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  Two veterans began undressing the Bashkir. The unfortunate man’s face expressed anxiety. He looked about him like some wild creature caught by children. But when the old man was made to put his hands round the veteran’s neck and was lifted off the ground and Yulay brandished the whip, the Bashkir groaned in a weak, imploring voice, and, nodding his head, opened his mouth in which a short stump could be seen instead of a tongue.

  When I recall that this happened in my lifetime and that now I have lived to see the gentle reign of the Emperor Alexander, I cannot but marvel at the rapid progress of enlightenment and the diffusion of humane principles. Young man! If my notes ever fall into your hands, remember that the best and most permanent changes are those due to the softening of manners and morals and not to any violent upheavals.

  It was a shock to all of us.

  “Well,” said the Commandant, “we evidently cannot learn much from him. Yulay, take the Bashkir back to the storehouse. We have a few more things to talk over, gentlemen.”

  We began discussing our position when suddenly Vasilisa Yegorovna came into the room, breathless and looking extremely alarmed.

  “What is the matter with you?” the Commandant asked in surprise.

  “My dear, dreadful news!” Vasilisa Yegorovna answered. “The Nizhneozerny fortress was taken this morning. Father Gerasim’s servant has just returned from there. He saw it being taken. The Commandant and all the officers were hanged. All the soldiers were taken prisoners. The villains may be here any minute.”

  The unexpected news was a great shock to me. I knew the Commandant of the Nizhneozerny fortress, a modest and quiet young man; some two months before he had put up at Ivan Kuzmich’s on his way from Orenburg with his young wife. The Nizhneozerny fortress was some fifteen miles from our fortress. Pugachov might attack us any moment now. I vividly imagined Marya Ivanovna’s fate and my heart sank.

  “Listen, Ivan Kuzmich,” I said to the Commandant, “it is our duty to defend the fortress to our last breath; this goes without saying. But we must think of the women’s safety. Send them to Orenburg if the road is still free, or to some reliable fortress farther away out of the villain’s reach.”

  Ivan Kuzmich turned to his wife and said: “I say, my dear, hadn’t I indeed better send you and Masha away while we settle the rebels?”

  “Oh, nonsense!” she replied. “No fortress is safe from bullets. What’s wrong with the Belogorsky? We have lived in it for twenty-two years, thank Heaven! We have seen the Bashkirs and the Kirghiz; God willing, Pugachov won’t harm us either.”

  “Well, my dear,” Ivan Kuzmich replied, “stay if you like, since you rely on our fortress. But what are we to do about Masha? It is all very well if we ward them off or last out till reinforcements come; but what if the villains take the fortress?”

  “Well, then …”

  Vasilisa Yegorovna stopped with an air of extreme agitation.

  “No, Vasilisa Yegorovna,” the Commandant continued, noting that his words had produced an effect perhaps for the first time in his life, “it is not fit for Masha to stay here. Let us send her to Orenburg, to her godmother’s: there are plenty of soldiers there, and enough artillery and a stone wall. And I would advise you to go with her: you may be an old woman, but you’ll see what they’ll do to you, if they take the fortress.”

  “Very well,” said the Commandant’s wife, “so be it, let us send Masha away. But don’t you dream of asking me—I won’t go; I wouldn’t think of parting from you in my old age and seeking a lonely grave far away. Live together, die together.”

  “There is something in that,” said the Commandant. “Well, we must not waste time. You had better get Masha ready for the journey. We will send her at daybreak tomorrow and give her an escort, though we have no men to spare. But where is Masha?”

  “At Akulina Pamfilovna’s,” the Commandant’s wife answered. “She fainted when she heard about the Nizhneozerny being taken; I am afraid of her falling ill.”

  Vasilisa Yegorovna went to see about her daughter’s departure. The conversation continued, but I took no part in it, and did not listen. Marya Ivanovna came in to supper, pale and with tear-stained eyes. We ate supper in silence and rose from the table sooner than usual; saying good-bye to the family, we went to our lodgings. But I purposely left my sword behind and went back for it; I had a feeling that I should find Marya Ivanovna alone. Indeed, she met me at the door and handed me my sword.

  “Good-bye, Pyotr Andreyich,” she said to me, with tears. “I am being sent to Orenburg. May you live and be happy; perhaps God will grant that we meet again, and if not …”

  She broke into sobs; I embraced her.

  “Good-bye, my angel,” I said, “good-bye, my sweet, my darling! Whatever happens to me, believe that my last thought and my last prayer will be for you!”

  Masha sobbed with her head on my shoulder. I kissed her ardently and hastened out of the room.

  VII

  THE ATTACK

  Oh, my poor head, a soldier’s head!

  It served the Czar truly and faithfully

  For thirty years and three years more.

  It won for itself neither gold nor joy,

  No word of praise and no high rank.

  All it has won is a gallows high

  With a cross-beam made of maple wood

  And a noose of twisted silk.

  A FOLK SONG

  I DID not undress or sleep that night. I intended to go at dawn to the fortress gate from which Marya Ivanovna was to start on her journey, and there to say good-bye to her for the last time. I was conscious of a great change in myself; the agitation of my mind was much less oppressive than the gloom in which I had but recently been plunged. The grief of parting was mingled with vague but delicious hope, with eager expectation of danger and a feeling of noble ambition. The night passed imperceptibly. I was on the point of going out when my door opened and the corporal came to tell me that our Cossacks had left the fortress in the night, taking Yulay with them by force, and that strange men were riding about outside the fortress. The thought that Marya Ivanovna might not have time to leave terrified me; I hastily gave a few instructions to the corporal and rushed off to the Commandant’s.

  It was already daybreak. As I ran down the street I heard someone calling me. I stopped.

  “Where are you going?” Ivan Ignatyich asked, overtaking me. “Ivan Kuzmich is on the rampart and has sent me for you. Pugachov has come.”

  “Has Marya Ivanovna left?” I asked, with a sinking heart.

  “She has not had time,” Ivan Ignatyich answered. “The road to Orenburg is cut off; the fortress is surrounded. It is a bad lookout, Pyotr Andreyich!”

  We went to the rampart—a natural rise in the ground reinforced by palisading. All the inhabitants of the fortress were crowding there. The garrison stood under arms. The cannon had been moved there the day before. The Commandant was walking up and down in front of his small detachment. The presence of danger inspired the old soldier with extraordinary vigor. Some twenty men on horseback were riding to and fro in the steppe not far from the fortress. They seemed to be Cossacks, but there were Bashkirs among them, easily recognized by their lynx caps and quivers. The Commandant walked through the ranks, saying to the soldiers: “Well, children, let us stand up for our Empress and prove to all the world that we are brave and loyal men!” The soldiers loudly expressed their zeal. Shvabrin stood next to me, looking intently at the enemy. Noticing the commotion in the fortress, the horsemen in the steppe met together and began talking. The Commandant told Ivan Ignatyich to aim the cannon at the group and fired it himself. The cannonball flew with a buzzing sound over their heads without doing any damage. The horsemen dispersed and instantly galloped away, and the steppe was empty.

  At that moment Vasilisa Yegorovna appeared on the rampart, followed by Masha, who would not leave her.

  “Well, what’s happening?” the Commandant’s wife asked. “How is the battle going? Where is the enemy?”<
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  “The enemy is not far,” Ivan Kuzmich answered. “God willing, all shall be well. Well, Masha, aren’t you afraid?”

  “No, Father,” Marya Ivanovna answered. “It is worse at home by myself.”

  She looked at me and made an effort to smile. I clasped the hilt of my sword, remembering that the day before I had received it from her hands, as though for the protection of my lady love. My heart was glowing, I fancied myself her knight. I longed to prove that I was worthy of her trust and waited impatiently for the decisive moment.

  Just then fresh crowds of horsemen appeared from behind a hill that was less than half a mile from the fortress, and soon the steppe was covered with a multitude of men armed with spears and bows and arrows. A man in a red coat, with a bare sword in his hand, was riding among them mounted on a white horse: it was Pugachov. He stopped; the others surrounded him. Four men galloped at full speed, evidently at his command, right up to the fortress. We recognized them as our own treacherous Cossacks. One of them was holding a sheet of paper over his cap; another carried on the point of his spear Yulay’s head, which he shook off and threw to us over the palisade. The poor Kalmuck’s head fell at the Commandant’s feet; the traitors shouted: “Don’t shoot, come out to greet the Czar! The Czar is here!”

  “I’ll give it to you!” Ivan Kuzmich shouted. “Shoot, lads!”

  Our soldiers fired a volley. The Cossack who held the letter reeled and fell off his horse; others galloped away. I glanced at Marya Ivanovna. Horrified by the sight of Yulay’s bloodstained head and stunned by the volley, she seemed dazed. The Commandant called the corporal and told him to take the paper out of the dead Cossack’s hands. The corporal went out into the field and returned leading the dead man’s horse by the bridle. He handed the letter to the Commandant. Ivan Kuzmich read it to himself and then tore it to bits. Meanwhile the rebels were evidently making ready for action. In a few minutes bullets whizzed in our ears, and a few arrows stuck into the ground and the palisade near us.

  “Vasilisa Yegorovna,” said the Commandant, “this is no place for women, take Masha home; you see the girl is more dead than alive.”

  Vasilisa Yegorovna, who had grown quiet when the bullets began to fly, glanced at the steppe where a great deal of movement was noticeable; then she turned to her husband and said: “Ivan Kuzmich, life and death are in God’s hands; bless Masha. Masha, go to your father!”

  Masha, pale and trembling, went up to Ivan Kuzmich, knelt before him, and bowed down to the ground. The old Commandant made the sign of the cross over her three times, then he raised her and, kissing her, said in a changed voice: “Well, Masha, may you be happy. Pray to God; He will not forsake you. If you find a good man, may God give you love and concord. Live as Vasilisa Yegorovna and I have lived. Well, good-bye, Masha. Vasilisa Yegorovna, make haste and take her away!”

  Masha flung her arms round his neck and sobbed.

  “Let us kiss each other, too,” said the Commandant’s wife, bursting into tears. “Good-bye, my Ivan Kuzmich. Forgive me if I have vexed you in any way.”

  “Good-bye, good-bye, my dear,” said the Commandant, embracing his old wife. “Well, that will do! Make haste and go home; and, if you have time, dress Masha in a sarafan.”

  The Commandant’s wife and daughter went away. I followed Marya Ivanovna with my eyes; she looked round and nodded to me. Then Ivan Kuzmich turned to us and all his attention centered on the enemy. The rebels assembled round their leader and suddenly began dismounting.

  “Now, stand firm,” the Commandant said. “They are going to attack.”

  At that moment terrible shouting and yelling was heard; the rebels were running fast toward the fortress. Our cannon was loaded with grapeshot. The Commandant let them come quite near and then fired again. The shot fell right in the middle of the crowd; the rebels scattered and rushed back; their leader alone did not retreat…. He waved his saber and seemed to be persuading them…. The yelling and shouting that had stopped for a moment began again.

  “Well, lads,” the Commandant said, “now open the gates, beat the drum. Forward, lads; come out, follow me!”

  The Commandant, Ivan Ignatyich, and I were instantly beyond the rampart; but the garrison lost their nerve and did not move.

  “Why do you stand still, children?” Ivan Kuzmich shouted. “If we must die, we must—it’s all in the day’s work!”

  At that moment the rebels ran up to us and rushed into the fortress. The drum stopped; the soldiers threw down their rifles; I was knocked down, but got up again and walked into the fortress together with the rebels. The Commandant, wounded in the head, was surrounded by the villains, who demanded the keys; I rushed to his assistance; several burly Cossacks seized me and bound me with their belts, saying: “You will catch it presently, you enemies of the Czar!”

  They dragged us along the streets; the townspeople came out of their houses with offerings of bread and salt. Church bells were ringing. Suddenly they shouted in the crowd that the Czar was awaiting the prisoners in the square and receiving the oath of allegiance. The people rushed to the square; we were driven there also.

  Pugachov was sitting in an armchair on the steps of the Commandant’s house. He was wearing a red Cossack caftan trimmed with gold braid. A tall sable cap with golden tassels was pushed low over his glittering eyes. His face seemed familiar to me. The Cossack elders surrounded him. Father Gerasim, pale and trembling, was standing by the steps with a cross in his hands and seemed to be silently imploring mercy for future victims. Gallows were being hastily put up in the square. As we approached, the Bashkirs dispersed the crowd and brought us before Pugachov. The bells stopped ringing: there was a profound stillness.

  “Which is the Commandant?” the Pretender asked.

  Our Cossack sergeant stepped out of the crowd and pointed to Ivan Kuzmich. Pugachov looked at the old man menacingly and said to him: “How did you dare resist me, your Czar?”

  Exhausted by his wound the Commandant mustered his last strength and answered in a firm voice: “You are not my Czar; you are a thief and an impostor, let me tell you!”

  Pugachov frowned darkly and waved a white handkerchief. Several Cossacks seized the old Captain and dragged him to the gallows. The old Bashkir, whom we had questioned the night before, was sitting astride on the cross-beam. He was holding a rope and a minute later I saw poor Ivan Kuzmich swing in the air. Then Ivan Ignatyich was brought before Pugachov.

  “Take the oath of allegiance to the Czar Peter III!” Pugachov said to him.

  “You are not our monarch,” Ivan Ignatyich answered repeating his captain’s words; “you are a thief and an impostor, my dear!”

  Pugachov waved his handkerchief again, and the good lieutenant swung by the side of his old chief.

  It was my turn next. I boldly looked at Pugachov, making ready to repeat the answer of my noble comrades. At that moment, to my extreme surprise, I saw Shvabrin among the rebellious Cossacks; he was wearing a Cossack coat and had his hair cropped like theirs. He went up to Pugachov and whispered something in his ear.

  “Hang him!” said Pugachov, without looking at me.

  My head was put through the noose. I began to pray silently, sincerely repenting before God of all my sins and begging Him to save all those dear to my heart. I was dragged under the gallows.

  “Never you fear,” the assassins repeated to me, perhaps really wishing to cheer me.

  Suddenly I heard a shout: “Stop, you wretches! Wait!” The hangmen stopped. I saw Savelyich lying at Pugachov’s feet.

  “Dear father,” the poor old man said, “what would a gentle-born child’s death profit you? Let him go; they will give you a ransom for him; and as an example and a warning to others, hang me—an old man!”

  Pugachov made a sign and they instantly untied me and let go of me. “Our father pardons you,” they told me.

  I cannot say that at that moment I rejoiced at being saved; nor would I say that I regretted it. My feelings were too confused.
I was brought before the Pretender once more and made to kneel down. Pugachov stretched out his sinewy hand to me.

  “Kiss his hand, kiss his hand,” people around me said. But I would have preferred the most cruel death to such vile humiliation.

  “Pyotr Andreyich, my dear,” Savelyich whispered, standing behind me and pushing me forward, “don’t be obstinate! What does it matter? Spit and kiss the vill—I mean, kiss his hand!”

  I did not stir. Pugachov let his hand drop, saying with a laugh: “His honor must have gone crazy with joy. Raise him!”

  They pulled me up and left me in peace. I began watching the terrible comedy.

  The townspeople were swearing allegiance. They came up one after another, kissed the cross and then bowed to the Pretender. The garrison soldiers were there, too. The regimental tailor, armed with his blunt scissors, was cutting off their plaits. Shaking themselves they came to kiss Pugachov’s hand; he granted them his pardon and enlisted them in his gang. All this went on for about three hours. At last Pugachov got up from the armchair and came down the steps accompanied by his elders. A white horse in a rich harness was brought to him. Two Cossacks took him by the arms and put him on the horse. He announced to Father Gerasim that he would have dinner at his house. At that moment a woman’s cry was heard. Several brigands had dragged Vasilisa Yegorovna, naked and disheveled, onto the steps. One of them had already donned her coat. Others were carrying featherbeds, boxes, crockery, linen, and all sorts of household goods.

  “My dears, let me go!” the poor old lady cried. “Have mercy, let me go to Ivan Kuzmich!”

  Suddenly she saw the gallows and recognized her husband.

  “Villains!” she cried in a frenzy. “What have you done to him! Ivan Kuzmich, light of my eyes, soldier brave and bold! You came to no harm from Prussian swords, or from Turkish guns; you laid down your life not in a fair combat, but perished from a runaway thief!”

  “Silence the old witch!” said Pugachov.