‘Well, your Honour?’ he said to me. ‘Confess now, you had a fright when my lads put the rope round your neck? I’ll warrant you you were scared out of your wits… And you would certainly have swung had it not been for your servant. I recognized the old greybeard at once. Well, would you have thought, your Honour, that the man who led you to the inn was the great Tsar in person?’ (He now assumed an air of mystery and importance.) ‘You are guilty of a serious offence against me,’ he continued, ‘but I have spared you for your kindness, for the help you were to me when I was obliged to hide from my enemies. But that is nothing to what I shall do for you! I shall shower favours on you when I enter into possession of my kingdom! Do you promise to serve me zealously?’
The rascal’s question and his impudence struck me as so amusing that I could not help smiling.
‘What are you smiling at?’ he asked with a frown. ‘Perhaps you do not believe that I am the Tsar? Answer me plainly.’
I was disconcerted. Acknowledge the vagrant as Tsar, I could not: to do so seemed to me unpardonable cowardice. To call him an impostor to his face meant exposing myself to certain death, and that which I had been ready to do beneath the gallows, in sight of everyone and in the first blaze of indignation, now seemed to me useless bravado. I hesitated. Pugachev darkly awaited my reply. At last (and to this day I recall that moment with self-satisfaction) the sentiment of duty triumphed over human weakness. I answered Pagachev:
‘Listen, I will tell you the whole truth. Judge for yourself – how can I acknowledge you as Tsar? You are an intelligent man: you would see that I was using cunning.’
‘Who am I, then, in your opinion?’
‘Heaven only knows; but whoever you are, you are playing a dangerous game.’
Pugachev gave me a swift glance.
‘So you do not believe’, he said, ‘that I am the Tsar Peter III? Very well. But is there no such thing as success for the bold? Didn’t Grishka Otrepyev1 sit on the throne once upon a time? Think what you please about me, but do not go from me. What does the rest matter to you? One master is as good as another. Serve me loyally and truly, and I will make you a field-marshal and a prince too. What do you say?’
‘No,’ I answered firmly. ‘I am noble by birth; I swore allegiance to my Sovereign Lady the Empress: I cannot serve you. If you really wish me well, then let me go to Orenburg.’
Pugachev reflected.
‘And if I let you go,’ he said, ‘will you at any rate promise not to fight against me?’
‘How can I promise you that?’ I answered. ‘You know yourself that I am not free to do as I like: if I am ordered to march against you, I shall march, there is no help for it. You yourself are now the one to be obeyed: you demand obedience from your followers. What would you call it if I refused to serve when my services were needed? My life is in your hands: if you set me free, you will have my thanks; if you put me to death – God will be your judge; but I have told you the truth.’
My sincerity impressed Pugachev.
‘So be it,’ he said, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘I don’t do things by halves. Go wherever you like and do what you think best. Tomorrow come and say good-bye to me, and now be off to bed. I am growing sleepy myself.’
I left Pugachev and went out into the street. The night was still and frosty. The moon and the stars shone brightly, lighting up the market-place and the gallows. In the fortress all was dark and quiet. Only in the tavern was there a light and the noise of late revellers. I looked up at the priest’s house. The shutters and gates were closed. All seemed quiet within.
I reached my lodgings and found Savelich anxious over my absence. The news that l was free filled him with unutterablejoy.
‘Thanks be to Thee, O Almighty God!’ he said, crossing himself.’ We will leave the fortress before daybreak and follow our noses. I have prepared some supper for you. A bit to eat, my dear, and then sleep peacefully till morning.’
I followed his advice and having eaten my supper with great relish fell asleep on the bare floor, exhausted both in mind and body.
9
THE PARTING
O sweet was it, my dear heart,
To meet and learn to love thee;
But O now that we must part –
Torn is my soul within me.
KHERASKOV1
EARLY next morning I was awakened by the drum. I went to the place of assembly. Pugachev’s followers were already forming into ranks round the gallows, where the victims of the day before were still hanging. The Cossacks were on horseback, the soldiers had shouldered their muskets. Banners were flying. Several cannon, among which I recognized ours, were mounted on their field-carriages. All the local inhabitants were there, too, waiting for the Pretender. A Cossack stood at the steps of the commandant’s house, holding a magnificent white Kirghiz horse by the bridle. I searched about with my eyes for Vassilissa Yegorovna’s body. It had been moved a little to one side and covered with matting. At last Pugachev appeared in the doorway. The people took off their caps. Pugachev paused on the steps and greeted them all. One of the Cossack elders gave him a bag filled with copper coins which he began throwing to the crowd by the handful. With eager cries the people rushed to pick them up, and some got hurt in the scramble. Pugachev was surrounded by his chief confederates. Among them was Shvabrin. Our eyes met. In mine he could read contempt, and he turned away with an expression of genuine animosity and affected mockery. Catching sight of me in the crowd, Pugachev nodded and beckoned to me. ‘Listen,’ he said. ‘Set off at once for Orenburg and tell the Governor and all his generals from me that I am to be expected within a week. Advise them to welcome me with filial love and obedience; otherwise they shall not escape a cruel death. A pleasant journey, your Honour!’ Then he turned to the people and said, pointing to Shvabrin. ‘Here, children, is your new commandant. Obey him in everything: he is to be answerable to me for you and the fortress.’ I heard these words with dread: Shvabrin in command of the fortress – Maria Ivanovna would be in his power! O God, what would become of her! Pugachev descended the steps. His horse was brought to him. He vaulted nimbly into the saddle without waiting for the Cossacks who were ready to help him mount.
At that moment I saw my Savelich step out of the crowd, go up to Pugachev and hand him a sheet of paper. I could not imagine what would be the outcome of this.
‘What is it?’ Pugachev asked importantly.
‘Read and you will see,’ Savelich answered.
Pugachev took the paper and examined it significantly for several moments.
‘Why do you write in such a scrawl?’ he said at last. ‘Our august eyes cannot decipher a word. Where is my chief secretary?’
A young lad in the uniform of a corporal quickly ran up to Pugachev. ‘Read it aloud,’ said the Pretender, giving him the paper. I was extremely curious to know what Savelich could have written to Pugachev. The chief secretary began to spell out as follows:
‘Two dressing-gowns, one calico and one striped silk – value six roubles.’
‘What does this mean?’ asked Pugachev, with a frown.
‘Tell him to read on,’ Savelich replied placidly.
The chief secretary continued:
‘One uniform coat of fine green cloth – seven roubles. White cloth breeches – five roubles. Twelve cambric shirts with frills – ten roubles. A chest containing a tea-service – two and a half roubles…’
‘What tomfoolery is this?’ Pugachev interrupted. ‘What are these tea-sets and breeches with ruffles to do with me?’
Savelich cleared his throat and began explaining.
‘Well, you see, sir, this be an inventory of my master’s goods stolen by the bandits…’
‘What bandits?’ demanded Pugachev threateningly.
‘Beg pardon, a slip of the tongue,’ Savelich answered. ‘Not bandits if you like, but your fine lads who ransacked and stole everything. Do not be angry: even the best of horses may stumble. So tell him to read to the end.’
&nbs
p; ‘Read on,’ said Pugachev.
The secretary continued:
‘One chintz counterpane, another of taffety quilted with cotton wool – four roubles. A crimson rateen pelisse lined with fox fur – forty roubles. Likewise a hare-skin jacket given to your Grace at the inn – fifteen roubles.’
‘What next!’ shouted Pugachev, his eyes blazing.
I confess I felt extremely alarmed for my poor Savelich. He was about to launch into more explanations but Pugachev interrupted him. ‘How dare you come pestering me with such trash I’ he cried, snatching the paper out of the secretary’s hands and flinging it in Savelich’s face. ‘Stupid old fool! Been plundered! Too bad! Why, you old dotard, to the end of your life you ought to pray for me and my stout fellows, and thank your stars that you and your master are not swinging from the gallows here, along with others who did not know their duty to me… Hare-skin jacket, indeed! I’ll give you hare-skin jacket! Why, I’ll have you flayed alive and a jacket made of your skin!’
‘As you please,’ replied Savelich, ‘but I am a bondman, and have to answer for my master’s property.’
Pugachev was evidently in a magnanimous mood. He turned away and rode off without saying another word. Shvabrin and the Cossack elders followed him. The gang of brigands marched out of the fortress in orderly fashion. The townspeople set off to accompany Pugachev. Savelich and I were left alone in the market-place. He was holding in his hands the inventory of my chattels and looking at it with a profoundly disconsolate air.
Seeing me on such good terms with Pugachev, he had thought to take advantage of it, but his sage intention had not met with success. I tried to scold him for his misplaced zeal, but could not help laughing. ‘It’s all very well to laugh, sir,’ replied Savelich, ‘but when we have to equip ourselves entirely afresh – we shall see then if there is anything to laugh at.’
I hastened to the priest’s house to see Maria Ivanovna. Akulina Pamfilovna met me with sad news. In the night Maria Ivanovna had been taken with a high fever. She lay unconscious and in delirium. The priest’s wife led me to her room. I crept up to the bed. The change in her face startled me. She did not know me. For a long time I stood by her bedside, not listening to Father Gerassim and his kindly wife, who were, I think, trying to comfort me. Sombre thoughts agitated me. The condition of the poor defenceless orphan left alone among vindictive rebels, and my own helplessness, terrified me. But it was Shvabrin – above all, it was Shvabrin tortured my imagination. Invested with power by the usurper, put in charge of the fortress where the unhappy girl – the innocent object of his hatred – remained, he was capable of anything. What was I to do? How could I help her? How could I rescue her from the villain’s hands? There was only one thing left me: I decided to set out immediately for Orenburg and do my utmost to expedite the deliverance of the Bielogorsky fortress. I said good-bye to the priest and to Akulina Pamfilovna, begging her to look after Masha whom I already regarded as my wife. I took the poor girl’s hand and kissed it, bedewing it with my tears. ‘Adieu,’ said the priest’s wife, accompanying me to the door. ‘Adieu, Piotr Andreich. Perhaps we shall meet again in happier times. Don’t forget us, and write to us often. Poor Maria Ivanovna has nobody except you now, to comfort and protect her.’
Coming out into the market-place, I stopped for a moment to look up at the gallows, bowed my head, and then left the fortress by the Orenburg road, accompanied by Savelich, who never let me out of his sight.
I was walking on, occupied with my thoughts, when suddenly I heard the clatter of a horse’s hoofs behind me. Turning round, I saw a Cossack galloping from the fortress; he was leading a Bashkir horse by the bridle and signalling to me from a distance. I stopped and soon recognized our sergeant. Overtaking me, he dismounted and said, handing me the reins of the other horse:
‘Your Honour, our good Father presents you with a horse and a pelisse from his own shoulders.’ (A sheepskin pelisse was tied to the saddle.) ‘And he also sends you’ – Maximich hesitated – ‘fifty kopecks in money… but I have lost it on the way: be merciful and forgive me.’
Savelich eyed him askance and growled:
‘Lost it on the way! And what is that chinking in your breast pocket there, you shameless rascal?’
‘What is that chinking in my pocket?’ replied the sergeant, not in the least abashed. ‘Why, mercy on you, my good man, ‘tis the horse’s snaffle, not the fifty kopecks!’
‘Very well,’ I said, interrupting the argument. ‘Give my thanks to him who sent you; and on your way back try to pick up the last half-rouble and keep it for vodka.’
‘Thank you kindly, your Honour,’ he answered, turning his horse. ‘I shall pray for you as long as I live.’
With these words he galloped back, holding one hand to his breast pocket, and a minute later was lost to sight.
I put on the sheepskin and mounted the horse, taking Savelich up behind me. ‘So you see now, sir,’ said the old man, ‘I did not present the petition to the rascal in vain: the thief’s conscience pricked him. True, this raw-boned Bashkir nag and this sheepskin pelisse are not worth the half of what they stole from us, the rascals, and what you chose to give him yourself, but they will come in useful all the same: and from a vicious dog it’s something to get even a tuft of hair.’
10
THE SIEGE
His tent be pitched in hill and meadow,
From eagle-heights gazed on the city,
Behind his camp be made an earth-work
To hide his thunderbolts which by night
He darkly brought to the city wall.
KHERASKOV
As we approached Orenburg we saw a crowd of convicts with shaven heads and faces disfigured by the hangman’s pincers. They were at work on the fortifications, under the supervision of the soldiers of the garrison. Some were wheeling away the rubbish which filled the moat, others with spades were digging up the ground; on the ramparts masons were carrying bricks and repairing the town walls. At the gates we were stopped by the sentinels who demanded our passports. As soon as the sergeant heard that I came from the Bielogorsky fortress he took me straight to the general’s house.
I found the general in the garden. He was examining the apple-trees, which the breath of autumn had stripped of their leaves, and, with the help of an old gardener, was carefully covering them with warm straw. His face wore a look of serenity, health and good nature. He was pleased to see me and began questioning me about the terrible happenings I had witnessed. I told him everything. The old man listened attentively as he pruned off die dry twigs. ‘Poor Mironov!’ he said, when I had finished my sad story. ‘I feel very sorry for him: he vass a fine soldier; and Mme Mironov vass an excellent woman – and what a hand at pickling mushrooms! And what hass become of Masha, der Captain’s daughter?’ I replied that she was still in the fortress in the care of the priest’s wife. ‘Aïe, aïe, aïe!’ exclaimed the general. ‘Dat iss bad, very bad. Dere iss no placing any reliance on the disscipline of brigands. What will become of der poor girl?’ I answered that the Bielogorsky fortress was not far distant, and that his Excellency would probably not delay in sending troops to rescue its poor inhabitants. The general shook his head doubtfully. ‘Ve shall see, ve shall see,’ he said. ‘Dere vill be time enough to talk about that. May I haf der pleasure of your company for tea? A council of war iss to be held at my house today. You can gif us trustworthy informations concerning diss rascally Pugachev und hiss army. Und, meanwhile, take some rest’
I went to the quarters allotted to me, where Savelich had already installed himself, and sat down to wait impatiently for the appointed hour. The reader may well imagine that I did not fail to appear at the council which would have such an influence on my future. At the time arranged I was at the general’s.
I found there one of the town officials, the director of the custom-house, if I remember rightly, a stout, red-faced old man in a brocade coat. He inquired after the fate of Ivan Kuzmich, with whom he was connected, and frequen
tly interrupted me with further questions and moral observations, which, if they did not prove him to be a man well versed in the military art, at least showed that he possessed sagacity and common sense. Meanwhile, other guests who had been invited arrived. When all were seated and the cups of tea had been handed round, the general very clearly and in detail explained the situation. ‘Now, gentlemen,’ he continued, ‘ve must decide how ve are to act against the rebels: must ve take offensive or defensive action? Each course hass its advantages und disadvantages. Der offensive offers more hope of exterminating der enemy in der shortest possible time; defensive action iss safer and less dangerous…. Und so let us put der question to der vote in der prescribed manner – dat iss, beginning mit der youngest in rank. Mr Ensign,’ he said, addressing himself to me, ‘be so kind as to oblige us mit your opinion.’
I rose and after giving a brief description of Pugachev and his gang of followers declared firmly that the impostor was not in a position to stand up to regular troops.
My opinion was received by the civilian officials with obvious disfavour. They saw in it the rashness and temerity of youth. There was a murmur and I distinctly heard the word ‘greenhorn’ uttered by someone in an undertone. The general turned to me and said with a smile: ‘Mr Ensign, der first votes in councils of war are generally in favour of offensive measures: diss iss as it should be. Now let us continue and heat vat ot’ers haf to say. Mr Collegiate Councillor, gif us your views.’
The little old man in the brocade coat hastily emptied his third cup of tea, considerably diluted with rum, and said in answer to the general:
‘I think, your Excellency, that we ought to act neither offensively nor defensively.’
‘How so, sir?’ exclaimed the general in surprise. ‘Tactics present no other alternative: ve must eit’er take der offensive or be on der defensive….’