“Really? Oh, that Shvabrin is a great Schelm,*4 and if I get hold of him, I’ll order him court-martialed within twenty-four hours, and we’ll shoot him on the parapet of the fortress! But meanwhile we must take patience…”
“Take patience!” I shouted, beside myself. “And meanwhile he’ll marry Marya Ivanovna!…”
“Oh!” objected the general. “That’s not so bad: it’s better for her to be Shvabrin’s wife for a while: he can protect her now; and once we’ve shot him, then, God willing, she’ll find some little suitors for herself. Pretty widows don’t stay old maids for long—that is, I mean to say, a pretty widow will find herself a husband sooner than a maiden.”
“I’d sooner agree to die,” I said in a fury, “than yield her up to Shvabrin!”
“Oh, ho, ho, ho!” the old man said. “Now I see: you’re obviously in love with Marya Ivanovna. Oh, that’s a different matter! Poor fellow! But all the same I can’t give you a company of soldiers and fifty Cossacks. Such an expedition would be unreasonable; I cannot take responsibility for it.”
I hung my head; despair overcame me. Suddenly a thought flashed through my mind: what it was, the reader will see in the next chapter, as old-fashioned novelists say.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The Rebel Camp
The lion, though fierce by nature, was not hungry then.
“Pray tell me why this sudden visit to my den?”
He gently asked.
A. SUMAROKOV32
I left the general and hastened to my quarters. Savelyich met me with his usual admonitions.
“What makes you so eager, sir, to deal with these drunken brigands? Is it fit for a gentleman? Luck is fickle: you may perish for nothing. It would be one thing if it was against the Turks or the Swedes, but it’s sinful even to say who they are.”
I interrupted him with a question: How much money did I have all told?
“Enough for you,” he replied with a pleased look. “Much as the rascals rummaged around, I still managed to hide it.” And with those words he pulled from his pocket a long knitted purse full of silver coins.
“Well, Savelyich,” I said to him, “give me half of it now, and take the rest yourself. I’m going to the Belogorsk fortress.”
“Dearest Pyotr Andreich!” my good tutor said in a trembling voice. “Fear God: how can you take to the road in such times, when there’s no getting anywhere on account of the rogues? Have pity on your parents at least, if you have none on yourself. Where are you going? Why? Wait a little: the army will come, they’ll catch all the rascals; then go where the wind blows you.”
But my decision was firmly taken.
“It’s too late to discuss it,” I replied to the old man. “I must go, I can’t not go. Don’t grieve, Savelyich: God is merciful; maybe we’ll see each other again! Look, just don’t be ashamed and don’t scrimp. Buy whatever you may need, even at triple the price. I’m giving you this money. If I’m not back in three days…”
“What are you saying, sir?” Savelyich interrupted me. “As if I’d let you go alone! Don’t even dream of asking! If you’re determined to go, I’ll follow after you even on foot, but I won’t abandon you. As if I’d stay sitting behind a stone wall without you! Do you think I’ve lost my mind? As you please, sir, I won’t stay here without you.”
I knew there was no point in arguing with Savelyich, and I allowed him to prepare for the journey. Half an hour later I mounted my fine horse, and Savelyich a skinny and lame nag given him by one of the inhabitants, who lacked the means to go on feeding it. We rode up to the town gates; the sentries let us through; we rode out of Orenburg.
Darkness was falling. My way led past the village of Berda, Pugachev’s camp. The straight road was covered with snow; but horse tracks could be seen all over the steppe, renewed daily. I rode at a long trot. Savelyich was barely able to follow my pace and kept shouting to me:
“Slow down, sir, for God’s sake, slow down! My cursed nag can’t keep up with your long-legged demon. Where are you hurrying to? A feast would be one thing, but this is more likely under the axe, for all I know…Pyotr Andreich…dearest Pyotr Andreich!…Don’t do us in!…Lord God, the master’s child will perish!”
Soon the lights of Berda began to glimmer. We approached the ravines, the natural fortifications of the village. Savelyich did not lag behind me, nor did he break off his pitiful entreaties. I was hoping to skirt the village successfully, when suddenly I saw right in front of me in the dark some five muzhiks armed with cudgels: this was the advance guard of Pugachev’s camp. They called to us. Not knowing the password, I wanted to ride past them in silence; but they immediately surrounded me, and one of them seized my horse by the bridle. I drew my sword and struck the muzhik on the head; his hat saved him, but he staggered and let go of the bridle. The others panicked and fled; I took advantage of the moment, spurred my horse, and galloped on.
The darkness of the approaching night could have saved me from any danger, but suddenly, looking back, I saw that Savelyich was not with me. The poor old man on his lame horse had not escaped the brigands. What was I to do? After waiting a few minutes for him and making sure that he had been detained, I turned my horse around and went to rescue him.
Approaching the ravine, I heard noise, shouting, and the voice of my Savelyich in the distance. I speeded up and soon was back among the muzhik guards 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 bind him. My arrival heartened them. They fell upon me with shouts and instantly dragged me off my horse. One of them, apparently the chief, told us that he would now take us to the sovereign.
“And it’s as our dear father wills,” he added, “whether we hang you now or wait till daybreak.”
I did not resist; Savelyich followed my example, and the guards led us away in triumph.
We crossed the ravine and entered the village. Lights were burning in all the cottages. Noise and shouts rang out everywhere. In the street I met many people; but in the dark no one noticed us or recognized me as an Orenburg officer. We were brought straight to a cottage that stood at the corner of an intersection. By the gate stood several wine casks and two cannons.
“Here’s the palace,” said one of the muzhiks. “We’ll announce you at once.”
He went into the cottage. I glanced at Savelyich; the old man was crossing himself, silently reciting a prayer. I waited for a long time; finally the muzhik came back and said to me:
“Go in: our dear father orders the officer to be admitted.”
I went into the cottage—or palace, as the muzhiks called it. It was lit by two tallow candles, and the walls were pasted over with gold paper; however, the benches, the table, the wash pot on a cord, the towel on a nail, the oven fork in the corner, and the wide hearth covered with pots—all of it was as in any ordinary cottage. Pugachev was sitting under the icons33 in a red kaftan and a tall hat, his arms imposingly akimbo. Around him stood several of his chief comrades, with an air of feigned obsequiousness. It was clear that the news of the arrival of an officer from Orenburg had aroused strong curiosity in the rebels, and they had prepared to meet me with ceremony. Pugachev recognized me at first glance. His pretended importance suddenly vanished.
“Ah, Your Honor!” he said with animation. “How are you doing? What brings you here?”
I told him that I was going about my own business and that his people had stopped me.
“On what sort of business?” he asked.
I did not know how to reply. Pugachev, supposing that I did not want to explain myself in front of witnesses, turned to his comrades and ordered them to leave. They all obeyed except for two, who did not budge.
“Talk freely in front of them,” said Pugachev. “I don’t hide anything from them.”
I cast a sidelong glance at the impostor’s confidants. One of them, a frail and bent old man with a gray little beard, had nothing remarkable about him, except for a blue ribbon worn
over the shoulder of his gray peasant coat.34 But I will never forget his comrade. He was tall, burly, and broad-shouldered, and looked to be about forty-five. A thick red beard, flashing gray eyes, a nose without nostrils, and reddish spots on his forehead and cheeks gave his broad, pockmarked face an indescribable expression. He was wearing a red shirt, a Kirghiz robe, and Cossack balloon trousers. The first (as I learned later) was the fugitive Corporal Beloborodov; the second—Afanasy Sokolov (nicknamed Khlopusha), an exiled convict, who had escaped three times from the Siberian mines. Despite the feelings that troubled me exclusively, the company in which I so unexpectedly found myself greatly aroused my imagination. But Pugachev brought me back to myself by his question:
“Speak: On what sort of business did you leave Orenburg?”
A strange thought occurred to me: it seemed to me that Providence, which had brought me to Pugachev a second time, was giving me the chance to carry out my intention. I decided to take advantage of it and, having no time to think over what I decided, I answered Pugachev’s question:
“I was going to the Belogorsk fortress to rescue an orphan who is being mistreated there.”
Pugachev’s eyes flashed.
“Who of my people dares to mistreat an orphan?” he cried. “Though he be sly as a fox, he won’t escape my justice. Speak: Who is the guilty one?”
“Shvabrin,” I replied. “He’s holding captive the girl you saw sick at the priest’s wife’s and wants to force her to marry him.”
“I’ll teach Shvabrin,” Pugachev said menacingly. “He’ll learn from me what it means to do as he likes and mistreat people. I’ll hang him.”
“Allow me to put in a word,” said Khlopusha in a hoarse voice. “You were in a hurry to appoint Shvabrin commandant of the fortress, and now you’re in a hurry to hang him. You’ve already offended the Cossacks by setting up a nobleman as their superior; don’t frighten the nobility now by executing them at the first bit of slander.”
“There’s no cause to pity them or approve of them,” said the little old man with the blue ribbon. “Nothing’s wrong with executing Shvabrin; but it wouldn’t be bad to give Mister Officer here a proper questioning as to why he was pleased to come calling. If he doesn’t recognize you as the sovereign, he needn’t look to you for your justice, and if he does, why has he sat there in Orenburg with your enemies up to now? Why don’t you order him taken to the guardhouse and have them start a little fire there: something tells me his honor’s been sent to us by the Orenburg commanders.”
I found the old villain’s logic quite persuasive. Chills came over me at the thought of whose hands I was in. Pugachev noticed my confusion.
“Eh, Your Honor?” he said, winking at me. “My field marshal seems to be talking sense. What do you think?”
Pugachev’s mockery restored my courage. I replied calmly that I was in his power and he was free to do whatever he liked with me.
“Fine,” said Pugachev. “Now tell me, what shape is your town in?”
“Thank God,” I replied, “everything’s quite well.”
“Quite well?” Pugachev repeated. “But people are dying of hunger!”
The impostor was telling the truth; but, being duty-bound, I began to assure him that these were all empty rumors and there was enough of all sorts of supplies in Orenburg.
“You see,” the little old man broke in, “he lies to you right in your face. All the fugitives testify as one that there’s starvation and pestilence in Orenburg, that they eat carrion and are happy to have that; and his honor assures us there’s plenty of everything. If you want to hang Shvabrin, hang this fine fellow from the same gallows, so there’s no bad feelings.”
The cursed old man’s words seemed to make Pugachev hesitate. Luckily, Khlopusha began to contradict his comrade.
“Enough, Naumych,” he said to him. “With you it’s all strangling and stabbing. What kind of mighty man are you? By the look of it, you can barely keep body and soul together. You’re staring into the grave yourself, and you destroy others. Isn’t there enough blood on your conscience?”
“And what sort of saint are you?” Beloborodov retorted. “Where did you suddenly get this pity?”
“Of course,” replied Khlopusha, “I’m sinful, too, and this right arm” (here he clenched his bony fist and, pushing up his sleeve, bared his shaggy arm), “and this right arm is guilty of shedding Christian blood. But I killed my enemy, not my guest; at open crossroads and in the dark forest, not at home, sitting warm and cozy; with a bludgeon and an axe, not with womanish slander.”
The old man turned away and muttered the words: “Torn nostrils!…”
“What’s that you’re whispering, you old geezer?” cried Khlopusha. “I’ll show you torn nostrils; just wait, your time will come; God grant, you’ll get a taste of the pincers yourself…And meanwhile watch out or I’ll tear your little beard off!”
“Gentlemen yennerals!” Pugachev intoned solemnly. “Enough of your quarreling. There’s nothing wrong if all the Orenburg dogs jerk their legs under the same crossbeam; it is wrong if our own start snapping at each other. Make peace now.”
Khlopusha and Beloborodov did not say a word and looked darkly at each other. I saw it was necessary to change the conversation, which could have ended very unprofitably for me, and, turning to Pugachev, I told him with a cheerful air:
“Ah! I almost forgot to thank you for the horse and the coat. Without you I wouldn’t have made it to the town and would have frozen on the way.”
My ruse worked. Pugachev cheered up.
“One good turn deserves another,” he said, winking and narrowing his eyes. “Tell me now, what have you got to do with the girl Shvabrin’s mistreating? Not the darling of a young lad’s heart, is she?”
“She’s my bride-to-be,” I replied to Pugachev, seeing the weather change for the better and finding no need to conceal the truth.
“Your bride-to-be!” cried Pugachev. “Why didn’t you say so before? 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’s wiser than evening. Tomorrow we’ll see what we’ll do with him.”
I would have been glad to decline the proposed honor, but there was no help for it. Two young Cossack women, the daughters of the cottage’s owner, covered the table with a white tablecloth, brought some bread, fish soup, and several bottles of vodka and beer, and for the second time I found myself sharing a meal with Pugachev and his frightful comrades.
The orgy of which I was an involuntary witness lasted till late in the night. Finally drunkenness began to get the better of the company. Pugachev dozed off where he sat; his comrades stood up and gave me a sign to leave him. I went out together with them. On Khlopusha’s orders, a Cossack led me to the guardhouse, where I found Savelyich and where we were locked up together. My tutor was so amazed at the sight of all that was going on that he did not ask me any questions. He lay down in the dark and sighed and groaned for a long time; finally he started snoring, and I gave myself up to reflections that did not allow me to doze off for a single moment all night.
In the morning Pugachev sent for me. I went to him. By his gate stood a kibitka hitched to a troika of Tatar horses. People crowded the street. In the entryway I ran into Pugachev: he was dressed for the road, in a fur coat and a Kirghiz hat. Yesterday’s companions surrounded him, assuming an air of obsequiousness that sharply contradicted everything I had witnessed the evening before. Pugachev greeted me cheerfully and ordered me to get into the kibitka with him.
We took our seats.
“To the Belogorsk fortress!” Pugachev said to the broad-shouldered Tatar, who drove the troika standing up. My heart beat fast. The horses started, the bell jingled, the kibitka flew off…
“Stop! Stop!” called out a voice all too familiar to me, and I saw Savelyich running towards us. Pugachev gave the order to stop. “Dearest Pyotr Andreich!” my tutor shouted.
“Don’t abandon me in my old age among these rasc—”
“Ah, the old geezer!” Pugachev said to him. “So God’s brought us together again. Well, get up on the box.”
“Thank you, good sir, thank you, dear father!” Savelyich said, seating himself. “God grant you prosper a hundred years for minding and comforting an old man like me. I’ll pray to God for you all my days, and won’t even mention the hareskin coat.”
This hareskin coat could finally have made Pugachev downright angry. Luckily, the impostor either did not hear or ignored the awkward hint. The horses galloped off; people in the street stopped and bowed low. Pugachev nodded his head to both sides. A moment later we were outside the village and racing down a smooth road.
It can easily be imagined what I was feeling at that moment. In a few hours I was going to see the one whom I had already considered lost for me. I pictured the moment of our reunion…I also thought about the man who had my destiny in his hands and who by a strange concurrence of circumstances was mysteriously connected with me. I recalled the impulsive cruelty, the bloodthirsty habits, of the one who had volunteered to deliver my beloved! Pugachev did not know she was Captain Mironov’s daughter; the malicious Shvabrin might reveal everything to him; Pugachev might find out the truth in some other way…Then what would become of Marya Ivanovna? Chills came over me, and my hair stood on end…
Suddenly Pugachev interrupted my reflections, turning to me with a question:
“What might you be thinking about, Your Honor?”
“How can I not be thinking?” I replied. “I’m an officer and a gentleman; just yesterday I was fighting against you, and today I’m riding with you in the same kibitka, and the happiness of my whole life depends on you.”
“What, then?” asked Pugachev. “Are you afraid?”
I replied that, having been spared by him once already, I hoped not only for his mercy, but even for his help.
“And you’re right, by God, you’re right!” said the impostor. “You saw that my boys looked askance at you; and today, too, the old man insisted that you’re a spy and that you should be tortured and hanged; but I didn’t agree,” he added, lowering his voice, so that Savelyich and the Tatar could not hear him, “remembering the glass of vodka and the hareskin coat. You see, I’m not as bloodthirsty as your fellows say I am.”
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