“Ah, Pyotr Andreich!” she said, clasping her hands. “What a day! What horrors!…”
“And Marya Ivanovna?” I asked impatiently. “What of Marya Ivanovna?”
“The young miss is alive,” Palasha replied. “She’s in hiding at Akulina Pamfilovna’s.”
“At the priest’s!” I cried in horror. “My God! Pugachev’s there!…”
I rushed out of the room, instantly found myself in the street, and ran headlong to the priest’s house, seeing and feeling nothing. There was shouting, guffawing, and singing there…Pugachev was feasting with his comrades. Palasha came running after me. I sent her to call Akulina Pamfilovna out quietly. A moment later the priest’s wife came out to me in the front hall with an empty bottle in her hand.
“For God’s sake, where is Marya Ivanovna?” I asked with indescribable anxiety.
“She’s lying in my bed, the little dove, there, behind the partition,” the priest’s wife replied. “Well, Pyotr Andreich, misfortune nearly befell us, but, thank God, it all turned out well: the villain had just sat down to dinner when the poor thing came to and moaned!…I nearly fainted away. He heard it: ‘Who’s that groaning there, old woman?’ I bowed low to the thief: ‘My niece, Your Majesty. She was taken ill; it’s two weeks now she’s been lying there.’ ‘Is your niece young?’ ‘Yes, Your Majesty.’ ‘Show me your niece, old woman.’ My heart just sank, but there was nothing to be done. ‘If you please, sir; only the girl can’t get up and come to your honor.’ ‘Never mind, old woman, I’ll go and look myself.’ And he did, the fiend, he went behind the partition; and what do you think! He pulled the curtain aside, stared with his hawk’s eyes!—and that’s all…God spared us! Would you believe, right then my husband and I were ready for a martyr’s death. Luckily, my little dove didn’t recognize him. Lord God, what high days we’ve lived to see! I must say! Poor Ivan Kuzmich, who’d have imagined!…And Vasilisa Egorovna? And Ivan Ignatyich? What harm did he do?…How is it you were spared? And what about this Shvabrin, Alexei Ivanyich? Got himself a bowl haircut and now he sits here feasting with them! A nimble one, I must say! And when I mentioned the sick niece, would you believe, he shot me a glance like the stab of a knife; didn’t give me away, though, thanks be for that.”
Just then we heard drunken shouts from the guests and the voice of Father Gerasim. The guests were demanding vodka, the host was calling for his wife. She got into a flurry.
“Go home, Pyotr Andreich,” she said. “I can’t stay with you now, the villains are carousing. It’ll be bad if you fall into their drunken hands. Good-bye, Pyotr Andreich. What will be, will be; maybe God won’t forsake us.”
The priest’s wife left. Somewhat reassured, I went back to my quarters. Walking past the square, I saw several Bashkirs crowding around the gallows and pulling the boots off the hanged men; I barely controlled a burst of indignation, sensing the uselessness of interference. The brigands ran all over the fortress, looting the officers’ houses. The shouts of the drunken rebels could be heard everywhere. I reached home. Savelyich met me on the threshold.
“Thank God!” he cried on seeing me. “I was thinking the villains had got hold of you again. Well, my dear Pyotr Andreich, would you believe it? The rascals have robbed us of everything: clothes, linen, belongings, crockery—they left us nothing. But so what! Thank God they let you go alive! Did you recognize their leader, sir?”
“No, I didn’t. Who is he?”
“What, my dearest? Have you forgotten that drunkard who wheedled the coat out of you at the inn? A hareskin coat, quite a new one; and the brute burst all the seams as he pulled it on!”
I was amazed. In fact, the resemblance between Pugachev and my guide was striking. I realized that he and Pugachev were one and the same person, and understood then the reason for the mercy he had shown me. I could only marvel at the strange chain of events: a child’s coat given to a vagabond delivered me from the noose, and a drunkard roaming the wayside inns besieged fortresses and shook the state!
“Wouldn’t you care to eat?” asked Savelyich, unchanged in his habits. “We’ve got nothing at home. I’ll go rustle something up and prepare it for you.”
Left alone, I became lost in ruminations. What was I to do? To remain in the fortress subject to the villain, or to follow his band, was unbecoming to an officer. Duty demanded that I go where my service could still be useful to the fatherland in the present difficult circumstances…But love strongly advised me to stay by Marya Ivanovna and be her defender and protector. Though I foresaw a swift and sure change of circumstances, I still could not help but tremble, picturing the danger of her situation.
My ruminations were interrupted by the arrival of one of the Cossacks, who came running to announce that “the great sovereign summons you to him.”
“Where is he?” I asked, preparing to obey.
“In the commandant’s house,” replied the Cossack. “After dinner, our good father went to the bathhouse, and now he’s resting. Well, Your Honor, by all tokens, he’s a distinguished person: at dinner he was pleased to eat two roasted suckling pigs, and he made the steam in the bath so hot that even Taras Kurochkin couldn’t stand it, gave his whisk to Fomka Bikbaev, and barely revived under cold water. I tell you true: all his ways are so grand…And they say in the bathhouse he showed the signs that he’s a tsar on his chest: on one side a double-headed eagle as big as a five-kopeck piece, and on the other his own person.”
I did not deem it necessary to dispute the Cossack’s opinion and went with him to the commandant’s house, imagining beforehand my meeting with Pugachev and trying to foresee how it would end. The reader may easily imagine that I was not entirely coolheaded.
It was getting dark when I came to the commandant’s house. The gallows with its victims loomed black and dreadful. The body of the poor commandant’s wife still lay at the foot of the porch, by which two Cossacks stood guard. The Cossack who brought me went to announce my arrival and, coming back at once, led me to the same room where, the day before, I had so tenderly bid farewell to Marya Ivanovna.
An extraordinary picture presented itself to me: at the table, covered with a tablecloth and set with bottles and glasses, Pugachev and some ten Cossack chiefs sat, wearing hats and bright-colored shirts, flushed with vodka, their mugs red and their eyes gleaming. Neither Shvabrin nor our sergeant, the newly recruited traitors, was among them.
“Ah, Your Honor!” said Pugachev on seeing me. “Welcome! Sit yourself down, be my guest.” His companions made room. I silently sat down at the edge of the table. My neighbor, a young Cossack, slender and handsome, poured me a glass of plain vodka, which I did not touch. I started examining the company with curiosity. Pugachev sat at the head, leaning his elbow on the table and propping his black beard with his broad fist. His features, regular and quite pleasant, did not betray any ferocity. He often turned to a man of about fifty, referring to him now as Count, now as Timofeich, and sometimes calling him “uncle.” They all treated one another as comrades and showed no special preference for their leader. The conversation was about the morning’s assault, the success of the rebellion, and future actions. Each man boasted, offered his opinions, and freely disputed with Pugachev. And it was at this strange military council that it was decided to march on Orenburg: a bold action, and one which was nearly crowned with calamitous success! The campaign was announced for the next day.
“Well, brothers,” said Pugachev, “before we go to bed let’s strike up my favorite song. Chumakov,26 begin!”
In a high voice, my neighbor struck up a melancholy barge hauler’s song, and they all joined in the chorus:
Rustle not, leafy mother, forest green,
Keep me not, a fine lad, from thinking my thoughts.
Tomorrow, fine lad, I must go to be questioned
Before the dread judge, the great tsar himself.
And here is what the sovereign tsar will ask me:
“Tell me, tell me, my stout peasant lad,
With
whom did you steal, with whom did you rob,
And how many comrades went by your side?”
“I will tell you, trusty Orthodox tsar,
In all truth I will tell you, and in all verity,
I had four comrades by my side:
My first comrade was the pitch-dark night,
My second comrade a knife of damask steel,
For my third comrade I had my good steed,
My fourth comrade was a taut-strung bow,
And tempered steel arrows were my messengers.”
Then up speaks the trusty Orthodox tsar:
“Praise to you, my stout peasant lad,
That you know how to steal and how to reply!
For that, my stout fellow, I grant to you
A lofty mansion in the midst of the fields—
A pair of straight posts and a sturdy crossbeam.”
It is impossible to describe the effect that this simple folk song about the gallows, sung by men destined for the gallows, had on me. Their stern faces, harmonious voices, the melancholy expression they gave to words that were expressive even without that—all of it shook me with a sort of poetic dread.
The guests drank one more glass, got up from the table, and took leave of Pugachev. I was going to follow them, but Pugachev said to me:
“Sit down; I want to talk to you.”
We remained face-to-face.
Our mutual silence continued for several minutes. Pugachev looked at me intently, occasionally narrowing his left eye with an extraordinary expression of slyness and mockery. Finally he burst out laughing, and with such unfeigned gaiety that, looking at him, I, too, began to laugh, not knowing why myself.
“Well, Your Honor?” he said to me. “So you turned coward, admit it, when my lads put the rope around your neck? I bet your blood ran cold…And you’d be swinging from the crossbeam if it wasn’t for your servant. I recognized the old geezer at once. Well, did it occur to you, Your Honor, that the man who led you to that inn was the great sovereign himself?” (Here he assumed an imposing and mysterious air.) “Your guilt before me is big,” he went on, “but I had mercy on you for your goodness, because you did me a service when I was forced to hide from my foes. And you’ll see more yet! I’ll show you still more favor, when I come to rule my kingdom! Do you promise to serve me with zeal?”
The rascal’s question and his brazenness seemed so amusing that I could not help smiling.
“What are you smiling at?” he asked me, frowning. “Or don’t you believe I’m the great sovereign? Tell me straight.”
I was perplexed. To acknowledge the vagabond as sovereign was impossible: it seemed inexcusably fainthearted to me. To call him a humbug to his face was to expose myself to destruction; and what I had been ready for under the gallows in the eyes of all the people and in the first heat of indignation, now seemed to me useless bravado. I hesitated. Pugachev grimly awaited my reply. Finally (and even now I remember this moment with self-satisfaction) the sense of duty won out in me over human weakness. I replied to Pugachev:
“Listen, I’ll tell you the whole truth. Just consider, can I acknowledge you as my sovereign? You’re a sensible man: you’d see yourself that I was being devious.”
“Who am I then, to your mind?”
“God knows; but whoever you are, you’re playing a dangerous game.”
Pugachev gave me a quick glance.
“So you don’t believe that I’m the sovereign Pyotr Fyodorovich?” he said. “Well, all right. But doesn’t fortune favor the bold? Didn’t Grishka Otrepev27 reign in the old days? Think what you like of me, but stay by me. What do you care one way or the other? As I say, so I am. Serve me faithfully and truly, and I’ll make you a field marshal and a prince. What do you think?”
“No,” I replied firmly. “I was born a nobleman; I swore allegiance to our sovereign empress: I cannot serve you. If you really wish me well, let me go to Orenburg.”
Pugachev reflected.
“And if I do,” he said, “will you promise at least not to fight against me?”
“How can I promise you that?” I replied. “You know yourself that it’s not up to me: if they order me to go against you, I’ll go—there’s nothing to be done. You’re a commander now yourself; you demand obedience from your men. How would it look if I refused to serve when my service was needed? My life is in your hands: if you let me go, thank you; if you hang me, God be your judge; but I’ve told you the truth.”
My frankness struck Pugachev.
“So be it,” he said, slapping me on the shoulder. “If it’s hanging, it’s hanging; if it’s pardon, it’s pardon. Go where the wind blows you and do whatever you like. Tomorrow come and say good-bye to me, and now go to bed—I’m nodding off myself.”
I left Pugachev and went out to the street. The night was calm and cold. The moon and stars shone brightly, illuminating the square and the gallows. In the fortress all was still and dark. Only in the pot-house was there light and one could hear the shouts of the belated revelers. I looked at the priest’s house. The shutters and gates were closed. It seemed that all was quiet inside.
I came to my quarters and found Savelyich grief-stricken over my absence. The news of my freedom delighted him beyond words.
“Glory be to God!” he said, crossing himself. “At first light we’ll leave the fortress and go wherever our feet take us. I’ve prepared you a little something; eat, dearest, and sleep till morning as in Christ’s bosom.”
I followed his advice and, having eaten supper with great appetite, fell asleep on the bare floor, mentally and physically exhausted.
CHAPTER NINE
Parting
Sweet was the meeting of two hearts,
Thine and mine, my lovely girl;
Sad, how sad it is to part,
As sad as parting with my soul.
KHERASKOV28
Early in the morning I was awakened by the drumroll. I went to the place of assembly. There Pugachev’s crowds were already lining up by the gallows, where yesterday’s victims were still hanging. The Cossacks were on horseback, the soldiers under arms. Banners were flying. Several cannon, among which I recognized ours, were set up on mobile gun-carriages. All the inhabitants were there awaiting the impostor. By the porch of the commandant’s house, a Cossack was holding a fine white Kirghiz horse by the bridle. I searched with my eyes for the body of the commandant’s wife. It had been carried slightly to one side and covered with a bast mat. Finally Pugachev came out. The people took their hats off. Pugachev stopped on the porch and greeted them all. One of the chiefs gave him a sack of copper coins, and he started casting them around by the handful. With shouts, the people rushed to pick them up, and the matter did not end without serious injury. Pugachev was surrounded by his chief confederates. Among them stood Shvabrin. Our eyes met; in mine he could read contempt, and he turned away with an expression of genuine malice and feigned mockery. Pugachev, seeing me in the crowd, nodded his head to me and called me to him.
“Listen,” he said to me. “Go to Orenburg at once and tell the governor and all the generals from me to expect me there in a week. Advise them to meet me with childlike love and obedience; otherwise they will not escape a cruel death. Good journey, Your Honor!”
Then he turned to the people and said, pointing at Shvabrin:
“Here, dear children, is your new commander: obey him in all things; he is answerable to me for you and for the fortress.”
I heard these words with horror: Shvabrin was made commander of the fortress; Marya Ivanovna remained in his power! My God, what would happen to her! Pugachev went down the steps. The horse was brought to him. He leaped nimbly into the saddle, without waiting for the Cossacks who wanted to help him up.
Just then I saw my Savelyich step out of the crowd, approach Pugachev, and hand him a sheet of paper. I could not imagine what it could be about.
“What is this?” Pugachev asked imposingly.
“Read it and you’ll kindly see,” re
plied Savelyich.
Pugachev took the paper and studied it for a long time with a significant air.
“What’s this queer handwriting?” he said finally. “Our princely eyes can make nothing of it. Where is my head secretary?”
A young fellow in a corporal’s uniform swiftly ran up to Pugachev.
“Read it aloud,” said the impostor, handing him the paper. I was very curious to know what my tutor had decided to write to Pugachev about. The head secretary loudly began to recite the following:
“Two dressing gowns, one calico and the other of striped silk: six roubles.”
“What does that mean?” said Pugachev, frowning.
“Order him to read further,” Savelyich replied calmly.
The head secretary went on:
“A uniform jacket of fine green broadcloth: seven roubles.
“White broadcloth britches: five roubles.
“Twelve shirts of Dutch linen with cuffs: ten roubles.
“A cellaret with a tea service: two roubles fifty…”
“What’s this blather?” Pugachev interrupted. “What have I got to do with cellarets and britches with cuffs?”
Savelyich cleared his throat and began to explain:
“This, my dear man, if you please, is a list of my master’s possessions stolen by the villains…”
Novels, Tales, Journeys Page 36
