The commandant’s wife and daughter moved away. I followed Maria Ivanovna with my eyes: she looked round and nodded to me. Ivan Kuzmich now turned to us again, and directed all his attention to the enemy. The rebels gathered round their leader and suddenly began dismounting from their horses. ‘Now, stand firm,’ said the commandant. ‘They are about to attack…’ At that moment there were frightful yells and cries: the rebels dashed full tilt towards the fortress. Our cannon was charged with grape-shot. The commandant let the attackers come quite close, and then suddenly fired again. The shot fell right in the middle of the crowd. The rebels recoiled on either side and drew back. Their leader alone remained…. He brandished his sword and seemed to be exhorting them heatedly…. The shouting and yelling which had ceased for a moment were immediately renewed. ‘Well, lads,’ said the commandant, ‘now open the gates, and beat the drum. Forward, lads, for a sortie, follow me!’
The commandant, Ivan Ignatyich and I were over the rampart in a trice; but the scared garrison did not stir. ‘Why do you hold back, children?’ Ivan Kuzmich shouted. ‘If we must die, we must – it’s all in the day’s work!’ At that moment the rebels rushed upon us and broke into the fortress. The drum fell silent; our soldiers flung down their muskets; I was knocked over but picked myself up and entered the fortress along with the rebels. The commandant, wounded in the head, was standing surrounded by the villains who demanded the keys. I was about to rush to his assistance but several burly Cossacks seized and bound me with their sword-belts, exclaiming: ‘You see, it will be all up with you presently, you enemies of the Tsar!’ They dragged us along the streets; the townspeople came out of their houses offering the bread and salt of submission. The church bells rang. Suddenly a cry was raised among the crowd that the Tsar was awaiting the prisoners in the market-square and receiving the oath of allegiance. The throng surged to the market-place; we were hustled there too.
Pugachev was sitting in an arm-chair on the steps of the commandant’s house. He was wearing a red Cossack coat trimmed with gold lace. A tall sable cap with golden tassels was set low over his flashing eyes. His face seemed familiar to me. The Cossack elders surrounded him. Father Gerassim, pale and trembling, was standing by the steps with the cross in his hands, and seemed to be silently imploring mercy for those shortly to lose their lives. In the square gallows were hastily being erected. When we approached, the Bashkirs forced the crowd back and brought us before Pugachev. The bells stopped ringing; there was a profound silence. ‘Which is the commandant?’ asked the Pretender. Our Cossack sergeant stepped forward out of the crowd and pointed to Ivan Kuzmich. Pugachev looked at the old man menacingly and said to him: ‘How dared you resist me, your Sovereign?’ The commandant, spent from his wound, summoned his last remaining strength and replied in a firm voice: ‘You are not my Sovereign: you are a thief and a pretender, do you hear!’ Pugachev frowned darkly and waved a white handkerchief. Several Cossacks seized the old Captain and dragged him to the gallows. Astride upon the cross-beam sat the mutilated Bashkir whom we had questioned the day before. He was holding a rope in his hand and a minute later I saw poor Ivan Kuzmich hoisted into the air. Then Ivan Ignatyich was brought before Pugachev. ‘Take the oath of allegiance to the Tsar Peter III,’ Pugachev said to him. ‘You are not our Tsar,’ Ivan Ignatyich answered, repeating his captain’s words. ‘You, my dear man, are a thief and a pretender!’ Pugachev waved his handkerchief again and the good lieutenant swung by the side of his old chief.
It was my turn next. I looked boldly at Pugachev, preparing to echo the answer of my noble comrades, when to my utter astonishment I saw Shvabrin among the rebel elders. He had his hair cropped in circular fashion like a Cossack, and was wearing a Cossack coat. He went up to Pugachev and whispered something in his ear. ‘Hang him!’ said Pugachev, without even looking at me. The noose was thrown round my neck. I began to pray silently, sincerely repenting before God of all my sins and begging Him to save all those dear to my heart. I was dragged under the gallows. ‘Never you fear – don’t be afraid,’ my executioners repeated to me, perhaps really wishing to give me courage. Suddenly I heard a shout: ‘Stop, you wretches, wait!…’ The hangmen paused. I looked and saw Savelich on his knees at Pugachev’s feet. ‘Dear father,’ the poor old man was saying, ‘what good would the death of this gentle-born child do you? Let him go: they will give you a good ransom for him; and as an example and a warning to others hang me, if you like – an old one!’ Pugachev made a sign and I was immediately unbound and set free. ‘Our father pardons you,’ they said to me. I cannot say that at that moment I rejoiced at my deliverance, nor would I say that I regretted it. My feelings were too confused. I was brought before the Pretender again and made to kneel down. Pugachev stretched out his sinewy hand to me. ‘Kiss his hand, kiss his hand,’ said people around me. But I would have preferred the most cruel punishment to such vile humiliation. ‘Piotr Andreich, my dear master,’ whispered Savelich, standing behind me and pushing me forward, ‘don’t be obstinate! What does it matter? Spit and kiss the brig – I mean, kiss his hand.’ I did not stir. Pugachev let his hand drop, saying with a smile: ‘His lordship seems bewildered with joy. Lift him up!’ They pulled me to my feet and released me. I stood watching the terrible comedy.
The townspeople began swearing allegiance. They came up one after another, kissed the cross and then bowed to the Pretender. The garrison soldiers were there too. The regimental tailor, armed with his blunt scissors, cut off their plaits. Shaking themselves, they approached to kiss Pugachev’s hand: he gave them his pardon and enlisted them among his followers. All this went on for about three hours. At last Pugachev got up from his arm-chair and descended the steps, accompanied by his elders. A white horse, richly harnessed, was led forward. Two Cossacks took him by the arms and assisted him into the saddle. He announced to Father Gerassim that he would have dinner at his house. At that moment a woman’s scream was heard. Some of the brigands had dragged Vassilissa Yegorovna, dishevelled and stripped naked, on to the steps. One of them had already arrayed himself in her mantle. Others were carrying off feather-beds, chests, crockery, linen and chattels of every sort. ‘Good friends, spare my life! Kind sirs, take me to Ivan Kuzmich.’ Suddenly she looked up at the gallows and recognized her husband. ‘Villains!’ she cried in a frenzy of rage. ‘What have you done to him? Ivan Kuzmich, light of my eyes, brave soldier heart! You came to no harm from Prussian bayonets or Turkish bullets: ‘tis not on the field of honour you have fallen – you have perished at the hands of a runaway galley-slave!’ – ‘Silence the old witch!’ said Pugachev. A young Cossack hit her on the head with his sword and she fell dead on the steps. Pugachev rode away. The crowd rushed after him.
8
AN UNINVITED GUEST
An uninvited guest is worse than a Tartar.
PROVERB
THE market-square was deserted. I was still standing there, unable to collect my thoughts, bewildered as I was by so many terrible emotions.
Uncertainty as to Maria Ivanovna’s fate tortured me most of all. Where was she? What had happened to her? Had she had time to hide? Was her place of refuge safe?… Full of anxiety, I entered the commandant’s house…. It was quite empty: chairs, tables and coffers had been smashed, the crockery broken and everything dragged hither and thither. I ran up the short staircase that led to the top floor, and for the first time in my life entered Maria Ivanovna’s room. I saw her bed all pulled to pieces by the brigands; the clothes-press had been broken and ransacked; the little lamp was still burning before the empty ikon-case. The tiny looking-glass that hung between the windows was intact, too…. Where was the mistress of this humble virginal cell? A terrible thought flashed through my mind: I imagined her in the hands of the brigands…. My heart sank…. I wept bitterly, and called aloud my beloved’s name…. At that moment I heard a slight noise, and Palasha, pale and trembling, appeared from behind the clothes-press.
‘Ah, Piotr Andreich!’ she cried, clasping her hands. ‘What a day!
What horrors!’
‘And Maria Ivanovna?’ I asked impatiently. ‘What has become of Maria Ivanovna?’
‘The young lady is alive,’ Palasha answered. ‘She is hiding at Akulina Pamfilovna’s house.’
‘At the priest’s!’ I cried in horror. ‘Merciful God, Pugachev is there!’
I dashed out of the room, and in the twinkling of an eye was in the street and running headlong to the priest’s house, not seeing or feeling anything. Shouts, bursts of laughter and songs resounded from within…. Pugachev was feasting with his companions. Palasha had followed me. I sent her to call Akulina Pamfilovna without attracting attention. A minute later the priest’s wife came out to me in the lobby, with an empty bottle in her hands.
‘For God’s sake, where is Maria Ivanovna?’ I asked in indescribable agitation.
‘She is laying on my bed there, behind the partition, the poor dear,’ replied the priest’s wife. ‘We very nearly had trouble, Piotr Andreich, but thank God all passed off well: the bandit had just sat down to dinner when the poor child came to and uttered a groan…. I was half dead with fright. He heard her. “Who is that groaning there, granny?” I made a deep bow to the thief. “It’s my niece, sire, she was taken ill and this is the second week she’s abed.” – “And is your niece young?” – “She is, sire.” – “Well, show me this niece of yours, granny.” My heart trembled and fluttered but there was no help for it. “Certainly, sire: only the girl cannot get up and come into your presence.” – “Never mind, granny, I will go and have a look at her myself.” And the wretch did go behind the partition. And what do you think – he actually drew back the bed-curtain and glanced at her with those hawk’s eyes – and nought happened…. God saved us! But, believe me, the priest and I were all ready for a martyr’s death. Fortunately my little dear did not know who he was. Lord God, what things we have lived to see! There’s no denying it! Poor Ivan Kuzmich! Who would have thought it!… And Vassilissa Yegorovna? And Ivan Ignatyich? What did they hang him for?… How was it they spared you? And what do you think of Shvabrin? You know, he cropped his hair like a Cossack and now he’s sitting in there feasting with them? He knows how many beans make five all right! And when I spoke of my sick niece his eyes, would you believe it, went through me like a knife; but he did not betray us, and that’s something to be thankful for.’
At that moment there were drunken shouts from the company and Father Gerassim’s voice calling. The guests were clamouring for wine and the priest was summoning his wife. Akulina Pamfilovna bustled away.
‘You go back home, Piotr Andreich,’ she said. ‘I cannot stop now: the brigands are drinking themselves under the table. It would be the end of you if they got hold of you now. What is to be, will be: let us hope God will not forsake us!’
The priest’s wife left me. Somewhat reassured, I returned to my lodgings. As I crossed the market-place I saw several Bashkirs crowding round the gallows and dragging the boots off the hanged men’s feet. I had difficulty in suppressing my indignation but I knew that it would have been useless to intervene. The brigands were running all over the fortress, plundering the officers’ quarters. The shouts of the drunken rebels resounded on every side. I reached my lodgings. Savelich met me on the threshold.
‘Praise be!’ he exclaimed when he saw me. ‘I was beginning to think the villains had seized you again. Well, Piotr Andreich, my dear, would you believe it, the rogues have robbed us of everything: clothes, linen, belongings, crockery – nothing be left. But what does it matter? Thank God they spared your life! But did you recognize their leader, sir?’
‘No, I didn’t. Who is he, then?’
‘What, sir? Have you forgotten that drunken scoundrel who screwed your hare-skin jacket out of you at the inn? Your brand new hare-skin jacket, and the rascal went and split all the seams struggling into it?’
I was dumbfounded. In truth, the Pretender bore a striking resemblance to my guide. I felt certain Pugachev and he were one and the same person and now understood why he had spared my life. I could not help marvelling at the concatenation of circumstances: a child’s pelisse given to a roving vagrant had saved me from the noose, and a tosspot who had roamed from inn to inn was besieging fortresses and shaking the realm!
‘Would you not like something to eat?’ asked Savelich, whom nothing could break of his habits. ‘There is nought in the house but I will ferret about and prepare a bite for you.’
Left alone, I began to reflect. What was I to do? To remain in the fortress that was in the hands of the brigand, or to follow after his band, was unworthy of an officer. Duty demanded that I should go where my services might still be of use to my country in the present critical circumstances. But love prompted me strongly to stay near Maria Ivanovna and be her defender and protector. Although I foresaw a speedy and certain change in the situation I could not help shuddering at the thought of the danger she was in.
My reflections were interrupted by the arrival of a Cossack who ran up to tell me that ‘the great Tsar required me to appear before him’.
‘Where is he?’ I said, making ready to obey.
‘In the commandant’s house,’ replied the Cossack. ‘After dinner our master went to the bath-house, and now he is resting. Ah, your Honour, everything shows him to be a person of quality: at dinner he was pleased to eat up two roast sucking-pigs, and he likes the bath-house so hot that even Tarass Kurochkin could not bear it – he had to give the bath-broom to Fomka Bikbayev, and only came to himself through having cold water poured over him. There’s no denying it: all his ways are so grand…. And they say in the bath-house he showed them the marks of Imperial dignity on his breasts: the two-headed eagle on one, the size of a penny, and on the other his own likeness.’
I did not consider it necessary to dispute the Cossack’s opinion and set off with him for the commandant’s house, trying to picture beforehand my meeting with Pugachev, and wondering how it would end. The reader will easily imagine that I did not feel altogether comfortable.
It was growing dusk when I reached the commandant’s house. The gallows with their victims loomed black and terrible in the dark. Poor Vassilissa Yegorovna’s body still lay sprawled at the bottom of the steps, where two Cossacks were mounting guard. The Cossack who had fetched me went in to announce my arrival and, returning at once, conducted me into the room where, the evening before, I had taken such tender farewell of Maria Ivanovna.
An extraordinary spectacle met my eyes. Pugachev and a dozen Cossack chiefs, wearing coloured shirts and their caps on their heads, were sitting round the table which was covered with a cloth and littered with bottles and glasses. Their faces were flushed with drink and their eyes glittered. Neither of the freshly recruited traitors, Shvabrin and our sergeant, was among them. ‘Ah, your Honour!’ said Pugachev, catching sight of me. ‘Welcome and honour and a place for you – come and sit down.’ The company made room for me. I sat down in silence at the end of the table. My neighbour, a handsome, well-proportioned young Cossack, poured me out a glass of vodka, which I did not touch. I began to examine the assembly with curiosity. Pugachev occupied the seat of honour, his elbows leaning on the table and his black beard resting on his broad fist. His features, which were regular and pleasant enough, betrayed no sign of violence. He frequently turned to speak to a man of some fifty years of age, addressing him sometimes as Count, sometimes as Timofeich, and occasionally as… dear uncle. All those present treated one another as comrades and showed no particular deference to their leader. They talked of the morning’s attack, of the success of the rising, and of plans for the future. Everyone bragged, offered his opinion and freely joined issue with Pugachev. And at this strange council of war it was decided to march on Orenburg: a bold move which was very nearly crowned with disastrous success! The march was announced for the following day. ‘Now, my boys,’ said Pugachev, ‘before we go to bed let us have my favourite song. Tchumakov, strike up!’ In a high-pitched voice my neighbour began a dismal Volga-boatman’s song, an
d all joined in:
Murmur not, mother-forest of rustling green leaves,
Hinder not a right brave lad from thinking his thoughts,
For tomorrow, good lad that I am, I must go
Before the most dread judge, our great sovereign Tsar,
And the Tsar, our great lord, will put question to me:
‘Tell me now, good lad, tell me now, you peasant’s son,
‘With whom you went stealing, and with whom you have robbed.
‘Was it a great number of companions you bad?’
– ‘I will tell thee the whole truth, and never a lie,
‘My companions were four, and the first, the dark night,
‘My second true comrade was my cutlass of steel;
‘My trusty steed was my third, and the fourth my stout bow.
‘For my messengers arrows I bad, sharp and swift.’
Then up will speak my hope, the Tsar; true-believer:
‘Well done, my lad, brave peasant’s son! Right well you know
‘How to plunder and steal and yet make bold answer.
‘So therefore, my lad, I will make you a present –
‘Of a lofty mansion in the midst of the plain,
‘Of two upright posts, yea, and a cross-beam above.’
It is impossible to describe the impression produced upon me by this folk-song about the gallows sung by men themselves destined for the gallows. Their forbidding faces, their tuneful voices, the mournful expression they imparted to words expressive enough in themselves – shook my being with a kind of mystic awe and dread.
The guests tossed off a last glass, rose from the table and took leave of Pugachev. I made to follow them but Pugachev said to me: ‘Sit still, I want to talk to you.’ We were left alone.
For some minutes we both sat silent. Pugachev was watching me intently, occasionally screwing up his left eye with an extraordinary look of craftiness and mockery. At last he burst into laughter of such unaffected gaiety that, looking at him, without knowing why I began to laugh too.
The Queen of Spades and Other Stories Page 23
