, Khlopousha began to contradict his companion.
“That will do, Naoumitch,” said he to him: “you only think of
strangling and hanging. What sort of a hero are you? To look at you,
one is puzzled to imagine how your body and soul contrive to hang
together. You have one foot in the grave yourself, and you want to kill
others. Haven’t you enough blood on your conscience?”
“And what sort of a saint are you?” replied Bailoborodoff. “Whence this
compassion on your side?”
“Without doubt,” replied Khlopousha, “I also am a sinner, and this
hand”--here he clenched his bony fist and, pushing back his sleeve,
disclosed his hairy arm--“and this hand is guilty of having shed
Christian blood. But I killed my enemy, and not my guest; on the open
highway or in a dark wood, and not in the house, sitting behind the
stove; with the axe and club, and not with old woman’s chatter.”
The old man turned round and muttered the words: “Slit nostrils!”
“What are you muttering, you old greybeard?” cried Khlopousha. “I
will give you slit nostrils. Just wait a little, and your turn will
come too. Heaven grant that your nose may smell the pincers.... In
the meantime, take care that I don’t pull out your ugly beard by the
roots.” “Gentlemen, generals!” said Pougatcheff loftily, “there has
been enough of this quarrelling between you. It would be no great
misfortune if all the Orenburg dogs were hanging by the heels from the
same crossbeam; but it would be a very great misfortune if our own dogs
were to begin devouring each other. So now make it up and be friends
again.”
Khlopousha and Bailoborodoff said not a word, but glared furiously
at each other. I felt the necessity of changing the subject of a
conversation which might end in a very disagreeable manner for me, and
turning to Pougatcheff, I said to him with a cheerful look:
“Ah! I had almost forgotten to thank you for the horse and pelisse.
Without you I should never have reached the town, and I should have
been frozen to death on the road.”
My stratagem succeeded. Pougatcheff became good-humoured again.
“The payment of a debt is its beauty,” said he, winking his eyes. “And
now tell me, what have you to do with this young girl whom Shvabrin
persecutes? Has she kindled a flame in your young heart, eh?”
“She is my betrothed,” I replied, observing a favourable change in the
storm, and hot deeming it necessary to conceal the truth.
“Your betrothed!” exclaimed Pougatcheff. “Why did you not say so
before? We will marry you, then, and have some merriment at your
wedding!”
Then turning to Bailoborodoff:
“Listen, Field-Marshal!” said he to him: “his lordship and I are old
friends; let us sit down to supper; morning’s judgment is wiser than
that of evening--so we will see to-morrow what is to be done with him.”
I would gladly have declined the proposed honour, but there was no help
for it. Two young Cossack girls, daughters of the owner of the cottage,
covered the table with a white cloth, and brought in some bread,
fish-soup, and several bottles of wine and beer, and for the second
time I found myself seated at the same table with Pougatcheff and his
terrible companions.
The drunken revel, of which, I was an involuntary witness, continued
till late into the night. At last, intoxication began; to overcome the
three associates. Pougatcheff fell off to sleep where he was sitting:
his companions rose and made signs to me to leave him where he was. I
went out with them. By order of Khlopousha, the sentinel conducted me;
to the justice-room, where I found Savelitch, and where they left me
shut up with him. My servant was so astonished at all he saw and heard,
that he could not ask me a single question. He lay down in the dark,
and continued to sigh and moan for a long time; but at length he began
to snore, and I gave myself up to meditations, which hindered me from
obtaining sleep for a single minute during the whole of the night.
The next morning, Pougatcheff gave orders for me to be brought before
him. I went to him. In front of his door stood a _kibitka_, with
three Tartar horses harnessed to it. The crowd filled the street. I
encountered Pougatcheff in the hall. He was dressed for a journey,
being attired in a fur cloak and a Kirghis cap. His companions of the
night before stood around him, exhibiting an appearance of submission,
which contrasted strongly with everything that I had witnessed the
previous evening. Pougatcheff saluted me in a cheerful tone, and
ordered me to sit down beside him in the _kibitka._
We took our seats.
“To the fortress of Bailogorsk!” said Pougatcheff to the
broad-shouldered Tartar who drove the vehicle. My heart beat violently.
The horses broke into a gallop, the little bell tinkled, and the
_kibitka_ flew over the snow.
“Stop! stop!” cried a voice which I knew only too well, and I saw
Savelitch running towards us.
Pougatcheff ordered the driver to stop.
“Little father, Peter Andreitch!” cried my servant; “do not leave me in
my old age among these scoun----”
“Ah, old greybeard!” said Pougatcheff to him. “It is God’s will that we
should meet again. Well, spring up behind.”
“Thanks, Czar, thanks, my own father!” replied Savelitch, taking his
seat. “May God give you a hundred years of life and good health for
deigning to cast your eyes upon and console an old man. I will pray to
God for you all the days of my life, and I will never again speak about
the hareskin pelisse.”
This allusion to the hareskin pelisse might have made Pougatcheff
seriously angry. Fortunately, the usurper did not hear, or pretended
not to hear, the misplaced remark. The horses again broke into a
gallop; the people in the streets stood still and made obeisance.
Pougatcheff bowed his head from side to side. In about a minute we
had left the village behind us and were flying along over the smooth
surface of the road.
One can easily imagine what my feelings were at that moment. In a few
hours I should again set eyes upon her whom I had already considered as
lost to me for ever. I pictured to myself the moment of our meeting....
I thought also of the man in whose hands lay my fate, and who, by a
strange concourse of circumstances, had become mysteriously connected
with me. I remembered the thoughtless cruelty and the bloodthirsty
habits of him, who now constituted himself the deliverer of my beloved.
Pougatcheff did not know that she was the daughter of Captain Mironoff;
the exasperated Shvabrin might reveal everything to him; it was also
possible that Pougatcheff might find out the truth in some other
way.... Then what would become of Maria Ivanovna? A shudder passed
through my frame, and my hair stood on end.
Suddenly Pougatcheff interrupted my meditations, by turning to me with
the question:
“What is your lordship thinking of?”
“What should I not be thinking of,” I replied. “I am an officer and a
gentleman; only yesterday I was fighting against you, and now to-day I
am riding side by side with you in the same carriage, and the happiness
of my whole life depends upon you.”
“How so?” asked Pougatcheff. “Are you afraid?”
I replied that, having already had my life spared by him,
I hoped, not only for his mercy, but even for his assistance.
“And you are right; by God, you are right!” said the impostor. “You
saw that my fellows looked askant at you; and this morning the old
man persisted in his statement that you were a spy, and that it was
necessary that you should be interrogated by means of torture and
then hanged. But I would not consent to it,” he added, lowering his
voice, so that Savelitch and the Tartar should not be able to hear him,
“because I remembered your glass of wine and hareskin pelisse. You
see now that I am not such a bloodthirsty creature as your brethren
maintain.”
I recalled to mind the capture of the fortress of Bailogorsk but I did
not think it advisable to contradict him, and so I made no reply.
“What do they say of me in Orenburg?” asked Pougatcheff, after a short
interval of silence.
“They say that it will be no easy matter to get the upper hand of you;
and there is no denying that you have made yourself felt.”
The face of the impostor betokened how much his vanity was gratified by
this remark.
“Yes,” said he, with a look of self-satisfaction, “I wage war to
some purpose. Do you people in Orenburg know about the battle of
Youzeiff?[4] Forty general officers killed, four armies taken captive.
Do you think the King of Prussia could do as well as that?”
The boasting of the brigand appeared to me to be somewhat amusing.
“What do you think about it yourself?” I said to him: “do you think
that you could beat Frederick?”
“Fedor Fedorovitch?[5] And why not? I beat your generals, and they have
beaten him. My arms have always been successful up till now. But only
wait awhile, you will see something very different when I march to
Moscow.”
“And do you intend marching to Moscow?”
The impostor reflected for a moment and then said in a low voice:
“God knows. My road is narrow; my will is weak. My followers do not
obey me. They are scoundrels. I must keep a sharp look-out; at the
first reverse they will save their own necks at the expense of my head.”
“That is quite true,” I said to Pougatcheff. “Would it not be better
for you to separate yourself from them in good time, and throw yourself
upon the mercy of the Empress?”
Pougatcheff smiled bitterly.
“No,” replied he: “it is too late for me to repent now. There would be
no pardon for me. I will go on as I have begun. Who knows? Perhaps I
shall be successful. Grishka Otrepieff was made Czar at Moscow.”
“And do you know what his end was? He was flung out of a window, his
body was cut to pieces and burnt, and then his ashes were placed in a
cannon and scattered to the winds!”
“Listen,” said Pougatcheff with a certain wild inspiration. “I will
tell you a tale which was told to me in my childhood by an old Calmuck.
‘The eagle once said to the crow: “Tell me, crow, why is it that you
live in this bright world for three hundred years, and I only for
thirty-three years?” “Because, little father,” replied the crow, “you
drink live blood, and I live on carrion.”--The eagle reflected for
a little while and then said: “Let us both try and live on the same
food.”--“Good! agreed!” The eagle and the crow flew away. Suddenly they
caught sight of a fallen horse, and they alighted upon it. The crow
began to pick its flesh and found it very good. The eagle tasted it
once, then a second time, then shook its pinions and said to the crow:
“No, brother crow; rather than live on carrion for three hundred years,
I would prefer to drink live blood but once, and trust in God for what
might happen afterwards!”’ What do you think of the Calmuck’s story?”
“It is very ingenious,” I replied. “But to live by murder and robbery
is, in my opinion, nothing else than living on carrion.”
Pougatcheff looked at me in astonishment and made no reply. We both
became silent, each being wrapped in his own thoughts. The Tartar began
to hum a plaintive song. Savelitch, dozing, swayed from side to side.
The _kibitka_ glided along rapidly over the smooth frozen road....
Suddenly I caught sight of a little village on the steep bank of the
Yaik, with its palisade and belfry, and about a quarter of an hour
afterwards we entered the fortress of Bailogorsk.
[Footnote 1: The picture of some saint, usually painted on wood. There
is generally one of them hung in the corner of every room in the houses
of the Russians.]
[Footnote 2: The name of a celebrated bandit of the last century, who
for a long time offered resistance to the Imperial troops.]
[Footnote 3: For the purpose of torture.]
[Footnote 4: An engagement in which Pougatcheff had the advantage.]
[Footnote 5: The name given to Frederick the Great by the Russian
soldiers.]
CHAPTER XII.
THE ORPHAN.
The _kibitka_ drew up in front of the Commandant’s house. The
inhabitants had recognized Pougatcheff’s little bell, and came crowding
around us. Shvabrin met the impostor at the foot of the steps. He was
dressed as a Cossack, and had allowed his beard to grow. The traitor
helped Pougatcheff to alight from the _kibitka_, expressing, in
obsequious terms, his joy and zeal. On seeing me, he became confused;
but quickly recovering himself, he stretched out his hand to me, saying:
“And are you also one of us? You should have been so long ago!”
I turned away from him and made no reply.
My heart ached when we entered the well-known room, on the wall of
which still hung the commission of the late Commandant, as a mournful
epitaph of the past. Pougatcheff seated himself upon the same sofa
on which Ivan Kouzmitch was accustomed to fall asleep, lulled by
the scolding of his wife. Shvabrin himself brought him some brandy.
Pougatcheff drank a glass, and said to him, pointing to me:
“Give his lordship a glass.”
Shvabrin approached me with his tray, but I turned away from him a
second time. He seemed to have become quite another person. With
his usual sagacity, he had certainly perceived that Pougatcheff was
dissatisfied with him. He cowered before him, and glanced at me with
distrust.
Pougatcheff asked some questions concerning the condition of the
fortress, the reports referring to the enemy’s army, and the like. Then
suddenly and unexpectedly he said to him:
“Tell me, my friend, who is this young girl that you hold a prisoner
here? Show her to me.”
Shvabrin turned as pale as death.
“Czar,” said he, in a trembling voice... “Czar, she is not a prisoner
... she is ill ... she is in bed.”
“Lead me to her,” said the impostor, rising from his seat.
Refusal was impossible. Shvabrin conducted Pougatcheff to Maria
Ivanovna’s room. I followed behind them.
Shvabrin stopped upon the stairs.
“Czar,” said he: “you may demand of me whatever you please; but do not
permit a stranger to enter my wife’s bedroom.”
I shuddered.
“So you are married!” I said to Shvabrin, ready to tear him to pieces.
“Silence!” interrupted Pougatcheff: “that is my business. And you,” he
continued, turning to Shvabrin, “keep your airs and graces to yourself:
whether she be your wife or whether she be not, I will take to her
whomsoever I please. Your lordship, follow me.”
At the door of the room Shvabrin stopped again, and said in a faltering
voice:
“Czar, I must inform you that she is in a high fever, and has been
raving incessantly for the last three days.”
“Open the door!” said Pougatcheff.
Shvabrin began to search in his pockets and then said that he had not
brought the key with him. Pougatcheff pushed the door with his foot;
the lock gave way, the door opened, and we entered.
I glanced round the room--and nearly fainted away. On the floor, clad
in a ragged peasant’s dress, sat Maria Ivanovna, pale, thin, and with
dishevelled hair. Before her stood a pitcher of water, covered with a
piece of bread. Seeing me, she shuddered and uttered a piercing cry.
What I felt at that moment I cannot describe.
Pougatcheff looked at Shvabrin and said with a sarcastic smile:
“You have a very nice hospital here!”
Then approaching Maria Ivanovna:
“Tell me, my little dove, why does your husband punish you in this
manner?”
“My husband!” repeated she. “He is not my husband. I will never be his
wife! I would rather die, and I will die, if I am not set free.”
Pougatcheff cast a threatening glance at Shvabrin.
“And you have dared to deceive me!” he said to him. “Do you know,
scoundrel, what you deserve?”
Shvabrin fell upon his knees.... At that moment contempt extinguished
within me all feelings of hatred and resentment. I looked with disgust
at the sight of a nobleman grovelling at the feet of a runaway Cossack.
Pougatcheff relented.
“I forgive you this time,” he said to Shvabrin: “but bear in mind that
the next time you are guilty of an offence, I will remember this one
also.”
Then he turned to Maria Ivanovna and said to her kindly:
“Go, my pretty girl; I give you your liberty. I am the Czar.”
Maria Ivanovna glanced rapidly at him, and intuitively divined that
before her stood the murderer of her parents. She covered her face
with both hands and fainted away. I hastened towards her; but at that
moment my old acquaintance, Palasha, very boldly entered the room,
and began to attend to her young mistress. Pougatcheff quitted the
apartment, and we all three entered the parlour.
“Well, your lordship,” said Pougatcheff smiling, “we have set the
pretty girl free! What do you say to sending for the pope and making
him marry his niece to you? If you like, I will act as father, and
Shvabrin shall be your best man. We will then smoke and drink and make
ourselves merry to our hearts’ content!”
What I feared took place. Shvabrin, hearing Pougatcheff’s proposal, was
beside himself with rage.
“Czar!” he exclaimed, in a transport of passion, “I am guilty; I have
lied to you; but Grineff is deceiving you also. This young girl is not
the pope’s niece: she is the daughter of Ivan Mironoff, who was hanged
at the taking of the fortress.”
Pougatcheff glanced at me with gleaming eyes.
“What does this mean?” he asked in a gloomy tone.
“Shvabrin has told you the truth,” I replied in a firm voice.
“You did not tell me that,” replied Pougatcheff, whose face had become
clouded.
“Judge of the matter yourself,” I replied: “could I, in the presence of
your people, declare that she was the daughter of Mironoff? They would
have torn her to pieces! Nothing would have saved her!”
“You are right,” said Pougatcheff smiling. “My drunkards would not have
spared the poor girl; the pope’s wife did well to deceive them.”
“Listen,” I continued, seeing him so well disposed; “I know not what
to call you, and I do not wish to know.... But God is my witness that
I would willingly repay you with my life for what you have done for
me. But do not demand of me anything that is against my honour and my
Christian conscience. You are my benefactor. End as you have begun:
let me go away with that poor orphan wherever God will direct us. And
wherever you may be, and whatever may happen to you, we will pray to
God every day for the salvation of your soul....”
Pougatcheff’s fierce soul seemed touched.
“Be it as you wish!” said he. “Punish thoroughly or pardon thoroughly:
that is my way. Take your beautiful one, take her wherever you like,
and may God grant you love and counsel!”
Then he turned to Shvabrin and ordered him to give me a safe conduct
for all barriers and fortresses subjected to his authority. Shvabrin,
completely dumbfounded, stood as if petrified. Pougatcheff then went
off to inspect the fortress. Shvabrin accompanied him, and I remained
behind under the pretext of making preparations for my departure.
I hastened to Maria’s room. The door was locked. I knocked.
“Who is there?” asked Palasha.
I called out my name. The sweet voice of Maria Ivanovna sounded from
behind the door:
“Wait a moment, Peter Andreitch. I am changing my dress. Go to Akoulina
Pamphilovna; I shall be there presently.”
I obeyed and made my way to the house of Father Jerasim. He and his
wife came forward to meet me Savelitch had already informed them of
what had happened.
“You are welcome, Peter Andreitch,” said the pope’s wife. “God has
ordained that we should meet again. And how are you? Not a day has
passed without our talking about you. And Maria Ivanovna, the poor
little dove, what has she not suffered while you have been away! But
tell us, little father, how did you manage to arrange matters with
Pougatcheff? How was it that he did not put you to death? The villain
be thanked for that, at all events!”
“Enough, old woman,” interrupted Father Gerasim. “Don’t babble about
everything that you know. There is; no salvation for chatterers. Come
in, Peter Andreitch, I beg of you. It is a long, long time since we
saw each other.” The pope’s wife set before me everything that she had
in the house, without ceasing to chatter away for a single moment. She
related to me in what manner Shvabrin had compelled them to deliver
Maria Ivanovna up to him; how the poor girl wept and did not wish to
be parted from them; how she had kept up a constant communication with
them; by means of Palashka[1] (a bold girl who compelled the orderly
himself to dance to her pipe); how she had advised Maria Ivanovna to
write a letter to me, and so forth.
I then, in my turn, briefly related to them my story. The pope and his
wife made the sign of the cross on hearing that; Pougatcheff had become
acquainted with their deception.
“The power of the Cross defend us!” ejaculated Akoulina Pamphilovna.
“May God grant that the cloud will pass over. Well, well, Alexei
Ivanitch, you are a very nice fellow: there is no denying that!”
At that moment the door opened, and Maria Ivanovna entered the room
with a smile upon her pale face. She had doffed her peasant’s dress,
and was attired as before, plainly and becomingly.
I grasped her hand and for some time could not utter a single word.
We were both silent from fulness of heart. Our hosts felt that their
presence was unnecessary to us, and so they withdrew. We were left
by ourselves. Everything else was forgotten. We talked and talked
and could not say enough to each other. Maria related to me all that
had happened to her since the capture of the fortress; she described
to me all the horror of her situation, all the trials which she had
experienced at the hands of the detestable Shvabrin. We recalled to
mind the happy days of the past, and we could not prevent the tears
coming into our eyes. At last I began to explain to her my project. For
her to remain in the fortress, subjected to Pougatcheff and commanded
by Shvabrin, was impossible. Neither could I think of taking her to
Orenburg, just then undergoing all the calamities of a siege. She
had not a single relative in the whole world. I proposed to her that
she should seek shelter with my parents. She hesitated at first: my
father’s unfriendly disposition towards her frightened her. I made her
mind easy on that score. I knew that my father would consider himself
bound in honour to receive into his house the daughter of a brave and
deserving soldier who had lost his life in the service of his country.
“Dear Maria Ivanovna,” I said at last: “I look upon you as my wife.
Strange circumstances have united us together indissolubly; nothing in
the world can separate us.”
Maria Ivanovna listened to me without any assumption of affectation.
She felt that her fate was linked with mine. But she repeated that she
would never be my wife, except with the consent of my parents. I did
not contradict her. We kissed each other fervently and passionately,
and in this manner everything was resolved upon between us.
About an hour afterwards, the orderly brought me my safe conduct,
inscribed with Pougatcheff’s scrawl, and informed me that his master
wished to see me. I found him ready to st out on his road. I cannot
describe what I felt on taking leave of this terrible man, this
outcast, so villainously cruel to all except myself alone. But why
should I not tell the truth? At that moment I felt drawn towards him by
a powerful sympathy. I ardently wished to tear him away! from the midst
of the scoundrels, whom he commanded, and save his head while there was
yet time. Shvabrin, and the crowd gathered around us, prevented me from
giving expression to all that filled my heart.
We parted as friends. Pougatcheff, catching sight of Akoulina
Pamphilovna among the crowd, threatened her with his finger and
winked significantly; then he seated himself in his _kibitka_[2] and
gave orders to return to Berd; and when the horses started off, he
leaned once out of the carriage, and cried out to me: “Farewell, your
lordship! Perhaps we shall see each other again!”
We did indeed see each other again, but under what circumstances!
Pougatcheff was gone. I stood for a long time gazing across the white
steppe, over which his _troika_[6] went gliding rapidly. The crowd
dispersed. Shvabrin disappeared. I returned to the pope’s house.
Everything was ready for our departure; I did not wish to delay any
longer. Our luggage had already been deposited in the Commandant’s old
travelling carriage. The horses were harnessed in a twinkling. Maria
Ivanovna went to pay a farewell visit to the graves of her parents,
who were buried behind the church. I wished to accompany her, but she
begged of me to let her go alone. After a few minutes she returned
silently weeping. The carriage was ready. Father Gerasim and his wife
came out upon the steps. Maria Ivanovna, Palasha and I took our places
inside the _kibitka_, while Savelitch seated himself in the front.
“Farewell, Maria Ivanovna, my little dove; farewell, Peter Andreitch,
my fine falcon!” said the pope’s good wife. “A safe journey, and may
God bless you both and make you happy!”
We drove off. At the window of the Commandant’s house I perceived
Shvabrin standing. His face wore an expression of gloomy malignity. I
did not wish to triumph over a defeated enemy, so I turned my eyes the
other way.
At last we passed out of the gate, and left the fortress of Bailogorsk
behind us for ever.
[Footnote 1: Diminutive of Palasha.]
[Footnote 2: An open vehicle drawn by three horses yoked abreast.]
CHAPTER XIII.
THE ARREST.
United so unexpectedly with the dear girl, about whom I was so terribly
uneasy that very morning, I could scarcely believe the evidence of
my senses, and imagined that everything that had happened to me was
nothing but an empty dream. Maria Ivanovna gazed thoughtfully, now at
me, now at the road, and seemed as if she had not yet succeeded in
recovering her senses. We were both silent. Our hearts were too full of
emotion. The time passed almost imperceptibly, and after journeying for
about two hours, we reached the next fortress, which was also subject
to Pougatcheff. Here we changed horses. By the rapidity with which this
was effected, and by the obliging manner of the bearded Cossack who had
been appointed Commandant by Pougatcheff, I perceived that, thanks to
the gossip of our driver, I was taken for a favourite of their master.
We continued our journey. It began to grow dark. We approached a small
town, where, according to the bearded Commandant, there was a strong
detachment on its way to join the impostor. We were stopped by the
sentries. In answer to the challenge: “Who goes there?” our driver
replied in a loud voice: “The Czar’s friend with his little, wife.”
Suddenly a troop of hussars surrounded us, uttering the most terrible
curses.
“Step down, friend of the devil!” said a moustached sergeant-major.
“We will make it warm for you and your little wife!”
I got out of the _kibitka_ and requested to be brought before their
commander. On seeing my officer’s uniform, the soldiers ceased their
imprecations, and the sergeant conducted me to the major.
Savelitch followed me, muttering:
“So much for your being a friend of the Czar! Out of the frying-pan
into the fire. Lord Almighty! how is all this going to end?”
The _kibitka_ followed behind us at a slow pace.
In about five minutes we arrived at a small, well-lighted house. The
sergeant-major left me under a guard and entered to announce me. He
returned immediately and informed me that his Highness had no time to
receive me, but that he had ordered that I should be taken to prison,
and my wife conducted into his presence.
“What does this mean?” I exclaimed in a rage. “Has he taken leave of
his senses?”
“I do not know, your lordship,” replied the sergeant-major. “Only his
Highness has ordered that your lordship should be taken to prison, and
her ladyship conducted into his presence, your lordship!”
I dashed up the steps. The sentinel did not think of detaining me, and
I made my way straight into the room, where six Jiussar officers were
playing at cards. The major was dealing. What was my astonishment when,
looking at him attentively, I recognized Ivan Ivanovitch Zourin, who
had once beaten me at play in the Simbirsk tavern.
“Is it possible?” I exclaimed. “Ivan Ivanovitch! Is it really you?”
“Zounds! Peter Andreitch! What chance has brought you here? Where have
you come from? How is it with you, brother? Won’t you join in a game of
cards?”
“Thank you, but I would much rather you give orders for quarters to be
assigned to me.”
“What sort of quarters do you want? Stay with me.”
“I cannot: I am not alone.”
“Well, bring your comrade with you.”
“I have no comrade with me; I am with a--lady.”
“A lady! Where did you pick her up? Aha, brother mine!”
And with these words, Zourin whistled so significantly that all the
others burst out laughing, and I felt perfectly confused.
“Well,” continued Zourin: “let it be so. You shall have quarters.
But it is a pity.... We should have had one of our old sprees.... I
say, boy! Why don’t you bring in Pougatcheff’s lady friend? Or is she
obstinate? Tell her that she need not be afraid, that the gentleman is
very kind and will do her no harm--then bring her in by the collar.”
“What do you mean?” said I to Zourin. “What lady-friend of
Pougatcheff’s are you talking of? It is the daughter of the late
Captain Mironoff. I have released her from captivity, and I am now
conducting her to my father’s country seat, where I am going to leave
her.”
“What! Was it you then who was announced to me just now? In the name of
Heaven! what does all this mean?”
“I will tell you later on. For the present, I beg of you to set at ease
the mind of this poor girl, who has been terribly frightened by your
hussars.”
Zourin immediately issued the necessary orders. He went out himself
into the street to apologize to Maria Ivanovna for the involuntary
misunderstanding, and ordered the sergeant-major to conduct her to the
best lodging in the town. I remained to spend the night with him.
We had supper, and when we two were left together, I related to him my
adventures. Zourin listened to me with the greatest attention. When I
had finished, he shook his head, and said:
“That is all very well, brother; but there is one thing which is not
so; why the devil do you want to get married? As an officer and a man
of honour, I do not wish to deceive you; but, believe me, marriage
is all nonsense. Why should you saddle yourself with a wife and be
compelled to dandle children? Scout the idea. Listen to me: shake off
this Captain’s daughter. I have cleared the road to Simbirsk, and it
is quite safe. Send her to-morrow by herself to your parents, and
you remain with my detachment. There is no need for you to return to
Orenburg. If you should again fall into the hands of the rebels, you
may not escape from them so easily a second time. In this way your love
folly will die a natural death, and everything will end satisfactorily.”
Although I did not altogether agree with him, yet I felt that duty and
honour demanded my presence in the army of the Empress. I resolved to
follow Zourin’s advice: to send Maria Ivanovna to my father’s estate,
and to remain with his detachment.
Savelitch came in to help me to undress; I told him that he was to get
ready the next day to accompany Maria Ivanovna on her journey. He began
to make excuses.
“What do you say, my lord? How can I leave you? Who will look after
you? What will your parents say?”
Knowing the obstinate disposition of my follower, I resolved to get
round him by wheedling and coaxing him.
“My dear friend, Arkhip Savelitch!” I said to him: “do not refuse me;
be my benefactor. I do not require a servant here, and I should not
feel easy if Maria Ivanovna were to set out on her journey without you.
By serving her you will be serving me, for I am firmly resolved to
marry her, as soon as circumstances will permit.”
Here Savelitch clasped his hands with an indescribable look of
astonishment.
“To marry!” he repeated: “the child wants to marry! But what will your
father say? And your mother, what will she think?”
“They will give their consent, without a doubt, when they know Maria
Ivanovna,” I replied. “I count upon you. My father and mother have
great confidence in you; you will therefore intercede for us, won’t
you?”
The old man was touched.
“Oh, my father, Peter Andreitch!” he replied, “although you are
thinking of getting married a little too early, yet Maria Ivanovna is
such a good young lady, that it would be a pity to let the opportunity
escape. I will do as you wish. I will accompany her, the angel, and
I will humbly say to your parents, that such a bride does not need a
dowry.”
I thanked Savelitch, and then lay down to sleep in the same room with
Zourin. Feeling very much excited, I began to chatter. At first Zourin
listened to my remarks very willingly; but little by little his words
became rarer and more disconnected, and at last, instead of replying
to’ one of my questions, he began to snore. I stopped talking and soon
followed his example.
The next morning I betook myself to Maria Ivanovna. I communicated
to her my plans. She recognized the reasonableness of them, and
immediately agreed to carry them out. Zourin’s detachment was to leave
the town that day. There was no time to be lost. I at once took leave
of Maria Ivanovna, confiding her to the care of Savelitch, and giving
her a letter to my parents.
Maria burst into tears.
“Farewell, Peter Andreitch,” said she in a gentle voice. “God alone
knows whether we shall ever see each other again or not; but I will
never forget you; till my dying day you alone shall live in my heart!”
I was unable to reply. There was a crowd of people around us, and I did
not wish to give way to my feelings before them. At last she departed.
I returned to Zourin, silent and depressed. He endeavoured to cheer me
up, and I tried to divert my thoughts; we spent the day in noisy mirth,
and in the evening we set out on our march.
It was now near the end of February. The winter, which had rendered
all military movements extremely difficult, was drawing to its close,
and our generals began to make preparations for combined action.
Pougatcheff was still under the walls of Orenburg, but our divisions
united and began to close in from every side upon the rebel camp.
On the appearance of our troops, the revolted villages returned to
their allegiance; the rebel bands everywhere retreated before us, and
everything gave promise of a speedy and successful termination to the
campaign.
Soon afterwards Prince Golitzin defeated Pougatcheff under the walls of
the fortress of Tatischtscheff, routed his troops, relieved Orenburg,
and to all appearances seemed to have given the final and decisive
blow to the rebellion. Zourin was sent at this time against a band of
rebellious Bashkirs, who, however, dispersed before we were able to
come up with them. The spring found us in a little Tartar village. The
rivers overflowed their banks, and the roads became impassable. We
consoled ourselves for our inaction with the thought that there would
soon be an end to this tedious petty warfare with brigands and savages.
But Pougatcheff was not yet taken. He soon made his appearance in the
manufacturing districts of Siberia, where he collected new bands of
followers and once more commenced his marauding expeditions. Reports
of fresh successes on his part were soon in circulation. We heard of
the destruction of several Siberian fortresses. Then came the news of
the capture of Kazan, and the march of the impostor to Moscow, which
greatly disturbed the leaders of the army, who had fondly imagined that
the power of the despised rebel had been completely broken. Zourin
received orders to cross the Volga.
I will not describe our march and the conclusion of the war. I will
only say that the campaign was as calamitous as it possibly could be.
Law and order came to an end everywhere, and the land-holders concealed
themselves in the woods. Bands of robbers scoured the country in
all directions; the commanders of isolated detachments punished and
pardoned as they pleased; and the condition of the extensive territory
in which the conflagration raged, was terrible.... Heaven grant that we
may never see such, a senseless and merciless revolt again!
Pougatcheff took to flight, pursued by Ivan Ivanovitch Michelson. We
soon heard of his complete overthrow. At last Zourin received news of
the capture of the impostor, and, at the same time, orders to halt.
The war was ended. At last it was possible for me to return to my
parents. The thought of embracing them, and of seeing Maria Ivanovna,
again, of whom I had received no information, filled me with delight. I
danced about like a child. Zourin laughed and said with a shrug of his
shoulders:
“No good will come of it! If you get married, you are lost!”
In the meantime a strange feeling poisoned my joy: the thought of that
evil-doer, covered with the blood of so many innocent victims, and of
the punishment that awaited him, troubled me involuntarily.
“Emelia, Emelia!”[1] I said to myself with vexation, “why did you not
dash yourself against the bayonets, or fall beneath the bullets? That
was the best thing you could have done.”[2]
And how could I feel otherwise? The thought of him was inseparably
connected with the thought of the mercy which he had shown to me in one
of the most terrible moments of my life, and with the deliverance of my
bride from the hands of the detested Shvabrin.
Zourin granted me leave of absence. In a few days’ time I should again
be in the midst of my family, and should once again set eyes upon the
face of my Maria Ivanovna.... Suddenly an unexpected storm burst upon
me.
On the day of my departure, and at the very moment when I was preparing
to set out, Zourin came to my hut, holding in his hand a paper, and
looking exceedingly troubled. A pang went through my heart. I felt
alarmed, without knowing why. He sent my servant out of the room, and
said that he had something to tell me.
“What is it?” I asked with uneasiness.
“Something rather disagreeable,” replied he, giving me the paper. “Read
what I have just received.”
I read it: it was a secret order to all the commanders of detachments
to arrest me wherever I might be found, and to send me without delay
under a strong guard to Kazan, to appear before the Commission
instituted for the trial of Pougatcheff.
The paper nearly fell from my hands.
“There is no help for it,” said Zourin, “my duty is to obey orders.
Probably the report of your intimacy with Pougatcheff has in some way
reached the ears of the authorities. I hope that the affair will have
no serious consequences, and that you will be able to justify yourself
before the Commission. Keep up your spirits and set out at once.”
My conscience was clear, and I did not fear having to appear before the
tribunal; but the thought that the hour of my meeting with Maria might
be deferred for several months, filled me with misgivings.
The _telega_[3] was ready. Zourin took a friendly leave of me, and I
took my place in the vehicle. Two hussars with drawn swords seated
themselves, one on each side of me, and we set out for our destination.
[Footnote 1: Diminutive of Emelian.]
[Footnote 2: After having advanced to the gates of Moscow, Pougatcheff
was defeated, and being afterwards sold by his accomplices for 100,000
roubles, he was imprisoned in an iron cage and carried to Moscow, where
he was executed in the year 1775.]
[Footnote 3: An open vehicle without springs.]
CHAPTER XIV.
THE SENTENCE.
I felt convinced that the cause of my arrest was my absenting myself
from Orenburg without leave. I could easily justify myself on that
score: for sallying out against the enemy had not only not been
prohibited, but had even been encouraged. I might be accused of undue
rashness instead of disobedience of orders. But my friendly intercourse
with Pougatcheff could be proved by several witnesses, and could not
but at least appear very suspicious. During the whole of the journey I
thought of the examination that awaited me, and mentally prepared the
answers that I should make. I resolved to tell the plain unvarnished
truth before the court, feeling convinced that this was the simplest
and, at the same time, the surest way of justifying myself.
I arrived at Kazan--the town had been plundered and set on fire. In
the streets, instead of houses, there were to be seen heaps of burnt
stones, and blackened walls without roofs or windows. Such were the
traces left by Pougatcheff! I was conducted to the fortress which had
escaped the ravages of the fire. The hussars delivered me over to the
officer of the guard. The latter ordered a blacksmith to be sent for.
Chains were placed round my feet and fastened together. Then I was
taken to the prison and left alone in a dark and narrow dungeon, with
four blank walls and a small window protected by iron gratings.
Such a beginning boded no good to me. For all that, I did not lose
hope nor courage. I had recourse to the consolation of all those in
affliction, and after having tasted for the first time the sweet
comforting of prayer poured out from a pure but sorrow-stricken heart,
I went off into a calm sleep, without thinking of what might happen to
me.
The next morning the gaoler awoke me with the announcement that I was
to appear before the Commission. Two soldiers conducted me through a
courtyard to the Commandant’s house: they stopped in the ante-room and
allowed me to enter the inner room by myself.
I found myself in a good-sized apartment At the table, which was
covered with papers, sat two men: an elderly general, of a cold and
stem aspect, and a young captain of the Guards, of about twenty-eight
years of age, and of very agreeable and affable appearance. Near the
window, at a separate table, sat the secretary, with a pen behind his
ear, and bending over his paper, ready to write down my depositions.
The examination began. I was asked my name and profession. The General
inquired if I was the son of Andrei Petrovitch Grineff, and on my
replying in the affirmative, he exclaimed in a stem tone:
“It is a pity that such an honourable man should have such an unworthy
son!”
I calmly replied that whatever were the accusations against me, I hoped
to be able to refute them by the candid avowal of the truth.
My assurance did not please him.
“You are very audacious, my friend,” said he, frowning: “but we have
dealt with others like you.”
Then the young officer asked me under what circumstances and at what
time I had entered Pougatcheff’s service, and in what affairs I had
been employed by him.
I replied indignantly, that, as an officer and a nobleman, I could
never have entered Pougatcheff’s service, and could never have received
any commission from him whatever.
“How comes it then,” continued the interrogator, “that the nobleman and
officer was the only one spared by the impostor, while all his comrades
were cruelly murdered? How comes it that this same officer and nobleman
could revel with the rebellious scoundrels, and receive from the leader
of the villains presents, consisting of a pelisse, a horse, and half
a rouble? Whence came such strange friendship, and upon what does it
rest, if not upon treason, or at least upon abominable and unpardonable
cowardice?”
I was deeply offended by the words of the officer of the Guards, and I
began to defend myself with great warmth. I related how my acquaintance
with Pougatcheff began upon the steppe during a snow-storm, how he had
recognized me at the capture of the fortress of Bailogorsk and spared
my life. I admitted that I had received a pelisse and a horse from the
impostor, but that I had defended the fortress of Bailogorsk against
the rebels to the last extremity. In conclusion I appealed to my
General, who could bear witness to my zeal during the disastrous siege
of Orenburg.
The stern old man took up from the table an open letter and began to
read it aloud:
“In reply to your Excellency’s inquiry respecting Ensign Grineff, who
is charged with being implicated in the present insurrection and with
entering into communication with the leader of the robbers, contrary to
the rules of the service and the oath of allegiance, I have the honour
to report that the said Ensign Grineff formed part of the garrison in
Orenburg from the beginning of October 1773 to the twenty-fourth of
February of the present year, on which date he quitted the town, and
since that time he has not made his appearance again. We have heard
from some deserters that he was in Pougatcheff’s camp, and that he
accompanied him to the fortress of Bailogorsk, where he had formerly
been garrisoned. With respect to his conduct, I can only....”
Here the General interrupted his reading and said to me harshly:
“What do you say now by way of justification?”
I was about to continue as I began and explain the state of affairs
between myself and Maria Ivanovna as frankly as all the rest, but
suddenly I felt an invincible disgust at the thought of doing so. It
occurred to my mind, that if I mentioned her name, the Commission would
summon her to appear, and the thought of connecting her name with the
vile doings of hardened villains, and of herself being confronted with
them--this terrible idea produced such an impression upon me, that I
became confused and maintained silence.
My judges, who seemed at first to have listened to my answers with a
certain amount of good-will, were once more prejudiced against me on
perceiving my confusion. The officer of the Guards demanded that I
should be confronted with my principal accuser. The General ordered
that the “rascal of yesterday” should be summoned. I turned round
quickly towards the door, to await the appearance of my accuser.
After a few moments I heard the clanking of chains, the door opened,
and--Shvabrin entered the room. I was astonished at the change in
his appearance. He was terribly thin and pale. His hair, but a short
time ago as black as pitch, was now quite grey_;_ his long beard was
unkempt. He repeated all his accusations in a weak but determined
voice. According to his account, I had been sent by Pougatcheff to
Orenburg as a spy; every day I used to ride out to the advanced posts,
in order to transmit written information of all that took place within
the town; that at last I had gone quite over to the side of the
usurper and had accompanied him from fortress to fortress, endeavouring
in every way to injure my companions in crime, in order to occupy their
places and profit the better by the rewards of the impostor.
I listened to him in silence, and I rejoiced on account of one thing:
the name of Maria was not mentioned by the scoundrel, whether it was
that his self-love could not bear the thought of one who had rejected
him with contempt, or that within his heart there was a spark of that
self-same feeling which had induced me to remain silent. Whatever it
was, the name of the daughter of the Commandant of Bailogorsk was not
pronounced in the presence of the Commission. I became still more
confirmed in my resolution, and when the judges asked me what I had to
say in answer to Shvabrin’s evidence, I replied that I still stood by
my first statement and that I had nothing else to add in justification
of myself.
The General ordered us to be led away. We quitted the room together. I
looked calmly at Shvabrin, but did not say a word to him. He looked at
me with a malicious smile, lifted up his fetters and passed out quickly
in front of me. I was conducted back to prison, and was not compelled
to undergo a-second examination.
I was not a witness of all that now remains for me to impart to the
reader; but I have heard it related so often, that the most minute
details are indelibly engraven upon my memory, and it seems to me as if
I had taken a part in them unseen.
Maria Ivanovna was received by my parents with that sincere kindness
which distinguished people in the olden time. They regarded it as a
favour from God that the opportunity was afforded them of sheltering
and consoling the poor orphan. They soon became sincerely attached to
her, because it was impossible to know her and not to love her. My love
for her no longer appeared mere folly to my father, and my mother
had one wish only, that her Peter should marry the pretty Captain’s
daughter.
The news of my arrest filled all my family with consternation. Maria
Ivanovna had related so simply to my parents my strange acquaintance
with Pougatcheff, that not only had they felt quite easy about the
matter, but had often been obliged to laugh heartily at the whole
story. My father would not believe that I could be implicated in an
infamous rebellion, the aim of which was the destruction of the throne
and the extermination of the nobles. He questioned Savelitch severely.
My retainer did not deny that I had been the guest of Pougatcheff, and
that the villain had acted very generously towards me, but he affirmed
with a solemn oath that he had never heard a word about treason. My
old parents became easier in mind, and waited impatiently for more
favourable news. Maria Ivanovna, however, was in a state of great
agitation, but she kept silent, as she was modest and prudent in the
highest degree.
Several weeks passed.... Then my father unexpectedly received from
St. Petersburg a letter from our relative, Prince B----. The letter
was about me. After the usual compliments, he informed him that the
suspicions which had been raised concerning my participation in the
plots of the rebels, had unfortunately been shown to be only too well
founded; that capital punishment would have been meted out to me,
but that the Empress, in consideration of the faithful services and
the grey hairs of my father, had resolved to be gracious towards his
criminal son, and, instead of condemning him to suffer an ignominious
death, had ordered that he should be sent to the most remote part of
Siberia for the rest of his life.
This unexpected blow nearly killed my father. He lost his usual
firmness, and his grief, usually silent, found vent in bitter
complaints.
“What!” he cried, as if beside himself: “my son has taken part in
Pougatcheff’s plots! God of Justice, that I should live to see this!
The Empress spares his life! Does that make it any better for me? It
is not death at the hands of the executioner that is so terrible: my
great-grandfather died upon the scaffold for the defence of that which
his conscience regarded as sacred;[1] my father suffered with Volinsky
and Khrouschtcheff.[2] But that a nobleman should be false to his
oath, should associate with robbers, with murderers and with runaway
slaves!... Shame and disgrace upon our race!”
Frightened by his despair, my mother dared not weep in his presence;
she endeavoured to console him by speaking of the uncertainty of
reports, and the little dependency to be placed upon the opinions of
other people. But my father was inconsolable.
Maria Ivanovna suffered more than anybody. Being firmly convinced
that I could have justified myself if I had only wished to do so, she
guessed the reason of my silence, and considered herself the cause of
my misfortune. She hid from everyone her tears and sufferings, and was
incessantly thinking of the means by which I might be saved.
One evening my father was seated upon the sofa turning over the leaves’
of the “Court Calendar,” but his thoughts were far away, and the
reading of the book failed to produce upon him its usual effect. He
was whistling an old march. My mother was silently knitting a woollen
waistcoat, and from time to time her tears ran down upon her work.
All at once, Maria Ivanovna, who was also at work in the same room,
declared that it was absolutely necessary that she should go to St.
Petersburg, and she begged of my parents to furnish her with the means
of doing so. My mother was very much hurt at this resolution.
“Why do you wish to go to St. Petersburg?” said she. “Is it possible,
Maria Ivanovna, that you want to forsake us also?”
Maria replied that her fate depended upon this journey, that she
was going to seek help and protection from powerful persons, as the
daughter of a man who had fallen a victim to his fidelity.
My father lowered his head; every word that recalled to mind the
supposed crime of his son, was painful to him, and seemed like a bitter
reproach.
“Go, my child,” he said to her at last with a sigh; “we do not wish to
stand in the way of your happiness. May God give you an honest man for
a husband, and not an infamous traitor.”
He rose and left the room.
Maria Ivanovna, left alone with my mother, confided to her a part of
her plan. My mother, with tears in her eyes, embraced her and prayed to
God that her undertaking might be crowned with success. Maria Ivanovna
made all her preparations, and a few days afterwards she set out on her
road with the faithful Palasha and the equally faithful Savelitch, who,
forcibly separated from me, consoled himself at least with the thought
that he was serving my betrothed.
Maria Ivanovna arrived safely at Sofia, and learning that the Court
was at that time at Tsarskoe Selo, she resolved to stop there. At the
post-house, a small recess behind a. partition was assigned to her. The
postmaster’s wife came immediately to chat with her, and she informed
Maria that she was niece to one of the stove-lighters of the Court, and
she initiated her into all the mysteries of Court life. She told her
at what hour the Empress usually got up, when she took coffee, and when
she went out for a walk; what great lords were then with her; what she
had deigned to say the day before at table, and whom she had received
in the evening. In a word, the conversation of Anna Vlassievna was as
good as a volume of historical memoirs, and would be very precious to
the present generation.
Maria Ivanovna listened to her with great attention. They went together
into the palace garden. Anna Vlassievna related the history of every
alley and of every little bridge, and after seeing all that they wished
to see, they returned to the post-house, highly satisfied with each
other.
* * * * * *
The next day, early in the morning, Maria Ivanovna awoke, dressed
herself, and quietly betook herself to the palace garden. It was a
lovely morning; the sun was gilding the tops of the linden trees,
already turning yellow beneath the cold breath of autumn. The broad
lake glittered in the light. The swans, just awake, came sailing
majestically out from under the bushes overhanging the banks. Maria
Ivanovna walked towards a delightful lawn, where a monument had just
been erected in honour of the recent victories gained by Count Peter
Alexandrovitch Roumyanzoff.[3] Suddenly a little white dog of English
breed ran barking towards her. Maria grew frightened and stood still.
At the same moment she heard an agreeable female voice call out:
“Do not be afraid, it will not bite.”
Maria saw a lady seated on the bench opposite the monument. Maria sat
down on the other end of the bench. The lady looked at her attentively;
Maria on her side, by a succession of stolen glances, contrived to
examine the stranger from head to foot. She was attired in a white
morning gown, a light cap, and a short mantle. She seemed to be
about forty years of age. Her face, which was full; and red, wore an
expression of calmness and dignity, and her blue eyes and smiling lips
had an indescribable charm about them. The lady was the first to break
silence.
“You are doubtless a stranger here?” said she.
“Yes, I only arrived yesterday from the country.”
“Did you come with your parents?”
“No, I came alone.”
“Alone! But you are very young to travel alone.”
“I have neither father nor mother.”
“Perhaps you have come here on some business?”
“Yes, I have come to present a petition to the Empress.”
“You are an orphan: probably you have come to complain of some
injustice.”
“No, I have come to ask for mercy, not justice.”
“May I ask you who you are?”
“I am the daughter of Captain Mironoff.”
“Of Captain Mironoff! the same who was Commandant of one of the
Orenburg fortresses?”
“The same, Madam.”
The lady appeared moved.
“Forgive me,” said she, in a still kinder voice, “for interesting
myself in your business; but I am frequently at Court; explain to me
the nature of your request, and perhaps I may be able to help you.”
Maria Ivanovna arose and thanked her respectfully. Everything
about this unknown lady drew her towards her and inspired her with
confidence. Maria drew from her pocket a folded paper and gave it to
her unknown protectress, who read it to herself.
At first she began reading with an attentive and benevolent
expression; but suddenly her countenance changed, and Maria, whose eyes
followed all her movements, became frightened by the severe expression
of that face, which a moment before had been so calm and gracious.
“You are supplicating for Grineff?” said the lady in a cold tone. “The
Empress cannot pardon him. He went over to the usurper, not out of
ignorance and credulity, but as a depraved and dangerous scoundrel.”
“Oh! it is not true!” exclaimed Maria.
“How, not true?” replied the lady, her face flushing.
“It is not true; as God is above us, it is not true! I know all, I will
tell you everything. It was for my sake alone that he exposed himself
to all the misfortunes that have overtaken him. And if he did not
justify himself before the Commission, it was only because he did not
wish to implicate me.”
She then related with great warmth all that is already known to the
reader.
The lady listened to her attentively.
“Where are you staying?” she asked, when Maria had finished her story;
and hearing that it was with Anna Vlassievna, she added with a smile:
“Ah, I know. Farewell; do not speak to anybody about our meeting. I
hope that you will not have to wait long for an answer to your letter.”
With these words she rose from her seat and proceeded down a covered
alley, while Maria Ivanovna returned to Anna Vlassievna, filled with
joyful hopes.
Her hostess scolded her for going out so early; the autumn air, she
said, was not good for a young girl’s health. She brought an urn, and
over a cup of tea she was about to begin her endless discourse about
the Court, when suddenly a carriage with armorial bearings stopped
before the door, and a lackey entered with the announcement that the
Empress summoned to her presence the daughter of Captain Mironoff.
Anna Vlassievna was perfectly amazed.
“Good Lord!” she exclaimed: “the Empress summons you to Court. How did
she get to know anything about you? And how will you present yourself
before Her Majesty, my little mother? I do not think that you even
know how to walk according to Court manners.... Shall I conduct you? I
could at any rate give you a little caution. And how can you go in your
travelling dress? Shall I send to the nurse for her yellow gown?”
The lackey announced that it was the Empress’s pleasure that Maria
Ivanovna should go alone and in the dress that she had on. There was
nothing else to be done: Maria took her seat in the carriage and
was driven off, accompanied by the counsels and blessings of Anna
Vlassievna.
Maria felt that our fate was about to be decided; her heart beat
violently. In a few moments the carriage stopped at the gate of the
palace. Maria descended the steps with trembling feet. The doors flew
open before her. She traversed a large number of empty but magnificent
rooms, guided by the lackey. At last, coming to a closed door, he
informed her that she would be announced directly, and then left her by
herself.
The thought of meeting the Empress face to face so terrified her, that
she could scarcely stand upon her feet. In about a minute the door was
opened, and she was ushered into the Empress’s boudoir.
The Empress was seated at her toilette-table, surrounded by a number of
Court ladies, who respectfully made way for Maria Ivanovna. The Empress
turned round to her with an amiable smile, and Maria recognized in her
the lady with whom she had spoken so freely a few minutes before. The
Empress bade her approach, and said with a smile:
“I am glad that I am able to keep my word and grant your petition. Your
business is arranged. I am convinced of the innocence of your lover.
Here is a letter which you will give to your future father-in-law.”
Maria took the letter with trembling hands and, bursting into tears,
fell at the feet of the Empress, who raised her up and kissed her upon
the forehead.
“I know that you are not rich,” said she; “but I owe a debt to the
daughter of Captain Mironoff. Do not be uneasy about the future. I will
see to your welfare.”
After having consoled the poor orphan in this way, the Empress allowed
her to depart. Maria left the palace in the same carriage that had
brought her thither. Anna Vlassievna, who was impatiently awaiting
her return, overwhelmed her with questions, to which Maria returned
very vague answers. Although dissatisfied with the weakness of her
memory, Anna Vlassievna ascribed it to her provincial bashfulness, and
magnanimously excused her. The same day Maria, without even desiring to
glance at St. Petersburg, set out on her return journey.
* * * * *
The memoirs of Peter Andreitch Grineff end here. But from a family
Tradition we learn that he was released from his imprisonment towards
the end of the year 1774 by order of the Empress, and that he was
present at the execution of Pougatcheff, who recognized him in the
crowd and nodded to him with his head, which, a few moments afterwards,
was shown lifeless and bleeding to the people.[4] Shortly afterwards,
Peter Andreitch and Maria Ivanovna were married. Their descendants
still flourish in the government of Simbirsk. About thirty versts from
----, there is a village belonging to ten landholders. In the house of
one of them, there may still be seen, framed and glazed, the autograph
letter of Catherine II. It is addressed to the father of Peter
Andreitch, and contains the justification of his son, and a tribute of
praise to the heart and intellect of Captain Mironoff’s daughter.
[Footnote 1: One of Poushkin’s ancestors was condemned to death by
Peter the Great.]
[Footnote 2: Chiefs of the Russian party against Biren, the
unscrupulous German Favourite of the Empress Anne. They were put to
death under circumstances of great cruelty.]
[Footnote 3: A famous Russian general who distinguished himself in the
war against the Turks.]
[Footnote 4: It is said that even at the present day the peasants in
the south-east of Russia are firmly convinced that Pougatcheff was
really the Emperor Peter III., and not an impostor.]
DOUBROVSKY.
CHAPTER I.
Some years ago, there lived on one of his estates a Russian gentleman
of the old school named Kirila Petrovitch Troekouroff. His wealth,
distinguished birth, and connections gave him great weight in the
government where his property was situated. Completely spoilt by his
surroundings, he was in the habit of giving way to every impulse of his
passionate nature, to every caprice of his sufficiently narrow mind.
The neighbours were ready to gratify his slightest whim; the government
officials trembled at his name. Kirila Petrovitch accepted all these
signs of servility as homage due to him. His house was always full of
guests, ready to amuse his lordship’s leisure, and to join his noisy
and sometimes boisterous mirth. Nobody dared to refuse his invitations
or, on certain days, omit to put in an appearance at the village of
Pokrovskoe. Kirila Petrovitch was very hospitable, and in spite of the
extraordinary vigour of his constitution, he suffered two or three
times a week from surfeit, and became tipsy every evening.
Very few of the young women of his household escaped the amorous
attentions of this old man of fifty. Moreover, in one of the wings of
his house lived sixteen girls engaged in needlework. The windows of
this wing were protected by wooden bars, the doors were kept locked,
and the keys retained by Kirila Petrovitch. The young recluses at an
appointed hour went into the garden for a walk under the surveillance
of two old women. From time to time Kirila Petrovitch married some of
them off, and new comers took their places. He treated his peasants
and domestics in a severe and arbitrary fashion, in spite of which
they were very devoted to him: they loved to boast of the wealth and
influence of their master, and in their turn took many a liberty with
their neighbours, trusting to his powerful protection.
The ordinary occupations of Troekouroff consisted in driving over his
vast domains, passing his nights in prolonged revels, and playing
practical jokes, specially invented from time to time, the victims
being generally new acquaintances, though his old friends did not
always escape, one only--Andrei Gavrilovitch Doubrovsky--excepted.
This Doubrovsky, a retired lieutenant of the Guards, was his nearest
neighbour, and possessed seventy serfs. Troekouroff, haughty in his
dealings with people of the highest rank, respected Doubrovsky, in
spite of his humble fortune. They had been friends in the service, and
Troekouroff knew from experience the impatience and decision of his
character. The celebrated events of the year 1762[1] separated them
for a long time. Troekouroff, a relative of the Princess Dashkoff,[2]
received rapid promotion; Doubrovsky with his reduced fortune, was
compelled to leave the service and settle down in the only village
that remained to him. Kirila Petrovitch, hearing of this, offered
him his protection but Doubrovsky thanked him and remained poor and
independent. Some years later, Troekouroff, having obtained the rank of
general, and retired to his estate, they met again and were delighted
with each other. After that they saw each other every day, and Kirila
Petrovitch, who had never deigned to visit anybody in his life, came
quite as a matter of course to the little house of his old comrade.
Being of the same age, born in the same rank of society, and having
received the same education, they resembled each other somewhat in
character and inclinations. In some respects their fates had been
similar: both had married for love, both had soon become widowers,
and both had been left with an only child. The son of Doubrovsky was
studying at St. Petersburg; the daughter of Kirila Petrovitch grew up
under the eyes of her father, and Troekouroff often said to Doubrovsky:
“Listen, brother Andrei Gavrilovitch; if your Volodka[3] should be
successful, I will give him Masha[4] for his wife, in spite of his
being as naked as a goshawk.”
Andrei Gavrilovitch used to shake his head, and generally replied:
“No’, Kirila Petrovitch; my Volodka is no match for Maria Kirilovna. A
poor petty noble, such as he, would do better to marry a poor girl of
the petty nobility, and be the head of his house, rather than become
the bailiff of some spoilt little woman.”
Everybody envied the good understanding existing between the haughty
Troekouroff and his poor neighbour, and wondered at the boldness of the
latter when, at the table of Kirila Petrovitch, he expressed his own
opinion frankly, and did not hesitate to maintain an opinion contrary
to that of his host Some attempted to imitate him and ventured to
overstep the limits of the license accorded them; but Kirila Petrovitch
taught them such a lesson, that they never afterwards felt any desire
to repeat the experiment. Doubrovsky alone remained beyond the range
of this general law. But an unexpected incident deranged and altered
all this.
One day, in the beginning of autumn, Kirila Petrovitch prepared to go
out hunting. Orders had been given the evening before for the huntsmen
and gamekeepers to be ready at five o’clock in the morning. The tent
and kitchen had been sent on beforehand to the place where Kirila
Petrovitch was to dine. The host and his guests went to the kennel,
where more than five hundred harriers and greyhounds lived in luxury
and warmth, praising the generosity of Kirila Petrovitch in their
canine language. There was also a hospital for the sick dogs, under the
care of staff-surgeon Timoshka, and a separate place where the bitches
brought forth and suckled their pups. Kirila Petrovitch was proud of
this magnificent establishment, and never missed an opportunity of
boasting about it, before his guests, each of whom had inspected it at
least twenty times. He walked through the kennel, surrounded by his
guests and accompanied by Timoshka and the head gamekeepers, pausing
before some of the compartments, either to ask, after the health of
some sick dog, to make some observation more or less just and severe,
or to call some dog to him; by name and speak caressingly to it.
The guests considered it their duty to go into raptures over Kirila
Petrovitch’s kennel; Doubrovsky alone remained silent and frowned. He
was an ardent sportsman; but his modest fortune only permitted him
to keep two harriers and one greyhound, and he could not restrain a
certain feeling of envy at the sight of this magnificent establishment.
“Why do you frown, brother?” Kirila Petrovitch asked him. “Does not my
kennel please you?”
“No,” replied Doubrovsky abruptly: “the kennel, is marvellous, but I
doubt whether your people live as well as your dogs.”
One of the gamekeepers took offence.
“Thanks to God and our master, we have nothing to complain of,” said
he; “but if the truth must be told, there are certain nobles who
would not do badly if they exchanged their manor-house for one of the
compartments of this kennel: they would be better fed and feel warmer.”
Kirila Petrovitch burst out laughing at this insolent remark from his
servant, and the guests followed his example, although they felt that
the gamekeeper’s joke I might apply to them also. Doubrovsky turned
pale and said not a word. At that moment a basket, containing some
new-born puppies, was brought to Kirila Petrovitch; he chose two out of
the litter and ordered the rest to be drowned. In the meantime Andrei
Gavrilovitch had disappeared without anybody having observed it.
On returning with his guests from the kennel, Kirila Petrovitch sat
down to supper, and it was only then that he noticed the absence of
Doubrovsky. His people informed him that Andrei Gavrilovitch had gone
home. Troekouroff immediately gave orders that he was to be overtaken
and brought back without fail. He had never gone hunting without
Doubrovsky, who was a fine and experienced connoisseur in all matters
relating to dogs, and an infallible umpire in all possible disputes
connected with sport. The servant who had galloped after him, returned
while they were still seated at table, and informed his master that
Andrei Gavrilovitch had refused to listen to him and would not return.
Kirila Petrovitch, as usual, was heated with liquor, and becoming
very angry, he sent the same servant a second time to tell Andrei
Gavrilovitch that if he did not return at once to spend the night at
Pokrovskoe, he, Troekouroff, would break off all friendly intercourse
with him for ever. The servant galloped off again. Kirila Petrovitch
rose from the table, dismissed his guests retired to bed.
The next day his first question was: “Is Andrei Gavrilovitch here?” A
triangular-shaped letter was handed to him. Kirila Petrovitch ordered
his secretary to read it aloud, and the following is what he heard:
“Gracious Sir!
“I do not intend to return to Pokrovskoe until you send the
dog-feeder Paramoshka to me with an apology: I shall retain the
liberty of punishing or for forgiving him. I cannot put up with
jokes from your servants, nor do I intend to put up with them from
you, as I am not a buffoon, but a gentleman of ancient family. I
remain your obedient servant,
“ANDREI DOUBROVSKY.”
According to present ideas of etiquette, such a letter would be very
unbecoming; it irritated Kirila Petrovitch, not by its strange style,
but by its substance.
“What!” exclaimed Troekouroff, springing barefooted out of bed; “send
my people to him with an apology! And he to be at liberty to punish or
pardon them! What can he be thinking of? Does he know with whom he is
dealing? I’ll teach him a lesson! He shall know what it is to oppose
Troekouroff!”
Kirila Petrovitch dressed himself and set out for the hunt with his
usual ostentation. But the chase was not successful; during the whole
of the day one hare only was seen, and that escaped. The dinner in the
field, under the tent, was also a failure, or at least it was not to
the taste of Kirila Petrovitch, who struck the cook, abused the guests,
and on the return journey rode intentionally, with all his suite,
through the fields of Doubrovsky.
[Footnote 1: Alluding to the deposition and assassination of Peter
III., and the accession of his wife Catherine II.]
[Footnote 2: One of Catherine’s partisans in the revolution of 1762.]
[Footnote 3: Diminutive of Vladimir.]
[Footnote 4: Diminutive of Maria or Mary.]