The Captain’s Daughter, Alexander Pushkin: Read FREE Full Text Online (English Translation)

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First published in 1836, Russian Empire

“Sovremennik” magazin

This book is in the public domain

Reprint by Publishing House №10 2025

Publication date July 31, 2025

Translation from Russian

201 Pages, Font 12 pt, Bookman Old Style

Electronic edition, File size 933 KB

Cover design, Translate by Yulia Basharova

Copyright© Yulia Basharova 2025. All rights reserved

Table of Contents

Chapter I. The Guards Sergeant 6

Chapter II. The Guide. 19

Chapter III. The Fortress. 34

Chapter IV. The Duel 43

Chapter V. Love. 57

Chapter VI. The Pugachev Rebellion. 69

Chapter VII. The Attack. 85

Chapter VIII. The Uninvited Guest 96

Chapter IX. The Parting. 109

Chapter X. The Siege of the City. 117

Chapter XI. The Rebellious Settlement 129

Chapter XII. The Orphan. 146

Chapter XIII. The Arrest 156

Chapter XIV. The Trial 167

Appendix. The Omitted Chapter 184

Chapter I. The Guards Sergeant

“Guard your honor from a young age.”

Proverb

“He’d be a captain in the guards tomorrow.”

“That’s not necessary; let him serve in the army.”

“Well said! Let him suffer a bit… And who’s his father?”

—  Knyazhnin.

My father, Andrei Petrovich Grinyov, served under Count Münnich in his youth and retired as a premier-major in 17… From then on, he lived in his Simbirsk village, where he married a young woman, Avdotya Vasilievna U., the daughter of a poor local nobleman. There were nine children of us. All my brothers and sisters died in infancy.

My mother was still pregnant with me when I was already enrolled as a sergeant in the Semyonovsky Regiment, thanks to the favor of Major of the Guards Prince V., a close relative of ours. If, against all expectations, my mother had given birth to a daughter, my father would have reported the death of the non-appearing sergeant to the proper authorities, and that would have been the end of the matter. I was considered to be on leave until the completion of my education. At that time, we were not brought up in the modern way. From the age of five, I was handed over to the groom Savelich, who was appointed as my tutor for his sober conduct. Under his supervision, by the age of twelve, I had learned Russian literacy and could judge the qualities of a greyhound dog quite intelligently. At that time, my father hired a Frenchman for me, Monsieur Beaupré, who was brought from Moscow along with a year’s supply of wine and Provencal oil. His arrival greatly displeased Savelich. “Thank God,” he grumbled to himself, “the child seems to be washed, combed, and fed. Why on earth spend extra money and hire a ‘monsieur,’ as if we don’t have our own people anymore!”

In his homeland, Beaupré had been a hairdresser, then a soldier in Prussia, and then came to Russia pour être outchitel (to be a teacher), without quite understanding the meaning of the word. He was a good fellow, but flighty and dissolute to the extreme. His main weakness was a passion for the fair sex; not infrequently, he received blows for his amorousness, from which he groaned for days on end. Furthermore, he was not (in his own words) an “enemy of the bottle,” that is (to speak in Russian), he liked to have a drop too much. But since wine was only served at our dinner table, and just a small glass at that, and the tutors were usually passed over, my Beaupré very quickly became accustomed to Russian tincture and even came to prefer it to the wines of his homeland, as being incommensurably more beneficial for the stomach. We got along at once, and although by contract he was obliged to teach me French, German, and all the sciences, he preferred to quickly learn how to stammer a bit in Russian from me, and then each of us attended to our own business. We lived in perfect harmony. I couldn’t have wished for a better mentor. But soon fate separated us, and this is how it happened:

The laundress Palashka, a thickset and pockmarked girl, and the cross-eyed milkmaid Akulka somehow agreed at the same time to fall at my mother’s feet, confessing their criminal weakness and weeping as they complained about the “monsieur” who had seduced their inexperience. My mother did not like to trifle with such matters and complained to my father. His justice was swift. He immediately demanded to see the scoundrel of a Frenchman. It was reported that the monsieur was giving me my lesson. My father went into my room. At that moment, Beaupré was sleeping the sleep of the innocent on the bed. I was busy with a project. You see, a geographical map had been ordered for me from Moscow. It hung on the wall unused and had long tempted me with the width and quality of its paper. I decided to make a kite out of it and, taking advantage of Beaupré’s sleep, set to work. My father walked in just as I was attaching a hemp tail to the Cape of Good Hope. Seeing my geographical exercises, my father pulled me by the ear, then ran to Beaupré, woke him up very roughly, and began showering him with reproaches. In his confusion, Beaupré tried to get up but couldn’t: the unfortunate Frenchman was dead drunk. Seven troubles, one answer. My father lifted him from the bed by the collar, pushed him out the door, and that very same day drove him from the house, to the indescribable joy of Savelich. That was the end of my education.

I lived as an ignoramus, chasing pigeons and playing leapfrog with the stable boys. Meanwhile, I turned sixteen. That’s when my fate changed.

One autumn day, my mother was boiling honey jam in the drawing-room, and I, licking my lips, watched the frothing scum. My father was reading the Court Calendar, which he received annually, by the window. This book always had a powerful influence on him: he never reread it without special interest, and this reading always produced a surprising agitation of bile in him. My mother, who knew all his habits and customs by heart, always tried to hide the unfortunate book as far away as possible, and thus the Court Calendar would sometimes not come to his notice for months. On the other hand, when he did happen to find it, he would then not let it out of his hands for hours on end. So, my father was reading the Court Calendar, occasionally shrugging his shoulders and repeating to himself, “Lieutenant-General!… He was a sergeant in my company!… Knight of both Russian orders!… And how long ago was it that we…” Finally, my father threw the calendar on the sofa and sank into a reverie that boded no good.

Suddenly he turned to my mother: “Avdotya Vasilievna, how old is Petruska?”

“He’s just turned seventeen,” my mother replied. “Petrusha was born the very same year that Aunt Nastasya Garasimovna went blind, and when…”

“Enough,” my father interrupted. “It’s time for him to join the service. He’s had enough of running around the servant girls’ quarters and climbing pigeon lofts.”

The thought of an imminent separation from me so struck my mother that she dropped her spoon into the pot, and tears streamed down her face. On the contrary, it is hard to describe my delight. The thought of service merged in my mind with thoughts of freedom, of the pleasures of life in Petersburg. I imagined myself as an officer of the Guards, which, in my opinion, was the height of human happiness.

My father did not like to change his intentions or to postpone their execution. The day of my departure was set. The day before, my father announced that he intended to write with me to my future commander and demanded a pen and paper.

“Don’t forget, Andrei Petrovich,” said my mother, “to send my regards to Prince B.; tell him I hope he won’t withhold his favors from Petrusha.”

“What nonsense!” my father replied, frowning. “Why on earth would I write to Prince B.?”

“But you said you were going to write to Petrusha’s commander?”

“And what of it?”

“But Petrusha’s commander is Prince B. Petrusha is enrolled in the Semyonovsky Regiment.”

“Enrolled! And what do I care that he’s enrolled? Petrusha isn’t going to Petersburg. What will he learn serving in Petersburg? To squander money and carouse? No, let him serve in the army, let him pull his weight, let him smell some gunpowder, and become a soldier, not a fop. Enrolled in the Guards! Where’s his passport? Hand it here.”

My mother found my passport, which was kept in her casket along with the shirt in which I was baptized, and handed it to my father with a trembling hand. My father read it attentively, laid it on the table in front of him, and began his letter.

Curiosity tormented me: where was I being sent, if not to Petersburg? I did not take my eyes off my father’s pen, which moved quite slowly. Finally, he finished, sealed the letter in one package with the passport, took off his glasses, and, calling me over, said, “Here is a letter for Andrei Karlovich R., my old comrade and friend. You are going to Orenburg to serve under his command.”

Thus, all my brilliant hopes were dashed! Instead of a cheerful life in Petersburg, boredom awaited me in a remote and desolate region. The service, which just a minute ago I had thought of with such delight, now seemed like a heavy misfortune. But there was no arguing. The next morning, a travel kibitka was brought to the porch; a trunk was placed in it, a small cellar with a tea set, and bundles with buns and pies, the last tokens of home pampering. My parents blessed me. My father said to me, “Goodbye, Pyotr. Serve faithfully the one to whom you swear allegiance; obey your superiors; don’t curry their favor; don’t volunteer for service; don’t beg off from service; and remember the proverb: guard your clothes while they’re new, and your honor while you’re young.” My mother, in tears, instructed me to take care of my health and Savelich to look after the child. They put a hare-skin coat on me, and a fox-fur coat on top of that. I got into the kibitka with Savelich and set off on the road, shedding tears.

That same night, I arrived in Simbirsk, where I was to stay for a day to buy necessary things, which was entrusted to Savelich. I stayed at an inn. Savelich went to the shops in the morning. Bored with looking out the window at the dirty alley, I went to wander through all the rooms. Entering the billiards room, I saw a tall gentleman of about thirty-five, with a long black mustache, in a dressing gown, with a cue in his hand and a pipe in his teeth. He was playing with the marker, who, when he won, drank a shot of vodka, and when he lost, had to crawl under the billiards table on all fours. I began to watch their game. The longer it went on, the more frequent the crawls on all fours became, until finally the marker remained under the billiards table. The gentleman uttered several strong expressions over him as a kind of eulogy and offered me a game. I refused, due to my lack of skill. This seemed strange to him, apparently. He looked at me with what seemed to be pity; however, we started a conversation. I learned that his name was Ivan Ivanovich Zurin, that he was a cavalry captain of a hussar regiment and was in Simbirsk to recruit soldiers, and was staying at the inn. Zurin invited me to have dinner with him, whatever God sent, in a soldier’s fashion. I gladly agreed. We sat down at the table. Zurin drank a lot and treated me too, saying that I needed to get used to the service; he told me army anecdotes at which I almost fell over with laughter, and we got up from the table as complete friends. Then he offered to teach me how to play billiards. “This,” he said, “is essential for one of our kind, a serviceman. On a campaign, for example, you arrive in a town — what are you to do? You can’t just beat up Jews all the time. You’ll have no choice but to go to an inn and play billiards; and for that, you need to know how to play!” I was completely convinced and took to the lesson with great diligence. Zurin loudly encouraged me, marveled at my rapid progress, and, after a few lessons, offered to play for money, for one farthing, not for the winnings, but so as not to play for nothing, which, in his words, was the worst habit. I agreed to that too, and Zurin ordered punch and persuaded me to try it, repeating that I needed to get used to the service; and what good was service without punch! I obeyed him. Meanwhile, our game continued. The more often I sipped from my glass, the more reckless I became. The balls constantly flew off the table; I grew hot-headed, swore at the marker who counted God knows how, increased the stakes by the hour, in short — I behaved like a boy who had broken free. Meanwhile, time passed unnoticed. Zurin glanced at his watch, put down his cue, and informed me that I had lost a hundred rubles. This unsettled me a little. My money was with Savelich. I began to apologize. Zurin interrupted me: “Oh, please! Don’t you worry about it. I can wait, and in the meantime, let’s go to Arinushka’s.”

What could I do? I ended the day as dissolutely as I had begun it. We had dinner at Arinushka’s. Zurin kept pouring me drinks, repeating that I needed to get used to the service. Getting up from the table, I could barely stand on my feet; at midnight, Zurin took me back to the inn.

Savelich met us on the porch. He gasped, seeing the unmistakable signs of my zeal for the service. “What happened to you, sir?” he said in a pitiful voice. “Where did you get so loaded? Oh, Lord! Such a sin has never happened before!”  —  “Shut up, you old fool!” I answered, stammering. “You must be drunk. Go to bed… and put me to bed.”

The next day I woke up with a headache, vaguely remembering the events of the previous day. My reflections were interrupted by Savelich, who came in to me with a cup of tea. “It’s too early, Pyotr Andreich,” he said, shaking his head, “too early for you to start carousing. Who do you take after? It seems neither your father nor your grandfather were drunkards; and there’s no need to speak of your mother: she never put anything in her mouth but kvas. And who is to blame for everything? That cursed ‘monsieur.’ He’d always pop over to Antipievna’s: ‘Madam, je vous prie, vodky.’ (I beg you, a bit of vodka). There’s your je vous prie! No question: he taught you well, that son of a dog. And was it really necessary to hire a pagan for a tutor, as if the master didn’t have his own people anymore!”

I was ashamed. I turned away and said to him, “Get out, Savelich; I don’t want any tea.” But it was difficult to stop Savelich once he started a sermon. “You see, Pyotr Andreich, what it’s like to go on a spree. Your head feels heavy, and you don’t feel like eating. A drinking man is good for nothing… Drink some cucumber pickle brine with honey, but it would be best to have a small glass of tincture to cure the hangover. Would you like some?”

At that moment, a boy came in and handed me a note from I.I. Zurin. I unfolded it and read the following lines:

“Dear Pyotr Andreevich, please send me with my boy the hundred rubles you lost to me yesterday. I am in great need of money.

Ready to serve,

Ivan Zurin.”

There was nothing to be done. I put on an air of indifference and, turning to Savelich, who was the careful custodian of my money, my linen, and all my affairs, I ordered him to give the boy a hundred rubles. “What! Why?” asked the astonished Savelich. “I owe them to him,” I replied with the utmost coldness. “Owe!  —  Savelich protested, becoming more and more bewildered by the minute.  —  But when, sir, did you manage to get into debt with him? Something’s not right here. With all due respect, sir, I will not hand over the money.”

I thought that if I did not get the better of the stubborn old man at this decisive moment, it would be difficult for me to free myself from his guardianship later on, and, giving him a proud look, I said: “I am your master, and you are my servant. The money is mine. I lost it because I felt like it. And I advise you not to be so clever and to do what you are told.”

Savelich was so struck by my words that he clapped his hands and stood stock-still. “Why are you just standing there!” I shouted angrily. Savelich began to weep. “My dear Pyotr Andreich,” he said in a trembling voice, “don’t kill me with sorrow. My light! Listen to me, an old man: write to this robber that you were only joking, that we don’t even have that kind of money. A hundred rubles! Lord have mercy! Tell him that your parents strictly forbade you to gamble, except with nuts…” “Stop lying,” I interrupted sternly. “Hand over the money or I’ll kick you out.”

Savelich looked at me with deep sorrow and went to get my debt. I felt sorry for the poor old man, but I wanted to break free and prove that I was no longer a child. The money was delivered to Zurin. Savelich hurried to get me out of that cursed inn. He appeared with the news that the horses were ready. With an uneasy conscience and silent repentance, I left Simbirsk, without saying goodbye to my teacher and never expecting to see him again.

Chapter II. The Guide

My side, oh my little side,

My unknown side!

Is it not I who came to you myself,

Is it not a good steed that carried me here:

It was a young man’s swiftness and boldness

And a pub’s merrymaking

That brought me here, a good fellow.

—  An old song

My thoughts on the road were not very pleasant. My loss, by the prices of that time, was not insignificant. I could not help but admit in my heart that my behavior in the Simbirsk inn had been foolish, and I felt guilty before Savelich. All of this tormented me. The old man sat gloomily on the coach box, turned away from me, and remained silent, only grumbling occasionally. I was absolutely determined to make peace with him and didn’t know how to begin. Finally, I said to him, “Come on, Savelich! That’s enough, let’s make up. I’m sorry; I see myself that I am to blame. I messed up yesterday, and I unjustly offended you. I promise to behave more wisely in the future and to listen to you. Now, don’t be angry; let’s make up.”

“Oh, my dear Pyotr Andreich!” he replied with a deep sigh. “I’m angry with myself; I am completely to blame. How could I have left you alone in that inn! What can I do? Sin led me astray: I took it into my head to drop in on the deacon’s wife, to see my godmother. Just so: I visited my godmother and ended up in prison (a Russian saying). Nothing but trouble!… How can I show my face to the masters? What will they say when they find out that the child drinks and gambles.”

To comfort poor Savelich, I gave him my word that I would never again spend a single kopeck without his consent. He gradually calmed down, though he still occasionally grumbled to himself, shaking his head: “A hundred rubles! What an easy matter!”

I was approaching the place of my destination. Around me stretched mournful wastelands, intersected by hills and ravines. Everything was covered with snow. The sun was setting. The kibitka was moving along a narrow road, or more accurately, a track made by peasant sleds. Suddenly, the driver began to look to the side, and finally, taking off his hat, turned to me and said:

“Master, should we turn back?”

“Why?”

“The weather is unreliable: the wind is starting to pick up a little; look how it’s sweeping the new-fallen snow.”

“What’s the harm in that!”

“And do you see what’s over there?” (The driver pointed his whip to the east.)

“I see nothing but a white steppe and a clear sky.”

“But there — there: that little cloud.”

I did indeed see a small white cloud at the edge of the sky, which I had at first taken for a distant hillock. The driver explained to me that the cloud portended a buran (a blizzard).

I had heard of the blizzards there and knew that entire caravans would get buried by them. Savelich, in agreement with the driver’s opinion, advised turning back. But the wind did not seem strong to me; I hoped to reach the next station in time and ordered him to go faster.

The driver galloped, but he kept looking to the east. The horses ran in unison. The wind, meanwhile, grew stronger by the hour. The little cloud turned into a white storm cloud, which rose heavily, grew, and gradually enveloped the sky. A fine snow began to fall — and then suddenly came down in flakes. The wind howled; a blizzard began. In an instant, the dark sky was mingled with a sea of snow. Everything disappeared. “Well, master,” the driver cried, “it’s trouble: a blizzard!”…

I looked out of the kibitka: everything was darkness and a whirlwind. The wind howled with such fierce expressiveness that it seemed alive; snow covered me and Savelich; the horses walked at a snail’s pace — and soon stopped. “Why aren’t you driving?” I asked the driver impatiently. “What’s the point of driving?  —  he replied, getting down from the box.  —  We’ve already gone to who-knows-where: there’s no road, and it’s a haze all around.” I started to scold him. Savelich stood up for him. “Why on earth wouldn’t you listen,” he said angrily. “We would have gone back to the inn, had some tea, rested until morning, the storm would have died down, and we would have continued on. And what’s the rush? It’s not like we’re going to a wedding!” Savelich was right. There was nothing to be done. The snow just kept coming down. A snowdrift was forming around the kibitka. The horses stood, bowing their heads and occasionally shuddering. The driver walked around, adjusting the harness out of idleness. Savelich grumbled; I looked in every direction, hoping to see at least a sign of a dwelling or a road, but I couldn’t make out anything but the hazy swirling of the blizzard… Suddenly, I saw something black. “Hey, driver!” I shouted. “Look: what’s that black thing?” The driver began to peer. “God knows, master,” he said, taking his seat, “it’s not a cart, not a tree, but it seems to be moving. It must be either a wolf or a person.”

I ordered him to drive toward the unfamiliar object, which immediately began to move toward us. In two minutes, we were alongside a man.

“Hey, good man!” the driver shouted to him. “Tell us, do you know where the road is?”

“The road is right here; I’m standing on a firm track,” the traveler replied. “But what good is that?”

“Listen, peasant,” I said to him, “do you know this area? Will you undertake to guide me to a place to spend the night?”

“The area is familiar to me,” the traveler replied. “Thank God, I’ve walked and ridden it far and wide. But, you see, what kind of weather this is: you’re bound to lose the way. It’s better to stop here and wait it out; maybe the blizzard will die down and the sky will clear: then we’ll find the way by the stars.”

His composure reassured me. I had already decided, committing myself to God’s will, to spend the night in the middle of the steppe, when suddenly the traveler nimbly sat on the coach box and said to the driver, “Well, thank God, a dwelling is not far; turn right and drive.”

“And why should I go right?” the driver asked with displeasure. “Where do you see a road? It’s easy for you: the horses aren’t yours, the harness isn’t your own, drive on and don’t stop.” The driver seemed right to me. “Indeed,” I said, “why do you think a dwelling is not far?” “Because the wind started blowing from that direction,” the traveler replied, “and I smell smoke; it means a village is close.” His quick wit and keen sense of smell astonished me. I told the driver to go. The horses stepped heavily through the deep snow. The kibitka moved slowly, sometimes climbing a snowdrift, sometimes plunging into a ravine and rolling from side to side. It was like a ship sailing on a stormy sea. Savelich groaned, constantly bumping into my sides. I lowered the mat, wrapped myself in my fur coat, and dozed off, lulled by the song of the storm and the rocking of the slow ride.

I had a dream that I could never forget and in which I still see something prophetic, when I consider it with the strange circumstances of my life. The reader will forgive me, for he probably knows from experience how prone a person is to superstition, despite all possible contempt for prejudice.

I was in that state of feeling and mind when reality, giving way to dreams, merges with them in the vague visions of first sleep. It seemed to me that the blizzard was still raging and we were still wandering in the snowy wilderness… Suddenly, I saw a gate and drove into the manor courtyard of our estate. My first thought was the fear that my father would be angry with me for an involuntary return to my parents’ roof and would not consider it willful disobedience. With anxiety, I jumped out of the kibitka and see: my mother is meeting me on the porch with a look of deep distress. “Quiet,” she says to me, “father is mortally ill and wants to say goodbye to you.” Struck with fear, I follow her into the bedroom. I see the room is dimly lit; people with sad faces are standing by the bed. I quietly approach the bed; my mother lifts the curtain and says, “Andrei Petrovich, Petrusha has arrived; he returned, having heard of your illness; bless him.” I knelt down and fixed my eyes on the sick man. What’s this?… Instead of my father, I see a peasant with a black beard lying in the bed, looking at me cheerfully. In confusion, I turned to my mother, saying to her, “What does this mean? This is not my father. And why should I ask a peasant for a blessing?” “It doesn’t matter, Petrusha,” my mother replied to me. “This is your foster-father; kiss his hand, and let him bless you…” I refused. Then the peasant jumped out of bed, snatched an axe from behind his back and began swinging it in all directions. I wanted to run… but I couldn’t; the room filled with dead bodies; I stumbled over the bodies and slipped in pools of blood… The terrible peasant called to me affectionately, saying, “Don’t be afraid, come get my blessing…” Horror and confusion overcame me… And at that moment I woke up; the horses were standing still; Savelich was tugging at my arm, saying, “Get out, sir: we’ve arrived.”

“Arrived where?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

“At an inn. The Lord helped us, we ran right into a fence. Get out, sir, quickly and warm yourself.”

I got out of the kibitka. The blizzard was still going on, though with less force. It was so dark you couldn’t see a thing. The innkeeper met us at the gate, holding a lantern under his coat, and led me into a room, cramped but quite clean; a splinter-torch lit it. A rifle and a tall Cossack hat hung on the wall.

The innkeeper, a Yaik Cossack by birth, seemed to be a peasant of about sixty, still fresh and vigorous. Savelich brought my small cellar (a portable chest) in after me, asked for fire to make tea, which never seemed so necessary to me. The innkeeper went to get things ready.

“Where is the guide?” I asked Savelich.

“Here, your honor,” a voice from above answered me. I looked at the sleeping bench on the stove and saw a black beard and two glittering eyes. “What, brother, are you frozen?” “How could I not be frozen in just a thin armyak (peasant’s coat)! I had a sheepskin coat, but why hide the sin? I pawned it at the tavern-keeper’s yesterday: the frost didn’t seem so great.” At that moment, the innkeeper came in with a boiling samovar; I offered our guide a cup of tea; the peasant came down from the sleeping bench. His appearance seemed remarkable to me: he was about forty years old, of medium height, lean and broad-shouldered. His black beard was streaked with gray; his lively large eyes darted around. His face had a rather pleasant but roguish expression. His hair was cut in a circle; he wore a tattered armyak and Tatar trousers. I handed him a cup of tea; he tasted it and grimaced. “Your honor, do me this kindness — order a glass of wine to be brought; tea is not our Cossack drink.” I willingly fulfilled his wish. The innkeeper took a bottle and a glass from a cupboard, went up to him, and, looking at his face, said, “Eheh, you’re in our parts again! Where did God bring you from?” My guide winked meaningfully and replied with a proverb: “I flew to the garden, pecked at hemp seeds; the old woman threw a stone — and missed. Well, and what about yours?”

“What about ours!” — the innkeeper replied, continuing the allegorical conversation.  —  They were about to ring for vespers, but the priest’s wife won’t let them: the priest is visiting, the devils are in the churchyard.” “Be quiet, uncle,” my vagabond retorted. “When it rains, there will be mushrooms; and when there are mushrooms, there will be a basket. And now (here he winked again) put the axe behind your back: the forester is walking. Your honor! To your health!” With these words, he took the glass, crossed himself, and drank it down in one gulp. Then he bowed to me and returned to the sleeping bench.

I could not understand anything of this thievish conversation then; but later, I guessed that they were talking about the affairs of the Yaik Host, which had just been pacified after the rebellion of 1772. Savelich listened with a look of great displeasure. He looked with suspicion first at the innkeeper, then at the guide. The inn, or as they called it, an umet (a remote inn on a steppe road), was off to the side, in the steppe, far from any settlement, and looked very much like a robbers’ hideout. But there was nothing to be done. It was impossible to even think about continuing the journey. Savelich’s anxiety amused me very much. Meanwhile, I got ready for bed and lay down on the bench. Savelich decided to climb onto the stove; the innkeeper lay on the floor. Soon the whole hut was snoring, and I fell asleep like a log.

Waking up quite late in the morning, I saw that the storm had subsided. The sun was shining. The snow lay like a blinding shroud on the boundless steppe. The horses were harnessed. I paid the innkeeper, who charged us such a moderate fee that even Savelich did not argue with him or haggle as was his custom, and his suspicions from the day before were completely erased from his mind. I called the guide, thanked him for the help he had given, and told Savelich to give him half a ruble for vodka. Savelich frowned. “Half a ruble for vodka!  —  he said.  —  What for? For the fact that you, sir, were kind enough to bring him to the inn? It’s your will, sir: we don’t have spare half-rubles. If you give everyone money for vodka, you’ll soon have to go hungry yourself.” I couldn’t argue with Savelich. The money, according to my promise, was completely under his control. I was annoyed, however, that I couldn’t thank the man who had rescued me, if not from danger, then at least from a very unpleasant situation. “Fine,” I said coolly, “if you don’t want to give him a half-ruble, then take something out of my clothes for him. He’s dressed too lightly. Give him my hare-skin coat.”

“For heaven’s sake, my dear Pyotr Andreich!” said Savelich. “Why would he need your hare-skin coat? That dog will drink it away in the first tavern.”

“That, old man, is none of your concern,” said my vagabond. “Whether I drink it away or not. His honor is giving me a coat from his own shoulder: that is his master’s will, and it is your serf’s business not to argue and to obey.”

“Have you no fear of God, you robber!” Savelich retorted angrily. “You see that the child is still simple, and you are glad to fleece him because of his simplicity. What do you need a master’s little coat for? You won’t even be able to squeeze it onto your wretched shoulders.”

“I ask you not to be so clever,” I said to my tutor, “bring the coat here right now.”

“Lord, oh Lord!” my Savelich moaned. “A hare-skin coat that is almost brand new! And to think, not for just anyone, but for a naked drunkard!”

Nevertheless, the hare-skin coat was produced. The peasant immediately began to try it on. In truth, the coat, which I had already outgrown, was a little tight for him. However, he somehow managed and put it on, tearing it at the seams. Savelich almost howled when he heard the threads snap. The vagabond was extremely pleased with my gift. He saw me to the kibitka and said with a low bow: “Thank you, your honor! May the Lord reward you for your virtue. I will never forget your kindness.” He went his own way, and I drove on, paying no attention to Savelich’s annoyance, and soon forgot about yesterday’s blizzard, my guide, and the hare-skin coat.

Arriving in Orenburg, I presented myself directly to the general. I saw a man of tall stature, but already stooped with old age. His long hair was completely white. His old faded uniform reminded me of a soldier from the time of Anna Ioannovna, and his speech had a strong German accent. I handed him the letter from my father. At his name, he looked at me quickly: “My God!” he said. “It seems like only yesterday Andrei Petrovich was your age, and now he has such a fine young fellow! Ah, time, time!” He unsealed the letter and began to read it in a low voice, making his own comments. “‘Gracious Sir Andrei Karlovich, I hope that your Excellency’…” What are these ceremonies? Phooey, how can he not be ashamed! Of course: discipline is the first thing, but is this how one writes to an old comrade?… “‘your Excellency has not forgotten’…” hmm… “‘and… when… the late Field Marshal Min… on the campaign… also… Karolina’…” Ehe, brother! So he still remembers our old pranks? “Now about business… To you my rascal’…” hmm… “‘to keep him in hedgehog gloves’…” What are hedgehog gloves? This must be a Russian proverb… What does it mean ‘to keep him in hedgehog gloves’?” he repeated, turning to me.

“It means,” I replied with as innocent an expression as possible, “to treat someone gently, not too strictly, to give them more freedom, to keep them in hedgehog gloves.”

“Hmm, I understand… ‘and not to give him freedom’…” no, it seems hedgehog gloves means something else… “‘Enclosed… his passport’…” Where is it? Ah, here… “‘to transfer to the Semyonovsky’…” Good, good: everything will be done… “‘Allow me to embrace you without rank and… as an old comrade and friend’  —  ah! finally he guessed… and so on and so forth…” Well, my dear fellow,” he said, after reading the letter and setting my passport aside, “everything will be done: you will be transferred as an officer to the *** regiment, and so that you don’t waste time, you will go to the Belogorsk fortress tomorrow, where you will be under the command of Captain Mironov, a good and honest man. There you will be in real service, you will learn discipline. You have nothing to do in Orenburg; distraction is harmful to a young man. But today you are welcome: come have dinner with me.”

“Things are going from bad to worse!” I thought to myself. “What good did it do me that I was already a sergeant of the Guards in my mother’s womb! Where has this led me? To the *** regiment and to a remote fortress on the border of the Kirghiz-Kaisak steppes!…” I had dinner with Andrei Karlovich, with his old adjutant making a third. A strict German economy reigned at his table, and I think that the fear of sometimes seeing an extra guest at his bachelor’s meal was partly the reason for my hurried removal to the garrison. The next day I said goodbye to the general and set off for my destination.

Chapter III. The Fortress

We live in a fortress,

We eat bread and drink water;

But if fierce enemies

Come to us for a feast,

We’ll give the guests a treat:

We’ll load the cannon with canister shot.

—  A soldier’s song

Old-fashioned people, my dear sir.

—  The Minor

My thoughts on the journey were not very pleasant. The garrison life had little appeal for me. I tried to imagine Captain Mironov, my future commander, and pictured him as a strict, angry old man who knew nothing but his service and was ready to put me under arrest on bread and water for the slightest trifle. Meanwhile, it began to get dark. We were traveling quite fast. “Is it far to the fortress?” I asked my driver. “Not far,” he replied. “You can see it now.” I looked in all directions, expecting to see formidable bastions, towers, and a rampart, but saw nothing but a village surrounded by a log fence. On one side stood three or four hayricks, half-covered with snow; on the other, a lopsided mill with bark wings, lazily lowered. “Where is the fortress?” I asked in surprise. “There it is,” the driver replied, pointing to the village, and with that, we drove into it. At the gate, I saw an old cast-iron cannon; the streets were narrow and crooked; the huts were low and mostly covered with straw. I ordered him to drive to the commandant’s, and a minute later the kibitka stopped in front of a small wooden house built on high ground, near a wooden church.

No one met me. I went into the entryway and opened the door to the anteroom. An old invalid soldier, sitting on a table, was sewing a blue patch on the elbow of a green uniform. I told him to announce me. “Come in, my dear man,” the invalid replied, “they are at home.” I entered a clean, old-fashioned little room. In the corner stood a cupboard with dishes; on the wall hung an officer’s diploma in a glass frame; around it were cheap popular prints representing the capture of Küstrin and Ochakov, as well as the choosing of a bride and the burial of a cat. By the window sat an old woman in a quilted jacket and a headscarf. She was unwinding thread, which a cross-eyed old man in an officer’s uniform was holding, stretching his arms out. “What can I do for you, my dear man?” she asked, continuing her work. I replied that I had arrived for duty and was presenting myself to the captain as was my duty, and with that, I turned to the cross-eyed old man, mistaking him for the commandant; but the hostess interrupted my rehearsed speech. “Ivan Kuzmich is not at home,” she said. “He has gone to visit Father Gerasim; but it’s all the same, my dear man, I am his hostess. I ask you to love and favor me. Sit down, my dear man.” She called a servant girl and told her to call the sergeant. The old man looked at me curiously with his single eye. “May I ask,” he said, “in what regiment were you pleased to serve?” I satisfied his curiosity. “And may I ask,” he continued, “why you were pleased to transfer from the Guards to the garrison?” I replied that such was the will of the command. “Likely for actions unbecoming of a Guards officer,” the indefatigable questioner continued. “Stop talking nonsense,” the captain’s wife said to him. “You can see the young man is tired from his journey; he’s not in the mood for you… (hold your hands straighter…). And you, my dear man,” she continued, turning to me, “don’t be sad that you’ve been sent to our backwater. You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last. You’ll get used to it, and you’ll grow to love it. Shvabrin, Alexei Ivanych, has been with us for five years now, having been transferred for murder. God knows what sin led him astray; you see, he went out of town with a lieutenant, and they took their swords with them, and started to poke each other; and Alexei Ivanych stabbed the lieutenant, with two witnesses! What can you do? No one is a master of avoiding sin.”

At that moment, the sergeant, a young and stately Cossack, entered. “Maksimych!” the captain’s wife said to him. “Show the officer to his quarters, and a clean one.” “Yes, Vasilisa Yegorovna,” the sergeant replied. “Shall I quarter his honor at Ivan Polezhayev’s?” “Nonsense, Maksimych,” said the captain’s wife. “It’s already crowded at Polezhayev’s; besides, he’s my god-relative and he remembers that we’re his commanders. Take the officer… what is your name and patronymic, my dear man? Pyotr Andreich?… Take Pyotr Andreich to Semyon Kuzov’s. That scoundrel let his horse into my vegetable garden. Well, Maksimych, is everything peaceful?”

“Everything is quiet, thank God,” the Cossack replied. “Only Corporal Prokhorov got into a fight with Ustinya Negulina in the bathhouse over a bucket of hot water.”

“Ivan Ignatich!” the captain’s wife said to the cross-eyed old man. “Sort out Prokhorov and Ustinya, who’s right and who’s wrong. And punish them both. Well, Maksimych, go with God. Pyotr Andreich, Maksimych will take you to your quarters.”

I bowed. The sergeant brought me to a hut that stood on the high bank of the river, at the very edge of the fortress. Half of the hut was occupied by Semyon Kuzov’s family, the other half was given to me. It consisted of a single, quite tidy room, divided in two by a partition. Savelich began to get things in order; I began to look out the narrow window. Before me stretched the mournful steppe. A few small huts stood diagonally across; a few chickens wandered along the street. An old woman, standing on the porch with a trough, was calling pigs, who answered her with friendly grunts. And this was the place where I was condemned to spend my youth! I felt a pang of longing; I turned away from the window and went to bed without supper, despite the entreaties of Savelich, who repeated with sorrow: “Lord, oh Lord! He doesn’t want to eat anything! What will the mistress say if the child gets sick?”

The next morning, I had just begun to get dressed when the door opened, and a young officer of short stature came in, with a swarthy and remarkably unattractive but extremely lively face. “Excuse me,” he said to me in French, “for coming to introduce myself without ceremony. I learned of your arrival yesterday; the desire to finally see a human face so overcame me that I couldn’t bear it. You will understand this when you have lived here for a little while longer.” I guessed that this was the officer who had been transferred from the Guards for a duel. We immediately became acquainted. Shvabrin was not at all stupid. His conversation was sharp and engaging. He described the commandant’s family, his society, and the region where fate had led me with great cheerfulness. I was laughing heartily when the very same invalid who had been mending the uniform in the commandant’s anteroom came in to me, and on behalf of Vasilisa Yegorovna, invited me to have dinner with them. Shvabrin offered to go with me.

As we approached the commandant’s house, we saw on the square about twenty old invalid soldiers with long braids and three-cornered hats. They were lined up. In front stood the commandant, a vigorous and tall old man, in a cap and a Chinese silk robe. Seeing us, he came up to us, said a few kind words, and then resumed giving commands. We stopped to watch the drill, but he asked us to go to Vasilisa Yegorovna, promising to follow us. “And here,” he added, “there’s nothing for you to see.”

Vasilisa Yegorovna received us informally and hospitably and treated me as if she had known me my whole life. The invalid and Palashka were setting the table. “Why is my Ivan Kuzmich so busy with his drills today!” the commandant’s wife said. “Palashka, call the master for dinner. And where is Masha?” At this, a girl of about eighteen entered, with a round, rosy face, and light brown hair smoothly combed behind her ears, which were burning red. At first glance, I did not find her very appealing. I looked at her with prejudice: Shvabrin had described Masha, the captain’s daughter, as a complete little fool. Marya Ivanovna sat down in a corner and began to sew. Meanwhile, they served the cabbage soup. Vasilisa Yegorovna, not seeing her husband, sent Palashka for him a second time. “Tell the master: the guests, she says, are waiting, the soup will get cold; thank God, the drill won’t run away; he’ll have time to shout.” The captain soon appeared, accompanied by the cross-eyed old man. “What is this, my dear man?” his wife said to him. “Dinner has been served for a long time, and we can’t get you to come.” “Listen, Vasilisa Yegorovna,” Ivan Kuzmich replied, “I was busy with my duty: I was teaching the little soldiers.” “Oh, stop it!” the captain’s wife objected. “All you do is talk about teaching soldiers: they don’t get the hang of the service, and you don’t know what you’re doing. You’d be better off sitting at home and praying to God. Dear guests, please come to the table.”

We sat down to dinner. Vasilisa Yegorovna did not stop talking for a minute and showered me with questions: who were my parents, were they alive, where did they live, and what was their status? Upon hearing that my father had three hundred serfs, “How easy it is!” she said. “There really are rich people in the world! As for us, my dear man, we only have one serf girl, Palashka; but thank God, we get by. There’s only one problem: Masha; the girl is of marriageable age, but what dowry does she have? A fine-toothed comb, a broom, and a coin worth three kopecks (God forgive me!), just enough to go to the bathhouse. It’s a good thing if a kind man is found; otherwise, she’ll sit here as an eternal fiancée.” I glanced at Marya Ivanovna; she blushed all over, and even tears dripped onto her plate. I felt sorry for her, and I hurried to change the subject. “I heard,” I said rather inopportunely, “that the Bashkirs are going to attack your fortress.” “Who, my dear man, did you hear that from?” Ivan Kuzmich asked. “I was told so in Orenburg,” I replied. “Nonsense!” said the commandant. “We haven’t heard anything for a long time. The Bashkirs are a frightened lot, and the Kirghiz have been taught a lesson. They won’t dare to come near us; but if they do, I’ll give them such a fright that they’ll be quiet for ten years.” “And are you not afraid,” I continued, turning to the captain’s wife, “to remain in a fortress subject to such dangers?” “Habit, my dear man,” she replied. “It’s been about twenty years since we were transferred here from the regiment, and God forbid, how I used to be afraid of those cursed heathens! When I would see their lynx-fur hats and hear their screams, believe me, my dear father, my heart would just stop! But now I’m so used to it that I don’t even stir when they come to tell us that the villains are prowling around the fortress.”

“Vasilisa Yegorovna is a very brave lady,” Shvabrin noted gravely. “Ivan Kuzmich can attest to that.”

“Yes, listen to me,” said Ivan Kuzmich, “the woman is not timid.”

“And Marya Ivanovna?” I asked. “Is she as brave as you?”

“Is Masha brave?” her mother replied. “No, Masha is a coward. To this day, she can’t hear a gunshot: she just trembles. And two years ago, when Ivan Kuzmich decided to fire our cannon on my name day, my little dove almost died of fright. We haven’t fired the cursed cannon since then.”

We rose from the table. The captain and his wife went to sleep; and I went to Shvabrin’s, where I spent the whole evening.

Chapter IV. The Duel

“Go on, then, and take your stance.

You’ll see how I’ll run you through!”

— Knyazhnin

Several weeks passed, and my life in the Belogorsk fortress became not only tolerable but even pleasant. I was received in the commandant’s house as one of the family. The husband and wife were most respectable people. Ivan Kuzmich, who had risen to officer from the ranks, was an uneducated and simple man, but utterly honest and kind. His wife ruled him, which suited his carefree nature. Vasilisa Yegorovna looked upon matters of duty as she did her own household chores and ran the fortress as precisely as she ran her own home. Marya Ivanovna soon stopped being shy with me. We became acquainted. I found her to be a sensible and sensitive girl. Imperceptibly, I grew attached to the good family, even to Ivan Ignatich, the cross-eyed garrison lieutenant, about whom Shvabrin had invented a story that he was in an illicit relationship with Vasilisa Yegorovna, which had not a shred of plausibility; but Shvabrin didn’t care about that.

I was promoted to officer. My duties were not burdensome. In the God-protected fortress, there were no inspections, no drills, and no sentry duties. The commandant would sometimes teach his soldiers on his own accord, but he still couldn’t get them all to know their right side from their left, although many of them, to avoid making a mistake, would cross themselves before every turn. Shvabrin had several French books. I started reading, and a taste for literature awoke in me. In the mornings, I read, practiced translations, and sometimes even wrote poetry. I almost always had dinner at the commandant’s, where I usually spent the rest of the day and where, in the evenings, Father Gerasim and his wife Akulina Pamfilovna, the chief gossip in the whole neighborhood, would sometimes appear. With A.I. Shvabrin, of course, I saw each other every day, but his conversation became less and less pleasant to me with each passing hour. His constant jokes at the expense of the commandant’s family were very displeasing to me, especially his biting remarks about Marya Ivanovna. There was no other society in the fortress, but I didn’t want any other.

Despite the predictions, the Bashkirs did not rebel. Peace reigned around our fortress. But the peace was broken by a sudden civil strife.

I have already said that I was engaged in literature. My attempts, for that time, were not bad, and Alexander Petrovich Sumarokov, several years later, praised them highly. One day I managed to write a song that I was pleased with. It is well known that writers sometimes, under the guise of seeking advice, are looking for a sympathetic listener. So, having copied my song, I took it to Shvabrin, who was the only one in the entire fortress who could appreciate a poet’s work. After a short preface, I took my notebook out of my pocket and read him the following verses:

Destroying the thought of love,I strive to forget the beautiful one,And oh, by avoiding Masha,I think to find freedom!But the eyes that captivated me,Are always before me;They have disturbed the spirit in me,They have broken my peace.You, learning of my woes,Take pity, Masha, on me,Seeing me in this cruel plight,And that I am captivated by you.

“How do you find it?” I asked Shvabrin, expecting praise as a tribute that was certainly due to me. But, to my great annoyance, Shvabrin, who was usually condescending, firmly declared that my song was no good.

“Why is that?” I asked him, hiding my annoyance.

“Because,” he replied, “such verses are worthy of my teacher, Vasily Kirilych Tredyakovsky, and they very much remind me of his love couplets.”

He then took the notebook from me and began mercilessly dissecting every line and every word, mocking me in the most biting way. I could not stand it, I snatched my notebook from his hands and said that I would never show him my writings again. Shvabrin laughed at this threat as well. “We’ll see,” he said, “if you keep your word: poets need a listener like Ivan Kuzmich needs a little decanter of vodka before dinner. And who is this Masha, to whom you are declaring your tender passion and loving affliction? Is it not Marya Ivanovna?”

“It is none of your business,” I replied, frowning, “who this Masha may be. I don’t require your opinion or your conjectures.”

“Aha! A conceited poet and a modest lover!” Shvabrin continued, provoking me more and more by the hour. “But listen to a friendly piece of advice: if you want to succeed, I advise you not to do it with little songs.”

“What do you mean by that, sir? Please explain yourself.”

“Gladly. It means that if you want Masha Mironova to come to you in the twilight, then instead of tender verses, give her a pair of earrings.”

My blood boiled.

“And why do you have such an opinion of her?” I asked, with difficulty restraining my indignation.

“Because,” he replied with a devilish smirk, “I know her character and habits from experience.”

“You are lying, you scoundrel!” I exclaimed in a rage, “you are lying in the most shameless manner.”

Shvabrin’s face changed.

“That will not pass unpunished,” he said, gripping my hand. “You will give me satisfaction.”

“By all means; whenever you want!” I replied, delighted. At that moment, I was ready to tear him to pieces.

I immediately went to Ivan Ignatich and found him with a needle in his hands. On the instruction of the commandant’s wife, he was stringing mushrooms to dry for the winter. “Ah, Pyotr Andreich!” he said, seeing me. “Welcome! How did God bring you here? On what business, may I ask?” I explained to him in a few words that I had quarreled with Alexei Ivanych, and that I was asking him, Ivan Ignatich, to be my second. Ivan Ignatich listened to me with attention, his single eye wide open. “You are saying,” he said to me, “that you want to stab Alexei Ivanych and you wish for me to be a witness to it? Is that right? May I ask.”

“Precisely so.”

“Have mercy, Pyotr Andreich! What on earth have you gotten into! You and Alexei Ivanych had an argument? That’s no great trouble! An argument doesn’t hang around your neck. He swore at you, so you swear at him; he hits you in the snout, and you hit him on the ear, in the other, in the third, and then you go your separate ways. And we will make you up. Besides, is it a good thing to stab your neighbor, may I ask? And even if you did stab him, God be with him, with Alexei Ivanych; I’m not a fan of him myself. But what if he runs you through? What would that look like? Who would be the fool, may I ask?”

The reasonable lieutenant’s arguments did not sway me. I stuck to my intention. “As you wish,” said Ivan Ignatich, “do as you see fit. But why should I be a witness to this? To what purpose? People fight, what’s so unheard of about that, may I ask? Thank God, I’ve served against the Swedes and the Turks: I’ve seen it all.”

I tried to explain the duties of a second to him, but Ivan Ignatich could not understand me at all. “As you wish,” he said. “If I am to get involved in this matter, then perhaps I should go to Ivan Kuzmich and report to him, as is my duty, that a crime is being plotted in the fortress, which is contrary to state interests: would it please the commandant to take the necessary measures…”

I was frightened and began to beg Ivan Ignatich not to tell the commandant anything. I barely managed to persuade him; he gave me his word, and I decided to leave him be.

I spent the evening, as was my custom, at the commandant’s. I tried to appear cheerful and indifferent, so as not to arouse any suspicion and avoid tiresome questions, but, I confess, I did not have the composure that is almost always boasted of by those in my situation. That evening, I was in a tender and sentimental mood. I liked Marya Ivanovna more than usual. The thought that I might be seeing her for the last time gave her a certain touching quality in my eyes. Shvabrin also appeared. I took him aside and informed him of my conversation with Ivan Ignatich. “Why do we need seconds?” he said to me dryly. “We’ll do without them.” We agreed to fight behind the hayricks near the fortress and to appear there the next day at seven in the morning. We spoke so amicably, it seemed, that Ivan Ignatich, in his joy, let something slip.

“It’s about time,” he said to me with a satisfied look. “A bad peace is better than a good quarrel, and even if it’s not honest, at least it’s healthy.”

“What, what, Ivan Ignatich?” said the commandant’s wife, who was in the corner telling fortunes with cards. “I didn’t quite hear you.”

Ivan Ignatich, noticing my signs of displeasure and remembering his promise, became flustered and didn’t know what to answer. Shvabrin came to his aid.

“Ivan Ignatich,” he said, “approves of our reconciliation.”

“And with whom, my dear man, were you quarreling?”

“Pyotr Andreich and I had a rather big argument.”

“What for?”

“For a complete trifle: a little song, Vasilisa Yegorovna.”

“You found something to quarrel about! A little song! But how did it happen?”

“Well, like this: Pyotr Andreich recently composed a song and sang it to me today, and I sang my favorite:

The captain’s daughter,Don’t go walking at midnight…

There was a misunderstanding. Pyotr Andreich was angry for a bit, but then he reasoned that everyone is free to sing whatever they please. And that’s where the matter ended.”

Shvabrin’s shamelessness almost enraged me, but no one but me understood his crude hints; at least, no one paid any attention to them. From songs, the conversation turned to poets, and the commandant remarked that they were all dissolute people and heavy drinkers, and he gave me friendly advice to give up poetry, as it was a matter contrary to service and led to no good.

Shvabrin’s presence was unbearable to me. I soon said goodbye to the commandant and his family. Upon arriving home, I inspected my sword, tested its tip, and went to bed, having ordered Savelich to wake me up at seven o’clock.

The next day, at the appointed time, I was already standing behind the hayricks, waiting for my opponent. He soon appeared as well. “They might catch us,” he said to me. “We must hurry.” We took off our uniforms, remained in our waistcoats, and drew our swords. At that moment, Ivan Ignatich suddenly appeared from behind a hayrick with five invalid soldiers. He demanded that we go to the commandant. We obeyed with annoyance; the soldiers surrounded us, and we proceeded to the fortress, following Ivan Ignatich, who led us in triumph, walking with astonishing importance.

We entered the commandant’s house. Ivan Ignatich opened the doors, proclaiming solemnly: “I’ve brought them!” Vasilisa Yegorovna met us. “Oh, my dears! What is this? What? To stir up murder in our fortress! Ivan Kuzmich, put them under arrest right now! Pyotr Andreich! Alexei Ivanych! Hand over your swords here, hand them over, hand them over. Palashka, take these swords to the storeroom. Pyotr Andreich! I did not expect this from you. Aren’t you ashamed? Fine, Alexei Ivanych: he was transferred from the Guards for murder, and he doesn’t even believe in God. But what about you? Are you getting into it, too?”

Ivan Kuzmich completely agreed with his wife and kept saying: “Listen, Vasilisa Yegorovna speaks the truth. Duels are formally forbidden in the military regulations.” Meanwhile, Palashka took our swords and carried them to the storeroom. I couldn’t help but laugh. Shvabrin maintained his seriousness. “With all my respect for you,” he said to her coolly, “I cannot help but notice that you are unnecessarily worrying, subjecting us to your judgment. Leave that to Ivan Kuzmich: that is his business.” “Oh! My dear man!” the commandant’s wife retorted. “Are not husband and wife one spirit and one flesh? Ivan Kuzmich! What are you gaping at? Separate them into different corners on bread and water right now, so that their foolishness passes; and let Father Gerasim impose a penance on them, so they may beg God’s forgiveness and repent before the people.”

Ivan Kuzmich did not know what to decide. Marya Ivanovna was extremely pale. Little by little, the storm subsided; the commandant’s wife calmed down and made us kiss each other. Palashka brought us our swords. We left the commandant’s house seemingly reconciled. Ivan Ignatich accompanied us. “Aren’t you ashamed,” I said to him angrily, “to report us to the commandant after you gave me your word not to do so?” “As God is holy, I did not tell Ivan Kuzmich that,” he replied. “Vasilisa Yegorovna found out everything from me. She arranged everything without the commandant’s knowledge. However, thank God that it all ended this way.” With these words, he turned to go home, and Shvabrin and I were left alone. “This matter cannot end here,” I said to him. “Of course,” Shvabrin replied, “you will answer to me for your insolence with your blood; but they will probably be watching us. We will have to pretend for a few days. Goodbye!” And we parted as if nothing had happened.

Returning to the commandant’s, I, as was my custom, sat down beside Marya Ivanovna. Ivan Kuzmich was not at home; Vasilisa Yegorovna was busy with household chores. We spoke in low voices. Marya Ivanovna gently reproached me for the trouble caused to everyone by my quarrel with Shvabrin. “I just froze,” she said, “when they told us that you intended to fight with swords. How strange men are! For a single word, which they would surely forget about in a week, they are ready to cut each other up and sacrifice not only their lives but also their conscience and the happiness of those who… But I am sure that you were not the instigator of the quarrel. Alexei Ivanych is surely to blame.”

“And why do you think so, Marya Ivanovna?”

“Oh, just because… he’s such a mocker! I don’t like Alexei Ivanych. He is very unpleasant to me. But it’s strange: I would not for anything want him to dislike me just as much. That would bother me terribly.”

“And what do you think, Marya Ivanovna? Does he like you or not?”

Marya Ivanovna stammered and blushed.

“I think,” she said, “I believe he does.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Because he proposed to me.”

“Proposed! He proposed to you? When?”

“Last year. About two months before your arrival.”

“And you refused?”

“As you can see. Alexei Ivanych is, of course, a clever man, and from a good family, and he has a fortune. But when I think that I would have to kiss him in front of everyone at the wedding… Never! Not for any happiness!”

Marya Ivanovna’s words opened my eyes and explained a lot to me. I understood the persistent slander with which Shvabrin had pursued her. He had probably noticed our mutual affection and was trying to separate us. The words that had given rise to our quarrel seemed even more vile to me when, instead of a crude and indecent mockery, I saw in them a deliberate slander. The desire to punish the insolent slanderer became even stronger in me, and I began to wait impatiently for a suitable opportunity.

I did not have to wait long. The next day, as I was sitting over an elegy and chewing on my pen in anticipation of a rhyme, Shvabrin knocked under my window. I put down my pen, took my sword, and went out to him. “Why delay?” Shvabrin said to me. “No one is watching us. Let’s go down to the river. No one will interfere with us there.” We went in silence. Descending a steep path, we stopped at the river itself and drew our swords. Shvabrin was more skilled than I, but I was stronger and bolder, and Monsieur Beaupré, who had once been a soldier, had given me a few fencing lessons, which I had made use of. Shvabrin did not expect to find such a dangerous opponent in me. For a long time, we could not harm each other. Finally, noticing that Shvabrin was weakening, I began to press him with vivacity and drove him almost into the river. Suddenly, I heard my name loudly pronounced. I looked back and saw Savelich running down the hillside path to me… At that very moment, I was strongly pricked in the chest just below my right shoulder. I fell and lost consciousness.

Chapter V. Love

Oh, you lass, you fair lass!

Don’t get married young, lass;

You ask, lass, your father, mother,

Father, mother, kith and kin;

Gather, lass, your sense and reason,

Sense and reason, and a dowry.

—  Folk song

If you find someone better than me, you will forget me.

If you find someone worse than me, you will remember me.

—  The same

When I regained consciousness, I was unable to collect myself for some time and didn’t understand what had happened to me. I was lying on a bed in an unfamiliar room and felt very weak. Before me stood Savelich with a candle in his hands. Someone was carefully unwrapping the bandages that were tightly wrapped around my chest and shoulder. Gradually, my thoughts became clear. I remembered my duel and guessed that I had been wounded. At that moment, a door creaked open. “What? How is he?” a voice whispered, at which I trembled. “Still the same,” Savelich replied with a sigh, “he has been unconscious for five days now.” I tried to turn but couldn’t. “Where am I? Who is here?” I said with an effort. Marya Ivanovna came to my bed and leaned over me. “What? How are you feeling?” she said. “Thank God,” I replied in a weak voice. “Is that you, Marya Ivanovna? Tell me…” I was unable to continue and fell silent. Savelich gasped. Joy appeared on his face. “He’s come to! He’s come to!” he repeated. “Glory be to you, Lord! Well, my dear Pyotr Andreich, you gave me a fright! Five days already!” Marya Ivanovna interrupted him. “Don’t talk to him too much, Savelich,” she said. “He is still weak.” She left and quietly closed the door. My thoughts were in turmoil. So, I was in the commandant’s house, and Marya Ivanovna had been coming to see me. I wanted to ask Savelich a few questions, but the old man shook his head and covered his ears. Annoyed, I closed my eyes and soon fell asleep.

When I woke up, I called for Savelich, but instead of him, I saw Marya Ivanovna before me; her angelic voice greeted me. I cannot express the sweet feeling that overcame me at that moment. I grabbed her hand and pressed my face to it, watering it with tears of emotion. Masha did not pull it away… and suddenly her lips touched my cheek, and I felt their warm and fresh kiss. A fire ran through me. “My dear, kind Marya Ivanovna,” I said to her, “be my wife, agree to my happiness.” She came to her senses. “For God’s sake, calm down,” she said, taking her hand away from me. “You are still in danger: the wound might open. Take care of yourself, at least for my sake.” With that, she left, leaving me in a state of rapturous joy. Happiness brought me back to life. She will be mine! She loves me! This thought filled my entire existence.

From that time on, I got better and better. I was being treated by the regimental barber, as there was no other doctor in the fortress, and, thank God, he didn’t try to be clever. Youth and nature sped up my recovery. The whole commandant’s family was taking care of me. Marya Ivanovna did not leave my side. Of course, at the first convenient opportunity, I resumed our interrupted conversation, and Marya Ivanovna listened to me more patiently. She confessed her sincere affection for me without any coyness and said that her parents would surely be happy for her. “But think carefully,” she added, “will there be no obstacles from your family?”

I became thoughtful. I had no doubt about my mother’s tenderness, but knowing my father’s character and way of thinking, I felt that my love would not move him much and that he would see it as a young man’s folly. I honestly confessed this to Marya Ivanovna and nevertheless decided to write to my father as eloquently as possible, asking for my parents’ blessing. I showed the letter to Marya Ivanovna, who found it so convincing and moving that she had no doubt of its success and surrendered to the feelings of her tender heart with all the trustfulness of youth and love.

I made peace with Shvabrin in the first days of my recovery. Ivan Kuzmich, scolding me for the duel, said: “Eh, Pyotr Andreich! I ought to put you under arrest, but you are already punished enough as it is. But Alexei Ivanych is sitting under guard in my grain store, and his sword is under lock and key with Vasilisa Yegorovna. Let him have time to think and repent.” I was too happy to harbor any feelings of hostility. I began to plead for Shvabrin, and the good commandant, with the consent of his wife, decided to release him. Shvabrin came to me; he expressed deep regret for what had happened between us; he confessed that he was completely to blame and asked me to forget the past. Being by nature not resentful, I sincerely forgave him both our quarrel and the wound I had received from him. In his slander, I saw the annoyance of hurt pride and rejected love, and I magnanimously excused my unfortunate rival.

Soon I recovered and was able to move back to my own quarters. I was impatiently awaiting a reply to the letter I had sent, not daring to hope and trying to stifle my sad premonitions. I had not yet spoken to Vasilisa Yegorovna and her husband about it, but my proposal should not have surprised them. Neither I nor Marya Ivanovna had tried to hide our feelings from them, and we were already sure of their consent.

Finally, one morning Savelich came in, holding a letter in his hands. I snatched it with a tremor. The address was written in my father’s hand. This prepared me for something serious, as my mother usually wrote the letters to me, and he would add a few lines at the end. For a long time, I did not open the package and re-read the solemn inscription: “To my son Pyotr Andreevich Grinyov, to the Orenburg province, to the Belogorsk fortress.” I tried to guess the state of mind in which the letter had been written from the handwriting; finally, I decided to open it and from the very first lines, I saw that everything had gone to hell. The contents of the letter were as follows:

“My son Pyotr! We received your letter, in which you ask for our parental blessing and consent to your marriage with Marya Ivanovna Mironova, on the 15th of this month, and not only do I have no intention of giving you my blessing or my consent, but I also intend to come to you myself and teach you a proper lesson for your pranks like a little boy, despite your officer’s rank: for you have proven that you are not yet worthy of wearing the sword that was granted to you for the defense of the fatherland, and not for duels with such scoundrels as yourself. I will immediately write to Andrei Karlovich, asking him to transfer you from the Belogorsk fortress somewhere further away, where your foolishness will pass. Your mother, upon learning of your duel and that you were wounded, fell ill from grief and is now bedridden. What will become of you? I pray to God that you will mend your ways, though I do not dare to hope for his great mercy.

Your father A. G.”

Upon reading this letter, a variety of emotions stirred within me. The harsh expressions my father did not spare deeply offended me. The scorn with which he spoke of Marya Ivanovna seemed to me as improper as it was unjust. The thought of being transferred from the Belogorsk fortress terrified me, but most of all, I was grieved by the news of my mother’s illness. I was indignant at Savelich, not doubting for a moment that he was the one who had informed my parents about the duel. Pacing back and forth in my cramped room, I stopped in front of him and, looking at him menacingly, said, “It seems you are not satisfied that, thanks to you, I was wounded and on the brink of death for a whole month: now you want to kill my mother as well.” Savelich was thunderstruck. “Have mercy, master,” he said, on the verge of tears. “What are you saying? I am the cause of your wound? God sees, I ran to shield you with my chest from Alexei Ivanych’s sword! My cursed old age got in the way. But what did I do to your mother?” “What did you do?” I replied. “Who asked you to write denunciations about me? Were you assigned to me as a spy?” “I? Wrote denunciations about you?” Savelich replied through tears. “Lord, King of Heaven! Just read what the master writes to me: you’ll see how I denounced you.” With that, he pulled a letter from his pocket, and I read the following:

“Shame on you, you old dog, that despite my strict orders, you did not report to me about my son Pyotr Andreevich, and that outsiders are forced to inform me of his pranks. Is that how you perform your duty and your master’s will? I will send you, you old dog, to herd pigs for concealing the truth and for your connivance with the young man. Upon receiving this, I order you to immediately write to me about his health, which they write to me has improved; and in what exact spot he was wounded and whether he was properly healed.”

It was obvious that Savelich was right and that I had wrongly offended him with my reproach and suspicion. I asked for his forgiveness, but the old man was inconsolable. “This is what my life has come to,” he kept repeating. “This is the kind of kindness I’ve earned from my masters! I’m an old dog, and a swineherd, and I’m the cause of your wound? No, my dear Pyotr Andreich! It’s not me, but that cursed Monsieur who is to blame for everything: he taught you to poke with iron skewers and to stamp your feet, as if poking and stamping could save you from a bad man! We shouldn’t have hired that Monsieur and wasted extra money!”

But who took the trouble to inform my father of my behavior? The general? But he seemed not to care much about me, and Ivan Kuzmich had not thought it necessary to report on my duel. I was at a loss. My suspicions settled on Shvabrin. He was the only one who stood to gain from a denunciation, the consequence of which could be my removal from the fortress and a break with the commandant’s family. I went to tell Marya Ivanovna about everything. She met me on the porch. “What’s wrong with you?” she said, seeing me. “You’re so pale!” “It’s all over!” I replied and handed her my father’s letter. She, in turn, became pale. After reading it, she returned the letter to me with a trembling hand and said in a trembling voice: “It seems it’s not my fate… Your family doesn’t want me in their home. God’s will be done in all things! God knows better than we do what we need. There is nothing to be done, Pyotr Andreich; you should at least be happy…” “That will not happen!” I exclaimed, grabbing her hand. “You love me; I am ready for anything. Let’s go, let’s throw ourselves at your parents’ feet; they are simple people, not hard-hearted proud ones… They will bless us; we will get married… and then, in time, I am sure, we will persuade my father; my mother will be on our side; he will forgive me…” “No, Pyotr Andreich,” Masha replied, “I will not marry you without your parents’ blessing. Without their blessing, you will have no happiness. We must submit to God’s will. If you find your destined one, if you love another, may God be with you, Pyotr Andreich; and I will pray for both of you…” At this, she started crying and left me. I wanted to go into the room after her, but I felt that I was not in a state to control myself, and I returned home.

I sat immersed in deep contemplation, when Savelich suddenly interrupted my thoughts. “Here, master,” he said, handing me a sheet of paper covered in writing, “see for yourself if I am an informer against my master and if I am trying to turn a son against his father.” I took the paper from his hands: it was Savelich’s reply to the letter he had received. Here it is, word for word:

“Sovereign Andrei Petrovich,

Our gracious father!

I have received your gracious writing, in which you are pleased to be angry with me, your servant, that it is a shame for me not to fulfill the master’s orders; but I am not an old dog, but your faithful servant, who listens to the master’s orders and has always served you diligently and lived to have gray hair. I did not write to you about Pyotr Andreich’s wound so as not to frighten you for no reason, and, it is said, our mistress, mother Avdotya Vasilievna, has already taken to her bed from fright, and I will pray to God for her health. Pyotr Andreich was wounded below his right shoulder, in the chest right below the bone, to a depth of an inch and a half, and he lay in the commandant’s house, where we brought him from the riverbank, and he was treated by the local barber Stepan Paramonov; and now, thank God, Pyotr Andreich is well, and there is nothing to write about him but good things. The commanders, it is said, are satisfied with him; and at Vasilisa Yegorovna’s, he is like a son. And that such an incident happened to him is no shame for a young man: a horse has four legs, but it stumbles. And you are pleased to write that you will send me to herd pigs, and that is your lordly will. With this, I humbly bow.

Your faithful serf

Arkhip Saveliev.”

I couldn’t help but smile several times while reading the good old man’s letter. I was not able to reply to my father, and Savelich’s letter seemed sufficient to reassure my mother.

From that time on, my situation changed. Marya Ivanovna hardly spoke to me and tried to avoid me in every way possible. The commandant’s house became a burden to me. Little by little, I got used to sitting alone in my room. At first, Vasilisa Yegorovna would scold me for this, but seeing my stubbornness, she left me in peace. I saw Ivan Kuzmich only when duty required it. I met Shvabrin rarely and reluctantly, especially since I noticed a hidden hostility towards me in him, which confirmed my suspicions. My life became unbearable. I fell into a gloomy melancholy, which was fueled by loneliness and idleness. My love burned more intensely in isolation and became more burdensome to me with each passing hour. I lost my desire for reading and literature. My spirit fell. I was afraid of either going insane or turning to debauchery. Unexpected events, which had a significant impact on my entire life, suddenly gave my soul a powerful and beneficial jolt.

Chapter VI. The Pugachev Rebellion

You, young lads, listen to us,

What we, the old men, are going to tell you.

—  Folk song

Before I begin the description of the strange events of which I was a witness, I must say a few words about the state of the Orenburg province in late 1773.

This vast and wealthy province was inhabited by a multitude of half-savage peoples who had only recently recognized the rule of the Russian sovereigns. Their constant revolts, their lack of a habit for laws and civil life, their frivolity, and their cruelty required constant supervision from the government to keep them in submission. Fortresses were built in what were deemed convenient places, settled for the most part by Cossacks, the long-time inhabitants of the Yaik riverbanks. But the Yaik Cossacks, who were supposed to guard the tranquility and safety of this region, had for some time been restless and dangerous subjects for the government themselves. In 1772, a rebellion took place in their main town. The cause was the strict measures undertaken by Major General Traubenberg to bring the troops into due obedience. The result was the barbaric murder of Traubenberg, an arbitrary change in government, and finally, the quelling of the riot with grapeshot and brutal punishments.

This happened some time before my arrival at the Belogorsk fortress. Everything was already quiet or seemed to be so; the authorities too easily believed in the supposed repentance of the cunning rebels, who harbored malice in secret and waited for a convenient opportunity to renew the disturbances.

I return to my story.

One evening (it was in early October 1773), I was sitting alone at home, listening to the howl of the autumn wind and watching the clouds scud past the moon outside the window. I was summoned on behalf of the commandant. I left immediately. At the commandant’s, I found Shvabrin, Ivan Ignatich, and a Cossack sergeant. Neither Vasilisa Yegorovna nor Marya Ivanovna was in the room. The commandant greeted me with a worried look. He locked the doors, seated everyone except the sergeant, who stood by the door, took a paper out of his pocket, and said to us, “Gentlemen officers, I have important news! Listen to what the general writes.” He then put on his glasses and read the following:

“To Captain Mironov, Commandant of the Belogorsk Fortress.

Confidential.

This is to inform you that the Don Cossack and Old Believer Yemelyan Pugachev, who escaped from custody and committed the unforgivable audacity of taking upon himself the name of the late Emperor Peter III, has gathered a villainous gang, incited a rebellion in the Yaik villages, and has already captured and destroyed several fortresses, committing robbery and murder everywhere. Therefore, upon receiving this, you, Mr. Captain, are to immediately take the necessary measures to repel the aforementioned villain and impostor, and, if possible, to completely annihilate him, should he turn toward the fortress entrusted to your care.”

“To take the necessary measures!” said the commandant, taking off his glasses and folding the paper. “Listen to that, easy to say. The villain, it seems, is strong, and we have only one hundred and thirty men, not counting the Cossacks, on whom there is little hope, with no offense intended, Maksimych.” (The sergeant grinned.) “However, there is nothing to be done, gentlemen officers! Be prepared, set up guards and night patrols; in case of an attack, lock the gates and bring out the soldiers. You, Maksimych, keep a close eye on your Cossacks. Inspect the cannon and clean it properly. And most of all, keep all of this a secret, so that no one in the fortress can find out about it prematurely.”

After giving these orders, Ivan Kuzmich dismissed us. I went out with Shvabrin, discussing what we had heard. “What do you think will come of this?” I asked him. “God knows,” he replied. “We’ll see. I don’t see anything important just yet. But if…” At this, he became thoughtful and absentmindedly began to whistle a French tune.

Despite all our precautions, the news of Pugachev’s appearance spread throughout the fortress. Ivan Kuzmich, though he greatly respected his wife, would not for anything in the world have revealed a secret entrusted to him by the service. After receiving the letter from the general, he quite cleverly sent Vasilisa Yegorovna away, telling her that Father Gerasim had received some amazing news from Orenburg, which he was keeping a great secret. Vasilisa Yegorovna immediately wanted to go visit the priest’s wife and, on Ivan Kuzmich’s advice, took Masha with her so that she wouldn’t be bored alone.

Ivan Kuzmich, now in complete control, immediately sent for us, and locked Palashka in the storeroom so that she could not eavesdrop.

Vasilisa Yegorovna returned home without having learned anything from the priest’s wife and found out that there had been a meeting with Ivan Kuzmich during her absence and that Palashka had been under lock and key. She guessed that she had been deceived by her husband and began to question him. But Ivan Kuzmich was prepared for the attack. He was not at all flustered and boldly replied to his curious partner: “Listen, my dear, our women decided to light their stoves with straw, and since that could lead to misfortune, I gave a strict order that from now on, the women are not to light their stoves with straw, but with brushwood and deadwood.” “And why did you have to lock Palashka up?” asked the commandant’s wife. “What did the poor girl do to sit in the storeroom until we got back?” Ivan Kuzmich was not prepared for such a question; he became flustered and mumbled something very incoherent. Vasilisa Yegorovna saw through her husband’s deception, but knowing that she would not get anything out of him, she stopped her questioning and started talking about the pickled cucumbers that Akulina Pamfilovna prepared in a very special way. All night long, Vasilisa Yegorovna could not fall asleep and could not for the life of her guess what could have been on her husband’s mind that she was not allowed to know.

The next day, on her way back from church, she saw Ivan Ignatich pulling out rags, pebbles, splinters, knuckle-bones, and all sorts of other junk that the children had shoved into the cannon. “What could all these military preparations mean?” the commandant’s wife wondered. “Surely they’re not expecting an attack from the Kirghiz? But would Ivan Kuzmich really hide such trifles from me?” She called Ivan Ignatich over, with the firm intention of prying out the secret that was tormenting her feminine curiosity.

Vasilisa Yegorovna made a few remarks to him about household matters, like a judge who begins an investigation with irrelevant questions in order to first lull the caution of the defendant. Then, after a few minutes of silence, she sighed deeply and, shaking her head, said: “Oh, my God! Just look at the news! What will come of this?”

“Oh, my dear!” replied Ivan Ignatich. “God is merciful: we have enough soldiers, plenty of gunpowder, and I have cleaned the cannon. Maybe we’ll be able to repel Pugachev. God won’t abandon us, and the pig won’t eat us!”

“And what kind of person is this Pugachev?” asked the commandant’s wife.

At this, Ivan Ignatich realized that he had let it slip and bit his tongue. But it was already too late. Vasilisa Yegorovna forced him to confess everything, making him promise not to tell anyone.

Vasilisa Yegorovna kept her promise and did not say a word to anyone, except for the priest’s wife, and only because her cow was still out on the steppes and could be captured by the villains.

Soon everyone was talking about Pugachev. The rumors were varied. The commandant sent the sergeant on a mission to find out everything he could in the neighboring villages and fortresses. The sergeant returned two days later and reported that he had seen many fires on the steppe about sixty miles from the fortress and had heard from the Bashkirs that an unknown force was approaching. However, he could not say anything definite because he was afraid to go any farther.

An unusual agitation became noticeable among the Cossacks in the fortress; on all the streets, they gathered in small groups, talked quietly among themselves, and dispersed when they saw a dragoon or a garrison soldier. Spies were sent to them. Yulai, a baptized Kalmyk, made an important report to the commandant. According to Yulai, the sergeant’s testimony was false: upon his return, the cunning Cossack had told his comrades that he had been with the rebels, had been introduced to their leader himself, who had allowed him to kiss his hand and had talked with him for a long time. The commandant immediately put the sergeant under arrest and appointed Yulai in his place. This news was met by the Cossacks with obvious displeasure. They grumbled loudly, and Ivan Ignatich, who was carrying out the commandant’s order, heard with his own ears them saying: “You’ll get yours soon enough, garrison rat!” The commandant intended to question his prisoner the same day, but the sergeant escaped from custody, probably with the help of his sympathizers.

A new circumstance increased the commandant’s anxiety. A Bashkir man was caught with rebellious leaflets. On this occasion, the commandant decided to gather his officers again and for that purpose, he wanted to remove Vasilisa Yegorovna again under a plausible pretext. But since Ivan Kuzmich was a most straightforward and truthful man, he could not find any other method than the one he had already used once.

“Listen, Vasilisa Yegorovna,” he said, clearing his throat. “Father Gerasim, they say, received from the city…” “Stop lying, Ivan Kuzmich,” the commandant’s wife interrupted. “You want to gather a meeting and discuss Yemelyan Pugachev without me. But you can’t trick me!” Ivan Kuzmich’s eyes widened. “Well, my dear,” he said, “if you already know everything, then please stay; we will talk with you here.” “That’s right, my dear,” she replied. “It’s not for you to be cunning; now send for the officers.”

We gathered again. In the presence of his wife, Ivan Kuzmich read us Pugachev’s proclamation, written by some semi-literate Cossack. The bandit declared his intention to immediately march on our fortress; he invited the Cossacks and soldiers to join his gang and warned the commanders not to resist, threatening them with execution in the event of disobedience. The proclamation was written in crude but powerful language and must have made a dangerous impression on the minds of simple people.

“What a scoundrel!” exclaimed the commandant’s wife. “What does he dare to offer us! To go out to meet him and lay our banners at his feet! Oh, that son of a bitch! Doesn’t he know that we have been in the service for forty years and, thank God, have seen it all? Surely there were no such commanders who obeyed a bandit?”

“It doesn’t seem like there should have been,” replied Ivan Kuzmich. “But it is said that the villain has already taken many fortresses.”

“It seems he really is strong,” Shvabrin remarked.

“Well, we’ll find out his real strength right now,” said the commandant. “Vasilisa Yegorovna, give me the key to the storeroom. Ivan Ignatich, bring the Bashkir man here and tell Yulai to bring some whips.”

“Wait, Ivan Kuzmich,” said the commandant’s wife, getting up. “Let me take Masha out of the house somewhere; otherwise, she will hear the screaming and get scared. And to be honest, I’m not a fan of interrogations myself. I’ll leave you to it.”

In the old days, torture was so ingrained in the customs of jurisprudence that the beneficial decree that abolished it remained without any effect for a long time. It was thought that the criminal’s own confession was necessary for his full conviction — a notion not only unfounded but also completely contrary to sound legal sense, for if the defendant’s denial is not accepted as proof of his innocence, then his confession should be even less proof of his guilt. Even today, I sometimes hear old judges regretting the abolition of this barbaric custom. In our time, however, no one doubted the necessity of torture, neither judges nor defendants. And so, the commandant’s order did not surprise or alarm any of us. Ivan Ignatich went to get the Bashkir man, who was locked in the storeroom by the commandant’s wife, and a few minutes later the captive was brought into the antechamber. The commandant ordered him to be brought to him.

The Bashkir man with difficulty stepped over the threshold (he was in stocks) and, taking off his tall hat, stopped at the door. I looked at him and shuddered. I will never forget this man. He seemed to be over seventy years old. He had no nose or ears. His head was shaven; instead of a beard, a few gray hairs stuck out; he was small, thin, and hunched over, but his narrow eyes still sparkled with fire. “Aha!” said the commandant, recognizing by his terrible features one of the rebels punished in 1741. “You, old wolf, have been in our traps, I see. You’ve revolted more than once, to have your head shaven so cleanly. Come closer; tell me, who sent you?”

The old Bashkir man remained silent and looked at the commandant with a completely mindless expression. “Why are you silent?” continued Ivan Kuzmich. “Do you not understand Russian? Yulai, ask him in your language who sent him to our fortress?”

Yulai repeated Ivan Kuzmich’s question in Tatar. But the Bashkir man looked at him with the same expression and did not answer a word.

“Yakshi,” said the commandant, “you’ll speak to me. Boys! Take off his foolish striped robe and scourge his back. And you, Yulai: do it well!”

Two invalids began to undress the Bashkir man. The face of the unfortunate man showed anxiety. He looked around in all directions, like a small animal caught by children. When one of the invalids took his hands and, putting them around his neck, lifted the old man onto his shoulders, and Yulai took the whip and raised it to strike, the Bashkir man groaned in a weak, pleading voice and, nodding his head, opened his mouth, in which a short stump wiggled instead of a tongue.

When I recall that this happened in my lifetime and that now I have lived to see the gentle reign of Emperor Alexander, I cannot help but be amazed at the rapid progress of enlightenment and the spread of humanitarian principles. Young man! If my notes should fall into your hands, remember that the best and most lasting changes are those that come from the improvement of morals, without any violent upheavals.

Everyone was shocked. “Well,” said the commandant, “it’s clear that we won’t get anything out of him. Yulai, take the Bashkir man back to the storeroom. And we, gentlemen, will talk about something else.”

We began to discuss our situation, when suddenly Vasilisa Yegorovna came into the room, out of breath and with an extremely agitated look.

“What happened to you?” the astonished commandant asked.

“Oh, my dears, it’s trouble!” Vasilisa Yegorovna replied. “Nizhneozyornaya was taken this morning. Father Gerasim’s servant just returned from there. He saw them taking it. The commandant and all the officers were hanged. All the soldiers were taken prisoner. Any minute now the villains will be here.”

The unexpected news struck me hard. The commandant of the Nizhneozyornaya fortress, a quiet and modest young man, was known to me: about two months before, he had been traveling from Orenburg with his young wife and had stopped at Ivan Kuzmich’s. Nizhneozyornaya was about twenty-five miles from our fortress. We could expect Pugachev’s attack at any hour. Marya Ivanovna’s fate flashed before my eyes, and my heart just froze.

“Listen, Ivan Kuzmich!” I said to the commandant. “It’s our duty to defend the fortress to our last breath; there’s no need to discuss that. But we must think about the safety of the women. Send them to Orenburg, if the road is still clear, or to a more distant, more secure fortress that the villains would not be able to reach.”

Ivan Kuzmich turned to his wife and said to her, “Listen, my dear, what if we send you away for a while, until we deal with these rebels?”

“Oh, that’s nonsense!” said the commandant’s wife. “Where is there a fortress where bullets don’t fly? What’s wrong with Belogorsk? Thank God, we’ve lived here for twenty-two years. We’ve seen both the Bashkirs and the Kirghiz, so we’ll probably hold out against Pugachev, too!”

“Well, my dear,” Ivan Kuzmich countered, “stay, by all means, if you’re so confident in our fortress. But what should we do with Masha? It’ll be fine if we hold out or wait for reinforcements, but what if the villains take the fortress?”

“Well, then…” Vasilisa Yegorovna faltered and fell silent, looking extremely agitated.

“No, Vasilisa Yegorovna,” the commandant continued, noticing that his words had had an effect, perhaps for the first time in his life. “Masha shouldn’t stay here. We’ll send her to Orenburg to her godmother. There are enough troops and cannons there, and a stone wall. And I would advise you to go with her, too; you may be an old woman, but just think what will happen to you if they storm the fortress.”

“Alright,” said the commandant’s wife. “So be it, we’ll send Masha. But don’t ask me even in your sleep: I won’t go. In my old age, I have no reason to part with you and seek a lonely grave in a strange land. We will live together, and we will die together.”

“That’s a fair point,” said the commandant. “Well, there’s no time to delay. Go and get Masha ready for the journey. We’ll send her off tomorrow at first light, and we’ll give her a convoy, even though we have no spare men. But where is Masha?”

“At Akulina Pamfilovna’s,” the commandant’s wife replied. “She felt ill when she heard about the capture of Nizhneozyornaya; I’m afraid she might get sick. Lord, what has our life come to!”

Vasilisa Yegorovna left to make arrangements for her daughter’s departure. The conversation with the commandant continued, but I no longer took part in it and did not listen to anything. Marya Ivanovna came to supper pale and tear-stained. We had supper in silence and got up from the table earlier than usual. After saying goodbye to the whole family, we went to our homes. But I purposely forgot my sword and returned for it; I had a premonition that I would find Marya Ivanovna alone. Indeed, she met me at the door and handed me the sword.

“Farewell, Pyotr Andreich!” she said to me through tears. “They are sending me to Orenburg. Stay safe and be happy. Perhaps God will bring us together again; if not…” Here she began to sob.

I embraced her.

“Farewell, my angel,” I said, “farewell, my dear, my beloved! Whatever happens to me, know that my last thought and my last prayer will be for you!”

Masha was sobbing, clinging to my chest. I kissed her passionately and hurriedly left the room.

Chapter VII. The Attack

“My head, my dear head,

My head has served so long!

My dear head has served

For exactly thirty years and three.

Ah, my head has not earned

Any profit for itself, or joy,

Not a single kind word,

And not a single high rank;

My head has only earned

Two tall posts,

A maple crossbeam,

And a silken noose.”

—  Folk song

I did not sleep or undress that night. I intended to go to the fortress gates at dawn, where Marya Ivanovna was supposed to leave from, and say goodbye to her for the last time. I felt a great change within me: the turmoil of my soul was much less burdensome than the despondency I had been plunged into recently. The sorrow of parting was mixed with vague but sweet hopes, the impatient anticipation of danger, and feelings of noble ambition. The night passed unnoticed. I was about to leave the house when my door opened and a corporal appeared to report that our Cossacks had left the fortress during the night, forcibly taking Yulai with them, and that unknown people were riding around the fortress. The thought that Marya Ivanovna would not be able to leave terrified me; I hastily gave the corporal some instructions and immediately rushed to the commandant.

It was already dawning. I was running down the street when I heard someone calling me. I stopped. “Where are you going?” said Ivan Ignatich, catching up to me. “Ivan Kuzmich is on the rampart and sent me for you. Pugachev has arrived.” “Has Marya Ivanovna left?” I asked with a trembling heart. “She didn’t make it,” Ivan Ignatich replied. “The road to Orenburg is cut off; the fortress is surrounded. This is bad, Pyotr Andreich!”

We went to the rampart, a natural elevation fortified with a palisade. All the inhabitants of the fortress were already gathered there. The garrison was under arms. The cannon had been dragged there the day before. The commandant was pacing in front of his small formation. The proximity of danger animated the old warrior with unusual cheerfulness. On the steppe, not far from the fortress, about twenty men were riding on horseback. They seemed to be Cossacks, but among them were also Bashkirs, who could be easily recognized by their lynx-fur hats and quivers. The commandant went around his troops, saying to the soldiers: “Well, children, today we stand for our mother empress and show the whole world that we are brave and loyal men!” The soldiers loudly expressed their zeal. Shvabrin stood next to me and stared intently at the enemy. The men riding on the steppe, noticing the movement in the fortress, gathered in a group and began to talk among themselves. The commandant ordered Ivan Ignatich to aim the cannon at their crowd and lit the fuse himself. The cannonball whizzed and flew over them without causing any harm. The horsemen, scattering, immediately galloped out of sight, and the steppe became empty.

Then Vasilisa Yegorovna appeared on the rampart, and with her, Masha, who did not want to leave her side. “Well, what is it?” said the commandant’s wife. “How is the battle going? Where is the enemy?” “The enemy is not far,” Ivan Kuzmich replied. “God willing, everything will be fine. Masha, are you scared?” “No, Papa,” Marya Ivanovna replied, “it’s more frightening to be alone at home.” At this, she looked at me and forced a smile. I involuntarily clenched the hilt of my sword, remembering that I had received it from her hands the day before, as if to defend my beloved. My heart was burning. I imagined myself as her knight. I was eager to prove that I was worthy of her trust and began to impatiently await the decisive moment.

At this time, from behind a hill, which was half a verst from the fortress, new groups of horsemen appeared, and soon the steppe was dotted with a multitude of men armed with spears and quivers. Among them, a man on a white horse was riding in a red kaftan, with a drawn saber in his hand: it was Pugachev himself. He stopped; he was surrounded, and, apparently at his command, four men separated and galloped at full speed right up to the fortress. We recognized them as our traitors. One of them held a sheet of paper under his hat; another had the head of Yulai stuck on his spear, which he shook off and threw over the palisade towards us. The head of the poor Kalmyk fell at the commandant’s feet. The traitors shouted: “Don’t shoot; come out to the sovereign. The sovereign is here!”

“You’ll get it from me!” Ivan Kuzmich shouted. “Boys! Fire!” Our soldiers fired a volley. The Cossack holding the letter staggered and fell from his horse; the others galloped back. I looked at Marya Ivanovna. Stunned by the sight of Yulai’s bloody head and deafened by the volley, she seemed unconscious. The commandant called the corporal and ordered him to take the sheet of paper from the hands of the dead Cossack. The corporal went out into the field and returned, leading the dead man’s horse by the bridle. He handed the letter to the commandant. Ivan Kuzmich read it to himself and then tore it into shreds. In the meantime, the rebels were visibly preparing for action. Soon, bullets began to whistle around our ears, and several arrows stuck into the ground and the palisade near us. “Vasilisa Yegorovna!” said the commandant. “This is no place for women; take Masha away; you see: the girl is half-dead with fear.”

Vasilisa Yegorovna, who had quieted down under the bullets, looked at the steppe, where there was a lot of movement; then she turned to her husband and said to him: “Ivan Kuzmich, God has power over life and death: bless Masha. Masha, come to your father.”

Masha, pale and trembling, approached Ivan Kuzmich, knelt down, and bowed to him. The old commandant crossed her three times; then he lifted her and, after kissing her, said in a changed voice: “Well, Masha, be happy. Pray to God: He will not abandon you. If you find a good man, may God give you love and counsel. Live as we have lived, I and Vasilisa Yegorovna. Well, farewell, Masha. Vasilisa Yegorovna, take her away quickly.” (Masha threw herself around his neck and began to sob.) “Let’s kiss each other goodbye, too,” said the commandant’s wife, starting to cry. “Farewell, my Ivan Kuzmich. Forgive me if I ever annoyed you in any way!” “Farewell, farewell, my dear!” said the commandant, embracing his old wife. “Now, enough! Go, go home; and if you can, put a sarafan on Masha.” The commandant’s wife and her daughter withdrew. I watched Marya Ivanovna as she left; she looked back and nodded to me. Then Ivan Kuzmich turned to us, and all his attention was focused on the enemy. The rebels were gathering around their leader and suddenly began to dismount. “Now stand firm,” said the commandant, “the attack is coming…” At that moment, a terrible shriek and shouting erupted; the rebels ran toward the fortress. Our cannon was loaded with grapeshot. The commandant let them get very close and then fired again. The grapeshot hit the very center of the crowd. The rebels surged back on both sides and retreated. Their leader remained alone in front… He waved his saber and seemed to be passionately urging them on… The shouting and shrieking, which had subsided for a minute, immediately resumed. “Well, boys,” said the commandant, “now open the gates, beat the drum. Boys! Forward, on a sally, follow me!”

The commandant, Ivan Ignatich, and I were instantly outside the fortress wall; but the disheartened garrison did not move. “Why are you standing there, children?” Ivan Kuzmich shouted. “If we must die, we must die: it is a soldier’s duty!” At that moment, the rebels rushed upon us and burst into the fortress. The drum fell silent; the garrison dropped their rifles; I was knocked off my feet, but I got up and entered the fortress with the rebels. The commandant, wounded in the head, stood in a group of villains who were demanding the keys from him. I rushed to his aid: several sturdy Cossacks grabbed me and tied me up with sashes, saying: “You’ll get what’s coming to you, you sovereign’s disobedient dog!” We were dragged through the streets; the inhabitants came out of their houses with bread and salt. The ringing of bells could be heard. Suddenly, someone in the crowd shouted that the sovereign was waiting for the captives on the square and was accepting oaths of allegiance. The people flocked to the square; we were driven there as well.

Pugachev was sitting in an armchair on the porch of the commandant’s house. He was wearing a red Cossack kaftan trimmed with galloon. A tall sable hat with golden tassels was pulled down over his gleaming eyes. His face seemed familiar to me. Cossack elders surrounded him. Father Gerasim, pale and trembling, stood by the porch, with a cross in his hands, and seemed to be silently pleading for the victims before him. A gallows was being hastily erected on the square. As we approached, the Bashkirs drove the crowd away and presented us to Pugachev. The ringing of bells subsided; a deep silence fell. “Who is the commandant?” the impostor asked. Our sergeant stepped out of the crowd and pointed to Ivan Kuzmich. Pugachev looked at the old man sternly and said to him: “How did you dare to resist me, your sovereign?” The commandant, exhausted from his wound, gathered his last strength and replied in a firm voice: “You are not my sovereign; you are a thief and an impostor, you hear me!” Pugachev frowned gloomily and waved a white handkerchief. Several Cossacks grabbed the old captain and dragged him to the gallows. The mutilated Bashkir man, whom we had questioned the day before, was astride its crossbeam. He held a rope in his hand, and a minute later I saw poor Ivan Kuzmich, hoisted into the air. Then Ivan Ignatich was brought before Pugachev. “Swear allegiance,” Pugachev said to him, “to the sovereign Pyotr Fyodorovich!” “You are not our sovereign,” Ivan Ignatich replied, repeating his captain’s words. “You, uncle, are a thief and an impostor!” Pugachev waved his handkerchief again, and the good lieutenant hung next to his old commander.

It was my turn. I looked boldly at Pugachev, preparing to repeat the answer of my magnanimous comrades. Then, to my indescribable astonishment, I saw Shvabrin among the rebellious elders, with his head shorn in a circle and wearing a Cossack kaftan. He approached Pugachev and said a few words to him in his ear. “Hang him!” Pugachev said, not even looking at me. They put a noose around my neck. I began to recite a prayer to myself, offering God my sincere repentance for all my sins and praying for the salvation of everyone dear to my heart. They dragged me under the gallows. “Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid,” my executioners repeated to me, perhaps genuinely wanting to cheer me up. Suddenly I heard a cry: “Stop, you wicked men! Wait!…” The executioners stopped. I look: Savelich is lying at Pugachev’s feet. “My dear father!” the poor valet said. “What good is the death of a master’s child to you? Let him go; they will give you a ransom for him; and for the sake of example and fear, order me, an old man, to be hanged instead!” Pugachev gave a sign, and I was immediately untied and released. “Our father has shown you mercy,” they said to me. At that moment, I cannot say that I was happy about my deliverance, but I cannot say that I regretted it either. My feelings were too confused. They brought me back to the impostor and made me kneel before him. Pugachev held out his sinewy hand to me. “Kiss his hand, kiss his hand!” they said around me. But I would have preferred the most cruel execution to such a vile humiliation. “My dear Pyotr Andreich!” Savelich whispered, standing behind me and pushing me. “Don’t be stubborn! What does it cost you? Spit and kiss the villain’s… (pah!) kiss his hand.” I did not move. Pugachev lowered his hand, saying with a smirk: “His Honor, it seems, has gone numb with joy. Pick him up!” I was lifted and set free. I began to watch the continuation of the terrible comedy.

The inhabitants began to swear allegiance. They came one by one, kissing the cross and then bowing to the impostor. The garrison soldiers stood there as well. The company tailor, armed with his blunt scissors, cut off their pigtails. They, shaking themselves off, came up to Pugachev’s hand, who declared them forgiven and accepted them into his gang. All this continued for about three hours. Finally, Pugachev got up from his armchair and descended the porch steps, accompanied by his elders. A white horse, decorated with rich harness, was brought to him. Two Cossacks took him by the arms and seated him in the saddle. He announced to Father Gerasim that he would be dining at his house. At that moment, a woman’s shriek rang out. Several bandits dragged Vasilisa Yegorovna onto the porch, disheveled and stripped naked. One of them had already managed to dress up in her quilted jacket. Others were dragging away featherbeds, chests, tea sets, linens, and all sorts of other junk. “Oh, my dears!” the poor old woman cried. “Let me save my soul. My dear fathers, take me to Ivan Kuzmich.” Suddenly she looked at the gallows and recognized her husband. “Villains!” she screamed in a frenzy. “What have you done to him? My light, Ivan Kuzmich, a brave soldier’s head! Neither Prussian bayonets nor Turkish bullets touched you; you did not lay down your life in an honest battle, but perished at the hands of an escaped convict!” “Silence the old witch!” Pugachev said. At this, a young Cossack struck her on the head with his saber, and she fell dead on the steps of the porch. Pugachev rode away; the people rushed after him.

Chapter VIII. The Uninvited Guest

“An uninvited guest is worse than a Tatar.”

—  Proverb

The square was deserted. I stood in the same place and could not bring my thoughts to order, confused by such terrible impressions.

The uncertainty of Marya Ivanovna’s fate tormented me most of all. Where was she? What had happened to her? Had she managed to hide? Was her hiding place secure?… Full of anxious thoughts, I entered the commandant’s house… Everything was empty; chairs, tables, and chests were broken; dishes were smashed; everything had been plundered. I ran up the small staircase that led to the drawing-room and for the first time in my life entered Marya Ivanovna’s room. I saw her bed, which had been ransacked by the bandits; the closet was broken open and robbed; a lamp was still flickering before an empty icon case. The little mirror hanging in the space between the windows had survived… Where was the owner of this humble, maidenly cell? A terrible thought flashed through my mind: I imagined her in the hands of the bandits… My heart sank… I wept bitterly, bitterly and loudly uttered the name of my beloved… At that moment, I heard a slight noise, and Palashka, pale and trembling, appeared from behind the closet.

“Oh, Pyotr Andreich!” she said, wringing her hands. “What a day! What passions!…”

“And Marya Ivanovna?” I asked impatiently. “What about Marya Ivanovna?”

“The young lady is alive,” replied Palashka. “She is hidden at Akulina Pamfilovna’s.”

“At the priest’s wife’s!” I cried out in horror. “My God! But Pugachev is there!…”

I rushed out of the room, found myself on the street in an instant, and ran headlong to the priest’s house, seeing and feeling nothing. There, shouts, laughter, and songs could be heard… Pugachev was feasting with his comrades. Palashka ran after me there. I sent her to quietly call Akulina Pamfilovna out. A minute later, the priest’s wife came out to me in the entryway with an empty decanter in her hands.

“For God’s sake! Where is Marya Ivanovna?” I asked with inexpressible agitation.

“She is lying on my bed, my little dove, behind the screen there,” the priest’s wife replied. “Well, Pyotr Andreich, a disaster almost happened, but thank God everything went well: the villain had just sat down to dinner when she, my poor dear, came to and groaned!… I nearly died right there. He heard it: ‘And who is groaning there, old woman?’ I bowed to the thief: ‘My niece, sovereign; she fell ill, she’s been lying there for a whole week.’ ‘Is your niece young?’ ‘She’s young, sovereign.’ ‘Then show me your niece, old woman.’ My heart just sank, but there was nothing I could do. ‘By all means, sovereign; but the girl can’t get up and come to your grace.’ ‘It’s nothing, old woman, I’ll go and have a look myself.’ And the cursed man really did go behind the screen; can you believe it! He pulled back the curtain, looked with his hawk-like eyes!  —  and nothing… God got us through it! And do you believe me, my husband and I had already prepared ourselves for a martyr’s death. Fortunately, she, my little dove, did not recognize him. Lord Almighty, we’ve had a celebration! Nothing more to say! Poor Ivan Kuzmich! Who would have thought!… And Vasilisa Yegorovna? And Ivan Ignatich? Why him, too?… How were you spared? And what about Shvabrin, Alexei Ivanych? He shaved his head in a circle and is now feasting with them right here! He’s a sharp one, I’ll say. And when I said something about my sick niece, do you believe me, he looked at me as if with a knife, but he didn’t give her away, and I thank him for that.” At that moment, the drunken shouts of the guests and the voice of Father Gerasim rang out. The guests were demanding wine, and the host was calling his wife. The priest’s wife became flustered. “Go home, Pyotr Andreich,” she said, “I have no time for you now; the villains are having a drinking party. It would be a disaster if you fell into their drunken hands. Farewell, Pyotr Andreich. Whatever happens, happens; God will not abandon us, I hope.”

The priest’s wife left. Somewhat reassured, I went to my quarters. Passing the square, I saw several Bashkirs who were huddled around the gallows and pulling the boots off the hanged men; I with difficulty restrained a surge of indignation, feeling the uselessness of intervention. Bandits were running through the fortress, plundering the officers’ houses. Everywhere the shouts of drunken rebels could be heard. I arrived home. Savelich met me at the threshold. “Thank God!” he cried, seeing me. “I was thinking that the villains had caught you again. Well, my dear Pyotr Andreich! Do you believe it? They’ve plundered everything from us, the scoundrels: clothes, linens, things, dishes — they didn’t leave anything. But what does it matter! Thank God they let you go alive! And did you recognize the chieftain, master?”

“No, I didn’t; and who is he?”

“What, my dear master? Have you forgotten that drunkard who wheedled the sheepskin coat out of you at the inn? The brand new hare’s sheepskin coat; and he, the beast, just ripped it right open, putting it on himself!”

I was amazed. In truth, Pugachev’s resemblance to my guide was striking. I was convinced that Pugachev and he were one and the same person, and I then understood the reason for the mercy shown to me. I could not help but be surprised by the strange combination of circumstances: a child’s sheepskin coat, given to a vagrant, saved me from the noose, and a drunkard who wandered around inns was besieging fortresses and shaking the state!

“Would you like to have something to eat?” Savelich asked, unchanging in his habits. “There’s nothing at home; I’ll go rummage around and prepare something for you.”

Left alone, I became lost in thought. What was I to do? To remain in a fortress subordinate to a villain, or to follow his gang, was unbefitting an officer. Duty demanded that I appear where my service could still be useful to the fatherland in the present difficult circumstances… But love strongly advised me to stay with Marya Ivanovna and be her defender and protector. Although I foresaw a quick and certain change in circumstances, I still could not help but tremble, imagining the danger of her position.

My reflections were interrupted by the arrival of one of the Cossacks, who ran up to announce that “the great sovereign demands you to his presence.” “Where is he?” I asked, preparing to obey.

“At the commandant’s,” the Cossack replied. “After dinner, our father went to the bathhouse, and now he is resting. Well, your honor, it is clear he is a notable person: he was pleased to eat two roasted piglets for dinner, and he steams himself so hot that even Taras Kurochkin couldn’t stand it, gave the whisk to Fomka Bikbayev, and barely recovered with cold water. No question about it: all his manners are so important… And in the bathhouse, it is said, he showed his royal marks on his chest: on one, a two-headed eagle, the size of a five-kopeck coin, and on the other, his own person.”

I did not consider it necessary to dispute the Cossack’s opinion and went with him to the commandant’s house, imagining my meeting with Pugachev in advance and trying to guess how it would end. The reader can easily imagine that I was not completely calm.

It was beginning to get dark when I arrived at the commandant’s house. The gallows with its victims was a terrible black silhouette. The body of the poor commandant’s wife was still lying under the porch, where two Cossacks stood on guard. The Cossack who had brought me went to report my arrival and, returning immediately, led me into the same room where I had so tenderly said goodbye to Marya Ivanovna the day before.

An unusual scene presented itself to me: at a table covered with a tablecloth and set with decanters and glasses, Pugachev and about ten Cossack elders were sitting, wearing hats and colorful shirts, flushed with wine, with red faces and gleaming eyes. Neither Shvabrin nor our sergeant, the newly recruited traitors, was among them. “Ah, your honor!” said Pugachev, seeing me. “Welcome; a place of honor, you are most welcome.” The companions moved aside. I sat silently at the edge of the table. My neighbor, a young Cossack, slender and handsome, poured me a glass of ordinary wine, which I did not touch. I began to curiously examine the gathering. Pugachev sat at the head of the table, leaning on it and propping his black beard with his wide fist. The features of his face, regular and quite pleasant, showed nothing fierce. He often addressed a man of about fifty, calling him sometimes Count, sometimes Timofeyich, and sometimes dignifying him with the title of uncle. Everyone treated each other as comrades and showed no special deference to their leader. The conversation was about the morning’s attack, the success of the rebellion, and future actions. Everyone boasted, offered their opinions, and freely challenged Pugachev. And it was at this strange military council that it was decided to march on Orenburg: a daring move that was almost crowned with a disastrous success! The campaign was announced for the next day. “Well, brothers,” said Pugachev, “let’s sing my favorite song before we sleep. Chumakov! Start!” My neighbor sang in a thin voice a mournful barge hauler’s song, and everyone joined in the chorus:

“Do not rustle, green mother oak grove,

Do not prevent a good young man from thinking his thoughts.

For tomorrow I, a good young man, must go to questioning

Before the terrible judge, the tsar himself.

And the sovereign tsar will begin to ask me:

Tell me, tell me, you peasant’s son,

With whom did you steal, with whom did you plunder,

And how many comrades did you have with you?

I will tell you, my hope, Orthodox tsar,

I will tell you all the truth, all the sincerity,

That I had four comrades:

The first of my comrades is the dark night,

And my second comrade is the steel knife,

And my third comrade is my good horse,

And my fourth comrade is the taut bow,

And my messengers are the heated arrows.

The sovereign Orthodox tsar will say:

Well done to you, peasant’s son,

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

For this, my boy, I will grant you

A high mansion in the middle of a field,

With two pillars and a crossbeam.”

It is impossible to describe the effect this folk song about the gallows, sung by people destined for the gallows, had on me. Their menacing faces, their harmonious voices, the mournful expression they gave to the already expressive words — everything shook me with a kind of poetic horror.

The guests each drank another glass, got up from the table, and said goodbye to Pugachev. I wanted to follow them, but Pugachev said to me: “Sit; I want to talk to you.” We were left alone.

A few minutes of mutual silence passed. Pugachev looked at me intently, occasionally squinting his left eye with a look of surprising cunning and mockery. Finally, he laughed, and with such genuine merriment that I, looking at him, also began to laugh, not knowing why.

“What, your honor?” he said to me. “You were scared, admit it, when my lads put the rope around your neck? I bet the sky looked like a sheepskin… And you would have swung from that crossbar if it weren’t for your servant. I recognized the old grumbler right away. Well, did you ever think, your honor, that the man who led you to the inn was the great sovereign himself?” (Here he adopted a serious and mysterious look.) “You are deeply at fault before me,” he continued, “but I have shown you mercy for your virtue, for the service you rendered me when I was forced to hide from my enemies. You’ll see even more! I’ll reward you even more when I get my state! Do you promise to serve me with zeal?”

The rogue’s question and his audacity seemed so amusing to me that I couldn’t help but smile.

“Why are you smiling?” he asked me, frowning. “Or do you not believe that I am the great sovereign? Answer me directly.”

I was confused: I was unable to recognize a vagrant as my sovereign; it seemed to me an unforgivable act of cowardice. To call him a deceiver to his face was to expose myself to ruin; and what I had been ready to do under the gallows in front of everyone and in the first heat of indignation, now seemed like useless bravado. I hesitated. Pugachev waited gloomily for my answer. Finally (and even now I recall that moment with satisfaction), a sense of duty triumphed over human weakness within me. I replied to Pugachev: “Listen; I will tell you the whole truth. Consider, can I recognize you as my sovereign? You are an intelligent man; you would see for yourself that I am being deceitful.”

“Who am I, then, in your opinion?”

“God knows who you are; but whoever you are, you are playing a dangerous game.”

Pugachev looked at me sharply. “So you don’t believe,” he said, “that I am the sovereign Pyotr Fyodorovich? Well, fine. But does a brave man have no luck? Did Grishka Otrepyev not reign in the old days? Think whatever you want about me, but don’t leave me. What do you care about anything else? Anyone can be a priest, as long as he’s a good man. Serve me faithfully and truthfully, and I will make you a field marshal and a prince. What do you think?”

“No,” I replied with firmness. “I am a hereditary nobleman; I have sworn allegiance to the Empress. I cannot serve you. If you truly wish me well, then let me go to Orenburg.”

Pugachev became thoughtful. “And if I let you go,” he said, “do you at least promise not to serve against me?”

“How can I promise you that?” I replied. “You know yourself, it’s not my will: if they order me to go against you, I’ll go, there’s nothing else to do. You are a commander yourself now; you yourself demand obedience from your people. What would it look like if I refused to serve when my service is needed? My head is in your power: if you let me go, thank you; if you execute me, God be your judge; but I have told you the truth.”

My sincerity struck Pugachev. “So be it,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder. “To execute is to execute, to show mercy is to show mercy. Go to all four sides and do whatever you want. Come to say goodbye to me tomorrow, but now go to sleep, for I am also getting sleepy.”

I left Pugachev and went out into the street. The night was quiet and frosty. The moon and stars shone brightly, illuminating the square and the gallows. Everything in the fortress was calm and dark. Only in the tavern was there a light and the sounds of late-night revelers could be heard. I looked at the priest’s house. The shutters and gates were locked. It seemed that everything inside was quiet.

I came to my quarters and found Savelich grieving over my absence. The news of my freedom delighted him beyond words. “Praise be to you, Lord!” he said, crossing himself. “At first light, we’ll leave the fortress and go wherever our eyes lead us. I’ve prepared something for you; eat, my dear master, and then go to sleep until morning, as if in Christ’s bosom.”

I followed his advice and, after eating dinner with great appetite, fell asleep on the bare floor, exhausted in both mind and body.

Chapter IX. The Parting

“It was sweet to come to know you,

My beauty, my delight;

It is sad, so sad to part with you,

Sad, as if with my very soul.”

—  Kheraskov

Early in the morning, the drum woke me up. I went to the assembly point. Pugachev’s crowds were already forming around the gallows, where yesterday’s victims were still hanging. The Cossacks were on horseback, the soldiers were under arms. Banners were flying. Several cannons, among which I recognized our own, were placed on traveling carriages. All the inhabitants were there, waiting for the impostor. At the porch of the commandant’s house, a Cossack was holding a beautiful white Kirghiz horse by the bridle. I looked around for the commandant’s wife’s body. It had been moved a little to the side and was covered with a mat. Finally, Pugachev came out of the entryway. The people took off their hats. Pugachev stopped on the porch and greeted everyone. One of the elders gave him a bag of copper coins, and he began to throw them out by the handful. The people rushed to pick them up with shouts, and it did not end without some injuries. Pugachev was surrounded by the main of his accomplices. Shvabrin was also among them. Our eyes met; he could read contempt in mine, and he turned away with an expression of sincere malice and feigned mockery. Pugachev, seeing me in the crowd, nodded his head and beckoned me over. “Listen,” he said to me. “Go to Orenburg this very hour and announce to the governor and all the generals on my behalf that they should expect me to come to them in a week. Advise them to greet me with a child’s love and obedience; otherwise, they will not escape a cruel execution. A safe journey, your honor!” Then he turned to the people and, pointing to Shvabrin, said: “Here is your new commander, children: obey him in everything, and he will answer to me for you and for the fortress.” I heard these words with horror: Shvabrin was becoming the commander of the fortress; Marya Ivanovna was left in his power! God, what would happen to her! Pugachev came down from the porch. They brought him his horse. He nimbly jumped into the saddle, without waiting for the Cossacks who were about to help him up.

At that moment, I saw my Savelich step out of the crowd, approach Pugachev, and hand him a sheet of paper. I could not imagine what would come of it. “What is this?” Pugachev asked with importance. “Read it, and you’ll see,” Savelich replied. Pugachev took the paper and examined it for a long time with a meaningful expression. “Why do you write so strangely?” he finally said. “Our bright eyes cannot make out anything here. Where is my chief secretary?”

A young fellow in a corporal’s uniform quickly ran up to Pugachev. “Read it aloud,” the impostor said, giving him the paper. I was extremely curious to know what my valet had decided to write to Pugachev about. The chief secretary began to read the following aloud, syllable by syllable:

“Two dressing gowns, one of calico and one of striped silk, for six rubles.”

“What does this mean?” Pugachev asked, frowning.

“Order him to read on,” Savelich replied calmly.

The chief secretary continued:

“A uniform of fine green cloth for seven rubles.

White cloth trousers for five rubles.

Twelve linen Dutch shirts with cuffs for ten rubles.

A case with tea-set for two and a half rubles…”

“What is this nonsense?” Pugachev interrupted. “What do I care about cases and trousers with cuffs?”

Savelich cleared his throat and began to explain.

“This, my father, as you may see, is a register of the master’s property that has been stolen by the villains…”

“What villains?” Pugachev asked menacingly.

“My apologies: I misspoke,” Savelich replied. “Villains or not, your lads still rummaged around and took things. Don’t be angry: a horse has four legs and still stumbles. Just order him to finish reading.”

“Finish reading,” said Pugachev. The secretary continued:

“A chintz blanket, another of taffeta with cotton batting, four rubles.

A fox fur coat, covered with scarlet ratteen, 40 rubles.

And a hare’s sheepskin coat, which your grace was pleased to accept at the inn, 15 rubles.”

“What is this now!” Pugachev cried out, his eyes flashing with fire.

I must confess, I was terrified for my poor valet. He was about to launch into another explanation, but Pugachev interrupted him: “How dare you come to me with such trifles?” he cried out, snatching the paper from the secretary’s hands and throwing it in Savelich’s face. “You stupid old man! They’ve robbed them: what a disaster? You, old grumbler, should be praying to God for me and my lads forever for the fact that you and your master aren’t hanging here with my disobedient ones… A hare’s sheepskin coat! I’ll give you a hare’s sheepskin coat! Do you know that I’ll have the skin flayed off you alive for sheepskin coats?”

“As you wish,” Savelich replied, “but I am a man in servitude and must answer for my master’s property.”

Pugachev was, it seemed, in a fit of magnanimity. He turned away and rode off, without saying another word. Shvabrin and the elders followed him. The gang marched out of the fortress in order. The people went to see Pugachev off. I remained on the square alone with Savelich. My valet was holding his register in his hands and looking at it with an expression of deep regret.

Seeing my good relationship with Pugachev, he thought to use it to his advantage; but his wise intention had not succeeded. I was about to scold him for his ill-timed zeal and could not help but laugh. “Laugh, master,” Savelich replied, “laugh; but when we have to start a whole new household from scratch, we’ll see if it’s still funny.”

I hurried to the priest’s house to see Marya Ivanovna. The priest’s wife met me with sad news. During the night, Marya Ivanovna had been struck by a high fever. She was lying unconscious and delirious. The priest’s wife led me into her room. I quietly approached her bed. The change in her face struck me. The sick girl did not recognize me. I stood before her for a long time, not listening to either Father Gerasim or his good wife, who, it seemed, were trying to comfort me. Dark thoughts troubled me. The state of the poor, helpless orphan, left in the midst of malicious rebels, and my own powerlessness terrified me. Shvabrin, Shvabrin most of all, tormented my imagination. Endowed with authority by the impostor, leading in a fortress where the unhappy girl — the innocent object of his hatred — remained, he could decide to do anything. What was I to do? How could I help her? How could I free her from the hands of the villain? There was only one way: I decided to leave for Orenburg at that very hour, in order to hasten the liberation of the Belogorsk fortress and to assist in it as much as possible. I said goodbye to the priest and to Akulina Pamfilovna, passionately entrusting to her the one whom I already considered my wife. I took the poor girl’s hand and kissed it, watering it with my tears. “Farewell,” the priest’s wife said, seeing me off, “farewell, Pyotr Andreich. I hope we will see each other in better times. Don’t forget us and write to us often. Poor Marya Ivanovna, besides you, now has no comfort or protector.”

Coming out onto the square, I stopped for a moment, looked at the gallows, bowed to it, left the fortress, and walked along the Orenburg road, accompanied by Savelich, who did not fall behind me.

I was walking, lost in my thoughts, when I suddenly heard the sound of horse hooves behind me. I looked back and saw: a Cossack was galloping from the fortress, holding a Bashkir horse by the reins and making signs to me from a distance. I stopped and soon recognized our sergeant. He galloped up, dismounted from his horse, and said, handing me the reins of the other one: “Your honor! Our father is granting you a horse and a sheepskin coat from his own shoulder (a sheepskin coat was tied to the saddle). And also,” the sergeant added, stammering, “he is granting you… half a ruble… but I lost it on the way; forgive me generously.” Savelich looked at him askance and grumbled: “Lost it on the way! And what is that rattling inside your jacket? You have no shame!” “What is rattling inside my jacket?” the sergeant retorted, not at all embarrassed. “God be with you, old man! It’s the bridle rattling, not a half-ruble.” “Enough,” I said, interrupting the dispute. “Thank the one who sent you on my behalf; and try to pick up the lost half-ruble on your way back and take it for a drink.” “Thank you very much, your honor,” he replied, turning his horse, “I will always pray to God for you.” With these words, he galloped back, holding one hand to his jacket, and a minute later disappeared from sight.

I put on the sheepskin coat and got on the horse, placing Savelich behind me. “You see, master,” said the old man, “that it wasn’t for nothing that I submitted a petition to the scoundrel: the thief felt ashamed, even if a lanky Bashkir nag and a sheepskin coat are not worth even half of what they, the scoundrels, stole from us, and what you yourself were pleased to grant him; but still, it will come in handy, and from a bad dog, you take at least a tuft of hair.”

Chapter X. The Siege of the City

“Having occupied the meadows and hills,

From the summit, like an eagle, he cast his gaze upon the city.

He ordered a rampart to be erected at the camp

And, having hidden his thunderbolts within it, to bring them to the city in the night.”

—  Kheraskov.

As we approached Orenburg, we saw a crowd of convicts with shaven heads and faces disfigured by the executioner’s pincers. They were working near the fortifications under the supervision of garrison invalids. Some were hauling away the garbage that filled the moat in carts; others were digging the ground with shovels; on the rampart, masons were carrying bricks and repairing the city wall. At the gate, the sentries stopped us and demanded our passports. As soon as the sergeant heard that I was coming from the Belogorsk fortress, he led me directly to the general’s house.

I found him in the garden. He was inspecting the apple trees, stripped bare by the breath of autumn, and was carefully wrapping them in warm straw with the help of an old gardener. His face showed calmness, health, and good nature. He was glad to see me and began to ask me about the terrible events I had witnessed. I told him everything. The old man listened to me attentively and, in the meantime, cut off dry branches. “Poor Mironov!” he said when I had finished my sad story. “I feel sorry for him: he was a good officer. And Madame Mironov was a good lady and such a master at pickling mushrooms! And what about Masha, the captain’s daughter?” I replied that she had remained in the fortress in the care of the priest’s wife. “Oh, oh, oh!” the general remarked. “That’s bad, very bad. One cannot rely on the discipline of bandits. What will happen to the poor girl?” I replied that the distance to the Belogorsk fortress was not great, and that, most likely, his excellency would not delay in sending troops to liberate its poor inhabitants. The general shook his head with a look of disbelief. “We shall see, we shall see,” he said. “We’ll have time to talk about that later. Please come in for a cup of tea: I’m having a war council today. You can give us reliable information about the rascal Pugachev and his army. For now, go and rest.”

I went to the quarters assigned to me, where Savelich was already managing things, and impatiently began to wait for the appointed time. The reader can easily imagine that I did not fail to appear at the council, which was to have such an influence on my fate. At the appointed hour, I was already at the general’s house.

I found one of the city officials there, a customs director, as I recall, a stout and rosy-faced old man in a brocade caftan. He began to question me about the fate of Ivan Kuzmich, whom he called his kum, and often interrupted my speech with additional questions and moralizing remarks, which, if they did not reveal him as a man knowledgeable in the art of war, at least showed his shrewdness and natural wit. In the meantime, the other invited guests gathered. Among them, besides the general himself, there was not a single military man. When everyone was seated and a cup of tea was served to each, the general explained the matter very clearly and at length. “Now, gentlemen,” he continued, “we must decide how to act against the rebels: offensively or defensively? Each of these methods has its advantages and disadvantages. Offensive action offers more hope for a quicker annihilation of the enemy; defensive action is more certain and safe… So, let’s begin to gather the votes in the proper order, that is, starting with the junior in rank. Mr. Ensign!” he continued, turning to me. “Please explain your opinion to us.”

I stood up and, in a few words, first described Pugachev and his gang, then stated with certainty that the impostor had no chance of withstanding regular troops.

My opinion was received by the officials with obvious disapproval. They saw in it the rashness and audacity of a young man. A murmur arose, and I distinctly heard the word “milksop” uttered by someone in a low voice. The general turned to me and said with a smile: “Mr. Ensign! The first votes at war councils are usually cast in favor of offensive movements; that is the proper order. Now we will continue to gather the votes. Mr. Collegiate Councilor! Tell us your opinion!”

The old man in the brocade caftan hastily finished his third cup, significantly diluted with rum, and replied to the general: “I think, your excellency, that we should act neither offensively nor defensively.”

“How so, Mr. Collegiate Councilor?” the astonished general countered. “Tactics do not offer other methods: either a defensive or an offensive movement…”

“Your excellency, move with bribery.”

“Ah-ha-ha! Your opinion is very reasonable. Bribery is permitted by tactics, and we will make use of your advice. We could promise for the rascal’s head… seventy or even a hundred rubles… from the secret fund…”

“And then,” the customs director interrupted, “I’ll be a Kirghiz ram and not a collegiate councilor if these thieves don’t hand over their chieftain to us, bound hand and foot.”

“We will think and talk about this later,” the general replied. “However, in any case, military measures must also be taken. Gentlemen, cast your votes in the proper order.”

All the opinions were contrary to mine. All the officials spoke of the unreliability of the troops, the uncertainty of success, the need for caution, and so on. Everyone believed that it was more prudent to remain under the cover of cannons, behind a strong stone wall, rather than trying their luck with weapons in the open field. Finally, the general, having listened to all the opinions, shook the ash from his pipe and delivered the following speech:

“My lords! I must inform you that I, for my part, completely agree with the opinion of Mr. Ensign, for this opinion is based on all the rules of sound tactics, which almost always prefers offensive movements to defensive ones.”

Here he stopped and began to fill his pipe. My vanity was triumphant. I proudly looked at the officials, who were whispering among themselves with an air of dissatisfaction and unease.

“But, my lords,” he continued, letting out a thick stream of tobacco smoke with a deep sigh, “I dare not take upon myself such a great responsibility when it comes to the safety of the provinces entrusted to me by Her Imperial Majesty, my most gracious sovereign. Therefore, I agree with the majority of votes, which has decided that it is most prudent and safe to wait out the siege inside the city, and to repel the enemy’s attacks with the force of artillery and (if it proves possible) sallies.”

The officials, in turn, looked at me mockingly. The council adjourned. I could not help but regret the weakness of the respected warrior, who, contrary to his own conviction, decided to follow the opinions of ignorant and inexperienced people.

A few days after this famous council, we learned that Pugachev, true to his promise, had approached Orenburg. I saw the rebel army from the top of the city wall. It seemed to me that their numbers had increased tenfold since the last attack I had witnessed. They also had artillery, which Pugachev had captured in the small fortresses he had already subdued. Remembering the council’s decision, I foresaw a long confinement within the walls of Orenburg and almost wept with vexation.

I will not describe the siege of Orenburg, which belongs to history, not to family notes. I will say briefly that this siege, due to the carelessness of the local authorities, was disastrous for the inhabitants, who suffered hunger and all kinds of calamities. It is easy to imagine that life in Orenburg was most unbearable. Everyone waited for their fate to be decided with despondency; everyone groaned about the high cost of living, which was truly terrible. The inhabitants had become accustomed to the cannonballs flying into their yards; even Pugachev’s attacks no longer attracted general curiosity. I was dying of boredom. Time went on. I received no letters from the Belogorsk fortress. All the roads were cut off. The separation from Marya Ivanovna was becoming unbearable for me. The uncertainty of her fate tormented me. My only distraction was riding. Thanks to Pugachev, I had a good horse, with which I shared my meager food and on which I rode out of the city daily to exchange fire with Pugachev’s horsemen. In these skirmishes, the advantage was usually on the side of the villains, who were well-fed, drunk, and well-mounted. The lean city cavalry could not defeat them. Sometimes our hungry infantry would also come out into the field; but the depth of the snow prevented it from acting successfully against the scattered horsemen. The artillery thundered in vain from the top of the rampart, but it became stuck in the field and could not move due to the horses’ exhaustion. Such was the nature of our military actions! And this is what the Orenburg officials called caution and prudence!

Once, when we somehow managed to scatter and drive away a rather dense crowd, I rode up to a Cossack who had fallen behind his comrades; I was about to strike him with my Turkish saber when he suddenly took off his hat and shouted:

“Hello, Pyotr Andreich! How has God been treating you?”

I looked and recognized our sergeant. I was inexpressibly glad to see him.

“Hello, Maksimych,” I said to him. “Have you just come from Belogorsk?”

“Not long ago, my dear Pyotr Andreich; I just returned yesterday. I have a letter for you.”

“Where is it?” I cried out, flushing all over.

“With me,” Maksimych replied, putting his hand inside his jacket. “I promised Palashka that I would deliver it to you somehow.” Here he handed me a folded piece of paper and immediately galloped away. I unfolded it and read the following lines with a tremor:

“It has pleased God to deprive me suddenly of both my father and mother: I have no relatives or protectors on earth. I turn to you, knowing that you have always wished me well and that you are ready to help any person. I pray to God that this letter will reach you somehow! Maksimych promised to deliver it to you. Palashka also heard from Maksimych that he often sees you from a distance on your sallies and that you are not taking care of yourself at all and are not thinking about those who are praying to God for you with tears. I was sick for a long time; and when I recovered, Alexei Ivanovich, who is commanding in the place of my late father, forced Father Gerasim to give me to him, having threatened him with Pugachev. I am living in our house under guard. Alexei Ivanovich is forcing me to marry him. He says that he saved my life because he covered up the lie of Akulina Pamfilovna, who told the villains that I was her niece. But it would be easier for me to die than to become the wife of a man like Alexei Ivanovich. He treats me very cruelly and threatens that if I don’t reconsider and agree, he will bring me to the villain’s camp, and the same thing will happen to you as happened to Lizaveta Kharlova. I asked Alexei Ivanovich to give me three days to think about it. He agreed to wait for three more days; and if I don’t marry him in three days, then there will be no mercy at all. My dear Pyotr Andreich! You are my only protector; stand up for me, a poor girl. Please ask the general and all the commanders to send reinforcements to us as soon as possible and come yourself, if you can.

I remain your obedient, poor orphan, Marya Mironova.”

After reading this letter, I almost went mad. I galloped into the city, mercilessly spurring my poor horse. On the way, I thought of one thing after another to rescue the poor girl, but I could not come up with anything. Arriving in the city, I went straight to the general and rushed into his room.

The general was walking back and forth across the room, smoking his meerschaum pipe. Seeing me, he stopped. My appearance probably struck him; he anxiously inquired about the reason for my hasty arrival.

“Your excellency,” I said to him, “I turn to you as to a native father; for God’s sake, do not refuse my request: the happiness of my whole life is at stake.”

“What is it, my dear fellow?” the astonished old man asked. “What can I do for you? Tell me.”

“Your excellency, order me to be given a company of soldiers and fifty Cossacks, and let me go to clear the Belogorsk fortress.”

The general looked at me intently, probably thinking that I had gone mad (in which he was almost not mistaken).

“What’s that? To clear the Belogorsk fortress?” he finally said.

“I guarantee success,” I replied with fervor. “Just let me go.”

“No, young man,” he said, shaking his head. “At such a great distance, it will be easy for the enemy to cut you off from communication with the main strategic point and gain a complete victory over you. A cut-off communication…”

I was frightened, seeing him getting carried away with military reasoning, and I hurried to interrupt him.

“Captain Mironov’s daughter,” I said to him, “has written me a letter: she is asking for help; Shvabrin is forcing her to marry him.”

“Is that so? Oh, that Shvabrin is a great Schelm (Scoundrel, rogue, German) and if he falls into my hands, I will have him judged in twenty-four hours, and we will shoot him on the fortress parapet! But for now, we must be patient…”

“Be patient!” I cried out, beside myself. “And in the meantime, he will marry Marya Ivanovna!…”

“Oh!” the general objected. “That’s not so bad: it’s better for her to be Shvabrin’s wife for now: he can offer her protection; and when we shoot him, then, God willing, she will find other suitors. Pretty widows don’t stay unmarried; that is, I meant to say that a widow will find a husband faster than a maiden.”

“I would rather die,” I said in a rage, “than give her up to Shvabrin!”

“Bah, bah, bah, bah!” said the old man. “Now I understand: you’re obviously in love with Marya Ivanovna. Oh, that’s a different matter! Poor fellow! But still, I absolutely cannot give you a company of soldiers and fifty Cossacks. This expedition would be imprudent; I cannot take responsibility for it.”

I bowed my head; despair overcame me. Suddenly, an idea flashed through my mind: what it was, the reader will see from the next chapter, as old novelists say.

Chapter XI. The Rebellious Settlement

In that hour the lion was full, though savage from birth.

“Why have you deigned to honor my den?”

He asked kindly.

—   Sumarokov.

I left the general and hurried to my quarters. Savelyich met me with his usual admonitions. “You have a desire, sir, to get into fights with drunken robbers! Is that a nobleman’s business? An unlucky hour: you might perish for no reason. And if only you were going against the Turk or the Swede, but it’s a sin even to say who you’re going against.”

I interrupted his speech with a question: how much money did I have in total? “There’s enough for you,” he answered with a pleased expression. “No matter how much those rascals rummaged, I still managed to hide some.” And with these words, he pulled a long, knitted purse full of silver out of his pocket. “Well, Savelyich,” I said to him, “give me half of it now; and keep the rest for yourself. I’m going to the Belogorsk fortress.”

“My dear Petr Andreyich!” said the good old servant in a trembling voice. “For God’s sake, how can you set out on a journey at this time, when the roads are blocked everywhere by robbers! Have pity on your parents, if you don’t have pity on yourself. Where are you going? Why? Wait a little while: the troops will come, they’ll catch the rascals; then you can go wherever you like.”

But my intention was firmly set.

“It’s too late to argue,” I replied to the old man. “I must go, I cannot not go. Don’t worry, Savelyich: God is merciful; maybe we’ll see each other again! And listen, don’t be ashamed or stingy. Buy what you need, even if it’s three times the price. I’m giving you this money as a gift. If I don’t return in three days…”

“What are you saying, sir?” Savelyich interrupted me. “That I would let you go alone! Don’t even ask for that in a dream. If you’ve already decided to go, then I’ll walk behind you, even if it’s on foot, but I won’t abandon you. That I would sit behind a stone wall without you! Am I out of my mind? It’s your will, sir, but I won’t leave your side.”

I knew there was no point in arguing with Savelyich and allowed him to get ready for the journey. Half an hour later, I was on my good horse, and Savelyich was on a skinny, lame nag that one of the townspeople had given him for free, no longer having the means to feed it. We arrived at the city gates; the guards let us through; we rode out of Orenburg.

It was beginning to get dark. My path went past the Berdskaya settlement, Pugachev’s refuge. The main road was covered with snow; but all across the steppe, there were horse tracks, updated daily. I rode at a fast trot. Savelyich could barely keep up with me from a distance and constantly shouted to me: “Slower, sir, for God’s sake, slower. My cursed little nag can’t keep up with your long-legged devil. What’s the hurry? It would be fine if we were going to a feast, but we’re heading for a beating, any minute now… Petr Andreyich… my dear Petr Andreyich!.. Don’t ruin yourself!.. Lord Almighty, the nobleman’s child will perish!”

Soon the lights of Berda flickered. We approached the ravines, the natural fortifications of the settlement. Savelyich did not fall behind, not stopping his mournful pleas. I hoped to bypass the settlement safely when suddenly, in the gloom right in front of me, I saw about five peasants armed with cudgels: this was the advance guard of Pugachev’s refuge. They called out to us. Not knowing the password, I wanted to pass them in silence; but they immediately surrounded me, and one of them grabbed my horse by the bridle. I drew my sabre and struck the peasant on the head; his hat saved him, but he staggered and let go of the bridle. The others were confused and ran away; I took advantage of that moment, spurred my horse and galloped off.

The darkness of the approaching night could have saved me from all danger, but suddenly, looking back, I saw that Savelyich was not with me. The poor old man on his lame horse could not gallop away from the robbers. What was to be done? After waiting for him for a few minutes and being convinced that he had been detained, I turned my horse around and went back to rescue him.

Approaching the ravine, I heard from a distance a noise, shouts and the voice of my Savelyich. I rode faster and soon found myself again among the guard peasants who had stopped me a few minutes earlier. Savelyich was among them. They had dragged the old man off his nag and were preparing to tie him up. My arrival pleased them. They rushed at me with a shout and instantly pulled me off my horse. One of them, apparently the leader, announced to us that he was now going to take us to the sovereign. “And our father,” he added, “is free to order: whether to hang you right now, or to wait for God’s light.” I did not resist; Savelyich followed my example, and the guards led us away in triumph.

We crossed the ravine and entered the settlement. In all the huts, lights were burning. Noise and shouts resounded everywhere. On the street, I met many people; but in the darkness, no one noticed us or recognized the Orenburg officer in me. We were led directly to a hut that stood on the corner of a crossroads. At the gate, there were several wine barrels and two cannons. “Here’s the palace,” one of the peasants said, “we’ll report on you right now.” He went into the hut. I looked at Savelyich; the old man was crossing himself, reciting a prayer to himself. I waited for a long time; finally, the peasant returned and said to me: “Go: our father has ordered the officer to be let in.”

I went into the hut, or the palace, as the peasants called it. It was lit by two tallow candles, and the walls were covered with gold paper; otherwise, the benches, the table, the washstand on a string, the towel on a nail, the poker in the corner, and the wide stove hearth, lined with pots, were all as in an ordinary hut. Pugachev was sitting under the icons, in a red caftan, a tall hat, and with a dignified hand on his hip. Around him stood several of his main associates, with a look of feigned servility. It was clear that the news of an officer’s arrival from Orenburg had awakened a strong curiosity in the rebels and that they had prepared to meet me with triumph. Pugachev recognized me at first glance. His feigned importance suddenly disappeared. “Ah, your honor!” he said to me with vivacity. “How are you? What has God brought you here for?” I replied that I was traveling on my own business and that his men had stopped me. “And what business?” he asked me. I did not know what to answer. Pugachev, assuming that I did not want to explain myself in front of witnesses, turned to his associates and ordered them to leave. Everyone obeyed, except for two, who did not move from their places. “Speak boldly in front of them,” Pugachev said to me, “I don’t hide anything from them.” I glanced sideways at the pretender’s confidants. One of them, a frail and stooped old man with a grey beard, had nothing remarkable about him, except for a blue ribbon worn across his shoulder over a grey peasant coat. But I will never forget his companion. He was tall, stout and broad-shouldered, and seemed to me to be about forty-five years old. A thick red beard, grey sparkling eyes, a nose without nostrils, and reddish spots on his forehead and cheeks gave his pock-marked, broad face an inexpressible expression. He was in a red shirt, a Kirghiz robe, and Cossack trousers. The first was the runaway corporal Beloborodov; the second was Afanasy Sokolov (nicknamed Khlopusha), an exiled criminal who had escaped from the Siberian mines three times. Despite the feelings that were exclusively agitating me, the company in which I had so unexpectedly found myself greatly distracted my imagination. But Pugachev brought me back to my senses with his question: “Speak: what business did you leave Orenburg for?”

A strange thought came to my mind: it seemed to me that providence, having brought me to Pugachev for the second time, was giving me an opportunity to put my intention into action. I decided to take advantage of it and, without having time to think about what I was deciding, I answered Pugachev’s question:

“I was on my way to the Belogorsk fortress to save an orphan girl who is being wronged there.”

Pugachev’s eyes sparkled. “Which of my men dares to wrong an orphan girl?” he shouted. “Even if he’s seven feet tall, he won’t escape my judgment. Tell me: who is the guilty one?”

“Shvabrin is the guilty one,” I replied. “He is holding that girl you saw, the sick one, at the priest’s wife’s house, captive and wants to marry her by force.”

“I’ll teach Shvabrin a lesson,” Pugachev said threateningly. “He’ll find out what it’s like to take liberties with me and wrong the people. I’ll hang him.”

“Order a word to be spoken,” Khlopusha said in a hoarse voice. “You were too hasty in appointing Shvabrin as the fortress commandant, and now you’re in a hurry to hang him. You’ve already offended the Cossacks by putting a nobleman in charge of them; don’t frighten the noblemen by executing them on the first accusation.”

“There’s no need to feel sorry for them or favor them!” said the old man in the blue ribbon. “Executing Shvabrin is no big deal; but it wouldn’t be a bad idea to properly interrogate this Mr. Officer: why he deigned to show up. If he doesn’t recognize you as the sovereign, then there’s no point in him seeking justice from you, and if he does recognize you, why did he sit in Orenburg with your adversaries until today? Why not order him to be taken to the command hut and a fire lit there: it seems to me that his grace was sent to us by the Orenburg commanders.”

The logic of the old villain seemed quite convincing to me. A shiver ran through my whole body at the thought of whose hands I was in. Pugachev noticed my confusion. “Eh, your honor?” he said to me with a wink. “My field marshal seems to have a point. What do you think?”

Pugachev’s mockery restored my courage. I calmly replied that I was in his power and that he was free to do with me as he pleased.

“Good,” said Pugachev. “Now tell me, what is the state of your city?”

“Thank God,” I replied, “everything is well.”

“Well?” Pugachev repeated. “And the people are dying of hunger!”

The pretender was telling the truth; but by my duty of oath, I began to assure him that these were all empty rumors and that there were enough supplies of all kinds in Orenburg.

“You see,” the old man interjected, “that he is deceiving you to your face. All the fugitives unanimously report that there is famine and plague in Orenburg, that they are eating carrion there, and that’s considered an honor; and his grace assures us that there’s plenty of everything. If you want to hang Shvabrin, then hang this young man on the same gallows, so that no one is envious.”

The words of the damned old man seemed to have shaken Pugachev. Fortunately, Khlopusha began to contradict his companion.

“Enough, Naumych,” he said to him. “All you want to do is strangle and cut. What kind of hero are you? To look at you, you’re barely holding on. You’re looking into the grave yourself, and you’re destroying others. Haven’t you spilled enough blood on your conscience?”

“And what kind of saint are you?” Beloborodov retorted. “Where did you get pity from?”

“Of course,” Khlopusha replied, “I too am a sinner, and this hand, and this hand is guilty of shedding Christian blood. But I killed an adversary, not a guest; on a free crossing, and in a dark forest, not at home, sitting behind the stove; with a flail and an axe, not with a woman’s slander.”

The old man turned away and muttered the words: “Torn nostrils!”…

“What are you whispering there, you old goat?” Khlopusha shouted. “I’ll give you torn nostrils; wait, your time will come; God willing, you’ll get a whiff of the pincers… And in the meantime, watch out that I don’t tear out your little beard!”

“Gentlemen generals!” Pugachev announced solemnly. “Stop quarreling. It’s no big deal if all the Orenburg dogs twitch their legs under the same crossbar: it’s a big deal if our dogs fight among themselves. Now, make peace.”

Khlopusha and Beloborodov said not a word and looked at each other gloomily. I saw the necessity to change the conversation, which could have ended in a very unfavorable way for me, and, turning to Pugachev, I said to him with a cheerful expression: “Ah! I almost forgot to thank you for the horse and the sheepskin coat. Without you, I would not have made it to the city and would have frozen on the road.”

My trick worked. Pugachev cheered up. “A debt repaid is a good thing,” he said, winking and squinting. “Now tell me, what’s your business with that girl who Shvabrin is wronging? Isn’t she a sweetheart to a young man’s heart? Hmm?”

“She is my fiancée,” I replied to Pugachev, seeing the favorable change in the weather and finding no need to hide the truth.

“Your fiancée!” Pugachev shouted. “Why didn’t you say so sooner? We’ll get you married and feast at your wedding!” Then, turning to Beloborodov: “Listen, field marshal! His honor and I are old friends; let’s sit down and have supper; morning is wiser than evening. Tomorrow we’ll see what we’ll do with him.”

I was glad to decline the offered honor, but there was nothing to be done. Two young Cossack girls, the daughters of the hut’s owner, covered the table with a white tablecloth, brought bread, fish soup, and several decanters of wine and beer, and I found myself for the second time at the same table with Pugachev and his terrible companions.

The orgy, of which I was an unwilling witness, lasted until deep into the night. Finally, the drunkenness began to overcome the conversationalists. Pugachev dozed off, sitting in his place; his companions got up and gave me a sign to leave him. I went out with them. By Khlopusha’s order, a guard took me to the command hut, where I found Savelyich and where I was left locked up with him. The old servant was so amazed by everything that was happening that he did not ask me a single question. He lay down in the darkness and sighed and groaned for a long time; finally, he began to snore, and I gave myself over to reflections that did not let me doze off for a single minute all night.

In the morning, they came to call me in Pugachev’s name. I went to him. At his gate, there was a covered cart, harnessed to a troika of Tatar horses. People were crowding on the street. In the entryway, I met Pugachev: he was dressed for travel, in a fur coat and a Kirghiz hat. Yesterday’s conversationalists surrounded him, adopting a look of servility that strongly contradicted everything I had witnessed the night before. Pugachev greeted me cheerfully and told me to sit with him in the covered cart.

We sat down. “To the Belogorsk fortress!” Pugachev said to the broad-shouldered Tatar, who was standing and driving the troika. My heart beat fast. The horses started, the bell clanged, the covered cart flew…

“Stop! Stop!” a voice, too familiar to me, rang out – and I saw Savelyich running to meet us. Pugachev ordered a halt. “My dear, Petr Andreyich!” the old servant shouted. “Don’t abandon me in my old age among these rascals…” “Ah, you old goat!” Pugachev said to him. “God has brought us together again. Well, get on the coach box.”

“Thank you, sovereign, thank you, my own father!” Savelyich said as he sat down. “May God grant you a hundred years of health for taking care of me, an old man, and comforting me. I will pray to God for you forever, and I won’t even mention the hare-skin coat.”

This hare-skin coat could have finally made Pugachev genuinely angry. Fortunately, the pretender either did not hear it or disregarded the inappropriate hint. The horses galloped; people on the street stopped and bowed low. Pugachev nodded his head to both sides. A minute later, we rode out of the settlement and sped along the smooth road.

It is easy to imagine what I was feeling at that moment. In a few hours, I was to see the one whom I had already considered lost to me. I imagined the moment of our reunion… I also thought about the man in whose hands my fate lay and who, by a strange set of circumstances, was mysteriously connected to me. I remembered the reckless cruelty, the bloodthirsty habits of the one who was offering to be the savior of my beloved! Pugachev did not know that she was Captain Mironov’s daughter; the embittered Shvabrin could have revealed everything to him; Pugachev could have learned the truth in another way… What would become of Marya Ivanovna then? A chill ran through my body, and my hair stood on end…

Suddenly, Pugachev interrupted my thoughts, turning to me with a question:

“What are you thinking about, your honor?”

“How can I not think,” I replied to him. “I am an officer and a nobleman; yesterday I was fighting against you, and today I’m riding with you in the same covered cart, and the happiness of my whole life depends on you.”

“What?” Pugachev asked. “Are you scared?”

I replied that, having already been pardoned by him once, I hoped not only for his mercy but even for his help.

“And you’re right, by God, you’re right!” said the pretender. “You saw that my boys looked at you sideways; and the old man insisted today 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 your glass of wine and the hare-skin coat. You see that I’m not such a bloodsucker as your lot says about me.”

I remembered the capture of the Belogorsk fortress; but I did not think it necessary to argue with him and did not answer a word.

“What do they say about me in Orenburg?” Pugachev asked, after a little silence.

“Well, they say it’s quite difficult to deal with you; I must say: you’ve made yourself known.”

The pretender’s face showed satisfied vanity.

“Yes!” he said with a cheerful look. “I fight quite well. Do you know in Orenburg about the battle near Yuzeyeva? Forty generals killed, four armies taken prisoner. What do you think: could the Prussian king compete with me?”

The robber’s boastfulness seemed amusing to me.

“What do you think yourself?” I said to him, “could you handle Frederick?”

“With Frederick? Why not? I can handle your generals; and they beat him. So far my weapon has been lucky. Just wait, you’ll see what happens when I go to Moscow.”

“And you plan to go to Moscow?”

The pretender thought for a while and said in a low voice:

“God knows. My street is narrow; I have little freedom. My boys are getting smart. They are thieves. I have to keep my ears peeled; at the first failure, they’ll buy their necks with my head.”

“That’s it!” I said to Pugachev. “Wouldn’t it be better for you to leave them yourself, ahead of time, and resort to the mercy of the Empress?”

Pugachev smiled bitterly.

“No,” he replied, “it’s too late for me to repent. There will be no pardon for me. I will continue as I have begun. Who knows? Maybe I’ll succeed! False Dmitry did reign over Moscow, after all.”

“And do you know how he ended up? He was thrown out of a window, stabbed, burned, they loaded his ashes into a cannon and fired it!”

“Listen,” Pugachev said with a kind of wild inspiration. “I’ll tell you a story that an old Kalmyk woman told me when I was a boy. Once, an eagle asked a raven: tell me, raven-bird, why do you live in this world for three hundred years, and I only for thirty-three years? – That’s because, my father, the raven replied to him, you drink living blood, and I feed on carrion. The eagle thought: let’s try to feed on the same thing. Good. The eagle and the raven flew off. They saw a fallen horse; they descended and sat down. The raven began to peck and praise it. The eagle pecked once, pecked a second time, flapped his wing and said to the raven: no, brother raven; rather than feeding on carrion for three hundred years, it’s better to drink living blood once, and then whatever God wills! – How do you like the Kalmyk story?”

“It’s clever,” I replied to him. “But to live by murder and robbery is, in my opinion, to peck at carrion.”

Pugachev looked at me with surprise and did not answer anything. We both fell silent, each immersed in his own thoughts. The Tatar began a mournful song; Savelyich, dozing, swayed on the coach box. The covered cart flew along the smooth winter road… Suddenly, I saw a small village on the steep bank of the Yaik river, with a palisade and a bell tower – and a quarter of an hour later we drove into the Belogorsk fortress.

Chapter XII. The Orphan

As our little apple tree

Has no top, no young shoots;

As our little princess

Has neither father nor mother.

There is no one to prepare her,

No one to give her a blessing.

—   Wedding Song.

The covered cart pulled up to the porch of the commandant’s house. The people recognized Pugachev’s bell and ran after us in a crowd. Shvabrin met the impostor on the porch. He was dressed as a Cossack and had grown a beard. The traitor helped Pugachev get out of the covered cart, expressing his joy and zealousness with vile words. Seeing me, he became confused, but quickly recovered, extended his hand to me, and said: “So you’re one of us? It’s about time!” I turned away from him and said nothing.

My heart ached when we found ourselves in the long-familiar room, where the late commandant’s diploma still hung on the wall like a sad epitaph to a bygone era. Pugachev sat on the same sofa where Ivan Kuzmich used to nap, lulled by his wife’s grumbling. Shvabrin himself brought him vodka. Pugachev drank a glass and, pointing at me, said: “Treat his honor as well.” Shvabrin came up to me with his tray, but I turned away from him a second time. He seemed to be out of sorts. With his usual quick wit, he must have guessed that Pugachev was displeased with him. He was afraid of him and looked at me with distrust. Pugachev asked about the state of the fortress, about rumors of enemy troops, and so on, and then suddenly asked him an unexpected question:

“Tell me, brother, what girl are you holding under guard at your place? Show her to me.”

Shvabrin turned pale as a corpse.

“Sovereign,” he said in a trembling voice… “Sovereign, she is not under guard… she is ill… she is lying in her chamber.”

“Then take me to her,” said the impostor, getting up. It was impossible to make excuses. Shvabrin led Pugachev to Marya Ivanovna’s chamber. I followed them.

Shvabrin stopped on the stairs.

“Sovereign!” he said. “You have the power to demand anything you wish from me, but do not order a stranger to enter my wife’s bedroom.”

I trembled.

“So you are married!” I said to Shvabrin, preparing to tear him apart.

“Quiet!” Pugachev interrupted me. “This is my business. And you,” he continued, turning to Shvabrin, “don’t get smart or play games: whether she is your wife or not, I will take anyone I want to see her. Your honor, follow me.”

At the door of the chamber, Shvabrin stopped again and said in a broken voice:

“Sovereign, I warn you that she is in a delirium and has been raving without a break for three days.”

“Open up!” Pugachev said.

Shvabrin began searching his pockets and said he had not brought the key with him. Pugachev kicked the door; the lock sprang open; the door opened, and we went in.

I looked and froze. On the floor, in a ragged peasant dress, sat Marya Ivanovna, pale, thin, with dishevelled hair. In front of her stood a jug of water, covered with a slice of bread. Seeing me, she shuddered and cried out. What happened to me then, I don’t remember.

Pugachev looked at Shvabrin and said with a bitter smirk:

“A fine hospital you have!” Then, approaching Marya Ivanovna: “Tell me, my dear, why is your husband punishing you? What have you done wrong to him?”

“My husband!” she repeated. “He is not my husband. I will never be his wife! I would rather die, and I will die if they don’t save me.”

Pugachev looked at Shvabrin menacingly.

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

Shvabrin fell to his knees… At that moment, contempt drowned out all feelings of hatred and anger in me. I looked with disgust at the nobleman groveling at the feet of a runaway Cossack. Pugachev softened.

“I’ll spare you this time,” he said to Shvabrin, “but know that at the first offense, I’ll remind you of this one.”

Then he turned to Marya Ivanovna and said to her kindly:

“Come out, fair maiden; I grant you freedom. I am the sovereign.”

Marya Ivanovna quickly looked at him and guessed that before her stood the murderer of her parents. She covered her face with both hands and fell unconscious. I rushed to her, but at that moment, my old acquaintance Palasha boldly entered the room and began to tend to her young mistress. Pugachev left the chamber, and the three of us went down to the living room.

“Well, your honor?” Pugachev said, laughing. “You’ve rescued the fair maiden! What do you think, should I send for a priest and have him marry my niece? I’ll be the ceremonial father, Shvabrin the groomsman; we’ll have a good party, get drunk, and lock the gates!”

What I feared had happened. Shvabrin, upon hearing Pugachev’s suggestion, lost his temper.

“Sovereign!” he shouted in a frenzy. “I am guilty, I lied to you, but Grinev is deceiving you as well. This girl is not the niece of the local priest: she is the daughter of Ivan Mironov, who was executed when this fortress was taken.”

Pugachev fixed his fiery eyes on me.

“What’s this now?” he asked me in confusion.

“Shvabrin told you the truth,” I replied with firmness.

“You didn’t tell me this,” Pugachev remarked, his face darkening.

“Judge for yourself,” I replied to him, “could I have announced in front of your men that Mironov’s daughter was alive? They would have torn her to pieces. Nothing would have saved her!”

“That’s true,” Pugachev said, laughing. “My drunkards would not have spared the poor girl. The priest’s wife did a good job deceiving them.”

“Listen,” I continued, seeing his good disposition. “I don’t know what to call you, and I don’t want to know… But God sees that I would gladly pay you with my life for what you have done for me. Just don’t demand what is contrary to my honor and Christian conscience. You are my benefactor. Finish what you started: let me go with the poor orphan, wherever God shows us the way. And we, wherever you may be and whatever may happen to you, will pray to God every day for the salvation of your sinful soul…”

It seemed that Pugachev’s harsh soul was touched. “So be it!” he said. “To execute is to execute, to show favor is to show favor: that is my custom. Take your beauty for yourself; take her wherever you want, and may God give you love and good counsel!”

Then he turned to Shvabrin and ordered him to give me a pass for all the outposts and fortresses under his command. Shvabrin, completely crushed, stood as if stunned. Pugachev went to inspect the fortress. Shvabrin accompanied him, and I stayed behind on the pretext of preparing for departure.

I ran to the chamber. The doors were locked. I knocked. “Who’s there?” asked Palasha. I named myself. Marya Ivanovna’s sweet voice came from behind the door. “Wait, Petr Andreyich. I’m changing. Go to Akulina Pamfilovna’s house: I’ll be there soon.”

I obeyed and went to Father Gerasim’s house. Both he and the priest’s wife ran out to meet me. Savelyich had already warned them. “Hello, Petr Andreyich,” the priest’s wife said. “God has brought us together again. How have you been? And we have been thinking of you every day. And my dear Marya Ivanovna has suffered so much without you! … But tell me, my father, how did you get along with Pugachev? How is it that he didn’t kill you? Well, thanks to the villain for that.” “Enough, old woman,” Father Gerasim interrupted. “Don’t blab everything you know. There is no salvation in much talking. My dear Petr Andreyich! Come in, you are most welcome. We haven’t seen you in so long.”

The priest’s wife began to treat me with whatever God had sent. And meanwhile, she talked without stopping. She told me how Shvabrin had forced them to give him Marya Ivanovna; how Marya Ivanovna had cried and not wanted to part with them; how Marya Ivanovna had been in constant contact with her through Palasha (a lively girl who could make even a sergeant dance to her tune); how she had advised Marya Ivanovna to write me a letter, and so on. I, in turn, briefly told her my story. The priest and his wife crossed themselves, upon hearing that Pugachev knew of their deception. “The power of the cross is with us!” said Akulina Pamfilovna. “May God pass the cloud by. What a good one, Alexey Ivanych; what a goose!” At that very moment, the door opened, and Marya Ivanovna came in with a smile on her pale face. She had left her peasant dress and was dressed as she had been before, simply and sweetly.

I grabbed her hand and for a long time could not utter a single word. We were both silent from the fullness of our hearts. Our hosts felt that we had no time for them and left us. We were alone. Everything was forgotten. We talked and could not talk enough. Marya Ivanovna told me everything that had happened to her since the capture of the fortress; she described to me the full horror of her situation, all the trials that the vile Shvabrin had subjected her to. We also remembered the former happy time… We both wept… Finally, I began to explain my plans to her. It was impossible for her to remain in a fortress subordinate to Pugachev and governed by Shvabrin. We could not even think of Orenburg, which was enduring all the hardships of the siege. She had no family left in the world. I suggested she go to my parents’ village. At first, she hesitated: my father’s known disapproval frightened her. I reassured her. I knew that my father would consider it a great fortune and a duty to accept the daughter of a deserving soldier who had died for his homeland. “My dear Marya Ivanovna!” I said at last. “I consider you my wife. Wonderful circumstances have united us inseparably: nothing in the world can separate us.” Marya Ivanovna listened to me simply, without feigned shyness or elaborate excuses. She felt that her fate was tied to mine. But she repeated that she would not become my wife except with my parents’ consent. I did not contradict her. We kissed warmly and sincerely – and in this way, everything was decided between us.

An hour later, a sergeant brought me a pass, signed with Pugachev’s scrawls, and summoned me to him on his behalf. I found him ready to set out on the road. I cannot explain what I felt, parting with this terrible man, a monster and villain to everyone, except for me alone. Why not tell the truth? At that moment, a strong sympathy drew me to him. I passionately wished to tear him from the midst of the villains he led and save his head while there was still time. Shvabrin and the people crowding around us prevented me from saying all that my heart was full of.

We parted as friends. Pugachev, seeing Akulina Pamfilovna in the crowd, wagged his finger and winked meaningfully; then he got into the covered cart, ordered it to go to Berda, and when the horses started, he leaned out of the cart once more and shouted to me: “Farewell, your honor! Maybe we’ll see each other again sometime.” We did see each other again, but under what circumstances!..

Pugachev left. I looked for a long time at the white steppe across which his troika was rushing. The people dispersed. Shvabrin disappeared. I returned to the priest’s house. Everything was ready for our departure; I did not want to delay any longer. All our belongings were packed into the old commandant’s cart. The drivers harnessed the horses in a flash. Marya Ivanovna went to say goodbye to the graves of her parents, who were buried behind the church. I wanted to accompany her, but she asked me to leave her alone. A few minutes later, she returned, silently shedding quiet tears. The cart was ready. Father Gerasim and his wife came out to the porch. The three of us got into the covered cart: Marya Ivanovna with Palasha and I. Savelyich climbed onto the coach box. “Farewell, Marya Ivanovna, my dear! Farewell, Petr Andreyich, our bright falcon!” said the good priest’s wife. “Have a safe journey, and may God grant you both happiness!” We drove off. At the window of the commandant’s house, I saw Shvabrin standing. His face expressed gloomy malice. I did not want to triumph over my defeated enemy and turned my eyes away. Finally, we drove out of the fortress gates and left the Belogorsk fortress forever.

Chapter XIII. The Arrest

Do not be angry, sir: according to my duty

I must send you to prison this very hour.

—  I am ready; but I have such hope

That you will allow me to explain the matter first.

—  Knyazhnin.

United so unexpectedly with the dear girl, about whom I had been so agonizingly worried just this morning, I could not believe myself and imagined that everything that had happened to me was an empty dream. Marya Ivanovna looked with thoughtfulness now at me, now at the road, and it seemed that she had not yet had time to recover and come to her senses. We were silent. Our hearts were too weary. Inconspicuously, after about two hours, we found ourselves in the nearest fortress, also subordinate to Pugachev. Here we changed horses. By the speed with which they were harnessed, and by the hurried helpfulness of the bearded Cossack, whom Pugachev had put in as commandant, I saw that, thanks to the talkativeness of the coachman who had brought us, I was being treated as a temporary court favorite.

We traveled further. It began to get 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 guards. To the question: who is driving? – the coachman answered loudly: “The sovereign’s kum with his good woman.” Suddenly a crowd of hussars surrounded us with terrible curses. “Get out, you devil’s kum!” said a mustachioed sergeant-major to me. “You’ll get a good wash, you and your good woman!”

I got out of the covered cart and demanded to be taken to their commander. Seeing an officer, the soldiers stopped cursing. The sergeant-major led me to the major. Savelyich did not fall behind me, muttering to himself: “There’s the sovereign’s kum for you! From the frying pan into the fire… Lord Almighty! How will all this end?” The covered cart drove slowly behind us.

After five minutes we came to a small house, brightly lit. The sergeant-major left me with the guard and went to report on me. He immediately returned, announcing to me that his high honor did not have time to receive me, and that he had ordered me to be taken to the prison, and the good woman to be brought to him.

“What does this mean?” I cried out in a rage. “Has he gone mad?”

“I can’t say, your honor,” the sergeant-major replied. “Only his high honor ordered your honor to be taken to the prison, and her honor to be brought to his high honor, your honor!”

I rushed to the porch. The guards did not try to stop me, and I ran straight into the room where about six hussar officers were playing faro. The major was dealing. What was my astonishment when, looking at him, I recognized Ivan Ivanovich Zurin, who had once won all my money in a Simbirsk tavern!

“Is it possible?” I exclaimed. “Ivan Ivanych! Is it you?”

“Bah, bah, bah, Petr Andreyich! By what fate? Where are you from? Hello, brother. Would you like to place a card?”

“I’m grateful. Please order a room for me instead.”

“What room do you need? Stay with me.”

“I can’t: I’m not alone.”

“Well, bring your companion here too.”

“I’m not with a companion; I’m… with a lady.”

“With a lady! Where did you pick her up? Eh, brother!” (With these words, Zurin whistled so expressively that everyone burst out laughing, and I became completely confused.)

“Well,” Zurin continued, “so be it. You’ll get a room. It’s a shame… We would have feasted in the old way… Hey! Boy! Why isn’t Pugachev’s good woman being brought here? Or is she being stubborn? Tell her not to be afraid: the master is fine; he won’t offend her, and then give her a good kick in the neck.”

“What are you saying?” I said to Zurin. “What Pugachev’s good woman? This is the daughter of the late Captain Mironov. I rescued her from captivity and am now escorting her to my father’s village, where I will leave her.”

“What! So it was about you that I was just being reported? My God! What does this mean?”

“I’ll tell you everything later. But now, for God’s sake, reassure the poor girl, whom your hussars have scared.”

Zurin immediately gave orders. He himself went out into the street to apologize to Marya Ivanovna for the unintentional misunderstanding and ordered the sergeant-major to give her the best room in town. I stayed to spend the night with him.

We had supper, and when we were alone, I told him my adventures. Zurin listened to me with great attention. When I finished, he shook his head and said: “All this, brother, is good; only one thing is not good: why the devil are you rushing to get married? I, an honest officer, will not want to deceive you: believe me, marriage is a whim. Well, what’s the point of you bothering with a wife and fussing with kids? Hey, spit on it. Listen to me: get rid of the captain’s daughter. The road to Simbirsk is clear and safe. Send her alone to your parents tomorrow; and you stay with me in my detachment. There is no reason for you to return to Orenburg. If you fall into the hands of the rebels again, it’s unlikely that you’ll get away from them another time. In this way, the lovesickness will pass on its own, and everything will be fine.”

Although I did not completely agree with him, I nevertheless felt that the duty of honor required my presence in the Empress’s army. I decided to follow Zurin’s advice: to send Marya Ivanovna to the village and remain in his detachment.

Savelyich appeared to undress me; I announced to him that he should be ready to leave with Marya Ivanovna the next day. He began to be stubborn. “What are you saying, sir? How can I abandon you? Who will look after you? What will your parents say?”

Knowing my old servant’s stubbornness, I intended to persuade him with kindness and sincerity. “My friend, Arkhip Savelyich!” I said to him. “Do not refuse, be my benefactor; I will not be in need of a servant here, and I will not be at peace if Marya Ivanovna travels without you. By serving her, you are also serving me, because I have firmly decided, as soon as circumstances allow, to marry her.”

At this, Savelyich threw up his hands with a look of indescribable amazement.

“Marry!” he repeated. “The child wants to get married! And what will his father say, and what will his mother think?”

“They will agree, they will certainly agree,” I replied, “when they get to know Marya Ivanovna. I am also counting on you. My father and mother trust you: you will be an intercessor for us, won’t you?”

The old man was touched. “Oh, my dear Petr Andreyich!” he replied. “Although you’ve decided to get married a little early, Marya Ivanovna is such a good young lady that it would be a sin to miss the opportunity. So be it! I’ll escort her, God’s angel, and I will report to your parents, like a slave, that such a bride needs no dowry.”

I thanked Savelyich and went to bed in the same room with Zurin. Heated and agitated, I talked a lot. At first, Zurin talked to me willingly, but little by little, his words became rarer and more incoherent; finally, instead of an answer to some question, he began to snore and whistle. I fell silent and soon followed his example.

The next morning, I came to Marya Ivanovna. I told her my plans. She recognized their prudence and immediately agreed with me.

Zurin’s detachment was to leave the town on the same day. There was no time to delay. I said goodbye to Marya Ivanovna then and there, entrusting her to Savelyich and giving her a letter to my parents. Marya Ivanovna began to cry. “Farewell, Petr Andreyich!” she said in a quiet voice. “Whether we will see each other again or not, God alone knows; but I will never forget you; until the grave, you alone will remain in my heart.” I could not answer anything. People were around us. I did not want to give in to the feelings that were stirring within me in front of them. Finally, she left. I returned to Zurin, sad and silent. He wanted to cheer me up; I tried to distract myself: we spent the day noisily and wildly and in the evening, we set out on a campaign.

It was the end of February. The winter, which had made military operations difficult, was passing, and our generals were preparing for a concerted effort. Pugachev was still standing near Orenburg. Meanwhile, detachments were joining up around him and approaching the villain’s nest from all sides. Rebellious villages, at the sight of our troops, came back into submission; gangs of robbers fled from us everywhere, and everything foretold a quick and happy ending.

Soon Prince Golitsyn, near the Tatishcheva fortress, defeated Pugachev, scattered his mobs, liberated Orenburg, and it seemed, dealt the rebellion the final and decisive blow. Zurin was at that time detached against a gang of rebellious Bashkirs, who scattered before we even saw them. Spring trapped us in a Tatar village. The rivers overflowed, and the roads became impassable. We comforted ourselves in our inactivity with the thought of the imminent end of the boring and petty war with robbers and savages.

But Pugachev had not been caught. He appeared at the Siberian factories, gathered new gangs there, and began his villainy again. The rumor of his successes spread again. We learned of the devastation of the Siberian fortresses. Soon the news of the capture of Kazan and the impostor’s march on Moscow alarmed the commanders of the troops, who had been carelessly dozing in the hope of the contemptible rebel’s powerlessness. Zurin received an order to cross the Volga.

I will not describe our campaign and the end of the war. I will say briefly that the disaster reached its extreme. We passed through villages ruined by the rebels and were forced to take what the poor inhabitants had managed to save. The government had ceased everywhere: landowners hid in the forests. Gangs of robbers were committing villainy everywhere; the commanders of separate detachments punished and showed mercy on their own authority; the state of the entire vast region where the fire was raging was terrible… God forbid anyone should see a Russian rebellion, senseless and merciless!

Pugachev fled, pursued by Ivan Ivanovich Mikhelson. Soon we learned of his complete defeat. Finally, Zurin received news of the impostor’s capture, and at the same time, an order to stop. The war was over. Finally, I could go to my parents! The thought of embracing them, of seeing Marya Ivanovna, from whom I had not had any news, filled me with rapture. I was jumping like a child. Zurin laughed and said, shrugging his shoulders: “No, you’re in for it! You’ll get married – you’ll be lost for nothing!”

But meanwhile, a strange feeling poisoned my joy: the thought of the villain, spattered with the blood of so many innocent victims, and of the execution awaiting him, involuntarily disturbed me: “Emelya, Emelya!” I thought with vexation, “Why didn’t you run into a bayonet or get hit by a canister shot? You couldn’t have thought of anything better.” What can you do? The thought of him was inseparably linked in me with the thought of the mercy he had shown me in one of the most terrible moments of his life, and of the rescue of my fiancée from the hands of the vile Shvabrin.

Zurin gave me leave. In a few days, I was to find myself again among my family, to see my Marya Ivanovna again… Suddenly, an unexpected storm struck me.

On the day appointed for departure, at the very moment when I was getting ready to set out on the road, Zurin came into my room, holding a paper in his hands, with an extremely preoccupied look. Something stung my heart. I was frightened, without knowing why. He sent my orderly away and announced that he had some business with me. “What is it?” I asked with anxiety. “A small unpleasantness,” he replied, handing me the paper. “Read what I just received.” I began to read it: it was a secret order to all separate commanders to arrest me, wherever I might be found, and to immediately send me under guard to Kazan to the Investigative Commission, which had been established in the case of Pugachev.

The paper almost fell from my hands. “There’s nothing to be done!” said Zurin. “It’s my duty to obey the order. It’s likely that the rumor of your friendly travels with Pugachev somehow reached the government. I hope that the case will have no consequences and that you will clear yourself before the commission. Don’t lose heart and get going.” My conscience was clear; I was not afraid of trial; but the thought of postponing the moment of the sweet reunion, perhaps for several more months, terrified me. The cart was ready. Zurin said goodbye to me in a friendly way. I was put in the cart. Two hussars with drawn sabers sat with me, and I drove away along the main road.

Chapter XIV. The Trial

Worldly rumor —

Like a wave of the sea.

—  Proverb.

I was certain that the cause of everything was my unauthorized absence from Orenburg. I could easily justify myself: raiding was not only never forbidden, but was even encouraged with all our might. I could be accused of excessive hotheadedness, not disobedience. But my friendly relations with Pugachev could be proven by many witnesses and had to seem at least very suspicious. All the way, I reflected on the interrogations awaiting me, thought through my answers, and decided to tell the absolute truth before the court, considering this method of justification the simplest and, at the same time, the most reliable.

I arrived in Kazan, which was devastated and burned down. In the streets, instead of houses, there were heaps of coals and sooty walls without roofs or windows stood out. Such was the trace left by Pugachev! I was brought to the fortress, which had survived in the middle of the burnt-down city. The hussars handed me over to the guard officer. He ordered a blacksmith to be called. They put a chain on my legs and locked it tightly. Then they took me to prison and left me alone in a cramped and dark kennel, with only bare walls and a small window blocked by an iron grate.

Such a beginning did not bode well for me. However, I did not lose either my spirit or my hope. I resorted to the consolation of all the grieving and, for the first time, tasted the sweetness of a prayer poured out from a pure, but torn heart, and fell asleep peacefully, not caring about what would happen to me.

The next day, the prison guard woke me up with the announcement that I was being summoned to the commission. Two soldiers led me across the courtyard to the commandant’s house, stopped in the front hall, and let me into the inner rooms alone.

I entered a rather spacious hall. Behind a table covered with papers sat two men: an elderly general, with a severe and cold appearance, and a young guard captain, about twenty-eight years old, with a very pleasant appearance, and a graceful and relaxed manner. At the window, at a separate table, sat a secretary with a pen behind his ear, leaning over a paper, ready to write down my testimony. The interrogation began. I was asked for my name and rank. The general asked if I was the son of Andrey Petrovich Grinev. In response, he replied sternly: “It’s a pity that such a respectable man has such an unworthy son!” I calmly replied that whatever the accusations against me, I hoped to dispel them with a sincere explanation of the truth. My confidence did not please him. “You’re sharp, brother,” he said, frowning at me, “but we’ve seen others like you!”

Then the young man asked me: on what occasion and at what time did I enter Pugachev’s service and for what errands was I used by him?

I replied with indignation that I, as an officer and a nobleman, could not enter any service for Pugachev or accept any errands from him.

“How is it then,” my interrogator replied, “that a nobleman and an officer was the only one spared by the impostor, while all his comrades were villainously killed? How is it that this same officer and nobleman is on friendly terms with the rebels, accepting gifts from the main villain, a fur coat, a horse, and half a ruble? Where did such a strange friendship come from and on what is it based, if not on treason or at least on a vile and criminal faint-heartedness?”

I was deeply offended by the words of the guard officer and began my defense with passion. I told how my acquaintance with Pugachev began in the steppe, during a blizzard; how he recognized me and spared me during the capture of the Belogorsk fortress. I said that I had, it was true, not been ashamed to accept the sheepskin coat and the horse from the impostor; but that I had defended the Belogorsk fortress against the villain to the very last. Finally, I also referred to my general, who could testify to my zeal during the disastrous siege of Orenburg.

The strict old man took an open letter from the table and began to read it aloud:

“In response to your excellency’s inquiry regarding Ensign Grinev, who is allegedly involved in the current turmoil and has entered into relations with the villain, relations not permitted by service and contrary to the duty of the oath, I have the honor to explain: the said Ensign Grinev was in service in Orenburg from the beginning of October last year, 1773, until February 24th of the current year, on which date he left the city and has not appeared in my command since. It is heard from deserters that he was with Pugachev in the settlement and traveled with him to the Belogorsk fortress, where he had previously been in service; as for his conduct, I can…” Here he interrupted his reading and said to me sternly: “What will you say now in your defense?”

I was about to continue as I had begun and explain my connection with Marya Ivanovna as sincerely as everything else. But I suddenly felt an insurmountable aversion. It occurred to me that if I named her, the commission would summon her for questioning; and the thought of entangling her name among the vile slanders of the villains and bringing her face-to-face with them — this terrible thought struck me so much that I faltered and became confused.

My judges, who had seemed to be listening to my answers with some benevolence, were again prejudiced against me at the sight of my confusion. The guard officer demanded that I be placed in a face-to-face confrontation with the main accuser. The general ordered yesterday’s villain to be called. I eagerly turned to the door, awaiting the appearance of my accuser. A few minutes later, chains rattled, the doors opened, and in walked — Shvabrin. I was amazed by his change. He was terribly thin and pale. His hair, which had recently been as black as pitch, had turned completely grey; his long beard was disheveled. He repeated his accusations in a weak but bold voice. According to him, I had been sent from Pugachev to Orenburg as a spy; that I went out to skirmishes daily to pass on written reports of everything that was happening in the city; that I had finally openly defected to the impostor, traveled with him from fortress to fortress, trying in every way to ruin my fellow traitors in order to take their places and enjoy the rewards distributed by the impostor. I listened to him in silence and was satisfied with one thing: the name of Marya Ivanovna was not spoken by the vile villain, whether because his vanity suffered at the thought of the one who had rejected him with contempt, or because there was a spark of the same feeling hidden in his heart that also made me keep silent — whatever the case, the name of the daughter of the Belogorsk commandant was not mentioned in the presence of the commission. I became even more firm in my intention, and when the judges asked: what could I say to refute Shvabrin’s testimony, I replied that I stood by my first explanation and could not say anything else in my own defense. The general ordered us to be led out. We went out together. I calmly looked at Shvabrin, but said not a word to him. He smiled a malicious smile and, lifting his chains, walked ahead of me and quickened his pace. I was taken back to prison again and was not summoned for questioning again after that.

I was not a witness to everything about which I must now inform the reader, but I heard stories about it so often that the smallest details were etched into my memory and it seems to me as if I was invisibly present there.

Marya Ivanovna was received by my parents with the sincere hospitality that distinguished people of the old era. They saw it as a blessing from God to have the opportunity to shelter and be kind to a poor orphan. They soon became sincerely attached to her, because it was impossible to know her and not love her. My love no longer seemed to my father to be an empty whim; and my mother only wanted her little Petr to marry the dear captain’s daughter.

The news of my arrest shocked my entire family. Marya Ivanovna so simply told my parents about my strange acquaintance with Pugachev that it not only did not bother them, but even made them often laugh from the bottom of their hearts. My father did not want to believe that I could have been involved in the vile rebellion, the purpose of which was to overthrow the throne and exterminate the nobility. He strictly questioned Savelyich. The old servant did not hide the fact that his master had been a guest of Emelka Pugachev and that the villain had indeed been kind to him, but he swore that he had not heard of any treason. The old people calmed down and began to wait impatiently for favorable news. Marya Ivanovna was very alarmed, but she kept silent, for she was endowed with modesty and prudence to the highest degree.

Several weeks passed… Suddenly, my father received a letter from our relative, Prince B, from St. Petersburg. The Prince wrote to him about me. After the usual opening, he informed him that the suspicions regarding my involvement in the rebels’ schemes had, unfortunately, turned out to be too well-founded, that an exemplary execution should have befallen me, but that the Empress, out of respect for the merits and advanced years of my father, had decided to pardon the criminal son and, by sparing him from a disgraceful execution, had only ordered him to be exiled to a remote region of Siberia for eternal settlement.

This unexpected blow nearly killed my father. He lost his usual firmness, and his grief (usually silent) was poured out in bitter complaints. “How!” he repeated, losing control of himself. “My son took part in Pugachev’s schemes! Righteous God, what have I lived to see! The Empress is saving him from execution! Does that make it any easier for me? It’s not the execution that’s terrible: my ancestor died on the block, defending what he considered the sanctity of his conscience; my father suffered along with Volynsky and Khrushchyov. But for a nobleman to betray his oath, to join with robbers, with murderers, with runaway serfs!.. Shame and disgrace upon our family!..” Frightened by his despair, my mother did not dare to cry in front of him and tried to restore his spirit, talking about the unreliability of rumor and the fickleness of human opinion. My father was inconsolable.

Marya Ivanovna suffered most of all. Being sure that I could have justified myself if I had only wanted to, she guessed the truth and considered herself the cause of my misfortune. She hid her tears and suffering from everyone and, in the meantime, was constantly thinking of ways to save me.

One evening my father was sitting on the sofa, turning the pages of a Court Calendar; but his thoughts were far away, and the reading did not have its usual effect on him. He was whistling an old march. My mother was silently knitting a wool sweater, and tears occasionally dropped onto her work. Suddenly, Marya Ivanovna, who was also sitting there working, announced that necessity was forcing her to go to St. Petersburg and that she asked them to give her a way to leave. My mother was very upset. “Why do you need to go to St. Petersburg?” she said. “Surely, Marya Ivanovna, you don’t want to leave us too?” Marya Ivanovna replied that her whole future fate depended on this trip, that she was going to seek patronage and help from powerful people, as the daughter of a man who had suffered for his loyalty.

My father bowed his head: every word that reminded him of his son’s alleged crime was a burden to him and seemed like a sharp reproach. “Go, my dear!” he said to her with a sigh. “We do not want to hinder your happiness. May God give you a good man for a husband, not a disgraced traitor.” He stood up and left the room.

Marya Ivanovna, left alone with my mother, partly explained her plans to her. My mother hugged her with tears and prayed to God for a successful outcome of the planned undertaking. Marya Ivanovna was equipped, and a few days later she set out on the road with the faithful Palasha and the faithful Savelyich, who, forcibly separated from me, was at least comforted by the thought that he was serving my fiancée.

Marya Ivanovna arrived safely in Sofia and, having learned at the post station that the Court was in Tsarskoye Selo at that time, decided to stop there. She was given a corner behind a screen. The stationmaster’s wife immediately struck up a conversation with her, announced that she was the niece of a court stoker, and initiated her into all the mysteries of court life. She told her at what time the Empress usually woke up, drank coffee, and went for a walk; what dignitaries were with her at that time; what she had deigned to say at her table yesterday; whom she had received in the evening — in a word, Anna Vlasyevna’s conversation was worth several pages of historical notes and would have been priceless for posterity. Marya Ivanovna listened to her with attention. They went into the garden. Anna Vlasyevna told the history of every alley and every bridge, and, having had their fill of walking, they returned to the station very pleased with each other.

Early the next morning, Marya Ivanovna woke up, got dressed, and quietly went into the garden. The morning was beautiful, the sun was illuminating the tops of the linden trees, which had already turned yellow under the fresh breath of autumn. The wide lake shone motionless. The awakened swans sailed majestically from under the bushes that overshadowed the shore. Marya Ivanovna walked past a beautiful meadow where a monument had just been erected in honor of the recent victories of Count Pyotr Alexandrovich Rumyantsev. Suddenly, a white English breed dog barked and ran towards her. Marya Ivanovna was frightened and stopped. At that very moment, a pleasant female voice rang out: “Don’t be afraid, she won’t bite.” And Marya Ivanovna saw a lady sitting on a bench opposite the monument. Marya Ivanovna sat down on the other end of the bench. The lady looked at her intently; and Marya Ivanovna, for her part, casting a few sideways glances, managed to examine her from head to toe. She was in a white morning dress, a nightcap, and a quilted jacket. She looked about forty years old. Her face, full and rosy, expressed dignity and tranquility, and her blue eyes and slight smile had an inexpressible charm. The lady was the first to break the silence.

“You’re probably not from here?” she said.

“That’s right, ma’am: I only arrived yesterday from the provinces.”

“Did you come with your family?”

“Not at all, ma’am. I came alone.”

“Alone! But you are still so young.”

“I have neither a father nor a mother.”

“You are here, of course, on some business?”

“That’s right, ma’am. I came to submit a petition to the Empress.”

“You are an orphan: you are probably complaining about injustice and offense?”

“Not at all, ma’am. I came to ask for mercy, not justice.”

“Allow me to ask, who are you?”

“I am Captain Mironov’s daughter.”

“Captain Mironov! The very one who was the commandant of one of the Orenburg fortresses?”

“That’s right, ma’am.”

The lady seemed to be touched. “Forgive me,” she said in an even more gentle voice, “if I interfere in your affairs; but I am at court; explain to me what your petition is about, and perhaps I can help you.”

Marya Ivanovna stood up and thanked her respectfully. Everything about the unknown lady involuntarily attracted her heart and inspired trust. Marya Ivanovna took a folded paper from her pocket and handed it to her unknown patroness, who began to read it to herself.

At first, she read with an attentive and benevolent look; but suddenly her face changed — and Marya Ivanovna, who had been following all her movements with her eyes, was frightened by the stern expression of that face, which had been so pleasant and calm a minute ago.

“You are pleading for Grinev?” the lady said with a cold look. “The Empress cannot forgive him. He joined the impostor not out of ignorance and gullibility, but as an immoral and harmful scoundrel.”

“Oh, that’s not true!” Marya Ivanovna cried out.

“How is it not true!” the lady replied, blushing all over.

“It’s not true, by God it’s not true! I know everything, I will tell you everything. He risked everything that befell him for me alone. And if he did not justify himself before the court, it was only because he did not want to get me involved.” Here she passionately told everything that is already known to my reader.

The lady listened to her with attention. “Where are you staying?” she asked afterward; and upon hearing that it was at Anna Vlasyevna’s, she added with a smile: “Ah, I know. Farewell, don’t tell anyone about our meeting. I hope you won’t have to wait long for an answer to your letter.”

With these words, she stood up and walked into a covered alley, and Marya Ivanovna returned to Anna Vlasyevna, filled with joyful hope.

The hostess scolded her for the early autumn walk, which, according to her, was harmful to a young girl’s health. She brought a samovar and was just about to begin her endless stories about the court over a cup of tea when a court carriage suddenly stopped at the porch, and a chamber valet came in with the announcement that the Empress was pleased to invite Miss Mironova to her presence.

Anna Vlasyevna was amazed and flustered. “Oh my God!” she exclaimed. “The Empress is summoning you to court. How did she find out about you? And how, my dear, will you present yourself to the Empress? I’m sure you don’t even know how to take a court step… Should I accompany you? At least I might be able to warn you about something. And how can you go in your travel dress? Should I send for the midwife for her yellow robe?” The chamber valet announced that the Empress wanted Marya Ivanovna to come alone and in whatever she was found in. There was nothing to be done: Marya Ivanovna got into the carriage and went to the palace, accompanied by Anna Vlasyevna’s advice and blessings.

Marya Ivanovna had a premonition of the decision of our fate; her heart was beating fast and stopping. A few minutes later, the carriage stopped at the palace. Marya Ivanovna tremblingly walked up the stairs. The doors opened wide before her. She passed a long row of empty, magnificent rooms; the chamber valet showed her the way. Finally, having approached a locked door, he announced that he would report on her immediately and left her alone.

The thought of seeing the Empress face to face was so terrifying to her that she could barely stand on her feet. A minute later, the doors opened, and she entered the Empress’s dressing room.

The Empress was sitting at her dressing table. Several courtiers surrounded her and respectfully let Marya Ivanovna pass. The Empress turned to her kindly, and Marya Ivanovna recognized in her the lady with whom she had so frankly spoken just a few minutes ago. The Empress called her over and said with a smile: “I am glad that I could keep my word to you and fulfill your request. Your case is finished. I am convinced of your fiancé’s innocence. Here is a letter that you yourself will take to your future father-in-law.”

Marya Ivanovna took the letter with a trembling hand and, weeping, fell at the feet of the Empress, who lifted her up and kissed her. The Empress talked to her. “I know that you are not rich,” she said, “but I am indebted to the daughter of Captain Mironov. Do not worry about the future. I will take it upon myself to arrange your life.”

Having shown kindness to the poor orphan, the Empress dismissed her. Marya Ivanovna left in the same court carriage. Anna Vlasyevna, who was impatiently awaiting her return, showered her with questions, to which Marya Ivanovna answered in a muddled way. Although Anna Vlasyevna was displeased with her memory loss, she attributed it to provincial shyness and magnanimously excused her. On the same day, Marya Ivanovna, not having taken the trouble to look at St. Petersburg, drove back to the village…

Here end the notes of Petr Andreyevich Grinev. It is known from family traditions that he was released from imprisonment at the end of 1774, by a personal order; that he was present at the execution of Pugachev, who recognized him in the crowd and nodded his head to him, which a minute later, dead and bloody, was shown to the people. Soon after, Petr Andreyevich married Marya Ivanovna. Their descendants are thriving in the Simbirsk province. Thirty versts from *** there is a village belonging to ten landowners. In one of the manor wings, a letter from Catherine II, in her own hand, is displayed under glass and in a frame. It was written to the father of Petr Andreyevich and contains the justification of his son and praise for the mind and heart of Captain Mironov’s daughter. The manuscript of Petr Andreyevich Grinev was delivered to us by one of his grandsons, who learned that we were busy with a work relating to the times described by his grandfather. We decided, with the permission of the relatives, to publish it separately, having found a suitable epigraph for each chapter and having allowed ourselves to change some of the proper names.

The Editor.

19 Oct. 1836.

Appendix. The Omitted Chapter

This chapter was not included in the final version of The Captain’s Daughter and was preserved in the rough manuscript, where it is called “The Omitted Chapter.” In the text of this chapter, Grinev is called Bulanin, and Zurin is called Grinev.

***

We were approaching the banks of the Volga; our regiment entered the village of ** and stopped there for the night. The village elder announced to me that on the other side, all the villages had revolted, and Pugachev’s gangs were roaming everywhere. This news greatly alarmed me. We were supposed to cross the next morning. Impatience seized me. My father’s village was thirty versts on the other side of the river. I asked if a ferryman could be found. All the peasants were fishermen; there were many boats. I went to Grinev and announced my intention to him. “Beware,” he said to me. “It is dangerous to go alone. Wait until morning. We will cross first and bring 50 hussars to your parents’ house as a precaution.”

I insisted on my own way. The boat was ready. I got into it with two rowers. They pushed off and began to row.

The sky was clear. The moon was shining. The weather was calm — the Volga flowed evenly and peacefully. The boat, swaying smoothly, glided quickly over the dark waves. I was lost in daydreams. About half an hour passed. We had already reached the middle of the river… suddenly the rowers began to whisper to each other. “What is it?” I asked, waking up. “We don’t know, God knows,” the rowers answered, looking in one direction. My eyes followed the same direction, and I saw something floating downstream on the Volga in the gloom. The unfamiliar object was approaching. I told the rowers to stop and wait for it. The moon went behind a cloud. The floating phantom became even less clear. It was already close to me, and I still could not make it out. “What could that be,” the rowers said. “It’s not a sail, not a mast…” Suddenly the moon came out from behind the cloud and illuminated a terrible sight. A gallows was floating towards us, mounted on a raft, with three bodies hanging from the crossbar. A morbid curiosity seized me. I wanted to look at the faces of the hanged men.

At my command, the rowers hooked the raft with a boat hook, my boat bumped into the floating gallows. I jumped out and found myself between the terrible posts. The bright moon illuminated the disfigured faces of the unfortunates. One of them was an old Chuvash, the other a Russian peasant, a strong and healthy fellow about 20 years old. But, looking at the third, I was strongly struck and could not help but cry out mournfully: it was Vanka, my poor Vanka, who had foolishly joined Pugachev. A black board was nailed above them, on which was written in large white letters: “Thieves and Rebels.” The rowers looked on with indifference and waited for me, holding the raft with the boat hook. I sat back down in the boat. The raft floated downstream. The gallows was black in the darkness for a long time. Finally, it disappeared, and my boat landed on a high and steep bank…

I paid the rowers generously. One of them led me to the elected elder of the village, which was at the crossing. I entered the hut with him. The elder, upon hearing that I was asking for horses, was quite rude to me at first, but my guide said a few words to him quietly, and his sternness immediately turned into hurried helpfulness. In one minute, a troika was ready, I got into the cart and told him to take me to our village.

I rode along the main road, past sleeping villages. I was afraid of only one thing: being stopped on the road. If my night encounter on the Volga proved the presence of rebels, it was also proof of a strong counter-action by the government. Just in case, I had a pass in my pocket, given to me by Pugachev, and an order from Colonel Grinev. But I met no one, and by morning, I saw the river and a spruce grove, behind which our village was located. The coachman hit the horses, and a quarter of an hour later, I entered **.

The manor house was at the other end of the village. The horses were rushing at full speed. Suddenly, in the middle of the street, the coachman began to hold them back. “What is it?” I asked impatiently. “A barrier, master,” the coachman replied, with difficulty stopping his furious horses. In fact, I saw a chevaux de frise and a guard with a club. A peasant came up to me and took off his hat, asking for my passport. “What does this mean?” I asked him, “Why is there a barrier here? Who are you guarding?”  —  “Well, little father, we’re in a rebellion,” he replied, scratching himself.

“And where are your masters?” I asked with my heart sinking…

“Where are our masters?” the peasant repeated. “Our masters are in the grain barn.”

“In the barn, how?”

“Well, Andryukha, the rural official, has put them in stocks, you see, and wants to take them to the little father-sovereign.”

“My God! Move the barrier, you fool. What are you gaping at?”

The guard hesitated. I jumped out of the cart, hit him (I am sorry) in the ear, and moved the barrier myself. My peasant looked at me with stupid bewilderment. I got back into the cart and told him to rush to the manor house. The grain barn was in the yard. At the locked doors, two peasants also stood with clubs. The cart stopped right in front of them. I jumped out and rushed straight at them. “Open the doors!” I told them. My appearance was probably terrifying. At least both of them ran away, dropping their clubs. I tried to break the lock and force the doors open, but the doors were oak, and the huge lock was indestructible. At that moment, a well-built young peasant came out of the servants’ quarters and with an arrogant look asked me how I dared to be so rowdy. “Where is Andryushka the rural official,” I shouted at him. “Call him to me.”

“I am Andrey Afanasyevich, not Andryushka,” he replied, proudly putting his hands on his hips. “What do you want?”

Instead of an answer, I grabbed him by the collar and, dragging him to the barn doors, told him to unlock them. The rural official at first was stubborn, but paternal punishment worked on him too. He took out the key and unlocked the barn. I rushed over the threshold and in a dark corner, faintly lit by a narrow opening cut in the ceiling, I saw my mother and father. Their hands were tied, and stocks were on their feet. I rushed to hug them and could not utter a word. Both looked at me with amazement — three years of military life had changed me so much that they could not recognize me. My mother gasped and burst into tears.

Suddenly, I heard a sweet, familiar voice. “Petr Andreyich! Is it you!” I froze… I looked around and saw Marya Ivanovna in the other corner, also tied up.

My father looked at me in silence, not daring to believe himself. Joy shone on his face. I hurried to cut the knots of their ropes with my saber.

“Hello, hello, Petrusha,” my father said to me, pressing me to his heart, “thank God, we have lived to see you…”

“Petrusha, my friend,” my mother said. “How did the Lord bring you here! Are you healthy?”

I hurried to lead them out of captivity — but, approaching the door, I found it locked again. “Andryushka,” I shouted, “open it!” “Not a chance,” the rural official replied from behind the door. “You sit here yourself. We’ll teach you to be rowdy and to drag the sovereign’s officials by the collar!”

I began to examine the barn, looking for some way to get out.

“Don’t bother,” my father told me, “I am not such a master that my barns can be entered and exited through thieves’ loopholes.”

My mother, who for a moment had been delighted by my appearance, fell into despair, seeing that I too had to share the ruin of the whole family. But I was calmer since I was with them and with Marya Ivanovna. I had a saber and two pistols with me, I could still hold out a siege. Grinev was supposed to arrive by evening and free us. I told my parents all this and managed to calm my mother. They gave themselves over completely to the joy of our reunion.

“Well, Petr,” my father said to me, “you’ve been up to enough mischief, and I was quite angry with you. But there’s no need to talk about the past. I hope that now you have reformed and settled down. I know that you served as befits an honest officer. Thank you. You have comforted me, an old man. If I owe you my deliverance, then life will be doubly pleasant for me.”

I kissed his hand with tears in my eyes and looked at Marya Ivanovna, who was so happy with my presence that she seemed completely happy and peaceful.

Around noon, we heard an unusual noise and shouting. “What does this mean,” my father said, “hasn’t your colonel arrived?” “It’s impossible,” I replied. “He won’t be here before evening.” The noise increased. The tocsin was rung. People on horseback were galloping in the courtyard; at that moment, the gray head of Savelyich poked through the narrow opening cut in the wall, and my poor servant spoke in a mournful voice: “Andrey Petrovich, Avdotya Vasilyevna, my dear Petr Andreyich, dear Marya Ivanovna, trouble! The villains have entered the village. And do you know, Petr Andreyich, who led them? Shvabrin, Alexey Ivanych, may the devil take him!” Upon hearing the hateful name, Marya Ivanovna threw her hands up and remained motionless.

“Listen,” I said to Savelyich, “send someone on horseback to the * crossing, to meet the hussar regiment; and tell them to let the colonel know of our danger.”

“But who can I send, sir! All the boys are in rebellion, and all the horses have been seized! Oh dear! They’re already in the courtyard — they’re getting to the barn.”

At that moment, several voices were heard outside the door. I silently gestured for my mother and Marya Ivanovna to move into the corner, drew my saber, and leaned against the wall right next to the door. My father took the pistols, cocked both of them, and stood next to me. The lock rattled, the door opened, and the head of the rural official appeared. I struck it with my saber, and he fell, blocking the entrance. At the same moment, my father fired a pistol at the door. The crowd besieging us ran back with curses. I dragged the wounded man over the threshold and locked the door with the inner latch. The courtyard was full of armed men. Among them, I recognized Shvabrin.

“Don’t be afraid,” I said to the women. “There is hope. And you, father, do not shoot anymore. Let’s save the last shot.”

My mother silently prayed to God; Marya Ivanovna stood next to her, with angelic serenity, awaiting the decision of our fate. Threats, curses, and swearing were heard outside the doors. I stood in my place, ready to chop down the first brave man. Suddenly the villains fell silent. I heard Shvabrin’s voice calling me by name.

“I’m here, what do you want?”

“Surrender, Bulanin, it’s useless to resist. Have pity on your old people. You won’t save yourself with stubbornness. I’ll get to you!”

“Try it, traitor!”

“I won’t try it myself for nothing, or waste my men. But I’ll order the barn to be set on fire, and then we’ll see what you’ll do, Don Quixote of Belogorsk. Now it’s time for lunch. For now, sit and think at your leisure. See you, Marya Ivanovna, I won’t apologize to you: you probably aren’t bored in the dark with your knight.”

Shvabrin left and left a guard at the barn. We were silent. Each of us was thinking to ourselves, not daring to share our thoughts with the other. I imagined everything that the embittered Shvabrin was capable of doing. I was almost not concerned about myself. Should I admit it? Even the fate of my parents did not horrify me as much as the fate of Marya Ivanovna. I knew that my mother was adored by the peasants and servants, and my father, despite his strictness, was also loved, for he was just and knew the true needs of the people under his authority. Their rebellion was a delusion, a momentary drunkenness, and not an expression of their indignation. Here, a pardon was likely. But Marya Ivanovna? What fate was the depraved and unscrupulous man preparing for her? I did not dare to dwell on this terrible thought and was preparing, God forgive me, to kill her rather than see her a second time in the hands of the cruel enemy.

About another hour passed. The songs of drunkards were heard in the village. Our guards envied them and, annoyed at us, swore and threatened us with torture and death. We were waiting for the consequences of Shvabrin’s threats. Finally, there was a great commotion in the courtyard, and we heard Shvabrin’s voice again.

“Well, have you thought about it? Are you voluntarily surrendering yourselves to me?”

No one answered him. After waiting a little, Shvabrin ordered straw to be brought. A few minutes later, a fire flared up and illuminated the dark barn, and smoke began to break through the cracks in the threshold. Then Marya Ivanovna came up to me and quietly, taking my hand, said:

“Enough, Petr Andreyich! Don’t ruin yourself and your parents for me. Let me out. Shvabrin will listen to me.”

“No way,” I shouted with all my heart. “Do you know what awaits you?”

“I will not survive dishonor,” she replied calmly. “But maybe I will save my rescuer and the family that so magnanimously sheltered my poor orphanhood. Farewell, Andrey Petrovich. Farewell, Avdotya Vasilyevna. You have been more than benefactors to me. Bless me. And you, Petr Andreyich, forgive me. Be sure that…” here she started crying… and covered her face with her hands… I was like a madman. My mother was crying.

“Stop your nonsense, Marya Ivanovna,” my father said. “Who will let you go alone to the robbers! Sit here and be quiet. If we are to die, then let’s die together. Listen, what else are they saying out there?”

“Are you surrendering?” Shvabrin shouted. “Do you see? In five minutes you’ll be roasted.”

“We won’t surrender, villain!” my father replied to him in a firm voice.

His face, covered with wrinkles, was animated with an amazing courage, his eyes shone menacingly from under his gray eyebrows. And, turning to me, he said:

“Now is the time!”

He unlocked the doors. The fire burst in and flew up the logs, which were caulked with dry moss. My father fired his pistol and stepped over the blazing threshold, shouting: “Everyone follow me.” I grabbed my mother and Marya Ivanovna by the hand and quickly led them out into the open air. At the threshold lay Shvabrin, shot by the frail hand of my father; the crowd of robbers, who had fled from our unexpected sortie, immediately took courage and began to surround us. I managed to deliver a few more blows, but a brick, thrown with good aim, hit me directly in the chest. I fell and lost consciousness for a minute. When I came to, I saw Shvabrin sitting on the bloody grass, and in front of him all our family. I was being supported by my arms. A crowd of peasants, Cossacks, and Bashkirs surrounded us. Shvabrin was terribly pale. With one hand, he was pressing his wounded side. His face expressed torment and malice. He slowly raised his head, looked at me, and said in a weak and indistinct voice:

“Hang him… and everyone… except her…”

Immediately, the crowd of villains surrounded us and with a shout, dragged us towards the gates. But suddenly they left us and scattered; Grinev rode in through the gates and behind him a whole squadron with drawn sabers.

The rebels fled in all directions; the hussars pursued them, cutting them down and taking them captive. Grinev jumped off his horse, bowed to my father and mother, and firmly shook my hand. “I came just in time,” he said to us. “Ah! There’s your fiancée.” Marya Ivanovna blushed to the tips of her ears. My father went up to him and thanked him with a calm, though touched, look. My mother hugged him, calling him an angel of salvation. “You are welcome to come to our home,” my father said to him and led him into our house.

Passing by Shvabrin, Grinev stopped. “Who is this?” he asked, looking at the wounded man. “This is the leader himself, the head of the gang,” my father replied with a certain pride, betraying the old warrior, “God helped my frail hand to punish the young villain and avenge him for the blood of my son.”

“This is Shvabrin,” I said to Grinev.

“Shvabrin! I am very glad. Hussars! Take him! And tell our doctor to bandage his wound and guard him like the apple of his eye. Shvabrin must be presented to the secret Kazan commission without fail. He is one of the main criminals, and his testimony must be important.”

Shvabrin opened his languid eyes. Nothing was shown on his face but physical torment. The hussars carried him away on a cloak.

We entered the rooms. I looked around with trepidation, remembering my childhood years. Nothing in the house had changed, everything was in its old place. Shvabrin had not allowed it to be plundered, retaining in his very humiliation an involuntary aversion to dishonorable greed. The servants appeared in the front hall. They had not participated in the rebellion and were sincerely happy about our salvation. Savelyich was triumphant. You should know that during the commotion caused by the attack of the robbers, he ran to the stable where Shvabrin’s horse was standing, saddled it, led it out quietly, and thanks to the chaos, galloped to the crossing unnoticed. He met the regiment, which was already resting on this side of the Volga. Grinev, having learned from him about our danger, ordered them to mount, commanded a march, a gallop — and, thank God, arrived in time.

Grinev insisted that the head of the rural official be displayed on a pole at the tavern for several hours.

The hussars returned from the pursuit, having taken several people captive. They were locked in the very same barn in which we had endured our memorable siege.

We each went to our own rooms. The old people needed rest. Not having slept all night, I threw myself on the bed and fell into a deep sleep. Grinev went to make his arrangements.

In the evening, we gathered in the living room around the samovar, cheerfully talking about the past danger. Marya Ivanovna was pouring tea, I sat next to her and occupied myself with her exclusively. My parents seemed to look favorably on the tenderness of our relationship. This evening still lives in my memory. I was happy, completely happy, and how many such moments are there in a person’s poor life?

The next day, my father was informed that the peasants had appeared at the manor courtyard with a confession. My father went out to the porch to meet them. At his appearance, the peasants fell to their knees.

“Well, you fools,” he said to them, “why did you decide to rebel?”

“We are guilty, our sovereign,” they replied in unison.

“That’s right, you’re guilty. They make a mess, and then they’re not happy about it themselves. I forgive you for the joy that God has brought me to see my son, Petr Andreyich. Well, good: the confessed head is not cut by the sword. You’re guilty! Of course, you’re guilty. God has given us good weather, it’s time to harvest the hay; and what have you fools been doing for three whole days? Elder! Put everyone on haymaking; and look, you red-haired rascal, that all my hay is in haystacks by St. Elijah’s Day. Get out of here.”

The peasants bowed and went to work as if nothing had happened.

Shvabrin’s wound turned out not to be fatal. He was sent to Kazan under escort. I saw from the window as he was placed in the cart. Our eyes met, he bowed his head, and I quickly moved away from the window. I was afraid to show any sign of triumph over the misfortune and humiliation of an enemy.

Grinev had to go on. I decided to follow him, despite my desire to stay for a few more days with my family. On the eve of the campaign, I came to my parents and, according to the custom of the time, bowed at their feet, asking for their blessing for my marriage to Marya Ivanovna. The old people lifted me up and, in joyful tears, expressed their consent. I brought Marya Ivanovna to them, pale and trembling. We were blessed… I will not describe what I felt. Anyone who has been in my situation will understand me without me saying it, and for those who have not, I can only feel sorry for them and advise them, while there is still time, to fall in love and get their parents’ blessing.

The next day, the regiment gathered, and Grinev said goodbye to our family. We were all sure that military operations would soon be over; in a month, I hoped to be a husband. Marya Ivanovna, saying goodbye to me, kissed me in front of everyone. I mounted my horse. Savelyich followed me again – and the regiment left.

For a long time, I looked from a distance at the village house, which I was abandoning again. A gloomy premonition was troubling me. Someone was whispering to me that not all misfortunes had passed me by. My heart sensed a new storm.

I will not describe our campaign and the end of the Pugachev rebellion. We passed through villages ruined by Pugachev and were forced to take what the poor inhabitants had been left with by the robbers.

They did not know whom to obey. The government had ceased everywhere. Landowners hid in the forests. Gangs of robbers were committing villainy everywhere. The commanders of the separate detachments, sent in pursuit of Pugachev, who was already fleeing to Astrakhan, punished the guilty and the innocent on their own authority… The state of the entire region where the fire was raging was terrible. God forbid anyone should see a Russian rebellion – senseless and merciless. Those who are plotting impossible revolutions among us are either young and do not know our people, or they are hard-hearted people for whom another’s head is worth half a ruble, and their own neck is worth a penny.

Pugachev fled, pursued by Iv. Iv. Mikhelson. Soon we learned of his complete defeat. Finally, Grinev received news from his general of the impostor’s capture, and at the same time, an order to stop. Finally, I could go home. I was in ecstasy, but a strange feeling clouded my joy.