Works of Alexander Pushkin (76 page)

She called Iwán Ignatiitch, determined to have out of him the secret which was provoking her feminine curiosity.

Vassilissa Igorofna began by making to him some remarks on household matters, like a judge who begins a cross-examination by questions irrelevant to the subject in hand, in order to reassure and lull the watchfulness of the accused. Then, after a few minutes’ silence, she gave a deep sigh, and said, shaking her head —

“Oh! good Lord! Just think what news! What will come of all this?”

“Eh! my little mother,” replied Iwán Ignatiitch; “the Lord is merciful.
We have soldiers enough, and much, powder; I have cleared the cannon.
Perhaps we may be able to defeat this Pugatchéf. If God do not forsake
us, the wolf will eat none of us here.”

“And what manner of man is this Pugatchéf?” questioned the Commandant’s wife.

Iwán Ignatiitch saw plainly that he had said too much, and bit his tongue; but it was too late. Vassilissa Igorofna obliged him to tell her all, after giving her word that she would tell no one.

She kept her promise, and did not breathe a word indeed to anyone, save only to the Pope’s wife, and that for the very good reason that the good lady’s cow, being still out on the steppe, might be “lifted” by the robbers.

Soon everybody was talking of Pugatchéf. The rumours abroad about him were very diverse. The Commandant sent the “
ouriadnik
” on a mission to look well into all in the neighbouring village and little forts. The “
ouriadnik
” came back after an absence of two days, and reported that he had seen in the steppe, about sixty versts from the fort, many fires, and that he had heard the Bashkirs say that an innumerable force was approaching. He had nothing of a more detailed or accurate nature to relate, having been afraid of going too far.

We soon began to notice a certain stir among the Cossacks in the garrison. They gathered in all the streets in little groups, spoke among themselves in low voices, and dispersed directly they caught sight of a dragoon or any other Russian soldier. They were watched. Joulaï, a baptized Kalmuck, revealed to the Commandant something very serious. According to him the “
ouriadnik
” had made a false report. On his return the perfidious Cossack had told his comrades that he had advanced upon the rebels, and that he had been presented to their chief, and that this chief gave him his hand to kiss and had had a long interview with him. At once the Commandant put the “
ouriadnik
” in arrest, and declared Joulaï his substitute. This change was received by the Cossacks with manifest discontent. They grumbled aloud, and Iwán Ignatiitch, who executed the Commandant’s orders, heard them with his own ears say pretty clearly —

“Only wait a bit, you garrison rat!”

The Commandant had intended to cross-examine his prisoner that same day, but the “
ouriadnik
” had escaped, doubtless with the connivance of his accomplices.

Another thing occurred to augment the Commandant’s disquiet; a Bashkir was taken bearing seditious letters. Upon this occasion the Commandant decided upon assembling his officers anew, and in order to do that he wished again to get rid of his wife under some plausible pretext. But as Iván Kouzmitch was one of the most upright and sincere of men he could not think of any other way than that which he had already employed on a previous occasion.

“Do you know, Vassilissa Igorofna,” said he to her, while clearing his throat once or twice, “it is said that Father Garosim has received from the town — ”

“Hold your tongue,” interrupted his wife; “you want again to call a council of war, and talk without me about Emelian Pugatchéf; but you will not deceive me this time.”

Iván Kouzmitch opened his eyes wide.

“Well, little mother,” said he, “if you know all, stay; there is nothing more to be done, we will talk before you.”

“Yes, you are quite right, my little father,” rejoined she; “it is of no use your trying to play the sly fox. Send for the officers.”

We again met. Iván Kouzmitch read to us, before his wife, Pugatchéf’s proclamation, drawn up by some illiterate Cossack. The robber proclaimed his intention of marching directly upon our fort, inviting the Cossacks and the soldiers to join him, and counselling the chiefs not to withstand him, threatening them, should they do so, with the utmost torture.

The proclamation was written in coarse but emphatic terms, and was likely to produce a great impression on the minds of simple people.

“What a rascal,” cried the Commandant’s wife. “Just look what he dares to propose to us! To go out to meet him and lay our colours at his feet! Oh! the son of a dog! He doesn’t then know that we have been forty years in the service, and that, thank heaven, we have had a taste of all sorts! Is it possible that there can have been commandants base and cowardly enough to obey this robber?”

“Such a thing should not be possible,” rejoined Iván Kouzmitch; “nevertheless, they say the scoundrel has already got possession of several forts.”

“It appears that he is in strength, indeed,” observed Chvabrine.

“We shall know directly the amount of his strength,” resumed the
Commandant. “Vassilissa Igorofna, give me the key of the barn. Iván
Ignatiitch, bring up the Bashkir and tell Joulaï to fetch the rods.”

“Wait a bit, Iván Kouzmitch,” said the Commandant’s wife, rising; “let me take Masha out of the house. Without I do so she would hear the cries, and they would frighten her. And as for me, to tell the truth, I am not over curious about such matters. So hoping to see you again — ”

Torture was then so rooted in the practice of justice that the beneficial ukase ordaining its abolition remained a long time of none effect. It was thought that the confession of the accused was indispensable to condemnation, an idea not merely unreasonable, but contrary to the dictates of the simplest good sense in legal matters, for, if the denial of the accused be not accepted as proof of his innocence, the extorted confession should still less serve as proof of his guilt. Yet even now I still hear old judges sometimes regret the abolition of this barbarous custom.

But in those days no one ever doubted of the necessity for torture, neither the judges nor the accused themselves. That is why the Commandant’s order did not arouse any surprise or emotion among us. Iwán Ignatiitch went off to seek the Bashkir, who was under lock and key in the Commandant’s barn, and a few minutes later he was brought into the ante-room. The Commandant ordered him to be brought before him.

The Bashkir crossed the sill with difficulty, owing to the wooden shackles he had on his feet. I glanced at him and involuntarily shuddered.

He lifted his high cap and remained near the door. I shall never forget that man; he seemed to be at least seventy years old, and he had neither nose nor ears. His head was shaven, and his beard consisted of a few grey hairs. He was little of stature, thin and bent; but his Tartar eyes still sparkled.

“Eh! eh!” said the Commandant, who recognized by these terrible marks one of the rebels punished in 1741, “you are an old wolf, by what I see. You have already been caught in our traps. ‘Tis not the first time you have rebelled, since you have been so well cropped. Come near and tell me who sent you.”

The old Bashkir remained silent, and looked at the Commandant with a look of complete idiocy.

“Well, why don’t you speak?” continued Iván Kouzmitch. “Don’t you understand Russ? Joulaï, ask him in your language who sent him to our fort.”

Joulaï repeated Iván Kouzmitch’s question in the Tartar language. But the Bashkir looked at him with the same expression, and spoke never a word.

“Jachki!” the Commandant rapped out a Tartar oath, “I’ll make you speak. Here, Joulaï, strip him of his striped dressing-gown, his idiot’s dress, and stripe his shoulders. Now then, Joulaï, touch him up properly.”

Two pensioners began undressing the Bashkir. Great uneasiness then overspread the countenance of the unhappy man. He began looking all round like a poor little animal in the hands of children. But when one of the pensioners seized his hands in order to twine them round his neck, and, stooping, upraised the old man on his shoulders, when Joulaï took the rods and lifted his hands to strike, then the Bashkir gave a long, deep moan, and, throwing back his head, opened his mouth, wherein, instead of a tongue, was moving a short stump.

We were all horrified.

“Well,” said the Commandant, “I see we can get nothing out of him. Joulaï, take the Bashkir back to the barn; and as for us, gentlemen, we have still to deliberate.”

We were continuing to discuss our situation, when Vassilissa Igorofna burst into the room, breathless, and looking affrighted.

“What has happened to you?” asked the Commandant, surprised.

“Misery! misery!” replied Vassilissa Igorofna. “Fort Nijnéosern was taken this morning. Father Garasim’s boy has just come back. He saw how it was taken. The Commandant and all the officers have been hanged, all the soldiers are prisoners. The rascals are coming here.”

This unexpected news made a great impression upon me. The Commandant of Fort Nijnéosern, a gentle and quiet young man, was known to me. Two months previously he had passed on his way from Orenburg with his young wife, and he had stayed with Iván Kouzmitch.

The Nijnéosernaia was only twenty-five versts away from our fort. From hour to hour we might expect to be attacked by Pugatchéf. The probable fate of Marya Ivánofna rose vividly before my imagination, and my heart failed me as I thought of it.

“Listen, Iván Kouzmitch,” I said to the Commandant, “it is our duty to defend the fort to the last gasp, that is understood. But we must think of the women’s safety. Send them to Orenburg, if the road be still open, or to some fort further off and safer, which the rascals have not yet had time to reach.”

Iván Kouzmitch turned to his wife.

“Look here, mother, really, had we not better send you away to some more distant place till the rebels be put down?”

“What nonsense!” replied his wife.

“Show me the fortress that bullets cannot reach. In what respect is Bélogorskaia not safe? Thank heaven, we have now lived here more than twenty-one years. We have seen the Bashkirs and the Kirghiz; perhaps we may weary out Pugatchéf here.”

“Well, little mother,” rejoined Iván Kouzmitch, “stay if you like, since you reckon so much on our fort. But what are we to do with Masha? It is all right if we weary him out or if we be succoured. But if the robbers take the fort?”

“Well, then — ”

But here Vassilissa Igorofna could only stammer and become silent, choked by emotion.

“No, Vassilissa Igorofna,” resumed the Commandant, who remarked that his words had made a great impression on his wife, perhaps for the first time in her life; “it is not proper for Masha to stay here. Let us send her to Orenburg to her godmother. There are enough soldiers and cannons there, and the walls are stone. And I should even advise you to go away thither, for though you be old yet think on what will befall you if the fort be taken by assault.”

“Well! well!” said the wife, “we will send away Masha; but don’t ask me to go away, and don’t think to persuade me, for I will do no such thing. It will not suit me either in my old age to part from you and go to seek a lonely grave in a strange land. We have lived together; we will die together.”

“And you are right,” said the Commandant. “Let us see, there is no time to lose. Go and get Masha ready for her journey; to-morrow we will start her off at daybreak, and we will even give her an escort, though, to tell the truth, we have none too many people here. But where is she?”

“At Akoulina Pamphilovna’s,” answered his wife. “She turned sick when she heard of the taking of Nijnéosern; I dread lest she should fall ill. Oh! God in heaven! that we should have lived to see this!”

Vassilissa Igorofna went away to make ready for her daughter’s departure.

The council at the Commandant’s still continued, but I no longer took any part in it. Marya Ivánofna reappeared for supper, pale and her eyes red. We supped in silence, and we rose from table earlier than usual. Each of us returned to his quarters after bidding good-bye to the whole family. I purposely forgot my sword, and came back to fetch it. I felt I should find Marya alone; in fact, she met me in the porch, and handed me my sword.

“Good-bye, Petr’ Andréjïtch,” she said to me, crying; “they are sending me to Orenburg. Keep well and happy. Mayhap God will allow us to see one another again, if not — ”

She began to sob. I pressed her in my arms.

“God be with you, my angel,” I said to her. “My darling, my loved one, whatever befall me, rest assured that my last thought and my last prayer will be for you.”

Masha still wept, sheltered on my breast. I kissed her passionately, and abruptly went out.

CHAPTER VII.

THE ASSAULT.

All the night I could not sleep, and I did not even take off my clothes. I had meant in the early morning to gain the gate of the fort, by which Marya Ivánofna was to leave, to bid her a last good-bye. I felt that a complete change had come over me. The agitation of my mind seemed less hard to bear than the dark melancholy in which I had been previously plunged. Blended with the sorrow of parting, I felt within me vague, but sweet, hopes, an eager expectation of coming dangers, and a feeling of noble ambition.

The night passed quickly. I was going out, when my door opened and the corporal came in to tell me that our Cossacks had left the fort during the night, taking away with them by force Joulaï, and that around our ramparts unknown people were galloping. The thought that Marya Ivánofna had not been able to get away terrified me to death. I hastily gave some orders to the corporal, and I ran to the Commandant’s house.

Day was breaking. I was hurrying down the street when I heard myself called by someone. I stopped.

“Where are you going, if I may presume to ask you?” said Iwán Ignatiitch, catching me up. “Iván Kouzmitch is on the ramparts, and has sent me to seek you. The ‘
pugatch
’ has come.”

“Is Marya Ivánofna gone?” I asked, with an inward trembling.