Novels, Tales, Journeys: The Complete Prose of Alexander Pushkin

  Instead of an answer, I seized him by the collar and, dragging him to the granary doors, ordered him to open them. The bailiff tried to protest, but a “fatherly” punishment worked on him as well. He took out a key and opened the granary. I threw myself across the threshold and in a dark corner, dimly lit by a narrow slot cut in the ceiling, saw my mother and father. Their hands were bound and their feet were in fetters. I rushed to embrace them and could not utter a single word. They both stared at me with amazement—three years of army life had changed me so much that they could not recognize me. My mother gasped and burst into tears.

  Suddenly I heard a dear, familiar voice.

  “Pyotr Andreich! It’s you!” I was dumbfounded…looked around and in another corner saw Marya Ivanovna, also bound.

  My father looked at me in silence, not daring to believe his own eyes. Joy shone on his face. I hurriedly cut the knots of their ropes with my sword.

  “Greetings, greetings, Petrusha,” my father said, pressing me to his heart. “Thank God, we’ve been waiting…”

  “Petrusha, my dearest,” my mother said. “So the Lord has brought you to us! Are you well?”

  I was hurrying to bring them out of their imprisonment—but, going to the door, I found it locked again.

  “Andryushka,” I shouted, “open up!”

  “Nohow,” the bailiff answered through the door. “Sit yourself down there. We’ll teach you to make a row and drag state officials around by the collar!”

  I started looking over the granary to see if there was some way of getting out.

  “Don’t bother,” my father said to me. “I’m not the sort of landowner whose barns have holes for thieves to go in and out.”

  My mother, overjoyed for a moment by my appearance, fell into despair, seeing that I, too, was to share in the doom of the whole family. But I was more at peace, since I was with them and with Marya Ivanovna. I had a sword and two pistols with me; I could still withstand a siege. Zurin was supposed to make it by evening, in time to rescue us. I told all that to my parents and managed to calm my mother down. They gave themselves fully to the joy of our reunion.

  “Well, Pyotr,” my father said to me, “you got up to plenty of mischief, and I was thoroughly angry with you. But there’s no point in dwelling on the past. I hope you’ve mended your ways now and are done with foolery. I know you served as befits an honorable officer. Thank you. That’s a comfort to my old age. If I owe you my deliverance, life will be doubly agreeable to me.”

  In tears I kissed his hand and looked at Marya Ivanovna, who was so overjoyed by my presence that she seemed perfectly happy and calm.

  Towards noon we heard extraordinary noise and shouting.

  “What does this mean?” said my father. “Can your colonel have made it in such good time?”

  “Impossible,” I replied. “He won’t be here before evening.”

  The noise grew louder. The alarm bell rang. Mounted men were galloping around the yard. At that moment the gray head of Savelyich thrust itself into the narrow slot cut in the wall, and my poor tutor said in a pitiful voice:

  “Andrei Petrovich, Avdotya Vasilyevna, my dear Pyotr Andreich, dearest Marya Ivanovna—trouble! The brigands have entered the village. And do you know, Pyotr Andreich, who’s brought them? Shvabrin, Alexei Ivanych, deuce take him!”

  Hearing the hateful name, Marya Ivanovna clasped her hands and stood motionless.

  “Listen,” I said to Savelyich, “send someone on horseback to the * * * ferry, to meet the hussar regiment and give their colonel word of our danger.”

  “Who can I send, sir? All the boys are rebelling, and the horses have all been taken! Oh, Lord! They’re already in the yard. They’re heading for the granary.”

  Just then we heard several voices outside the door. I silently made a sign to my mother and Marya Ivanovna to retreat into a corner, drew my sword, and leaned against the wall right next to the door. My father took the pistols, cocked them both, and stood beside me. The padlock clacked, the door opened, and the bailiff’s head appeared. I struck it with my sword and he fell, blocking the entrance. At the same moment my father fired a pistol through the doorway. The crowd besieging us ran off cursing. I dragged the wounded man across the threshold and bolted the door from inside. The yard was full of armed men. Among them I recognized Shvabrin.

  “Don’t be afraid,” I said to the women. “There’s hope. And you, father, don’t shoot again. Let’s save the last shot.”

  Mother silently prayed to God; Marya Ivanovna stood beside her, waiting with angelic calm for our fate to be decided. Outside the door we heard threats, abuse, and curses. I stood in my place, ready to cut down the first daredevil to come in. Suddenly the villains fell silent. I heard the voice of Shvabrin calling me by name.

  “I’m here. What do you want?”

  “Surrender, Grinyov, it’s useless to resist. Have pity on your old ones. Obstinacy won’t save you. I’m going to get you all!”

  “Just try it, traitor!”

  “I won’t risk my neck for nothing, or waste my people’s lives. I’ll order them to set the granary on fire, and then we’ll see what you do, Don Quixote of Belogorsk. It’s dinnertime now. Sit there for a while and think things over at your leisure. Good-bye, Marya Ivanovna, I won’t apologize to you: you’re probably not bored there in the dark with your knight.”

  Shvabrin went away and left a guard by the granary. We were silent. Each of us was thinking to himself, not daring to share his thoughts with the others. I imagined all that the resentful Shvabrin was capable of inflicting on us. I cared little about myself. Shall I confess it? Even my parents’ lot did not horrify me so much as the fate of Marya Ivanovna. I knew that my mother was adored by the peasants and the house serfs; that my father, for all his strictness, was also loved, for he was a fair man and knew the true needs of the people subject to him. Their rebellion was a delusion, a momentary drunkenness, not the expression of their indignation. Here mercy was likely. But Marya Ivanovna? What lot had the depraved and shameless man prepared for her? I did not dare to dwell on that horrible thought, and prepared myself, God forgive me, sooner to kill her than to see her a second time in the hands of the cruel enemy.

  About another hour went by. There was drunken singing in the village. Our guards were envious and, vexed with us, swore and taunted us with torture and death. We awaited the sequel to Shvabrin’s threats. Finally there came a big commotion in the yard, and again we heard Shvabrin’s voice:

  “So, have you made up your mind? Do you voluntarily surrender to me?”

  No one answered him. Having waited a little, Shvabrin ordered straw brought. After a few minutes, a burst of fire lit up the dark granary, and smoke began to make its way through the chink under the door. Then Marya Ivanovna came to me and, taking me by the hand, said softly:

  “Enough, Pyotr Andreich! Don’t destroy yourself and your parents on account of me. Let me out. Shvabrin will listen to me.”

  “Not for anything,” I cried hotly. “Do you know what awaits you?”

  “I won’t survive dishonor,” she replied calmly. “But maybe I’ll save my deliverer and the family that so magnanimously sheltered a poor orphan. Farewell, Andrei Petrovich. Farewell, Avdotya Vasilyevna. You were more than benefactors to me. Give me your blessing. Farewell and forgive me, Pyotr Andreich. Be assured that…that…” Here she burst into tears and buried her face in her hands…I was like a madman. My mother wept.

  “Enough nonsense, Marya Ivanovna,” said my father. “Who is going to let you go to these brigands alone? Sit here and be quiet. If we’re to die, we’ll die together. Listen, what are they saying now?”

  “Do you surrender?” Shvabrin shouted. “See? In five minutes you’ll be roasted.”

  “We don’t surrender, villain!” my father answered him in a firm voice.

  His face, covered with wrinkles, was animated by astonishing courage, his eyes flashed menacingly under his gray eyebrows. And, turning to me, he said
:

  “Now’s the time!”

  He opened the door. Flames burst in and shot up the beams caulked with dry moss. My father fired his pistol and stepped across the blazing threshold, shouting: “Everyone, follow me!” I seized my mother and Marya Ivanovna by the hands and quickly led them outside. By the threshold lay Shvabrin, shot down by my father’s decrepit hand; the crowd of brigands, who fled before our unexpected sortie, at once took courage and began to surround us. I still managed to deal several blows, but a well-thrown brick struck me full in the chest. I fell down and lost consciousness for a moment. On coming to, I saw Shvabrin sitting on the bloody grass, and before him our whole family. I was supported under the arms. The crowd of peasants, Cossacks, and Bashkirs stood around us. Shvabrin was terribly pale. He pressed one hand to his wounded side. His face expressed suffering and spite. He slowly raised his head, looked at me, and pronounced in a weak and indistinct voice:

  “Hang him…hang all of them…except her…”

  The crowd of villains surrounded us at once and, shouting, dragged us to the gates. But suddenly they abandoned us and scattered; through the gates rode Zurin and behind him his entire squadron with drawn swords.

  The rebels scurried off in all directions; the hussars pursued them, cut them down and took them prisoner. Zurin jumped off his horse, bowed to my mother and father, and firmly shook my hand.

  “Looks like I made it just in time,” he said to us. “Ah! Here’s your bride-to-be.”

  Marya Ivanovna blushed to the ears. My father came up to him and thanked him with a calm, though moved, air. My mother embraced him, calling him an angel of deliverance.

  “We bid you welcome,” my father said to him and led him to our house.

  Going past Shvabrin, Zurin stopped.

  “Who is this?” he asked, looking at the wounded man.

  “That is the leader himself, the head of the band,” my father answered with a certain pride, revealing the old warrior in him. “God helped my decrepit hand to punish the young villain and revenge my son’s blood.”

  “It’s Shvabrin,” I said to Zurin.

  “Shvabrin! Very glad! Hussars! Take him! And tell our doctor to bandage his wound and cherish him like the apple of his eye. Shvabrin absolutely must be brought before the Kazan secret commission. He’s one of the chief criminals, and his testimony is sure to be important.”

  Shvabrin gave him a languishing look. His face showed nothing but physical pain. The hussars carried him away on a cape.

  We went into the house. I trembled as I looked around, recalling my young years. Nothing in the house had changed, everything was in the same place. Shvabrin had not allowed it to be looted, preserving in his very abasement an instinctive aversion to dishonorable greed. The servants came to the front hall. They had not taken part in the rebellion and rejoiced wholeheartedly in our deliverance. Savelyich was triumphant. It should be known that during the alarm caused by the brigands’ attack, he ran to the stable where Shvabrin’s horse was, saddled it, led it out quietly, and, thanks to the tumult, galloped off unnoticed to the crossing. He met the regiment, which was already resting on this side of the Volga. Zurin, learning of our danger from him, ordered his men to saddle up, commanded them forward, forward at a gallop—and, thank God, arrived in time.

  Zurin insisted that the bailiff’s head be exposed on a pole by the tavern for several hours.

  The hussars came back from their pursuit, having taken several prisoners. They were locked up in the same granary in which we had withstood the memorable siege.

  We went off to our separate rooms. My old parents needed rest. Not having slept all night, I threw myself on the bed and fell fast asleep. Zurin went to give his orders.

  In the evening we gathered in the drawing room around the samovar, cheerfully talking about the past danger. Marya Ivanovna poured tea, I sat beside her and was occupied with her exclusively. My parents seemed to look favorably on the tenderness of our relations. That evening lives in my memory to this day. I was happy, perfectly happy, and how many such moments are there in a poor human life?

  The next day my father was informed that the peasants had come to the courtyard to confess their wrong. My father went out to the porch to meet them. When he appeared, the muzhiks knelt down.

  “Well, you fools,” he said to them, “what put it into your heads to rebel?”

  “We were wrong, master,” they replied with one voice.

  “So you were wrong. You get up to mischief, and you’re not glad of it yourselves. I forgive you out of joy that God has let me see my son Pyotr Andreich. Well, all right: a repentant head isn’t put to the sword. You were wrong! Of course you were wrong! God has sent us fair weather, it’s time to get the hay in; and you, foolish people, what did you do for a whole three days? Headman! Send every man of them to the haymaking; and see to it, you red-haired rogue, that all the hay is in stacks for me by St. Elijah’s day.43 Off with you!”

  The muzhiks bowed and went to their labor as if nothing had happened.

  Shvabrin’s wound turned out not to be mortal. He was sent to Kazan under convoy. I saw from the window how they laid him in a cart. Our eyes met, he lowered his head, and I quickly stepped away from the window. I was afraid to seem as if I were triumphing over my unfortunate and humiliated enemy.

  Zurin had to move further on. I decided to follow him, despite my wish to spend a few more days amidst my family. On the eve of the march I came to my parents and, following the custom of the time, bowed at their feet, asking their blessing for my marriage to Marya Ivanovna. The old people raised me up and with joyful tears gave their consent. I brought Marya Ivanovna to them, pale and trembling. They blessed us…What I felt then I am not going to describe. Whoever has been in my situation will understand me without that; whoever has not, I can only pity and advise, while there is still time, to fall in love and receive the blessing of his parents.

  The next day the regiment made ready. Zurin took leave of our family. We were all certain that military action would soon be over; I hoped to be a husband within a month. Marya Ivanovna, saying good-bye to me, kissed me in front of everyone. I mounted up. Savelyich again followed me—and the regiment left.

  For a long time I looked back at the country house I was again abandoning. A dark foreboding troubled me. Someone was whispering to me that my misfortunes were not all behind me. My heart sensed a new storm.

  I will not describe our march and the end of the war with Pugachev. We passed through villages devastated by Pugachev, and of necessity took from the poor inhabitants what the brigands had left them.

  They did not know whom to obey. Order broke down everywhere. Landowners hid in the forests. Bands of brigands spread their villainies everywhere. The commanders of separate detachments, sent in pursuit of Pugachev, who was then fleeing towards Astrakhan, arbitrarily punished the guilty and the guiltless…The condition of the whole region where the conflagration raged was terrible. God keep us from ever seeing a Russian rebellion—senseless and merciless. Those among us who plot impossible revolutions are either young and do not know our people, or are hard-hearted men, for whom another man’s head is worth little, and their own but little more.

  Pugachev fled, pursued by Iv. Iv. Mikhelson. Soon we learned of his total defeat. Zurin finally received from his general the news of the impostor’s capture, and with it the order to halt. I could finally go home. I was in raptures; but a strange feeling clouded my joy.

  * * *

  *1 to be an ouchitel (the French spelling of the Russian word for tutor)

  *2 ‘Madame, please, some vodka.’ (Russified French)

  *3 “Very well.” (Tatar)

  *4 rogue (German)

  *5 The “omitted chapter” (see this page), rejected by Pushkin and preserved only in rough draft, would have gone here. Translator.

  *6 This chapter was not included in the final version of The Captain’s Daughter; it was preserved in a rough draft with the title “The Omitted Chapter.”
It would have formed a continuation or extension of chapter 13. In it Grinyov is called Bulanin and Zurin is called Grinyov, but we have kept the names as they are in the rest of the novel. Translator.

  Journey to Arzrum

  During the Campaign of 1829

  PREFACE

  Not long ago there came into my hands a book published in Paris last year (1834) under the title Voyages en Orient entrepris par ordre du Gouvernement Français.*1 1 The author, giving his own description of the campaign of 1829, ends his reflections with the following words:

  Un poète distingué par son imagination a trouvé dans tant de hauts faits dont il a été témoin non le sujet d’un poème, mais celui d’une satyre.*2

  Of poets who took part in the Turkish campaign, I knew only A. S. Khomyakov and A. N. Muravyov. Both were in the army of Count Dibich.2 At that time the former wrote some fine lyric poems; the latter was thinking over his journey to the holy places, which was to produce such a strong impression. But I had not read any satire on the Arzrum campaign.

  I could never have thought that the matter here concerned myself, if in that same book I had not found my own name among the names of generals of the Detached Caucasus Corps.3 Parmis les chefs qui la commandaient (l’armée du Prince Paskewitch) on distinguait le Général Mouravieff…le Prince Géorgian Tsitsevaze…le Prince Arménien Beboutof…le Prince Potemkine, le Général Raiewsky, et enfin—M-r Pouchkine…qui avait quitté la capitale pour chanter les exploits de ses compatriotes.*3 4

  I confess: the lines of the French traveler, despite the flattering epithets, vexed me far more than the abuse of Russian journals. To “seek inspiration” has always seemed to me a ridiculous and absurd fancy: inspiration cannot be sought out; it must find the poet. For me, to go to war in order to sing future exploits would have been, on the one hand, too vain, and on the other, too indecent. I do not meddle in military judgments. That is not my business. It may be that the bold march over Sagan-loo, a maneuver by which Count Paskevich cut the seraskir off from Osman Pasha,5 the defeat of two enemy corps in one day’s time, the quick march to Arzrum—it may be that all this, crowned with complete success, fully deserves to be made a laughingstock by military men (such as, for instance, Mr. Merchant Consul Fontanier, author of the Travels to the East), but I would be ashamed to write satires on the illustrious commander who graciously received me under the shade of his tent and who, in the midst of his great cares, found time to give me his flattering attention. A man who has no need of being patronized by the powerful values their cordiality and hospitality, because he has nothing else to ask of them. Unlike trifling criticism or literary abuse, an accusation of ingratitude should not go without objection. That is why I have decided to publish this preface and to bring out my travel notes as all that I have written about the campaign of 1829.6