Several weeks went by…Suddenly my father received a letter from Petersburg, from our relation, Prince B. The prince wrote to him about me. After the usual preliminaries, he informed him that the suspicions concerning my participation in the rebels’ schemes had turned out, unfortunately, to be all too substantial, that exemplary punishment should have been meted out to me, but that the empress, out of respect for my father’s merits and his advanced age, decided to show mercy to his criminal son and, sparing him an ignominious execution, ordered him only to be sent to a remote corner of Siberia in perpetual exile.
This unexpected blow nearly killed my father. He lost his habitual firmness, and his grief (usually mute) poured out in bitter lamentations.
“What!” he repeated, beside himself. “My son took part in Pugachev’s schemes! Good God, that I should live to see it! The empress spares him execution! Does that make it easier for me? Execution is nothing frightening: a forebear of mine died on the scaffold defending something his conscience held sacred; my father suffered along with Volynsky and Khrushchev.40 But for a nobleman to betray his oath, to join with brigands, murderers, runaway slaves!…Shame and disgrace on our name!…”
Frightened by his despair, mother did not dare to weep in his presence, and tried to restore his good spirits, talking about the inaccuracy of rumors, the shakiness of people’s opinions. My father was inconsolable.
Marya Ivanovna was the most tormented of all. Being certain that I could justify myself if only I wanted to, she guessed the truth and considered herself the cause of my misfortune. She concealed her tears and suffering from everyone, and meanwhile kept thinking of ways to save me.
One evening my father was sitting on the sofa, turning the pages of the Court Almanac; but his thoughts were far away, and the reading did not have its usual effect on him. He was whistling an old marching tune. Mother was silently knitting a woolen vest, and tears occasionally dropped on her work. Suddenly Marya Ivanovna, who was sitting there over her own work, announced that necessity forced her to go to Petersburg and that she asked them to provide her with the means for going. Mother was very upset.
“What is there for you in Petersburg?” she said. “Can it be, Marya Ivanovna, that you, too, want to abandon us?”
Marya Ivanovna replied that her whole future fate depended on this journey, that she was going to seek protection and help from powerful people, as the daughter of a man who had suffered for his loyalty.
My father hung his head: every word that reminded him of his son’s supposed crime weighed heavily on him and seemed like a stinging reproach.
“Go, my dear!” he said with a sigh. “We don’t want to be an obstacle to your happiness. God grant you a good man for a husband, not a dishonored traitor.”
He got up and walked out of the room.
Marya Ivanovna, left alone with my mother, partly explained her intentions. Mother embraced her in tears and prayed to God for a favorable outcome of her plan. They fitted Marya Ivanovna out, and a few days later she set off with faithful Palasha and faithful Savelyich, who, forcibly separated from me, comforted himself with the thought that he was at least serving my bride-to-be.
Marya Ivanovna arrived safely in Sofia, and, learning at the posting station that the court was just then in Tsarskoe Selo, decided to stop there.41 She was given a corner behind a partition. The stationmaster’s wife at once fell to talking with her, told her she was the niece of a court stoker, and initiated her into all the mysteries of court life. She told her at what hour the empress usually awoke, had coffee, went for a stroll; what courtiers attended her then; what she had been pleased to say yesterday at the table, whom she had received in the evening—in short, Anna Vlasyevna’s conversation was worth several pages of historical memoirs and would have been of great value to posterity. Marya Ivanovna listened to her attentively. They went out to the gardens. Anna Vlasyevna told her the story of each alley and each little bridge, and, having had a good walk, they returned to the station very pleased with each other.
Early the next morning Marya Ivanovna woke up, dressed, and quietly went out to the gardens. The morning was beautiful, the sun lit up the tops of the lindens, already turned yellow under the cool breath of autumn. The wide lake shone motionlessly. The just-awakened swans glided majestically from under the bushes overshadowing the bank. Marya Ivanovna walked by a beautiful meadow where a monument had just been set up in honor of Count Pyotr Alexandrovich Rumyantsev’s recent victories.42 Suddenly a little white dog of English breed barked and ran towards her. Marya Ivanovna was frightened and stopped. At that same moment she heard a pleasant woman’s voice:
“Don’t be afraid, she doesn’t bite.”
And Marya Ivanovna saw a lady sitting on a bench opposite the monument. Marya Ivanovna sat down at the other end of the bench. The lady looked at her intently; Marya Ivanovna, for her part, casting several sidelong glances, managed to examine her from head to foot. She was wearing a white morning dress, a nightcap, and a jacket. She seemed about forty. Her face, plump and red-cheeked, expressed dignity and calm, and her light-blue eyes and slight smile had an ineffable charm. The lady was the first to break the silence.
“You’re probably not from here?” she said.
“That’s right, ma’am: I came from the provinces only yesterday.”
“You came with your family?”
“No, ma’am. I came alone.”
“Alone! But you’re still so young.”
“I have no father or mother.”
“You’re here, of course, on some kind of business?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’ve come to submit a petition to the empress.”
“You’re an orphan: you probably want to complain of injustice and offense?”
“No, ma’am. I’ve come to ask for mercy, not for justice.”
“Who are you, if I may ask?”
“I am Captain Mironov’s daughter.”
“Captain Mironov! The one who was commandant of one of the Orenburg fortresses?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
The lady seemed to be moved.
“Forgive me,” she said in a still gentler voice, “if I’m interfering in your affairs; but I am received at court; tell me what your petition is about, and maybe I’ll be able to help you.”
Marya Ivanovna rose and respectfully thanked her. Everything about the unknown lady spontaneously attracted her heart and inspired trust. Marya Ivanovna took a folded paper from her pocket and gave it to her unknown protectress, who started reading it to herself.
At first she read with an attentive and benevolent air; but suddenly her countenance changed—and Marya Ivanovna, who was following all her movements with her eyes, was frightened by the severe expression of this face, which a moment before had been so pleasant and calm.
“You’re petitioning for Grinyov?” 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 pernicious scoundrel.”
“Oh, that’s not true!” cried Marya Ivanovna.
“How, not true!” the lady retorted, flushing all over.
“Not true, by God, not true! I know everything, I’ll tell you everything. He underwent all that befell him only for my sake. And if he did not justify himself before the judges, it was only because he didn’t want to entangle me in it.” Here she ardently recounted everything that is already known to my reader.
The lady heard her out attentively.
“Where are you staying?” she asked then; and, hearing that it was at Anna Vlasyevna’s, she added with a smile: “Ah, I know! Good-bye; don’t tell anyone about our meeting. I hope you will not have to wait long for an answer to your letter.”
With those words she stood up and went off into a covered alley, and Marya Ivanovna returned to Anna Vlasyevna filled with joyful hope.
Her hostess chided her for the early autumnal promenade, harmful, so she said, for a young girl’s health. She brought the samovar and,
over a cup of tea, was just starting on her endless stories about the court, when a court carriage suddenly pulled up to the porch and an imperial footman came in and announced that her majesty was pleased to invite Miss Mironov to call on her.
Anna Vlasyevna was amazed and flustered.
“Good Lord!” she cried. “The empress is summoning you to the court. How on earth did she find out about you? How, my dear girl, are you going to present yourself to the empress? I suppose you don’t even know how to walk at court…Shouldn’t I come with you? At least I could warn you about certain things. And how are you going to go in your traveling clothes? Shouldn’t we send to the midwife for her yellow robe ronde?”
The imperial footman said that the empress wished to have Marya Ivanovna come alone and dressed just as she was. There was nothing to be done: Marya Ivanovna got into the carriage and set off for the palace accompanied by the instructions and blessings of Anna Vlasyevna.
Marya Ivanovna had a presentiment that our fate was to be decided; her heart now pounded, now sank. A few minutes later the carriage drew up to the palace. Marya Ivanovna tremblingly climbed the stairs. The doors were flung open before her. She walked through a long row of magnificent empty rooms; the imperial footman showed her the way. Finally, coming to a closed door, he said that she would presently be announced, and left her there alone.
The thought of seeing the empress face-to-face so terrified her that she could barely keep her feet. A minute later the door opened and she entered the empress’s dressing room.
The empress was sitting at her toilette table. Several courtiers surrounded her, and they deferentially made way for Marya Ivanovna. The empress turned to her kindly, and Marya Ivanovna recognized her as the lady she had talked with so candidly a few minutes earlier. The empress told her to come closer and said with a smile:
“I’m glad that I can keep my word to you and grant your petition. Your affair is settled. I am convinced of the innocence of your betrothed. Here is a letter which you yourself will be so good as to deliver 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 raised her up and kissed her. The empress talked more with her.
“I know you’re not rich,” she said, “but I am in debt to Captain Mironov’s daughter. Don’t worry about your future. I take it upon myself to see you established.”
Having shown the poor orphan such kindness, the empress let her go. Marya Ivanovna drove off in the same court carriage. Anna Vlasyevna, who was impatiently awaiting her return, showered her with questions, which Marya Ivanovna answered absently. Though Anna Vlasyevna was displeased by such obliviousness, she ascribed it to provincial timidity and magnanimously forgave it. That same day, Marya Ivanovna, not at all curious to have a look at Petersburg, went back to the country…
The notes of Pyotr Andreevich Grinyov end here. From family tradition it is known that he was released from prison at the end of 1774, by imperial order; that he was present at the execution of Pugachev, who recognized him in the crowd and nodded to him with his head, which a moment later was shown, dead and bloodied, to the people. Soon afterwards Pyotr Andreevich married Marya Ivanovna. Their descendants still prosper in Simbirsk province. Twenty miles from * * * there is a village belonging to ten landowners. In one wing of the manor house a letter in the hand of Catherine II is displayed under glass and in a frame. It was written to Pyotr Andreevich’s father and contains the vindication of his son and praise of the mind and heart of Captain Mironov’s daughter. Pyotr Andreevich Grinyov’s manuscript was furnished us by one of his grandsons, who learned that we were occupied with a work related to the time described by his grandfather. We have decided, with the family’s permission, to publish it separately, having found a suitable epigraph for each chapter and allowed ourselves to change some proper names.
The Publisher
19 OCT. 1836
THE OMITTED CHAPTER*6
We were approaching the banks of the Volga; our regiment entered the village of * * * and stayed there for the night. The headman told me that all the villages on the opposite bank were in rebellion, that bands of Pugachev’s people were roaming everywhere. The news greatly alarmed me. We were supposed to cross the next morning. I was seized with impatience. My father’s estate was on the other side, twenty miles away. I asked if a ferryman could be found. All the peasants were fishermen; there were many boats. I went to Zurin and told him of my intention.
“Watch out,” he said to me. “It’s dangerous to go alone. Wait till morning. We’ll go across first and bring fifty hussars to visit your parents just in case.”
I insisted on my way. A boat was ready. I got into it with two oarsmen. They pushed off and plied their oars.
The sky was clear. The moon shone. The weather was calm. The Volga flowed smoothly and quietly. The boat, gently rocking, glided swiftly over the dark waves. I immersed myself in the dreams of my imagination. About half an hour went by. We had already reached the middle of the river…Suddenly the oarsmen began whispering to each other.
“What is it?” I asked, coming to myself.
“God only knows,” replied the oarsmen, looking off to one side. My eyes turned in the same direction, and in the darkness I saw something floating down the Volga. The unknown object was coming closer. I told the oarsmen to stop and wait for it. The moon went behind a cloud. The floating phantom became still more vague. It was already close to me, and I could not yet make it out.
“What could it be?” the oarsmen said. “A sail, a mast, or maybe not…”
Suddenly the moon came from behind the cloud and lit up a terrible sight. Floating towards us was a gallows mounted on a raft, with three bodies hanging from the crossbar. I was overcome with morbid curiosity. I wanted to look into the faces of the hanged men.
On my order the oarsmen caught the raft with a boathook, and my boat nudged against the floating gallows. I jumped out and found myself between the terrible posts. The bright moon lit up the disfigured faces of the unfortunate men. One of them was an old Chuvash, another a Russian peasant, a strong and robust lad of about twenty. But, glancing at the third, I was deeply shocked and could not help crying out pitifully: it was Vanka, my poor Vanka, who in his foolishness had joined Pugachev. Above them a black board had been nailed, on which was written in large white letters: “Thieves and Rebels.” The oarsmen looked on indifferently and waited for me, keeping hold of the raft with the boathook. I got back into the boat. The raft floated on down the river. For a long time the gallows loomed black in the darkness. Finally it disappeared, and my boat moored on the high and steep bank…
I paid the oarsmen generously. One of them took me to the headman of the village near the landing. I went into the cottage with him. The headman, hearing that I was requesting horses, received me quite rudely, but my guide quietly said a few words to him, and his severity turned at once into a hurried obligingness. In one minute a troika was ready, I got into the cart and ordered myself taken to our village.
I galloped along the high road past sleeping villages. I was afraid of one thing: being stopped on the road. If my night meeting on the Volga had proved the presence of rebels, it had proved at the same time a strong government counteraction. Just in case, I had in my pocket both the pass given to me by Pugachev and the order of Colonel Zurin. But I met no one, and by morning I caught sight of the river and the pine grove beyond which lay our village. The driver whipped up the horses, and a quarter of an hour later I drove into * * *.
The manor house was at the other end of the village. The horses raced along at full speed. Suddenly, in the middle of the village, the driver began to rein them in.
“What’s the matter?” I asked impatiently.
“A barrier,” the driver replied, barely able to stop his furious horses. Indeed, I saw a spiked bar and a sentry with a club. The muzhik came up to me and, taking off his hat, asked for my passport.
“What’s the mean
ing of this?” I asked him. “What’s this bar doing here? Who are you guarding?”
“You see, good sir, we’re rebelling,” he replied, scratching himself.
“And where are your masters?” I asked with a sinking heart…
“Our masters?” repeated the muzhik. “Our masters are in the granary.”
“What? In the granary?”
“You see, Andryushka, the bailiff, put them in fetters and wants to take them to our father-sovereign.”
“Good God! Raise the barrier, you fool. What are you gaping at?”
The sentry lingered. I leaped from the cart, gave him a clout (sorry) on the ear, and raised the bar myself. My muzhik stared at me in stupid perplexity. I got back into the cart and ordered the driver to gallop to the manor house. The granary was in the yard. At the door stood two muzhiks, also with clubs. The cart stopped right in front of them. I jumped out and rushed straight at them.
“Open the doors!” I said to them. My look probably terrified them. In any case, they both ran away, dropping their clubs. I tried to smash the padlock and to break down the doors, but the doors were of oak and the enormous padlock was indestructible. At that moment a stalwart young muzhik came out of the servants’ cottage and, with an arrogant air, asked me how I dared to make a row.
“Where’s Andryushka the bailiff?” I shouted. “Call him to me.”
“I myself am Andrei Afanasyevich, and not any Andryushka,” he replied, his arms proudly akimbo. “What do you want?”
Novels, Tales, Journeys: The Complete Prose of Alexander Pushkin Page 41
