The Captain's Daughter
Author: Aleksandr Sergeevich Pushkin
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fiction; Political; Historical; General; World Literature; Russia
Description: This is a reproduction of the original artefact. Generally these books are created from careful scans of the original. This allows us to preserve the book accurately and present it in the way the author intended. Since the original versions are generally quite old, there may occasionally be certain imperfections within these reproductions. We're happy to make these classics available again for future generations to enjoy!
Publisher: Legare Street Press
Rights: Copyright © 2007, 2014 by Robert Chandler

ALEXANDER PUSHKIN (1799–1837) was born in Moscow and brought up mainly by tutors and governesses. One of his great-grandfathers, Abram Gannibal, was an African slave who became a favorite and godson of Peter the Great. Like many aristocrats, Pushkin learned Russian mainly from household serfs.

As an adolescent, he attended the new elite lyceum at Tsarskoye Selo, outside St. Petersburg. In his early twenties he was exiled because of his political verse, first to the Caucasus, then to Odessa, then to his mother’s estate in the north. Several of his friends took part in the failed 1825 Decembrist revolt, but Pushkin did not—possibly because his friends wished to protect him, possibly because they did not trust him to keep the plot secret. In 1826 Pushkin was allowed to return to St. Petersburg. During his last years he suffered many humiliations, including serious debts and worries about the fidelity of his young wife, Natalya Goncharova. In 1837 he was fatally wounded in a duel with Georges-Charles d’Anthès, the Dutch ambassador’s adopted son, who was said to be having an affair with Natalya.

Pushkin’s position in Russian literature can best be compared with that of Goethe in Germany. Not only is he Russia’s greatest poet; he is also the author of the first major works in a variety of genres. As well as his masterpieces—the verse novel Eugene Onegin and the narrative poem The Bronze Horseman—Pushkin wrote one of the first important Russian dramas, Boris Godunov (1825); one of the finest of all Russian short stories, “The Queen of Spades” (1833); and the first great Russian prose novel, The Captain’s Daughter (1836). His prose style is clear and succinct; he wrote that “Precision and brevity are the most important qualities of prose. Prose demands thoughts and more thoughts—without thoughts, dazzling expressions serve no purpose.”

ROBERT CHANDLER’s translations from Russian include Pushkin’s Dubrovsky; Nikolay Leskov’s Lady Macbeth of Mtsensk; Vasily Grossman’s An Armenian Sketchbook, Everything Flows, Life and Fate, and The Road; and Hamid Ismailov’s Central Asian novel, The Railway. His co-translations of Andrey Platonov have won prizes both in the U.K. and in the United States. He is the editor and main translator of Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buida and Russian Magic Tales from Pushkin to Platonov. Together with Boris Dralyuk and Irina Mashinski, he has also compiled an anthology, The Penguin Book of Russian Poetry, to be published in early 2015. He has translated selections of Sappho and Apollinaire. He teaches part time at Queen Mary, University of London and is a mentor for the British Centre for Literary Translation.

ELIZABETH CHANDLER is a co-translator, with Robert Chandler, of several titles by Andrey Platonov and Vasily Grossman.

THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER

ALEXANDER PUSHKIN

Translated from the Russian by

ROBERT CHANDLER and

ELIZABETH CHANDLER

NEW YORK REVIEW BOOKS

New York

THIS IS A NEW YORK REVIEW BOOK

PUBLISHED BY THE NEW YORK REVIEW OF BOOKS

435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014
www.nyrb.com

Translation, essays, and notes copyright © 2007, 2014 by Robert Chandler

All rights reserved.

Cover image: Kazimir Malevich, Red Cavalry, 1930 (detail); Russian State Museum, St. Petersburg: Scala / Art Resource, NY

Cover design: Katy Homans

The Library of Congress has cataloged the earlier printing as follows:

Pushkin, Aleksandr Sergeevich, 1799–1837, author.

[Kapitanskaia dochka. English. 2014]

The captain’s daughter / by Alexander Pushkin ; introduction by Robert Chandler ; translation by Robert Chandler and Elizabeth Chandler.

pages ; cm. — (New York Review Books classics)

ISBN 978-1-59017-724-2 (alk. paper)

1. Russia. Armiia—Officers—Fiction. 2. Russia—History—Rebellion of Pugachev, 1773–1775—Fiction. I. Chandler, Robert, 1953– translator, writer of introduction. II. Chandler, Elizabeth, 1947– translator. III. Title. IV. Series: New York Review Books classics.

PG3347.K3 2014

891.73'3—dc23

2014001984

ISBN 978-1-59017-744-0
v1.0

For a complete list of books in the NYRB Classics series, visit www.nyrb.com or write to: Catalog Requests, NYRB, 435 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014.

CONTENTS

Biographical Notes

Title Page

Copyright and More Information

Introduction

THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER

1. A Sergeant of the Guards

2. The Guide

3. The Fortress

4. The Duel

5. Love

6. The Pugachov Rebellion

7. The Attack

8. An Uninvited Guest

9. Parting

10. The Siege

11. The Rebel Camp

12. The Orphan

13. Arrest

14. The Tribunal

Omitted Chapter

Note on Names

Pushkin and History

Coats and Turncoats

Notes

Further Reading

INTRODUCTION

THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER is set in the early 1770s against the background of the peasant rebellion in southeastern Russia led by the Cossack Yemelyan Pugachov. In Alexander Pushkin’s first outline the hero was to be a real historical figure, Mikhail Shvanvich, an army officer who went over to Pugachov and was eventually exiled to Siberia.

Pushkin would have known that peasants on his father’s family estate in Boldino took part in the rebellion, and he had been interested for a long time both in Pugachov and in Stenka Razin, the leader of an important peasant rebellion in the seventeenth century. In a letter written in November 1824 he had asked his brother to send him a book titled Life of Yemelka Pugachov; in another letter he had asked his brother to provide him with “the historical, dry information about Stenka Razin, the only poetic figure in Russian history.” [1]

In early 1833, after obtaining permission to carry out research on Pugachov in the state archives, Pushkin decided to write not a novel but a work of historical research. Between February 25 and March 8, he read more than a thousand pages of documents, summarizing some and copying down others in full. During April and May he wrote a first draft of A History of Pugachov. In August, wanting to speak to eyewitnesses, he traveled to the area where the rebellion took place. On his way back, in early October, he stopped at his family estate in Boldino and completed a second draft of his History. During that same month, astonishingly, he also wrote several other important works—including two of his supreme masterpieces, “The Queen of Spades” and The Bronze Horseman.

After publishing the History in December 1834, Pushkin returned to The Captain’s Daughter. He wrote a first draft in late 1835 and continued to make revisions for another year. In November 1836 Pushkin read part of the novel aloud at a gathering in the house of his friend Prince Vyazemsky. It was published in December, in The Contemporary, the literary journal founded and edited by Pushkin himself.

The Captain’s Daughter is presented as a memoir, written by the nobleman Pyotr Grinyov towards the end of his life. The story turns on a number of gifts and their unexpected consequences. On his way to serve as an officer in the province of Orenburg, the sixteen-year-old Pyotr gets lost in a blizzard and is guided to safety by a mysterious peasant. Pyotr shows his gratitude by giving this man a hare-skin coat. In Belogorsk, the remote fortress where he is posted, Pyotr falls in love with Masha, the captain’s daughter, and fights a duel against a jealous rival, Lieutenant Shvabrin. The rebellion breaks out; Shvabrin proves to be a traitor and Fort Belogorsk falls to Pugachov, who turns out to be the mysterious peasant who had rescued Pyotr from the blizzard. The victory feast ends with a conversation between Pugachov and Pyotr. Marina Tsvetaeva has written that she would give up “all of Dostoevsky’s immortal dialogue” for this tête-à-tête, which she describes as “a magnanimous duel, a competition in greatness.” And so the story unfolds . . .

The Captain’s Daughter is full of action but much of the plot is propelled by letters, including some that the reader never sees. At one point, Captain Mironov, the fortress commandant, acts as an internal censor, tearing up one of Pugachov’s subversive proclamations without giving away so much as a word of its contents; Pushkin does, however, allow the captain’s gossipy wife to divulge part of Pugachov’s other proclamation. Many other documents are scattered about the novel: passports and safe-conducts of all kinds, an inventory of property stolen by Pugachov’s men, and Captain Mironov’s commission, framed and glazed, as well as a letter from Catherine the Great, also framed and glazed. And the entire novel is offered to us as a historical document, written by Pyotr Grinyov in his old age and presented by his grandchildren to “the publisher,” who changes a few names, adds an epigraph to each chapter, and happens to complete his work on a date of great significance to Pushkin: October 19, the anniversary of the day that he began his studies at the prestigious Imperial Lyceum at Tsarskoye Selo. Almost every year after graduating, Pushkin attended anniversary reunions with his fellow students, dedicating several well-known poems to them.

The Captain’s Daughter can be seen as a historical novel, as an epistolary novel, and also as a fairy tale—or rather, two linked fairy tales. First Pyotr and then Masha set out on quests. Pyotr is a fairy-tale “wise fool.” As a child he is frivolous in his attitude to learning and, in particular, to geography; he tries to turn a map of the world into a kite. In Simbirsk he gets drunk and loses a lot of money; he then ignores his driver’s warnings of a coming blizzard. Nevertheless he passes the crucial test, showing generosity to the mysterious tramp—as much fairy-tale wolf as man—who emerges out of this blizzard, as if born from it; and this wolf-man or, as we eventually learn, rebel leader, repays Pyotr’s kindness many times over. Masha’s quest is shorter but contains a number of the same elements. Both Masha and Pyotr first speak to their powerful saviors without realizing their true identity. And, like Pyotr, Masha reveals unexpected qualities; just as the seemingly foolish Pyotr succeeds because of his astuteness, so the seemingly timid Masha succeeds because of her boldness.

And beneath the fairy-tale surface lies a densely textured novel full of quotation, pastiche, and allusion. The Captain’s Daughter can even be read as a discussion of the future direction of Russian literature. Pyotr has two tutors: one Russian and one French. At first Pyotr seems linguistically incompetent; he fails to learn French from Beaupré and, when he meets the incognito Pugachov, is unable to understand his riddling Russian. In time, however, Pyotr comes to be at home in both languages; he studies French, somewhat surprisingly, in a remote steppe fortress and he develops a rapport with Pugachov. Pyotr’s two languages, his two worlds, are represented by the epigraphs and embedded poems, half of which are drawn from folk songs and half of which are examples or pastiches of elegant eighteenth-century verse. Pushkin may be suggesting that, like Pyotr, Russian literature can find its true path only by acknowledging both the Asiatic world of the steppe and the high culture of the elite.

Every detail in the novel does more work than can reasonably be expected of it. The elder Grinyov’s Court Almanac, the old cannon Pyotr glimpses on his arrival in Belogorsk, Captain Mironov’s framed commission as an officer—all these, introduced merely as background, come to play a part in the action. Pyotr’s fencing lessons, his first encounter with Zurin, and, of course, his readiness to give away a fine coat—all prove significant. Pushkin’s use of repetition and inversion is especially subtle. Whole scenes are repeated, but are seen from so different an angle that we notice these repetitions only on reading the novel a second or third time. Zurin’s peremptory letter demanding payment for a gambling debt is mirrored by Savelich’s impertinent demand that Pugachov pay for the property that his men have stolen. As Pugachov’s gift of a sheepskin coat mirrors Pyotr’s gift of a hare-skin coat, so Pugachov’s failed attempt to give Pyotr half a ruble after allowing him to leave Fort Belogorsk mirrors Pyotr’s failed attempt to give half a ruble to Pugachov at the inn. The verbal duel between Pyotr and Pugachov mirrors the actual duel between Pyotr and Shvabrin; all three men are, in a sense, poets, and a poem—or song—plays a part in each duel. And as Masha’s silence when imprisoned by Shvabrin mirrors Pyotr’s silence when accused of treason, so Masha’s eloquent directness before Catherine the Great mirrors—and also inverts—Pyotr’s eloquent tricksiness before Pugachov. And as Pyotr saves Masha, so Masha saves Pyotr.

These parallels and inversions hint at another parallel of still greater importance: that between Pugachov, an only temporarily successful pretender, and Catherine the Great, the German who successfully usurps the Russian throne. Catherine, we should remember, gained power by deposing her Russian husband, Peter III, the grandson of Peter the Great. The war between Catherine and Pugachov—who claims to be her murdered husband—embodies the split between Russia’s Westernized elite and its peasantry, two worlds that spoke different languages.

The divide between A History of Pugachov and The Captain’s Daughter is another expression of this same split. In the former, Pushkin takes the viewpoint of the educated elite, subordinating himself to documented fact and portraying Pugachov as treacherous and sadistic; in the latter, he shows us the magnanimous Pugachov of popular legend and allows us a glimpse of life as it might be if we could learn to give and to forgive, if we could learn to enter one another’s worlds.

In 1917, the conflicts embodied in the novel were to tear Russia apart. In his art, however, Pushkin reconciles these conflicts; no nineteenth-century Russian novel more successfully brings together popular and high culture.

—ROBERT CHANDLER
2014

THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER

Take care of your honor when you are young.

—POPULAR SAYING

1. A SERGEANT OF THE GUARDS

“He could be a captain in the Guards tomorrow.”

“No, no. Let him see service in the line.”

“Well said, well said—let a young man toil and sorrow!

..........................................

And who’s his father?”

—KNYAZHNIN, The Braggart [1]

MY FATHER, Andrey Petrovich Grinyov, served under Count Münnich in his youth and retired in ’17—with the rank of lieutenant colonel.[2] From then, he lived on his estate in the province of Simbirsk, where he married Avdotya Vasilievna Y., the daughter of an impoverished local nobleman. We were nine children. My brothers and sisters all died in infancy.

Thanks to the good offices of a close relative, Prince B., a major in the Guards, I was enrolled as a sergeant in the Semyonov regiment while still in my mother’s womb.[3] Had Mother—God forbid!—given birth to a daughter, Father would have notified the authorities of the death of the sergeant who had failed to report for duty—and that would have been the end of it. I was considered to be on leave until I had completed my studies. In those days education was not what it is today. At the age of five I was entrusted to the care of Savelich, my father’s senior huntsman, [4] appointed my tutor in recognition of his sober conduct. Under his supervision I learned during my twelfth year to read and write in Russian, as well as how to judge the points of a male wolfhound. Father then hired a Frenchman for me, a Monsieur Beaupré, sending for him from Moscow along with our annual supply of wine and olive oil. Savelich took his arrival very badly. “The child’s clean,” he muttered to himself. “He’s groomed, God be praised, and well fed. Why throw money away on some Monseer? Haven’t we got enough of our own folk?”

In his fatherland Beaupré had been a barber; he had been a soldier in Prussia and then come to Russia “pour être a teacher”—although his understanding of what this entailed was somewhat vague. He was good-natured, but flighty and extremely wayward. His chief weakness was a passion for the fair sex; all too often, however, his tender advances were parried by blows that set him moaning and groaning for days on end. He was also—as he used to put it—“no enemy of the bottle,” that is, in plain language, he liked to drink too much. But since in our house wine was served only at dinner, and since each person was given only one small glass and the tutor in any case was usually passed over, my Beaupré soon got used to vodka cordials and even came to prefer them to the wines of his fatherland, pronouncing them incomparably better for the digestion. He and I hit it off immediately and, although his contract stipulated that he was to teach me French, German, and every one of the sciences, [5] he chose instead to learn enough Russian from me to get by and then leave me to my own devices. We pursued our separate interests and lived in perfect harmony. I certainly wished for no other mentor. But Fate soon separated us, as I will now relate.

Palashka, the stout, pockmarked young washerwoman, and Akulka, the one-eyed dairymaid, decided one day to go and throw themselves at Mother’s feet, confessing their lamentable weakness and complaining tearfully about how Monseer had taken advantage of their inexperience. Mother did not take such matters lightly and complained to Father. Father, never one to delay in the execution of justice, sent at once for that canaille of a Frenchman. He was informed that Monseer was giving me my lesson. Father came into my room. At that moment Beaupré was on my bed, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, and I was engrossed in a project of my own. Some time before this, a map of the world had been ordered for me from Moscow. Hanging there on the wall without being of the least use to anyone, it had been tempting me for a long time with the breadth and good quality of its paper. I had resolved to turn it into a kite and, while Beaupré was asleep, I had got down to work. Father entered as I was fitting a bast tail [6] to the Cape of Good Hope. Seeing these geography exercises of mine, Father tweaked my ear, hurried across to Beaupré, shook him awake and began to give him a piece of his mind. In consternation, Beaupré tried to get to his feet but could not. As well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb: the unhappy Frenchman was dead drunk. Father lifted him off the bed by his collar, pushed him out the door and sent him packing that very day, to the indescribable joy of Savelich. And that was the end of my education.

I lived the life of a young ignoramus, [7] chasing pigeons and playing leapfrog with the sons of the house serfs. And so I reached the age of sixteen. Then my life changed.

One autumn day Mother was making honey preserves in the parlor and I was licking my lips as I watched the boiling froth. Father was sitting by the window and reading the Court Almanac, [8] which he received every year. This volume always had a powerful effect on him; he could never read it without growing remarkably choleric. Mother, who knew all his foibles only too well, would try to hide the wretched book as far out of sight as possible; some years whole months passed by before he even set eyes on it. But when Father did at last come across it, it would be hours before he could put it down again. And so, Father was reading the Court Almanac, harrumphing from time to time and muttering under his breath, “Lieutenant General [9]—and he used to be a sergeant in my platoon! Knight of the two highest Russian orders! [10] It seems only the other day that we . . .” In the end Father flung the Almanac down on the couch and sank into deep thought; this boded ill.

Suddenly he turned to Mother. “Avdotya Vasilyevna, how old is Petrusha now?”

“It’s not long now since he turned sixteen,” she replied. “He was born the same year Auntie Nastasya Gerasimovna went blind in one eye and when—”

“Very well,” interrupted Father. “It’s time he saw service. He’s had more than enough of clambering around dovecots and hanging about the maids’ rooms.” The thought of an imminent separation so overwhelmed Mother that tears began to flow down her cheeks and she dropped her spoon into the saucepan. My own elation, on the other hand, was almost beyond words. Army life was inseparable in my mind from the concept of freedom and the joys of life in Petersburg. I would be an officer in the Guards; this meant that I would be enjoying the ultimate in human happiness.

Father was not someone to reconsider his decisions or delay their implementation. The date of my departure was set. The day before I was due to leave, Father announced that he wanted to give me a letter for my future commanding officer, and he asked for pen and paper.

“Don’t forget, Andrey Petrovich,” said Mother, “to send greetings to Prince B. from me too. Please say that I hope he will keep a gracious eye on our Petrusha.”

“What’s got into you?” replied Father, frowning. “Why should I be writing to Prince B.?”

“But didn’t you just say you wished to write to Petrusha’s commanding officer?”

“And what if I did?”

“Well, Petrusha’s commanding officer is Prince. B. Petrusha’s enrolled in the Semyonov regiment.”

“The Semyonov regiment! What do I care about the Semyonov regiment? I’m not having our Petrusha going to Petersburg. What’s he going to learn from service in Petersburg? To be a rake and a spendthrift! No, let him serve in the real army. Let him toil and sweat and smell gunpowder. Let him be a true soldier—not some fop of a turncoat [11] in the Guards! Where’s his passport?[12] Bring it here.”

Mother got out my passport, which she kept in a chest along with my christening shirt, and gave it with a trembling hand to Father. Father read it through, placed it on the desk in front of him and began his letter.

I was in an agony of curiosity: where was I being sent, if not to Petersburg? I couldn’t take my eyes off Father’s pen as it moved slowly across the page. At last he finished the letter, sealed it in an envelope together with my passport, removed his glasses, beckoned me over and said, “This is a letter for you to take to Andrey Karlovich R., an old comrade and friend of mine. You’re going to Orenburg to serve under his command.”[13]

All my brilliant hopes were dashed. What awaited me was not the gaiety of Petersburg but the tedium of life in a godforsaken backwater. Army service, which only a moment ago I had been looking forward to with such glee, now seemed a heavy burden. But it was no use protesting. Next morning a hooded sleigh was brought round to the main door. In it were loaded my trunk; a wooden chest [14] with cups, plates and a teapot; and some parcels containing pies and white bread rolls—the last tokens of the pampered life I had enjoyed at home. My parents gave me their blessing. Father said, “Goodbye, Pyotr. Serve faithfully the sovereign to whom you pledge your allegiance; [15] obey your superiors; do not curry favor; do not volunteer for duties; do not shirk duties; and remember the saying, “Take care of your clothes when they are new and your honor when you are young.” Mother tearfully exhorted me to take care of my health—and Savelich to look after “the child.” I was wrapped up warmly: in a fox-fur overcoat over a hare-skin coat. I got in beside Savelich and set off, weeping bitterly.

That evening I reached Simbirsk, [16] where I was to stay for one day while Savelich purchased various necessities. I put up at an inn. In the morning Savelich went off to the market. Bored with looking out of the window onto a dirty side street, I wandered from one room to another. In the billiard room I saw a tall gentleman in a dressing gown; he looked about thirty-five and he had a long black moustache, a cue in one hand, and a pipe between his teeth. He was playing the scorer, who was given a shot of vodka each time he won and had to crawl under the table each time he lost. I watched them play. The longer the match went on, the more often the scorer had to go down on all fours, until in the end he was unable to get up from beneath the table. The gentleman pronounced a few strong words over him by way of a funeral oration and asked if I would like a game myself. I said I did not know how to play. The gentleman seemed to find this strange. He looked at me with something like pity; nevertheless, we started to talk. I learned that his name was Ivan Ivanovich Zurin and that he was a captain in the Regiment of Hussars; he was in Simbirsk to receive recruits [17] and was staying at the inn. He invited me to have lunch with him, saying we would be taking pot luck, soldier fashion. I accepted this invitation gladly. We sat down to table. Zurin drank a great deal, refilling my glass along with his own and telling me I must get used to army ways. He told me stories of army life that almost made me fall off my chair laughing, and we got up from table the best of friends. Then he volunteered to teach me to play billiards. “It’s imperative,” he said, “for the likes of us soldiers. Suppose you’re on the march and you come to some little town. What are you going to do with yourself? You can’t be beating up Yids all day long. Like it or not, you end up at an inn playing billiards. But not unless you know how to play!” I was entirely convinced, and I began my study of the game with great diligence. Zurin was loud in his encouragement, marveled at my quick progress and, after a few lessons, suggested we play for money, for very low stakes—two-kopek coins—just so as not to play for no stakes at all, which he considered a most detestable practice. I agreed to this too. Then Zurin ordered some punch and persuaded me to give it a try, saying I must get used to army life—and what would life in the army be like without punch? I obeyed him. We went on playing. The more often I sipped from my glass, the more daring I grew. My balls flew off the table; I got more and more excited, I cursed the scorer for not knowing how to score properly, I repeatedly raised the stakes—in short, I behaved like any young lad kicking over the traces. Meanwhile, the hours slipped by. Zurin glanced at his watch, laid down his cue, and informed me that I had lost a hundred rubles. This was a little embarrassing. My money was with Savelich. I began to apologize. Zurin interrupted: “Heavens above! Don’t let that trouble you for one moment. I can wait. And now let’s go to Arinushka’s.”

What was I to do? I finished the day as waywardly as I began it. We dined at Arinushka’s. Zurin kept topping up my glass, repeating that I must get used to army life. When I got up from table, I could hardly stand; it was midnight when Zurin drove me back to the inn.

Savelich met us on the porch. He groaned, seeing the unmistakable evidence of my new enthusiasm for army life. “What’s happened to you, sir?” he asked miserably. “Where on earth have you been, to get yourself so soused? Heavens above! Never before have I seen you like this.” “Shut up, you old grumbler!” I replied stumblingly. “You must be drunk. Go to bed . . . and help me undress.”

In the morning I woke with a headache; I tried confusedly to recall the events of the previous day. My thoughts were interrupted by Savelich, who came in with a cup of tea. “It’s early days, Pyotr Andreich,” he said, shaking his head, “early days to be going out on the razzle like this. Who can you be taking after? Neither your father nor your grandfather was ever a drunkard, and as for your mother—never in her life has she wished to touch anything stronger than kvass.[18] And who’s to blame? Why, that blasted Monseer. Never stopped pestering poor Antipovna with his “Madam, zhe voo pree, vodkah!” Well, there’s zhe voo pree for you! Fine ways you’ve learned from that son of a dog! Why did the master have to go and hire a heathen to tutor you, as if there aren’t enough of our own folk?”

I felt ashamed. I turned my back on him and said, “Go away, Savelich. I don’t want any tea.” But once Savelich got preaching it was not easy to stop him. “So there’s the joys of drinking for you, Pyotr Andreich. Your head aches, and you don’t want to eat. A man who drinks is good for nothing. Have a little brine from the pickled cucumbers—you can take it with honey. Or best of all for the morning after is a half glass of vodka cordial. What do you say to that?”

At that moment a boy came in and handed me a note from I.I. Zurin. I unfolded it and read:

Dear Pyotr Andreich,

Be so good as to send to me, with this boy of mine, the hundred rubles you lost to me yesterday. I am in urgent need of money.

Ever at your service,

Ivan Zurin

There was nothing for it. I assumed an air of indifference, turned to Savelich, who kept my purse, my clothes and ordered my affairs, [19] and told him to give the boy a hundred rubles. “What do you mean? Why on earth?” asked Savelich in amazement. “To settle a debt,” I replied as coolly as I possibly could. “To settle a debt!” replied Savelich, his amazement still growing. “But when, sir, did you find time to run up such a debt? There’s something I don’t like about all this. Say what you will, master, but I shan’t give him the money.”

Telling myself that this was a critical moment and that if I did not get the better of the obstinate old man now I would find it harder than ever to escape his supervision in future, I looked haughtily at Savelich and said, “I am your master, and you are my servant. The money is mine. I lost it because I chose to lose it. I advise you not to try to be clever but to do as you’re told.”

Savelich was so stunned by my words that he just threw up his hands and stood there without moving. “Don’t just stand there!” I shouted angrily. Savelich began to weep. “Dear master, Pyotr Andreich,” he said in a trembling voice, “don’t break my heart. Light of my eyes, listen to me, listen to an old man: write to that brigand and tell him that you were only joking and that we don’t have that kind of money. A hundred rubles! Merciful heavens! Tell him that your parents have strictly forbidden you to gamble for anything except nuts.” “That’ll do,” I said sternly. “Bring me the money or I’ll throw you out by the scruff of your neck.”

Savelich looked at me with deep sorrow and went to fetch what I owed. I felt sorry for the poor old man, but I was determined to kick over the traces and show that I was no longer a child. The money was delivered to Zurin. Savelich hurried to get me away from that accursed inn. He came and told me that the horses were ready. It was with a troubled conscience and silent remorse that I left Simbirsk, not taking leave of my teacher of the previous day or expecting ever to see him again.

2. THE GUIDE

Land of mine, dear land,

Land unknown to me!

What brought me here was not my will,

What bore me here was not my steed,

What drew me here was reckless youth

And tavern wine.

—OLD SONG

MY REFLECTIONS as we journeyed on were not pleasant. The sum I had lost, in relation to the prices of the time, was not inconsiderable. Deep down I could not help admitting that I had behaved foolishly at the Simbirsk inn, and I felt guilty before Savelich. All this upset me. The old man was sitting sullenly beside the driver, looking the other way and, from time to time, sighing noisily. I knew I had to make my peace with him yet did not know how to go about it. In the end I said, “Savelich, dear Savelich! Enough of this, let’s make up. I’m at fault; I can see that I’m at fault. I behaved foolishly yesterday and I offended you for no reason. I promise to behave more sensibly now, and to listen to you. Please don’t be angry; let’s make up.”

“Oh, Pyotr Andreich!” he replied with a deep sigh. “Dear master! It’s myself I’m angry with—it’s me who’s to blame. Why did I leave you alone in the inn? The Devil must have been at my elbow. I took it into my head to visit my godchild’s mother, the sexton’s wife. Yes—too much prattle, you’ll hear jail keys rattle. It’s a bad business! Whatever are the master and mistress going to think of me now? Whatever are they going to say when they hear that their child’s learned to drink and gamble?”

To console poor Savelich, I promised from then on not to spend so much as a kopek without his consent. Gradually he calmed down, though he went on shaking his head now and again and muttering, “A hundred rubles! That’s no joke!”

I was nearing my destination. Round about stretched a desolate wilderness, broken up by hills and gullies. Everything was covered by snow. The sun was setting. The sleigh was following a narrow road—or rather a track made by the peasants’ sledges. Suddenly the driver began casting anxious looks into the distance; then he turned to me, doffed his cap and said, “Best turn back, sir, don’t you think?”

“Why?”

“I don’t trust the weather. The wind’s getting up. Look—it’s blowing up the loose snow.”

“So what?”

“Well, look over there then!” He pointed to the east with his whip.

“All I can see is white steppe and clear sky.”

“But that cloud! Can’t you see that little cloud?”

Just above the horizon I could indeed see a tiny white cloud that I had at first mistaken for a distant hill. The driver explained to me that this little cloud presaged a blizzard.

I had heard of the blizzards in these parts, and I knew that they sometimes buried whole caravans of sledges. Savelich, like the driver, advised me to turn back. But the wind did not seem at all strong; trusting we could reach the next post station in good time, I ordered the driver to press on.

We drove on, the driver glancing repeatedly to the east. The horses galloped with a will. The wind, however, was growing stronger by the minute. The tiny cloud turned into a white storm cloud, which grew larger and climbed ponderously higher until it extended across the entire sky. A fine snow began to fall; then the air was full of huge flakes. The wind howled; the storm began. In a moment the dark sky merged with a sea of snow. Everything vanished. “A real blizzard!” the driver yelled. “We’re in trouble.”

I peered out from under the sleigh’s hood: nothing but darkness and whirlwind. There was such savagery, such expression in the howls of the wind that it seemed like something alive. Soon Savelich and I were both covered in snow; the horses slowed to a walk, then stopped. “Why are you stopping?” I asked the driver. “What else can I do?” he replied, climbing down off his box. “Heaven knows where we are. The road’s vanished, and it’s pitch dark.” I was about to start berating him, but Savelich took his side. “That’s what you get for not listening,” he said angrily. “We could have gone back to the inn, drunk tea to our hearts’ content and enjoyed a good night’s sleep. The storm would have died down and we’d have gone on our way. Why the hurry? We’re not going to a wedding, are we?” Savelich was right. But there was nothing we could do. The snow fell thick and fast. A drift was forming beside the sleigh. The horses were hanging their heads; now and again they shuddered, but otherwise they were not moving. The driver walked round in circles, adjusting the harness for the sake of something to do. Savelich went on grumbling; I looked in every direction, hoping to glimpse some sign of a track or a dwelling, but all I could make out was the opaque swirl of the snowstorm. Then I saw something black. “Hey, driver!” I shouted. “What’s that over there? Look—that black thing!” The driver stared into the falling snow. “Lord only knows, sir,” he said, getting back onto his seat. “Not quite a cart, not quite a tree, and it looks like it’s moving. Must be either wolf or man.”

I told him to make for the unknown object, which at once began to move towards us. Two minutes later we were drawing level with a man. “Hey, good sir!” shouted the driver. “Can you tell us where the road is?”

“The road’s right here under my feet, I’m standing on firm ground,” replied the wayfarer, “but you won’t get far tonight!”

“Listen, good sir,” I said. “Do you know these parts? Can you guide me to somewhere I can shelter for the night?”

“I know this land well enough,” said the wayfarer. “By the grace of God I’ve travelled the length and breadth of this steppe, on foot and on horseback. But in weather like this—no, we’ll lose the way in no time at all. Best just to stay put. If the storm dies down and the sky clears, we can find our way by the stars.”

His composure gave me new heart. I had already resolved to put my trust in God’s will and spend the night out on the steppe when the wayfarer suddenly jumped up onto the box and said to the driver, “There’s a house not far away, God be praised. Turn to the right, then keep straight on.”

“Why?” the driver asked crossly. “Can you really see a road? I know, I know: not your horses, not your sleigh—drive like a madman, you won’t have to pay!” I too had my doubts. “Yes,” I said, “what makes you so sure there’s a house nearby?” “Because the wind changed,” said the wayfarer, “and I smelt smoke. There’s a hamlet nearby.” The man’s alertness and his keen sense of smell astonished me. I ordered the driver to follow his directions. The horses trudged through the deep snow. The sleigh moved slowly forward, ploughing through drifts, sinking into hollows and rolling first to one side, then to the other. It was like being in a ship on a stormy sea. Savelich kept groaning; he was repeatedly thrown against me. I pulled down the matting that served as a curtain, wrapped myself in my fur coat and dozed off, lulled by the singing of the storm and the rocking of our slow progress.

I dreamed a dream I have never been able to forget and in which, when I compare it to the strange events of my life, I still see something prophetic. The reader will forgive me; probably he knows from experience how easily a man may surrender to superstition, however great his contempt for such foolishness.

I was in that mental and emotional state when reality, yielding to reverie, merges with it in the unclear visions of the beginning of sleep. I dreamed that the storm was still raging and that we were still lost on the snow-covered steppe. All of a sudden I saw a gateway, and I drove into the courtyard of our manor house. My first thought was that my father might be angered by my involuntary return and regard it as deliberate disobedience. Jumping down anxiously from the sleigh, I see my mother. She is coming out to meet me, a look of deep grief on her face. “Hush,” she says, “your father is mortally ill and wishes to say farewell to you.” I follow her fearfully into the bedroom. The room is dimly lit; around the bed are people with sad faces. I tiptoe up to the bed. Mother lifts a corner of the curtain and says, “Andrey Petrovich, Petrusha has come. He heard of your illness and turned back. Give him your blessing.” I kneel down and look at the sick man. But . . . instead of my father, I see a peasant with a black beard lying on the bed, looking up at me cheerfully. I turn to Mother in bewilderment and say, “What’s going on? This isn’t Father. Why should I ask a peasant for his blessing?” “Never mind, Petrusha,” says Mother. “He’s taking Father’s place at your wedding. Kiss his hand and let him give you his blessing.” I refuse. Then the peasant jumps out of bed, draws the ax that was tucked into his belt behind him and begins swinging it about in all directions. I want to run and I can’t; the room fills with dead bodies; I stumble against the bodies and slip in pools of blood. The terrible peasant calls out to me gently, “Don’t be frightened. Come and receive my blessing.” Horror and bewilderment overwhelm me. At that moment I awoke. The horses had stopped; Savelich was tugging me by the arm and saying, “Get out, sir, we’ve arrived.”

“Arrived where?” I asked, rubbing my eyes.

“At an inn. By the grace of God we knocked up against the fence. Hurry up, master. Get out of the sleigh and into the warm.”

I got out of the sleigh. The storm still raged but with less force. It was pitch dark. The innkeeper met us at the gate, holding a lantern under the skirt of his coat, and led me into a room that was small but fairly clean; it was lit by a pinewood torch. On the wall hung a rifle and a tall Cossack hat.

The innkeeper, a Yaik Cossack, [1] was probably about sixty, still hale and hearty. Savelich brought in the provisions chest and asked for a fire to be made up so he could prepare some tea, which I felt I had never needed more. The innkeeper went off to attend to this.

“But where’s our guide?” I asked Savelich.

“Here, your Honor,” replied a voice from above. I looked up at the bed-shelf over the stove and saw a black beard and two glittering eyes. “Cold, brother?” I asked. “How could I not be cold, with only this thin coat? To be honest with you, I once had a sheepskin but I pawned it last night in a tavern. The frost didn’t seem so fierce then.” The innkeeper came in with a boiling samovar; [2] I offered our guide a cup of tea and he climbed down from the shelf. His appearance was striking. He looked about forty; he was lean, broad-shouldered, and of medium height. There were streaks of grey in his black beard; his large, lively eyes were never still. His face was attractive but roguish. His hair had been cut in a bowl cut; he wore a ragged coat and loose Tatar trousers. I handed him a cup of tea; he tasted it and made a wry face. “Do me a favor, your Honor; tell them to bring me some vodka. Tea’s no drink for us Cossacks.” I gladly did as he asked. The innkeeper took a glass and a square quart bottle from the dresser, went up to him and, looking him in the eye, said, “Aha! You again! Where’ve you been all this time?” My guide gave a knowing wink and answered enigmatically, “I flew around the garden, pecked seed after seed. Granny threw a stone at me, but missed my head. Well, and how are your folk?” “Our folk?” the innkeeper replied in the same vein. “They were going to ring for vespers, but the priest’s wife forbade it. The priest’s out on a visit, there’s devils in the graveyard.” “Hold your tongue, man,” said my wanderer. “If there’s rain, there’ll be mushrooms; if there’s mushrooms, there’ll be a basket. But for now,” (here he gave another wink) “hide your axe behind your back—the forester’s about . . . Your Honor! Here’s to your good health!” With these words he raised his glass, crossed himself, and knocked back his vodka. Then he bowed to me and returned to the shelf above the stove.

At the time I understood nothing of this thieves’ cant, but I realized later that they had been talking about the Yaik Cossacks; their revolt of 1772 had only recently been put down.[3] Savelich listened with an air of deep disapproval, glancing suspiciously now at the innkeeper, now at our guide. The inn—though they called it by some more outlandish word of their own—was in the middle of the steppe, a long way from anywhere, and uncommonly like a brigands’ den. But there was nothing for it. Continuing on our way was out of the question. Anyway, I was amused by Savelich’s anxieties. I readied myself for the night and lay down on a bench. Savelich decided to sleep on top of the stove; the innkeeper lay down on the floor. Very soon the whole room was snoring and I fell fast asleep.

Waking rather late the next morning, I saw that the storm had passed. The sun shone; the snow on the vast steppe was like a dazzling shroud. The horses were harnessed. I settled up with the innkeeper, who asked for such a modest sum that not even Savelich could object or haggle in his usual way. He seemed to have quite forgotten his suspicions of the evening before. I called our guide, thanked him for his help and told Savelich to tip him half a ruble. Savelich frowned. “Fifty kopeks so he can buy more vodka!” he said. “Why? Because we’ve been so kind as to drive the man to an inn? As you like, sir, but we don’t have fifty kopeks to throw away. If we hand out tips like that to everyone we meet, we’ll soon be going hungry ourselves.” I could not argue with Savelich. I had given my word that our money would be at his disposal. It was annoying, however, to be prevented from showing my gratitude to a man who had saved us, if not from disaster, at least from a very unpleasant predicament. “Very well,” I said calmly. “If you don’t want to give him fifty kopeks, then give him something of mine to wear. He has no warm clothes. Give him my hare-skin coat.”

“Mercy on us, Pyotr Andreich!” said Savelich. “Your hare-skin coat! He’ll trade it for vodka, the dog, at the first tavern he comes to.”

“Maybe I will and maybe I won’t,” said my vagabond, “but that’s no concern of yours, old man. His Honor is minded to favor me with a fur coat from off his own back. That is his gentle pleasure, while your duty as a serf is to hold your peace and obey.”

“Have you no fear of God, you brigand?” Savelich retorted angrily. “The child can’t yet think straight, so you want to rob him, just because he’s so young. What do you want with a nobleman’s coat? It won’t even stretch across your hulking great shoulders.”

“Please don’t try to be clever,” I said to my old tutor. “Bring me the coat at once.”

“Dear God Almighty!” groaned my Savelich. “That coat’s as good as new. To give it to a drunkard—to a tramp and a drunkard!”

But the hare-skin coat was produced. The peasant tried it on there and then. The coat, which even I had outgrown, was indeed rather tight on him. All the same, he managed to get it on, ripping some of the seams. Savelich almost howled as he heard the threads snap. The vagabond was extremely pleased with my gift. He saw me to the sleigh and said with a low bow, “Thank you, your Honor! May the Lord reward you for your kindness. Never shall I forget your charity.” He went on his own way—and we set off. I ignored Savelich’s irritation and in no time at all I had entirely forgotten the snowstorm, my guide, and the hare-skin coat.

As soon as we reached Orenburg, I presented myself to the general. He was tall, but bent with age. His long hair was entirely white. His old, faded uniform made him look like a warrior from the days of the Empress Anna Ioannovna, [4] and he spoke with a strong German accent. I gave him the letter. On hearing me pronounce my father’s name, he shot me a swift look. “Mein Gott!” he said. “Only ze ozer day Andrey Petrovich vass your age, and now he hass such a fine young lad. Ach, how time fly!” He unsealed the letter and began to read it in an undertone: “Gracious Sir, Andrey Karlovich, I hope that your Excellency (Ach, how ceremonious ve are. I vonder he iz not ashamed. Discipline, of course, iz discipline, but iz zis ze vay to an old Kamerad to write?) that your Excellency will not have forgotten (Hm . . .) and . . . under the late Field Marshal Münnich . . . and little Karolinka . . . (Ach, bruder! Zo shtill he our old escapades remembers!) But now to business . . . my young rascal to your care (Hm . . .) Hold the boy with hedgehog gloves (Vot is zeze hedgehog gloves? Must be a Rusland zayink.)” And turning to me, he repeated, “Vot is zeze hedgehog gloves?”

“To hold with hedgehog gloves,” I replied in as innocent as possible a tone of voice. “It means: to treat someone gently, not to be too severe with them, to give them a free rein.”

“(Hm . . . I see . . .) And not give him too free a rein. (Zeze hedgehog gloves does not mean vot you say . . .) Herewith . . . his passport. (But vere is it? Ach, here is it.) And notify the Semyonov regiment. (Very goot, very goot, all shall be done.) Allow me, forgetting your rank, to embrace you as an old friend and comrade. (Ach, at last . . .) And so on, and so on . . . Vell, young sir,” he said, after he had finished the letter and put my passport to one side, “all shall be done. You vill be transferred, as an officer, to ze regiment and, not to lose time, you may leave tomorrow for Fort Belogorsk, vere you vill be under ze command of Captain Mironov, a kind and honorable man. Zere you vill see service and learn discipline. Zere is nothink you in Orenburg to keep; dissipation is harmful to a young man. Zis evening I invite you to dine viz me.”

“From bad to worse!” I said to myself. “I was a Guards sergeant when I was still in the womb—and look at me now! On my way to the regiment and a remote fortress on the edge of the Kirghiz steppe!” I dined with the general and his elderly adjutant. His table was governed by strict German parsimony, and I suspect that the speed with which he dispatched me to Belogorsk may have been occasioned, at least in part, by a fear of having to share some of his bachelor meals with an unwanted guest. The following day I took my leave of him and set out for this steppe fortress.

3. THE FORTRESS

Bread and water is our fare

In this fortress bleak and bare.

But if foes come, never fear,

We shall greet them with good cheer.

With powder, bullet, shot, and shell

We shall feast them, feast them well.

—OLD SONG [1]

Old-fashioned people, dear sir!

—DENIS FONVIZIN [2]

FORT BELOGORSK lay about twenty-five miles from Orenburg. The road ran along the steep bank of the Yaik. The river had not yet frozen over and, between monotonous banks covered in white snow, its leaden waters looked black and dismal. Beyond the river stretched the Kirghiz steppe. I was sunk deep in my thoughts, which were for the main part gloomy. Garrison life held few attractions for me. I tried to picture Captain Mironov, the fortress commandant, and the image that came to mind was of a stern, short-tempered old man, blind to everything beyond his army duties and ready to arrest me and put me on a diet of bread and water for the most trifling offence. Meanwhile, it was growing dark. We were going quite fast. “Is it much further to the fortress?” I asked my driver. “No,” he replied. “Look—there it is!” I looked all around, expecting to see menacing bastions, towers and a rampart—but there was only a small village encircled by a log palisade. On one side stood three or four hayricks, half buried under snow; on the other—a crooked windmill, its bast sails sagging idly. “But where’s the fortress?” I asked in surprise. “Here!” said the driver, pointing in front of him as we entered the village. By the gate I saw an ancient cast-iron cannon; the lanes were narrow and crooked; the houses were squat, most of them thatched.[3] I asked to be taken to the commandant, and a moment later our sleigh drew up before a small wooden house built on some high ground beside a wooden church.

No one came out to meet me. I went inside, then opened the door to the anteroom. An old soldier was sitting cross-legged on a table, sewing a blue patch onto the elbow of a green uniform. I told him to announce my arrival. “Our folk are at home,” he replied. “Go on in, sir.” I went into a clean little room, furnished in an old-fashioned style. In one corner stood a crockery cupboard; on the wall hung an officer’s commission, framed and glazed; beside it were some popular wood-cuts, depicting in bright colors “The Capture of Küstrin” and “The Capture of Ochakov”[4] as well as “Choosing a Bride” and “The Cat’s Funeral.”[5] An old woman in a quilted jerkin and with a scarf over her head was sitting by the window. She was winding some yarn that a one-eyed old man in an officer’s uniform held stretched between his hands. “What can we do for you, dear sir?” she asked, continuing with her work. I replied that I had been posted to the fortress and wished to report to the commandant. Taking the one-eyed man for the commandant, I was about to begin the speech I had prepared when the mistress of the house said, “Ivan Kuzmich is out. He’s gone to visit Father Gerasim, but never mind, dear sir, I am his wife and you are most welcome. Please sit down.” She called a maid and asked her to fetch the sergeant. The old man kept looking at me inquisitively with his one eye. “May I be so bold,” he said, “as to ask in which regiment it was your pleasure to serve?” I satisfied his curiosity. “And may I also ask,” he went on, “why it was your pleasure to be transferred from the Guards to a fortress garrison?” I replied that this had been the wish of my superiors. “For conduct unbecoming an officer of the Guards, I assume?” my interrogator continued. “That’s enough of your chatter,” said the captain’s wife. “You can see the young man’s tired from his journey; let him be. And keep your hands straight! And you, sir,” she said, turning to me, “don’t grieve that you’ve been packed off to this far-flung corner of ours. You’re not the first and you won’t be the last. And who knows—you might even grow to like it! Alexey Ivanovich Shvabrin has been with us nearly five years now; he was sent here for manslaughter. Heaven knows what possessed him. He rode out of town, you see, with some lieutenant or other. They’d both brought their swords along and they started jabbing away at each other—and Alexey Ivanovich went and ran the lieutenant through in the presence of two witnesses. Well, there you are—we’re none of us free from sin.”

The sergeant, a well-built young Cossack, came into the room. “Maximich!” said the captain’s wife. “Find quarters for this officer—and mind they’re nice and clean!” “Certainly, Vasilisa Yegorovna,” replied the sergeant. “Shall I take him to Ivan Polezhaev’s?” “What’s do you mean, Maximich?” said the captain’s wife. “It’s crowded enough there already. Besides, Ivan’s a good friend—and he doesn’t give himself airs. Take the officer—please tell me your name, my dear sir! Pyotr Andreich?—take Pyotr Andreich to Semyon Kuzov. He let his horse into my vegetable garden, the rascal! And how are things otherwise, Maximich? Everything all right?”

“Everything’s quiet, thank the Lord!” replied the Cossack. “Except that Corporal Prokhorov had a set-to with Ustinya Negulina in the bathhouse, over a pail of hot water.”

“Ivan Ignatich!” said the captain’s wife, turning to the one-eyed old man. “Look into this Prokhorov and Ustinya business and find out which of them is to blame. Then punish them both. Well, Maximich, off you go now. Pyotr Andreich, Maximich will accompany you to your quarters.”

I took my leave. The sergeant led me to a hut high on the riverbank, at the very edge of the village. The hut was tidy and consisted of one room, divided by a partition. Semyon Kuzov and his family occupied one half; the other was allotted to me. Savelich began to sort out our belongings; I looked out of the narrow window. Dismal steppe stretched out before me. Almost opposite stood a few huts; some hens were wandering about the street. An old woman was standing by her front door, holding a tub and calling to her pigs, which were grunting affably in reply. And this was where I was condemned to spend my youth! I was overcome by melancholy. I turned from the window and went to bed without any supper, despite the entreaties of Savelich, who kept repeating in tones of deep distress, “Lord Almighty! He’s refusing to eat! What will the mistress say if the child’s taken ill?”

The next morning I was beginning to dress when the door opened and a young officer came in. He was short and swarthy, his face ugly but very animated. “Pardon me,” he said in French, “for calling on you without ceremony. I learned yesterday of your arrival. I was so overwhelmed by the desire to set eyes on a human face that I couldn’t restrain myself. When you’ve been here a little longer, you’ll know what I mean.” I realized that this must be the officer transferred from the Guards for dueling. We introduced ourselves. Shvabrin was clearly not stupid. His conversation was witty and entertaining. He gave me the most spirited description of the commandant’s family and social circle, and of the region to which fate had brought me. I was laughing heartily when the old soldier, the veteran who had been mending his uniform in the commandant’s anteroom, came in and said that Vasilisa Yegorovna would like me to have lunch with her and her husband. Shvabrin offered to go with me.

As we approached the commandant’s house, we saw about twenty old soldiers standing to attention on a small square; they had their hair in long pigtails and were wearing three-cornered hats.[6] The commandant, a tall vigorous-looking old man in a nightcap and a cotton dressing gown, stood facing them. Seeing us, he came over, said a few words of welcome to me, and returned to drilling his men. We would have stopped to watch, but he asked us to go on in, promising to join us soon. “There’s nothing to see here,” he added.

Vasilisa Yegorovna welcomed us with simple cordiality, as if she had known me all my life. The old soldier and Palashka were laying the table. “What’s keeping my Ivan Kuzmich? Why’s he spending so long with his men today?” asked Vasilisa Yegorovna. “Palashka, call the master to dinner! And where’s Masha gone?” Just then a young woman came into the room. She looked about eighteen and she had a round rosy face; her light brown hair was combed smoothly back behind her ears, which were very pink. At first I was not especially taken with her. But I was seeing her through prejudiced eyes; Shvabrin had spoken of Masha, the captain’s daughter, as a complete simpleton. She sat down in a corner and began to sew. Then the cabbage soup was brought in. Seeing no sign of her husband, Vasilisa Yegorovna dispatched Palashka a second time. “Tell the master,” she said, “that his guests are waiting and that the soup will get cold. There’ll be time enough, thank the Lord, for him to bellow at his men. They won’t disappear.” Soon after this, the captain at last came in, accompanied by the one-eyed old man. “What’s going on, sir?” asked his wife. “The soup’s been on the table for ages, but you seem to have gone quite deaf.” “Vasilisa Yegorovna!” replied Ivan Kuzmich. “I do have my duties, yes indeed! I was drilling my old boys.” “Drilling your old boys!” replied his wife. “They’re never going to learn anything about soldiering—and anyway, dear sir, you have barely a clue yourself. You’d do better to stay at home and pray to God. Dear guests, please come to the table.”

We sat down to dinner. Vasilisa Yegorovna did not stop talking for a single moment. She showered me with questions: who were my parents? were they still alive? where did they live? what were their circumstances? On learning that my father had three hundred serfs, [7] she said, “Well, fancy that! Who’d have thought there are people in the world with such wealth? And we, dear sir, have only our one maid, Palashka. Still, thank the Lord, we manage to make ends meet. Our only sorrow is Masha: the girl should be marrying by now, but what does she have for a dowry? A fine-tooth comb, a besom broom and a three-kopek coin (God forgive me!) so she can go to the bathhouse. All very well if a good man comes her way, but otherwise she’ll remain an old maid till kingdom come.” I glanced at Maria Ivanovna. She was blushing profusely; there were even tears dropping onto her plate. I felt sorry for her and hurriedly changed the subject. “I’ve heard,” I remarked somewhat randomly, “that the Bashkirs [8] are planning to attack your fortress.” “Who did you hear that from, sir?” asked Ivan Kuzmich. “It’s what I was told in Orenburg,” I replied. “Stuff and nonsense!” said Ivan Kuzmich. “We haven’t heard so much as a whisper from them. The Bashkirs are a frightened lot, and we’ve put the wind up the Kirghiz [9] too. None of them will be sniffing around here in a hurry—and if they do, I’ll give them a lesson that will put the fear of God into them for the next ten years.” “But are you not afraid,” I said, turning to Vasilisa Yegorovna, “to remain in a fortress exposed to such dangers?” “You get used to it, good sir,” she replied. “Twenty years ago, when we were first transferred here from the regiment, God alone knows how scared I was of those accursed heathens. I’d only have to glimpse their lynx-fur caps or hear their yells and, believe me, my heart would stand still! But now, dear sir, I hardly bat an eyelid if someone reports that the villains are prowling around the fortress.”

“Vasilisa Yegorovna is a lady of exceptional courage,” Shvabrin declared gravely. “Ivan Kuzmich can testify to that.”

“Yes indeed,” said Ivan Kuzmich, “the woman’s no faint-heart.”

“And Maria Ivanovna?” I asked Vasilisa Yegorovna. “Is she as brave as you are?”

“Is Masha brave?” answered her mother. “No, Masha’s a coward. Even a rifle shot still makes her go all of a tremble. A couple of years ago, on my name day, [10] Ivan Kuzmich took it into his head to fire a shot from our cannon—and the poor darling nearly died of fright. Since then we haven’t once dared fire the damned thing.”

We got up from table. The captain and his wife retired to their room for a nap; Shvabrin and I returned to his quarters and I spent the rest of the day with him.

4. THE DUEL

Since you’ve insulted me, or I have you,

You’ll soon be seeing me run your body through.

—KNYAZHNIN [1]

SEVERAL weeks passed by and my life in the fortress grew not only bearable but even enjoyable. I was received in the commandant’s house as one of the family. Both Ivan Kuzmich and his wife were the worthiest of people. Ivan Kuzmich, a soldier’s son who had risen from the ranks, was simple and uneducated but extremely honest and kind. His wife ruled him, and this suited his easy-going disposition. Vasilisa Yegorovna made no distinction between military and domestic affairs and ran the fortress exactly as she managed her home. Maria Ivanovna soon stopped being shy with me. We became better acquainted. I found her both sensible and sensitive. Without noticing it, I grew attached to this kind family and even to Ivan Ignatich, the one-eyed garrison lieutenant who, according to Shvabrin, was pursuing an illicit liaison with Vasilisa Yegorovna. That this was supremely implausible seemed not to trouble Shvabrin in the least.

I received my commission. My military duties were not burdensome. God smiled on our fortress; there was no sentry duty there, nor were there regular drills or parades.[2] When the fancy took him, Ivan Kuzmich would have a go at drilling his soldiers, but he had not yet managed to get them all to tell left from right, even though a fair number of them, afraid of making a mistake, used to cross themselves before each about-turn. Shvabrin owned a number of French books. I began reading them, and I developed an interest in literature. In the mornings I would read, do exercises in translation, and occasionally even compose verses. I almost always had lunch at the commandant’s and I usually spent the rest of the day there; some evenings Father Gerasim would also come round, accompanied by his wife, Akulina Pamfilovna, the leading local gossip. Alexey Ivanovich Shvabrin, of course, I saw every day, but his conversation was becoming more and more distasteful to me. I disliked his constant jokes at the expense of the commandant’s family, and especially his caustic remarks about Maria Ivanovna. There was no other society in the fortress—and no other I wished for.

Despite predictions, the Bashkirs showed no sign of unrest. Everywhere round about was peaceful. But this peace was suddenly disrupted by internal strife.

I have already mentioned my interest in literature. By the standards of the time my efforts were fairly creditable; a few years later, Alexandr Petrovich Sumarokov [3] was to accord them high praise. One day I managed to write a little song that I was quite pleased with. As everyone knows, authors sometimes pretend to be asking advice when what they really want is a sympathetic listener. I copied out my song and took it to Shvabrin, the only person in the fortress able to appreciate poetry. After a few preliminary remarks, I took my exercise book from my pocket and read him these lines:

From lovely Masha I must flee,

No thought of love dare I confess,

For never may my heart be free

While I look on her loveliness.

But the eyes that first enchanted

Shine before me night and day.

By those lights this heart is haunted;

All sleep, all peace, they drive away.

Now that I have told my anguish,

Dearest Masha, show compassion;

Or forever must I languish

In the grip of hopeless passion.

“What do you think?” I asked, expecting praise as my rightful due. But Shvabrin, usually an indulgent critic, firmly declared that my song was no good.

“Why?” I asked, trying to hide my annoyance.

“Because lines like that could have been written by my teacher, Vasily Kirillich Tredyakovsky.[4] They strongly remind me of his love poems.”

He took my exercise book and began picking apart every line and every word, mocking me mercilessly and sarcastically. This was more than I could bear; I snatched back my book and said I would never again show him my verses so long as I lived. Shvabrin laughed. “We shall see,” he said, “whether or not you can keep your word. Bards need listeners, just as Ivan Kuzmich needs a glass or two of vodka before dinner. And who is this Masha to whom you are declaring your tender passion and lovesick plight? It isn’t by any chance Maria Ivanovna, is it?”

“That’s none of your business,” I said angrily. “I need neither your opinion of my verses, nor any other of your conjectures.”

“Aha! A proud bard and a discreet lover,” Shvabrin went on, irritating me more every minute. “But take a friend’s advice: to succeed, you need more than songs.”

“What do you mean, sir? Be so kind as to explain yourself!”

“Gladly. I mean that, if you desire Masha Mironova to come and visit you after dark, you should present her not with tender verses but with a pair of earrings.”

“And what makes you think that?” I asked. I could hardly restrain myself; my blood was boiling.

“Because I know what she’s like,” he said with a diabolical grin. “I know from experience.”

“You’re lying!” I exclaimed furiously. “You’re a shameless liar.”

Shvabrin paled. “I can’t let that pass,” he said, gripping my arm. “I demand satisfaction.”

“Certainly. Whenever you wish!” I replied. I was delighted; at that moment I could have torn him limb from limb.

I went straight to Ivan Ignatich, whom I found holding a darning needle; Vasilisa Yegorovna had entrusted him with the task of threading mushrooms so they could be dried for the winter. “Ah, Pyotr Andreich!” he said. “Welcome! But why has God sent you here, may I ask? What can I do for you?” After briefly explaining that Alexey Ivanich and I had quarrelled, I requested Ivan Ignatich to act as my second. Ivan Ignatich listened, eying me intently with his one eye. “So what you are so kindly telling me,” he replied, “is that you want to run Alexey Ivanich through and that you would like me to witness this? Is that so, may I ask?”

“Exactly so.”

“Lord have mercy, Pyotr Andreich! What on earth’s got into you? So you’ve quarrelled with Alexey Ivanich! What of it? Words don’t break bones. If he curses you—curse him back. If he thumps you on the nose—thump him round the ear. When you’ve both had enough, leave it to us—we can help the two of you to make up. But as for running a sword through your neighbor! What good, may I ask, can come of that? And who’s to say you will run a sword through Alexey Ivanich? That would be no great loss—I’m not so very fond of the man myself. But what if he runs a sword through you? How, may I ask, will that look? Who’ll look a dunderhead then?”

The good sense of the old lieutenant did not sway me. I stood by my decision.

“As you wish,” said Ivan Ignatich. “Do as you think fit. But why do you want me there? Why should I have to be a witness? Do you think I haven’t seen enough of men fighting? I’ve fought the Swedes, and I’ve fought the Turks.[5] Praise be to God, I’ve seen more than enough of men scrapping.”

As best I could, I explained to him the duties of a second, but Ivan Ignatich simply could not understand me. “Do as you wish,” he said, “but the only part I can play in this business is to go to the commandant as my duty requires, report that a wicked deed, a deed injurious to the interests of the state, is being plotted here, and ask if he wishes to take appropriate measures.”[6]

I took fright and begged Ivan Ignatich not to say anything to Ivan Kuzmich. It was only with great difficulty that I got him to give me his word. After that, I decided to let him be.

I spent the evening, as usual, at the commandant’s. I tried to appear cheerful and nonchalant, so as to avoid bothersome questions and not give grounds for suspicion. I must admit, however, that I felt none of the sangfroid of which men in my situation usually boast. That evening I felt tender and loving. I found Maria Ivanovna more appealing than ever. The thought that I might be seeing her for the last time made everything about her seem especially touching. Shvabrin called round too. I took him aside and told him about my conversation with Ivan Ignatich. “What do we want seconds for?” he replied drily. “We can do without them.” We agreed to fight behind the hayricks not far from the fortress and to meet there between six and seven the following morning. Our manner seemed so cordial that Ivan Ignatich, in his delight, very nearly gave us away. “And about time too!” he said with a pleased look. “A bad peace is better than a good quarrel, and a hale body is worth more than honor.”

“What was that, Ivan Ignatich?” said Vasilisa Yegorovna, who was sitting in the corner, telling fortunes with a pack of cards. “I didn’t quite hear.”

Seeing my irritation and remembering his promise, Ivan Ignatich became flustered. He was clearly lost for words. Shvabrin came to his rescue.

“Ivan Ignatich,” he said, “approves of our reconciliation.”

“And who have you been quarrelling with, sir?”

“Pyotr Andreich and I almost had quite a serious quarrel.”

“What about?”

“It was about the merest trifle, Vasilisa Yegorovna. It was over a song.”

“What a thing to quarrel over! A song! How come?”

“Well, not long ago Pyotr Andreich composed a little ditty. And when he began singing it to me today, I joined in with one of my favorites:

Captain’s daughter, stay at home!

In the moonlight do not roam!

We had a difference of opinion. Pyotr Andreich got very angry, but then he realized that everyone is free to sing what he likes. And that was the end of it.”

Shvabrins’s brazenness enraged me, but I seemed to be alone in understanding his coarse insinuations; no one else, at any rate, was paying them any attention. From songs the conversation turned to poets, and Ivan Kuzmich observed that they were a wayward lot—fearful drunkards, every one of them. He counselled me to give up writing verses, saying this was a pastime that interferes with your military duties and never leads to anything good.

I found Shvabrin’s presence unbearable. I soon took my leave of Ivan Kuzmich and his family. Back at my quarters I examined my sword, tried its point, and told Savelich to wake me soon after six o’clock.

The next morning, at the appointed hour, I was standing behind the hayricks. My adversary did not make me wait long. “Someone might see us,” he said, “so let’s not waste time.” We took off our jackets and, wearing trousers and waistcoats, drew our swords. At that moment, from behind one of the hayricks, there appeared Ivan Ignatich and five old soldiers. He ordered us to the commandant’s. Sullenly we obeyed; escorted by the soldiers, we walked back towards the fortress. Ivan Ignatich strode ahead of us with an air of triumph.

We entered the commandant’s house. Ivan Ignatich opened the door and announced solemnly, “Here they are!” We were met by Vasilisa Yegorovna. “Goodness me! Whatever next, my good men? Really! What is all this? Plotting murder here in our fortress! Ivan Kuzmich! Have them arrested immediately! Pyotr Andreich! Alexey Ivanich! Hand over your swords! Hand them over at once! Palashka, take these swords to the storeroom! Pyotr Andreich! I didn’t expect this of you. Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? It’s all very well for Alexey Ivanich: he was discharged from the Guards for committing a murder and he doesn’t believe in the Lord God. But you! You should know better! Or are you planning to follow in his footsteps?”

Ivan Kuzmich, of course, agreed with his wife. He kept repeating, “Yes indeed, Vasilisa Yegorovna is right. Dueling is expressly forbidden by the Code of War Articles.” Meanwhile, Palashka took our swords and put them away in the storeroom. I could not help laughing. Shvabrin maintained his air of self-importance. “With all due respect,” he said coolly to Vasilisa Yegorovna, “I cannot but remark that, by appointing yourself as our judge, you are putting yourself to unnecessary trouble. Leave this matter to Ivan Kuzmich. It is for him to decide what to do.” “But my dear sir,” Vasilisa Yegorovna retorted, “are not husband and wife one flesh? Ivan Kuzmich! Don’t just stand there gaping! Lock them up at once, in different ends of the house. And keep them on bread and water till they come to their senses. And have Father Gerasim impose a penance on them, so they pray God for forgiveness and show themselves repentant before their fellow men!”

Ivan Kuzmich did not know what to do. Maria Ivanovna had gone very pale. Little by little the storm abated; Vasilisa Yegorovna calmed down and made me and Shvabrin embrace and kiss. Palashka brought back our swords. We left the commandant’s house apparently reconciled. Ivan Ignatich went with us. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” I said to him angrily, “reporting us to the commandant after you’d given your word not to!” “As God is my witness, I never spoke to Ivan Kuzmich,” he said. “Vasilisa Yegorovna wheedled it all out of me. She arranged everything without Ivan Kuzmich knowing a thing. Anyway, thank God it’s all ended the way it has.” With these words he turned off towards his home, and Shvabrin and I were left alone. “We can’t leave it at that,” I said to him. “Certainly not,” said Shvabrin, “you will pay in blood for your insolence. But they’ll be keeping an eye on us; for the moment we must pretend to have made it up. Goodbye!” And we parted as if nothing were amiss.

I went back to the commandant’s and sat down, as I often did, beside Maria Ivanovna. Ivan Kuzmich was out; Vasilisa Yegorovna was busy about the house. We spoke very quietly. Maria Ivanovna tenderly reproached me for the anxiety I had occasioned them all. “I almost fainted,” she said, “when we heard that the two of you were going to fight with swords. How strange men are! For a single word, which they would probably forget in a week anyway, they are ready to kill one another and to sacrifice not only their lives but also their consciences and the happiness of those who . . . But I’m sure it wasn’t you who began the quarrel. It must have been Alexey Ivanich.”

“What makes you think that, Maria Ivanovna?”

“Oh, I don’t know . . . He’s always sneering. I don’t like Alexey Ivanich. I don’t like him at all; and yet, strange to say, I should be very sorry if I thought he disliked me. That would upset me dreadfully.”

“And what do you think, Maria Ivanovna? Does he like you?”

Maria Ivanovna blushed.

“I believe,” she said hesitantly, “that he does.”

“Why?”

“Because he once asked for my hand.”

“He . . . he asked for your hand? When?”

“Last year. About two months before you came here.”

“And you refused?”

“Yes, as you can see. Alexey Ivanich is a clever man, of course, and he’s wealthy and from a good family—but when I think of having to kiss him beneath the bridal crowns, [7] in front of all those people . . . No, not for anything in the world!”

Maria Ivanovna’s words explained a great deal. I could see now what lay behind Shvabrin’s relentless jibes; he must have noticed our mutual attraction and been trying to turn us against each other. The words that had led to our quarrel seemed all the viler now that I understood them not as coarse jests but as deliberate slander. I wanted more than ever to punish Shvabrin for his evil tongue; I could hardly wait for an opportunity.

I did not have to wait long. The next day, as I was composing an elegy, biting my pen in the hope of finding a rhyme, Shvabrin came and tapped on the wall just beneath my window. I put down my pen, took my sword, and went out to join him. “Why wait any longer?” he asked. “We’re not being watched. Let’s go down to the river. No one will interfere with us there.” We set off in silence. After climbing down a steep little path, we stopped by the very edge of the river and drew our swords. Shvabrin was the better swordsman, but I was stronger and bolder and I was able to make good use of the fencing lessons I had once had from Monsieur Beaupré. Shvabrin had clearly not expected me to be such a dangerous opponent. For a long time neither of us was able to inflict any injury upon the other; at last, realizing that Shvabrin was weakening, I began to advance on him energetically and almost drove him into the river. Just then I heard someone calling my name. I looked round and saw Savelich running down the path towards me. At that moment I felt a sharp pain in my chest, just below my right shoulder; I fell to the ground and passed out.

5. LOVE

Maiden, maiden, pretty maiden,

Do not marry yet.

Ask your father, ask your mother;

Ask your parents, ask your kinsfolk.

Gather sense, gather wisdom;

There’s no richer dowry.

—FOLK SONG

If you find someone better—you’ll forget me.

Find someone worse—you’ll remember me.

—FOLK SONG

WHEN I regained consciousness, it took me some time to understand where I was or what had happened to me. I was lying in bed in a strange room, feeling extremely weak. Savelich was standing nearby, a candle in his hand. Someone was carefully unwinding bandages from around my chest and shoulder. Gradually my thoughts cleared. I remembered the duel and realized I must have been wounded. Just then the door creaked. “Well, how is he?” whispered a voice that made me tremble. “Still the same,” Savelich answered with a sigh. “Still unconscious, and this is the fifth day.” I tried to turn my head but couldn’t. “Where am I? Who’s there?” I managed to say. Maria Ivanovna came up to the bed and bent over me. “How are you feeling?” she asked. “I’m well, thank God,” I answered in a weak voice. “Oh, Maria Ivanovna, is it you? Tell me . . .” I was too weak to go on. “Ah!” exclaimed Savelich. His face lit up with joy. “He’s come round! He’s come round!” he repeated. “The Lord be praised! Oh Pyotr Andreich! What a fright you gave me! Just think—almost five whole days.” Maria Ivanovna interrupted him. “Don’t talk to him too much, Savelich. He’s still weak.” She went out and quietly closed the door behind her. My thoughts were in turmoil. I was evidently in the commandant’s house. Maria Ivanovna had been coming in to see me. There were several things I wanted to ask Savelich, but the old man shook his head and put his hands over his ears. Irritated by this, I closed my eyes and soon fell asleep.

When I awoke I called Savelich, but Maria Ivanovna had taken his place; I was greeted by her angelic voice. I know no words for the feeling of sweetness that came over me. I seized her hand and pressed it against my face, bathing it in tears of love. Masha did not withdraw her hand . . . and then her lips touched my cheek in a fresh, ardent kiss. Fire ran through me. “Sweet, kind Maria Ivanovna,” I said, “be my wife, agree to make me happy.” She remembered herself. “For the love of God, calm down!” she said, removing her hand. “You’re still in danger. Your wound might reopen. Take care of yourself, if only for my sake.” With these words she went out. I was overcome. Happiness brought me back to life. She was going to be mine. She loved me. This thought filled my whole being.

From that moment I grew stronger by the hour. The regimental barber—there being no other doctor in the fortress—treated my wound, and fortunately he did not try to be clever. Youth and nature hastened my recovery. I was attended by the whole of the commandant’s household. Maria Ivanovna hardly left my side. Naturally I took the first opportunity to resume my interrupted declaration of love; this time Maria Ivanovna heard me out. She acknowledged her feelings for me without the least coyness and said that her parents would be delighted for her. “But what about your parents?” she went on. “Don’t you think they might make difficulties?”

I pondered this. I had no anxieties with regard to my mother but, knowing my father as I did, I thought it unlikely that he would be especially moved by my love; he would look on it as youthful folly. I said as much to Maria Ivanovna but made up my mind, nevertheless, to write to Father as eloquently as I could and ask for his blessing. I showed the letter to Maria Ivanovna, who found it so deeply moving that she was unable to doubt its success; with all the trustfulness of youth and love she gave herself over to the feelings of her tender heart.

I made up with Shvabrin during the first days of my convalescence; Ivan Kuzmich reprimanded me for the duel and said, “Pyotr Andreich! Really I should put you under arrest, but you’ve been punished enough as it is. But I’m keeping Alexey Ivanich under guard in the grain store, and Vasilisa Yegorovna has his sword under lock and key. Let him have time to think and discover the error of his ways!” Too happy to feel ill will, I interceded on Shvabrin’s behalf, and the kindhearted commandant, after obtaining his wife’s consent, resolved to set him free. Shvabrin came to see me. He expressed deep regret; he admitted that he had been entirely in the wrong and asked me to forget all that had happened between us. Not being one to bear grudges, I sincerely forgave him both for our quarrel and for my wound. Ascribing his slander to bruised vanity and unrequited love, I magnanimously pardoned my unhappy rival.

I soon made a complete recovery and was able to move back to my quarters. Not daring to hope and trying to stifle my gloomy forebodings, I anxiously awaited an answer to my letter. I had not yet spoken to Vasilisa Yegorovna and her husband, but my proposal was hardly likely to surprise them. Neither Maria Ivanovna nor I concealed our feelings from them and we were confident of their consent.

One morning, Savelich finally came in with a letter in his hand. My heart racing, I snatched it from him. The address was in Father’s hand. This prepared me for something important; it was usually Mother who wrote to me, with Father merely adding a few lines at the end. For some time, leaving the seal unbroken, I read and reread the solemn and formal inscription: To my son, Pyotr Andreich Grinyov, at Fort Belogorsk in the Province of Orenburg. I tried to divine from the handwriting the mood in which the letter had been written. At last I braced myself to open it. It was clear from the first lines that all was lost. Here is what Father wrote:

My son, Pyotr!

On the 15th of this month we received your letter in which you ask for our parental blessing and consent to your marriage with Maria Ivanovna, the Mironov girl. Not only have I no intention of giving you either my blessing or my consent, but I also intend to take you in hand and punish you for your pranks, like a small boy; for in spite of your officer’s rank you have shown that you are not yet worthy to bear a sword entrusted to you for the defense of your fatherland and not for dueling with other young hotheads like yourself. I shall write forthwith to Andrey Karlovich, requesting him to transfer you to somewhere a good many miles from Fort Belogorsk, where you will forget this folly and come to your senses. Your dear mother, on learning of your duel and your wound, fell ill with grief and still keeps to her bed. What will become of you? I pray God that you will mend your ways, although I dare not trust in His great mercy.

Your Father, A.G.

This letter aroused several feelings in me. I was wounded by the harsh expressions Father used so freely. His contemptuous tone with regard to Maria Ivanovna seemed to me as improper as it was unjust. The thought of being transferred from the fortress appalled me, but what distressed me more than anything was the news of Mother’s illness. I felt indignant with Savelich; I had no doubt that it was he who had informed my parents of the duel. I paced up and down my cramped room for a while, stopped, gave him a fierce look and said, “So it’s not enough for you to have been the cause of a wound that kept me at death’s door for an entire month. Now you want to finish off my mother as well.” Savelich was thunderstruck. “For pity’s sake, sir!” he said, almost starting to sob. “Me the cause of your wound! As God is my witness, I was running to shield you with my own body from Alexey Ivanich’s sword. It was only my age—damn it—that made me too slow. But what have I done to your mother?” “What have you done?” I replied. “Who asked you to inform on me? Were you sent here to spy on me?” “To spy on you!” exclaimed Savelich, with tears in his eyes. “Dear God Almighty! Please read what the master has written to me. See for yourself what kind of spy I am!” He took a letter out of his pocket, and I read:

You should be ashamed of yourself, you dog, for not keeping me informed about my son, Pyotr, in spite of my strict injunctions, and for leaving it to strangers to notify me of his pranks. Is this the way you carry out your duty and the will of your master? I’ll send you out to herd swine, you dog, for concealment of the truth and abetting my son in his youthful folly. On receipt of this letter, I command you to write back instantly with an account of his health, which I am told has improved, and to tell me where exactly he was wounded and whether he has received proper treatment.

It was clear that Savelich was innocent and that I had done him an injustice. I begged his forgiveness but the old man was inconsolable. “That I should live to see this!” he said again and again. “That this should be the thanks I get from my masters! An old dog, am I, and a swineherd—and now I’m the cause of your wound as well? No, Pyotr Andreich! No, sir, it’s not me but that accursed Monseer who’s to blame. He was the one who taught you to prod people with iron spits and to stamp your feet, as if prodding and stamping could protect you from an evil man! So much for throwing away good money on some damned Monseer!”

Who then had informed my father? The general? But the general did not seem especially concerned about me and, in any case, Ivan Kuzmich had not thought it necessary to report the duel. For a while I didn’t know what to think. Then I decided it must have been Shvabrin. There was no one else who might gain from my being sent away from the fortress and separated from the commandant’s family. I went off to tell everything to Maria Ivanovna. She met me on the porch. “Whatever’s the matter with you?” she said at once. “How pale you look!” “All is lost,” I said and gave her the letter. She went pale too. After reading the letter, she gave it back to me with a trembling hand and said in a trembling voice, “It is clearly not meant to be. Your dear ones don’t want me to be one of the family. God’s will be done in all things! The Lord knows what is best for us. There’s nothing we can do, Pyotr Andreich. May you at least be happy.” “No!” I cried, seizing her hand. “You love me, and I’m ready for anything. We can throw ourselves at your parents’ feet. They are simple people, not stonyhearted and proud. They’ll give us their blessing; we’ll marry. And in the end Father will hear our entreaties; yes, Mother will take our side and Father will forgive me.” “No, Pyotr Andreich,” Masha replied. “I will not marry you without your parents’ blessing. Without it you will not be happy. Let us submit to God’s will. If you find a wife, if you come to love another, God be with you, Pyotr Andreich, I’ll remember you in my . . .” She burst into tears and moved away from me; I almost followed her inside but, sensing that I was in no state to control my feelings, I returned to my quarters.

I was sitting in my room, deep in thought, when Savelich interrupted me. “Here, sir,” he said, handing me a sheet of paper. “See if I am someone who spies on his master and tries to cause strife between father and son.” I took the sheet from his hands; it was his reply to the letter he had received. Here it is, word for word:

Andrey Petrovich, Sir, Our Gracious Father!

I have received your gracious letter, in which it pleased you to be angry with me, your serf, and say that I should be ashamed of myself for not carrying out my master’s orders. But I am not a dog but your faithful servant, and I do obey my master’s instructions and I have always served you faithfully and my hair has gone grey in your service. I did not write to you concerning Pyotr Andreich’s wound so as not to scare you in vain; and I hear now that the mistress, our dear mother Avdotya Vasilievna, has been taken ill with fright, and I shall pray to God for her health. Pyotr Andreich was wounded beneath the right shoulder, in the chest, just below the bone, and the wound was about two and a half inches deep, and he was put to bed in the commandant’s house, where we carried him from the riverbank and where he was treated by our barber, Stepan Paromonov; and now Pyotr Andreich, the Lord be praised, is in good health and there is nothing but good to be said of him. His superior officers, I hear, are pleased with him, and he is like a son to Vasilisa Yegorovna. And as for what has passed, do not blame the young man; a horse has four legs, yet it stumbles. And if it please you, as you wrote, to send me to herd swine, may your lordly will be carried out in this respect too. Herewith I bow down humbly before you.

Your faithful serf, Arkhip Savelievich.

There were several times, as I read the kind old man’s letter, that I couldn’t help smiling. I was in no state to answer Father myself; and Savelich’s letter was enough, I felt, to allay Mother’s anxiety.

From that day on everything changed. Maria Ivanovna hardly spoke to me and did her best to avoid me. I found it painful to visit the commandant’s house. Gradually I accustomed myself to sitting alone in my quarters. At first Vasilisa Yegorovna chided me for this but, seeing my determination, she left me in peace. I saw Ivan Kuzmich only when duty required it. I met Shvabrin rarely, and with reluctance, all the more so because I sensed in him a veiled hostility that confirmed my suspicions. My life became unbearable to me. I sank into a state of gloomy brooding, exacerbated by loneliness and inactivity. In solitude my love blazed all the more fiercely and became ever more of a torment. I lost the desire to read or write. I felt broken. I feared I should either go mad or fall into dissolute ways. But then unexpected events, which were to have a profound effect on my entire life, gave my soul a powerful and salutary shock.

6. THE PUGACHOV REBELLION

Listen, young men, listen well

To what we old folk have to tell.

—SONG [1]

BEFORE recounting the strange events to which I was a witness, I need to say a few words about the situation in the province of Orenburg towards the end of the year 1773.

This large, rich province was inhabited by a number of half-wild peoples who had only recently come under Russian sovereignty. Their repeated uprisings and their unfamiliarity with laws and civic life meant that the government had to keep constant watch over them if it was not to lose control. Fortresses were built in strategic positions, and these fortresses were garrisoned for the main part by the Cossacks who had lived for many years on the banks of the Yaik. But the Yaik Cossacks whose duty it was to guard the peace and security of these parts were far from peaceable themselves; they too had for some time posed a threat to the government. In 1772 an insurrection had broken out in their biggest town. Its cause was the severity of the measures taken by Major General Traubenberg in order to bring the Cossacks to heel; what it led to was the barbarous slaughter of Traubenberg and a coup within the Cossack administration.[2] The revolt was put down by cannon shot and harsh reprisals.

All this had happened some time before I was posted to Fort Belogorsk. By then everything seemed quiet; the authorities, however, had been too ready to accept the apparent repentance of the wily rebels. They were nursing their anger in secret and waiting only for the right opportunity to foment more trouble.

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 semi-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 for 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.”

We went up onto the rampart, a natural elevation reinforced by a palisade. Everyone in the fortress was already there, crowding together. The garrison was standing to arms. The cannon had been dragged up there the day before. The commandant was pacing up and down in front of his depleted ranks. The advent of danger had inspired the old warrior; he had seldom looked so vigorous. Around twenty men were riding about the steppe not far from the fortress. They seemed to be mostly Cossacks but there were Bashkirs too, easily recognizable by their quivers of arrows and their tall lynx caps. The commandant walked about among his men, saying to them, “Well, my lads, today we must stand our ground. Yes, we must stand firm for our dear mother the Empress and show the whole world that we are brave men and true.” The soldiers loudly voiced their zeal. Shvabrin was standing beside me, looking intently at the enemy. The horsemen out on the steppe, seeing movement in the fortress, gathered together in a little knot and began talking. The commandant ordered Ivan Ignatich to aim the cannon at them; he himself lit the fuse. The cannon ball whistled harmlessly over the horsemen’s heads. They scattered; in a moment they were out of sight and the steppe was deserted.

Just then Vasilisa Yegorovna appeared on the rampart, together with Masha, who did not want to be left on her own. “Well?” asked Vasilisa Yegorovna. “How’s the fighting going? Where’s the enemy?” “The enemy’s not far off,” answered Ivan Kuzmich. “With God’s help, the day will go well. Masha, my dear, are you frightened?” “No, dear Papa, I feel more frightened alone in the house.” Then Masha looked at me, trying hard to smile. I involuntarily gripped the hilt of my sword, remembering how she had handed it to me yesterday—as if for me to defend her with it. My heart was on fire. I imagined myself as her knight. Longing to prove myself worthy of her trust, I waited impatiently for the decisive moment.

From behind a ridge a few hundred yards away there appeared a whole horde of rebels; soon the steppe was bristling with horsemen armed with spears, bows and arrows. In the middle of them rode a man on a white horse, wearing a red kaftan and carrying a drawn sword. This was Pugachov. He brought his horse to a halt; his followers gathered round him. Four of them, evidently on Pugachov’s orders, galloped at full tilt up to the fortress. We saw who they were: four of our Cossack traitors. One of them was holding a sheet of paper high in the air, close to his hat. Another was carrying Yulay’s head on the point of his spear. He swung his spear and sent poor Yulay’s head flying over the palisade. It fell at the commandant’s feet. The traitors were shouting, “Don’t shoot. Come and greet the Tsar. Your Tsar is here!”

“Here’s how I greet your Tsar!” shouted Ivan Kuzmich. “Come on, lads, fire!” Our soldiers fired a volley. The Cossack with the sheet of paper swayed and fell from his horse; the others galloped back. I looked at Maria Ivanovna. Deafened by the volley and appalled by the sight of Yulay’s bloody head, she looked dazed. Ivan Kuzmich ordered a corporal to go and collect the paper from the hand of the dead Cossack. The corporal went out into the steppe and came back again, leading the Cossack’s horse by the bridle. He gave the letter to Ivan Kuzmich. Ivan Kuzmich read it, then tore it into shreds. Meanwhile the rebels were preparing for action. It was not long before bullets were whistling past our ears and arrows landing nearby, sticking into the ground and the palisade.

“Vasilisa Yegorovna!” said Ivan Kuzmich. “This is no place for women. Take Masha away. The girl looks half dead with fear.”

Vasilisa Yegorovna, somewhat subdued by the bullets, looked down onto the steppe, where there was now a great deal of movement. She turned to her husband and said, “Ivan Kuzmich, life and death are in God’s hands. Give Masha your blessing. Masha, go to your father.”

Pale and trembling, Masha went up to her father, dropped to her knees and bowed to the ground before him. The old captain made the sign of the cross over her three times, then helped her up, kissed her and said, “Well, Masha, may you be happy. Pray to God: he will not forsake you. If a good man comes your way, God grant you love and concord. Live with him as Vasilisa Yegorovna and I have lived together. Well, goodbye, Masha. Vasilisa Yegorovna, take her away now.” Masha threw her arms round his neck and burst into tears. “We must kiss too,” said Vasilisa Yegorovna, who had also begun to weep. “Farewell, my Ivan Kuzmich. If ever I have angered you, forgive me.” “Farewell, farewell, my dear,” said Ivan Kuzmich, embracing his old wife. “All right now, that’s enough. Off you go. And if there’s time, get Masha into a peasant smock.” Vasilisa Yegorovna and her daughter walked away. I watched Masha leave; she looked back and nodded to me. Ivan Kuzmich turned to us, his attention now focused on the battle ahead. The rebels gathered around their leader, then began to dismount. “Stand firm!” said the commandant. “They’re about to attack.” With terrifying shrieks and yells, the rebels rushed towards the fortress. Our cannon was loaded with grapeshot. The commandant let the rebels come close, then fired again. The shot tore into the middle of them. They scattered right and left and fell back. Their leader now stood alone, out in front of them. He was brandishing his sword and appeared to be fervently rallying his followers. The shrieks and yells, which had died down for a moment, began again. “Now, lads!” said the commandant. “Open the gates and beat the drum! Forward! Sally forth!”

Ivan Kuzmich, Ivan Ignatich, and I were on the other side of the rampart in no time, but the frightened soldiers did not move. “What’s the matter, my boys?” shouted Ivan Kuzmich. “If we must die, then die we must. It’s a soldier’s duty!” Just then the rebels charged. They burst into the fortress. The drum fell silent; the soldiers threw down their arms. I was almost knocked off my feet, but I picked myself up and went back into the fortress along with the rebels. I saw a group of men standing around Ivan Kuzmich, who had been wounded in the head; they were demanding his keys. I was about to rush to his aid, but some burly Cossacks seized me and bound me with their belts, repeating, “Defying the Tsar! We’ll teach you to defy the Tsar!” We were dragged through the streets; people came out of their houses, offering the rebels bread and salt.[2] The church bells were ringing. People began shouting that the Tsar was in the main square, receiving oaths of allegiance and waiting for the prisoners to be brought before him. Everyone poured into the square; our captors dragged us along too.

Pugachov was sitting in an armchair on the porch of the commandant’s house. He was wearing a red Cossack kaftan trimmed with braid and—pulled low over his glittering eyes—a tall sable hat with gold tassels. His face seemed familiar. A group of Cossack elders stood round him. Father Gerasim, pale and trembling, stood nearby. He was holding a crucifix, and he looked as if he were interceding silently on behalf of those about to be sacrificed. A gallows was being hurriedly erected in the square. The Bashkirs drove the crowd back and we were brought before Pugachov. The bells stopped ringing; there was a deep silence. “Which is the commandant?” asked the impostor. Our sergeant, Maximich, stepped forward and pointed to Ivan Kuzmich. Pugachov looked at the old man sternly and said, “How dare you defy me, your sovereign?” Ivan Kuzmich, weak from his wound, summoned up his last strength and said, “You are no sovereign to me; you are a thief and an impostor. Yes indeed!” Pugachov frowned grimly and waved a white handkerchief. Some Cossacks seized the old captain and dragged him to the foot of the gallows. Up above, on the crossbeam, sat the mutilated Bashkir whom we had tried to interrogate the day before. He had a rope in his hands; a moment later I saw poor Ivan Kuzmich swing in the air. Then Ivan Ignatich was brought forward. “Swear your allegiance,” said Pugachov, “to your Tsar, Pyotr Fyodorovich!” “You are no sovereign to us,” said Ivan Ignatich, repeating his captain’s words. “You, old man, are a thief and an impostor.” Pugachov waved his handkerchief again, and soon the good lieutenant was hanging beside his former commander.

It was my turn next. I looked boldly at Pugachov, ready to repeat the words of my greathearted comrades. Then, to my amazement, I saw Shvabrin standing among the rebel elders. He was wearing a Cossack kaftan; his hair had been cut in a bowl cut. He went up to Pugachov and said a few words in his ear. “Hang him!” said Pugachov, without even looking at me. A noose was flung round my neck. Silently I began to pray, asking God to forgive all my sins and to preserve everyone dear to my heart. I was dragged up to the gallows. “Don’t be frightened, don’t be frightened,” my executioners kept repeating, perhaps sincerely wishing me strength of heart. Then I heard a shout: “Stop, you heathens! Wait!” The executioners stopped. I looked round: Savelich had thrown himself at Pugachov’s feet. “Father, dearest father,” the poor man was saying, “what will you gain from the death of a noble child? Let the child go; they’ll pay you a ransom. And if you just want to string someone up to spread fear—then hang an old man, hang an old man like me!” Pugachov gave a sign, and I was unbound and set free. “Our dear Father pardons you,” I was told. I cannot say that I immediately felt glad to be released, nor can I say that I felt sorry. My feelings were too confused. I was led before Pugachov a second time and made to kneel at his feet. He held out his sinewy hand. “Kiss his hand, kiss his hand,” I heard from all sides. But I would have preferred the most terrible of deaths to such a humiliation. “Dear Pyotr Andreich,” whispered Savelich, who was standing behind me and nudging me in the back. “Don’t be stubborn. What’s it to you? Just grit your teeth and kiss the scoundr . . . just kiss the man’s hand and be done with it.” I didn’t move. Pugachov withdrew his hand, saying with amusement, “His Honor, it seems, is dazed with joy. Help him to his feet.” I was helped to my feet and released. The terrible comedy continued; I watched.

One by one, the inhabitants of the village swore their allegiance to Pugachov, kissing the crucifix and bowing down before him. The garrison soldiers stood nearby; armed with a pair of blunt scissors, the company tailor was cutting off their plaits. Shaking themselves, they too went up to kiss Pugachov’s hand and receive his pardon. One by one, he accepted them into his band. All this took about three hours. Then Pugachov stood up and came down from the porch, followed by the Cossack elders. A white horse in fine harness was led over to him. Two Cossacks helped him into the saddle. He told Father Gerasim that he would be dining in his house. Just then a woman screamed. The brigands had dragged Vasilisa Yegorovna out onto the porch—wild-haired and naked. One of them had already put on her quilted jerkin. Others were dragging out feather beds, chests, crockery, and all kinds of other household belongings. “Kind sirs,” the poor old woman was shouting, “allow my soul to repent in peace. Good sirs, take me to Ivan Kuzmich.” Then she looked up at the gallows and caught sight of her husband. “Murderers!” she screamed frenziedly. “What have you done to him? Ivan Kuzmich, light of my life, soldier brave and true! Neither Prussian bayonets nor Turkish bullets could harm you—and now, instead of laying down your life in honorable battle, you have been hanged by a runaway convict!” “Silence the old witch!” said Pugachov. A young Cossack struck her on the head with his sword. She fell down dead on the porch steps. Pugachov rode off; the crowd surged after him.

8. AN UNINVITED GUEST

An uninvited guest is worse than a Tatar.

—POPULAR SAYING

THE SQUARE emptied. I stood there without moving, overwhelmed by all I had seen and unable to collect my thoughts.

What troubled me most was my uncertainty about Maria Ivanovna’s fate. Where was she? What had happened to her? Had she managed to hide? Was her hiding place safe? I went into the commandant’s house . . . It had been laid waste. Chairs, tables, and chests had been broken up; crockery had been smashed; everything else pillaged. I ran up the little staircase to the upper floor and entered Maria Ivanovna’s room for the first time. Her bedclothes had been ripped and her wardrobe broken open and ransacked; a lamp still burned before an empty icon case. A small mirror between two windows remained intact. But where was the mistress of this humble, virginal cell? A terrible thought flashed through my mind; I pictured her in the hands of the brigands. My heart clenched tight. I wept bitter, bitter tears and called out the name of my beloved. At that moment there was a soft rustling and from behind the wardrobe appeared Palasha, pale and trembling.

“Oh, Pyotr Andreich!” she cried, throwing up her hands in despair. “What horrors! What horrors we’ve seen today!”

“Where’s Maria Ivanovna?” I asked impatiently. “Where is she?”

“The young mistress is alive,” Palasha replied. “She’s hiding at Akulina Pamfilovna’s.”

“At the priest’s house!” I cried out. “But that’s where Pugachov’s gone!”

I dashed out of the room. In only a moment I was running as fast as I could towards the priest’s house, noticing nothing around me. As I drew near, I heard shouts, laughter, and songs. Pugachov was feasting with his comrades. Palasha, I realized, had followed me. I told her to slip in and ask Akulina Pamfilovna to come out. A minute later, Akulina Pamfilovna appeared, holding an empty bottle.

“For the love of God! Where’s Maria Ivanovna?” I asked desperately.

“The poor darling’s lying there on my bed, just behind the partition,” said Akulina Pamfilovna. “Danger came close, Pyotr Andreich, but danger passed us by. The villain had hardly sat down to dinner when the poor darling recovered her senses. She let out a moan. I froze. He heard her and said, “Who’ve you got moaning in there, granny?” I made a deep bow and said, “It’s my niece, your Majesty. She’s ill. She’s been lying in bed over a week now.” “And is your niece young?” “Yes, your Honor.” “Then show me this niece of yours, Granny!” My heart missed a beat, but what could I do? “As you wish, your Majesty. Only the girl’s unable to get out of bed. She can’t come to your Grace.” “Never mind, Granny. I’ll go and take a look at her.” And that’s just what he did, damn him. He went behind the partition, pulled back the bed curtain, looked at her with his hawk’s eyes—and that was all he did. The Lord delivered us! But believe me, the priest and I were preparing to die the deaths of martyrs. Luckily, the poor darling didn’t know who it was. Dear God, what terrible times! Poor, poor Ivan Kuzmich! Who’d have thought it? And Vasilisa Yegorovna! And Ivan Ignatich! Why—why him? And what a miracle they spared you! And Shvabrin—what do you make of Shvabrin? Do you know he’s had his hair cut like a Cossack and is sitting here feasting with them? He’s a smart one all right! And the way he looked at me when I talked about my sick niece! His eyes were that sharp it was as if he were plunging a knife right through me. But he didn’t give us away—we’ve got that much to thank him for.” Then we heard drunken shouts, followed by the voice of Father Gerasim. The guests were calling for more wine; the host was calling for his wife. “Go back home, Pyotr Andreich,” said Akulina Pamfilovna as she bustled off. “I haven’t time for you now. The villains are making merry—keep out of their way! Goodbye, Pyotr Andreich! What will be, will be. May God not forsake us!”

Akulina Pamfilovna went back in. Somewhat reassured, I went back to my quarters. As I passed through the square, I saw some Bashkirs crowding around the gallows and dragging the boots off the hanged men’s feet. I was barely able to restrain myself, although I knew I was powerless to stop them. Everywhere men were running about, shouting drunkenly, looting the officers’ homes. I got back to my quarters. Savelich met me on the threshold. “Praise be to God!” he called out. “I was afraid they’d got hold of you again. Well, Pyotr Andreich, would you believe it? The rascals have robbed us of everything. Clothes, linen, crockery—they haven’t left us a thing. Still, who cares? Thank God they let you off with your life. But did you recognize their leader?”

“No, I didn’t. Why? Who is he?”

“You didn’t recognize him, Pyotr Andreich? You’ve forgotten that drunk at an inn who swindled you out of your coat? A brand-new hare-skin coat—and the brute burst the seams as he pulled it on?”

I was amazed. The similarity between Pugachov and our guide was indeed striking. I had no doubt that they were one and the same person. This, I realized, was why my life had been spared. I could not but marvel at the strange links between one event and another. A child’s coat, given as a gift to a tramp, had saved me from the hangman’s noose; a drunkard who had wandered from inn to inn was laying siege to fortresses and shaking the foundations of the state.

“Wouldn’t you like a bite to eat?” asked Savelich, a man of habit. “There’s nothing here in the house, but I can go out and hunt around a bit.”

Left to myself, I sank into thought. What was I to do? To remain in a fortress under the rebels’ control would be as great a disgrace for an officer as to join them. Duty required me to present myself where I could be of service to the fatherland during these difficult times. Love, however, urged me to stay near Maria Ivanovna and be her protector and defender. Although I was certain that things would soon change for the better, I could hardly bear to think about the dangers now facing her. My thoughts were interrupted by one of the fortress Cossacks, who ran in to tell me that the “Great Sovereign” required my presence. “Where is he?” I asked, preparing to obey.

“In the commandant’s house,” the Cossack replied. “After dinner our Father went to the bathhouse, and now he is resting. Well, your Honor, there’s every sign that he’s a personage of high birth. For dinner he was pleased to eat two roast sucking pigs, and he steamed himself that hot in the bathhouse not even Taras Kurochkin could bear it—yes, Taras Kurochkin had to give the birch twigs to Fomka Bikbaev and it was ages before he came round again, they had to pour pail after pail of cold water over him. Say what you will—our Father’s ways are grand ways. And in the bathhouse, I’ve heard, he showed them the royal marks on his breast: on one side, a two-headed eagle the size of a five-kopek piece; on the other side, his own royal personage.”

I did not think it necessary to argue with the Cossack and I went with him to the commandant’s house, trying to anticipate what form my meeting with Pugachov would take and how it would end. As the reader can imagine, I felt far from calm.

It was getting dark as I reached the house. The gallows and its victims looked black and terrible. The body of poor Vasilisa Yegorovna still lay near the steps; two Cossack sentries stood on guard. After going in to announce my arrival, my escort came back and led me into the room where, only the evening before, Maria Ivanovna and I had said such tender farewells.

I was met by a remarkable sight. Pugachov and about ten Cossack elders were sitting at a table covered by a cloth and an array of bottles and glasses. They were all wearing tall Cossack hats and colored shirts; their faces were flushed with drink and their eyes were gleaming. Neither of our two traitors—Shvabrin or Maximich—was among them. “Ah, your Honor!” Pugachov called out to me. “Welcome, welcome! Take a seat at our table and be our guest!” His companions made room for me. I sat down quietly at the end of the table. My neighbor, a slim handsome young fellow, poured me a glass of vodka, which I did not touch. I studied the gathering with curiosity. Pugachov was in the place of honor; he had one elbow on the table and his black-bearded chin was resting against his broad fist. Nothing about his face was in any way savage; all his features were regular and even rather pleasing. He often turned to a man of about fifty, addressing him sometimes as “Count,”[1] sometimes as “Timofeich,” and sometimes as “Uncle.” Everyone seemed on comradely terms; no one showed any special deference to their leader. They talked about the storming of the fortress, the success of the rebellion, and future operations. They all boasted, put forward their own opinions, and argued freely with Pugachov. And it was at this strange council of war that they decided to advance on Orenburg, a daring move that was almost crowned with calamitous success. They would set out from Belogorsk the next day. “And now, brothers,” said Pugachov, “to round off the evening, let’s have my favorite song! Chumakov! [2] Yes, you start!” In a high-pitched voice my neighbor began to sing one of the mournful songs sung by the Volga barge haulers, and the others quickly joined in:

Don’t rustle your green leaves, O green oak mother;

Don’t let their sighs stop a young man from thinking.

For tomorrow, oak mother, this young man must stand

Before the sternest of judges, before the dread Tsar.

And the Tsar, dear mother, will ask me a question;

The Lord Tsar will say, “Young son of a peasant,

Tell me about your companions, about your fellow thieves,

Tell me their number, tell me their names.”

And I shall tell you, my Lord, I shall tell you, my Tsar,

I shall tell you the whole truth:

My comrades, I tell you, were four:

“My blackest comrade was dark night,

My brightest comrade a steel knife,

My swiftest comrade was my brave steed,

My supplest comrade my taut bow,

And my messengers were piercing arrows.”

And my Tsar, my true hope, will reply,

“All praise to you, young son of a peasant,

That you thieve truly and that you speak true words.

And your reward, young lad, young son of a peasant,

Is a tall mansion in the open fields;

Your reward is two poles and a crossbeam.”[3]

This simple song about the gallows, sung by men destined for the gallows, had an extraordinary effect on me. Their stern faces, their harmonious voices, the depth of feeling they imparted to words in any case so very expressive—all this filled me with ancient, poetic dread.

The revellers all downed one more glass, rose from the table, and took their leave of Pugachov. I was about to follow them, but Pugachov said, “Stay. I want to talk with you.” We were left alone, face to face.

For a while neither of us spoke. Pugachov watched me intently, half closing his left eye now and again in a startling look of sly mockery. In the end he burst out laughing, with such unfeigned merriment that, looking at him, I began to laugh too, not knowing why.

“Well, your Honor,” he began. “My lads gave you a fright, didn’t they, when they flung a rope round your neck? You must have been fair scared out of your wits. And I’ll vow you’d be swinging now if it weren’t for that servant of yours. I recognized the old grumbler straight away. Well, your Honor, did you ever imagine that the man who guided you to a wayside inn was the very sovereign himself?” With these words he assumed an air of mystery and importance. “You have offended me grievously,” he went on, “but I pardoned you because of your kindness, because you did me a service at a time when I was forced to hide from my foes. But my pardon is nothing—a trifle compared to the honors I shall grant you when I regain my kingdom! Do you vow to serve me with zeal?”

This question, and the rascal’s impudence, seemed so comical to me that I could not help but smile.

“Why are you smiling?” Pugachov asked with a frown. “Do you not believe that I am the great sovereign? Answer me straight.”

I did not know what to say. To acknowledge a tramp as my sovereign was out of the question; that would have been unforgivable cowardice. But to call him a fraud to his face would mean certain death; and what I had been ready to do in the heat of the moment, in front of everyone and at the foot of the gallows, now seemed like foolish bravado. I hesitated. Pugachov waited somberly for my answer. In the end—and even today I remember the moment with pride—the sense of duty in me got the better of my human weakness. “Listen,” I replied, “I shall tell you the whole truth. Judge for yourself: how can I acknowledge you as my sovereign? You’re no fool—you’d see straight through me.”

“Who am I then, in your judgment?”

“God alone knows. But whoever you may be, you’re playing a dangerous game.”

Pugachov gave me a sharp look. “So you don’t believe,” he said, “that I am Tsar Pyotr Fyodorovich?[4] Very well. But does not fortune favor the bold? Did not Grishka Otrepyev [5] reign long ago? Think what you like about me, but stay by my side. Why trouble your head over this, that, and the other? Whoever the priest be, we call him Father. Serve me in good faith, serve me truly—and I’ll make you a prince and a field marshal. What say you, your Honor?”

“No,” I replied firmly. “I was born a nobleman. I have sworn my allegiance to the Empress; I cannot serve you. If you truly wish me well, let me go to Orenburg.”

Pugachov thought a while. “And if I let you go,” he said, “do you at least promise not to fight against me?”

“How can I make such a promise?” I answered. “You know very well that it’s not up to me. If I’m ordered to fight against you, I shall. I have no choice. You’re a commander yourself now; you require obedience from your men. How would it look if I refuse to serve when my service is required? My life is in your hands. If you let me go, I thank you; if you execute me, God is your judge; I have told you the truth.”

My sincerity impressed Pugachov. “So be it,” he said, clapping me on the shoulder. “When I hang a man, I hang him; when I pardon a man, I pardon him. Go free to all four corners of the earth, and do what you will.[6] Come and say goodbye to me tomorrow, but for now—go and get some sleep. Yes, I’m almost nodding off myself.”

I left Pugachov and went outside. The night was still and frosty. The moon and stars shone brightly, lighting up the square and the gallows. The fortress as a whole was calm and dark. The only light was from the tavern, and the only sound—the cries of late merrymakers. I looked at Father Gerasim’s house. The shutters and gate were closed. Everything seemed quiet there.

I got back to my quarters and found Savelich. My absence had alarmed him. He was overjoyed to hear that I had been granted my freedom. “Praise be to God!” he said, crossing himself. “We’ll leave at daybreak and go where our feet lead us. I’ve prepared a little something for you. Eat, dear master, and then sleep till morning—sleep as if you’re in the bosom of the Lord!”

I followed his advice and, after eating hungrily, fell asleep on the bare floor, exhausted in body and spirit.

9. PARTING

Meeting you, sweetheart,

Made my heart whole;

Leaving you, sweetheart,

Is the loss of my soul.

—KHERASKOV [1]

AROUND dawn I was woken by the sound of a drum. I went to the main square. Pugachov’s men were already forming into ranks by the gallows, where the previous day’s victims were still swinging. The Cossacks were on horseback, the soldiers under arms. Banners were flying. Several cannon, among which I recognized our own, had been mounted on gun carriages. All the inhabitants of the fortress were there, waiting for the impostor. A Cossack stood by the porch of the commandant’s house, holding a magnificent white Kirghiz horse by the bridle. I looked around for Vasilisa Yegorovna’s body. It had been moved a little to one side and covered with a piece of bast matting. At last Pugachov appeared in the doorway. People took off their hats. Pugachov stood on the porch and greeted everyone. One of the elders handed him a bag filled with copper coins, which he began throwing down by the handful. Everyone rushed to pick them up; there was a lot of shouting and several people were hurt. Pugachov was surrounded by his chief confederates, among whom was Shvabrin. Our eyes met; probably seeing the contempt in mine, he turned away with a look of genuine hate and feigned mockery. Pugachov caught sight of me in the crowd; he nodded and beckoned me over.

“Listen,” he said to me. “Go directly to Orenburg. Tell the governor and all his generals, from me, that I’ll be with them in a week’s time. Advise them to greet me with childlike love and obedience; otherwise they will not escape a terrible death. I wish you a pleasant journey, your Honor!” Then he addressed the crowd. Pointing to Shvabrin, he said “Here, my children, is your new commandant. Obey him in everything. He answers to me now for both you and the fortress.” I listened in horror: Shvabrin was in charge of the fortress and I was leaving Maria Ivanovna in his power. Heaven only knew what would happen to her. Pugachov came down from the porch. His horse was brought to him. He leapt nimbly into the saddle, not giving his followers time to help him up.

Just then I saw my Savelich step forward out of the crowd, go up to Pugachov and hand him a piece of paper. I had no idea what he was doing. “What is this?” Pugachov asked solemnly. “Read,” replied Savelich, “and it will be your pleasure to see.” Pugachov took the paper and scrutinized it with the same air of solemnity. “Why do you write in such a strange hand?” he said finally. “Our royal eyes can make nothing out. Where is my chief secretary?”

A young lad in a corporal’s uniform promptly ran up. “Read it aloud,” said Pugachov, handing him the paper. I wondered what on earth Savelich could have written. In a loud voice, syllable by syllable, the secretary began to read: “Two gowns: one calico, the other striped silk: six rubles.”

“What does this mean?” asked Pugachov, frowning.

“Tell him to read on,” Savelich replied calmly.

“The chief secretary continued: “One uniform coat of fine green cloth: seven rubles. White cloth breeches: five rubles. Twelve holland linen shirts with ruffled cuffs: ten rubles. One chest with tea service: two and a half rubles—”

“What is all this nonsense?” Pugachov interrupted. “What business of mine are these chests and these breeches with ruffled cuffs?”

Savelich cleared his throat and began to explain. “This, sir, it will be your pleasure to know, is an inventory of the articles of my master’s property made off with by the villains—“

“What villains?” Pugachov asked sternly.

“Beg pardon, sir, a slip of the tongue,” said Savelich. “Villains or not, your fine lads did rummage about a bit and leave with a few belongings of ours. But don’t hold it against them; a horse has four legs, yet it stumbles. Tell him to read to the end.”

“Keep going,” said Pugachov. The secretary read on: “one chintz quilt, one of taffeta: four rubles. One coat of scarlet cloth, lined with fox fur: forty rubles. Also one hare-skin coat, bestowed on your Grace at a wayside inn: fifteen rubles.”

“What the devil’s all this?” shouted Pugachov, his eyes blazing.

At this point I began to fear for my poor Savelich’s life. He was about to embark on further explanations when Pugachov cut him short. “How dare you?” he shouted. “How dare you pester me with such nonsense?” He snatched the paper out of his secretary’s hands and threw it in Savelich’s face. “You stupid old fool! So you’ve been robbed—what a misfortune! Why, you old grumbler, you should be praying for me and my lads for the whole of eternity. You should be grateful that you and your master aren’t swinging too—next to the others who defied me. A hare-skin coat! I’ll give you a hare-skin coat. Yes, I’ll flay the hide off your living body and have that made into a coat!”

“As you please,” said Savelich. “But I am not a free man and I must answer for my master’s belongings.”

Pugachov was evidently feeling magnanimous. He turned away and rode off without another word. Shvabrin and the Cossack elders followed him. The rebel band left the fortress in orderly fashion. The crowd followed too, accompanying Pugachov on his way. Savelich and I remained alone in the square. Savelich was holding the inventory in his hands, studying it with an air of deep regret.

Evidently he had wanted to make the most of my accord with Pugachov; I wanted to scold him for his misplaced zeal, but I could not help laughing. “You may laugh, sir,” said Savelich, “but I don’t think you’ll be laughing when we have to buy everything all over again.”

I hurried to Father Gerasim’s to have a talk with Maria Ivanovna. Akulina Pamfilovna met me with sad news. During the night Maria Ivanovna had developed a high fever; she was delirious. Akulina Pamfilovna led me into her room. I went quietly up to her bed. I was shocked at the change in her face. She did not recognize me. I stood there for a long time, paying no attention to Father Gerasim and his kind wife, who were, I think, trying to comfort me. I was troubled by somber thoughts. The plight of the poor orphan, alone and defenseless among angry rebels, filled me with horror; I was no less appalled by my own inability to help. Above all, I was tormented by the thought of Shvabrin. Put in charge of the fortress, invested with power by the impostor, Shvabrin might do anything to the innocent object of his hatred. What could I do? How could I help, how could I rescue her? There was only one possible course of action: I must go to Orenburg at once and do all I could to expedite the liberation of Belogorsk—and, if possible, play a part in this myself. I took my leave of Father Gerasim and Akulina Pamfilovna, fervently imploring the latter to take care of the poor girl whom I already looked on as my wife. I took Maria Ivanovna’s hand and kissed it, bathing it with my tears. “Farewell,” said Akulina Pamfilovna as she saw me out. “Farewell, Pyotr Andreich. May we meet again in better times. Don’t forget us. Write often. Poor Maria Ivanovna has no one else now—you’re the only comfort or protector she has.”

I went out into the square, stopped for a moment, looked up at the gallows, bowed to it, and left the fortress by the Orenburg road. Savelich kept pace with me.

I walked on, lost in my thoughts. Then I heard the clatter of horses’ hooves. I looked round: a Cossack was galloping down the road from the fortress, leading a Bashkir horse by the bridle and gesturing to me. I soon recognized Maximich, our sergeant. He galloped up, dismounted, handed me the reins of the other horse, and said, “Your Honor! Our Father favors you with this horse, and a fur coat off his own back.” Tied to the horse’s saddle was a sheepskin coat. “He has also . . .” Here Maximich faltered. “made you a gift of half a ruble . . . but I seem to have lost it on the way. I pray you magnanimously forgive me.” Savelich eyed him askance and growled, “Lost it on the way! And what’s that clinking under your shirt? Have you no shame?” “Under my shirt!” replied Maximich, not in the least put out. “Bless you, my old man! That’s the bridle clinking, not the half ruble.” “Very good,” I said, cutting the argument short. “Give my thanks to him who sent you. As for the half ruble, look out for it on your way back. Keep it for vodka.” “Most grateful to your Honor!” Maximich replied, turning his horse. “I shall pray for you forever.” With these words he galloped off, holding one hand to his breast pocket; soon he was out of sight.

I put on the sheepskin coat and mounted the horse. Savelich sat behind me. “See, master,” said the old man. “I was right to hand the rascal my petition. His heart knows shame after all—not that a spindle-shanked Bashkir nag and a sheepskin coat are worth half of what the bandits stole and what you were pleased to give the rascal yourself. Still something’s better than nothing—and there’s worse than a tuft of fur to be had from a mad dog.”

10. THE SIEGE

Stationing his troops on hills and mountains,

He gazed like some fierce eagle on the town.

He hid his thunderbolts within huge engines

And when night fell he brought them to the gates.

—KHERASKOV [1]

AS WE DREW near to Orenburg, we saw a gang of convicts with shaven skulls and faces mutilated by the torturer’s pincers. They were working beside the fortifications, under the supervision of some old veterans from the garrison. Some were digging; others were carting away the rubbish that had accumulated in the moat. Masons were carrying bricks up onto the rampart and repairing the city walls. Sentries stopped us at the gates and asked to see our papers. Hearing that I had come from Belogorsk, the sergeant took me straight to the general’s house.

I found the old German general in his garden. He was inspecting his apple trees, already stripped of their leaves by the breath of autumn; he and an aged gardener were carefully wrapping the trees in straw. His face was a picture of calm, health, and benevolence. He was pleased to see me, and he began questioning me about the terrible events I had witnessed. I told him everything. He listened attentively, continuing to cut away dry branches. “Poor Mironov!” he said when I got to the end. “That’s sad. He was a fine officer. And Madam Mironov was a kind woman—and a dab hand at pickling mushrooms! But what about Masha, the captain’s daughter?” I replied that she was still in the fortress, in the care of the priest’s wife. “Dear, oh dear,” said the general. “That’s bad, very bad indeed. One cannot rely on the discipline of these brigands. Who knows what will become of the poor girl?” I replied that Belogorsk was not far away and that it would probably not be long before his Excellency was able to send troops to rescue the poor inhabitants of the fortress. The general shook his head doubtfully. “We’ll see, we’ll see. There’ll be time enough to talk these things over. Please come round later for a cup of tea: I’m holding a council of war today. You can give us reliable information about the forces of this Pugachov rascal. But go and get yourself some rest now.”

I went to my allotted billet, where Savelich was already making himself at home, and began waiting impatiently for the meeting that would decide my fate. The reader will not be surprised to learn that I presented myself at the general’s house in good time.

One of the city officials was already there. He was, I recall, the director of the customs house, a stout red-faced old man in a brocade robe. He asked me about the fate of Ivan Kuzmich, whom he referred to as an old friend, and kept interrupting me with further questions and moral observations that showed him to be shrewd and intelligent, if unversed in the arts of war. The others arrived as we talked; apart from the general himself, there was not a single military man among them. When everyone had sat down and been served a cup of tea, the general gave a clear and unhurried account of the situation. “Now, gentlemen,” he said, “we must decide what course of action to take against the rebels: offensive or defensive. Each course has its advantages and disadvantages. Offensive action is more likely to lead to the swiftest possible annihilation of the enemy; defensive action is safer and surer. And so, let us put this question to the vote in the proper way, that is, beginning with the most junior in rank. Ensign,” he concluded, “please give us your opinion.”

I stood up, said a few words about Pugachov and his band, and declared resolutely that it would be impossible for the impostor to stand his ground against properly armed troops.

It was only too clear that the civilian officials disagreed, that they felt able to dismiss my opinions as those of a rash and hot-headed youth. There was a murmur of disapproval and I heard someone whisper the word “greenhorn.” The general turned to me and said with a smile, “Ensign, the first votes in a council of war are usually cast in favor of taking the offensive. This is to be expected. Let us proceed with the voting. Mister Collegiate Councilor, [2] tell us what you think.”

The little old man in the brocade robe quickly downed his third cup of tea, diluted with a considerable quantity of rum, and said, “My own view, your Honor, is that we should take neither the offensive nor the defensive.”

What do you mean, Mister Collegiate Councilor?” the general replied, clearly surprised. “The art of tactics knows of nothing else—only offensive measures and defensive measures.”

“I mean bribing measures, Your Excellency. We should employ bribing measures.”

“Aha! Your suggestion is a most sensible one. The art of tactics does indeed allow for suborning measures. We will follow your advice. We can offer a reward of seventy rubles—or maybe even a hundred—for the rascal’s head, to be paid out of the secret fund.”

“And then,” the little old man interrupted, “if those brigands don’t surrender their leader to us, bound hand and foot, I’m not a collegiate councilor but a Kirghiz ram!”

“We will discuss your suggestion further,” said the general. “But we do in any case have to decide on military measures too. Gentlemen, let me have your votes according to the proper procedure.”

Everyone argued against what I had said. Each of the officials referred to the unreliability of our troops, the uncertainty of success, the need for caution, and the like; each thought it wiser to remain behind strong stone walls defended by cannon than to trust to the fortunes of war in the open field. At last, having heard all their opinions, the general knocked the ash from his pipe and pronounced: “My dear sirs! I have to tell you that for my part I entirely agree with the young ensign, for his opinion is in accord with all the rules of sound tactics, which almost always favor taking the offensive.”

Here he paused and began filling his pipe. This was my moment of triumph. I looked proudly at the officials, who were whispering to one another in frustration and alarm.

“Nevertheless, dear sirs,” the general went on, letting out a deep sigh and a dense cloud of tobacco smoke, “I dare not take upon myself so great a responsibility when what is at stake is the safety of provinces entrusted to me by Her Imperial Majesty, our most gracious Sovereign Lady. And so I cast my vote with the majority, which has resolved that the cautious and prudent course of action is to await a siege within the city walls and to repel the enemy’s attacks by means of artillery fire and—when possible—sorties.”

It was now the turn of the officials to look mockingly at me. The council broke up. I felt dismayed that an honorable warrior had shown such weakness; against his better judgment, he had chosen to follow the advice of ignorant and inexperienced men.

A few days after this notorious council, we learned that Pugachov, true to his word, was approaching Orenburg. I saw the rebel forces from the city wall. Their numbers appeared to have increased tenfold since the fall of Belogorsk. They also now had pieces of artillery from other small fortresses that Pugachov had taken. Remembering the council’s decision, I foresaw a long confinement within the city walls; I almost wept with frustration.

I shall not describe the siege of Orenburg, which belongs to history rather than to a family chronicle. I will say only that this siege, thanks to the carelessness of the local administration, proved calamitous for the city’s inhabitants, who had to endure hunger and every conceivable privation. Life in the city, as the reader can easily imagine, was unbearable.[3] Everyone waited despairingly for their fate to be decided; everyone complained about the high prices, which were indeed terrible. People grew used to cannonballs falling on their homes; even attempts to storm the walls ceased to excite interest. I was dying from the tedium of it all. Time passed. I received no letters from Belogorsk. Every road was blocked. Separation from Maria Ivanovna felt more and more painful. Knowing nothing about her fate was a constant torment. My only diversion lay in the regular sorties beyond the walls. Thanks to Pugachov I had a good horse, with whom I shared my scant rations and on whom I rode out every day to exchange shots with Pugachov’s horsemen. In these skirmishes, the advantage was usually with the rebels, who were well fed, well supplied with liquor, and well mounted. Our own emaciated cavalry was no match for them. Sometimes our half-starved infantry also made sorties, but there was little it could do in the deep snow against horsemen able to scatter about the plain. Our guns thundered away to no effect from the top of the ramparts; when taken into the field, they got stuck and our horses proved too weak to move them. And so we made war. This was what the city officials called caution and prudence.

Once, when we had somehow managed to put to flight quite a dense throng of rebels, I caught up with a Cossack who had been cut off from his comrades. I was about to strike him with my Turkish saber when he removed his cap and called out, “Greetings, Pyotr Andreich! Has the Lord been merciful to you?”

It was our Cossack sergeant. I was overjoyed to see him. “Greetings, Maximich! When were you last in Belogorsk?”

“Not long ago, Pyotr Andreich. I only got back from there yesterday. I have a letter for you.”

“Where is it?” I shouted, flushing crimson.

“Here,” he replied, reaching under his shirt. “I promised Palasha I’d get it to you no matter what.” He handed me a folded piece of paper and galloped off. I opened out the letter. My heart racing, I read:

It was God’s will to deprive me at once of both father and mother; I have no relative or protector left in this world. I turn to you, knowing that you wish me well and that you are always ready to be of help to people. I pray God that somehow this letter may reach you. Maximich has promised to deliver it. Maximich has also told Palasha that he often catches sight of you in the distance, riding out on sorties, and that you take not the least care of yourself and give no thought to those who pray to God for you with tears in their eyes. I was ill for a long time; when I recovered, Alexey Ivanich, who has taken the place of my late father as commandant, forced Father Gerasim to hand me over to him, threatening to denounce him to Pugachov. I live as a prisoner in our old house. Alexey Ivanich is trying to force me to marry him. He says he saved my life by not giving Akulina Pamfilovna away when she told the villains that I was her niece. But I would rather die than marry a man like Alexey Ivanich. He treats me most cruelly and says that if I do not change my mind and consent, he will take me to Pugachov’s camp. There, he tells me, I will suffer the same fate as Lizaveta Kharlova.[4] I have begged Alexey Ivanich to give me time to think. He has agreed to wait another three days; if I do not marry him then, I am to expect no mercy. Dear Pyotr Andreich! You are my only protector. Please help me in my misfortune. Beg the general and all your superiors to despatch a relief force as soon as possible, and come yourself if you can. Poor orphan that I am, I remain obediently yours,

Maria Mironova.

As I read this, I almost went out of my mind. I galloped back to the city, spurring my poor horse mercilessly. I thought up plan after plan for rescuing Maria Ivanovna but could settle on nothing. On reaching the city, I went straight to the general’s and rushed in to see him.

I found him pacing up and down his room, smoking his carved pipe. Probably alarmed by the look on my face, he stood still and asked with concern what had brought me to him in such haste.

“Your Excellency,” I began, “I am turning to you as if to my own father. For the love of God, do not refuse me. The happiness of my whole life is at stake.”

“What is it, my man?” he asked in amazement. “What can I do for you? Tell me.”

“Your Excellency, command me to take a company of soldiers and fifty Cossacks so I can recapture Fort Belogorsk.”

The general stared at me, probably thinking I had gone mad; he would not have been far wrong.

“Recapture Fort Belogorsk?” he said at last. “What do you mean?”

“I swear to you that I will succeed,” I replied with fervor. “Just allow me to go.”

“No, young man,” he said, shaking his head. “At so great a distance the enemy could easily sever all communication between you and your headquarters and thus utterly and decisively defeat you. With communication lines severed—”

Dismayed to see him entering into a discourse on military tactics, I hurriedly interrupted.

“The daughter of Captain Mironov,” I said, “has written to me. She is asking for help. Shvabrin is trying to force her to marry him.”

“Is he indeed? Oh, that Shvabrin is a very great Schelm.[5] If I get the chance, I’ll have him court-martialed within twenty-four hours and shot on top of the city wall. But in the meantime we must grasp patience.”

“Grasp patience!” I cried, by now quite beside myself. “And while we do that, he will marry Maria Ivanovna.”

“Well,” said the general, “there’s worse than that could befall her. Let him marry her—then she’ll have some protection. And when we’ve shot him, she’ll find, God willing, that she has more than enough suitors. A sweet young widow never an old maid for long stays. No, no, what I mean is, young widows marry quicker than maidens.”

“I’d sooner die,” I said furiously, “than yield her to Shvabrin.”

“Ah!” said the old man, “now I see! You’re in love with Maria Ivanovna. Well, that’s another story altogether! My poor boy! But all the same, I still cannot give you a company of soldiers and fifty Cossacks. Such an expedition would be imprudent. I cannot assume such a responsibility.”

I bowed my head; despair overwhelmed me. Then I had an idea. What this entailed, the reader will learn from the following chapter, as an old-fashioned novelist would say.

11. THE REBEL CAMP

The savage lion was sated then.

“What means this visit to my den?”

He asked with gentle courtesy.

—A. SUMAROKOV [1]

I left the general and hurried back to my quarters. Savelich met me with his usual admonitions: “Sir, why cross swords with drunken brigands? Is that a fit occupation for you? No man’s luck lasts forever and if you die, you’ll have died for nothing. It would be one thing if it were the Turks or the Swedes, but for a nobleman to be fighting rabble like this . . .”

I cut his speech short with a question: how much money did we have, all told? “Enough for all your needs,” he replied with a look of satisfaction. “The rogues ransacked and rummaged, but I still managed to hide this from them.” And he drew from his pocket a long knitted purse full of silver. “Very well, Savelich,” I said. “Give me half, and keep the rest for yourself. I’m going to Fort Belogorsk.”

“Pyotr Andreich! Dear master!” my kind old tutor exclaimed, his voice trembling. “Have you no fear of God? How can you set off at a time like this, with the roads all swarming with brigands? If you have no pity on yourself, then at least have pity on your poor parents! Who do you need to see? And why? Just wait a little. Reinforcements will be coming soon. They’ll round up these rascals—then you can ride to all four corners of the earth.”

But I had made up my mind.

“I’ve got no time to argue,” I said to the old man. “I must go; I can’t not go. Don’t grieve, Savelich. God willing, we shall meet again. Now then: don’t be stingy while I’m away, don’t stint yourself. Buy what you need, even if it costs three times what it should. The money’s yours now; it’s a gift. If I’m not back here in three days—”

“What do you mean, sir?” Savelich interrupted. “Do you think I’m going to let you go on your own? Not for one moment! If you’re set on going, then I’m coming too. Even if I have to walk all the way, I shan’t desert you. How could I sit here on my own, sheltering behind a stone wall? I haven’t taken leave of my senses yet! Say what you will, master, but I stay by your side.”

I could see there was no dissuading Savelich, and so I gave him time to prepare himself for the journey. Half an hour later I mounted my good horse; Savelich got onto a lame, skinny old nag he had been given for nothing by a townsman who could no longer afford to feed it. We rode to the city gates; the sentries let us through; we left Orenburg.

Darkness was falling. Our way led past the village of Berdy, which was now Pugachov’s stronghold. The road was deep in snow, but all over the steppe lay fresh tracks; horsemen were evidently going by every day. I was riding at a quick trot. Savelich could barely keep me in sight. “Not so fast, sir!” he was shouting. “For the love of God, not so fast! This damned nag of mine can’t keep up with your long-legged devil. And what’s the hurry? Anyone would think we were on our way to a feast but it’s more like to be our own funeral—mark my words! Pyotr Andreich! Master! Spare me! Lord God Almighty! The master’s child—this is going to be the death of the master’s child!”

Soon we could see the lights of Berdy. We came to the gullies that served the village as a natural fortification. Never ceasing his plaintive entreaties, Savelich was managing to keep up with me. I was hoping to skirt the village unnoticed when suddenly, in the gloom ahead, I made out five men armed with cudgels; we had come to one of Pugachov’s outposts. The men challenged us. Not knowing the password, I tried to ride on without answering, but I was instantly surrounded and one of the men seized my horse’s bridle. I drew my sword and struck him over the head. His hat saved his life, but he staggered and dropped the bridle. The others took to their heels. Making the most of this moment of confusion, I put spurs to my horse and galloped off.

Nightfall might have saved me from all danger but, looking back, I realized that I had lost Savelich. On his lame horse, he must have been unable to shake off the brigands. What was I to do? After waiting a few minutes until there was no doubt about what had happened, I turned my horse and went to his rescue.

As I drew near the gully again, I heard confused shouts and the voice of my Savelich. I rode on faster and soon found myself among the peasant guards who had stopped me a few minutes before. They had dragged Savelich off his nag and were about to tie him up. My return filled them with joy. Shouting loudly, they rushed at me, and in less than a moment I too had been dragged from my horse. One of them, evidently their leader, said he would take us straight before the Tsar. “And then,” he added, “our Father will decide whether to have you hanged now or in the light of day.” I did not resist; nor did Savelich. The sentries led us away in triumph.

We made our way over the gully and into the village. There were lights in every hut, and hubbub and shouting from all sides. The lanes were full of people, but it was too dark for anyone to notice us or to recognize me as an officer from Orenburg. We were taken to a hut next to the main crossroads. Beside the gate stood several empty casks and two cannon. “Here’s the palace,” said one of the peasants. “I’ll go in and report.” He went inside. I glanced at Savelich; the old man was crossing himself and quietly repeating a prayer. We waited a long time. In the end the peasant came back and said, “Come along. Our Father has ordered the officer to be brought in.”

I entered the hut or—as the peasants called it—the palace. It was lit by two tallow candles and the walls were hung with gold paper. Everything else—the benches, the table, the washstand with a towel on a nail and a little water-jug hanging from a string, the long iron oven-fork standing up in the corner, the cooking pots by the base of the stove—was the same as in any other peasant hut. Pugachov sat in the place of honor beneath the icons. He was wearing a red kaftan and a tall hat; with his hands on his thighs and his elbows jutting out to the side he looked imposing. Several of his chief confederates stood close by in attitudes of servility. It was clear that the arrival of an officer from Orenburg had aroused considerable curiosity among the rebels and that they intended to greet me in style. Pugachov, however, recognized me at first glance. His self-important manner melted away. “Your Honor!” he said animatedly, “how are you keeping? Why has God brought you here?” I replied that I was travelling on business of my own and that his men had detained me. “What kind of business?” he asked. I was lost for an answer. Thinking I did not want to talk in the presence of others, Pugachov turned to his comrades and told them to leave. They all obeyed, except two who did not stir at all. “I have no secrets from these two,” said Pugachov. “You may speak freely.” I glanced out of the corner of my eye at the impostor’s confidants. One of them, a puny hunchbacked old man with a grey beard, had nothing noteworthy about him except for a light blue ribbon worn diagonally across his grey overcoat.[2] But never in all my life shall I forget his companion. He was tall, stout, and broad-shouldered, probably about forty-five years old. A thick red beard, gleaming grey eyes, a nose whose nostrils had been torn off, reddish scars on his brow and cheeks—all this gave his wide, pockmarked face an expression I cannot describe. He was wearing a red shirt, a Kirghiz robe, and broad Cossack trousers. The first of the two (as I learned later) was a deserter, Corporal Beloborodov; the second was Afanasy Sokolov (commonly known as Khlopusha), a convict who had three times escaped from forced labor in the mines of Siberia. In spite of my anxieties, which until then had been preoccupying me to the exclusion of all else, the presence of these men had an overwhelming effect on me. Pugachov brought me back to myself with the words, “Speak: on what business did you leave Orenburg?”

A strange thought entered my mind. Might it be that Providence, by leading me to Pugachov a second time, was granting me the very opportunity I needed? I resolved to seize this opportunity and, without further reflection, I replied, “I was on my way to Fort Belogorsk to rescue an orphan who is being ill-treated there.”

Pugachov’s eyes glinted. “Which of my men dares to ill-treat an orphan?” he cried. “He may have the devil’s own cunning, but he won’t escape my justice. Tell me: who is it?”

“Shvabrin,” I answered. “He’s keeping prisoner the girl whom you saw lying ill at the priest’s house. He’s trying to force her to marry him.”

“I’ll teach him!” said Pugachov. “I’ll teach Shvabrin to persecute and oppress and take the law into his own hands. I’ll hang him.”

“Allow me a brief word,” Khlopusha said in a hoarse voice. “You were quick to give Shvabrin command of the fort—and now you are in a hurry to hang him. You have already outraged the Cossacks by putting a nobleman over them. Do not go frightening the nobles now by hanging them because of one word of slander.”

“The nobles deserve neither mercy nor favors,” said the old man with the blue ribbon. “There’s certainly no harm in hanging Shvabrin, but it would do no harm to give this officer a good questioning too. Why has he honored us with a visit? If he doesn’t acknowledge you as Tsar, then why’s he seeking justice from you? And if he does acknowledge you, then what’s he been doing all this time in Orenburg with your enemies? Why not let me take him down to the staff hut? I could get a nice hot fire going there to help him answer our questions. Something tells me that his Grace has been sent to us by his commanding officers.”

The old villain’s logic was pretty convincing. A shiver ran down my spine when I thought about the man into whose hands I had fallen. Pugachov noticed my apprehension. “Well?” he said with a wink. “My field marshal, it seems, is talking good sense. What say you, your Honor?”

Pugachov’s sly humor gave me back my courage. I replied calmly that I was in his hands and that he was free to do with me as he thought best.

“Good,” said Pugachov. “And now tell me how things are in your city.”

“All is well there, thank God,” I replied.

“All is well?” Pugachov repeated. “With the inhabitants dying of hunger?”

The impostor was speaking the truth, but I felt duty-bound to assert that this was mere rumor, empty groundless rumor, and that there were plentiful supplies of all kinds in Orenburg.

“You see!” said the old man. “He’s a shameless liar. The deserters all say with one voice that the inhabitants of Orenburg are starving to death, that people count themselves lucky if they find a scrap of carrion to eat—and his Grace declares that there is more than enough of everything. If you want to hang Shvabrin, then hang this young fellow on the same gallows, so that neither of them need feel hard done by.”

The words of this accursed old man seemed to make an impression on Pugachov. Fortunately, Khlopusha disagreed with his comrade. “That will do, Naumich. Stabbing and strangling—do you never think of anything else? Some warrior! Nothing but skin and bones. One foot in the grave and you want to drag everyone else in with you. Do you not have enough blood on your hands?”

“And what kind of saint are you?” replied Beloborodov. “Why so merciful all of a sudden?”

“Of course I too am a sinner,” replied Khlopusha. “And this hand and arm”—he clenched his bony fist, then rolled up his sleeve to expose a hairy forearm—“have shed Christian blood. But I killed my enemy, not my guest. I have killed on the highway, where two roads cross; I have killed in dark forests—but never as I sat by a warm stove. I have killed with a flail, I have killed with the butt of an ax—but never with womanish slander.”

The old man turned away and muttered, “Damned Slit Nose.”

“What are you muttering about, you old sod?” shouted Khlopusha. “I’ll give you Slit Nose. Just you wait, your turn will come too. God willing, you too will smell the torturer’s pincers. And watch that straggly little beard of yours or I’ll be ripping it off your chin!”[3]

“Gentlemen generals!” Pugachov said loftily. “Enough of your squabbling. I wouldn’t shed a tear if all the dogs in Orenburg were dangling from the same crossbeam, but it’s a bad day if our own fine hounds are at one another’s throats. Make it up!”

Khlopusha and Beloborodov looked blackly at one another and did not say a word. Thinking that all this might end badly for me and that I must change the subject, I turned to Pugachov and said cheerfully, “Why, I’ve been forgetting to thank you for the horse and the sheepskin coat. But for you I’d have frozen to death on the road and never reached Orenburg at all!”

My ruse worked. Pugachov brightened. “One good turn deserves another,” he said with a wink. “A debt repaid is a handsome thing. But tell me about this girl Shvabrin is ill-treating. What’s she to you? Is she your sweetheart?”

“She is my betrothed,” I answered. His mood had clearly changed for the better and I saw no point in hiding the truth.

“Your betrothed!” cried Pugachov. “Why didn’t you tell me before? We must see you married—yes, we must feast at your wedding!” Turning to Beloborodov, he went on, “Listen, Field Marshal! His Honor and I are old friends. Let’s all sit down to supper together. Our decision can wait till tomorrow—morning is wiser than evening.”

I would gladly have declined this honor, but I had no choice. Two young girls, daughters of the Cossack to whom the hut belonged, laid a white cloth on the table, brought in bread, fish soup, and several jugs of vodka and beer—and once again I found myself sharing a meal with Pugachov and his terrible companions.

The wild revelry to which I was an involuntary witness lasted far into the night. At last, the drink began to get the better of them. Pugachov fell asleep in his chair; his companions stood up and gestured to me to follow them. We all went outside. On Khlopusha’s orders, the guard took me to the staff hut, where I found Savelich and where we were locked up for the night together. Savelich was so bemused by all that was happening that he did not ask me a single question. He lay down in the dark and went on sighing and groaning for a long time. At last he began to snore, and I gave myself up to thoughts that were to keep me awake all through the night.

In the morning I received a summons from Pugachov. I went to his hut. By the gate stood a covered sleigh to which three Tatar horses had been harnessed. The lane was full of people. I met Pugachov coming out through the door. He was dressed for the road, in a fur coat and a Kirghiz hat. His comrades were standing around him, once again looking servile. Pugachov greeted me cheerfully and told me to get into the sleigh with him.

We climbed in. “To Fort Belogorsk!” Pugachov told the broad-shouldered Tatar standing in front of us. My heart pounded. The horses got going, the bells jingled, and the sleigh flew over the snow.

“Stop! Stop!” came a voice I knew only too well. I saw Savelich running towards us. Pugachov told the driver to stop. “Dear Pyotr Andreich!” Savelich called out, “do not abandon me in my old age among these—” “You again!” said Pugachov. “So the Lord has brought us together once more! All right, you old grouch, climb up and sit on the box.”

“Thank you, gracious Sir, thank you, my dear father!” Savelich said as he sat down. “May the Lord grant you a hundred years of good health for pitying and comforting an old man. I shall say prayers for you till the end of my days and never will you hear another word from me about that hare-skin coat.”

I was afraid that this hare-skin coat might, at last, well and truly enrage Pugachov. Fortunately, he either failed to hear Savelich or else chose to ignore his ill-judged words. The horses galloped off; passersby stopped and bowed low. Pugachov nodded right and left. In less than a minute we had left Berdy and were gliding over smooth snow.

What I felt at that moment is not difficult to imagine. Within a few hours I would be seeing the woman I had thought lost to me forever. I tried to picture the moment of our reunion. I also thought about the man in whose hands my destiny lay and to whom, by a strange confluence of events, I had become so mysteriously bound. I recalled the wanton, bloodthirsty cruelty of this Cossack who had volunteered to rescue my beloved. Pugachov did not know that Maria Ivanovna was the daughter of Captain Mironov. Enraged and embittered, Shvabrin might tell him everything. Or he might find out in some other way. What would become of Maria Ivanovna then? I shivered; my hair stood on end.

Pugachov interrupted my thoughts with a question: “What is your Honor thinking about so deeply?”

“I have a lot to think about,” I replied. “I am an officer and a nobleman. Only yesterday I was fighting against you and today we are in one sleigh and the happiness of my entire life depends on you.”

“So,” said Pugachov, “are you afraid?”

I replied that having been spared by him once, I trusted myself not only to his mercy but also to his readiness to help others.

“And you’re right, by God! You’re right! You saw what my men thought of you. This morning the old one was insisting again that you are a spy. He said you should be tortured, then hanged . . . But I didn’t agree,” he went on more quietly, evidently not wanting to be overheard by Savelich and the Tatar, “because I remembered your glass of vodka and the hare-skin coat. You see, I am not so thirsty for blood as your brothers make out.”

I recalled the fall of Fort Belogorsk, but I did not think it necessary to contradict him. I remained silent.

“What do they say of me in Orenburg?” Pugachov asked after a brief pause.

“They say that they’ve got their work cut out for them if they’re to get the better of you. You’ve certainly made your presence felt.”

The impostor’s face was a picture of gratified vanity. “Yes, I’m not such a bad warrior, am I? Have your people in Orenburg heard yet about the battle at Yuzeyeva?[4] Forty generals killed, four armies taken prisoner. What do you think? Would the King of Prussia be a match for me?”[5]

The brigand’s boasts amused me. “What do you think yourself? Do you think you could get the better of the King of Prussia?”

“Get the better of Fyodor Fyodorovich? Why not? I always get the better of your generals, and they’ve defeated Fyodor Fyodorovich before now. My armies have never yet lost a battle. But what I’ve done until now is nothing—just wait till I march on Moscow!”

“You mean to march on Moscow?”

The impostor paused for thought, then said in a low voice, “God knows. My path is narrow—I have little room for maneuver. My boys are bandits and they’re getting above themselves. I have to keep my wits about me. One slip on my part and all they’ll be thinking of is how to save their own skins. They’ll be offering up my head on a platter to save their necks from the noose.”

“They will indeed,” I replied. “Shouldn’t you leave them, while there’s still time, and throw yourself on the Empress’s mercy?”

Pugachov smiled bitterly. “No,” he said, “it’s too late to repent. There can be no mercy for me now. I must go on as I have begun. Who knows? Maybe I’ll carry it off. After all, didn’t Grishka Otrepyev reign in Moscow?”[6]

“And do you know how he ended? He was thrown out of a window, stabbed, burned—and then his ashes were fired from a cannon.”

“Listen,” said Pugachov with a kind of wild inspiration. “Let me tell you a tale an old Kalmyk woman told me when I was a boy. An eagle once asked a raven, “Tell me, raven bird: why is it you live for three hundred years in this bright world, while I live only for three and thirty?” The raven replied, “Because, dear eagle, you drink living blood, while I eat dead flesh.” “Very well,” thought the eagle, “I’ll try eating the same as him.” The eagle and the raven flew off together. They saw a dead horse; they flew down and perched on it. The raven had a few pecks of flesh and said how tasty it was. The eagle took one peck, and then another. Then he shrugged his wings and said, “No, brother raven, rather than feed on dead flesh for three hundred years, I choose to drink one good drink of living blood—and then may God’s will be done!” Well, do you like my Kalmyk tale?”

“It’s very clever,” I answered. “But to live by murder and robbery is, to my mind, the same as to peck carrion.”

Pugachov looked at me in astonishment and made no reply. We fell silent, each deep in his thoughts. The Tatar driver began to sing a melancholy song. Savelich dozed, swaying from side to side on the box. The sleigh flew along the smooth winter road. Suddenly, on the steep bank of the Yaik, I caught sight of a little village with a palisade and a belfry; and in another quarter of an hour we were entering Fort Belogorsk.

12. THE ORPHAN

Our lovely apple tree

Has no young shoots and no fine crown;

Our lovely bride

Has no dear father and no dear mother.

No one to dress her

In a wedding gown,

No one to bless her.

—WEDDING SONG [1]

OUR SLEIGH drew up in front of the commandant’s house. Hearing Pugachov’s sleigh bells, people thronged after us. Shvabrin came out to welcome him. The traitor was dressed like a Cossack and had let his beard grow. He helped Pugachov out of the sleigh, making obsequious professions of his devotion and saying how overjoyed he was at this honor. Shvabrin was clearly taken aback when he saw me, but he quickly recovered himself and held out his hand, saying, “Come over to us, have you? None too soon!” I turned my back on him and did not say a word.

It was painful to enter the room I knew so well, where the late commandant’s commission still hung on the wall like a sad epitaph to times past. Pugachov sat on the very couch where Ivan Kuzmich had so often dozed, lulled to sleep by his wife’s grumbling. Shvabrin himself brought Pugachov some vodka. Pugachov emptied his glass and said, pointing to me, “Offer some to his Honor!” Shvabrin came over to me with his tray, but once again I turned my back. Shvabrin was visibly troubled. With his characteristic quickness he had, of course, guessed that Pugachov was displeased with him. He was afraid of Pugachov, and he kept looking at me mistrustfully. Pugachov inquired about the state of the fortress, about reports of enemy troop movements, and so on, before asking all of a sudden, “Tell me, brother—who’s this young girl you’ve got locked up in here? Let me see her.”

Shvabrin turned deathly pale. “Your Majesty,” he said, his voice trembling. “Your Majesty, she’s not locked up . . . she’s ill . . . she’s upstairs, lying in bed.”

“Let me see her,” said Pugachov, getting to his feet. There was nothing Shvabrin could do but to lead Pugachov up to Maria Ivanovna’s room. I followed.

Shvabrin paused on the stairs. “Your Majesty!” he said, “you may require of me what you will—but do not allow a stranger to enter my wife’s bedchamber.”

I quivered with fury. “So you’re married!” I said to Shvabrin, preparing to tear him limb from limb.

“Quiet!” said Pugachov. “Leave this to me. And you,” he said, turning to Shvabrin, “don’t put on airs and don’t try to be clever. Whether or not she’s your wife, I shall take whoever I please to see her . . . Your Honor, follow me!”

Outside the door, Shvabrin stopped again and said in a faltering voice, “I must warn you, your Majesty, that she has a high fever. This is the third day she’s been raving.”

“Open the door!” said Pugachov.

Shvabrin fumbled in his pockets and said he had forgotten the key. Pugachov kicked the door; the lock gave way; the door swung open and we entered.

One look and I nearly fainted. Maria Ivanovna—pale, thin, and wild-haired—was sitting on the floor in a torn peasant dress. Before her stood a pitcher of water, with a hunk of bread placed on top of it. Seeing me, she trembled violently and cried out. What that did to me is more than I can say.

Pugachov looked at Shvabrin and said wryly, “A fine little field hospital you’ve got here!” Then he went up to Maria Ivanovna and said, “Tell me, my little dove, what is your husband punishing you for? What have you done to offend him?”

“My husband!” she repeated. “He is not my husband. I shall never be his wife. I would rather die, and I shall die unless I am allowed to go free.”

Pugachov shot a stern look at Shvabrin. “How dare you deceive me? Do you realize what you deserve for this, you wretch?”

Shvabrin sank to his knees. At that moment my feelings of hatred and fury were swallowed up by contempt. The sight of a nobleman at the feet of a renegade Cossack filled me with loathing. Pugachov softened. “I pardon you for now,” he said to Shvabrin, “but if you offend again, this will be remembered against you.” Then he turned to Maria Ivanovna and said gently, “Go free, fair maiden. I grant you your wish. I am the Tsar.”

Maria Ivanovna looked at him again and realized that before her stood her parents’ murderer. She buried her face in her hands and fell to the ground senseless. I rushed to her side, but at that very moment dear Palasha boldly made her way into the room and set about attending to her mistress. Pugachov went out and Shvabrin and I followed him downstairs.

“Well, your Honor?” Pugachov said with a laugh. “We have rescued the fair maiden. What do you think? Hadn’t we better send for the priest now and have him marry you to his niece? I’ll give her away myself if you like, and Shvabrin can be best man. We’ll feast and drink as if there’s no tomorrow—we’ll drink and feast and bid farewell to sorrow!”

My earlier fears had not been groundless; Shvabrin now lost all self-control. “Your Majesty!” he shouted out desperately, “I am at fault, I have lied to you, but Grinyov is also deceiving you. This girl is no priest’s niece; she is the daughter of Ivan Mironov, who was hanged when we captured this fortress.”

Pugachov looked at me with his fiery eyes. “What the devil’s all this?” he asked in bewilderment.

“Shvabrin has told you the truth,” I said resolutely.

“This is something you kept from me,” said Pugachov, and his face darkened.

“Judge for yourself,” I replied. “How could I have told you in front of all your men that Mironov’s daughter was alive? They’d have torn her to pieces. Nothing would have saved her.”

“You’re right there,” Pugachov said with a laugh. “My drunkards would have shown the poor girl no mercy. The priest’s wife did well to deceive them.”

“Listen,” I said, seeing that he had softened. “Who you truly are I don’t know—and I don’t want to know. But as God is my witness, I would be glad to repay you with my life for what you have done for me. Only don’t ask of me what is against my honor and my Christian conscience. You are my benefactor. End as you have begun. Let me and the poor orphan go free, wherever God guides us. And whatever happens to you and wherever you may be, we shall pray to God every day for the redemption of your sinful soul.”

It seemed that Pugachov’s harsh soul was moved by my words. “So be it!” he said. “When I hang a man, I hang him; when I pardon, I pardon. That’s the way I am. Take your sweetheart, go with her where you will and God grant you love and concord!”

Then he turned to Shvabrin and told him to provide me with a letter of safe-conduct for every fortress and picket controlled by their men. In his defeat Shvabrin seemed dumbfounded. Pugachov set off to inspect the fortress. Shvabrin went with him; I stayed behind, saying I needed to prepare for my departure.

I ran back upstairs. The door was bolted. I knocked. “Who’s there?” called Palasha. I answered. From behind the door I heard Maria Ivanovna’s sweet voice: “Wait a moment, Pyotr Andreich. I’m changing my dress. Go over to Akulina Pamfilovna’s—I’ll be there in a moment.”

I did as she said and went to the priest’s house. Both Father Gerasim and his wife ran out to meet me. Savelich had already told them everything. “Greetings, Pyotr Andreich!” said Akulina Pamfilovna. “By God’s grace we meet again. How are you keeping? Not a day has passed but we have remembered you. And to think of all that Maria Ivanovna, the poor darling, has had to go through without you! But tell us, good sir, how come you’ve hit it off so well with that Pugachov? Why didn’t the villain just do away with you? We’ve got that, at least, to thank him for.” “That will do, my dear,” Father Gerasim interrupted. “Don’t let your tongue run away with everything that you know. In many words lies no salvation. Pray come in, dear Pyotr Andreich! It’s been a long, long time since we’ve seen you.”

Akulina Pamfilovna put before me all the food she could find and did not stop talking for a single moment. She told me how Shvabrin had forced them to hand Maria Ivanovna over to them; how Maria Ivanovna had wept and not wanted to leave them; how Maria Ivanovna had kept in touch with them all the time through Palashka (a spirited girl who made even Maximich dance to her tune!); how she herself had advised Maria Ivanovna to write to me, and so on. In return I briefly told them my own story. On learning that Pugachov now knew of their deceit, she and her husband crossed themselves. “The power of the Cross be with us!” said Akulina Pamfilovna. “May the Lord avert this storm cloud! But as for that Shvabrin . . . What a snake!” Just then the door opened and Maria Ivanovna came in, a smile on her pale face. She had taken off her peasant clothes and was dressed as before, simply and sweetly.

I seized her hand and for a long time could not utter a single word. Our hearts were too full for speech. Sensing that they were in the way, our hosts left the room. There was only Maria Ivanovna and I—everything else disappeared. We talked and talked and still could not say all there was to say. Maria Ivanovna told me what had happened to her after the fortress had been taken; she described all the horror of her situation and the ordeals to which she had been subjected by the vile Shvabrin. We also recalled the happy days of the past. We both wept. Eventually I told her my plans. It was, of course, out of the question for her to remain in a fortress subject to Pugachov and under the command of Shvabrin. Neither could I think of taking her to besieged Orenburg. She had not a single relative in the world. I suggested she go and stay with my parents. At first she hesitated, afraid of my father’s hostility. I reassured her. I knew that my father would see it as both a joy and a duty to take in the daughter of an honorable soldier who had given his life for the fatherland. “Darling Maria Ivanovna,” I said. “I look upon you as my wife. Miraculous circumstances have united us. Nothing in the world can separate us.” Maria Ivanovna listened straightforwardly, without the least hint of coyness or feigned protest. She felt that her fate and mine were now one. But she repeated that she would marry me only if my parents agreed. I did not argue with her. We kissed ardently and with true feeling—and so everything was settled between us.

An hour later Maximich brought me a safe-conduct, signed with Pugachov’s scrawls, and said that Pugachov wished to see me. I found him preparing to leave. I cannot describe what I felt as I said goodbye to this villain, a monster of evil in the eyes of everyone except me. But why not tell the truth? At that moment I felt strongly drawn to him. I felt a burning desire to prise him away from the criminals whose leader he was; I wanted to try to save his head before it was too late. Shvabrin and the crowd pressing around us made it impossible for me to give voice to everything that filled my heart.

We parted as friends. Seeing Akulina Pamfilovna in the crowd, Pugachov shook his finger at her and winked knowingly. Then he got into the sleigh and told the driver to return to Berdy. As the horses moved off, he looked out once more and shouted, “Goodbye, your Honor! Maybe we’ll see each other again.” We would indeed see each other again—but in what circumstances!

Pugachov left. I gazed for a long time at the white steppe across which his troika was gliding away. The crowd dispersed. Shvabrin vanished. I returned to Father Gerasim’s. Everything was ready for our departure; I did not want to delay any longer. Our belongings had all been packed into an old sleigh that had belonged to the commandant. The coachmen harnessed the horses in no time at all. Maria Ivanovna went to pay her respects to the graves of her parents, who had been buried behind the church. I wanted to accompany her, but she asked me to allow her to go alone. She came back a few minutes later, weeping silent tears. The sleigh was brought up. Father Gerasim and his wife stood on the porch. Three of us—Maria Ivanovna, Palasha, and I—got into the sleigh. Savelich climbed up beside the driver. “Goodbye, Maria Ivanovna, my darling! Goodbye, Pyotr Andreich, our bright falcon!” said kindhearted Akulina Pamfilovna. “Have a safe journey, and may God grant you both happiness!” We set off. I glimpsed Shvabrin, standing at the little window of the commandant’s house. His face was a picture of black fury. Not wanting to gloat over a defeated enemy, I looked the other way. Then we drove out through the main gate and left Fort Belogorsk forever.

13. ARREST

“Duty, dear sir, requires that I compel

Your Honor to remain within this cell.”

“Duty, of course, is duty—I obey,

But first, dear sir, allow me too my say.”

—KNYAZHNIN [1]

IT WAS hard to believe that I had been so suddenly reunited with the girl I loved and about whom, only that morning, I had felt so deeply troubled; there were moments when I feared that all the events of the day might have been just a dream. Maria Ivanovna gazed abstractedly now at me, now at the road; it was as if she had not yet come back to herself. We were both silent. Our hearts were too exhausted. Two hours slipped by—and we found we had reached the next fortress, which was also in Pugachov’s hands. There we changed horses. The fresh horses were harnessed remarkably quickly and the bearded Cossack whom Pugachov had appointed commandant was unusually eager to oblige; I realized that, thanks to our talkative driver, I was being taken for one of the impostor’s favorites.

We travelled on. It began to get dark. We were approaching a small town where, according to the bearded commandant, we would find a large detachment of soldiers about to join forces with Pugachov. We were stopped by sentries. To the question “Who goes there?” the driver bellowed back, “A trusty friend of the Tsar and his lady!” A crowd of Hussars at once surrounded us, uttering the most terrible curses. “Out you get, trusty friend of Satan!” said a sergeant major with a bushy moustache. “You’re in hot water now—you and your lady friend!”

I got out of the sleigh and demanded to be taken to their commanding officer. Seeing my uniform, the soldiers stopped swearing. The sergeant major took me off to the major on duty. Savelich stuck close by, muttering, “Out of the frying pan and into the fire! So much for the friendship of trusty Tsars! Lord God almighty, whatever next!” The sleigh followed slowly behind us.

After walking for five minutes we came to a small, brightly lit house. The sergeant major left me with the sentries and went in to report. He returned straightaway and informed me that his High Honor had no time to receive me; he had given orders that I should be taken off to the jail while my lady friend was taken in to his High Honor.

“What do you mean?” I shouted furiously. “Is he out of his mind?”

“I cannot know, your Honor,” answered the sergeant major. “All I know is that his High Honor has ordered your Honor to be taken to the gaol and her Honor to be taken in to his High Honor, your Honor.”

I rushed up onto the porch. The sentries made no attempt to restrain me and I ran straight into a room where six Hussar officers were playing faro.[2] The major was dealing. Imagine my surprise when I recognized him immediately: it was Ivan Ivanovich Zurin, the officer who had fleeced me at billiards at the inn in Simbirsk.

“No!” I cried. “Ivan Ivanich! I don’t believe it!”

“Well, I’ll be damned! Pyotr Andreich! Where’ve you sprung from? Welcome, brother! May I deal you a card?”

“Thank you. But I’d rather you found me a billet.”

“What do you mean? You can stay with me.”

“I can’t. I’m not alone.”

“Well, bring your friend along too.”

“I’m not with a friend. I’m with . . . a lady.”

“A lady! Where did you pick her up? Aha, my friend!” Zurin then let out a whistle so very expressive that everyone roared with laughter and I was overcome with confusion.

“All right,” said Zurin. “We’ll find you a billet. A pity, though. We could have lived it up a bit, like we did last time . . . Hey, you there! Why hasn’t Pugachov’s sweetheart been brought in yet? Don’t say she’s playing hard to get! Tell her not to be shy. Say the gentleman’s a right fine fellow and that he’ll do her no harm. And then march her over here!”

“What’s got into you?” I said. “Pugachov’s sweetheart? She’s the daughter of the late Captain Mironov. I rescued her from captivity and am now escorting her to safety. I’m taking her to my father’s estate.”

“What? So it was you they were telling me about just now! Lord have mercy! What on earth’s going on?”

“I’ll explain everything later. But first, for the love of God, go and calm the poor girl. Your Hussars have frightened her out of her wits.”

Zurin immediately took everything in hand. He went out to apologize to Maria Ivanovna for the misunderstanding and ordered the sergeant major to accompany her to the best quarters available. I was to stay the night with Zurin.

We had supper with the other officers. Afterwards, when Zurin and I were alone, I recounted my adventures. Zurin listened attentively. When I finished, however, he shook his head and said, “That’s all very well, my friend, except for one thing. Why the devil do you want to get married? I’m an officer and a man of honor and I have no wish to deceive you. Take it from me: marriage is folly. Why saddle yourself with a wife and end up forever fussing about with babies? To hell with all that! Do as I say and get rid of this captain’s daughter. I’ve cleared the road to Simbirsk; it’s safe now. Tomorrow you can pack her off to your parents while you, my friend, stay here and join my regiment. There’s no point in going back to Orenburg. If the rebels catch you, you won’t get off so lightly a second time. Do as I say: with the girl out of the way, you’ll forget this love nonsense and come back to your senses.”

Although I did not agree with his sentiments, I recognized that duty and honor required my presence in the Empress’s troops. I decided to follow Zurin’s advice; I would send Maria Ivanovna to my parents while I stayed behind and joined his regiment.

Savelich came in to help me undress. I told him to be ready to set off in the morning with Maria Ivanovna. At first he objected. “What do you mean, sir? How can I leave you? Who will take care of you? What will your parents say?”

Knowing Savelich’s obstinacy, I resolved to win him round through candor and gentleness. “My dear friend,” I began, “dear Arkhip Savelich, do not refuse me. You will be doing me a great kindness. I don’t need a servant here, and I should have no peace of mind were Maria Ivanovna to continue her journey without you. By serving her, you will be serving me too, for I am firmly resolved to marry her as soon as circumstances allow.”

Savelich threw up his hands in astonishment. “Marry her!” he repeated. “The child wants to marry! But what will your dear father say? What will your dear mother think?”

“They will give their consent,” I said. “Once they know Maria Ivanovna, they’re sure to give their consent. And I’m counting on you too. Father and Mother trust you. You will intercede on our behalf, won’t you?”

The old man was moved. “Dear Pyotr Andreich,” he replied, “dear master, it’s early days for you to be thinking of wedlock, but then Maria Ivanovna is such a kind young lady that it would be a sin not to seize the chance while it’s there. I shall do as you wish. I shall go with her, the sweet angel of God, and humbly inform your parents that a bride like her has no need of a dowry.”

I thanked Savelich, then went to bed in the same room as Zurin. Excited and overwrought as I was, I could not stop talking. At first Zurin answered readily enough, but his answers grew shorter and less coherent until he ended up responding to one of my questions with a snore and a whistle. I fell silent and was soon asleep myself.

The following morning I went to Maria Ivanovna and told her my plans. She saw their good sense and at once agreed with me. Zurin’s regiment was to leave the town that same day; having little time to spare, I said goodbye to Maria Ivanovna there and then, entrusting her to Savelich and handing her a letter for my parents. Maria Ivanovna began to cry. “Farewell, Pyotr Andreich!” she said softly. “Only God knows if we shall see each other again, but I shall never forget you. Until my dying day you—and you alone—will live in my heart.” I was unable to say a word in reply. There were people all around and I did not want to give way to my feelings in the presence of strangers. At last she and Savelich drove off. I returned to Zurin’s quarters, silent and downcast. He wanted to cheer me up and I was glad to be distracted; after a riotous and noisy day, we set off with the regiment in the evening.

It was the end of February. Winter, which had made military operations difficult, was drawing to an end, and our generals were preparing for concerted action. Pugachov was still laying siege to Orenburg, but detachments of our troops were joining forces around him and closing in on his stronghold from all sides. The mere sight of our troops was enough to bring mutinous villages to heel; armed bands fled at our approach; everything presaged a swift and happy conclusion to the campaign.

Soon Prince Golitsyn routed Pugachov at Fort Tatishchev, [3] relieved Orenburg, and dealt the rebellion what seemed like a final, decisive blow. Zurin’s regiment, in the meantime, had been sent out against a band of rebel Bashkirs who fled before we even set eyes on them. Spring besieged us in a small Tatar village. The rivers were in flood and the roads impassable. We consoled ourselves during our forced confinement with the thought that this tedious and trivial war against brigands and wild tribesmen would soon be over.

But Pugachov had not been captured. He reappeared in the Urals, collected fresh bands of men from the mining districts and resumed his evil activities. Once again news of his successes spread. We heard of the destruction of forts in Siberia. Our generals, however, continued to slumber blissfully, refusing to believe in the threat posed by a rebel they despised; only after the fall of Kazan and news of the impostor’s march on Moscow were they stirred into action. It was at this time that Zurin was ordered to cross the Volga.

I shall not go into the details of our campaign and the final stages of the war. I will say only that the misery of it all was extreme. We passed through villages pillaged by the rebels and had no choice but to take from the inhabitants what little they had managed to save. Law and order broke down; landowners hid in the forests. Groups of brigands plundered far and wide; officers in command of independent military detachments punished both guilty and innocent as the whim took them. The conflagration covered a vast area; throughout it conditions were terrible. God spare us from Russian revolt, senseless merciless Russian revolt.

Pugachov was in flight, pursued by General Michelsohn.[4] Soon word came that he had been routed. Finally Zurin received news of his capture and, at the same time, orders to march no further. The war was over. At last I could go home to my parents. The thought of embracing them and of seeing Maria Ivanovna, from whom I had received no news, filled me with joy. I danced about like a child. Zurin laughed and said with a shrug, “No, no good will come of it. If you marry, you’re done for—and all for nothing.”

My joy, however, was tainted by a strange feeling. For all the innocent blood this villain had shed, I felt troubled when I thought of the execution that awaited him. “Yemelka, Yemelka,’ [5] I thought irritably, “why didn’t you put yourself in the path of some grapeshot or get yourself run through by a bayonet? You could have done yourself no greater favor.” But then how could I not feel troubled? Pugachov had shown me mercy when he had been at his most terrible, and he had delivered my betrothed from the evil Shvabrin; it was impossible for me to remember him without remembering all he had done for me.

Zurin granted me leave of absence. In only a few days I would once more be in the heart of my family; I would once more see my dear Maria Ivanovna. But then another storm burst over my head.

On the day fixed for my departure, as I was about to set out, Zurin came to my quarters; he was holding a sheet of paper and looking concerned. My heart missed a beat; I felt unaccountably frightened. He dismissed my orderly and said he needed a word with me. “What is it?” I asked anxiously. “A slight unpleasantness,” he replied, handing me the paper. “I’ve just received this. Have a look.” I began reading; it was a secret order, addressed to all commanding officers, to place me under arrest, wherever I was found, and to convey me to Kazan forthwith, under guard, to appear before the Commission of Inquiry into the Pugachov Uprising.

The paper almost fell from my hands. “There’s nothing for it,” said Zurin. “My duty is to carry out the order. The authorities have heard something about you and your journeys with Pugachov. I hope that the affair will have no serious consequences and that you will be able to exonerate yourself before the commission. Keep your spirits up and set off at once.” My conscience was clear; I did not fear the tribunal; but I was appalled to think that the sweet moment of reunion with my beloved would be delayed, perhaps for several months. The cart was ready. Zurin said a warm farewell. I got in; two Hussars with drawn swords sat beside me. We drove off along the high road.

14. THE TRIBUNAL

Man’s fame—

Sea spume.

—POPULAR SAYING

I WAS CERTAIN that the reason for my arrest was my unauthorized absence from Orenburg. I would have no difficulty exonerating myself; sallying out against the enemy had not only never been forbidden but had always been strongly encouraged. I could be accused of undue rashness but not breach of discipline. But then my friendly relations with Pugachov could have been reported by many different witnesses and must have looked, at the very least, highly suspicious. All through the journey I thought about the forthcoming interrogation and rehearsed my answers; I resolved to tell the tribunal the whole truth, considering this the simplest and surest way of exonerating myself.

I arrived in Kazan to find the city laid waste and burned down. The streets were lined with heaps of cinders; here and there stood blackened walls without roofs or windows. Such was the trail left by Pugachov.[1] I was taken to the fortress, still intact in the center of the devastated city. The Hussars handed me over to the officer of the guard. He called for the blacksmith. My ankles were shackled. Then I was taken to the prison and left on my own in a cramped, dark cell with bare walls and a small iron grating.

This was a bad beginning. Nevertheless, I lost neither courage nor hope. I had recourse to the consolation of all who suffer and, after tasting for the first time the sweetness of prayer poured out from a guiltless but anguished heart, fell into a quiet sleep, no longer worrying about what might become of me.

The next morning the warder woke me up, saying I was summoned by the commission. Two soldiers led me across a yard to the commandant’s house; they remained in the anteroom, allowing me to go on in alone.

I entered a fairly large reception room. Sitting behind a table heaped with papers were two men: an elderly general, who looked cold and severe, and a Guards captain who must have been in his late twenties, a good-looking man with an easy manner. The secretary, bent forward over a sheet of paper, his quill tucked behind his ear, sat at a separate table by the window, ready to take down my testimony. The interrogation began. I was asked my name and rank. The general enquired if I was not the son of Andrey Petrovich Grinyov. When I said I was, he replied grimly, “How sad that a man so honorable should have so dishonorable a son!” I said calmly that I hoped, by means of a frank account of the truth, to dispel any accusations levelled against me. The general did not like my self-assurance. “You’re too clever by half,” he said, “but we’ve seen all sorts here.”

Then the young man asked me when and under what circumstances I had entered Pugachov’s service and what commissions I had carried out for him.

I replied indignantly that, being an officer and a nobleman, I could never have entered Pugachov’s service or accepted any commission from him.

“How then did it come to pass,” countered my interrogator, “that one officer and nobleman was spared by the impostor while all his comrades were brutally slaughtered? How did this same officer and nobleman come to feast with the rebels, as their friend, and accept gifts—a fur coat, a horse, half a ruble—from their leader? How did this strange friendship come about? Upon what was it based, if not upon treason or, at the very least, upon base and criminal cowardice?”

I felt deeply insulted by these words and began to defend myself with passion. I recounted how I had first come across Pugachov in the steppe, during a blizzard, and how he had recognized and spared me after capturing Fort Belogorsk. I said that I had indeed not scrupled to accept a horse and a sheepskin coat from the impostor but that I had defended Fort Belogorsk against him to the very last. I ended by affirming that my general could testify to my fighting spirit during the terrible siege of Orenburg.

The severe old man took a letter from the table and began reading aloud:

“In reply to your Excellency’s inquiry regarding Ensign Grinyov, who is alleged to have been involved in the present insurrection and to have entered into such dealings with the villain as constitute a breach of duty and of his oath of allegiance, I have the honor to report as follows: the said Ensign Grinyov served in the Orenburg garrison from the beginning of October 1773 to the 24th of February of the present year, on which date he absented himself from the city, never again reporting for duty under my command. It has been said by deserters from the villain’s band that he visited Pugachov in his camp and that he travelled with him to Fort Belogorsk, where he had previously served in the garrison. Regarding his conduct I can only . . .”

At this point the old man stopped reading and said grimly, “And what do you have to say for yourself now?”

I was about to go on as I had begun and explain my relations with Maria Ivanovna as candidly as I had explained everything else, but I suddenly felt overwhelmed by disgust. If I mentioned her, she would be summoned by the Commission; the thought of linking her name with base slanders, of dragging her into a personal confrontation with the evil people who spread them, filled me with such horror that I began to stammer and flounder.[2]

My judges, who had, I think, been beginning to listen to me with a modicum of good will, once more took against me. The Guards captain requested that I be confronted with the main informer. The general ordered “yesterday’s villain” to be brought in. I turned quickly towards the door, waiting for my accuser to appear. A few minutes later there was a clanking of chains, the door opened—and in came Shvabrin. I was astonished at how he had changed. He was terribly thin and pale. His hair, not long ago jet-black, was now grey; his long beard was unkempt and matted. He repeated his accusations in a weak but determined voice. He said that Pugachov had sent me to Orenburg as a spy; I had ridden out on daily sorties in order to pass on written reports about conditions in the city; in the end I had joined the impostor openly, accompanying him from one fortress to another and doing my utmost to undermine my fellow renegades, so as to supplant them in their posts and enjoy still more favors from the impostor. I listened to him in silence and was grateful for one thing: he did not pronounce the name of Maria Ivanovna. Maybe the thought of the woman who had scorned him was too wounding to his vanity; maybe there still lingered in the depth of his heart a spark of the same feeling that had impelled me to keep silent myself; in any case, the name of the daughter of the commandant of Fort Belogorsk was not mentioned before the Commission. This confirmed me in my resolve and when the judges asked what I had to say in reply to Shvabrin’s testimony, I replied that I stood by my previous statement and had nothing to add in my defence. The general ordered us both to be taken away. We left the room together. I looked calmly at Shvabrin but said nothing. He grinned spitefully and, lifting up his chains, quickened his pace and walked out ahead of me. I was led back to my cell and not summoned for any further interrogation.

I did not witness the events that I have yet to recount to the reader, but I have heard about them so many times that every detail is engraved in my memory and I feel as if I had been invisibly present.

My parents greeted Maria Ivanovna with the genuine cordiality characteristic of people of the past century. In the opportunity they had been given to shelter and cherish a poor orphan they saw the grace of God. Soon they became sincerely attached to her, since it was impossible to know her and not to love her. Father no longer thought of my love for her as a foolish whim and Mother wanted nothing more than for her Petrusha to marry this sweetheart of a captain’s daughter.

The news of my arrest shocked my family. Maria Ivanovna had recounted the story of my strange acquaintance with Pugachov so innocently that, far from feeling any concern, my parents had more than once burst into hearty laughter. Father found it inconceivable that I could have been party to a rebellion whose aim was the overthrow of the imperial family and the destruction of the nobility. He cross-questioned Savelich. My old tutor made no secret of the fact that I had indeed been the guest of Yemelka Pugachov and that the villain had treated me generously, but he swore that he had never heard a word of anything treasonable. My parents felt reassured and began to wait impatiently for better news. Maria Ivanovna was most alarmed but, being someone unusually modest and discreet, she said nothing.

Several weeks passed. Then Father received a letter from Petersburg, from our relative, Prince B. After the usual greetings and compliments, the prince informed my father that the suspicions about my participation in the rebels’ plots had proved, unhappily, to be only too well founded. As an example to others, I should have been subjected to the supreme penalty had not the Empress, in consideration of my father’s faithful service and advanced years, resolved to show mercy to his criminal son and condemn me not to an ignominious death on the scaffold but to lifelong exile in a distant part of Siberia.

This unexpected blow almost killed Father. He lost his usual self-control and his feelings of grief (which as a rule were mute) poured out in bitter lamentations. “What! My son an accomplice of Pugachov’s!” he kept repeating, beside himself with grief and fury. “Merciful heavens! That I should live to see this! The Empress reprieves him! Does that make it any easier to bear? It is not the scaffold that is so terrible. My great-great-grandfather was executed on Red Square because he refused to yield over a matter of conscience.[3] My father paid the price for his closeness to Volynsky and Khrushchev.[4] But for a nobleman to betray his oath of allegiance and ally himself with brigands, murderers, and runaway serfs! Shame on our family! Shame on our name!” Terrified by his despair, Mother did not dare to weep in front of him and tried to rally his spirits by talking of the fickleness of rumor and the unreliability of popular opinion. My father remained inconsolable.

Maria Ivanovna suffered more than anyone. Knowing that I could have exonerated myself had I chosen to, she guessed the truth and considered herself to blame for my misfortunes. She kept her tears and her sufferings to herself yet never stopped thinking about what she could do to save me.

One evening Father was sitting on the couch, turning the pages of the Court Almanac; his thoughts, however, were far away and what he read did not have its usual effect on him. He was whistling an old march. Mother was silently knitting a woolen vest, [5] letting an occasional tear fall on it. All of a sudden Maria Ivanovna, who was sitting at her needlework, said that her affairs required her to go to Petersburg and that she must request their assistance with regard to the journey. Mother was very upset. “Why must you go to Petersburg?” she asked. “Will you forsake us too?” Maria Ivanovna replied that her entire future depended on this journey; as the daughter of a man whose loyalty had cost him his life, she was going to seek help and protection from people of influence.

Father bowed his head; every word that reminded him of his son’s supposed crimes seemed like a stinging reproach. “Go, my dear!” he said with a sigh. “It’s not for us to stand in the way of your happiness. May God grant you an honorable man for a husband, not a disgraced turncoat.” He got up and walked out of the room.

Left on her own with Mother, Maria Ivanovna in part revealed her plan. Mother embraced her tearfully and prayed to God that her venture meet with success. Maria Ivanovna was provided with all she needed for the journey and a few days later she set out, accompanied by her loyal Palasha and my loyal Savelich, who, in his enforced separation from me, found it comforting to think that he was at least serving my betrothed.

Maria Ivanovna arrived safely at Sofia; [6] hearing that the Court was still at Tsarskoye Selo, she resolved to go no further. At the post station she was allotted a small cubbyhole behind a partition. The stationmaster’s wife at once entered into conversation with her; explaining that she was the niece of the Court stoker, she initiated Maria Ivanovna into all the mysteries of Court life. She explained when the Empress usually awoke; when she took her coffee and went out for a walk; which dignitaries attended her then; what it had been her pleasure to say at table the previous day; whom she had received in the evening. In short, Anna Vlasyevna’s conversation was as valuable as several pages of historical memoirs and would have been a precious gift to posterity. Maria Ivanovna listened attentively. They went into the park together. Anna Vlasyevna told her the story of every path and every little bridge; they strolled about to their hearts’ content and by the time they returned to the post station each was well and truly delighted with the other.

The next day Maria Ivanovna woke early, dressed, and slipped out into the park. It was a splendid morning; the sun shone on the crowns of lime trees that autumn’s fresh breath had already turned yellow. The broad lake lay still and gleaming. Stately swans, also only recently awoken, were sailing out from beneath the bushes that overhung the banks. Maria Ivanovna came to the beautiful meadow where an obelisk had just been erected to commemorate Count Rumyantsev’s recent victories.[7] All of a sudden a little white English dog ran barking towards her. Maria Ivanovna felt frightened and stood stock-still. She heard a gentle voice: “Don’t be frightened, she won’t bite!” And Maria Ivanovna saw a lady sitting on a little bench opposite the monument. Maria Ivanovna sat down at the other end of the bench. The lady was looking at her intently. Maria Ivanovna, for her part, kept glancing discreetly at the lady; very soon she had surveyed her from head to toe. She was wearing a night mob-cap, a white morning gown, and a fur-lined waistcoat. She looked about forty years old. Her plump, rosy face was calm and dignified; her slight smile and her light blue eyes had an ineffable charm. The lady was the first to speak.

“You are a stranger here, are you not?”

“Yes, madam. I arrived from the country only yesterday.”

“Have you come with your parents?”

“No, madam, I have come alone.”

“Alone! But you are so young!”

“I have neither father nor mother.”

“I suppose you are here on business of some kind?”

“Yes, madam. I have come to present a petition to the Empress.”

“You are an orphan. Have you come to complain of some injustice or injury?”

“No, madam. I have come to ask not for justice, but for mercy.”

“May I ask who you are?”

“I am the daughter of Captain Mironov.”

“Captain Mironov! The late commandant of one of the Orenburg fortresses?”

“Yes, madam.”

The lady seemed moved. “Pardon me,” she said in a still gentler voice, “if I am prying into your affairs, but I am often at Court. Tell me the nature of your request, and I may be able to help you.”

Maria Ivanovna stood up and respectfully expressed her gratitude. She could not help feeling drawn to this unknown lady; everything about her inspired trust. Maria Ivanovna took a folded sheet of paper from her pocket and gave it to her mysterious protector, who at once began to read it.

At first she read with an air of attentive benevolence, but then her face changed; Maria Ivanovna, following her every movement, felt frightened by the sudden severity of this face that only a moment before had seemed so pleasant and serene.

“You are pleading for Grinyov?” the lady said coldly. “The Empress cannot pardon him. It was not ignorance and credulity that led him to go over to the impostor; his desertion was the act of a depraved and dangerous scoundrel.”

“But that’s not true!” cried Maria Ivanovna.

“What do you mean, not true?” retorted the lady, her face flushing crimson.

“It’s not true! I swear to God it’s not true! I know all about it, I’ll tell you everything. All the misfortunes that have befallen him, he has undergone for my sake alone. And if he failed to clear himself before the tribunal, it is only because he chose not to mention my name.” And Maria Ivanovna went on to give an impassioned account of what the reader already knows.

The lady listened attentively. “Where are you staying?” she asked when Maria Ivanovna had finished. On hearing the name of Anna Vlasyevna, she smiled and said, “Ah! I know. Goodbye! Tell no one of our meeting. I hope you will not have to wait long for a reply to your letter.”[8]

With these words she stood up and went on her way down a covered walk. Maria Ivanovna, full of joyful hope, returned to Anna Vlasyevna’s.

Anna Vlasyevna upbraided her for going out so early; the autumn air, she said, was injurious to a young woman’s health. She brought in the samovar and was about to embark, over a cup of tea, on more of her interminable stories of Court life when a royal carriage stopped outside and a footman came in to announce that Her Majesty was pleased to request the presence of Captain Mironov’s young daughter.

Anna Vlasyevna was all wonder and bustle. “Gracious me!” she cried. “Her Majesty—Her Majesty requires you at Court. But how on earth does she know of you? And how can a girl like you, my dear, appear before Her Majesty? I’ll warrant you know next to nothing about Court manners. Hadn’t I better go with you? I could at least warn you about one or two things. And how can you go in your travelling dress? Hadn’t I better send to the midwife for her yellow gown with the hooped skirt?”

The footman declared that it was Her Majesty’s pleasure that Maria Ivanovna should go alone and in the clothes she was wearing. There was nothing for it; Maria Ivanovna took her seat in the carriage and set out for the Palace, to the accompaniment of Anna Vlasyevna’s admonitions and blessings.

Maria Ivanovna sensed that our fate was about to be decided. Her heart was now pounding, now almost missing a beat. After a few minutes the carriage drew up in front of the palace. Trembling, Maria Ivanovna walked up the stairs. She walked through a long series of sumptuous, deserted rooms, a footman leading the way. At last, when they came to a closed door, he said he would go in and announce her—and for a moment she was left on her own.

The thought of seeing the Empress face to face so terrified her that she could barely stand upright. Then the door opened and she walked into the Empress’s dressing room.

The Empress was seated at her dressing table. The ladies standing around her made way for Maria Ivanovna. The Empress turned towards her with a gentle look and Maria Ivanovna recognized in her the lady to whom, less than an hour before, she had been talking so freely. The Empress asked her to come closer and said with a smile, “I am glad to have been able to keep my word to you and to grant your request. The matter has been seen to. I am convinced of the innocence of your betrothed. Here is a letter for you to deliver in person to your future father-in-law.”

Maria Ivanovna took the letter with a trembling hand and fell weeping at the Empress’s feet. The Empress raised her up, kissed her and spoke to her at some length, ending with the words: “I know you are not rich,” the Empress continued, “but I am indebted to the daughter of Captain Mironov. Do not worry about the future. I take it upon myself to arrange your dowry.”

After embracing her gently and affectionately, the Empress dismissed the poor orphan. She was driven back to her lodgings in the same royal carriage. Anna Vlasyevna, who had been waiting for her impatiently, showered her with questions; Maria Ivanovna answered somewhat vaguely. Anna Vlasyevna felt disappointed that the young woman was such a muddlehead but put this down to provincial shyness and magnanimously pardoned her. And that same day, without so much as a glance at Petersburg, Maria Ivanovna set off on her way back to the country.

Here end the memoirs of Pyotr Andreyevich Grinyov. Family tradition has it that he was released from imprisonment towards the end of 1774 at the express order of the Empress; and that he was present at the execution of Pugachov, who recognized him in the crowd and acknowledged him with a nod of the same head that, only a minute later, was to be held up aloft, bloody and lifeless, by the executioner. Soon afterwards Pyotr Andreyevich married Maria Ivanovna. Their descendants still flourish in the province of Simbirsk. Around twenty miles from the town of N. is a village that now belongs to ten landowners. In one of the wings of the manor house can be seen a letter, framed and glazed, in the hand of Catherine II. Addressed to the father of Pyotr Andreyevich, the letter exonerates his son and praises the mind and heart of Captain Mironov’s daughter. Pyotr Andreyevich Grinyov’s manuscript was presented to us by one of his grandsons, who had heard that I was engaged in a study of the times described by his grandfather. We resolved, with his relatives’ permission, to publish it entire, choosing a suitable epigraph for each chapter and taking the liberty of changing some of the proper names.

The Publisher
October 19, 1836 [9]

OMITTED CHAPTER

We include as an appendix what Pushkin referred to as “the omitted chapter.” He preserved this chapter—and only this chapter—from his first draft. Its place in the text, had he included it in his final version, would have been after the sentence, “It was at this time that Zurin was ordered to cross the Volga” on page 105. All that remains of it in the final text are the nineteen lines beginning on the same page with “I shall not go into the details of our campaign” to “My joy, however, was tainted by a strange feeling.” More melodramatic than the other chapters, this chapter is of interest primarily for its vivid and historically accurate picture of the latter stages of the Pugachov rebellion. It is probable that Pushkin chose to omit it because of contradictions between the events it describes and his final version of the novel’s last chapters. Andrey Petrovich’s commanding role makes it difficult for his son to demonstrate his increasing maturity. Pushkin may also have been anxious about possible objections on the part of the censors.

WE WERE now approaching the banks of the Volga; our regiment entered the village of X. and we took up our quarters there for the night. The village elder informed me that all the villages on the far side were in revolt and that Pugachov’s bands were prowling everywhere. This news alarmed me greatly. We were due to cross the river the next morning. I was seized with impatience. My father’s estate was about twenty miles from the far bank. I asked if there was anyone who could ferry me across. The peasants were all fishermen; there were plenty of boats. I went to Zurin and told him what I wanted to do. “Be careful,” he said. “It’ll be dangerous on your own. Wait till morning. We’ll be with the first party to cross. We’ll visit your parents and we’ll take fifty Hussars along with us, just in case.”

I insisted on having my way. A boat was made ready. I got in with two boatmen. They pushed off and began to row. The sky was clear. The moon shone. The weather was still. The Volga flowed calmly and smoothly. Swaying rhythmically, the boat glided over the dark waves. I was lost in dreams. About half an hour went by. We were in the middle of the river. Suddenly the men began whispering. “What is it?” I asked, coming round. “God only knows,” they replied, both looking in the same direction. I looked too; in the dark something was floating downstream. It was drawing closer. I told the boatmen to stop rowing and wait for it to come by. The moon went behind a cloud. The floating apparition became yet more mysterious. It was now very close indeed, but I still couldn’t make it out. “What on earth is it?” said the men. “Not quite a sail, not quite a mast . . .” Suddenly the moon came out again and lit up a terrible sight. Floating towards us was a gallows fixed to a raft; three bodies hung from the crossbeam.[1] I felt a morbid curiosity. I wanted to see the faces of the hanged men.

I told the boatmen to catch the raft with a boathook, and our boat knocked against the floating gallows. I jumped across and there I stood—between the terrible posts. The moon shone brightly on the wretches’ mutilated faces. One of them was an old Chuvash; [2] the second was a Russian peasant, a strong, healthy-looking lad about twenty years old. But when I looked up at the third, I could not help but cry out in pity and horror: it was Vanya, my poor Vanya, [3] who had gone over to Pugachov in a moment of folly. Nailed to the crossbeam above the men’s heads was a black board on which was written, in large white letters: THIEVES AND REBELS. The boatmen looked on indifferently, holding the raft in place with the boathook as they waited for me. I got back into the boat. The raft floated off again down the river. The gallows remained visible for a long time, blacker than the surrounding darkness. In the end it vanished and our boat reached the tall, steep left bank.

I paid the boatmen generously. One of them took me to the village elder, who was standing not far from the ferry stage. I followed him into a hut. Hearing that I wanted horses, he seemed about to refuse my request rather brusquely, but my guide whispered a few words in his ear and his harsh manner gave way to eager obsequiousness. Three horses and a cart were quickly readied for me. I climbed in and told the driver to take me to my father’s estate.

I galloped along, past sleeping villages. I was afraid of only one thing: being stopped on the road. What I had seen on the Volga testified to the proximity of rebels, even if it was no less a testimony to the strength of the authorities’ response. In case of need I had in my pocket both an order signed by Major Zurin and the safe-conduct given to me by Pugachov. But we met no one, and towards morning I saw the river and the grove of pines behind which lay our estate. The driver whipped the horses on and within a quarter of an hour we had entered the village.

The manor house stood at the far end of the village. The horses were tearing along. Suddenly the driver reined them in. “Now what?” I asked impatiently. “A picket, sir,” replied the driver, struggling to check his still-quivering horses. In front of us there did indeed lie a barricade, and a sentry armed with a club. A peasant came over and removed his hat as he asked for my papers. “What’s going on?” I asked. “What’s this barricade for? Who are you guarding?” “We’re in revolt, sir,” he replied, scratching his head.

“Where are your masters?” I asked, with a chill in my heart.

“Our masters?” he repeated. “Our master and his wife are in the granary.”

“What do you mean?”

“Andryushka the clerk’s put them there. He’s had them bound hand and foot. He wants to take them to our sovereign the Tsar.”

“Dear God! Lift that barrier, you fool! Don’t just stand there gaping!”

The sentry seemed in no hurry. I jumped out of the cart, boxed him (I have to confess) on the ear and lifted the barrier. The peasant looked at me with stupid amazement. I got back into the cart and told the driver to go on to the house as quickly as possible. The granary was in the courtyard. Two more peasants with clubs stood by the door, which was locked. I leapt out and made straight for them. “Open the door!” I commanded. I must have looked frightening; both of them, in any case, dropped their clubs and fled. I tried to wrench off the padlock and force the door, but the door was oak and the huge padlock impregnable. Just then a tall, young peasant came out of a hut and asked haughtily why I was making such a disturbance. “Where is Andryushka, the clerk?” I shouted. “Bring the man here!”

“My name is Andrey Afanasyevich, not Andryushka,” the peasant replied, his arms akimbo. “What do you want?”

By way of a reply I seized him by the collar, dragged him to the granary door and told him to open it. He appeared stubborn, but my fatherly clout on the ear had the desired effect on him too. He took out the key and opened the door. I rushed inside and, in a dark corner dimly lit by a narrow skylight, saw Mother and Father. Their hands were bound and their feet hobbled with blocks of wood. I rushed forward to embrace them and found myself at a loss for words. They both gazed at me in astonishment; three years of army life had changed me beyond recognition. Mother gasped and burst into tears.

Behind me I heard a sweet familiar voice: “Pyotr Andreich! It’s you!” Dumbfounded, I looked round and saw Maria Ivanovna in another corner; her hands and feet were bound and hobbled too.

Father looked at me in silence, not daring to believe his own eyes. His face shone with joy. I drew my sword and cut through the knots in their ropes.

“Greetings, greetings, Petrusha!” said Father, clasping me to his heart. “You’re here! The Lord be thanked!”

“Petrusha, my darling!” said Mother. “The Lord has brought you to us! Are you in good health?”

I was eager to lead them out of their prison but found that the door had been locked again. “Andryushka!” I shouted, “open the door!” “No, I won’t!” he replied. “You can stay in there too. I’ll teach you to fight and brawl and manhandle the Tsar’s officials.”

I began to look round the barn, searching for a way of escape. “It’s no use,” said Father. “I’m not the kind of man to have a barn with holes for thieves to climb in and out of.”

Mother, who for a moment had been so overjoyed to see me, fell into despair at the thought that I too must now share the family’s terrible fate. But I felt calmer now that I was with my parents and Maria Ivanovna. I had a sword and two pistols; we could withstand a siege. And Zurin was sure to be with us by nightfall; he would set us free. I explained this and managed to soothe Mother. After that we all gave way to the joy of our reunion.

“Well, Pyotr,” said Father. “You’ve got up to more than your share of mischief and I’ve been extremely angry with you. But there’s no need to dwell on the past. I trust that you’ve now sown all your wild oats and mended your ways. I know that you have done your duty, that you have been an honorable officer. Thank you. You have comforted me in my old age. If it is you I owe my deliverance to, life will be doubly sweet for me.”

I wept and kissed his hand and looked at Maria Ivanovna, who was so glad to see me that she seemed entirely happy and calm.

Around midday we heard an extraordinary uproar. “What do you think it is?” asked Father. “Is it your major already?” “No,” I said, “it can’t be him yet. It’s too early.” The noise increased. The tocsin was sounded. Mounted men were galloping across the yard.[4] Then Savelich thrust his grey head through a narrow opening in the wall and said in a pitiful voice, “Andrey Petrovich, Avdotya Vasilyevna, dear Pyotr Andreich, Maria Ivanovna! Terrible news! The bandits are in the village. And who do you think is leading them, Pyotr Andreich? Shvabrin—may the devil take him!” Hearing that hateful name, Maria Ivanovna threw up her hands in horror.

“Listen,” I said to Savelich, “send someone on horseback to the ferry to meet the Hussar regiment. Order him to tell the major what danger we’re in.”

“But who’s there to send, master? Everyone’s joined the rebels. The horses have all been seized. Oh God! Now they’re in the yard. They’re coming this way.”

We heard several voices on the other side of the door. Gesturing to Mother and Maria Ivanovna to withdraw to a corner, I drew my sword and took up position beside the door, leaning against the wall. Father took the two pistols, cocked them and stood beside me. The lock rattled, the door opened and Andryushka’s head appeared. I struck it with my sword and he fell to the ground, blocking the entrance. As he fell, Father fired one of the pistols through the open space. The crowd that had been pressing forward ran back, cursing. I dragged the wounded man across the threshold and bolted the door from the inside. The courtyard was full of armed men. Among them I saw Shvabrin.

“Don’t be frightened,” I said to the two women. “There is hope. And you, Father, don’t shoot any more. Let’s save the last of our ammunition.”

Mother was praying silently; Maria Ivanovna was standing beside her, awaiting our fate with angelic calm. Outside I could hear threats, oaths, and curses. I stood at my post, ready to cut down the first daredevil to come forward. All of a sudden the noise subsided; I heard Shvabrin calling my name.

“I’m here. What do you want?”

“Surrender, Grinyov! Resistance is futile. Have pity on your old parents. Obstinacy will do you no good. I’ll show you!”

“Just you try, traitor!”

“I’m not going to risk my own life for nothing, nor will I squander the lives of my men. I shall set fire to the granary—and we’ll see what you do then, Don Quixote of Belogorsk. It’s dinnertime now. Take your time to think about all this. Goodbye, Maria Ivanovna, I make no apologies to you. I’m sure you and your knight can entertain each other in the darkness.”

Shvabrin walked away, leaving guards by the door. We all remained silent. Each of us was thinking his own thoughts, afraid to voice them. I knew that Shvabrin, in his embitterment, was capable of anything. My own fate hardly concerned me. What frightened me most, I have to confess, was not the possible fate of my parents but the thought of what might happen to Maria Ivanovna. I knew that Mother was adored by the peasants and house serfs alike. Father, for all his severity, was also much loved; he was just and he understood the true needs of the serfs who worked for him. Their revolt was an aberration, a momentary intoxication rather than an expression of genuine discontent. My parents would almost certainly be spared. Whereas Maria Ivanovna . . . Shvabrin was depraved and shameless. I did not dare dwell on the awful thought of what he might do to Maria Ivanovna and I readied myself (God forgive me!) to kill her with my own sword rather than let her fall a second time into Shvabrin’s hands.

An hour or so passed by. From the village came the sound of drunken singing. Our guards grew jealous and took it out on us by cursing us and trying to scare us with talk of torture and death. We waited for Shvabrin to carry out his threats. Eventually there was a commotion in the yard and we heard Shvabrin’s voice: “Well, have you made up your minds? Will you surrender of your own free will?”

No one said a word in reply. After a few minutes Shvabrin ordered his men to bring straw. It was not long before the dark barn was lit by blazing flames and smoke was curling through the cracks in the door. Then Maria Ivanovna came up to me, took me by the hand and said in a low voice, “Pyotr Andreich! Why should I be the death of you and your parents? Let me out. Shvabrin will listen to me.”

“Never!” I cried angrily. “Don’t you know what will happen to you?”

“I will not survive dishonor,” she replied calmly. “But I may be able to save my deliverer. I may be able to save the family that has shown such magnanimity towards a poor orphan. Farewell, Andrey Petrovich! Farewell, Avdotya Vasilyevna! You have been more than benefactors to me. Give me your blessing. Farewell to you too, Pyotr Andreich! You must believe that I . . . that . . .” She burst into tears and buried her face in her hands. By then I was nearly losing my mind. Mother was weeping too.

“Enough of that, Maria Ivanovna,” said Father. “We’re not handing you over to those brigands—what do you take us for? Sit down and be quiet. If die we must, then we die together. Listen! What are they saying out there?”

“Do you surrender?” Shvabrin was shouting. “Can’t you see? Another five minutes and you’ll be ashes.”

“No, you traitor!” Father replied firmly, “we do not surrender.”

His wrinkled face was remarkably animated; beneath their grey brows, his eyes were shining. Turning to me, he said, “Now!”

He opened the door. Flames leaped in and twisted along the beams and the dry moss stuffed into the gaps between them. Father fired his pistol and strode over the blazing threshold, shouting, “Follow me!” I took both Mother and Maria Ivanovna by the hand and led them quickly out into the open. Not far from the entrance Shvabrin lay stretched out on the ground, shot by my aged father. The rest of the mob had fled, but they quickly recovered their spirits and began to press round us again. I laid about me with my sword but a well-aimed brick struck me full in the chest. I fell to the ground and briefly lost consciousness. When I came to, I saw Shvabrin sitting on the blood-soaked grass with my family standing before him.

I was being supported under each arm. We were surrounded by a crowd of peasants, Cossacks, and Bashkirs. Shvabrin was very pale. He was pressing one hand to his wounded side. On his face was a look of mingled pain and rage. He slowly lifted his head, looked at me, and said in a weak, indistinct voice, “Hang him . . . Hang them all . . . All except her.”

Men seized us and dragged us off with loud cries. But all of a sudden they fled: Zurin had ridden in through the gate, followed by an entire squadron of Hussars with drawn swords.

The rebels ran every which way; the Hussars pursued them, cutting down some with their swords and taking others prisoner. Zurin leaped from his horse, bowed to Father and Mother, and warmly clasped my hand. “Just in time!” he said. “Ah! So this is your betrothed!” Maria Ivanovna blushed to the roots of her hair. Outwardly calm, though clearly moved, Father went up to Zurin and thanked him. Mother embraced him and called him our Angel of Deliverance. “Welcome to our home!” said Father, leading the way towards the main house.

As we passed Shvabrin, Zurin stopped. “Who’s that?” he asked. “That’s their ringleader, the rabble-rouser himself,” my father replied, his proud tone betraying the old soldier in him. “The Lord helped my feeble old hand to punish a young villain and avenge my son’s wound.”

“It’s Shvabrin,” I told Zurin.

“Shvabrin!” said Zurin. “Delighted to make your acquaintance! Take him away, Hussars, and tell the surgeon to bind his wound and care for him as if he were the apple of his eye. He must at all costs be presented to the Secret Commission in Kazan. He is one of the chief criminals and his evidence will be important.”

Shvabrin opened his eyes wearily. There was nothing to be seen on his face but physical pain. Some Hussars bore him away on a cloak.

We entered the house. I looked around, deeply moved as I remembered my childhood years. Nothing had changed; everything was as it always had been. Shvabrin had not allowed it to be plundered; however low he had sunk, it appeared that base rapacity still filled him with a certain disgust. The servants met us in the anteroom. They had not taken part in the rebellion and our release filled them with joy. Savelich was triumphant. During the commotion surrounding the first attack on the granary, he had run to the stables, saddled Shvabrin’s horse, quietly led it outside, and galloped off to the ferry unnoticed. There he found the regiment, which had just crossed the Volga and was resting on the bank. Hearing that we were in grave danger, Zurin had given the order to mount, led his Hussars forward at the gallop and, thank God, had reached us in time.

Zurin insisted that the head of Andryushka the clerk be impaled on a pike and exhibited for a few hours beside the tavern.

The Hussars returned from their pursuit of the rebels with a number of prisoners. They locked them up in the granary where we had withstood the memorable siege.

We all went to our rooms. The old people needed rest. Not having slept at all during the previous night, I too threw myself on my bed and fell fast asleep.

In the evening we all gathered in the drawing room, around the samovar, and began talking merrily about the dangers we had escaped. Maria Ivanovna was pouring out the tea; I sat down beside her and from then on paid no attention to anyone else. My parents appeared glad to see the tenderness between us. That evening still lives in my memory. I was happy, entirely happy—and how many such moments are there in our poor human lives?

The following morning my father was told that the peasants had assembled in front of the house to ask his pardon. He went out onto the porch. Seeing him, they fell to their knees.

“Well, you fools,” he said, “why did you take it into your heads to rebel?”

“We have done wrong, Master. Forgive us,” they said with one voice.

“Yes, you’ve done wrong—and you’ve done wrong to yourselves. Well, I forgive you out of joy—because of the joy God has granted me by returning to me my son, Pyotr Andreich.”

“We did wrong. We know we did wrong.”

“All right then—the sword spares the bowed head. But God has sent us fine weather. It’s time to be bringing the hay in—and what have you fools been doing the last three days? Elder, put everyone to haymaking. And be sure, you redheaded rascal, that the hay’s all stacked by St. Ilya’s Day.[5] Off with you now!”

The peasants bowed again and went off to work in their master’s fields as if nothing had happened.

Shvabrin’s wound turned out not to be mortal. He was sent under guard to Kazan. From my window I saw him being carried out to a cart. Our eyes met. He lowered his head and I quickly moved away from the window. I did not want to seem to be gloating over an enemy’s misfortune and humiliation.

Zurin had to proceed further. I resolved to go with him, in spite of my desire to spend more time in the midst of my family. On the eve of our departure I went to my parents and, in accordance with the custom of those times, bowed down to the ground before them and asked for their blessing on my marriage to Maria Ivanovna. They raised me to my feet and, with tears of joy, agreed to bless us. Then I brought Maria Ivanovna to them; she was all pale and trembling. They gave us their blessing. I will not try to describe my emotions. He who has been in my position will understand without further explanation; as for he who has not, I can only pity him and advise him, before it is too late, to fall in love and receive his parents’ blessing.

The regiment was ready the following day. Zurin took leave of my family. We were all certain that the campaign would soon be over; I was hoping to be a married man within the month. As we parted, Maria Ivanovna kissed me in front of everyone. I mounted my horse. Savelich, once again, accompanied me. The regiment set off.

For as long as I could, I looked back at the manor house I was leaving for a second time. I was troubled by a black foreboding. Someone was whispering to me that my troubles were not yet over. My heart sensed that another storm was on the way.

I shall not relate the details of this campaign and the end of the war. We passed through villages pillaged by the rebels and had no choice but to take from the inhabitants what little they had managed to save.

No one knew whom to obey. Law and order broke down; landowners hid in forests. Bands of brigands plundered far and wide; commanding officers of independent detachments sent after Pugachov—who was by then retreating towards Astrakhan—punished both guilty and innocent as the whim took them. The conflagration covered a vast area; throughout it conditions were terrible. God spare us from Russian revolt, senseless merciless Russian revolt. Those who plot impossible, sudden revolutions in Russia are either young and ignorant of our people or else hard-hearted men who care not a straw about either their own lives or the lives of others.

Pugachov was in flight, pursued by General Michelsohn. Soon we heard that Pugachov had been routed. Finally, Zurin received news of his capture and, at the same time, orders to march no further. At last I could go home to my parents. I was overjoyed, but my joy was darkened by a strange feeling.

NOTE ON NAMES

A RUSSIAN has three names: a Christian name, a patronymic (derived from the Christian name of the father), and a family name. Thus Ivan Kuzmich Mironov is the son of a man whose first name is Kuzma, and Maria Ivanovna is his daughter. The first name and patronymic, used together, are the normal polite way of addressing or referring to a person; the family name, in this case “Mironov” (“Mironova” in the case of a woman), is used less often. Married or older peasants are often addressed and referred to by the patronymic alone or by a slightly abbreviated form of it. Thus Arkhip Savelievich is usually referred to simply as Savelich—and he does not have a family name at all. Close friends or relatives usually address each other by one of the many diminutive forms of their first names. Masha, for example, is an affectionate form of Maria, just as Petrusha is an affectionate form of Pyotr. Palasha and Palashka are both diminutive forms of Pelageya; Palasha, however, sounds more dignified. While her owners are alive, Pushkin consistently refers to her as Palashka. Once her owners have been killed and she has begun to lead an independent—and rather courageous—life of her own, she is referred to as Palasha. There is a similar distinction with regard to Yemelka and Yemelya; both are diminutives of Yemelyan, but the former sounds more familiar.

—R.C.

PUSHKIN AND HISTORY

Pugachov was the leader of the greatest of Russia’s popular rebellions (1773–75). The historian Geoffrey Hosking writes, “Like its predecessors, the rebellion broke out in the southeastern borderlands, where Old Believers and other fugitives from imperial authority rubbed shoulders with non-Russian steppe tribesmen and where Cossacks defended the tsar’s fortresses and stockades while continuing to dream of the brigands’ license which had been their birthright.”[1] It was Pugachov’s ability to appeal to all these groups of people that made this rebellion, at least temporarily, so successful. Not only was he a Cossack by birth but he also converted to the Old Belief, that is, he became one of the Old Believers who refused to accept a reform of traditional ecclesiastical ritual carried out in the 1650s. This reform had caused a schism in the Russian Orthodox Church and created a huge pool of people who were alienated from the monarchy, the official church, and all forms of government. In addition, Pugachov offered whatever was necessary to attract the support of other tribes and peoples, promising, for example, to return their traditional grazing lands to the Bashkirs and Kalmyks. Lastly, he assumed the title of Emperor Peter III, the grandson of Peter the Great and husband of Catherine the Great. Peter III had aroused hopes of reform among the peasantry and had eased the persecution of Old Believers. After reigning for less than a year, however, he had abdicated and then been strangled by one of Catherine’s admirers. Pugachov claimed that Peter III had not been murdered and that he himself was Peter III; he had “meekly accepted his dethronement and then, after visiting Constantinople and Jerusalem, had wandered sadly among his people, learning of their sufferings and grievances.”[2]

Pugachov’s eloquent manifesto of July 1774 was calculated to appeal to every disaffected group:

By God’s grace, We, Peter III, Emperor and Autocrat of all the Russias . . . with royal and fatherly charity grant by this our personal ukaz to all who were previously peasants and subjects of the (landlords) to be true and loyal servants of our throne, and we reward them with the ancient cross and prayer, with bearded heads, with liberty and freedom and to be for ever Cossacks, demanding neither recruit enlistment, poll tax, nor other money dues, and we award them the ownership of the land, of forests, hay meadows, and fishing grounds, and with salt lakes, without purchase and without dues in money or in kind, and we release peasants and all the people from the taxes and burdens which were previously imposed by the wicked nobles and mercenary urban judges.[3]

The rebellion can best be seen as an embodiment of widespread resentment against what Hosking refers to as “an increasingly centralized, rational, secular, and impersonal state.”[4] The reasons for its eventual failure are inseparable from the reasons for its temporary success. Pugachov’s forces—though they numbered at least ten thousand at the height of the rebellion—were simply no match for the better-organized army at the service of this centralized and impersonal state.

The study of history was of ever-growing importance to Pushkin. From the mid-1820s he collected material about Peter the Great and his times, and during his last years he was working on a monograph about him that he hoped would be his chef d’oeuvre; sadly, he died without finishing it and much of the manuscript was lost. Peter the Great was also a central figure in Pushkin’s unfinished novel, The Blackamoor of Peter the Great, and the inspiration behind the narrative poems Poltava and The Bronze Horseman. When making a copy for himself of one of Peter the Great’s letters, Pushkin imitated his handwriting—as if hoping this would help him to enter into Peter’s thinking.

The Pugachov Rebellion was another of Pushkin’s central interests during the 1830s. In August 1833, wanting to speak to eyewitnesses, he traveled to Kazan, Orenburg, and the Urals. In a letter to his wife he wrote, “In the village of Berdy, where Pugachov was encamped for six months, I had une bonne fortune—I found a seventy-five-year-old Cossack woman who remembers that time as well as you and I remember 1830. I was in no hurry to get away from her, and I beg your pardon for not even thinking of you. Now I hope to bring a lot of things into order, get a lot written, and then come to you with the booty.”[5] This Cossack woman also sang three songs about Pugachov and showed Pushkin the hut where Pugachov had lived. On his way back to Petersburg, in early October, Pushkin stopped at Boldino and—amongst other things—completed a second draft of A History of Pugachov.

To Pushkin’s apparent surprise, Tsar Nicholas I not only granted him permission to publish this but even offered him a government loan to cover the costs. He insisted on only a few changes; the most important was that the title be changed from A History of Pugachov, which the Tsar thought endowed the rebel leader with too much dignity, to A History of the Pugachov Rebellion. In December 1834, the book was published in two volumes: the first was Pushkin’s narrative; the second, a collection of source materials. Pushkin also wrote some confidential notes for the Tsar alone. These are startlingly forthright: “All the common people were with Pugachov. The clergy sympathized—not only village priests and monks but even archimandrites and bishops. Only the nobility was openly on the side of the government. [. . .] If we analyze the measures taken by Pugachov and his comrades, we must admit that that they chose the most reliable and effective means of achieving their goals. The government, in contrast, acted weakly, slowly and mistakenly.” Pushkin is almost as critical in the published text. In his account of the siege of Orenburg he writes, “There were up to 3,000 troops and 70 cannon in the city. Resources of this nature made it not only possible, but also a matter of simple military duty, to destroy the rebels. Unfortunately, there was not one of the military commanders who knew his business. Taking fright from the very beginning, they gave Pugachov time to gather his strength and deprived themselves of the resources necessary for offensive action.”[6]

I know of no other nineteenth-century historical work even remotely similar to A History of Pugachov. It is based on archival research and firsthand interviews, and Pushkin makes no attempt to impose coherence on the chaos of events. The number of accounts of minor battles and random movements of small detachments of troops is difficult to take in. Rather than frustrating a reader, however, this has the effect of reinforcing their trust in Pushkin’s honesty. In any case, Pushkin forestalls criticism by quoting, as an epigraph, a striking passage by Platon Lyubarsky, a senior cleric who had already written about the rebellion:

To render a proper account of all the designs and adventures of this impostor would, it seems, be almost impossible not only for a historian of average abilities but even for the most excellent one, because all of this impostor’s undertakings depended not on rational considerations or military precepts but on daring, happenstance, and luck. For this reason (I think) Pugachov himself would not only be unable to recount all the details of these undertakings but would not even be aware of a considerable portion of them, since they were initiated not just by him directly but by many of his unbridled daredevil accomplices, in several locations at once.[7]

Just as individual characters in The Captain’s Daughter anticipate individual characters in Tolstoy’s works—Captain Mironov, for example, is a prototype for Captain Tushin in War and Peace—so Pushkin (and Lyubarsky) anticipate Tolstoy’s entire philosophy of history.

Against this background, individual characters and voices stand out poignantly. Reading the History is like being carried through rapids and occasionally glimpsing a person on the bank or hearing their voice. Sometimes these voices are the voices of folk poetry, and they appear as suddenly as the black curls in the following lines:

Soon the spring thaw set in; the rivers began to flow again and the bodies of those killed at Tatishchev began to float past the fortresses. Wives and mothers stood by the bank, trying to recognize their husbands and sons. One old Cossack woman used to wander along the Yaik near Ozernaya every day, drawing the floating corpses to the bank with a walking stick and saying again and again, “Is that not you, my child? Is that not you my Stepushka? Are those not your black curls being washed by the fresh water?” Seeing a face she did not know, she would gently push the corpse away.[8]

Other voices are those of generals and politicians. We hear General Bibikov say that “Pugachov is no more than a scarecrow that these scoundrels, the Yaik Cossacks, are playing with. Pugachov does not matter; what matters is the general discontent.”Here Pushkin is making a political point. But he quotes other lines from Bibikov’s letters simply because they are so very vivid: “God knows how many more gray hairs there are in my beard now, and my bald patch is bigger than ever. Nevertheless, I go about in the frosts with no wig.” Now and again the reader hears Pushkin’s own laconic voice. The first chapter, for example, ends: “Secret consultations took place in remote steppe inns and hamlets. Everything foretold a new rebellion. They needed only a leader. A leader was found.” And before describing the courage shown by two Russian officers—Captain Kameshkov and Ensign Voronov—Pushkin writes, “History must preserve these humble names.”[9]

Even in this apparently dry and factual work Pushkin remains, as ever, a poet—and he repeatedly draws our attention to the importance of language. In chapter 3, after criticizing the “tangled and obscure style” of a manifesto about Pugachov published by Reinsdorp, the governor of Orenburg, he quotes the sentence: “It is rumored of the man engaged in villainous acts in the Yaik region that he is of an estate different from his real estate.” The governor would have done better, Pushkin is implying, to say straightforwardly that Pugachov was a liar and that his claim to be Tsar Peter III was false. And in his confidential notes, Pushkin wrote, “Pugachov’s first seditious appeal to the Yaik Cossacks is an astonishing example of popular eloquence, for all its faults of grammar. It was all the more effective given that Reinsdorp’s announcements, or rather publications, were written in a style as feeble as it was correct.”[10]

The Pugachov of the novel is idealized; the Pugachov of the History is weak and treacherous, unable or unwilling to protect either his favorite (the scribe Karmitsky) or his sweetheart (Kharlova) from the jealous enmity of other rebel leaders. The Pugachov of the novel is, at least in part, the Pugachov of legend; the Pugachov of the History is more real. In both works, however, Pushkin portrays him as something of a poet—and it is perhaps this aspect of Pugachov that best accounts for Pushkin’s fascination with him. When a subordinate tries to stop Pugachov from stepping within range of government cannon, Pugachov replies, with a vividness that is difficult to reproduce in translation, “Can a cannon be cast that can harm a Tsar?”[11] Most remarkable of all is the account, quoted from a contemporary memoir, of Pugachov being interrogated after his final defeat:

“Who are you?” he asked the pretender.

“Emelyan Ivanov Pugachov.”

“How did you dare, jailbird (vor), call yourself sovereign?”

“I’m no bird,” Pugachov replied, playing with words and adopting his usual allegorical manner. “I’m only a fledgling (voronyonok); the real bird (voron) is still flying about.”[12]

Much has been said about Pushkin’s Mozartian facility. It is sometimes forgotten that he was also capable of extreme diligence. The Bronze Horseman was the fruit not only of sudden inspiration but also of almost a decade’s study of Peter the Great; The Captain’s Daughter also has its origins in painstaking research.

—R.C.

COATS AND TURNCOATS
Translating the Wit of The Captain’s Daughter

Translations are but as turn-coated things at best, specially among languages that have advantages one of the other.

—HOWELL, c. 1645 (from Oxford English Dictionary entry for “turncoat”)

A RUSSIAN friend, hearing that I was going to translate “The Queen of Spades,” said to me, “That will be very difficult, harder even than translating Andrey Platonov. You’ll find you can’t afford to change a single comma.” My friend proved only too right; even the slightest liberty I had allowed myself in the first draft came to seem unacceptable. I imagined, however, that The Captain’s Daughter would prove easier. I remembered it as being less deliberate, less precise in both style and structure, than “The Queen of Spades.” I could not have been more wrong. Like the novel’s young hero, Pyotr Grinyov, Pushkin is a trickster. The Captain’s Daughter, apparently a mere historical yarn, may well be the most subtly constructed of all nineteenth-century Russian novels. It took me a long time, however, to realize this—and still longer to render this subtlety in English.

My first task, after completing a rough draft, was to focus on reproducing the specific voices of the individual characters. At this stage I began to work more closely with my wife, Elizabeth. Elizabeth does not know Russian, but she has an unusually fine ear for tone and rhythm and her knowledge of English idioms is broader than my own. We work orally. I read a draft to her, sentence by sentence, and we discuss any phrases that either of us finds dull, false, or in any way unclear, batting different versions to and fro until we either resolve a problem or recognize that it is best left for another day.

Vasilisa Yegorovna, the wife of the captain who is the fortress commandant, speaks a folksy Russian saturated with biblical phrases and popular sayings. It was important to find English equivalents for these, and still more important to reproduce the unstoppable impetus of her speech, the unselfconsciousness with which she rushes from topic to topic:

We sat down to dinner. Vasilisa Yegorovna did not stop talking for a single moment. She showered me with questions: who were my parents? were they still alive? where did they live? what were their circumstances? On learning that my father had three hundred serfs, she said, “Well, fancy that! Who’d have thought there are people in the world with such wealth? And we, dear sir, have only our one maid, Palashka. Still, thank the Lord, we manage to make ends meet. Our only sorrow is Masha: the girl should be marrying by now, but what does she have for a dowry? A fine-tooth comb, a besom broom and a three-kopek coin (God forgive me!) so she can go to the bathhouse. All very well if a good man comes her way, but otherwise she’ll remain an old maid till kingdom come.”

No single sentence here was especially difficult, but it takes a great deal of attentive listening to make a speech like this sound convincing. And even when a phrase sounds acceptable, it can often still be improved. At one stage, this speech ended: “She’ll remain an eternal old maid. ” I would never have thought to change this had not a student in one of my translation classes come up with the far more expressive “till kingdom come.”

In the case of Vasilisa Yegorovna’s husband, Ivan Kuzmich Mironov, the biggest stumbling block was not the overall rhythm of his speech but a single short phrase, “Slysh ty”—literally “Hear, you!”—that he comes out with again and again, in situations that move gradually from the most casual to the most tragic. John Bayley memorably refers to this phrase as “the Captain’s invariable and unavailing exhortation to his wife.”[1] It was easy enough to find a satisfactory translation for each individual occurrence of the phrase but difficult to find a translation that worked for all of them. Both “Hear, you!” and the slightly less literal “Do you hear me?” sound too aggressive. In the end we came up with “Yes indeed!” Like the original, this suggests that the captain feels that his wife may not be taking in what he says and that he must struggle to make himself heard. It fits easily into the comedy of the earlier chapters and is appropriately incongruous in the darker chapters, after the outbreak of the rebellion:

“The soup’s been on the table for ages, but you seem to have gone quite deaf.” “Vasilisa Yegorovna!” replied Ivan Kuzmich. “I do have my duties, yes indeed! I was drilling my old boys.”

Ivan Kuzmich, of course, agreed with his wife. He kept repeating, “Yes indeed, Vasilisa Yegorovna is right. Dueling is expressly forbidden by the Code of War Articles.”

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?”

Pugachov looked at the old man sternly and said, “How dare you defy me, your sovereign?” Ivan Kuzmich, weak from his wound, summoned up his last strength and said, “You are no sovereign to me; you are a thief and an impostor. Yes indeed!”

Pushkin’s skill in finding a distinct tone of voice and linguistic register for each character was brought home to me especially clearly when I asked a class of students in their last year at university to translate a passage of dialogue between the young aristocrat Pyotr and the rebel leader Pugachov. They translated Pyotr’s clear, correct speech almost faultlessly but were floored by Pugachov’s succinct, idiomatic, riddling knowingness:

Pugachov gave me a sharp look. “So you don’t believe,” he said, “that I am Tsar Pyotr Fyodorovich? Very well. But does not fortune favor the bold? Did not Grishka Otrepyev reign long ago? Think what you like about me, but stay by my side. Why trouble your head over this, that and the other? Whoever the priest be, we call him Father. Serve me in good faith, serve me truly—and I shall make you a prince and a field marshal. What say you, your Honor?”

Almost every sentence of the original was misunderstood by at least one of the students. People often imagine that it is rare or complicated words that give a translator most trouble. Usually, however, it is apparently simple phrases like “Slysh ty” or, in the passage above, “Kto ni pop, tot bat'ka” (literally: “Whoever be priest, he father”) that prove hardest. Elizabeth and I had particular difficulty with the three simple words with which Pugachov ends both the passage above and another speech to Pyotr at an equally critical moment: “Kak ty dumaesh?” The literal translation, “What do you think?”, seemed flat. In the end, we decided to translate these words, on both occasions, as “What say you, your Honor?” The second passage thus reads:

Pugachov noticed my apprehension. “Well?” he said with a wink. “My field marshal, it seems, is talking good sense. What say you, your Honor?”

Pugachov’s sly humor gave me back my courage.

To convey Pugachov’s tone of voice in a way that would justify the reference to “his sly humor” it was necessary to make several departures from the literal. We changed “think” to “say,” we inverted the verb and pronoun, and we added the words “your Honor.” In the original, Pugachov addresses Pyotr as “your Honor” on other occasions, but not at this point.

Much of the novel’s wit derives from Pushkin’s deft juxtaposition of the linguistic registers associated with the different characters and social strata. Some of these effects are simple. The following sentence, from just before the third meeting between Pyotr and Pugachov, posed no problem. Our translation is literal: “I entered the hut or—as the peasants called it—the palace.” But the following exchange, which occurs towards the end of Pyotr’s first meal in the commandant’s house, was more difficult. It was hard to strike the right balance, to find a way to bring out the clash of linguistic registers without slipping into caricature. Shvabrin is false and pompous but not outrageously so; Ivan Kuzmich speaks very simply, but he must not be made to sound like a fool:

“Vasilisa Yegorovna is a lady of exceptional courage,” Shvabrin declared solemnly. “Ivan Kuzmich can testify to that.”

“Yes indeed,” said Ivan Kuzmich, “the woman’s no faint-heart.”

An actor in a stage farce usually needs to keep a straight face. Similarly, the speech of Pushkin’s comic characters must not be translated in such a way as to make them seem like clowns:

After briefly explaining that Alexey Ivanich and I had quarrelled, I requested Ivan Ignatich to act as my second. Ivan Ignatich listened, eying me intently with his one eye. “So what you are so kindly telling me,” he replied, “is that you want to run Alexey Ivanich through and that you would like me to witness this? Is that so, may I ask?”

The humor is Pushkin’s, not Ivan Ignatich’s. As Bayley has written, “the old lieutenant does not even understand the function of a second, and the duel is reduced to the status of a farce by (his and the family’s) impenetrable good sense.”[2] It is Ivan Ignatich’s absolute seriousness, his clarity and straightforwardness, that make the duel appear so absurd; our first drafts, however, gave the impression that he was simply playing the fool.

We encountered similar difficulties with the last paragraph of chapter 9, when Pyotr and Savelich are setting out on their way from Fort Belogorsk to Orenburg. Pugachov has just sent Pyotr a gift of a horse and a sheepskin coat:

I put on the sheepskin coat and mounted the horse. Savelich sat behind me. “See, master,” said the old man. “I was right to hand the rascal my petition. His heart knows shame after all—not that a spindle-shanked Bashkir nag and a sheepskin coat are worth half of what the bandits stole and what you were pleased to give the rascal yourself. Still something’s better than nothing—and there’s worse than a tuft of fur to be had from a mad dog.”

The last sentence could be translated more literally as “but it still will be useful, and from a wicked/bold dog even a tuft of wool!” The second half of this is a Russian saying, often translated as “something is better than nothing” or “half a loaf is better than no bread.” It is only rarely, however, that a translator of Pushkin can get away with such approximate equivalents. The literal meaning here is important; Pugachov has more than once been seen as wolflike, and can therefore be identified with the “wicked dog,” and Pyotr has just received from him a gift of a sheepskin coat—that is, of a tuft of wool. At one point we had “Still, something’s better than nothing—and there’s worse to be had from a wicked dog than a tuft of fur.” This creates the impression that Savelich, entirely uncharacteristically, is trying to be funny. Once again we had to find a way of making it clear that it is Pushkin, rather than one of his characters, who is making a joke. The solution was simple, but it took us time to find it. Changing the word order to bring the emphasis onto “mad dog”—“and there’s worse than a tuft of fur to be had from a mad dog”—makes Savelich appear to be moved more by anger and less by the desire to be witty. It also somehow makes the phrase sound more like a preexisting idiom and less like something that Savelich has just come up with himself.

Less obvious than the clashes of register are the many occasions, some of them moving, when one character unconsciously echoes the words of another. The main difficulty here lay simply in recognizing these often delicate echoes. Had I failed to hear them in the original, we would probably not have translated the phrases identically and so would have torn some of the threads that bind the novel together. Both Pugachov and Savelich, for example, use an identical phrase in important conversations with Pyotr. After sparing Pyotr’s life in Belogorsk, Pugachov says, “Go free to all four corners of the earth, and do what you will.” And when Pyotr declares that he wants to ride through country held by the rebels, Savelich says, “Just wait a little. Reinforcements will be coming soon. They’ll round up these rascals—then you can ride to all four corners of the earth.” Both Pugachov and Savelich, in their different ways, are fathers to Pyotr; they educate him in Russian ways and, like true fathers, are willing to release him into freedom when the time is right.

Pushkin’s webs of repetition are as complex as they are delicate. When Pugachov says, “So be it! When I hang a man, I hang him; when I pardon a man, I pardon. That’s the way I am. Take your sweetheart, go with her where you will and God grant you love and concord!,” he is not only echoing the sense of the speech we have just been looking at; he is also unwittingly repeating Ivan Kuzmich’s parting words to Masha: “Well, Masha, may you be happy. Pray to God: he will not forsake you. If a good man comes your way, God grant you love and concord. Live with him as Vasilisa Yegorovna and I have lived together.” This repetition is moving—Pugachov is taking the place of the young couple’s absent fathers—but the generosity masks a poignant irony: had Pugachov not executed Ivan Kuzmich, there would be no call for him to be playing the role of surrogate father.

It is possible to tease out still more of these threads. Ivan Kuzmich’s “If a good man comes your way” is itself a repetition of Vasilisa Yegorovna’s words in a speech we have already looked at: “All very well if a good man comes her way, but otherwise she’ll remain an old maid till kingdom come.” Ivan Kuzmich’s unconscious echoing of his wife’s words confirms the reality of the “love and concord” between them. Here, of course, there is not a trace of irony; Pushkin’s attitude towards the captain and his wife is always respectful and affectionate.

As well as repeating phrases from earlier scenes, characters also sometimes either repeat or contradict phrases from the chapter epigraphs and other poems. During the snowstorm in the second chapter Pugachov says to Pyotr, “I know this land well enough.” As Viktor Shklovsky has pointed out, [3] these words directly contradict a line from the epigraph to that chapter, “Land unknown to me!” Pugachov is as at home in the steppe as Pyotr is lost in it. In the original the echo is stronger; storona mne znakomaya (land to me known) echoes storona neznakomaya (land not known). This particular effect, dependent as it is on sound, is one that we were unable to reproduce.

Although Pyotr does not, like Pugachov, speak in riddles or extravagant metaphors, he uses language with no less skill. This is apparent, above all, in his response to Pugachov’s question “Do you not believe that I am the great sovereign?” To answer “No” would mean death; to answer “Yes” would be an unthinkable betrayal. Instead, Pyotr makes brilliant use of allusion and equivocation. First, he enters into Pugachov’s world; his opening words, “Listen. I shall tell you the whole truth,” are an almost exact quotation from a song—a dialogue between a Tsar and a thief—that Pugachov loves and that he and his companions have just sung. The implicit parallel between, on the one hand, Pugachov and Pyotr and, on the other hand, the “true sovereign” and the “true thief” of the song is, of course, flattering to Pugachov. Second, with the words “Judge for yourself: how can I acknowledge you as my sovereign?,” Pyotr invites Pugachov to enter into his world, to see things from his point of view. Third, Pyotr flatters Pugachov once again with “You’re no fool—you’d see straight through me.” All three of these points were lost in our earlier drafts. Struggling to bring Pugachov’s song to life in English, I had greatly shortened the crucial sentence about truth. I realized I need to translate it in full: “And I shall tell you, my Lord, I shall tell you, my Tsar, / I shall tell you the whole truth.” We had translated “Rassudi!” (Reason!) as “Think for yourself!” rather than the weightier “Judge for yourself!” And rather than “you’d see straight through me,” we had “you’d see I was lying”—which is dangerously explicit. One can only reproduce writing as finely textured as this if one has taken in every detail of the original. In this case I had missed a great deal and would have torn several threads of Pushkin’s delicate fabric had not the American Slavicist Polina Rikoun generously sent me an advance copy of her outstanding article about Pyotr as a trickster.[4]

My appreciation of The Captain’s Daughter has moved through several stages. At first, as I have said, I saw the novel as rather casually structured—a patchwork quilt, a collage of fictional letters, historical detail, and poems in a variety of styles. Then I became aware of such larger-scale symmetries as the parallels between Pyotr’s first meeting with Pugachov and Masha’s meeting with Catherine the Great (Pyotr does not know Pugachov’s identity when they first meet in the snowstorm, nor does Masha know Catherine’s identity when they meet in the park—and neither Pugachov nor Catherine has a true claim to the Russian throne). There are many other such symmetries (the two gifts of coats, the two attempted gifts of half a ruble, the two occasions, in the first and last chapter, when the elder Grinyov reads the Court Almanac). Next I became aware of the repeated phrases I have already discussed. Last of all, I began to notice the way Pushkin plays with repetitions of individual sounds.

Some of Pushkin’s effects of alliteration extend only the length of a single sentence. These leave a translator with little room to maneuver. Our original version of the first sentence of chapter 9, Pyotr’s account of the morning immediately after the fall of Belogorsk, was as follows: “Early in the morning I was woken by the sound of a drum.” The Russian, however, is an unobtrusive but perfect example of onomatopoeia: “Rano utrom razbudil menya baraban.” We tried, naturally, to reproduce this, but there was little we could do. Our final version, “Around dawn I was woken by the sound of a drum,” has the merit of concision and contains some play on the sounds d, n, and r; nevertheless, it falls far short of the original.

Other examples of Pushkin’s sound play are more extended. Pyotr’s French tutor, Beaupré, carries with him his own sound world, centered on two of the consonants from his own name. Pushkin’s first description of him begins as follows: “Beaupré v otechestve svoem byl parikmakherom, potom v Prussii soldatom, potom priekhal v Rossiyu pour être outchitel.” This aura of pr proved oddly easy to reproduce; for the main part, in fact, we reproduced it unwittingly, before I had even consciously noticed it in the original. Only after coming up with the word “pronouncing” for a sentence about Beaupré’s love of vodka cordials—“even came to prefer them to the wines of his fatherland, pronouncing them incomparably better for the digestion”—did I realize that at least part of the word’s appropriateness came from the way it harmonized with such words as “Prussia,” “prefer,” “prod,” and above all with Savelich’s scornful repetition of Beaupré’s repeated requests to the housekeeper for vodka: “Madam, zhe vu pri, vodkoo.”

The second paragraph of chapter 8 contains a supremely moving example of alliteration. Pugachov has just captured Fort Belogorsk. Pyotr’s life has been spared, but he has no idea what has happened to Masha. He enters her home to find that “It had been laid waste. Chairs, tables and chests had been broken up; crockery had been smashed; everything else pillaged. [. . .] Her bedclothes had been ripped and her wardrobe broken open and ransacked [. . . .] But where was the mistress of this humble, virginal cell? A terrible thought flashed through my mind; I pictured her in the hands of the brigands. My heart clenched tight. I wept bitter, bitter tears and called out the name of my beloved.”

The first ten lines of the original sound staccato and harsh. There is much assonance and alliteration and some syllables are repeated several times: “pere . . . pere . . . ras . . . perer . . . razb . . . razl . . . grabl . . . braz . . . razb . . . gor . . . gor . . . grom . . . roiz . . .” Then the harsher consonants drop away and are replaced by repeated p, l, and sh sounds at the moment that Palasha, the maid, as if reborn out of the consonants of her own name, suddenly takes center stage: “At that moment there was a soft rustling and from behind the wardrobe appeared Palasha, pale and trembling” (poslyshalsya legky shum, i iz-za shkapa poyavilas' Palasha, blednaya i trepeshchushaya). Until this moment, the narrator has consistently referred to her as Palashka, using a familiar form of her name that fits her lowly status; a mere serf, she has, at least to some degree, been a figure of fun. Now for the first time she appears as Palasha, and the narrator will continue to use this more dignified form of her name for the rest of the novel. Her owners have been killed and she is free to act in her own right; she will show both courage and initiative and will play a crucial role in enabling Pyotr to rescue Masha from the hands of Shvabrin.[5]

Alliteration is often a surface effect, a veneer. I know of no novel where the sound patterning is so integral, where thought, sound, and feeling are so closely interwoven. The most remarkable of Pushkin’s sound patterns extends throughout the novel and gathers all its central themes together. An astonishing number of the most important words in the novel are made up of permutations of the letters p, l, and t. Clothes are platye and a coat is tulup or pal'to; a crowd is tolpa, a noose is petlya, a handkerchief (Pugachov waves a white handkerchief as a signal for his executioners to hang someone) is platok, and a raft (at one point Pyotr encounters a gallows on a raft) is plot; to pay is platit and half a ruble (another item that plays an important role in the plot) is poltina; a rascal is plut and a crime is prestuplenie. Patronage is pokrovitel'stvo and to show mercy is pomilovat'. I doubt if anagrams have ever been used more subtly and with deeper meaning.[6] Every element of sound and plot metamorphoses into another. The coat Pyotr gave to Pugachov saves him from having a noose put around his neck in front of a crowd of rebels; the coat Pyotr receives from Pugachov leads to him being arrested by the Tsarist authorities. The entire story turns on these coats—and on the ensuing allegation that Pyotr is a turncoat. This is not Pushkin’s pun; I like to think of it, however, not as my own discovery but as a small gift from the English language that a translator would be churlish to spurn.

Pushkin’s novel is about giving and forgiving.[7] Translating it has been a joy and it would be graceless not to acknowledge not only the help offered by friends and colleagues but also the giving and forgiving qualities of language itself. We talk all too readily of “what is lost in translation” and I may have dwelt too much on passages we found difficult to re-create. What is more remarkable is how welcoming the English language has been towards much of The Captain’s Daughter. The following chapter epigraph, for example, slipped into English as if of itself:

Our lovely apple tree

Has no young shoots and no fine crown;

Our lovely bride

Has no dear father and no dear mother.

No one to dress her

In a wedding gown,

No one to bless her.

It was as if English were a perfectly fitting garment waiting to receive this poem. The line “In a wedding gown” is not in the original, but it begged to be added; without it, our version seemed incomplete. Russian trees have peaks rather than crowns, and so the pun on “crown of a tree” and “wedding crown” is also absent from the original. And the English language welcomed the novel with still more gifts. The way the word “honor” functions both as an abstract noun and as a form of address (“your Honor”) made it all the easier to emphasize one of the novel’s central themes; were a translator to backtranslate our version into Russian, he might well feel frustrated at having to use two words (“chest’” and “blagorodie”) where English has one. And the word “turncoat,” of course, is extraordinarily apt—so much so that it did not enter my head until the last stages of revision. After belatedly realizing how perfectly it encapsulates the central theme of the novel, I thought for a long time about how often to use it. In the end I chose to exercise restraint; as Pushkin shows us, the acceptance of gifts can lead to accusations of betrayal. In our final version the word occurs only twice. Both times it is the father who uses it—in the first chapter, when he is sending Petrusha off to serve in the army, [8] and in the last chapter, when he believes his son has failed in his service.[9] The symmetry of this is, I believe, Pushkinian.

There is one last thread to hold up to the light. As an epigraph to this essay I chose a sentence quoted in the Oxford English Dictionary as an example of the use of the word “turncoated.” This scornful view of translations, this feeling that they are “turncoated things at best,” has persisted over the centuries—and not only in the English-speaking world. About half of the articles I read about translation in nonacademic publications mention either the Italian pun on traduttore and traditore (translator and traitor), the French idea of les belles infidèles (that translations are like women—either beautiful or faithful, but never both), or the irritating dictum, often ascribed to Robert Frost, that “Poetry is what gets lost in translation.” My hunch is that this hostility towards translators and their work arises not from the entirely justified view that most translations are imperfect but from a suspicion of translators per se. Translators are, by definition, at least relatively at home in two or more cultures and their loyalty to any single one of them can therefore seem questionable. It may be significant that Pushkin tells us, apparently somewhat irrelevantly, that Pyotr Grinyov is himself something of a translator. Not only does he, as a child, teach Beaupré to speak Russian; not only does he mediate between the world of the aristocracy and that of the Cossacks and peasants; he even, while serving in a remote steppe fortress, chooses to study French and—most surprisingly of all—does regular translation exercises. It would be unlike Pushkin to throw in a detail like this for no reason.

Translators are always vulnerable to criticism. If they do not make full use of their creative imagination, they will betray not only themselves but also the life and spirit of the original. If they do let their imaginations play, they may be accused of presumption. Fidelity, however, is never simply a mechanical matter; to be faithful to a person, a belief, a cause, or a work of literature, we must do more than simply obey a set of rules. There will always be times when we need to think more deeply, to ask ourselves what we most want to be faithful to and why. The best we could do by way of being faithful to Pushkin’s p-t-l logogram was to use the word “turncoat” at two significant moments. Like Pyotr Grinyov, translators may sometimes need to be tricksters; perhaps, rather than worrying about being called turncoats, we should simply try to be more accomplished tricksters.

I have followed the text given in Pushkin, Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v desyati tomakh. I found the most helpful previous translation to be Ivy Litvinov’s; my version of the epigraph to chapter 3 borrows freely from hers. Sergej Davydov, Caryl Emerson, Polina Rikoun, Andrey Sinyavsky, Viktor Shklovsky, and Marina Tsvetaeva have all written brilliantly on The Captain’s Daughter; I have incorporated their understandings both in my introduction and in the translation itself. I am grateful to all my translation students at Queen Mary, University of London; Olga Ackroyd, Stefan Baker, Marina Chelysheva, Shona Howes, Josefine Olsen, and Irina Zolotaryova all came up with phrases I have adopted. Among the friends and colleagues who have made useful suggestions are Peter Carson, Olive Classe, Musya Dmitrovskaya, Michael Finke, Sophie Leighton, Sophia Lubensky, Olga Meerson, Mark Miller, Stanley Mitchell, Natalya Poltavtseva, Alison Quayle, Vania Schittenhelm, Andreas Schonle, Trista Selous, Timothy Sergay, Vladimir Shatsev, and members of the SEELANGS e-mail discussion group. My thanks, above all, to Michele Berdy, Olia Grebenyuk, Katerina Hryharuk, Polina Rikoun, and Stuart Williams. My wife, Elizabeth, has heard every sentence of the translation at least twice, every line of dialogue at least three times, and has discussed many passages with me day after day and week after week. Countless phrases in the final version are hers.

Earlier versions of these translations, introductions, and notes have been published in The Captain’s Daughter (Hesperus, 2007) and in the Bow-Wow Shop, The Literary Encyclopedia, Modern Poetry in Translation, openDemocracy, and The Times Literary Supplement; and also in the journal Cardinal Points: http://www.stosvet.net/cp2.html.

NOTES

INTRODUCTION

1. The Letters of Alexander Pushkin, translated by J. Thomas Shaw (Indiana University Press, 1963), vol. 1, 187–89.

CHAPTER 1, “A SERGEANT OF THE GUARDS”

1. Yakov Knyazhnin (1742–91) was a poet and dramatist. These lines are from his comedy The Braggart. The first speaker pretends to be in a position to make Zamir, his rival in love, a captain of the Guards; he does not realize that the second speaker is Zamir’s father and that he genuinely, for the best of motives, wants his son to serve in the regular army rather than live the dissipated life of an elite Guards officer in Petersburg.

2. Count Münnich (1683–1767) was recruited for service in the Russian Army by Peter the Great. Exiled in 1741 by the Empress Elizabeth, he returned to favor under Tsar Peter III, the grandson of Peter the Great. Münnich remained loyal to Peter III even after the latter was overthrown by his German wife—whom we now know as Catherine the Great. Crowned in January 1762, Peter III abdicated in July 1762 and was strangled by one of Catherine’s admirers. Andrey Grinyov, like Count Münnich, probably remained loyal to Peter III, thus losing any chance of promotion or a place at court. In this he resembles not only the elder Dubrovsky, father of the hero of Pushkin’s unfinished Dubrovsky, but also Pushkin’s own grandfather, Lev Pushkin; both Dubrovsky and Lev Pushkin retired from military service in 1762. In an earlier draft Pushkin gives 1762 as the date of Andrey Grinyov’s retirement.

3. The Semyonov regiment was founded by Peter the Great. Sons of the nobility were often enrolled in a prestigious regiment in infancy; this enabled a young man to have completed enough years of “service” by his late teens to be entitled to join up as an officer.

4. A senior huntsman’s role was to look after the Siberian wolfhounds, also known as “borzois.”

5. The first of several allusions to The Ignoramus, a satirical comedy (also known as The Minor) by the eighteenth-century dramatist Denis Fonvizin. Prostakova, the wife of a country landowner, boasts that a foreign tutor is teaching “French and every one of the sciences” to her adolescent son, Mitrofanushka, a lazy and infantile ignoramus. In the first chapter of Eugene Onegin, Pushkin writes:

“Enchanting world! There shone Fonvizin,

Bold king of the satiric scene,

A friend of liberty and reason.” (tr. Stanley Mitchell)

6. Bast—the inner bark of birch trees—was used to make a variety of items, from footwear to baskets and, as we shall see on page 8, the sails of windmills.

7. Another allusion to The Ignoramus (see note 5 to this chapter). By comparing himself to an ignoramus from literature, Pyotr establishes that he did not long remain an ignoramus himself (see Polina Rikoun, “Grinev the Trickster,” The Slavic and East European Studies Journal, 51. 1, 2007, p. 12).

8. Published yearly from 1735 until 1917, this contained information about all promotions, civil and military, as well as honors and appointments at court.

9. At the time, the highest rank in the Russian Army.

10. That is, he had been awarded both the Cross of St. Andrew and that of Alexandr Nevsky.

11. Andrey Grinyov may be remembering the readiness with which the Guards regiments transferred their allegiance to Catherine when she usurped the throne. See note 2 to this chapter.

12. Here the word passport refers to the document that would have been drawn up by the commanding officer of the Semyonov regiment, granting Andrey Grinyov’s young son leave of absence until he became adult.

13. Orenburg was a provincial capital in the Urals. Founded in 1735 to defend the Russian border against attacks from the Bashkirs, it became an important trading post. Pushkin’s Andrey Karlovich R. is based on the historical Ivan Andreyevich Reisdorp, governor of Orenburg at the time of the Pugachov rebellion.

14. The Russian word denotes a wooden box designed for travelers. It held food and dishes and was used when travelling with post-horses.

15. This phrase becomes poignant if we remember that the elder Grinyov’s allegiance to Peter III may have cost him his place at court. See notes 2 and 11 to this chapter.

16. A trading center in southeastern Russia, in the Volga basin, founded as a fortress against raids by Turks and Tatars.

17. The standard length of service in the Tsarist army was twenty-five years. Landowners often sent their serfs away to the army if they had committed some misdemeanor.

18. A lightly alcoholic drink made from bread.

19. A quotation from Fonvizin’s “A Message to my Servants.” See note 5 to this chapter.

CHAPTER 2, “THE GUIDE”

1. The Cossacks, of whom there were several groups, lived mainly in the Ukraine, on the lower Don and on the Yaik River. Their role was to defend the Russian frontier. Being fine horsemen and good fighters, they were allowed to retain certain democratic liberties. Several rebellions, including those led by Stenka Razin and Pugachov, were supported mainly by Cossacks. After the suppression of the Pugachov rebellion, the Yaik River was renamed the Ural River. The Cossacks lost their liberties but came to form an important part of the Tsarist army.

2. A samovar is an urn in which water is boiled; tea is not made in the samovar itself.

3. The late 1760s saw Cossack protests against military conscription. Cossacks were being paid little but being conscripted in large numbers. In 1772 Major General Traubenberg led an inquiry that found against the Cossacks; he was then murdered in a riot. It took the authorities six months to reimpose order.

4. The niece of Peter the Great, Anna Ioannovna, reigned 1730–40. Her reign was autocratic, reactionary, and notoriously corrupt. This corruption was often blamed on a group of Germans that included her lover, Count Biron, and Count Münnich, the general under whom Pyotr’s father served (see note 2 to chapter 1, “A Sergeant of the Guards”).

CHAPTER 3, “THE FORTRESS”

1. In reality, Pushkin’s own composition.

2. See notes 5, 7, and 19 to chapter 1, “A Sergeant of the Guards.” By alluding to Fonvizin both here and in chapter 1, Pushkin draws a parallel between the Mironovs and the Grinyovs; both Captain Mironov and the elder Grinyov observe an old-fashioned code of honor and loyalty. Pushkin does not share Fonvizin’s satirical attitude towards “old-fashioned people.”

3. In A History of Pugachov, Pushkin writes, “The fortresses built in that region were no more than villages surrounded by a clay or wattle fence. They were enough to protect a few old soldiers and local Cossacks, defended by two or three cannon, from the arrows and spears of the nomadic tribes scattered around the steppes of the Orenburg province and its bordering territories” (Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v desyati tomakh, [Moscow: Nauka, 1964], vol. 8, p. 168).

4. The Russians took Ochakov from the Turks in 1737. In 1758 a Russian army laid siege to the Prussian town of Küstrin but failed to capture the citadel.

5. “The Cat’s Funeral” was a popular satirical print about Peter the Great, commonly interpreted as an allegory; Peter the Great was seen as the cat, being buried by mice who opposed his reforms. Here the cat may represent Pugachov, who claimed to be another Peter—Tsar Peter III.

6. According to the army regulations of the late eighteenth century, soldiers had to wear their hair in long tightly plaited pigtails with one curl on each side of the head.

7. At this time, most landowners in European Russia owned fewer than sixty serfs.

8. A Turkic people inhabiting the area north of Orenburg. They were declared subjects of the Russian state in the sixteenth century but continued to resist this until well into the eighteenth century.

9. A Turkic nomadic people whose homelands at this time lay to the east of the Urals.

10. Russians traditionally celebrated not their birthday but the day dedicated to the saint whose name they bore.

CHAPTER 4, “THE DUEL”

1. See note 1 to chapter 1, “A Sergeant of the Guards.” The epigraph is taken from the comedy The Eccentrics; two servants are about to fight a duel. This, of course, was unthinkable—dueling was the prerogative of the aristocracy. That the servants mean to fight with short knives makes their proposed duel more absurd still.

2. The Captain’s surname, Mironov, derives from the Russian “mir,” which means both “peace” and “village commune.” Though a brave soldier, Captain Mironov is a man of peace. Belogorsk is a peaceful world ruled by a woman.

3. Alexandr Sumarokov (1718–77), a neoclassical poet and dramatist.

4. Vasily Tredyakovsky (1703–69) was often ridiculed for his overcomplex syntax and vocabulary. By the 1830s, however, Pushkin had come to recognize his contribution to the development of a Russian literary language.

5. Russia was at war with Turkey from 1736 to 1739, and with Sweden from 1741 to 1743.

6. Duels were surprisingly uncommon in the eighteenth century. Until 1787, around fifteen years after Grinyov’s and Shvabrin’s fictional duel, duelling was punishable by death.

7. In an Orthodox wedding, crowns are held over the bridal couple as the priest pronounces them man and wife.

CHAPTER 6, “THE PUGACHOV REBELLION”

1. Pushkin took this epigraph from a song about the capture of Kazan by the Russians in 1552. The song continues: “. . . have to tell / About the terrible Tsar Ivan Vasilyevich.” Viktor Shklovsky has suggested that Pushkin associated Pugachov with Ivan the Terrible. Much of the peasantry, of course, genuinely believed Pugachov to be the true Tsar. See also the epigraph to chapter 10, “The Siege.”

2. See note 3 to chapter 3, “The Guide.”

3. That is, he was an “Old Believer,” one of the many Russians who did not accept Patriarch Nikon’s reform of traditional ecclesiastical ritual in the 1650s. Despite persecution, the “Old Believers” not only survived but even flourished; by the early twentieth century they made up about a fifth of the population of European Russia.

4. See note 2 to chapter 1, “A Sergeant of the Guards.”

5. A nomadic Buddhist people.

6. In the “Great Instruction” (1767) of the Legislative Commission she convened, Catherine the Great wrote, “The use of torture is against every dictate of nature and reason; humanity cries out against it, and loudly demands its total abolition.”

7. There were several violent uprisings in Bashkiria between 1735 and 1740. The authorities retaliated savagely, burning down some 700 villages, deporting 4,000 men and cutting off the noses and ears of 300 ringleaders. In A History of Pugachov Pushkin draws attention to the cruelty of this.

8. Very well (Bashkir).

9. Alexander I ruled 1801–25. The first years of his reign, up to the final defeat of Napoleon in 1815, gave liberals hope for political reform.

10. In “A Journey from Moscow to Petersburg” (1834), Pushkin wrote: “Of course, great changes must still take place, but there is no need to hurry time, which is active enough anyway. The best and most enduring changes are those that come about as a result of an improvement in morals, without violent political upheavals, which are always terrible for mankind.”

CHAPTER 7, “THE ATTACK”

1. “Pugat'” means “to frighten.” The noun “pugach” has two meanings, both relevant: “toy pistol” and “eagle owl.” Pugachov is associated several times with birds of prey.

2. It was an old Russian custom to welcome an important guest with bread and salt—usually on a plate, on an embroidered towel.

CHAPTER 8, “AN UNINVITED GUEST”

1. Just as Pugachov impersonated Peter III, so some of his comrades impersonated important aristocrats.

2. Fyodor Fyodotovich Chumakov was Pugachov’s chief of artillery. Towards the end of the uprising, after Pugachov had been decisively defeated in battle, Chumakov and two other Cossacks bound him hand and foot and delivered him to the authorities. For this they received full pardons from the Empress. It is ironic that Pugachov should ask Chumakov, who betrayed him, to sing this song about a “true thief.”

3. This song was popular among both peasants and Cossacks.

4. As we know, Pugachov claimed to be Peter III, the Tsar to whom the elder Grinyov appears to have remained loyal. For Pyotr to deny Pugachov’s claim would be suicidal; it would also, symbolically, be to deny the sacrifice made by his father. That Pyotr bears the same name as the murdered Tsar makes his dilemma still more poignant.

5. Grigory (or Grishka) Otrepyev, popularly known as “The False Dmitry,” was a monk who claimed to be Dmitry, the murdered son of Ivan the Terrible. He reigned for eleven months during 1605–6.

6. In “Pushkin and Pugachov” Tsvetaeva writes, “The whole encounter of Grinyov with Pugachov is between those two gestures: first he leads him back onto the road [during the snowstorm], and then he lets him go free to all four corners of the earth.” (Marina Tsvetaeva, “Pushkin i Pugachov,” Proza, (Moskva: Pokolenie, 1996), p. 546.

CHAPTER 9, “PARTING”

1. Mikhail Kheraskov (1773–1807) wrote plays, novels, and poems, including The Rossiada, an epic about the capture of Kazan by Ivan the Terrible. His contemporaries saw him as the most important Russian poet of the age. These four lines are from a poem titled “Parting.”

CHAPTER 10, “THE SIEGE”

1. From The Rossiada. The half line immediately before this epigraph includes the words “the Russian Tsar.” The “He” of the second line of the epigraph is clearly Tsar Ivan the Terrible. See epigraph to chapter 6, “The Pugachov Rebellion” and note 1 to that chapter.

2. The sixth of the fourteen grades in the Civil Service. A collegiate councilor was considered equal in rank to a colonel.

3. The siege of Orenburg lasted from October 1773 to March 1774.

4. A real figure. Both her father and her husband were in command of fortresses in the Orenburg district; both were executed by Pugachov, as was her mother. She herself became Pugachov’s mistress but was murdered by Cossack elders jealous of her influence. Pushkin tells her story in A History of Pugachov.

5. Rascal (German).

CHAPTER 11, “THE REBEL CAMP”

1. These lines are by Pushkin, in the manner of Sumarokov. See note 3 to chapter 4, “The Duel.”

2. Holders of the order of St. Andrew, the highest imperial decoration, wore a light blue ribbon. In this respect, as in others, Pugachov and his comrades are copying the ways of the Imperial Court.

3. Khlopusha’s choice of threat may be occasioned by Beloborodov’s name: “Whitebeard.”

4. A village twenty miles from Orenburg where, in early November 1773, Pugachov defeated government forces sent to relieve the city.

5. Frederick the Great (1712–86) had been King of Prussia since 1740. After a victory over Prussia in 1759, Russian armies occupied Berlin in 1760. Russian soldiers used to Russianize Frederick’s name and refer to him as Fyodor Fyodorovich.

6. See note 5 to chapter 8, “An Uninvited Guest.”

CHAPTER 12, “THE ORPHAN”

1. Pushkin’s reworking of a wedding song he noted down during his journey to Kazan, Orenburg, and the Urals. A song like this was sung when the bride was an orphan and was being “given away” by surrogate parents. Here the effect is poignant. Pugachov is generously allowing Masha and Pyotr to marry; he is, in effect, “giving Masha away.” But it was he himself who had made her an orphan.

CHAPTER 13, “ARREST”

1. See note 1 to chapter 1, “A Sergeant of the Guards” and note 1 to chapter 4, “The Duel.” Like the epigraph to chapter 11, these lines are almost certainly Pushkin’s own pastiche.

2. A card game of pure chance, popular among the European aristocracy during the late 18th and early 19th centuries.

3. An apparently decisive victory in March 1774.

4. General Ivan Ivanovich Michelsohn (1740–1807) finally defeated Pugachov in August 1774.

5. Pyotr is mentally addressing Pugachov by an affectionate form of his Christian name, Yemelyan.

CHAPTER 14, “THE TRIBUNAL”

1. Compare: “Kazan was in a terrible state; 2,057 of its 2,867 houses and government buildings had burned down. Twenty-five churches and three monasteries had also burned down. The market hall had been pillaged, along with those houses, churches, and monasteries left standing.” (Pushkin, Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v desyati tomakh, vol. 8, p. 249).

2. Rikoun convincingly suggests that Pyotr is afraid that drawing attention to Masha’s situation, alone in a village occupied by Pugachov’s men, would lead to slurs on her honor: how could she have avoided being raped? (The Trickster’s Word, p. 130).

3. Another respect in which Pushkin has lent parts of his own family story to the Grinyovs. Fyodor Pushkin, an ancestor of the poet, was executed on a charge of treason.

4. Volynsky (1689–1740) was the leader of the party opposed to Count Biron, the German favorite of the Empress Anna. (See note 4 to chapter 2, “The Guide”) Volynsky and his accomplices, including Khrushchev (1691–1740), were executed after being accused of trying to place Peter the Great’s daughter, Elizabeth, on the throne. Khrushchev, especially, remained loyal to Peter the Great’s vision of a more modern Russia.

5. Probably intended for her soon-to-be-exiled son.

6. A suburb of Tsarskoye Selo, the small town (now called Pushkin) near St. Petersburg, that was the summer home of the Russian Imperial family.

7. Count Rumyantsev (1725–93) was another important general, famous for his victories over the Turks.

8. In this scene Pushkin reworks an episode from Walter Scott’s Heart of Midlothian during which Jeanie Deans pleads with Queen Caroline to pardon her sister, wrongly charged with child murder; unlike Jeanie Deans, however, Masha gains access to the monarch with miraculous ease. Pushkin is also verbally reproducing a famous painting by Vladimir Borikovsky (1757–1852) in which Catherine the Great is depicted standing in the park at Tsarskoye Selo. A whippet, or perhaps greyhound, is at her side, looking up at her. Catherine is gesturing towards the obelisk, but she looks relaxed and does not seem concerned with affairs of state. There is something odd in the exactness with which Pushkin reproduces these details. First, Pushkin emphasizes that it is a chilly autumn morning, yet the Empress is dressed for summer. In the words of Viktor Shklovsky: “she has come into the garden directly from the portrait, and Pushkin did not want to put new clothes on her.” Second, Borikovsky painted the portrait in 1791, over sixteen years after the suppression of the Pugachov rebellion. All this may be Pushkin’s way of hinting the fairy-tale resolution of The Captain’s Daughter takes place in another world, outside historical time.

9. On 19 October 1811, aged twelve, Pushkin began his studies at the prestigious Imperial Lyceum at Tsarskoye Selo, near Petersburg; he was part of the first intake. Almost every year after graduating, he attended anniversary reunions. One of the best known of his several poems dedicated to these anniversaries was also written in 1836. Pushkin originally published The Captain’s Daughter anonymously; October 19, however, was the equivalent of a signature. It was a date intimately linked for Pushkin with reflections on his own fate, the fate of his contemporaries, and the fate of Russia herself. That Pushkin was the author of the novel was, in any case, no secret.

OMITTED CHAPTER

1. In chapter 8 of A History of Pugachov Pushkin describes the incident on which this scene is based.

2. A Mongolian tribe that settled in Russia.

3. Evidently a character from the novel’s first draft. There is no reference to him in the final version.

4. During his campaign along the middle and lower Volga, Pugachov’s mere presence in a region was enough to spark off a general peasant uprising. At the rumor of his approach, “peasants would gather at the sound of the tocsin, seize whatever weapons they could lay their hands on—scythes, pitchforks, clubs, and perhaps a musket or two—and march on the local manor house or state tavern. Several thousand nobles and their families, as well as stewards, publicans, tax officials, and sometimes clergymen, lost their lives, or would flee at the approach of trouble” (Geoffrey Hosking, Russia: People and Empire 1552–1917 [HarperCollins, 1997], p. 113). In chapter 8 of A History of Pugachov, Pushkin writes, “Pugachov was fleeing, but his flight seemed like an invasion. Never had his successes been more terrible; never had the rebellion raged more fiercely.”

5. August 2. Ilya is the Russian equivalent of Elijah.

PUSHKIN AND HISTORY

1. Russia and the Russians (Allen Lane, The Penguin Press, 2001), 229.

2. Ibid., 229.

3. Ibid., 229–30.

4. Ibid., 231.

5. The Letters of Alexander Pushkin, translated by J. Thomas Shaw (Indiana University Press, 1963), vol. 3, 613.

6. Pushkin, Polnoe sobranie sochinenii v desyati tomakh (Moscow: Nauka, 1964), vol. 8, 363 and 178.

7. Ibid., 152.

8. Ibid., 223–24.

9. Ibid., 213, 220, 160, 199.

10. Ibid., 179 and 357.

11. Ibid., 171. “Razve pushki lyutsya na tsarey?” The Russian is remarkably succinct: “Can canons be cast against tsars?” The words “that will function against” are left implicit.

12. Ibid., 269. Vor means “thief,” voron means “crow” or “raven,” and voronok means “small bird.” Here I reproduce Paul Debreczeny’s translation with only minor changes; “jailbird” is his inspired reproduction of Pugachov’s wordplay.

COATS AND TURNCOATS

1. Pushkin: A Comparative Commentary (Cambridge University Press, 1971), 338.

2. Ibid, 334.

3. Zametki o proze russkikh klassikov (Moscow: Sov. Pisatel', 1955), 53.

4. “Grinev, the Trickster: Reading the Paradoxes of Pushkin’s The Captain’s Daughter,” Slavic and East European Journal 51, 1 (2007).

5. The connection between the sound play and the two variants of Palasha’s name has never, I believe, been remarked on. It was only with the help of time, chance, and a great deal of prodding from a graduate student, Olia Grebenyuk, that I noticed it. Another Russian friend had promised to check through our translation but had, in the end, only been able to check the first half. Olia took over and checked the second half. Thinking that the difference between “Palasha” and “Palashka” was so slight that English readers would see it merely as an irritating inconsistency, I had decided to call the maid “Palashka” throughout the whole novel. Olia was indignant. Why, she asked, did I always use the disrespectful “Palashka” when Pushkin always called her “Palasha”? It took me some time to work out that the narrator neither (as Olia insisted) always calls her “Palasha” nor (as I insisted) shifts between the two variants entirely randomly. Only after realizing that the narrator calls her “Palashka” throughout the first seven chapters and “Palasha” throughout the last seven chapters (in chapter 12 the priest’s wife calls her “Palashka,” but the narrator himself, after the encounter in Masha’s room, calls her only “Palasha”) did I take in the beauty and significance of the turning point I have discussed above.

6. This list of words, taken from Sergej Davydov, “The Sound and Theme in the Prose of A.S. Pushkin,” Slavic and East European Journal 27, 1 (1983), is abbreviated. Davydov refers to what Pushkin does with p-l-t as a “logogram.”

7. See David Bethea, “Slavic Gift-Giving, The Poet in History, and Pushkin’s The Captain’s Daughter,” in Russian Subjects, edited by Monika Greenleaf and Stephen Moeller-Sally (Northwestern University Press, 1998), 259–77.

8. “Let him be a true soldier—not some fop of a turncoat in the Guards!” Here the phrase “fop of a turncoat” translates shamaton, an uncommon word that appears, in the late eighteenth century, to have meant “turncoat” and, in the 1830s, to have meant “fop.” See M.I. Gillel'son and I.B. Mushina, Kapitanskaya dochka: kommentarii (Leningrad: Prosveshchenie, 1977), 77–78.

9. “May God grant you an honorable man for a husband, not a disgraced turncoat.” Here we use “turncoat” for izmennik.

FURTHER READING

BIOGRAPHY AND ANTHOLOGIES

Chandler, Robert. Alexander Pushkin. Hesperus, 2009.

Chandler, Robert, ed. Russian Magic Tales from Pushkin to Platonov. Penguin Classics, 2012.

———. Russian Short Stories from Pushkin to Buida. Penguin Classics, 2005.

Chandler, Robert, Boris Dralyuk, and Irina Mashinski, eds. The Penguin Book of Russian Poetry. Penguin Classics, 2015.

TRANSLATIONS

Boris Godunov: The Little Tragedies. Translated by Stephen Mulrine. Oberon Books, 2002.

Dubrovsky. Translated by Robert Chandler. Hesperus Press, 2003.

Eugene Onegin. Translated by James Falen. Oxford World Classics, 1995. Translated by Stanley Mitchell. Penguin Classics, 2008. Falen’s translation is better than any of its predecessors but is superseded by Mitchell’s brilliant translation.

The Gypsies and Other Narrative Poems. Translated by Antony Wood. Angel Classics, 2013.

The Letters of Alexander Pushkin. Translated by J. Thomas Shaw. University of Wisconsin Press, 1967.

BOOKS ABOUT PUSHKIN IN ENGLISH

Bethea, David. The Pushkin Handbook. University of Wisconsin Press, 2005.

Binyon, T.J. Pushkin. HarperCollins, 2002. Authoritative and detailed.

Dunning, Chester, et al. The Uncensored Boris Godunov. University of Wisconsin Press, 2006. This argues the case for Pushkin’s earlier version of the play, which is included both in the original and in Antony Wood’s fine translation.

Kahn, Andrew, ed. The Cambridge Companion to Pushkin. Cambridge University Press, 2006.

Mirsky, D.S. Pushkin. Dutton, 1963.

Sinyavsky, Andrei. Strolls with Pushkin. Translated by Catharine Theimer Nepomnyashchy. Yale University Press, 1995.

ARTICLES IN ENGLISH AND RUSSIAN

Bethea, David. “Slavic Gift-Giving, The Poet in History, and Pushkin’s The Captain’s Daughter.” In Russian Subjects. Edited by Monika Greenleaf and Stephen Moeller-Sally. Northwestern University Press, 1998, 259–77.

Davydov, Sergej. “The Sound and Theme in the Prose of A.S. Pushkin.” Slavic and East European Journal 27, 1 (1983).

Emerson, Caryl. “Grinev’s Dream: The Captain’s Daughter and a Father’s Blessing.” Slavic Review 40, 1 (1981): 60–76.

Gillel'son, M.I., and I.B. Mushina. “Povest’ A.S. Pushkina.” In Kapitanskaya dochka: kommentarii. Leningrad: Prosveshchenie, 1977.

Rikoun, Polina. “Grinev, the Trickster: Reading the Paradoxes of Pushkin’s The Captain’s Daughter.” Slavic and East European Journal 51, 1 (2007).

———. The Trickster’s Word: Oral Tradition in Literary Narrative. Harvard University doctoral thesis, 2003.

Terts, Abram. “Puteshestvie na Chernuyu Rechku.” In Puteshestvie na Chernuiu Rechku i drugie proizvedeniia. Moscow: Sakharov, 1999, 425–78.

Tsvetaeva, Marina. “Pushkin i Pugachev.” In Sobranie sochinenii v semi tomakh. Edited by Anna Saakiants and Lev Mnukhin. Moscow: Ellis Lak, 1994, 498–524.