The Captain's Daughter

by Alexander Pushkin

  I return to my story.

  One evening (this was in the first days of October 1773), I was sitting in my quarters alone, listening to the howl of the autumn wind and staring through the window at the dark clouds flitting past the moon. I was summoned to the commandant. I went at once to his house. There I found Shvabrin, Ivan Ignatich, and Maximich, the Cossack sergeant. Neither Vasilisa Yegorovna nor Maria Ivanovna was in the room. Ivan Kuzmich looked preoccupied as he greeted me. He closed the door and asked us all to sit down—apart from the sergeant, who remained standing by the door. Then he took a letter out of his pocket and said, “Gentlemen, I have important news. Listen to what the general has written.” He put on his spectacles and read aloud:

  “To the Commandant of Fort Belogorsk, Captain Mironov.

  Confidential.

  “I hereby inform you that a fugitive Don Cossack and schismatic, [3] Yemelyan Pugachov, having with unpardonable insolence assumed the name of the late emperor Peter III, [4] has gathered together a band of villains and has incited disturbances in the Yaik villages and has already taken and sacked several fortresses, pillaging and murdering on all sides. And so, on receipt of this letter, you are commanded forthwith, Captain, to take all measures necessary to repel this said villain and impostor and if possible to destroy him utterly, should he attack the fortress entrusted to your care.”

  “All necessary measures!” repeated Ivan Kuzmich, removing his glasses and folding the letter. “Yes indeed, but that’s easier said than done. The villain is clearly strong, and we’ve only got 130 men, not including the Cossacks, who cannot be relied upon, no offence meant, Maximich.” The sergeant smiled. “But we must do our best, fellow officers. Be vigilant, post sentries, and send out night patrols. In the event of an attack, lock the gates and assemble the men. You, Maximich, must keep a sharp eye on your Cossacks. Inspect the cannon and give it a thorough clean. And, above all: not a word to anyone. Let no one in the fortress know more than he needs to.”

  After this, Ivan Kuzmich dismissed us. Shvabrin and I left together, discussing the news. “What do you think?” I asked. “What do you think’s going to happen?” “God knows,” he replied. “We’ll see. So far, it doesn’t seem anything so very serious. But then if . . .” He looked thoughtful for a moment, then absentmindedly began whistling a French tune.

  In spite of all our precautions, the news about Pugachov spread through the fortress. Much as Ivan Kuzmich respected his wife, nothing in the world would have induced him to tell her confidential information. On receiving the General’s letter, he had rather skillfully got her out of the way by saying that Father Gerasim had, it appeared, received some remarkable news from Orenburg but was keeping it a great secret. Vasilisa Yegorovna at once wanted to go and call on the priest’s wife, Akulina Pamfilovna; on her husband’s advice, she took Masha along with her, so the girl wouldn’t be left all on her own.

  Left in command of the house, Ivan Kuzmich had sent for us straight away, locking Palashka in the storeroom so she would not be able to eavesdrop.

  Vasilisa Yegorovna returned home without managing to learn anything from the priest’s wife and then discovered that Palashka had been locked up while her husband held a meeting. She realized that he had lied to her and at once started questioning him. But Ivan Kuzmich was prepared for her assault. Not in the least perturbed, he replied boldly to his inquisitive spouse, “Yes indeed, my dear, our women have taken it into their heads to burn straw in their stoves. Since this might lead to an unfortunate accident, I have given strict orders that from now on they are to use only brushwood and fallen branches.” “And why did you have to lock up Palashka?” asked his wife. “Why did the poor girl have to sit in the storeroom until we got back?” This was a question for which Ivan Kuzmich was not prepared; he got in a muddle and muttered something extremely incoherent. Realizing that she was not going to get anything out of her husband then and there, Vasilisa Yegorovna stopped asking questions and began talking about pickled cucumbers, which Akulina Pamfilovna prepared in some very special way. All that night Vasilisa Yegorovna lay awake, trying to guess what it could be that her husband knew but that she herself was not allowed to know.

  The following morning, on her way back from church, she saw Ivan Ignatich removing from the cannon the pebbles, bits of rag, splinters of wood, knucklebones, and other rubbish that the children had stuffed down the barrel. “What can these military preparations be about?” she wondered. “Are they expecting an attack by the Kirghiz? But surely Ivan Kuzmich wouldn’t keep a trifle like that from me?” She called out to Ivan Ignatich, determined to elicit from him the secret that was tormenting her feminine curiosity.

  Vasilisa Yegorovna began with a few remarks about household matters, like a magistrate opening a cross-examination with irrelevant questions so as to put the defendant off his guard. Then, after a few moments’ silence, she sighed deeply, shook her head and said, “Lord God! What news! Where will it all end?”

  “Don’t be afraid, Madam!” replied Ivan Ignatich. “God is merciful. We have soldiers enough, plenty of powder, and I’ve cleaned out the cannon. Maybe we’ll be able to send Pugachov on his way. Whom the Lord helps no man can harm.”

  “And what sort of man is this Pugachov?” asked Vasilisa Yegorovna.

  Ivan Ignatich bit his tongue; he had said too much. But it was too late. Vasilisa Yegorovna forced him to tell her everything; she promised not to breathe a word to anyone.

  Vasilisa Yegorovna kept her promise and did not tell anyone except Akulina Pamfilovna—and that only because Akulina Pamfilovna’s cow was still grazing out in the steppe and might be seized by the villains.

  Very soon everyone was talking about Pugachov. The stories varied. Ivan Kuzmich sent the Cossack sergeant to glean as much information as he could from the neighboring villages and fortresses. He returned two days later and reported that he had seen a large number of campfires out in the steppe, about forty miles from the fortress, and that he had heard from the Bashkirs that a huge force was approaching. But he could say nothing more definite, because he had been afraid to go closer.

  The Cossacks in the fortress were in a state of unusual agitation. They gathered in little groups in every alley, talking quietly among themselves and dispersing whenever they saw a garrison soldier. Spies were sent among them. Yulay, a Kalmyk [5] who had converted to Christianity, soon brought important intelligence: Maximich’s report had been a lie; what Maximich had said to his fellow Cossacks, when he came back to the fortress, was that he had been with the rebels and even presented himself to their leader, who had talked to him at some length and allowed Maximich to kiss his hand. Ivan Kuzmich immediately arrested Maximich and appointed Yulay in his place. The Cossacks did not like this. They grumbled loudly and Ivan Ignatich, whose task it was to execute these orders, had more than once heard the words: “Just you wait, you garrison rat!” Ivan Kuzmich had meant to interrogate Maximich later that day—but the sergeant escaped from the guardroom, no doubt with the help of accomplices.

  Ivan Kuzmich grew still more concerned when a Bashkir was discovered carrying seditious papers. He wanted to call another meeting with his officers, and so he had to get Vasilisa Yegorovna out of the way again. But, straightforward and honest as he was, he could think of no other pretext than the one he had already used.

  “Vasilisa Yegorovna,” he said with a little cough. “I’ve heard that Father Gerasim has received from the town—” “Don’t try that one again!” his wife interrupted. “What do you take me for, Ivan Kuzmich? Evidently you propose to call a council of war and talk about Yemelyan Pugachov without me!” Ivan Kuzmich stared at her. “Yes indeed, my dear,” he said after a moment. “If you know everything already, then you may as well stay. We’ll talk in front of you.” “That’s more like it,” she replied. “You’re no good at being clever. Send for the officers.”

  We assembled again. In the presence of his wife, Ivan Kuzmich read out Pugachov’s proclamation, evidently written by some s
emi-literate Cossack. The brigand declared his intention of marching at once against our fortress; he invited the Cossacks and soldiers to join his band and counselled the officers not to resist, on pain of death. The proclamation was written in crude but forceful language calculated to leave a deep impression on the minds of simple people.

  “The scoundrel!” exclaimed Vasilisa Yegorovna. “How dare he speak like that? We are to go out to meet him—and then lay our flags and banners at his feet? Son of a dog! Does he not realize that we have seen a thing or two, by the grace of God, during the forty years that we’ve served? There haven’t been any officers anywhere who’ve listened to the brigand, have there?”

  “You’d think not,” replied Ivan Kuzmich, “but the villain already seems to have taken quite a few fortresses.”

  “He does indeed seem to be strong,” said Shvabrin.

  “It won’t take us long to find out his real strength,” said Ivan Kuzmich. “Vasilisa Yegorovna, give me the key to the barn. Ivan Ignatich, go and fetch that Bashkir. And tell Yulay to bring a whip.”

  “Wait, Ivan Kuzmich,” said Vasilisa Yegorovna, getting to her feet. “Let me take Masha out of the house. She’ll be scared out of her wits if she hears him screaming. And, to be honest, I don’t much care for these interrogations myself. I’ll be back in an hour or two.”

  In the old days, torture was so firmly rooted in our judicial system that the noble edict decreeing its abolition remained unenforced for a long time.[6] It was believed that a defendant’s guilt could be fully established only if he confessed to the crime—an idea that is not only senseless but contrary to sound legal thinking: if a denial is not accepted as proof of innocence, then why should a confession be accepted as proof of guilt? Even today I sometimes hear old judges complaining about the abolition of this barbarous custom. And in the days of my youth, there was no one at all, neither judge nor defendant, who doubted the necessity of torture. The commandant’s order did not in any way surprise or alarm us. Ivan Ignatich went to fetch the Bashkir, whom Vasilisa Yegorovna had locked up in the barn. Two old soldiers escorted him to the anteroom. The commandant ordered him to be brought before us.

  The Bashkir, his feet hobbled by a block of wood, stepped over the threshold with difficulty. Removing his tall hat, he stood in the doorway. I looked at him and shuddered. Never shall I forget that man. He must have been over seventy. He had no nose and no ears. His head was shaven and he had no beard, only a few grey hairs sprouting from his chin. He was short, thin and bent, but fire still gleamed in his narrow eyes. “Aha!” said Ivan Kuzmich, recognizing from these terrible signs that he was one of the rebels who had been punished in 1741.[7] “It seems you’re an old wolf, a wolf who’s been caught in our traps before. Judging from the look of you, it’s not the first time you’ve rebelled. Come a bit closer and tell me who sent you here.”

  The old Bashkir said nothing and gazed at Ivan Kuzmich with an air of blank incomprehension. “Why don’t you speak?” said Ivan Kuzmich. “Or is our language beyond you? Yulay, speak to him in your own tongue, ask him who sent him here.”

  Yulay translated Ivan Kuzmich’s question. The Bashkir gazed at him in the same blank manner and did not say a word.

  “Yakshi,’ [8] said Ivan Kuzmich, “I shall make you speak. Come on, boys, take off his stupid striped robe and embroider his back for me! Yulay, see to it that they do a good job!”

  The two old soldiers began undressing the Bashkir. Visibly alarmed now, the unfortunate man was darting quick looks in every direction, like some small wild creature cornered by children. And when one of the old soldiers hoisted him up onto his back, letting the Bashkir’s arms dangle around his own neck, and when Yulay picked up the whip and brandished it, the Bashkir shook his head, gave a weak imploring moan, and let his mouth fall open. In it, instead of a tongue, lay only a short twitching stump.

  When I remember that this happened in my own lifetime and that I have lived to see the mild rule of Tsar Alexander, [9] I cannot but feel astonished at the success of enlightenment and the rapid spread of the principles of respect and love for humankind. Dear young reader, if these notes of mine have fallen into your hands, remember that the best and most enduring changes are those that come about as a result of an improvement in morals, without any violent upheavals.[10]

  We were all shocked. “Well,” said Ivan Kuzmich, “this fellow certainly won’t be telling us anything much. Yulay, take him back to the barn. Gentlemen, we have a few things to talk about.”

  Our discussion was just beginning when Vasilisa Yegorovna burst in, breathless and looking very alarmed.

  “Whatever’s the matter?” Ivan Kuzmich asked in surprise.

  “Terrible news!” replied Vasilisa Yegorovna. “The Lower Lake fortress was overrun this morning. Father Gerasim’s servant was there. He saw them capture the fortress. They’ve hanged the commandant and every one of his officers. The soldiers have all been taken prisoner. We haven’t got long—the villains could be here any moment.”

  This news shocked me deeply. I had met the fortress commandant, a quiet and modest young man. Only a couple of months ago, he and his young wife had passed through on their way from Orenburg; they had stayed with Ivan Kuzmich. Lower Lake was about sixteen miles from Belogorsk. Pugachov might attack at any moment. I could imagine only too clearly what would happen to Maria Ivanovna; there was ice in my heart.

  “Ivan Kuzmich!” I said. “Our duty is to defend the fortress to our last breath. That goes without saying. But we must consider the safety of the women. Send them to Orenburg if the road is still clear—or to some more secure fortress further away, out of the villains’ reach.”

  Ivan Kuzmich looked at his wife and said, “Yes indeed, my dear, hadn’t I better send the two of you out of the way while we sort out these rebels?”

  “What nonsense you talk!” said Vasilisa Yegorovna. “Where’s there a fortress that’s safe from bullets? And what’s wrong with Belogorsk? It’s been our home—may the Lord be thanked!—for twenty-one years now. We’ve seen off the Bashkirs and we’ve seen off the Kirghiz. God willing, we can hold out against Pugachov too!”

  “All right, my dear,” replied Ivan Kuzmich. “Stay here if you’re so sure that our fortress is safe. But what are we to do about Masha? It’s all very well if we hold out, or if reinforcements arrive—but what if the villains capture the fortress?”

  “Well, if . . .” Vasilisa Yegorovna stopped short, with a look of extreme anxiety.

  “No, Vasilisa Yegorovna,” Ivan Kuzmich went on, realizing that, perhaps for the first time ever, his words were having some effect. “It won’t do for Masha to stay here. Let’s send her to her godmother in Orenburg. They have artillery there, and plenty of soldiers, and stone walls. And I advise you to go with her. You may not be young, but that’ll make no difference if they storm the fortress.”

  “Very well,” said Vasilisa Yegorovna. “We’ll send Masha away. But I’m not going anywhere myself—so don’t you dare ask me again! Why should we part in our old age? I don’t want to go looking for a lonely grave far from home. Live together—die together.”

  “There’s sense in what you say,” said Ivan Kuzmich. “Well, let’s not waste time. Go and get everything ready. Masha must leave at daybreak and she must have an escort—not that we’ve got men to spare. But where’s Masha gone?”

  “She’s at Akulina Pamfilovna’s. She fainted when she heard about Lower Lake. I’m afraid she may fall ill. Lord Almighty, that we should live to see this!”

  Vasilisa Yegorovna went off to prepare for her daughter’s departure. The meeting in the commandant’s room continued, but I said nothing myself and failed to take in what anyone else said. When Maria Ivanovna came in to supper, her face was pale and her eyes red from weeping. We ate in silence and rose from the table earlier than usual; each of us taking leave of the entire family, we returned to our quarters. But I deliberately left my sword behind; I had a feeling that I would find Masha alone when I went back f
or it. She met me in the doorway and handed it to me. “Farewell, Pyotr Andreich!” she said with tears in her eyes. “I’m being sent to Orenburg. Keep safe and sound—and be happy. Maybe the Lord will permit us to meet again, but if not . . .” She burst out sobbing. I embraced her. “Farewell, my angel,” I said. “Farewell, my darling. Farewell, my heart’s desire. Whatever happens to me, don’t ever forget that my last thought and my last prayer will be for you!” Masha went on sobbing, her head pressed to my chest. I kissed her fervently and walked quickly out of the room.

  7. THE ATTACK

  Head of mine, steady head,

  True and loyal soldier’s head,

  Three and thirty years you’ve served,

  But you’ve never earned

  Wealth or joy, praise or rank;

  All you’ve earned, good head of mine,

  Is two stout posts, a maple beam

  And a noose of silk.

  —FOLK SONG

  THAT NIGHT I did not sleep; I did not even undress. I intended to go at dawn to the gate through which Maria Ivanovna would be leaving the fortress, so I could say goodbye to her for the last time. I could feel a deep change within me; my present agitation was a great deal easier to bear than my recent depression. The sorrow of parting was fused with unclear but sweet hopes, with a sense of noble ambition and an impatient anticipation of danger. The night slipped by. I was about to go out when the door opened and a corporal came in to report that our Cossacks had deserted during the night, forcing Yulay to go with them, and that there were unknown men riding about nearby. I was appalled by the thought that Maria Ivanovna might not be able to leave in time; I hurriedly gave the corporal his orders and rushed off to the commandant.

  Day was already breaking. As I ran down the alley, I heard someone calling me. I stopped. “Where are you going?” Ivan Ignatich asked as he caught up with me. “Ivan Kuzmich is up on the rampart and has sent me to fetch you. Pugach is here.”[1] “Has Maria Ivanovna got away?” I asked, my heart in my mouth. “No,” replied Ivan Ignatich. “They’ve cut off the road to Orenburg. We’re surrounded. Things don’t look good, Pyotr Andreich.”