This unexpected blow nearly killed my father. He lost his habitual firmness, and his sorrow, usually dumb, found vent in bitter lament.
“What!” he never ceased repeating, well-nigh beside himself, “What! my son mixed up in the plots of Pugatchéf! Just God! what have I lived to see! The Tzarina grants him life, but does that make it easier for me to bear? It is not the execution which is horrible. My ancestor perished on the scaffold for conscience sake, my father fell with the martyrs Volynski and Khuchtchoff, but that a ‘boyár’ should forswear his oath — that he should join with robbers, rascals, convicted felons, revolted slaves! Shame for ever — shame on our race!”
Frightened by his despair, my mother dared not weep before him, and endeavoured to give him courage by talking of the uncertainty and injustice of the verdict. But my father was inconsolable.
Marya was more miserable than anyone. Fully persuaded that I could have justified myself had I chosen, she suspected the motive which had kept me silent, and deemed herself the sole cause of my misfortune. She hid from all eyes her tears and her suffering, but never ceased thinking how she could save me.
One evening, seated on the sofa, my father was turning over the Court Calendar; but his thoughts were far away, and the book did not produce its usual effect on him. He was whistling an old march. My mother was silently knitting, and her tears were dropping from time to time on her work. Marya, who was working in the same room, all at once informed my parents that she was obliged to start for Petersburg, and begged them to give her the means to do so.
My mother was much affected by this declaration.
“Why,” said she, “do you want to go to Petersburg? You, too — do you also wish to forsake us?”
Marya made answer that her fate depended on the journey, and that she was going to seek help and countenance from people high in favour, as the daughter of a man who had fallen victim to his fidelity.
My father bowed his head. Each word which reminded him of the alleged crime of his son was to him a keen reproach.
“Go,” he said at last, with a sigh; “we do not wish to cast any obstacles between you and happiness. May God grant you an honest man as a husband, and not a disgraced and convicted traitor.”
He rose and left the room.
Left alone with my mother, Marya confided to her part of her plans. My mother kissed her with tears, and prayed God would grant her success.
A few days afterwards Marya set forth with Palashka and her faithful Savéliitch, who, necessarily, parted from me, consoled himself by remembering he was serving my betrothed.
Marya arrived safely at Sofia, and, learning that the court at this time was at the summer palace of Tzarskoe-Selo, she resolved to stop there. In the post-house she obtained a little dressing-room behind a partition.
The wife of the postmaster came at once to gossip with her, and announced to her pompously that she was the niece of a stove-warmer attached to the Palace, and, in a word, put her up to all the mysteries of the Palace. She told her at what hour the Tzarina rose, had her coffee, went to walk; what high lords there were about her, what she had deigned to say the evening before at table, who she received in the evening, and, in a word, the conversation of Anna Vlassiéfna might have been a leaf from any memoir of the day, and would be invaluable now. Marya Ivanofna heard her with great attention.
They went together to the Imperial Gardens, where Anna Vlassiéfna told Marya the history of every walk and each little bridge. Both then returned home, charmed with one another.
On the morrow, very early, Marya dressed herself and went to the Imperial Gardens. The morning was lovely. The sun gilded with its beams the tops of the lindens, already yellowed by the keen breath of autumn. The large lake sparkled unruffled; the swans, just awake, were gravely quitting the bushes on the bank. Marya went to the edge of a beautiful lawn, where had lately been erected a monument in honour of the recent victories of Count Roumianzeff.
All at once a little dog of English breed ran towards her, barking. Marya stopped short, alarmed. At this moment a pleasant woman’s voice said —
“Do not be afraid; he will not hurt you.”
Marya saw a lady seated on a little rustic bench opposite the monument, and she went and seated herself at the other end of the bench. The lady looked attentively at her, and Marya, who had stolen one glance at her, could now see her well. She wore a cap and a white morning gown and a little light cloak. She appeared about 50 years old; her face, full and high-coloured, expressed repose and gravity, softened by the sweetness of her blue eyes and charming smile. She was the first to break the silence.
“Doubtless you are not of this place?” she asked.
“You are right, lady; I only arrived yesterday from the country.”
“You came with your parents?”
“No, lady, alone.”
“Alone! but you are very young to travel by yourself.”
“I have neither father nor mother.”
“You are here on business?”
“Yes, lady, I came to present a petition to the Tzarina.”
“You are an orphan; doubtless you have to complain of injustice or wrong.”
“No, lady, I came to ask grace, and not justice.”
“Allow me to ask a question: Who are you?”
“I am the daughter of Captain Mironoff.”
“Of Captain Mironoff? He who commanded one of the forts in the Orenburg district?”
“Yes, lady.”
The lady appeared moved.
“Forgive me,” she resumed, in a yet softer voice, “if I meddle in your affairs; but I am going to Court. Explain to me the object of your request; perhaps I may be able to help you.”
Marya rose, and respectfully saluted her. Everything in the unknown lady involuntarily attracted her, and inspired trust. Marya took from her pocket a folded paper; she offered it to her protectress, who ran over it in a low voice.
When she began she looked kind and interested, but all at once her face changed, and Marya, who followed with her eyes her every movement, was alarmed by the hard expression of the face lately so calm and gracious.
“You plead for Grineff,” said the lady, in an icy tone. “The Tzarina cannot grant him grace. He passed over to the usurper, not as an ignorant and credulous man, but as a depraved and dangerous good-for-nothing.”
“It’s not true!” cried Marya.
“What! it’s not true?” retorted the lady, flushing up to her eyes.
“It is not true, before God it is not true,” exclaimed Marya. “I know all; I will tell you all. It is for me only that he exposed himself to all the misfortunes which have overtaken him. And if he did not vindicate himself before the judges, it is because he did not wish me to be mixed up in the affair.”
And Marya eagerly related all the reader already knows.
The lady listened with deep attention.
“Where do you lodge?” she asked, when the young girl concluded her story. And when she heard that it was with Anna Vlassiéfna, she added, with a smile: “Ah! I know! Good-bye! Do not tell anyone of our meeting. I hope you will not have to wait long for an answer to your letter.”
Having said these words, she rose and went away by a covered walk.
Marya returned home full of joyful hope.
Her hostess scolded her for her early morning walk — bad, she said, in the autumn for the health of a young girl. She brought the “samovar,” and over a cup of tea she was about to resume her endless discussion of the Court, when a carriage with a coat-of-arms stopped before the door.
A lackey in the Imperial livery entered the room, announcing that the
Tzarina deigned to call to her presence the daughter of Captain
Mironoff.
Anna Vlassiéfna was quite upset by this news.
“Oh, good heavens!” cried she; “the Tzarina summons you to Court! How did she know of your arrival? And how will you acquit yourself before the Tzarina, my little mother? I think you do n
ot even know how to walk Court fashion. I ought to take you; or, stay, should I not send for the midwife, that she might lend you her yellow gown with flounces?”
But the lackey declared that the Tzarina wanted Marya Ivánofna to come alone, and in the dress she should happen to be wearing. There was nothing for it but to obey, and Marya Ivánofna started.
She foresaw that our fate was in the balance, and her heart beat violently. After a few moments the coach stopped before the Palace, and Marya, after crossing a long suite of empty and sumptuous rooms, was ushered at last into the boudoir of the Tzarina. Some lords, who stood around there, respectfully opened a way for the young girl.
The Tzarina, in whom Marya recognized the lady of the garden, said to her, graciously —
“I am delighted to be able to accord you your prayer. I have had it all looked into. I am convinced of the innocence of your betrothed. Here is a letter which you will give your future father-in-law.” Marya, all in tears, fell at the feet of the Tzarina, who raised her, and kissed her forehead. “I know,” said she, “you are not rich, but I owe a debt to the daughter of Captain Mironoff. Be easy about your future.”
After overwhelming the poor orphan with caresses, the Tzarina dismissed her, and Marya started the same day for my father’s country house, without having even had the curiosity to take a look at Petersburg.
Here end the memoirs of Petr’ Andréjïtch Grineff; but family tradition asserts that he was released from captivity at the end of the year 1774, that he was present at the execution of Pugatchéf, and that the latter, recognizing him in the crowd, made him a farewell sign with the head which, a few moments later, was held up to the people, lifeless and bleeding.
Soon afterwards Petr’ Andréjïtch became the husband of Marya Ivánofna.
Their descendants still live in the district of Simbirsk.
In the ancestral home in the village of —— is still shown the autograph letter of Catherine II., framed and glazed. It is addressed to the father of Petr’ Andréjïtch, and contains, with the acquittal of his son, praises of the intellect and good heart of the Commandant’s daughter.
THE END.
THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER — OMITTED CHAPTER
WE WERE approaching the banks of the Volga. Our regiment entered the village of N. and halted to spend the night there. The village headman told me that all the villages on the other side had rebelled, and that Pugachov’s bands were prowling about everywhere. I was very much alarmed at this news. We were to cross the river the following morning.
Impatience possessed me and I could not rest. My father’s estate was on the other side of the river, some twenty miles away. I asked if anyone would row me across. All the peasants were fishermen; there were plenty of boats. I came to Zurin and told him of my intention.
“Take care,” he said, “it is dangerous for you to go alone. Wait for the morning. We will be the first to cross and will pay a visit to your parents with fifty Hussars in case of emergency.”
I insisted on going. The boat was ready. I stepped into it with two boatmen. They pushed off and plied their oars.
The sky was clear. The moon was shining brightly. The air was still. The Volga flowed calmly and evenly. Swaying rhythmically, the boat glided over the dark waves. Half an hour passed. I sank into dreaming. I thought of the calm of nature and the horrors of civil war; of love, and so on. We reached the middle of the river.... Suddenly the boatmen began whispering together.
“What is it?” I asked, coming to myself.
“Heaven only knows; we can’t tell,” the boatmen answered, looking into the distance.
I looked in the same direction and saw in the dark something floating down the river. The mysterious object was approaching us. I told the oarsmen to stop and wait.
The moon hid behind a cloud. The floating phantom seemed darker still. It was quite close to me and yet I could not distinguish it.
“Whatever can it be?” the boatmen said. “It isn’t a sail nor a mast.”
Suddenly the moon came out from behind the cloud and lighted a terrible sight. A gallows fixed to a raft was floating toward us. Three corpses were swinging on the cross-bar. A morbid curiosity possessed me. I wanted to look into the hanged men’s faces. I told the oarsmen to hold the raft with a boat-hook, and my boat knocked against the floating gallows. I jumped out and found myself between the terrible posts. The full moon lighted the disfigured faces of the unfortunate creatures.... One of them was an old Chuvash, another a Russian peasant boy of about twenty, strong and healthy. I was shocked when I looked at the third and could not refrain from crying out: it was our servant Vanka — poor Vanka, who, in his foolishness, went over to Pugachov. A black board was nailed over the gallows and had written on it in white letters: “Thieves and rebels.” The oarsmen waited for me unconcerned, holding the raft with the hook. I stepped into the boat. The raft floated down the river. The gallows showed black in the dim night long after we passed it. At last it disappeared and my boat landed at the high and steep bank.
I paid the oarsmen handsomely. One of them took me to the headman of the village by the landing-stage. We went into the hut together. When the headman heard that I was asking for horses he spoke to me rather rudely, but my guide whispered something to him and his sternness immediately gave way to hurried obsequiousness. The troika was ready in a minute. I stepped into the carriage and told the driver to take me to our estate.
We galloped along the high road past the sleeping villages. The only thing I feared was being stopped on the way. My night meeting on the Volga proved the presence of rebels in the district, but it also proved the strong counter-action on the part of the authorities. To meet all emergencies I had in my pocket the pass given me by Pugachov and Colonel Zurin’s order. But I did not meet anyone, and, toward morning, I saw the river and the pine copse behind which lay our village. The driver whipped up the horses and in another quarter of an hour I drove into it. Our house stood at the other end. The horses were going at full speed. Suddenly in the middle of the village street the driver began pulling up.
“What is it?” I asked impatiently.
“A barrier, sir,” the driver answered, with difficulty bringing the fuming horses to a standstill.
Indeed, I saw a barrier fixed across the road and a watchman with a club. The man came up to me and, taking off his hat, asked for my passport.
“What does this mean?” I asked him. “Why is this barrier here? Whom are you guarding?”
“Why, sir, we are in rebellion,” he answered, scratching himself.
“And where are your masters?” I asked, with a sinking heart.
“Where are our masters?” the peasant repeated. “Master and mistress are in the granary.”
“In the granary?”
“Why, Andryushka, the headman, put them in stocks, you see, and wants to take them to our Father Czar.”
“Good Heaven! Lift the bar, you blockhead! What are you gaping at?”
The watchman did not move. I jumped out of the carriage, gave him a box on the ear, I am sorry to say, and lifted the bar myself.
The peasant looked at me in stupid perplexity. I took my seat in the carriage once more and told the driver to drive to the house as fast as he could. Two peasants, armed with clubs, were standing by the locked doors of the granary. The carriage drew up just in front of them. I jumped out and rushed at them.
“Open the doors!” I said to them.
I must have looked formidable, for they threw down their clubs and ran away. I tried to knock the lock off the door or to pick it, but the doors were of oak and the huge lock was unbreakable. At that moment a young peasant came out of the servants’ quarters and haughtily asked me how I dared to make a disturbance.
“Where is Andryushka, the headman?” I shouted to him. “Call him to me.”
“I am Andrey Afanasyevich and not Andryushka,” he answered proudly, with his arms akimbo. “What do you want?”
By way of an answer, I seized him b
y the collar, and dragging him to the granary doors told him to open them. He did not comply at once; but the “fatherly.”
chastisement had due effect upon him. He pulled out the key and unlocked the granary. I rushed over the threshold and saw in a dark corner dimly lighted by a narrow skylight my father and mother. Their hands were tied and their feet were in stocks. I flew to embrace them and could not utter a word. They both looked at me with amazement: three years of military life had so altered me that they could not recognize me.
Suddenly I heard the sweet voice I knew: “Pyotr Andreyich! It’s you?”
I turned round and saw Marya Ivanovna in another corner, also bound hand and foot. I was dumbfounded. My father looked at me in silence, not daring to believe his senses. His face lit up with joy.
“Welcome, Petrusha,” he said, pressing me to his heart. “Thank God, we have lived to see you!”
My mother cried out and burst into tears.
“Petrusha, my darling!” she said. “How has the Lord brought you here? Are you well?”
I hastened to cut with my sword the ropes that bound them and to take them out of their prison; but when I came to the door I found that it had been locked again.
“Andryushka, open!” I shouted.
“No fear!” the man answered from behind the door. “You may as well sit here, too! We’ll teach you how to be rowdy and drag the Czar’s officials by the collar!” I began looking round the granary to see if there was some way of getting out.
“Don’t trouble,” my father said to me. “It’s not my way to have granaries into which thieves could find a way.”
My mother, who had rejoiced a moment before at my coming, was overcome with despair at the thought that I, too, would have to perish with the rest of the family. But I was calmer now that I was with them and Marya Ivanovna. I had a sword and two pistols; I could withstand a siege. Zurin was due to arrive in the evening and would set us free. I told all this to my parents and succeeded in calming my mother and Marya Ivanovna. They gave themselves up completely to the joy of our meeting, and several hours passed for us imperceptibly in expressions of affection and continual conversation.