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  Marya Ivanovna suffered most. She was certain that I could have cleared myself if I had chosen to do so, and, guessing the truth, considered herself the cause of my misfortune. She concealed her tears and sorrow from everyone, but was continually thinking of the means to save me.

  One evening my father was sitting on the sofa turning over the leaves of the Court Calendar, but his thoughts were far away and the reading did not have its usual effect upon him. He was whistling an old march. My mother was knitting a woolen coat in silence, and now and again a tear dropped on her work. Suddenly Marya Ivanovna, who sat by her doing needlework, said that it was necessary for her to go to Petersburg, and asked for the means of traveling there. My mother was very much grieved.

  “What do you want in Petersburg?” she said. “Can it be that you, too, want to leave us, Marya Ivanovna?”

  Marya Ivanovna answered that her whole future depended upon this journey and that she was going to seek the help and protection of influential people, as the daughter of a man who had suffered for his loyalty.

  My father bent his head: every word that reminded him of his son’s alleged crime pained him and seemed to him a bitter reproach.

  “Go, my dear,” he said to her, with a sigh. “We don’t want to stand in the way of your happiness. God grant you may have a good man for a husband and not a disgraced traitor.”

  He got up and walked out of the room.

  Left alone with my mother, Marya Ivanovna partly explained her plan to her. My mother embraced her with tears and prayed for the success of her undertaking. Marya Ivanovna was made ready for the journey, and a few days later she set off with the faithful Palasha and the faithful Savelyich, who in his enforced parting from me comforted himself with the thought that, at least, he was serving my betrothed.

  Marya Ivanovna safely arrived at Sofia and, hearing that the Court was at Czarkoe Selo, decided to stop there. At the postingstation, a tiny recess behind the partition was assigned to her. The stationmaster’s wife immediately got into conversation with her, said that she was the niece of the man who tended the stoves at the Palace, and initiated her into the mysteries of Court life. She told her at what time the Empress woke up in the morning, took coffee, went for walks; what courtiers were with her at the time; what she had said at dinner the day before; whom she had received in the evening. In short, Anna Vlasyevna’s conversation was as good as several pages of historical memoirs and would have been precious for posterity. Marya Ivanovna listened to her attentively. They went into the gardens. Anna Vlasyevna told the history of every avenue and every bridge, and they returned to the station after a long walk, much pleased with each other.

  Marya Ivanovna woke up early the next morning, dressed, and slipped out into the gardens. It was a beautiful morning; the sun was lighting the tops of the lime trees that had already turned yellow under the fresh breath of autumn. The broad lake, without a ripple on it, glittered in the sunlight. The stately swans, just awake, came sailing out from under the bushes that covered the banks. Marya Ivanovna walked along a beautiful meadow where a monument had just been put up in honor of Count Rumyantzev’s recent victories. Suddenly a little white dog of English breed ran toward her, barking. Marya Ivanovna was frightened and stood still. At that moment she heard a woman’s pleasant voice: “Don’t be afraid, he won’t bite.”

  And Marya Ivanovna saw a lady sitting on a bench opposite the monument. Marya Ivanovna sat down at the other end of the bench. The lady was looking at her attentively; Marya Ivanovna, in her turn, cast several sidelong glances at her and succeeded in examining her from head to foot. She was wearing a white morning dress, a nightcap, and a Russian jacket. She seemed to be about forty. Her plump and rosy face wore an expression of calm and dignity, her blue eyes and slight smile had an indescribable charm. The lady was the first to break the silence.

  “I expect you are a stranger here?” she asked.

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

  “Have you come with your relatives?”

  “No, madam; I have come alone.”

  “Alone! But you are so young….”

  “I have neither father nor mother.”

  “You are here on business, of course?”

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

  “You are an orphan; I suppose you are complaining of some wrong or injustice?”

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

  “Allow me to ask, What is your name?”

  “I am Captain Mironov’s daughter.”

  “Captain Mironov’s! The man who was Commandant in one of the Orenburg fortresses?”

  “Yes, madam.”

  The lady was evidently touched.

  “Excuse me,” she said, still more kindly, “for interfering in your affairs, but I go to Court sometimes; tell me what your petition is and perhaps I may be able to help you.”

  Marya Ivanovna got up and respectfully thanked her.

  Everything in the unknown lady instinctively attracted her and inspired her with confidence. Marya Ivanovna took a folded paper out of her pocket and gave it to the lady, who began reading it to herself.

  At first she read with an attentive and kindly air, but suddenly her expression changed, and Marya Ivanovna, who was watching her every movement, was frightened at the stern look on her face, so calm and pleasant a moment before.

  “You are interceding for Grinyov?” the lady said coldly. “The Empress cannot forgive him. He joined the Pretender not from ignorance and credulity, but as a dangerous and immoral scoundrel.”

  “Oh, it isn’t true!” Marya Ivanovna cried.

  “How, it isn’t true?” the lady repeated, flushing crimson.

  “It isn’t true; I swear to God it isn’t! I know all about it; I will tell you everything. It was solely for my sake that he went through it all. And if he hasn’t cleared himself before the judges, it was only because he did not want to implicate me.”

  And she told, with great warmth, all that is already known to the reader.

  The lady listened to her attentively.

  “Where have you put up?” she asked, and hearing that it was at Anna Vlasyevna’s, said, with a smile: “Ah, I know. Good-bye, do not tell anyone of our meeting. I hope you will not have long to wait for an answer to your letter.”

  With these words, she rose and went into a covered alley and Marya Ivanovna, full of joyous hope, returned to Anna Vlasyevna’s.

  Her landlady chided her for her early walk which, she said, was not good for a young girl’s health, as it was autumn. She brought the samovar and just began, over a cup of tea, her endless stories about the Court, when suddenly a Court carriage stopped at the door and a footman from the Palace came into the room, saying that the Empress invited Miss Mironov to her presence.

  Anna Vlasyevna was surprised and flurried.

  “Dear me!” she cried. “The Empress sends for you to come to the Palace! How has she heard of you? And how are you going to appear before the Empress, my dear? I expect you know nothing about Court manners … Hadn’t I better go with you? I could warn you about some things, at any rate. And how can you go in your traveling dress? Hadn’t we better send to the midwife for her yellow gown?”

  The footman announced that it was the Empress’ pleasure that Marya Ivanovna should come alone and as she was. There was nothing else for it; Marya Ivanovna stepped into the carriage and drove to the Palace accompanied by Anna Vlasyevna’s admonitions and blessings.

  Marya Ivanovna felt that our fate was going to be decided; her heart was throbbing. A few minutes later the carriage stopped at the Palace. Marya Ivanovna walked up the stairs, trembling. The doors were flung wide open before her. She walked through a number of deserted, luxuriously furnished rooms; the footman was pointing out the way. At last, coming to a closed door, he said he would go in and announce her, and left her alone.

  The thought of seeing the Empress face to face so terr
ified her that she could hardly keep on her feet. In another minute the door opened and she walked into the Empress’ dressing room.

  The Empress was seated in front of her dressing table. Several courtiers were standing round her, but they respectfully made way for Marya Ivanovna. The Empress turned to her kindly and Marya Ivanovna recognized her as the lady to whom she had been talking so freely not many minutes before. The Empress called her to her side and said, with a smile: “I am glad that I have been able to keep my promise to you and to grant your request. Your case is settled. I am convinced that your betrothed is innocent. Here is a letter which please take yourself to your future father-in-law.”

  Marya Ivanovna took the letter with a trembling hand and fell, weeping, at the feet of the Empress, who lifted her up, kissed her and engaged her in conversation.

  “I know you are not rich,” she said, “but I am in debt to Captain Mironov’s daughter. Do not worry about the future. I will provide for you.”

  After saying many kind things to the poor orphan, the Empress dismissed her. Marya Ivanovna was driven back in the same Court carriage. Anna Vlasyevna, who had been eagerly awaiting her return, bombarded her with questions, to which Marya Ivanovna answered rather vaguely. Anna Vlasyevna was disappointed at her remembering so little, but ascribed it to provincial shyness and generously excused her. Marya Ivanovna went back to the country that same day, without troubling to have a look at Petersburg….

  The memoirs of Pyotr Andreyich Grinyov end at this point. It is known from the family tradition that he was released from confinement at the end of 1774, at the express order of the Empress; that he was present at the execution of Pugachov, who recognized him in the crowd and nodded to him a minute before his lifeless, bleeding head was held up before the people. Soon after, Pyotr Andreyich married Marya Ivanovna. Their descendants are flourishing in the Province of Simbirsk. Thirty miles from N. there is an estate belonging to ten owners. In one of the lodges a letter written by Catherine II may be seen in a frame under glass. It is addressed to Pyotr Andreyich’s father; it affirms the innocence of his son and praises the heart and intelligence of Captain Mironov’s daughter.

  Pyotr Andreyich Grinyov’s memoirs have been given to us by one of his grandchildren who had heard that we were engaged upon a work dealing with the period described by his grandfather. With the relatives’ consent, we have decided to publish it separately, prefixing a suitable epigraph to each chapter and taking the liberty to change some of the proper names.

  THE EDITOR

  October 19, 1836

  * To be a teacher (TRANSLATOR’S NOTE).

  † A padded or fur-lined jacket, with or without sleeves (EDITOR’S NOTE).

  ‡ Sumarokov, 1718–77, an early Russian poet of the pseudo-classical school (TRANSLATOR’S NOTE).

  § One of the early Russian writers of poetry, remarkable for his unwearying zeal and utter lack of talent (TRANSLATOR’S NOTE).

  ‖ Pseudo-Demetrius I, an alleged impostor who ruled Russia in 1605–1606 (EDITOR’S NOTE).

  a Leaders of the Russian party against Bühren, the German favorite of the Empress Anna (TRANSLATOR’S NOTE).

  The Captain’s Daughter

  OMITTED CHAPTER*

  We were approaching the banks of the Volga. Our regiment entered the village of N. and halted to spend the night there. The village headman told me that all the villages on the other side had rebelled, and that Pugachov’s bands were prowling about everywhere. I was very much alarmed at this news. We were to cross the river the following morning.

  Impatience possessed me and I could not rest. My father’s estate was on the other side of the river, some twenty miles away. I asked if anyone would row me across. All the peasants were fishermen; there were plenty of boats. I came to Zurin and told him of my intention.

  “Take care,” he said, “it is dangerous for you to go alone. Wait for the morning. We will be the first to cross and will pay a visit to your parents with fifty Hussars in case of emergency.”

  I insisted on going. The boat was ready. I stepped into it with two boatmen. They pushed off and plied their oars.

  The sky was clear. The moon was shining brightly. The air was still. The Volga flowed calmly and evenly. Swaying rhythmically, the boat glided over the dark waves. Half an hour passed. I sank into dreaming. I thought of the calm of nature and horrors of civil war; of love, and so on. We reached the middle of the river…. Suddenly the boatmen began whispering together.

  “What is it?” I asked, coming to myself.

  “Heaven only knows; we can’t tell,” the boatmen answered, looking into the distance.

  I looked in the same direction and saw in the dark something floating down the river. The mysterious object was approaching us. I told the oarsmen to stop and wait.

  The moon hid behind a cloud. The floating phantom seemed darker still. It was quite close to me and yet I could not distinguish it.

  “Whatever can it be?” the boatmen said. “It isn’t a sail nor a mast.”

  Suddenly the moon came out from behind the cloud and lighted a terrible sight. A gallows fixed to a raft was floating toward us. Three corpses were swinging on the cross-bar. A morbid curiosity possessed me. I wanted to look into the hanged men’s faces. I told the oarsmen to hold the raft with a boat-hook, and my boat knocked against the floating gallows. I jumped out and found myself between the terrible posts. The full moon lighted the disfigured faces of the unfortunate creatures…. One of them was an old Chuvash, another a Russian peasant boy of about twenty, strong and healthy. I was shocked when I looked at the third and could not refrain from crying out: it was our servant Vanka—poor Vanka, who, in his foolishness, went over to Pugachov. A black board was nailed over the gallows and had written on it in white letters: “Thieves and rebels.” The oarsmen waited for me, unconcerned, holding the raft with the hook. I stepped into the boat. The raft floated down the river. The gallows showed black in the dim night long after we passed it. At last it disappeared and my boat landed at the high and steep bank.

  I paid the oarsmen handsomely. One of them took me to the headman of the village by the landing stage. We went into the hut together. When the headman heard that I was asking for horses he spoke to me rather rudely, but my guide whispered something to him and his sternness immediately gave way to hurried obsequiousness. The troika was ready in a minute. I stepped into the carriage and told the driver to take me to our estate.

  We galloped along the high road past the sleeping villages. The only thing I feared was being stopped on the way. My night meeting on the Volga proved the presence of rebels in the district, but it also proved the strong counteraction on the part of the authorities. To meet all emergencies I had in my pocket the pass given me by Pugachov and Colonel Zurin’s order. But I did not meet anyone, and, toward morning, I saw the river and the pine copse behind which lay our village. The driver whipped up the horses and in another quarter of an hour I drove into it. Our house stood at the other end. The horses were going at full speed. Suddenly in the middle of the village street the driver began pulling up.

  “What is it?” I asked impatiently.

  “A barrier, sir,” the driver answered, with difficulty bringing the fuming horses to a standstill.

  Indeed, I saw a barrier fixed across the road and a watchman with a club. The man came up to me and, taking off his hat, asked for my passport.

  “What does this mean?” I asked him. “Why is this barrier here? Whom are you guarding?”

  “Why, sir, we are in rebellion,” he answered, scratching himself.

  “And where are your masters?” I asked, with a sinking heart.

  “Where are our masters?” the peasant repeated. “Master and mistress are in the granary.”

  “In the granary?”

  “Why, Andryushka, the headman,† put them in stocks, you see, and wants to take them to our Father Czar.”

  “Good Heaven! Lift the bar, you blockhead! What are you gaping at?”

 
The watchman did not move. I jumped out of the carriage, gave him a box on the ear, I am sorry to say, and lifted the bar myself.

  The peasant looked at me in stupid perplexity. I took my seat in the carriage once more and told the driver to drive to the house as fast as he could. Two peasants, armed with clubs, were standing by the locked doors of the granary. The carriage drew up just in front of them. I jumped out and rushed at them.

  “Open the doors!” I said to them.

  I must have looked formidable, for they threw down their clubs and ran away. I tried to knock the lock off the door or to pick it, but the doors were of oak and the huge lock was unbreakable. At that moment a young peasant came out of the servants’ quarters and haughtily asked me how I dared to make a disturbance.

  “Where is Andryushka, the headman?” I shouted to him. “Call him to me.”

  “I am Andrey Afanasyevich and not Andryushka,” he answered proudly, with his arms akimbo. “What do you want?”

  By way of an answer, I seized him by the collar and, dragging him to the granary doors, told him to open them. He did not comply at once; but the “fatherly” chastisement had due effect upon him. He pulled out the key and unlocked the granary. I rushed over the threshold and saw in a dark corner dimly lighted by a narrow skylight my father and mother. Their hands were tied and their feet were in stocks. I flew to embrace them and could not utter a word. They both looked at me with amazement: three years of military life had so altered me that they could not recognize me.

  Suddenly I heard the sweet voice I knew: “Pyotr Andreyich! It’s you?”

  I turned round and saw Marya Ivanovna in another corner, also bound hand and foot. I was dumbfounded. My father looked at me in silence, not daring to believe his senses. His face lit up with joy.

  “Welcome, Petrusha,” he said, pressing me to his heart. “Thank God, we have lived to see you!”