The Captain's Daughter

  Maria Ivanovna stood up and respectfully expressed her gratitude. She could not help feeling drawn to this unknown lady; everything about her inspired trust. Maria Ivanovna took a folded sheet of paper from her pocket and gave it to her mysterious protector, who at once began to read it.

  At first she read with an air of attentive benevolence, but then her face changed; Maria Ivanovna, following her every movement, felt frightened by the sudden severity of this face that only a moment before had seemed so pleasant and serene.

  “You are pleading for Grinyov?” the lady said coldly. “The Empress cannot pardon him. It was not ignorance and credulity that led him to go over to the impostor; his desertion was the act of a depraved and dangerous scoundrel.”

  “But that’s not true!” cried Maria Ivanovna.

  “What do you mean, not true?” retorted the lady, her face flushing crimson.

  “It’s not true! I swear to God it’s not true! I know all about it, I’ll tell you everything. All the misfortunes that have befallen him, he has undergone for my sake alone. And if he failed to clear himself before the tribunal, it is only because he chose not to mention my name.” And Maria Ivanovna went on to give an impassioned account of what the reader already knows.

  The lady listened attentively. “Where are you staying?” she asked when Maria Ivanovna had finished. On hearing the name of Anna Vlasyevna, she smiled and said, “Ah! I know. Goodbye! Tell no one of our meeting. I hope you will not have to wait long for a reply to your letter.”[8]

  With these words she stood up and went on her way down a covered walk. Maria Ivanovna, full of joyful hope, returned to Anna Vlasyevna’s.

  Anna Vlasyevna upbraided her for going out so early; the autumn air, she said, was injurious to a young woman’s health. She brought in the samovar and was about to embark, over a cup of tea, on more of her interminable stories of Court life when a royal carriage stopped outside and a footman came in to announce that Her Majesty was pleased to request the presence of Captain Mironov’s young daughter.

  Anna Vlasyevna was all wonder and bustle. “Gracious me!” she cried. “Her Majesty—Her Majesty requires you at Court. But how on earth does she know of you? And how can a girl like you, my dear, appear before Her Majesty? I’ll warrant you know next to nothing about Court manners. Hadn’t I better go with you? I could at least warn you about one or two things. And how can you go in your travelling dress? Hadn’t I better send to the midwife for her yellow gown with the hooped skirt?”

  The footman declared that it was Her Majesty’s pleasure that Maria Ivanovna should go alone and in the clothes she was wearing. There was nothing for it; Maria Ivanovna took her seat in the carriage and set out for the Palace, to the accompaniment of Anna Vlasyevna’s admonitions and blessings.

  Maria Ivanovna sensed that our fate was about to be decided. Her heart was now pounding, now almost missing a beat. After a few minutes the carriage drew up in front of the palace. Trembling, Maria Ivanovna walked up the stairs. She walked through a long series of sumptuous, deserted rooms, a footman leading the way. At last, when they came to a closed door, he said he would go in and announce her—and for a moment she was left on her own.

  The thought of seeing the Empress face to face so terrified her that she could barely stand upright. Then the door opened and she walked into the Empress’s dressing room.

  The Empress was seated at her dressing table. The ladies standing around her made way for Maria Ivanovna. The Empress turned towards her with a gentle look and Maria Ivanovna recognized in her the lady to whom, less than an hour before, she had been talking so freely. The Empress asked her to come closer and said with a smile, “I am glad to have been able to keep my word to you and to grant your request. The matter has been seen to. I am convinced of the innocence of your betrothed. Here is a letter for you to deliver in person to your future father-in-law.”

  Maria Ivanovna took the letter with a trembling hand and fell weeping at the Empress’s feet. The Empress raised her up, kissed her and spoke to her at some length, ending with the words: “I know you are not rich,” the Empress continued, “but I am indebted to the daughter of Captain Mironov. Do not worry about the future. I take it upon myself to arrange your dowry.”

  After embracing her gently and affectionately, the Empress dismissed the poor orphan. She was driven back to her lodgings in the same royal carriage. Anna Vlasyevna, who had been waiting for her impatiently, showered her with questions; Maria Ivanovna answered somewhat vaguely. Anna Vlasyevna felt disappointed that the young woman was such a muddlehead but put this down to provincial shyness and magnanimously pardoned her. And that same day, without so much as a glance at Petersburg, Maria Ivanovna set off on her way back to the country.

  Here end the memoirs of Pyotr Andreyevich Grinyov. Family tradition has it that he was released from imprisonment towards the end of 1774 at the express order of the Empress; and that he was present at the execution of Pugachov, who recognized him in the crowd and acknowledged him with a nod of the same head that, only a minute later, was to be held up aloft, bloody and lifeless, by the executioner. Soon afterwards Pyotr Andreyevich married Maria Ivanovna. Their descendants still flourish in the province of Simbirsk. Around twenty miles from the town of N. is a village that now belongs to ten landowners. In one of the wings of the manor house can be seen a letter, framed and glazed, in the hand of Catherine II. Addressed to the father of Pyotr Andreyevich, the letter exonerates his son and praises the mind and heart of Captain Mironov’s daughter. Pyotr Andreyevich Grinyov’s manuscript was presented to us by one of his grandsons, who had heard that I was engaged in a study of the times described by his grandfather. We resolved, with his relatives’ permission, to publish it entire, choosing a suitable epigraph for each chapter and taking the liberty of changing some of the proper names.

  The Publisher

  October 19, 1836 [9]

  OMITTED CHAPTER

  We include as an appendix what Pushkin referred to as “the omitted chapter.” He preserved this chapter—and only this chapter—from his first draft. Its place in the text, had he included it in his final version, would have been after the sentence, “It was at this time that Zurin was ordered to cross the Volga” on page 105. All that remains of it in the final text are the nineteen lines beginning on the same page with “I shall not go into the details of our campaign” to “My joy, however, was tainted by a strange feeling.” More melodramatic than the other chapters, this chapter is of interest primarily for its vivid and historically accurate picture of the latter stages of the Pugachov rebellion. It is probable that Pushkin chose to omit it because of contradictions between the events it describes and his final version of the novel’s last chapters. Andrey Petrovich’s commanding role makes it difficult for his son to demonstrate his increasing maturity. Pushkin may also have been anxious about possible objections on the part of the censors.

  WE WERE now approaching the banks of the Volga; our regiment entered the village of X. and we took up our quarters there for the night. The village elder informed me that all the villages on the far side were in revolt and that Pugachov’s bands were prowling everywhere. This news alarmed me greatly. We were due to cross the river the next morning. I was seized with impatience. My father’s estate was about twenty miles from the far bank. I asked if there was anyone who could ferry me across. The peasants were all fishermen; there were plenty of boats. I went to Zurin and told him what I wanted to do. “Be careful,” he said. “It’ll be dangerous on your own. Wait till morning. We’ll be with the first party to cross. We’ll visit your parents and we’ll take fifty Hussars along with us, just in case.”

  I insisted on having my way. A boat was made ready. I got in with two boatmen. They pushed off and began to row. The sky was clear. The moon shone. The weather was still. The Volga flowed calmly and smoothly. Swaying rhythmically, the boat glided over the dark waves. I was lost in dreams. About half an hour went by. We were in the middle of the river. Suddenly the men be
gan whispering. “What is it?” I asked, coming round. “God only knows,” they replied, both looking in the same direction. I looked too; in the dark something was floating downstream. It was drawing closer. I told the boatmen to stop rowing and wait for it to come by. The moon went behind a cloud. The floating apparition became yet more mysterious. It was now very close indeed, but I still couldn’t make it out. “What on earth is it?” said the men. “Not quite a sail, not quite a mast . . .” Suddenly the moon came out again and lit up a terrible sight. Floating towards us was a gallows fixed to a raft; three bodies hung from the crossbeam.[1] I felt a morbid curiosity. I wanted to see the faces of the hanged men.

  I told the boatmen to catch the raft with a boathook, and our boat knocked against the floating gallows. I jumped across and there I stood—between the terrible posts. The moon shone brightly on the wretches’ mutilated faces. One of them was an old Chuvash; [2] the second was a Russian peasant, a strong, healthy-looking lad about twenty years old. But when I looked up at the third, I could not help but cry out in pity and horror: it was Vanya, my poor Vanya, [3] who had gone over to Pugachov in a moment of folly. Nailed to the crossbeam above the men’s heads was a black board on which was written, in large white letters: THIEVES AND REBELS. The boatmen looked on indifferently, holding the raft in place with the boathook as they waited for me. I got back into the boat. The raft floated off again down the river. The gallows remained visible for a long time, blacker than the surrounding darkness. In the end it vanished and our boat reached the tall, steep left bank.

  I paid the boatmen generously. One of them took me to the village elder, who was standing not far from the ferry stage. I followed him into a hut. Hearing that I wanted horses, he seemed about to refuse my request rather brusquely, but my guide whispered a few words in his ear and his harsh manner gave way to eager obsequiousness. Three horses and a cart were quickly readied for me. I climbed in and told the driver to take me to my father’s estate.

  I galloped along, past sleeping villages. I was afraid of only one thing: being stopped on the road. What I had seen on the Volga testified to the proximity of rebels, even if it was no less a testimony to the strength of the authorities’ response. In case of need I had in my pocket both an order signed by Major Zurin and the safe-conduct given to me by Pugachov. But we met no one, and towards morning I saw the river and the grove of pines behind which lay our estate. The driver whipped the horses on and within a quarter of an hour we had entered the village.

  The manor house stood at the far end of the village. The horses were tearing along. Suddenly the driver reined them in. “Now what?” I asked impatiently. “A picket, sir,” replied the driver, struggling to check his still-quivering horses. In front of us there did indeed lie a barricade, and a sentry armed with a club. A peasant came over and removed his hat as he asked for my papers. “What’s going on?” I asked. “What’s this barricade for? Who are you guarding?” “We’re in revolt, sir,” he replied, scratching his head.

  “Where are your masters?” I asked, with a chill in my heart.

  “Our masters?” he repeated. “Our master and his wife are in the granary.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Andryushka the clerk’s put them there. He’s had them bound hand and foot. He wants to take them to our sovereign the Tsar.”

  “Dear God! Lift that barrier, you fool! Don’t just stand there gaping!”

  The sentry seemed in no hurry. I jumped out of the cart, boxed him (I have to confess) on the ear and lifted the barrier. The peasant looked at me with stupid amazement. I got back into the cart and told the driver to go on to the house as quickly as possible. The granary was in the courtyard. Two more peasants with clubs stood by the door, which was locked. I leapt out and made straight for them. “Open the door!” I commanded. I must have looked frightening; both of them, in any case, dropped their clubs and fled. I tried to wrench off the padlock and force the door, but the door was oak and the huge padlock impregnable. Just then a tall, young peasant came out of a hut and asked haughtily why I was making such a disturbance. “Where is Andryushka, the clerk?” I shouted. “Bring the man here!”

  “My name is Andrey Afanasyevich, not Andryushka,” the peasant replied, his arms akimbo. “What do you want?”

  By way of a reply I seized him by the collar, dragged him to the granary door and told him to open it. He appeared stubborn, but my fatherly clout on the ear had the desired effect on him too. He took out the key and opened the door. I rushed inside and, in a dark corner dimly lit by a narrow skylight, saw Mother and Father. Their hands were bound and their feet hobbled with blocks of wood. I rushed forward to embrace them and found myself at a loss for words. They both gazed at me in astonishment; three years of army life had changed me beyond recognition. Mother gasped and burst into tears.

  Behind me I heard a sweet familiar voice: “Pyotr Andreich! It’s you!” Dumbfounded, I looked round and saw Maria Ivanovna in another corner; her hands and feet were bound and hobbled too.

  Father looked at me in silence, not daring to believe his own eyes. His face shone with joy. I drew my sword and cut through the knots in their ropes.

  “Greetings, greetings, Petrusha!” said Father, clasping me to his heart. “You’re here! The Lord be thanked!”

  “Petrusha, my darling!” said Mother. “The Lord has brought you to us! Are you in good health?”

  I was eager to lead them out of their prison but found that the door had been locked again. “Andryushka!” I shouted, “open the door!” “No, I won’t!” he replied. “You can stay in there too. I’ll teach you to fight and brawl and manhandle the Tsar’s officials.”

  I began to look round the barn, searching for a way of escape. “It’s no use,” said Father. “I’m not the kind of man to have a barn with holes for thieves to climb in and out of.”

  Mother, who for a moment had been so overjoyed to see me, fell into despair at the thought that I too must now share the family’s terrible fate. But I felt calmer now that I was with my parents and Maria Ivanovna. I had a sword and two pistols; we could withstand a siege. And Zurin was sure to be with us by nightfall; he would set us free. I explained this and managed to soothe Mother. After that we all gave way to the joy of our reunion.

  “Well, Pyotr,” said Father. “You’ve got up to more than your share of mischief and I’ve been extremely angry with you. But there’s no need to dwell on the past. I trust that you’ve now sown all your wild oats and mended your ways. I know that you have done your duty, that you have been an honorable officer. Thank you. You have comforted me in my old age. If it is you I owe my deliverance to, life will be doubly sweet for me.”

  I wept and kissed his hand and looked at Maria Ivanovna, who was so glad to see me that she seemed entirely happy and calm.

  Around midday we heard an extraordinary uproar. “What do you think it is?” asked Father. “Is it your major already?” “No,” I said, “it can’t be him yet. It’s too early.” The noise increased. The tocsin was sounded. Mounted men were galloping across the yard.[4] Then Savelich thrust his grey head through a narrow opening in the wall and said in a pitiful voice, “Andrey Petrovich, Avdotya Vasilyevna, dear Pyotr Andreich, Maria Ivanovna! Terrible news! The bandits are in the village. And who do you think is leading them, Pyotr Andreich? Shvabrin—may the devil take him!” Hearing that hateful name, Maria Ivanovna threw up her hands in horror.

  “Listen,” I said to Savelich, “send someone on horseback to the ferry to meet the Hussar regiment. Order him to tell the major what danger we’re in.”

  “But who’s there to send, master? Everyone’s joined the rebels. The horses have all been seized. Oh God! Now they’re in the yard. They’re coming this way.”

  We heard several voices on the other side of the door. Gesturing to Mother and Maria Ivanovna to withdraw to a corner, I drew my sword and took up position beside the door, leaning against the wall. Father took the two pistols, cocked them and stood beside me. The lo
ck rattled, the door opened and Andryushka’s head appeared. I struck it with my sword and he fell to the ground, blocking the entrance. As he fell, Father fired one of the pistols through the open space. The crowd that had been pressing forward ran back, cursing. I dragged the wounded man across the threshold and bolted the door from the inside. The courtyard was full of armed men. Among them I saw Shvabrin.

  “Don’t be frightened,” I said to the two women. “There is hope. And you, Father, don’t shoot any more. Let’s save the last of our ammunition.”

  Mother was praying silently; Maria Ivanovna was standing beside her, awaiting our fate with angelic calm. Outside I could hear threats, oaths, and curses. I stood at my post, ready to cut down the first daredevil to come forward. All of a sudden the noise subsided; I heard Shvabrin calling my name.

  “I’m here. What do you want?”

  “Surrender, Grinyov! Resistance is futile. Have pity on your old parents. Obstinacy will do you no good. I’ll show you!”

  “Just you try, traitor!”

  “I’m not going to risk my own life for nothing, nor will I squander the lives of my men. I shall set fire to the granary—and we’ll see what you do then, Don Quixote of Belogorsk. It’s dinnertime now. Take your time to think about all this. Goodbye, Maria Ivanovna, I make no apologies to you. I’m sure you and your knight can entertain each other in the darkness.”

  Shvabrin walked away, leaving guards by the door. We all remained silent. Each of us was thinking his own thoughts, afraid to voice them. I knew that Shvabrin, in his embitterment, was capable of anything. My own fate hardly concerned me. What frightened me most, I have to confess, was not the possible fate of my parents but the thought of what might happen to Maria Ivanovna. I knew that Mother was adored by the peasants and house serfs alike. Father, for all his severity, was also much loved; he was just and he understood the true needs of the serfs who worked for him. Their revolt was an aberration, a momentary intoxication rather than an expression of genuine discontent. My parents would almost certainly be spared. Whereas Maria Ivanovna . . . Shvabrin was depraved and shameless. I did not dare dwell on the awful thought of what he might do to Maria Ivanovna and I readied myself (God forgive me!) to kill her with my own sword rather than let her fall a second time into Shvabrin’s hands.