Ivan Ignatyich saw that he had said too much and bit his tongue. But it was too late. Vassilissa Yegorovna forced him to make a clean breast of everything, promising not to breathe a word to a soul.
Vassilissa Yegorovna kept her promise and did not utter a syllable except to the priest’s wife, and that only because her cow was still grazing in the steppe and might be seized by the rebels.
Soon everyone was talking about Pugachev. The rumours differed. The commandant dispatched Maximich to glean all he could in the neighbouring villages and fortresses. The sergeant returned after a couple of days’ absence and reported that in the steppe, some sixty versts from the fortress, he had seen a quantity of lights and the Bashkirs had told him an unheard-of host was approaching. For the rest, he could not say anything positive because he had feared to venture farther afield.
We now began to notice an unwonted ferment among the Cossacks of the fortress: in all the streets they stood about in little groups, whispering together and dispersing whenever they caught sight of a dragoon or a garrison soldier. Spies were sent among them. Yulaï, a Kalmyck converted to the Christian faith, brought important information to the commandant. The sergeant’s report, according to Yulaï, was a false one: on his return the treacherous Cossack had announced to his comrades that he had been among the rebels, had presented himself to their leader, who gave him his hand to kiss and held a long conversation with him. The commandant had the sergeant arrested at once, and put Yulaï in his place. This change was received with manifest dissatisfaction by the Cossacks. They murmured loudly, and Ivan Ignatyich, who had to carry out the commandant’s instructions, with his own ears heard them say: ‘Just you wait, you garrison rat!’ The commandant had intended interrogating his prisoner that same day, but Maximich had escaped, no doubt with the help of his comrades.
Another circumstance served to increase the commandant’s anxiety. A Bashkir was caught carrying seditious papers. On this occasion the commandant again decided to call his officers together and again wanted to send Vassilissa Yegorovna away on some plausible pretext. But since Ivan Kuzmich was a most straightforward and truthful man he could think of no other device than the one he had employed formerly.
‘I say, Vassilissa Yegorovna,’ he began, clearing his throat. ‘Father Gerassim, I hear, has received from town…’
‘Enough of your stories, Ivan Kuzmich,’ his wife interrupted him. ‘I expect you want to call a council to talk about Emelian Pugachev without me there; but you can’t bamboozle me.’
Ivan Kuzmich stared at her.
‘Well, my dear he said, ‘if you know all about it already there is no point in your leaving: we will do our talking with you in the room.’
‘That’s better, man,’ she answered. ‘You are no hand at deception. So send for the officers.’
We assembled again. Ivan Kuzmich, in the presence of his wife, read to us Pugachev’s manifesto, drawn up by some half-literate Cossack. The outlaw announced his intention of marching against our fortress without delay; invited the Cossacks and the soldiers to join him, and the commanders he exhorted not to resist him, threatening to put them to death if they did so. The manifesto was couched in crude but vigorous language, and must have made a dangerous impression on the minds of simple people.
‘The blackguard!’ cried the commandant’s wife. ‘To think of his daring to make suggestions to us! We are to go out and meet him and lay our flags at his feet! Ah, the dog! Perhaps he does not know that we’ve been forty years in the Service, and have seen a thing or two? Surely no commanders have listened to the brigand?’
‘I should not have thought so,’ replied Ivan Kuzmich. ‘But it appears the scoundrel has already taken a good many fortresses.’
‘He must be really strong then,’ remarked Shvabrin.
‘We shall soon find out just how strong he is,’ said the commandant. ‘Vassilissa Yegorovna, give me the key of the storehouse. Ivan Ignatyich, you fetch the Bashkir, and tell Yulaï to bring the whip.’
‘Wait, Ivan Kuzmich,’ said the commandant’s wife, getting up. ‘Let me take Masha somewhere out of the house: otherwise she will hear the screams and be terrified. And, to tell the truth, I don’t care for torture myself either. So good-bye for the moment.’
Torture in the old days formed so integral a part of judicial procedure that the humane edict1 abolishing it for long remained a dead letter. It was thought that the criminal’s own confession was necessary in order to find him guilty – an idea not only without foundation but even wholly contrary to judicial good sense; for if the accused person’s denial of the charge is not accepted as proof of his innocence, the confession that has been wrung from him ought still less to be regarded as proof of his guilt. Even now I sometimes hear old judges regretting the abolition of the barbarous custom. But in those days no one, judge or accused, doubted the necessity of torture. And so the commandant’s order did not surprise or alarm any of us. Ivan Ignatyich went to fetch the Bashkir, who was locked up in Vassilissa Yegorovna’s storehouse, and a few minutes later the prisoner was led into the lobby. The commandant commanded him to be brought into the room.
The Bashkir crossed the threshold with difficulty (his feet were in fetters) and, taking off his tall cap, remained standing near the door. I glanced at him and shuddered. Never shall I forget that man. He appeared to be over seventy. He had neither nose nor ears. His head was shaven; instead of a beard a few grey hairs sprouted on his chin; he was short, thin and bent; but his narrow little eyes still had a gleam of fire in them. ‘Aha!’ said the commandant, recognizing by these dreadful marks one of the rebels punished in 1741. ‘I see you are an old wolf – you have been caught in our traps before. It seems this is not the first time you have rebelled, to judge by the way they’ve planed your noddle. Come nearer – tell me, who sent you here in secret?’
The old Bashkir was silent and gazed at the commandant with a completely stolid air. ‘Why don’t you speak?’ continued Ivan Kuzmich. ‘Or don’t you understand Russian? Yulaï, ask him in your language who sent him to our fortress?’
Yulaï repeated Ivan Kuzmich’s question in Tartar. But the Bashkir looked at him with the same expression and made no answer.
‘Very well,’ said the commandant. ‘I shall make you speak. Take off that ridiculous striped garment of his, my lads, and streak his back. Mind you do it thoroughly, Yulaï!’
Two old pensioners began undressing the Bashkir. The unfortunate man’s face expressed anxiety. He looked about him like a little wild animal caught by children. But when one of the pensioners seized his hands to twine them round his neck, and raised the old man upon his shoulders, and Yulaï grasped the whip and began to flourish it, the Bashkir uttered a feeble, imploring groan and, nodding his head, opened his mouth, in which, instead of a tongue, moved a short stump.
When I reflect that this happened in my lifetime, and that now I have lived to see the gentle reign of the Emperor Alexander, I cannot but marvel at the rapid progress of civilization and the spread of humane principles. Young man, if these lines of mine ever fall into your hands, remember that the best and most enduring of transformations are those which proceed from an improvement in morals and customs, and not from any violent upheaval.
We were all horror-stricken.
‘Well,’ said the commandant, ‘it is evident we shall get nothing out of him. Yulaï, take the Bashkir back to the storehouse. Gentlemen, we have a few more things to talk over!’
We were beginning to discuss our situation when suddenly Vassilissa Yegorovna rushed into the room, out of breath and beside herself with alarm.
‘What is the matter with you?’ the commandant asked in surprise.
‘My dear, dreadful news!’ exclaimed Vassilissa Yegorovna.
‘The Nizhneozerny fortress was captured this morning. Father Gerassim’s servant has just returned from there. He saw it being taken. The commandant and all the officers were hanged one after the other. All the soldiers were made prisoner. The villains m
ay be here at any moment.’
This unexpected news was a great shock to me. I knew the commandant of the Nizhneozerny fortress, a modest, quiet young man: some two months before, he had put up at Ivan Kuzmich’s on his way from Orenburg with his young wife. The Nizhneozerny fortress lay twenty-five versts or so from our fortress. Pugachev might attack us at any moment. I saw a vivid picture of the fate in store for Maria Ivanovna, and my heart sank within me.
‘Listen, Ivan Kuzmich,’ I said to the commandant. ‘Our duty is to defend the fortress to our last breath: there can be no question about that. But we must think of the safety of the women. Send them to Orenburg, if the road is still open, or to some safer fortress farther away out of these villains’ reach.’
Ivan Kuzmich turned to his wife and said:
‘I say, my dear, hadn’t I better send you and Masha away until we have settled with the rebels?’
‘What nonsense!’ she replied. ‘No fortress is safe from bullets. What’s wrong with the Bielogorsky? We have lived in it these two and twenty years, thanks be to God. We have seen the Bashkirs and the Kirghiz: God willing, we shall hold out against Pugachev tool’
‘Well, my dear,’ rejoined Ivan Kuzmich, ‘stay if you like, since you have confidence in our fortress. But what are we to do about Masha? All well and good if we ward them off, or last out until reinforcements come – but what if the villains take the fortress?’
‘Why, in that case…’
Vassilissa Yegorovna hesitated and paused, looking deeply agitated.
‘No, Vassilissa Yegorovna,’ continued the commandant, observing that his words had produced an effect perhaps for the first time in his life. ‘It is not right for Masha to stay here. Let us send her to Orenburg, to her godmother’s: there are soldiers and cannon in plenty there, and the walls are of stone. And I should advise you to go with her: you may be an old woman but think what would happen to you if they take the fortress.’
‘Very well,’ said the commandant’s wife, ‘so be it, we will send Masha away. But don’t you dream of asking me – I won’t leave. I wouldn’t think of parting from you in my old age, to go and seek a lonely grave in a strange place. We have lived together, and together we will die.’
‘There is something in that,’ said the commandant. ‘Well, we must not waste time. Go and get Masha ready for the journey. We will send her off before daybreak tomorrow, and she shall have an escort, too, although we have no men to spare. But where is Masha?’
‘At Akulina Pamfilovna’s,’ replied the commandant’s wife. ‘She fainted away when she heard about Nizhneozerny being taken. I am afraid of her falling ill. Heavens above, to have come to this at our age!’
Vassilissa Yegorovna went to see about her daughter’s departure. The discussion continued, but I took no further part in it and did not listen. Maria Ivanovna came in to supper, pale and tear-stained. We ate in silence and rose from the table sooner than usual. Then, after saying good-bye to the family, we returned to our respective quarters. But I purposely left my sword behind and went back for it: I had a feeling that I should find Maria Ivanovna alone. Sure enough, she met me at the door and handed me my sword. ‘Farewell, Piotr Andreich,’ she said with tears. ‘I am being sent to Orenburg. Keep safe and sound, and be happy. Perhaps God will grant that we meet again, but if not…’ And she broke into sobs. I clasped her in my arms. ‘Farewell, my angel,’ I said. ‘Farewell, my dear one, my heart’s desire! Whatever may happen to me, rest assured that my last thought and my last prayer will be for you!’ Masha sobbed with her head pressed against my breast. I kissed her fervently and hastened out of the room.
7
THE ASSAULT
O my poor bead, O my bead, my bead,
That has served my Tsar and country well!
That has served for three and thirty years
Yet won for thyself no joy or gold,
Neither word of praise nor rank on high!
Two upright posts are all that be thine,
With beech-wood cross-beam, and noose of silk.
FOLK SONG
THAT night I did not sleep, nor did I undress, I intended to go at dawn to the fortress gate from which Maria Ivanovna would leave, and there say good-bye to her for the last time. I was conscious of a great change in myself: my agitation of mind was far less burdensome to me than my recent low spirits. The grief of parting was mingled with vague but delicious hope, with an eager expectation of danger and sentiments of noble ambition. The night sped by unnoticed. I was on the point of going out when my door opened and the corporal came in to tell me that our Cossacks had left during the night, taking Yulaï with them by force, and that strange men were reconnoitring round the fortress. The thought that Maria Ivanovna would not be able to get away filled me with alarm: I gave the corporal a few hasty instructions and rushed off to the commandant’s.
Day had already begun to dawn. I was flying down the street when I heard someone calling me. I stopped.
‘Where are you going?’ said Ivan Ignatyich, catching up with me. ‘Ivan Kuzmich is on the rampart and has sent me for you. Pugachev has come.’
‘Has Maria Ivanovna left?’ I asked with sinking heart.
‘She was not in time,’ answered Ivan Ignatyich. ‘The road to Orenburg is cut off; the fortress is surrounded. It’s a bad look out, Piotr Andreich!’
We made our way to the rampart, a natural rise in the ground reinforced by a palisade. All the inhabitants of the fortress were crowding there already. The garrison was under arms. The cannon had been dragged up the day before. The commandant was walking up and down in front of his scanty detachment. The approach of danger had inspired the old warrior with unusual vigour. In the steppe, not very far from the fortress, some twenty men were riding to and fro. They seemed to be Cossacks but there were Bashkirs among them too, easily recognizable by their caps of lynx fur and their quivers. The commandant went round his little company, saying to the soldiers: ‘Well, children, let us stand firm today for our good Empress and prove to all the world that we are brave and loyal men!’ The soldiers expressed their zeal with loud shouts. Shvabrin was standing next to me, looking intently at the enemy. Noticing the movement in the fortress, the horsemen riding about the steppe gathered in a little knot and began conferring among themselves. The commandant told Ivan Ignatyich to aim the cannon at the group, and himself applied the match. The cannon-ball whistled over their heads without doing any damage. The horsemen dispersed, instantly galloping out of sight, and the steppe was empty.
At that moment Vassilissa Yegorovna appeared on the rampart, followed by Masha who would not leave her side.
‘Well, what’s happening?’ asked the commandant’s wife. ‘How goes the battle? Where is the enemy?’
‘The enemy is not far off,’ replied Ivan Kuzmich. ‘God willing, all will go well. Well, Masha, are you afraid?’
‘No, papa,’ Maria Ivanovna answered. ‘I am more frightened at home by myself.’
She looked at me and made an effort to smile. I instinctively clasped the hilt of my sword, remembering that the day before I had received it from her hands, as it were to defend my beloved. My heart glowed. I imagined myself her chevalier. I thirsted to prove that I was worthy of her trust, and longed impatiently for the decisive hour.
All of a sudden some fresh bodies of mounted men appeared from behind a hill half a verst from the fortress, and soon the steppe was covered with a multitude of men armed with lances and bows and arrows. A man in a red kaftan, holding a drawn sword in his hand, was riding among them mounted on a white horse: it was Pugachev himself. He stopped; the others gathered round him and, obviously at his command, four men galloped at full tilt right up to the fortress. We recognized them for our treacherous Cossacks. One of them held a sheet of paper above his cap, while another had Yulaï’s head stuck on the point of his spear which he shook off and threw to us over the palisade. The poor Kalmyck’s. Head fell at the commandant’s feet. The traitors shouted:
‘Do not
fire! Come out and pay homage to the Tsar! The Tsar is here!’
‘I’ll teach you!’ Ivan Kuzmich shouted. ‘Ready, lads – fire!’
Our soldiers fired a volley. The Cossack who held the letter reeled from his horse; the others galloped back. I glanced at Maria Ivanovna. Horrified by the sight of Yulaï’s bloodstained head and deafened by the volley, she seemed dazed. The commandant called the corporal and bade him take the paper from the dead man’s hand. The corporal went out into the plain and returned, leading the dead Cossack’s horse by the bridle. He handed the letter to the commandant. Ivan Kuzmich read it to himself and then tore it in pieces. Meanwhile, we could see the rebels making ready for action. Some bullets began to whistle about our ears and several arrows fell close to us, sticking in the ground and in the palisade. ‘Vassilissa Yegorovna,’ said the commandant, ‘this is no place for women. Take Masha away. You see, the girl is more dead than alive.’
Vassilissa Yegorovna, who had gone quiet when the bullets began to fly, cast a glance at the steppe where there was much movement to be seen. Then she turned to her husband and said: ‘Ivan Kuzmich, life and death are in God’s hands: give Masha your blessing. Masha, go to your father.’
Masha, pale and trembling, went up to Ivan Kuzmich, knelt down before him and bowed herself to the ground. The old commandant made the sign of the cross over her three times. Then he raised her and, kissing her, said in a changed voice:
‘Well, Masha, may you be happy. Pray to God. He will not forsake you. If you meet a good man, may God give you love and concord. Live together as your mother and I have lived. Well now, adieu, Masha. Vassilissa Yegorovna, take her away quickly.’
Masha flung her arms round his neck and sobbed aloud.
‘Let us kiss each other too, you and I,’ said the commandant’s wife. ‘Good-bye, my Ivan Kuzmich. Forgive me if I have ever vexed you in any way.’
‘Good-bye, good-bye, my dear,’ said the commandant, embracing his old wife. ‘There now, that will do! Make haste and go home; and if you have time dress Masha in peasant clothes.’