“Which is the commandant?” asked the impostor. Our sergeant stepped out of the crowd and pointed to Ivan Kuzmich. Pugachev looked menacingly at the old man and said to him:
“How dared you oppose me, your sovereign?”
The commandant, growing faint from his wound, gathered his last strength and replied in a firm voice:
“You are not my sovereign, you are a thief and an impostor, see here!”
Pugachev frowned darkly and waved a white handkerchief. Several Cossacks picked up the old captain and dragged him to the gallows. The mutilated Bashkir whom we had questioned the day before turned up sitting astride the crossbar. He held a rope in his hand, and a moment later I saw poor Ivan Kuzmich hoisted into the air. Then Ivan Ignatyich was brought before Pugachev.
“Swear allegiance,” Pugachev said to him, “to the sovereign Pyotr Feodorovich!”
“You’re not our sovereign,” Ivan Ignatyich answered, repeating his captain’s words. “You, uncle, are a thief and an impostor!”
Pugachev waved his handkerchief again, and the good lieutenant hung beside his old superior.
It was my turn. I looked boldly at Pugachev, preparing to repeat the response of my noble-hearted comrades. Then, to my indescribable amazement, I saw Shvabrin among the rebel chiefs, his hair in a bowl cut and wearing a Cossack kaftan. He went up to Pugachev and said a few words in his ear.
“Hang him!” said Pugachev, without even glancing at me.
They threw the noose around my neck. I began to recite a prayer to myself, offering God sincere repentance for all my transgressions and asking for the salvation of all who were near to my heart. They dragged me under the gallows.
“Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid,” repeated my undoers, perhaps truly wishing to hearten me. Suddenly I heard a shout:
“Stop, you fiends, wait!…”
The executioners stopped. I looked: Savelyich was lying at Pugachev’s feet.
“Dear father!” my poor tutor was saying. “What is the death of my master’s child to you? Let him go; you’ll get a ransom for him; and as an example and so as to put fear into people, have them hang my old self instead.”
Pugachev gave a sign, and they unbound me at once and let me go.
“Our father pardons you,” they said to me.
I cannot say that I was glad at that moment of my deliverance, though I also cannot say I regretted it. My feelings were too blurred. They brought me to the impostor again and made me go on my knees before him. Pugachev offered me his sinewy hand.
“Kiss his hand, kiss his hand!” said those around me. But I would have preferred the most cruel punishment to such base humiliation.
“Dearest Pyotr Andreich!” Savelyich whispered, standing behind me and prodding me. “Don’t be stubborn! What is it to you? Spit on it and kiss the vill—…pfui!…kiss his hand.”
I did not stir. Pugachev lowered his hand, saying with a little smirk:
“Seems his honor’s stupefied with joy. Stand him up!”
They stood me up and set me free. I started watching the continuation of the gruesome comedy.
The narrator, Pyotr Andreevich Grinyov, is very likable yet strangely dispassionate or fatalistic, though he is courageous and loving. He is seventeen and the only child of his military father to survive past infancy. Following family tradition, he enters the army and is sent to Orenburg. Pyotr gets lost, hardly able to see in a blizzard, yet finds his way out with an unknown guide. Thankful, he gives his warm coat to the stranger, who will turn out to be Pugachev. The curious perplexities both of Grinyov and of Pugachev are illuminated for me by the leading Pushkin scholar David M. Bethea:
In writing The Captain’s Daughter Pushkin was clearly trying to return to an older set of precepts and values, ones determined in the harsh, often wartime conditions of the eighteenth century, that (as he perceived it) didn’t allow space for nuance and interpretation. In his compromised situation in the last years of his life it was this old-fashioned clarity, especially when defending the honor of one’s family and name, for which he yearned. The essence of this clarity is the ability of a gesture to be beautiful in its own right, to possess both a moral and aesthetic dimension, to stand alone, as something proving nobility of character at a moment when that character is most severely challenged. In The History of Pugachev the most impressive example of such a gesture is when the Muslim Bikbai, preparing to be executed by Pugachev’s forces, crosses himself and puts his own head into the noose. By giving the fictional Pugachev the ability to recognize the beauty in a deed and to show generosity, that is, to repay beauty with more beauty, Pushkin was improving on the reality of the uprising in two ways. First, he was showing that, despite the ancient class distrust and the factors that led to the uprising in the first place, both peasant and nobleman could share a sense of honor. Second, he was showing that this “paying it forward” has a way of breaking through class enmity and establishing relations in more human terms, which is Iurii Lotman’s point in his celebrated piece on the “ideational structure” of The Captain’s Daughter. When Pugachev learns that Shvabrin is holding an orphan hostage and possibly abusing her, he is moved to act. The weak should not be taken advantage of by the strong. Likewise, when it becomes clear that Masha is the daughter of his sworn enemy and Pugachev still decides to continue in his role as matchmaker/surrogate father and to release the young couple, the result is similar: the moral and the aesthetic come together in an extravagantly beautiful gesture of being big enough as a person (lichnost’) not to keep score.
(Alyssa Dinega Gillespie, ed., Taboo Pushkin)
A strange thought occurred to me: it seemed to me that Providence, which had brought me to Pugachev a second time, was giving me the chance to carry out my intention. I decided to take advantage of it and, having no time to think over what I decided, I answered Pugachev’s question:
“I was going to the Belogorsk fortress to rescue an orphan who is being mistreated there.”
Pugachev’s eyes flashed.
“Who of my people dares to mistreat an orphan?” he cried. “Though he be sly as a fox, he won’t escape my justice. Speak: Who is the guilty one?”
“Shvabrin,” I replied. “He’s holding captive the girl you saw sick at the priest’s wife’s and wants to force her to marry him.”
“I’ll teach Shvabrin,” Pugachev said menacingly. “He’ll learn from me what it means to do as he likes and mistreat people. I’ll hang him.”
“Allow me to put in a word,” said Khlopusha in a hoarse voice. “You were in a hurry to appoint Shvabrin commandant of the fortress, and now you’re in a hurry to hang him. You’ve already offended the Cossacks by setting up a nobleman as their superior; don’t frighten the nobility now by executing them at the first bit of slander.”
“There’s no cause to pity them or approve of them,” said the little old man with the blue ribbon. “Nothing’s wrong with executing Shvabrin; but it wouldn’t be bad to give Mister Officer here a proper questioning as to why he was pleased to come calling. If he doesn’t recognize you as the sovereign, he needn’t look to you for your justice, and if he does, why has he sat there in Orenburg with your enemies up to now? Why don’t you order him taken to the guardhouse and have them start a little fire there: something tells me his honor’s been sent to us by the Orenburg commanders.”
I found the old villain’s logic quite persuasive. Chills came over me at the thought of whose hands I was in. Pugachev noticed my confusion.
“Eh, Your Honor?” he said, winking at me. “My field marshal seems to be talking sense. What do you think?”
Pugachev’s mockery restored my courage. I replied calmly that I was in his power and he was free to do whatever he liked with me.
The interplay between Grinyov and Pugachev is one of Pushkin’s grand inventions. Something that moves b
eneath the world of slaughter and human conscience binds the two together in a covenant more cavernous than was the murderous intrigue that destroyed Pushkin, according to Lermontov (who never met Pushkin) and others.
Grinyov sounds the perfect chord to maintain his bond with Pugachev:
“Ah! I almost forgot to thank you for the horse and the coat. Without you I wouldn’t have made it to the town and would have frozen on the way.”
My ruse worked. Pugachev cheered up.
“One good turn deserves another,” he said, winking and narrowing his eyes. “Tell me now, what have you got to do with the girl Shvabrin’s mistreating? Not the darling of a young lad’s heart, is she?”
“She’s my bride-to-be,” I replied to Pugachev, seeing the weather change for the better and finding no need to conceal the truth.
“Your bride-to-be!” cried Pugachev. “Why didn’t you say so before? We’ll get you married and feast at your wedding!” Then, turning to Beloborodov: “Listen, Field Marshal! His honor and I are old friends; let’s sit down and have supper; morning’s wiser than evening. Tomorrow we’ll see what we’ll do with him.”
I would have been glad to decline the proposed honor, but there was no help for it. Two young Cossack women, the daughters of the cottage’s owner, covered the table with a white tablecloth, brought some bread, fish soup, and several bottles of vodka and beer, and for the second time I found myself sharing a meal with Pugachev and his frightful comrades.
Released with Masha, Grinyov finds precarious refuge with his old parents, only to find them besieged by their own serfs under the leadership of Shvabrin and a few other Pugachev varlets. Shvabrin, authentic villain of The Captain’s Daughter, has been compared to Iago, but on the scale of Othello’s malignant Ancient, Shvabrin is no more than a water bug. A dreadful creature, he is moved by lust for Grinyov’s beloved Masha, the captain’s daughter. Rebuffed by her, he fights a duel with Grinyov and wounds the noble protagonist. Joining Pugachev’s thugs, he preserves himself and hopes to ravish Masha. In time, Pushkin keeps score on him:
Just then we heard several voices outside the door. I silently made a sign to my mother and Marya Ivanovna to retreat into a corner, drew my sword, and leaned against the wall right next to the door. My father took the pistols, cocked them both, and stood beside me. The padlock clacked, the door opened, and the bailiff’s head appeared. I struck it with my sword and he fell, blocking the entrance. At the same moment my father fired a pistol through the doorway. The crowd besieging us ran off cursing. I dragged the wounded man across the threshold and bolted the door from inside. The yard was full of armed men. Among them I recognized Shvabrin.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said to the women. “There’s hope. And you, father, don’t shoot again. Let’s save the last shot.”
Mother silently prayed to God; Marya Ivanovna stood beside her, waiting with angelic calm for our fate to be decided. Outside the door we heard threats, abuse, and curses. I stood in my place, ready to cut down the first daredevil to come in. Suddenly the villains fell silent. I heard the voice of Shvabrin calling me by name.
“I’m here. What do you want?”
“Surrender, Grinyov, it’s useless to resist. Have pity on your old ones. Obstinacy won’t save you. I’m going to get you all!”
“Just try it, traitor!”
“I won’t risk my neck for nothing, or waste my people’s lives. I’ll order them to set the granary on fire, and then we’ll see what you do, Don Quixote of Belogorsk. It’s dinnertime now. Sit there for a while and think things over at your leisure. Good-bye, Marya Ivanovna, I won’t apologize to you: you’re probably not bored there in the dark with your knight.”
Shvabrin went away and left a guard by the granary. We were silent. Each of us was thinking to himself, not daring to share his thoughts with the others. I imagined all that the resentful Shvabrin was capable of inflicting on us. I cared little about myself. Shall I confess it? Even my parents’ lot did not horrify me so much as the fate of Marya Ivanovna. I knew that my mother was adored by the peasants and the house serfs; that my father, for all his strictness, was also loved, for he was a fair man and knew the true needs of the people subject to him. Their rebellion was a delusion, a momentary drunkenness, not the expression of their indignation. Here mercy was likely. But Marya Ivanovna? What lot had the depraved and shameless man prepared for her? I did not dare to dwell on that horrible thought, and prepared myself, God forgive me, sooner to kill her than to see her a second time in the hands of the cruel enemy.
About another hour went by. There was drunken singing in the village. Our guards were envious and, vexed with us, swore and taunted us with torture and death. We awaited the sequel to Shvabrin’s threats. Finally there came a big commotion in the yard, and again we heard Shvabrin’s voice:
“So, have you made up your mind? Do you voluntarily surrender to me?”
No one answered him. Having waited a little, Shvabrin ordered straw brought. After a few minutes, a burst of fire lit up the dark granary, and smoke began to make its way through the chink under the door. Then Marya Ivanovna came to me and, taking me by the hand, said softly:
“Enough, Pyotr Andreich! Don’t destroy yourself and your parents on account of me. Let me out. Shvabrin will listen to me.”
“Not for anything,” I cried hotly. “Do you know what awaits you?”
“I won’t survive dishonor,” she replied calmly. “But maybe I’ll save my deliverer and the family that so magnanimously sheltered a poor orphan. Farewell, Andrei Petrovich. Farewell, Avdotya Vasilyevna. You were more than benefactors to me. Give me your blessing. Farewell and forgive me, Pyotr Andreevich. Be assured that…that…” Here she burst into tears and buried her face in her hands…I was like a madman. My mother wept.
“Enough nonsense, Marya Ivanovna,” said my father. “Who is going to let you go to these brigands alone? Sit here and be quiet. If we’re going to die, we’ll die together. Listen, what are they saying now?”
“Do you surrender?” Shvabrin shouted. “See? In five minutes you’ll be roasted.”
“We don’t surrender, villain!” my father answered him in a firm voice.
His face, covered with wrinkles, was animated by astonishing courage, his eyes flashed menacingly under his gray eyebrows. And, turning to me, he said:
“Now’s the time!”
He opened the door. Flames burst in and shot up the beams caulked with dry moss. My father fired his pistol and stepped across the blazing threshold, shouting: “Everyone, follow me!” I seized my mother and Marya Ivanovna by the hands and quickly led them outside. By the threshold lay Shvabrin, shot down by my father’s decrepit hand; the crowd of brigands, who fled before our unexpected sortie, at once took courage and began to surround us. I still managed to deal several blows, but a well-thrown brick struck me full in the chest. I fell down and lost consciousness for a moment. On coming to, I saw Shvabrin sitting on the bloody grass, and before him our whole family. I was supported under the arms. The crowd of peasants, Cossacks, and Bashkirs stood around us. Shvabrin was terribly pale. He pressed one hand to his wounded side. His face expressed suffering and spite. He slowly raised his head, looked at me, and pronounced in a weak and indistinct voice:
“Hang him…hang all of them…except her…”
The crowd of villains surrounded us at once and, shouting, dragged us to the gates. But suddenly they abandoned us and scattered; through the gates rode Zurin and behind him his entire squadron with drawn swords.
All’s well that ends well except that the recuperated Shvabrin testifies to Grinyov’s apparent collaboration with Pugachev. To protect Masha from any recrimination, quixotic Grinyov refuses to defend himself. All’s well then ends well, because Pushkin shrewdly borrows from Sir Walter Scott’s The Heart of Midlothian (1818), where Jeanie Deans travels, frequently by foot
, from Edinburgh to London, in order to prevail upon the Duke of Argyle to persuade Queen Caroline to pardon her sister Effie. Falsely accused of infanticide, Effie would have been executed, but Jeanie Deans is successful.
On that model, Pushkin suddenly allows Masha’s personality to flower. On her own initiative, she moves to save Grinyov by requesting an audience with Catherine the Great. That complex monarch, pretending to be only a court lady, rather plainly dressed, is persuaded by Masha and reprieves Grinyov. She does much more. Masha has lost her father and mother to Pugachev’s ruffians, and the Empress Catherine is lavish in financial compensation.
Pushkin has to have the final words:
The notes of Pyotr Andreevich Grinyov end here. From family tradition it is known that he was released from prison at the end of 1774, by imperial order; that he was present at the execution of Pugachev, who recognized him in the crowd and nodded to him with his head, which a moment later was shown, dead and bloodied, to the people. Soon afterwards Pyotr Andreevich married Marya Ivanovna. Their descendants still prosper in Simbirsk province. Twenty miles from *** there is a village belonging to ten landowners. In one wing of the manor house a letter in the hand of Catherine II is displayed under glass and in a frame. It was written to Pyotr Andreevich’s father and contains the vindication of his son and praise of the mind and heart of Captain Mironov’s daughter. Pyotr Andreevich Grinyov’s manuscript was furnished us by one of his grandsons, who learned that we were occupied with a work related to the time described by his grandfather. We have decided, with the family’s permission, to publish it separately, having found a suitable epigraph for each chapter and allowed ourselves to change some proper names.
Bright Book of Life : Novels to Read and Reread (9780525657279) Page 11