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  “What nonsense is this?” Pugachov interrupted him. “What do I care about tea sets and frilled cuffs and trousers?”

  Savelyich cleared his throat and began explaining: “Well, you see, sir, this is a list of my master’s goods stolen by the villains….”

  “What villains?” Pugachov said menacingly.

  “I am sorry; it was a slip of the tongue,” Savelyich answered. “They are not villains, of course, your men, but they rummaged about and took these things. Don’t be angry: a horse has four legs and yet it stumbles. Tell him to read to the end anyway.”

  “Read on,” Pugachov said.

  The secretary continued: “A cotton bedspread, a silk eiderdown, worth four rubles. A red cloth coat lined with fox fur, worth forty rubles. Also a hareskin jacket given to your honor at the inn, worth fifteen rubles….”

  “What next!” Pugachov shouted, with blazing eyes.

  I confess I was alarmed for Savelyich. He was about to give more explanations, but Pugachov interrupted him.

  “How dare you trouble me with such trifles!” he cried, seizing the paper from the secretary’s hands and throwing it in Savelyich’s face. “Stupid old man! They have been robbed—as though it mattered! Why, you old dodderer, you ought to pray for the rest of your life for me and my men, and thank your stars that you and your master are not swinging here together with those who rebelled against me…. Hareskin jacket, indeed! I’ll give you a hareskin jacket! Why, I’ll have you flayed alive and make a jacket of your skin!”

  “As you please,” Savelyich answered. “But I am a bondman, and have to answer for my master’s property.”

  Pugachov was evidently in a generous mood. He turned away and rode off without saying another word. Shvabrin and the Cossack elders followed him. The gang left the fortress in an orderly fashion. The townspeople walked out some distance after Pugachov. Savelyich and I were left alone in the square. He was holding the paper in his hands, and examining it with an air of deep regret.

  Seeing that I was on good terms with Pugachov, he had decided to take advantage of it; but his wise intention did not meet with success. I tried to scold him for his misplaced zeal, but could not help laughing.

  “It’s all very well to laugh, sir,” Savelyich answered. “It won’t be so amusing when we shall have to buy everything afresh!”

  I hastened to the priest’s house to see Marya Ivanovna. The priest’s wife had bad news for me. In the night Marya Ivanovna had developed a fever. She lay unconscious and delirious. Akulina Pamfilovna took me into her room. I walked quietly to the bedside. The change in her face struck me. She did not know me. I stood beside her for some time without listening to Father Gerasim and his kind wife, who were, I think, trying to comfort me. Gloomy thoughts tormented me. The condition of the poor defenseless orphan left among the vindictive rebels, and my own helplessness, terrified me. The thought of Shvabrin tortured my imagination more than anything. Given power by the Pretender, put in charge of the fortress where the unhappy girl—the innocent object of his hatred—remained, he might do anything. What was I to do? How could I help her? How could I free her from the villain’s hands? There was only one thing left me: I decided to go to Orenburg that very hour and do my utmost to hasten the relief of the Belogorsky fortress. I said good-bye to the priest and to Akulina Pamfilovna, begging them to take care of Marya Ivanovna, whom I already regarded as my wife. I took the poor girl’s hand and kissed it, wetting it with my tears.

  “Good-bye,” said the priest’s wife, taking leave of me, “good-bye, Pyotr Andreyich. I hope we shall meet in better times. Don’t forget us and write to us often. Poor Marya Ivanovna has now no one to comfort and defend her but you.”

  Coming out into the square I stopped for a moment to look at the gallows, bowed down before it, and left the fortress by the Orenburg road, accompanied by Savelyich, who kept pace with me.

  I walked on, occupied with my thoughts, when I suddenly heard the sound of a horse’s hoofs behind me. I turned round and saw a Cossack galloping from the fortress; he was leading a Bashkir horse by the bridle and signaling to me from a distance. I stopped and soon recognized our sergeant. Overtaking me he dismounted and said, giving me the reins of the other horse: “Your honor, our father presents you with a horse and a fur coat of his own” (a sheepskin coat was tied to the saddle), “and he also presents you”—Maximych hesitated—“with fifty kopecks in money … but I lost it on the way; kindly forgive me.”

  Savelyich looked at him askance and grumbled: “Lost it on the way! And what is this rattling in the breast of your coat? You’ve got no conscience!”

  “What is rattling in the breast of my coat?” replied the sergeant, not in the least abashed. “Why, mercy on us, my good man! That’s my bridle and not the fifty kopecks!”

  “Very well,” I said, interrupting the argument. “Give my thanks to him who sent you; and on your way back try to pick up the money you dropped and take it for vodka.”

  “Thank you very much, your honor,” he answered, turning his horse; “I shall pray for you as long as I live.”

  With these words he galloped back, holding with one hand the breast of his coat, and in another minute was lost to sight. I put on the sheepskin and mounted the horse, making Savelyich sit behind me.

  “You see now, sir,” the old man said, “it was not for nothing I presented the petition to the rascal; the thief’s conscience pricked him. It’s true, the long-legged Bashkir nag and the sheepskin coat are not worth half of what they have stolen from us, the rascals, and what you had yourself given him, but it will come in useful; one may as well get a piece of wool off a fierce dog.”

  X

  THE SIEGE OF THE TOWN

  He pitched his camp upon the hills and meadows

  And, eagle-like, he gazed upon the city;

  He had a mound made beyond the camp

  Concealing fire, which at night he brought to city walls.

  KHERASKOV

  AS WE approached Orenburg we saw a crowd of convicts with shaven heads and faces disfigured by the branding iron. They were working at the fortifications under the supervision of garrison soldiers. Some were carting away the rubbish with which the moat had been filled, others were digging; on the ramparts masons were carrying bricks, mending the town wall. At the gates we were stopped by the sentries, who asked for our passports. As soon as the sergeant heard that I came from the Belogorsky fortress, he took me straight to the General’s house.

  I found the General in the garden. He was examining the apple trees already bared by the breath of autumn and, with the help of an old gardener, was carefully wrapping them up in warm straw. His face wore a look of serenity, health, and good nature. He was pleased to see me and began questioning me about the terrible happenings I had witnessed. I told him everything. The old man listened to me attentively as he pruned the trees.

  “Poor Mironov!” he said, when I finished my sad story. “I am sorry for him, he was a fine officer; and Madam Mironov was an excellent woman and so good at pickling mushrooms! And what has become of Masha, the Captain’s daughter?”

  I answered that she remained at the fortress, in the charge of the priest’s wife.

  “Aïe, aïe, aïe!” the General remarked, “that’s bad, very bad. There is certainly no relying on the brigands’ discipline. What will become of the poor girl?”

  I answered that the Belogorsky fortress was not far and that probably his Excellency would not delay in sending troops to deliver its poor inhabitants. The General shook his head doubtfully. “We shall see, we shall see,” he said. “There will be time enough to talk of this. Please come and have a cup of tea with me; I am having a council of war today. You can give us exact information about the rascal Pugachov and his troops. And, meanwhile, go and have a rest!”

  I went to the quarters allotted to me, where Savelyich was already setting things to rights, and waited impatiently for the appointed hour. The reader may well imagine that I did not fail to appear at th
e council which was of such importance to my future. At the appointed time I was at the General’s.

  I found there one of the town officials, the director of the customs house, if I remember rightly, a stout, rosy-cheeked old man in a brocade coat. He asked me about the fate of Ivan Kuzmich, with whom he was connected, and often interrupted me with fresh questions and moral observations which proved, if not his skill in the art of war, at any rate his natural quickness and intelligence. Meanwhile other guests arrived. When all had sat down and cups of tea had been handed around, the General explained at great length and very clearly the nature of the business.

  “Now, gentlemen, we must decide how we are to act against the rebels; must we take the offensive or the defensive? Each of these methods has its advantages and disadvantages. The offensive offers more hope of exterminating the enemy in the shortest time; the defensive is safer and more reliable…. And so let us take votes in the proper manner; that is, beginning with the youngest in rank. Ensign!” he continued, addressing himself to me, “please give us your opinion.”

  I got up and began by saying a few words about Pugachov and his gang; I said positively that the impostor had no means of resisting regular troops.

  My opinion was received by the officials with obvious disfavor. They saw in it the defiance and rashness of youth. There was a murmur, and I clearly heard the word “greenhorn” uttered by someone in an undertone.

  The General turned to me and said, with a smile: “Ensign, the first votes in councils of war are generally in favor of the offensive; this is as it should be. Now let us go on collecting votes. Mr. Collegiate Councilor! tell us your opinion.”

  The little old man in the brocade coat hastily finished his third cup of tea, considerably diluted with rum, and said in answer to the General: “I think, your Excellency, we need not take either the offensive or the defensive.”

  “How so, sir?” the General retorted in surprise. “No other tactics are possible; one must either take the offensive or be on the defensive….”

  “Your Excellency, take the way of bribery.”

  “Ha! ha! ha! Your suggestion is very reasonable. Bribery is permitted by military tactics and we will follow your advice. We can offer seventy rubles … or, perhaps, a hundred for the rascal’s head … to be paid from the secret fund.”

  “And then,” the chief customs officer interrupted, “may I be a Kirghiz sheep and not a collegiate councilor, if those thieves do not surrender their leader to us, bound hand and foot!”

  “We will think of it again and talk it over,” the General answered; “but we must, in any case, take military measures. Gentlemen, please vote in the usual manner!”

  All the opinions were opposed to mine. All the officials spoke of troops being unreliable and luck changeable, of caution and such like things. All thought it wiser to remain behind strong stone walls defended by cannon rather than venture into the open field. At last, when the General had heard all the opinions, he shook the ashes out of his pipe and made the following speech: “My dear sirs! I must tell you that for my part I entirely agree with the Ensign’s opinion, for it is based upon all the rules of sound military tactics, according to which it is almost always preferable to take up the offensive rather than to remain on the defensive.”

  At this point he stopped and began filling his pipe once more. My vanity was gratified. I proudly looked at the officials, who whispered to one another with an air of vexation and anxiety.

  “But, my dear sirs,” he continued, letting out, together with a deep sigh, a big whiff of tobacco smoke, “I dare not take upon myself so great a responsibility when the security of provinces entrusted to me by Her Imperial Majesty, our gracious sovereign, is at stake. And so I agree with the majority, which has decided that it is wiser and safer to await a siege within the city walls, repulsing the enemy’s attacks by artillery and, if possible, by sallies.”

  The officials, in their turn, looked mockingly at me. The council dispersed. I could not help regretting the weakness of the venerable soldier who decided against his own conviction to follow the opinion of ignorant and inexperienced men.

  Several days after this famous council we learned that Pugachov, true to his promise, was approaching Orenburg. From the top of the town hall I saw the rebels’ army. It seemed to me their numbers had increased tenfold since the last attack which I witnessed. They now had artillery, brought by Pugachov from the small fortresses he had taken. Recalling the council’s decision, I foresaw a prolonged confinement within the town walls and nearly wept with vexation.

  I will not describe the siege of Orenburg, which belongs to history, and is not a subject for family memoirs. I will only say that, owing to the carelessness of the local authorities, the siege was disastrous for the inhabitants, who suffered famine and all sort of calamities. One may well imagine that life in Orenburg was simply unendurable. All were despondently waiting for their fate to be decided; all complained of the prices, which were, indeed, exorbitant. The inhabitants had grown used to cannonballs falling into their backyards; even Pugachov’s assaults no longer excited general interest. I was dying of boredom. Time was passing. I received no letter from the Belogorsky fortress. All the roads were cut off. Separation from Marya Ivanovna was growing unbearable. Uncertainty about her fate tormented me. The skirmishes were my only distractions; thanks to Pugachov I had a good horse with which I shared my scanty fare, and I rode it every day to exchange shots with Pugachov’s men. As a rule the advantage in these skirmishes was on the side of the villains, who were well fed, had plenty to drink, and rode good horses. The starving cavalry of the town could not get the better of them. Sometimes our hungry infantry also went afield, but the thick snow prevented it from acting successfully against the horsemen scattered all over the plain. Artillery thundered in vain from the top of the rampart, and in the field it stuck in the snow and could not move because the horses were too exhausted to pull it along. This is what our military operations were like! And this was what the Orenburg officials called being cautious and sensible.

  One day when we succeeded in scattering and driving away a rather thick crowd, I overtook a Cossack who had lagged behind; I was on the point of striking him with my Turkish sword, when he suddenly took off his cap and cried: “Good morning, Pyotr Andreyich! How are you getting on?”

  I looked at him and recognized our Cossack sergeant. I was overjoyed to see him.

  “How do you do, Maximych,” I said to him. “Have you been in the Belogorsky lately?”

  “Yes, sir, I was there only yesterday; I have a letter for you, Pyotr Andreyich.”

  “Where is it?” I asked, flushing all over.

  “Here,” said Maximych, thrusting his hand in the breast of his coat. “I promised Palasha I would manage somehow to give it to you.”

  He gave me a folded paper and galloped away. I opened it and read, with a tremor, the following lines:

  It has pleased God to deprive me suddenly of both father and mother; I have no friends or relatives in this world. I appeal to you, knowing that you have always wished me well and that you are ready to help everyone. I pray that this letter may reach you! Maximych has promised to take it to you. Palasha has heard from Maximych that he often sees you from a distance during the sallies and that you do not take any care of yourself or think of those who pray for you with tears. I was ill for a long time, and when I recovered, Alexey Ivanovich, who is now commandant instead of my father, forced Father Gerasim to give me up to him, threatening him with Pugachov! I live in our house as a prisoner. Alexey Ivanovich is forcing me to marry him. He says he saved my life because he did not betray Akulina Pamfilovna when she told the villains I was her niece. And I would rather die than marry a man like Alexey Ivanovich. He treats me very cruelly and threatens that if I don’t change my mind and marry him he will take me to the villains’ camp and there the same thing will happen to me as to Lizaveta Kharlova. I have asked Alexey Ivanovich to give me time to think. He agreed to wait three more
days and if I don’t marry him in three days’ time he will have no pity on me. Dear Pyotr Andreyich! You alone are my protector; help me in my distress. Persuade the General and all the commanders to make haste and send a relief party to us, and come yourself if you can. I remain yours obediently,

  A poor orphan,

  Marya Mironov

  I almost went out of my mind when I read this letter. I galloped back to the town, spurring my poor horse mercilessly. On the way I racked my brain for the means of saving the poor girl, but could think of nothing. When I reached the town I rode straight to the General’s and rushed headlong into his house.

  The General was walking up and down the room, smoking his pipe. He stopped when he saw me. He must have been struck by my appearance; he inquired with concern about the reason for my coming in such a hurry.

  “Your Excellency,” I said to him. “I appeal to you as to my own father; for God’s sake don’t refuse me, the happiness of my whole life is at stake.”

  “What is it, my dear?” the old man asked in surprise. “What can I do for you? Tell me.”

  “Your Excellency, allow me to have a detachment of soldiers and fifty Cossacks and let me go and clear the Belogorsky fortress.”

  The General looked at me attentively, probably thinking that I had gone out of my mind—he was not far wrong.

  “How do you mean—to clear the Belogorsky fortress?” he brought out at last.

  “I vouch for success,” I said eagerly, “only let me go.”

  “No, young man,” he said, shaking his head; “at so great a distance the enemy will find it easy to cut off your communication with the main strategic point and to secure a complete victory over you. Once the communication has been cut off …”

  I was afraid he would enter upon a military discussion and made haste to interrupt him.

  “Captain Mironov’s daughter,” I said to him, “has sent me a letter; she begs for help; Shvabrin is forcing her to marry him.”