“And you’re right, by God, you’re right!” said the impostor. “You saw that my boys looked askance at you; and today, too, the old man insisted that you’re a spy and that you should be tortured and hanged; but I didn’t agree,” he added, lowering his voice, so that Savelyich and the Tatar could not hear him, “remembering the glass of vodka and the hareskin coat. You see, I’m not as bloodthirsty as your fellows say I am.”
I recalled the taking of the Belogorsk fortress; but I did not consider it necessary to contradict him and said nothing in reply.
“What do they say about me in Orenburg?” Pugachev asked after some silence.
“They say it’s pretty hard dealing with you; there’s no denying you’ve made yourself felt.”
The impostor’s face expressed satisfied vanity.
“Yes!” he said with a cheerful air. “At fighting I’m as good as they come. Do your people in Orenburg know about the battle of Yuzeevo?35 Forty yennerals killed, four armies taken captive. What do you think: could the king of Prussia vie with me?”
I found the brigand’s boasting amusing.
“What do you think yourself?” I said to him. “Could you handle Frederick?”36
“Fyodor Fyodorovich? Why not? I’ve handled your yennerals all right, and they beat him. So far my arms have been lucky. Wait and see, there’ll be more still, when I march on Moscow.”
“So you suppose you’ll march on Moscow?”
The impostor thought a little and said in a low voice:
“God knows. My street’s narrow; I’ve got little freedom. My boys play it too smart. They’re thieves. I have to keep my ears pricked up; at the first setback they’ll save their necks with my head.”
“So there!” I said to Pugachev. “Wouldn’t it be better for you to break with them yourself, in good time, and throw yourself on the empress’s mercy?”
Pugachev smiled bitterly.
“No,” he replied, “it’s too late for me to repent. There will be no pardon for me. I’ll keep on as I started. Who knows? Maybe I’ll bring it off! After all, Grishka Otrepev did reign over Moscow.”
“And do you know how he ended? They threw him out the window, slaughtered him, burned him, loaded a cannon with his ashes, and fired it off!”
“Listen,” said Pugachev with a sort of wild inspiration. “I’ll tell you a tale that I heard as a child from an old Kalmyk woman. Once an eagle asked a raven: ‘Tell me, raven-bird, why do you live three hundred years in the wide world, and I all in all only thirty-three?’ ‘Because, my dear friend,’ the raven answered him, ‘you drink living blood, while I feed on dead meat.’ The eagle thought: ‘Let’s us try feeding on the same.’ Good. So the eagle and the raven flew off. They saw a dead horse; they flew down and alighted. The raven started pecking and praising. The eagle pecked once, pecked twice, waved his wing, and said to the raven: ‘No, brother raven, rather than feed on carrion for three hundred years, it’s better to drink living blood once, and then take what God sends!’ How’s that for a Kalmyk tale?”
“Ingenious,” I replied. “But to live by murder and robbery for me means to peck at dead meat.”
Pugachev looked at me in surprise and made no reply. We both fell silent, each immersed in his own reflections. The Tatar struck up a mournful song; Savelyich, dozing, swayed on the box. The kibitka flew down the smooth winter road…Suddenly I saw a hamlet on the steep bank of the Yaik, with a palisade and a belfry—and a quarter of an hour later we drove into the Belogorsk fortress.
CHAPTER TWELVE
The Orphan
Our pretty little apple tree
Has no branches and no crown;
Our pretty little princess-bride
Has no father and no mother.
There is nobody to dress her,
There is nobody to bless her.
WEDDING SONG
The kibitka drove up to the porch of the commandant’s house. The people recognized Pugachev’s harness bell and ran thronging after him. Shvabrin met the impostor on the porch. He was dressed as a Cossack and had let his beard grow. The traitor helped Pugachev out of the kibitka, expressing his joy and zeal in abject phrases. Seeing me, he was perplexed, but quickly recovered and gave me his hand, saying:
“So you’re one of us? None too soon!”
I turned away from him and made no reply.
My heart was wrung when we found ourselves in the long-familiar room, where the late commandant’s diploma still hung on the wall as a sorrowful epitaph of past times. Pugachev sat down on the same sofa on which Ivan Kuzmich used to doze, lulled by the grumbling of his spouse. Shvabrin himself served him vodka. Pugachev drank off the glass and said to him, pointing at me:
“Offer some to his honor.”
Shvabrin came up to me with his tray; but I turned away from him for the second time. He seemed not himself. With his usual sharpness he had, of course, realized that Pugachev was displeased with him. He was afraid of him and kept glancing at me suspiciously. Pugachev inquired about the condition of the fortress, the rumors about the enemy army, and so on, and suddenly asked him unexpectedly:
“Tell me, brother, who is this girl you’re keeping here under guard? Show her to me.”
Shvabrin turned deathly pale.
“My sovereign,” he said in a trembling voice, “my sovereign, she’s not under guard…She’s ill…lying in her room.”
“Take me to her,” said the impostor, standing up. It was impossible to get out of it. Shvabrin led Pugachev to Marya Ivanovna’s room. I followed them.
Shvabrin stopped on the stairs.
“My sovereign!” he said. “It is in your power to ask anything you like from me; but do not allow a stranger to enter my wife’s bedroom.”
I shuddered.
“So you’re married!” I said to Shvabrin, ready to tear him to pieces.
“Quiet!” Pugachev interrupted. “This is my business. And you,” he went on, turning to Shvabrin, “stop being clever and making difficulties: wife or not, I’ll take anyone I want to her. Follow me, Your Honor.”
At the door of the bedroom Shvabrin stopped again and said in a faltering voice:
“My sovereign, I warn you that she’s delirious and has been raving these past three days.”
“Open up!” said Pugachev.
Shvabrin started searching in his pockets and said he had not taken the key with him. Pugachev shoved the door with his foot; the latch tore loose; the door opened and we went in.
I looked and my heart sank. On the floor, in a ragged peasant dress, sat Marya Ivanovna, pale, thin, with disheveled hair. Before her stood a jug of water covered with a hunk of bread. Seeing me, she gave a start and cried out. What I felt then—I don’t remember.
Pugachev looked at Shvabrin and said with a wry grin:
“A nice sick ward you’ve got here!” Then, going to Marya Ivanovna: “Tell me, dear heart, what is your husband punishing you for? What wrong have you done him?”
“My husband!” she repeated. “He is not my husband. I will never be his wife! I’d rather die, and I will die, if nobody saves me.”
Pugachev cast a terrible glance at Shvabrin.
“So you dared to deceive me!” he said to him. “Do you know, wastrel, what you deserve for that?”
Shvabrin fell on his knees…At that moment contempt stifled all feelings of hatred and wrath in me. I looked with loathing at a nobleman lying at the feet of a fugitive Cossack. Pugachev softened.
“I’ll pardon you this time,” he said to Shvabrin, “but know that if you make another slip, I’ll also remember this one.”
Then he turned to Marya Ivanovna and said to her gently:
“Go, fair maiden; I grant you freedom. I am the sovereign.”
Marya Ivanovna glanced quickly at him and realized that before her was her parents’ murderer. She covered her face with both hands and fainted. I rushed to her, but just then my old acquaintance Palasha quite boldly thrust herself into the room and started looking after
her young mistress. Pugachev left the bedroom, and the three of us went down to the drawing room.
“So, Your Honor?” Pugachev said, laughing. “We’ve rescued the fair maiden! What do you think, shall we send for the priest and have him marry off his niece? If you like, I’ll be the bride’s proxy father and Shvabrin the best man; we’ll feast, we’ll revel—and send the rest to the devil!”
What I feared was what happened. Hearing Pugachev’s suggestion, Shvabrin lost all control.
“My sovereign!” he cried in a frenzy. “I’m guilty, I lied to you; but Grinyov has also deceived you. This girl is not the local priest’s niece: she’s the daughter of Ivan Mironov, who was executed when the fortress was taken.”
Pugachev fixed his fiery eyes on me.
“What’s this now?” he asked, bewildered.
“Shvabrin is telling the truth,” I replied firmly.
“You didn’t tell me that,” remarked Pugachev, whose face darkened.
“Judge for yourself,” I replied. “Was it possible to announce in front of your people that Mironov’s daughter was alive? They’d have chewed her to pieces. Nothing could have saved her!”
“True enough,” said Pugachev, laughing. “My drunkards wouldn’t have spared the poor girl. The priest’s good wife did well to deceive them.”
“Listen,” I said, seeing his good humor. “I don’t know what to call you, and I don’t want to know…But, as God is my witness, I would gladly repay you with my life for what you’ve done for me. Only don’t demand what goes against my honor and my Christian conscience. You are my benefactor. Finish as you began: let me and the poor orphan go wherever God leads us. And wherever you may be and whatever may happen to you, we will pray to God every day for the salvation of your sinful soul…”
It seemed that Pugachev’s rude soul was touched.
“Be it as you say!” he said. “If it’s hanging, it’s hanging; if it’s mercy, it’s mercy: that’s my custom. Take your beauty; go wherever you want with her, and God grant you love and harmony.”
Here he turned to Shvabrin and ordered him to issue me a pass for all the outposts and fortresses subject to him. Shvabrin, totally crushed, stood as if dumbstruck. Pugachev went to inspect the fortress. Shvabrin went with him; but I stayed behind on the pretext of preparing for departure.
I ran to Masha’s room. The door was locked. I knocked.
“Who’s there?” asked Palasha. I gave my name. Marya Ivanovna’s dear little voice came from behind the door.
“Wait, Pyotr Andreich. I’m changing. Go to Akulina Pamfilovna’s: I’ll be there in a minute.”
I obeyed and went to Father Gerasim’s house. He and his wife came running out to meet me. Savelyich had already forewarned them.
“Greetings, Pyotr Andreich,” said the priest’s wife. “So God has granted that we meet again. How are you? We’ve talked about you every day. And Marya Ivanovna, my little dove, what she’s gone through without you!…But tell me, my dear, how is it you get along with this Pugachev? How is it he hasn’t done you in? Well, thanks to the villain for that at least.”
“Enough, old woman,” Father Gerasim interrupted. “Don’t blurt out everything in your head. There is no salvation in much talk. Dearest Pyotr Andreich, come in and be welcome. We haven’t seen you for a long, long time.”
His wife started offering me whatever they had to eat. Meanwhile she talked nonstop. She told me how Shvabrin had forced them to hand over Marya Ivanovna to him; how Marya Ivanovna had wept and had not wanted to part from them; how Marya Ivanovna had always kept in touch with them through Palashka (a pert young girl, who even made the sergeant dance to her tune); how she had advised Marya Ivanovna to write me a letter, and so on. And I in turn briefly told her my story. The priest and his wife crossed themselves on hearing that Pugachev knew of their deception.
“The power of the Cross be with us!” said Akulina Pamfilovna. “God grant that the cloud passes over. Ah, that Alexei Ivanych, really: what a fine goose he is!”
At that same moment the door opened, and Marya Ivanovna came in with a smile on her pale face. She had abandoned her peasant clothes and was dressed as before, simply and nicely.
I seized her hand and for a long time could not utter a word. Our hearts were so full we could not speak. Our hosts sensed that we had no need of them and left us. We remained alone. All else was forgotten. We talked and could not have enough of talking. Marya Ivanovna told me everything that had happened to her since the fortress was taken; she described all the horror of her situation, all the ordeals the vile Shvabrin had put her through. We also recalled the former happy time…We both wept…Finally I began to explain my proposals to her. To remain in a fortress subject to Pugachev and commanded by Shvabrin was impossible. There was no thinking of Orenburg, which was suffering all the adversities of the siege. She did not have a single relation in the world. I proposed that she go to my parents’ estate. At first she hesitated: she knew that my father was ill-disposed towards her and she was frightened. I reassured her. I knew that my father would count it as happiness and make it his duty to receive the daughter of a distinguished soldier who had died for the fatherland.
“Dear Marya Ivanovna!” I said finally. “I consider you my wife. Wondrous circumstances have united us indissolubly: nothing in the world can separate us.”
Marya Ivanovna listened to me simply, without affected shyness, without contrived reservations. She felt that her fate was united with mine. But she repeated that she would not marry me otherwise than with my parents’ consent. I did not contradict her. We kissed warmly, sincerely—and thus everything was decided between us.
An hour later the sergeant brought me a pass, signed with Pugachev’s scrawl, and told me he wished to see me. I found him ready to set out. I cannot express what I felt, parting with this terrible man, a monster, a villain for everyone but me alone. Why not tell the truth? At that moment strong compassion drew me to him. I ardently wished to snatch him away from the midst of the villains whose chief he was, and to save his head while there was still time. Shvabrin and the people crowding around us prevented me from saying all that filled my heart.
We parted friends. Pugachev, seeing Akulina Pamfilovna in the crowd, shook his finger at her and winked significantly; then he got into the kibitka, gave orders to drive to Berda, and as the horses started, stuck his head out of the kibitka once more and called to me:
“Farewell, Your Honor! Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime.”
And indeed we did see each other again, but in what circumstances!…
Pugachev was gone. I gazed for a long time at the white steppe over which his troika was racing. The people dispersed. Shvabrin disappeared. I returned to the priest’s house. Everything was ready for our departure; I did not want to tarry any longer. Our belongings were all packed in the commandant’s old wagon. The drivers hitched up the horses in an instant. Marya Ivanovna went to take leave of the graves of her parents, who had been buried behind the church. I wanted to accompany her, but she begged me to let her go alone. After a few minutes she came back, silently pouring out gentle tears. The wagon was ready. Father Gerasim and his wife came out to the porch. The three of us got into the kibitka: Marya Ivanovna, Palasha, and I. Savelyich climbed up on the box.
“Farewell, Marya Ivanovna, my little dove! Farewell, Pyotr Andreich, our bright falcon!” said the priest’s kindly wife. “Have a good journey, and God grant you both happiness!”
We drove off. I saw Shvabrin standing at the window of the commandant’s house. Dark malice was written on his face. I had no wish to triumph over a crushed enemy and turned my eyes the other way. At last we drove through the fortress gates and left the Belogorsk fortress forever.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The Arrest
“Do not be angry, sir: my duty doth compel
That at this very hour I lock you in a cell.”
“As you please, I’m ready; but ere you take me out
I
hope I may explain what this is all about.”
KNYAZHNIN37
United so unexpectedly with the dear girl about whom I had been so painfully worried that same morning, I did not believe my own self and wondered whether all that had happened to me was not an empty dream. Marya Ivanovna gazed pensively now at me, now at the road, and, it seemed, had not yet managed to recover and come to her senses. We were silent. Our hearts were too weary. In some imperceptible way, after about two hours we found ourselves in the neighboring fortress, also subject to Pugachev. Here we changed horses. By the speed with which they were harnessed, by the bustling servility of the bewhiskered Cossack Pugachev had installed as commandant, I saw that, owing to the garrulousness of the driver who had brought us, I was taken for a court favorite.
We drove on. It was getting dark. We were nearing a little town, where, according to the bearded commandant, there was a strong detachment on its way to join the impostor. We were stopped by the sentries. To the question “Who goes there?” the driver answered in a loud voice: “A friend of the sovereign and his little missis.” Suddenly a crowd of hussars surrounded us with terrible curses.
“Get out, you friend of the devil!” a moustached sergeant said to me. “You’re going to get it hot now, you and your little missis!”
I got out of the kibitka and demanded that they take me to their commander. Seeing an officer, the soldiers stopped cursing. The sergeant took me to the major. Savelyich came along behind me, muttering to himself:
“There’s a friend of the sovereign for you! Out of the frying pan into the fire…Lord God! where will it all end?”
The kibitka followed us at a walking pace.
In five minutes we came to a little house, brightly lit. The sergeant left me with the sentry and went to announce me. He came back at once and told me that his honor had no time to receive me, and that he ordered me to be taken to jail, and my little missis to himself.