The Captain's Daughter

by Alexander Pushkin

  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, d
ear 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.”