But Pugachov had not been captured. He reappeared in the Urals, collected fresh bands of men from the mining districts and resumed his evil activities. Once again news of his successes spread. We heard of the destruction of forts in Siberia. Our generals, however, continued to slumber blissfully, refusing to believe in the threat posed by a rebel they despised; only after the fall of Kazan and news of the impostor’s march on Moscow were they stirred into action. It was at this time that Zurin was ordered to cross the Volga.
I shall not go into the details of our campaign and the final stages of the war. I will say only that the misery of it all was extreme. We passed through villages pillaged by the rebels and had no choice but to take from the inhabitants what little they had managed to save. Law and order broke down; landowners hid in the forests. Groups of brigands plundered far and wide; officers in command of independent military detachments punished both guilty and innocent as the whim took them. The conflagration covered a vast area; throughout it conditions were terrible. God spare us from Russian revolt, senseless merciless Russian revolt.
Pugachov was in flight, pursued by General Michelsohn.[4] Soon word came that he had been routed. Finally Zurin received news of his capture and, at the same time, orders to march no further. The war was over. At last I could go home to my parents. The thought of embracing them and of seeing Maria Ivanovna, from whom I had received no news, filled me with joy. I danced about like a child. Zurin laughed and said with a shrug, “No, no good will come of it. If you marry, you’re done for—and all for nothing.”
My joy, however, was tainted by a strange feeling. For all the innocent blood this villain had shed, I felt troubled when I thought of the execution that awaited him. “Yemelka, Yemelka,’ [5] I thought irritably, “why didn’t you put yourself in the path of some grapeshot or get yourself run through by a bayonet? You could have done yourself no greater favor.” But then how could I not feel troubled? Pugachov had shown me mercy when he had been at his most terrible, and he had delivered my betrothed from the evil Shvabrin; it was impossible for me to remember him without remembering all he had done for me.
Zurin granted me leave of absence. In only a few days I would once more be in the heart of my family; I would once more see my dear Maria Ivanovna. But then another storm burst over my head.
On the day fixed for my departure, as I was about to set out, Zurin came to my quarters; he was holding a sheet of paper and looking concerned. My heart missed a beat; I felt unaccountably frightened. He dismissed my orderly and said he needed a word with me. “What is it?” I asked anxiously. “A slight unpleasantness,” he replied, handing me the paper. “I’ve just received this. Have a look.” I began reading; it was a secret order, addressed to all commanding officers, to place me under arrest, wherever I was found, and to convey me to Kazan forthwith, under guard, to appear before the Commission of Inquiry into the Pugachov Uprising.
The paper almost fell from my hands. “There’s nothing for it,” said Zurin. “My duty is to carry out the order. The authorities have heard something about you and your journeys with Pugachov. I hope that the affair will have no serious consequences and that you will be able to exonerate yourself before the commission. Keep your spirits up and set off at once.” My conscience was clear; I did not fear the tribunal; but I was appalled to think that the sweet moment of reunion with my beloved would be delayed, perhaps for several months. The cart was ready. Zurin said a warm farewell. I got in; two Hussars with drawn swords sat beside me. We drove off along the high road.
14. THE TRIBUNAL
Man’s fame—
Sea spume.
—POPULAR SAYING
I WAS CERTAIN that the reason for my arrest was my unauthorized absence from Orenburg. I would have no difficulty exonerating myself; sallying out against the enemy had not only never been forbidden but had always been strongly encouraged. I could be accused of undue rashness but not breach of discipline. But then my friendly relations with Pugachov could have been reported by many different witnesses and must have looked, at the very least, highly suspicious. All through the journey I thought about the forthcoming interrogation and rehearsed my answers; I resolved to tell the tribunal the whole truth, considering this the simplest and surest way of exonerating myself.
I arrived in Kazan to find the city laid waste and burned down. The streets were lined with heaps of cinders; here and there stood blackened walls without roofs or windows. Such was the trail left by Pugachov.[1] I was taken to the fortress, still intact in the center of the devastated city. The Hussars handed me over to the officer of the guard. He called for the blacksmith. My ankles were shackled. Then I was taken to the prison and left on my own in a cramped, dark cell with bare walls and a small iron grating.
This was a bad beginning. Nevertheless, I lost neither courage nor hope. I had recourse to the consolation of all who suffer and, after tasting for the first time the sweetness of prayer poured out from a guiltless but anguished heart, fell into a quiet sleep, no longer worrying about what might become of me.
The next morning the warder woke me up, saying I was summoned by the commission. Two soldiers led me across a yard to the commandant’s house; they remained in the anteroom, allowing me to go on in alone.
I entered a fairly large reception room. Sitting behind a table heaped with papers were two men: an elderly general, who looked cold and severe, and a Guards captain who must have been in his late twenties, a good-looking man with an easy manner. The secretary, bent forward over a sheet of paper, his quill tucked behind his ear, sat at a separate table by the window, ready to take down my testimony. The interrogation began. I was asked my name and rank. The general enquired if I was not the son of Andrey Petrovich Grinyov. When I said I was, he replied grimly, “How sad that a man so honorable should have so dishonorable a son!” I said calmly that I hoped, by means of a frank account of the truth, to dispel any accusations levelled against me. The general did not like my self-assurance. “You’re too clever by half,” he said, “but we’ve seen all sorts here.”
Then the young man asked me when and under what circumstances I had entered Pugachov’s service and what commissions I had carried out for him.
I replied indignantly that, being an officer and a nobleman, I could never have entered Pugachov’s service or accepted any commission from him.
“How then did it come to pass,” countered my interrogator, “that one officer and nobleman was spared by the impostor while all his comrades were brutally slaughtered? How did this same officer and nobleman come to feast with the rebels, as their friend, and accept gifts—a fur coat, a horse, half a ruble—from their leader? How did this strange friendship come about? Upon what was it based, if not upon treason or, at the very least, upon base and criminal cowardice?”
I felt deeply insulted by these words and began to defend myself with passion. I recounted how I had first come across Pugachov in the steppe, during a blizzard, and how he had recognized and spared me after capturing Fort Belogorsk. I said that I had indeed not scrupled to accept a horse and a sheepskin coat from the impostor but that I had defended Fort Belogorsk against him to the very last. I ended by affirming that my general could testify to my fighting spirit during the terrible siege of Orenburg.
The severe old man took a letter from the table and began reading aloud:
“In reply to your Excellency’s inquiry regarding Ensign Grinyov, who is alleged to have been involved in the present insurrection and to have entered into such dealings with the villain as constitute a breach of duty and of his oath of allegiance, I have the honor to report as follows: the said Ensign Grinyov served in the Orenburg garrison from the beginning of October 1773 to the 24th of February of the present year, on which date he absented himself from the city, never again reporting for duty under my command. It has been said by deserters from the villain’s band that he visited Pugachov in his camp and that he travelled with him to Fort Belogorsk, where he had previously served in the garrison. Regardi
ng his conduct I can only . . .”
At this point the old man stopped reading and said grimly, “And what do you have to say for yourself now?”
I was about to go on as I had begun and explain my relations with Maria Ivanovna as candidly as I had explained everything else, but I suddenly felt overwhelmed by disgust. If I mentioned her, she would be summoned by the Commission; the thought of linking her name with base slanders, of dragging her into a personal confrontation with the evil people who spread them, filled me with such horror that I began to stammer and flounder.[2]
My judges, who had, I think, been beginning to listen to me with a modicum of good will, once more took against me. The Guards captain requested that I be confronted with the main informer. The general ordered “yesterday’s villain” to be brought in. I turned quickly towards the door, waiting for my accuser to appear. A few minutes later there was a clanking of chains, the door opened—and in came Shvabrin. I was astonished at how he had changed. He was terribly thin and pale. His hair, not long ago jet-black, was now grey; his long beard was unkempt and matted. He repeated his accusations in a weak but determined voice. He said that Pugachov had sent me to Orenburg as a spy; I had ridden out on daily sorties in order to pass on written reports about conditions in the city; in the end I had joined the impostor openly, accompanying him from one fortress to another and doing my utmost to undermine my fellow renegades, so as to supplant them in their posts and enjoy still more favors from the impostor. I listened to him in silence and was grateful for one thing: he did not pronounce the name of Maria Ivanovna. Maybe the thought of the woman who had scorned him was too wounding to his vanity; maybe there still lingered in the depth of his heart a spark of the same feeling that had impelled me to keep silent myself; in any case, the name of the daughter of the commandant of Fort Belogorsk was not mentioned before the Commission. This confirmed me in my resolve and when the judges asked what I had to say in reply to Shvabrin’s testimony, I replied that I stood by my previous statement and had nothing to add in my defence. The general ordered us both to be taken away. We left the room together. I looked calmly at Shvabrin but said nothing. He grinned spitefully and, lifting up his chains, quickened his pace and walked out ahead of me. I was led back to my cell and not summoned for any further interrogation.
I did not witness the events that I have yet to recount to the reader, but I have heard about them so many times that every detail is engraved in my memory and I feel as if I had been invisibly present.
My parents greeted Maria Ivanovna with the genuine cordiality characteristic of people of the past century. In the opportunity they had been given to shelter and cherish a poor orphan they saw the grace of God. Soon they became sincerely attached to her, since it was impossible to know her and not to love her. Father no longer thought of my love for her as a foolish whim and Mother wanted nothing more than for her Petrusha to marry this sweetheart of a captain’s daughter.
The news of my arrest shocked my family. Maria Ivanovna had recounted the story of my strange acquaintance with Pugachov so innocently that, far from feeling any concern, my parents had more than once burst into hearty laughter. Father found it inconceivable that I could have been party to a rebellion whose aim was the overthrow of the imperial family and the destruction of the nobility. He cross-questioned Savelich. My old tutor made no secret of the fact that I had indeed been the guest of Yemelka Pugachov and that the villain had treated me generously, but he swore that he had never heard a word of anything treasonable. My parents felt reassured and began to wait impatiently for better news. Maria Ivanovna was most alarmed but, being someone unusually modest and discreet, she said nothing.
Several weeks passed. Then Father received a letter from Petersburg, from our relative, Prince B. After the usual greetings and compliments, the prince informed my father that the suspicions about my participation in the rebels’ plots had proved, unhappily, to be only too well founded. As an example to others, I should have been subjected to the supreme penalty had not the Empress, in consideration of my father’s faithful service and advanced years, resolved to show mercy to his criminal son and condemn me not to an ignominious death on the scaffold but to lifelong exile in a distant part of Siberia.
This unexpected blow almost killed Father. He lost his usual self-control and his feelings of grief (which as a rule were mute) poured out in bitter lamentations. “What! My son an accomplice of Pugachov’s!” he kept repeating, beside himself with grief and fury. “Merciful heavens! That I should live to see this! The Empress reprieves him! Does that make it any easier to bear? It is not the scaffold that is so terrible. My great-great-grandfather was executed on Red Square because he refused to yield over a matter of conscience.[3] My father paid the price for his closeness to Volynsky and Khrushchev.[4] But for a nobleman to betray his oath of allegiance and ally himself with brigands, murderers, and runaway serfs! Shame on our family! Shame on our name!” Terrified by his despair, Mother did not dare to weep in front of him and tried to rally his spirits by talking of the fickleness of rumor and the unreliability of popular opinion. My father remained inconsolable.
Maria Ivanovna suffered more than anyone. Knowing that I could have exonerated myself had I chosen to, she guessed the truth and considered herself to blame for my misfortunes. She kept her tears and her sufferings to herself yet never stopped thinking about what she could do to save me.
One evening Father was sitting on the couch, turning the pages of the Court Almanac; his thoughts, however, were far away and what he read did not have its usual effect on him. He was whistling an old march. Mother was silently knitting a woolen vest, [5] letting an occasional tear fall on it. All of a sudden Maria Ivanovna, who was sitting at her needlework, said that her affairs required her to go to Petersburg and that she must request their assistance with regard to the journey. Mother was very upset. “Why must you go to Petersburg?” she asked. “Will you forsake us too?” Maria Ivanovna replied that her entire future depended on this journey; as the daughter of a man whose loyalty had cost him his life, she was going to seek help and protection from people of influence.
Father bowed his head; every word that reminded him of his son’s supposed crimes seemed like a stinging reproach. “Go, my dear!” he said with a sigh. “It’s not for us to stand in the way of your happiness. May God grant you an honorable man for a husband, not a disgraced turncoat.” He got up and walked out of the room.
Left on her own with Mother, Maria Ivanovna in part revealed her plan. Mother embraced her tearfully and prayed to God that her venture meet with success. Maria Ivanovna was provided with all she needed for the journey and a few days later she set out, accompanied by her loyal Palasha and my loyal Savelich, who, in his enforced separation from me, found it comforting to think that he was at least serving my betrothed.
Maria Ivanovna arrived safely at Sofia; [6] hearing that the Court was still at Tsarskoye Selo, she resolved to go no further. At the post station she was allotted a small cubbyhole behind a partition. The stationmaster’s wife at once entered into conversation with her; explaining that she was the niece of the Court stoker, she initiated Maria Ivanovna into all the mysteries of Court life. She explained when the Empress usually awoke; when she took her coffee and went out for a walk; which dignitaries attended her then; what it had been her pleasure to say at table the previous day; whom she had received in the evening. In short, Anna Vlasyevna’s conversation was as valuable as several pages of historical memoirs and would have been a precious gift to posterity. Maria Ivanovna listened attentively. They went into the park together. Anna Vlasyevna told her the story of every path and every little bridge; they strolled about to their hearts’ content and by the time they returned to the post station each was well and truly delighted with the other.
The next day Maria Ivanovna woke early, dressed, and slipped out into the park. It was a splendid morning; the sun shone on the crowns of lime trees that autumn’s fresh breath had already turned yellow. The broad la
ke lay still and gleaming. Stately swans, also only recently awoken, were sailing out from beneath the bushes that overhung the banks. Maria Ivanovna came to the beautiful meadow where an obelisk had just been erected to commemorate Count Rumyantsev’s recent victories.[7] All of a sudden a little white English dog ran barking towards her. Maria Ivanovna felt frightened and stood stock-still. She heard a gentle voice: “Don’t be frightened, she won’t bite!” And Maria Ivanovna saw a lady sitting on a little bench opposite the monument. Maria Ivanovna sat down at the other end of the bench. The lady was looking at her intently. Maria Ivanovna, for her part, kept glancing discreetly at the lady; very soon she had surveyed her from head to toe. She was wearing a night mob-cap, a white morning gown, and a fur-lined waistcoat. She looked about forty years old. Her plump, rosy face was calm and dignified; her slight smile and her light blue eyes had an ineffable charm. The lady was the first to speak.
“You are a stranger here, are you not?”
“Yes, madam. I arrived from the country only yesterday.”
“Have you come with your parents?”
“No, madam, I have come alone.”
“Alone! But you are so young!”
“I have neither father nor mother.”
“I suppose you are here on business of some kind?”
“Yes, madam. I have come to present a petition to the Empress.”
“You are an orphan. Have you come to complain of some injustice or injury?”
“No, madam. I have come to ask not for justice, but for mercy.”
“May I ask who you are?”
“I am the daughter of Captain Mironov.”
“Captain Mironov! The late commandant of one of the Orenburg fortresses?”
“Yes, madam.”
The lady seemed moved. “Pardon me,” she said in a still gentler voice, “if I am prying into your affairs, but I am often at Court. Tell me the nature of your request, and I may be able to help you.”