“Well,” Zurin went on, “so be it! You shall have a lodging, but it’s a pity…. We could have had a gay time, as in the old days…. Hey, boy! Why don’t they bring along Pugachov’s sweetheart? Doesn’t she want to come? Tell her she need not fear, the gentleman is very kind and will do her no harm—and give her a good kick to hurry her up.”
“What are you talking about?” I said to Zurin. “Pugachov’s sweetheart? It is the late Captain Mironov’s daughter. I have rescued her and am now seeing her off to my father’s estate where I shall leave her.”
“What! So it was you they have just announced? Upon my word! What does it all mean?”
“I will tell you afterward. And now for Heaven’s sake reassure the poor girl whom your Hussars have frightened.”
Zurin made arrangements at once. He came out into the street to apologize to Marya Ivanovna for the misunderstanding and told the segeant to give her the best lodging in the town. I was to spend the night with him.
We had supper and when we were left alone I told him my adventures. Zurin listened with great attention. When I had finished, he shook his head and said: “That’s all very good, brother; one thing only is not good: why the devil do you want to be married? I am an honest officer; I would not deceive you; believe me, marriage is a delusion. You don’t want to be bothered with a wife and be nursing babies! Give it up! Do as I tell you: get rid of the Captain’s daughter. The road to Simbirsk is safe now; I have cleared it. Send her tomorrow to your parents by herself and you stay in my detachment. There is no need for you to return to Orenburg. If you fall into the rebels’ hands once more you may not escape this time. And so the love-foolishness will pass of itself and all will be well.”
I did not altogether agree with him, but I felt that I was in duty bound to remain with the army. I decided to follow Zurin’s advice and send Marya Ivanovna to the country while I remained in his detachment.
Savelyich came to undress me; I told him that he must be ready the next day to continue the journey with Marya Ivanovna. He did not want to at first.
“What are you thinking of, sir? How can I leave you? Who will look after you? What will your parents say?”
Knowing Savelyich’s obstinacy I decided to win him by affection and sincerity.
“Arhip Savelyich, my dear!” I said to him. “Don’t refuse. You will be doing me a great kindness. I shall not need a servant, but I shall have no peace if Marya Ivanovna goes on her journey without you. In serving her you will be serving me, because I am determined to marry her as soon as circumstances allow.”
Savelyich clasped his hands with an air of indescribable amazement.
“To marry!” he replied. “The child thinks of marrying! But what will your father say; what will your mother think?”
“They will agree; I am sure they will agree when they know Marya Ivanovna,” I answered. “I rely on you, too. My father and mother trust you; you will intercede for us, won’t you?”
Savelyich was touched.
“Ah, Pyotr Andreyich, dear,” he answered, “though it is much too early for you to think of marrying, Marya Ivanovna is such a good young lady that it would be a sin to miss the opportunity. Have it your own way! I shall go with her, angel that she is, and will tell your parents faithfully that such a bride does not need a dowry.”
I thanked Savelyich and went to bed in the same room with Zurin. My mind was in a turmoil and I talked and talked. At first Zurin answered me readily, but gradually his words became few and disconnected; at last in answer to a question he gave a snore with a whistle in it. I stopped talking and soon followed his example.
Next morning I went to Marya Ivanovna and told her of my plans. She recognized their reasonableness and agreed with me at once. Zurin’s detachment was to leave the town that same day. There was no time to be lost. I said good-bye to Marya Ivanovna there and then, entrusting her to Savelyich and giving her a letter to my parents. Marya Ivanovna wept.
“Good-bye, Pyotr Andreyich,” she said, in a low voice. “God only knows whether we shall meet again; but I will not forget you as long as I live; till death you alone shall remain in my heart.”
I could not answer her. Other people were there. I did not want to abandon myself in their presence to the feelings that agitated me. At last she drove away. I returned to Zurin, sad and silent. He wanted to cheer me; I sought distraction; we spent the day in riotous gaiety and set out on the march in the evening.
It was the end of February. The winter, which had made military operations difficult, was coming to an end, and our generals were preparing for concerted action. Pugachov was still besieging Orenburg. Meanwhile the army detachments around him were joining forces and approaching the brigands’ nest from all sides. Rebellious villages were restored to order at the sight of the soldiers, brigand bands dispersed on our approach, and everything indicated a speedy and successful end of the war.
Soon Prince Golitzyn defeated Pugachov at the Tatishcheva fortress, scattered his hordes, delivered Orenburg and dealt, it seemed, the last and decisive blow to the rebellion. Zurin was at that time sent against a gang of rebellious Bashkirs, who had dispersed before we caught sight of them. Spring found us in a Tatar village. Rivers were in flood and roads impassable. We could do nothing, but comforted ourselves with the thought that the petty and tedious war with brigands and savages would soon be over.
Pugachov was not caught, however. He appeared at the Siberian foundries, collected there fresh bands of followers and began his evil work once more. Again rumors of his success spread abroad. We heard of the fall of the Siberian fortresses. Soon afterward, the army leaders, who slumbered carefree in the hope that the contemptible rebel was powerless, were alarmed by the news of his taking Kazan and advancing toward Moscow. Zurin received an order to cross the Volga.
I will not describe our campaign and the end of the war. I shall say briefly that there was extreme misery. There was no lawful authority anywhere. The landowners were hiding in the forests. Bands of brigands were ransacking the country. The chiefs of separate detachments arbitrarily meted out punishments and granted pardons; the vast region where the conflagration had raged was in a terrible state…. God save us from seeing a Russian revolt, senseless and merciless!
Pugachov was in retreat, pursued by Ivan Ivanovich Michelson. Soon after we learned that he was utterly defeated. At last Zurin heard that he had been captured and at the same time received an order to halt. The war was over! I could go to my parents at last! The thought of embracing them and of seeing Marya Ivanovna, of whom I had had no news, delighted me. I danced with joy like a child. Zurin laughed and said, shrugging his shoulders: “No, you’ll come to a bad end! You will be married and done for!”
And yet a strange feeling poisoned my joy: I could not help being troubled at the thought of the villain smeared with the blood of so many innocent victims and now awaiting his punishment. “Why didn’t he fall on a bayonet? Or get hit with a cannonball?” I thought with vexation. “He could not have done anything better.” What will you have? I could not think of Pugachov without remembering how he had spared me at one of the awful moments of my life and saved my betrothed from the vile Shvabrin’s hands.
Zurin gave me leave of absence. In a few days I was to be once more with my family and see my Marya Ivanovna. Suddenly an unexpected storm burst upon me.
On the day of my departure, at the very minute when I was to go, Zurin came into my room with a paper in his hand, looking very much troubled. My heart sank. I was frightened without knowing why. He sent out my orderly and said he had something to tell me.
“What is it?” I asked anxiously.
“Something rather unpleasant,” he answered, giving me the paper. “Read what I have just received.”
I began reading it: it was a secret order to all commanding officers to arrest me wherever they might find me and to send me at once under escort to Kazan, to the Commission of Inquiry into the Pugachov rising.
The paper almost droppe
d out of my hands.
“There is nothing for it,” Zurin said; “my duty is to obey the order. Probably the news of your friendly journeys with Pugachov has reached the authorities. I hope it will not have any consequences and that you will clear yourself before the Committee. Go, and don’t be downhearted.”
My conscience was clear; I was not afraid of the trial, but the thought of putting off, perhaps for several months the sweet moment of reunion, terrified me. The carriage was ready. Zurin bade me a friendly good-bye. I stepped into the carriage. Two Hussars, with bare swords, sat down beside me and we drove along the high road.
XIV
THE TRIAL
Popular rumor is like a sea-wave.
A PROVERB
I WAS certain it was all due to my leaving Orenburg without permission. I could easily justify myself: sallying out against the enemy had never been prohibited and was, indeed, encouraged in every way. I might be accused of too great rashness, but not of disobedience. My friendly relations with Pugachov, however, could be proved by a number of witnesses and must have seemed highly suspicious, to say the least of it. Throughout the journey I kept thinking of the questions I might be asked and pondering my answers; I decided to tell the plain truth at the trial, believing that this was the simplest and, at the same time, the most certain way of justifying myself.
I arrived at Kazan; it had been devastated and burned down. Instead of houses there were heaps of cinders in the streets and remnants of charred walls without roofs or windows. Such was the trail left by Pugachov! I was brought to the fortress that had remained intact in the midst of the burned city. The Hussars passed me on to the officer in charge. He called for the blacksmith. Shackles were put on my feet and soldered together. Then I was taken to the prison and left alone in the dark and narrow cell with bare walls and a window with iron bars.
Such a beginning boded nothing good. I did not, however, lose either hope or courage. I had recourse to the comfort of all the sorrowful and, having tasted for the first time the sweetness of prayer poured out from a pure but bleeding heart, dropped calmly asleep without caring what would happen to me.
The next morning the warder woke me up, saying I was wanted by the Commission. Two soldiers took me across the yard to the Commandant’s house; they stopped in the entry and let me go into the inner room by myself.
I walked into a rather large room. Two men were sitting at a table covered with papers: an elderly general who looked cold and forbidding and a young captain of the Guards, a good-looking man of about twenty-eight, with a pleasant and easy manner. A secretary, with a pen behind his ear, sat at a separate table, bending over the paper in readiness to write down my answers. The examination began. I was asked my name and rank. The General asked whether I was the son of Andrey Petrovich Grinyov. When I said I was, he remarked severely: “It is a pity that so estimable a man has such an unworthy son!”
I calmly answered that whatever the accusation against me might be, I hoped to clear myself by candidly telling the truth. The General did not like my confidence.
“You are sharp, brother,” he said to me, frowning; “but we have seen cleverer ones than you!” Then the young man asked me: “On what occasion and at what time did you enter Pugachov’s service, and on what commissions did he employ you?”
I answered, with indignation, that as an officer and a gentleman I could not possibly have entered Pugachov’s service or have carried out any commissions of his.
“How was it, then,” my questioner continued, “that an officer and a gentleman was alone spared by the Pretender while all his comrades were villainously murdered? How was it that this same officer and gentleman feasted with the rebels, as their friend, and accepted presents from the villain—a sheepskin coat, a horse, and fifty kopecks in money? How had such a strange friendship arisen and what could it be based upon except treason or, at any rate, upon base and vile cowardice?”
I was deeply offended by the officer’s words and warmly began my defense. I told them how I had first met Pugachov in the steppe in the snowstorm, and how he recognized and spared me at the taking of the Belogorsky fortress. I admitted that I had not scrupled to accept from the Pretender the horse and the sheepskin coat, but said that I had defended the Belogorsky fortress against him to the last extremity. At last I referred them to my General, who could testify to my zealous service during the perilous Orenburg siege.
The stern old man took an unsealed letter from the table and began reading it aloud:
“With regard to Your Excellency’s inquiry concerning Ensign Grinyov, said to be involved in the present insurrection and to have had relations with the villain, contrary to the military law and to our oath of allegiance, I have the honor to report as follows: The said Ensign Grinyov served at Orenburg from the beginning of October, 1773, to February 24, 1774, upon which date he left the city and returned no more to serve under my command. I have heard from refugees that he had been in Pugachov’s camp and went with him to the Belogorsky fortress, where he had served before; as to his conduct, I can …”
At this point he interrupted his reading and said to me sternly: “What can you say for yourself now?”
I wanted to go on as I had begun and to explain my connection with Marya Ivanovna as candidly as all the rest, but I suddenly felt an overwhelming repulsion. It occurred to me that if I mentioned her, she would be summoned by the Commission; and I was so overcome at the awful thought of connecting her name with the vile slanders of the villains, and of her being confronted with them, that I became confused and hesitated.
My judges, who seemed to have been listening to me with favor, were once more prejudiced against me by my confusion. The officer of the Guards asked that I should be faced with the chief informer. The General gave word that yesterday’s villain should be brought in. I turned to the door with interest, waiting for the appearance of my accuser. A few minutes later there was a rattle of chains, the door opened, and Shvabrin walked in. I was surprised at the change in him. He was terribly pale and thin. His hair that had a short time ago been black as pitch was now white; his long beard was unkempt. He repeated his accusations in a weak but confident voice. According to him I had been sent by Pugachov to Orenburg as a spy; under the pretext of sallies, I had come out every day to give him written news of all that was happening in the town; at last I had openly joined the Pretender, had driven with him from fortress to fortress, doing my utmost to ruin my fellow-traitors so as to occupy their posts, and had taken presents from the Pretender. I heard him out in silence and was pleased with one thing only: Marya Ivanovna’s name had not been uttered by the base villain, either because his vanity suffered at the thought of one who had scorned him, or because there lingered in his heart a spark of the same feeling which made me keep silent about her. In any case, the name of the Belogorsky Commandant’s daughter was not mentioned before the Commission. I was more determined than ever not to bring it up, and when the judges asked me how I could disprove Shvabrin’s accusations, I answered that I adhered to my original explanation and had nothing more to say in my defense. The General gave word for us to be led away. We went out together. I calmly looked at Shvabrin, but did not say a word to him. He gave a malignant smile and, lifting his chains, quickened his pace and left me behind. I was taken back to prison and not called for examination anymore.
I have not witnessed the subsequent events of which I must inform the reader; but I had them told me so often that the least details are engraved on my memory and I feel as though I had been invisibly present.
Marya Ivanovna had been received by my parents with that sincere cordiality which distinguished people in former days. They held it to be a blessing that they had been afforded the opportunity of sheltering and comforting the poor orphan. They soon became truly attached to her, for it was impossible to know her and not to love her. My love for her no longer seemed to my father a mere whim, and my mother had but one wish—that her Petrusha should marry that dear creature, the Captain�
�s daughter.
The news of my arrest was a shock to my family. Marya Ivanovna had told my parents of my strange acquaintance with Pugachov so simply that, so far from being troubled about it, they often laughed at it with whole-hearted amusement. My father refused to believe that I could have been implicated in vile rebellion the aim of which was to overthrow the throne and exterminate the gentry. He closely questioned Savelyich. The old man did not conceal the fact that I had been to see Pugachov and that the villain had been kind to me; but he swore that he had not heard of any treason. My parents were reassured and waited impatiently for favorable news. Marya Ivanovna was very much alarmed but said nothing, for she was extremely modest and prudent.
Several weeks passed…. Suddenly my father received a letter from our relative in Petersburg, Prince B. The Prince wrote about me. After beginning in the usual way he went on to say that, unfortunately, the suspicions about my complicity in the rebels’ designs proved to be only too true and that I should have been put to death as an example to others had not the Empress, in consideration of my father’s merits and advanced age, decided to spare the criminal son and commuted the shameful death penalty to a mere exile for life to a remote part of Siberia.
This unexpected blow very nearly killed my father. He lost his habitual self-control, and his grief, usually silent, found expression in bitter complaints.
“What!” he repeated, beside himself. “My son is an accomplice of Pugachov’s! Merciful heavens, what have I lived to see! The Empress reprieves him! Does that make it any better for me? It’s not the death penalty that is terrible. My great-grandfather died on the scaffold for what was to him a matter of conscience; my father suffered, together with Volynsky and Khrushchov.a But for a gentleman to betray his oath of allegiance and join brigands, murderers and runaway serfs! Shame and disgrace to our name!”
Terrified by his despair, my mother did not dare to weep in his presence and tried to cheer him by talking of the uncertainty of rumor and the small faith to be attached to people’s opinions. My father was inconsolable.
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