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 ha
d 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 str
ange 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.”
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