Still my friendly understanding with Pugatchéf seemed to be proved by a crowd of witnesses, and must appear at least suspicious. All the way I pondered the questions I should be asked, and mentally resolved upon my answers. I determined2 to tell the judges the whole truth, convinced that it was at once the simplest and surest way of justifying3 myself.
I reached Khasan, a miserable4 town, which I found laid waste, and well-nigh reduced to ashes. All along the street, instead of houses, were to be seen heaps of charred5 plaster and rubbish, and walls without windows or roofs. These were the marks Pugatchéf had left. I was taken to the fort, which had remained whole, and the hussars, my escort, handed me over to the officer of the guard.
He called a farrier, who coolly rivetted irons on my ankles.
Then I was led to the prison building, where I was left alone in a narrow, dark cell, which had but its four walls and a little skylight, with iron bars.
Such a beginning augured6 nothing good. Still I did not lose either hope or courage. I had recourse to the consolation7 of all who suffer, and, after tasting for the first time the sweetness of a prayer from an innocent heart full of anguish8, I peacefully fell asleep without giving a thought to what might befall me.
On the morrow the gaoler came to wake me, telling me that I was summoned before the Commission.
Two soldiers conducted me across a court to the Commandant’s house, then, remaining in the ante-room, left me to enter alone the inner chamber10. I entered a rather large reception room. Behind the table, covered with papers, were seated two persons, an elderly General, looking severe and cold, and a young officer of the Guard, looking, at most, about thirty, of easy and attractive demeanour; near the window at another table sat a secretary with a pen behind his ear, bending over his paper ready to take down my evidence.
The cross-examination began. They asked me my name and rank. The General inquired if I were not the son of Andréj Petróvitch Grineff, and on my affirmative answer, he exclaimed, severely11 —
“It is a great pity such an honourable12 man should have a son so very unworthy of him!”
I quietly made answer that, whatever might be the accusations13 lying heavily against me, I hoped to be able to explain them away by a candid14 avowal15 of the truth.
My coolness displeased16 him.
“You are a bold, barefaced17 rascal18,” he said to me, frowning. “However, we have seen many of them.”
Then the young officer asked me by what chance and at what time I had entered Pugatchéf’s service, and on what affairs he had employed me.
I indignantly rejoined that, being an officer and a gentleman, I had not been able to enter Pugatchéf’s service, and that he had not employed me on any business whatsoever19.
“How, then, does it happen,” resumed my judge, “that the officer and gentleman be the only one pardoned by the usurper20, while all his comrades are massacred in cold blood? How does it happen, also, that the same officer and gentleman could live snugly21 and pleasantly with the rebels, and receive from the ringleader presents of a ‘pelisse,’ a horse, and a half rouble? What is the occasion of so strange a friendship? And upon what can it be founded if not on treason, or at the least be occasioned by criminal and unpardonable baseness?”
The words of the officer wounded me deeply, and I entered hotly on my vindication22.
I related how my acquaintance with Pugatchéf had begun, on the steppe, in the midst of a snowstorm; how he had recognized me and granted me my life at the taking of Fort Bélogorsk. I admitted that, indeed, I had accepted from the usurper a “touloup” and a horse; but I had defended Fort Bélogorsk against the rascal to the last gasp23. Finally I appealed to the name of my General, who could testify to my zeal24 during the disastrous25 siege of Orenburg.
The severe old man took from the table an open letter, which he began to read aloud.
“In answer to your excellency on the score of Ensign Grineff, who is said to have been mixed up in the troubles, and to have entered into communication with the robber, communication contrary to the rules and regulations of the service, and opposed to all the duties imposed by his oath, I have the honour to inform you that the aforesaid Ensign Grineff served at Orenburg from the month of Oct., 1773, until Feb. 24th of the present year, upon which day he left the town, and has not been seen since. Still the enemy’s deserters have been heard to declare that he went to Pugatchéf’s camp, and that he accompanied him to Fort Bélogorsk, where he was formerly26 in garrison27. On the other hand, in respect to his conduct I can —”
Here the General broke off, and said to me with harshness —
“Well, what have you to say now for yourself?”
I was about to continue as I had begun, and relate my connection with Marya as openly as the rest. But suddenly I felt an unconquerable disgust to tell such a story. It occurred to me that if I mentioned her, the Commission would oblige her to appear; and the idea of exposing her name to all the scandalous things said by the rascals28 under cross-examination, and the thought of even seeing her in their presence, was so repugnant to me that I became confused, stammered29, and took refuge in silence.
My judges, who appeared to be listening to my answers with a certain good will, were again prejudiced against me by the sight of my confusion. The officer of the Guard requested that I should be confronted with the principal accuser. The General bade them bring in yesterday’s rascal. I turned eagerly towards the door to look out for my accuser.
A few moments afterwards the clank of chains was heard, and there entered — Chvabrine. I was struck by the change that had come over him. He was pale and thin. His hair, formerly black as jet, had begun to turn grey. His long beard was unkempt. He repeated all his accusations in a feeble, but resolute30 tone. According to him, I had been sent by Pugatchéf as a spy to Orenburg; I went out each day as far as the line of sharpshooters to transmit written news of all that was passing within the town; finally, I had definitely come over to the usurper’s side, going with him from fort to fort, and trying, by all the means in my power, to do evil to my companions in treason, to supplant31 them in their posts, and profit more by the favours of the arch-rebel. I heard him to the end in silence, and felt glad of one thing; he had never pronounced Marya’s name. Was it because his self-love was wounded by the thought of her who had disdainfully rejected him, or was it that still within his heart yet lingered a spark of the same feeling which kept me silent? Whatever it was, the Commission did not hear spoken the name of the daughter of the Commandant of Fort Bélogorsk. I was still further confirmed in the resolution I had taken, and when the judges asked me if I had aught to answer to Chvabrine’s allegations, I contented32 myself with saying that I did abide33 by my first declaration, and that I had nothing more to show for my vindication.
The General bid them take us away. We went out together. I looked calmly at Chvabrine, and did not say one word to him. He smiled a smile of satisfied hatred34, gathered up his fetters35, and quickened his pace to pass before me. I was taken back to prison, and after that I underwent no further examination.
I was not witness to all that I have still to tell my readers, but I have heard the whole thing related so often that the least little details have remained graven in my memory, and it seems to me I was present myself.
Marya was received by my parents with the cordial kindness characteristic of people in old days. In the opportunity presented to them of giving a home to a poor orphan36 they saw a favour of God. Very soon they became truly attached to her, for one could not know her without loving her. My love no longer appeared a folly37 even to my father, and my mother thought only of the union of her Petrúsha with the Commandant’s daughter.
The news of my arrest electrified38 with horror my whole family. Still, Marya had so simply told my parents the origin of my strange friendship with Pugatchéf that, not only were they not uneasy, but it even made them laugh heartily39. My father could not believe it possible that I should be mixed up in a disgraceful revolt, of which the object was the downfall of the throne and the extermination40 of the race of “boyárs.” He cross-examined Savéliitch sharply, and my retainer confessed that I had been the guest of Pugatchéf, and that the robber had certainly behaved generously towards me. But at the same time he solemnly averred41 upon oath that he had never heard me speak of any treason. My old parents’ minds were relieved, and they impatiently awaited better news. But as to Marya, she was very uneasy, and only caution and modesty42 kept her silent.
Several weeks passed thus. All at once my father received from Petersburg a letter from our kinsman43, Prince Banojik. After the usual compliments he announced to him that the suspicions which had arisen of my participation44 in the plots of the rebels had been proved to be but too well founded, adding that condign45 punishment as a deterrent46 should have overtaken me, but that the Tzarina, through consideration for the loyal service and white hairs of my father, had condescended47 to pardon the criminal son, and, remitting48 the disgrace-fraught execution, had condemned49 him to exile for life in the heart of Siberia.
This unexpected blow nearly killed my father. He lost his habitual50 firmness, and his sorrow, usually dumb, found vent51 in bitter lament52.
“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,71 my father fell with the martyrs53 Volynski and Khuchtchoff,72 but that a ‘boyár’ should forswear his oath — that he should join with robbers, rascals, convicted felons54, 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 uncertainty55 and injustice56 of the verdict. But my father was inconsolable.
Marya was more miserable than anyone. Fully9 persuaded that I could have justified57 myself had I chosen, she suspected the motive58 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 affected59 by this declaration.
“Why,” said she, “do you want to go to Petersburg? You, too — do you also wish to forsake60 us?”
Marya made answer that her fate depended on the journey, and that she was going to seek help and countenance61 from people high in favour, as the daughter of a man who had fallen victim to his fidelity62.
My father bowed his head. Each word which reminded him of the alleged63 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 traitor64.”
He rose and left the room.
Left alone with my mother, Marya confided65 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 forth66 with Palashka and her faithful Savéliitch, who, necessarily, parted from me, consoled himself by remembering he was serving my betrothed67.
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 pompously68 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 deigned69 to say the evening before at table, who she received in the evening, and, in a word, the conversation of Anna Vlassiéfna73 might have been a leaf from any memoir70 of the day, and would be invaluable71 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 gilded72 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 erected73 a monument in honour of the recent victories of Count Roumianzeff.74
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 rustic74 bench opposite the monument, and she went and seated herself at the other end of the bench. The lady looked attentively75 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 repose76 and gravity, softened77 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 meddle78 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 saluted79 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 credulous80 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 vindicate81 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 lodge82?” 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 joyful83 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 lackey84 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 acquit85 yourself before the Tzarina, my little mother? I think you do not 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 suite86 of empty and sumptuous87 rooms, was ushered88 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 innocence89 of your betrothed. Here is a letter which you will give your future father-inlaw.” 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 caresses90, 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 memoirs91 of Petr’ Andréj?tch Grineff; but family tradition asserts that he was released from captivity92 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’ Andréj?tch 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 glazed93. It is addressed to the father of Petr’ Andréj?tch, and contains, with the acquittal of his son, praises of the intellect and good heart of the Commandant’s daughter.
The End
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1
exculpate
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| v.开脱，使无罪 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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justifying
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| 证明…有理( justify的现在分词 )； 为…辩护； 对…作出解释； 为…辩解（或辩护） | |
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miserable
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| adj.悲惨的，痛苦的；可怜的，糟糕的 | |
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charred
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| v.把…烧成炭( char的过去式)；烧焦 | |
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augured
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| v.预示，预兆，预言( augur的过去式和过去分词 )；成为预兆；占卜 | |
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consolation
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anguish
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fully
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| adv.完全地，全部地，彻底地；充分地 | |
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chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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honourable
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| adj.可敬的；荣誉的，光荣的 | |
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accusations
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| n.指责( accusation的名词复数 )；指控；控告；（被告发、控告的）罪名 | |
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candid
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| adj.公正的，正直的；坦率的 | |
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avowal
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displeased
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| a.不快的 | |
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barefaced
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| adj.厚颜无耻的，公然的 | |
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rascal
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| n.流氓；不诚实的人 | |
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whatsoever
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| adv.（用于否定句中以加强语气）任何；pron.无论什么 | |
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usurper
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| n. 篡夺者, 僭取者 | |
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snugly
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| adv.紧贴地；贴身地；暖和舒适地；安适地 | |
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vindication
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gasp
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zeal
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disastrous
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formerly
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garrison
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rascals
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| 流氓( rascal的名词复数 )； 无赖； （开玩笑说法）淘气的人（尤指小孩）； 恶作剧的人 | |
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stammered
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resolute
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| adj.坚决的，果敢的 | |
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supplant
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| vt.排挤；取代 | |
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contented
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abide
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hatred
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| n.憎恶，憎恨，仇恨 | |
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fetters
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orphan
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folly
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| n.愚笨，愚蠢，蠢事，蠢行，傻话 | |
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electrified
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heartily
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extermination
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| n.消灭，根绝 | |
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averred
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| v.断言( aver的过去式和过去分词 )；证实；证明…属实；作为事实提出 | |
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modesty
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kinsman
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participation
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| n.参与，参加，分享 | |
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condign
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| adj.应得的，相当的 | |
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deterrent
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| n.阻碍物，制止物；adj.威慑的，遏制的 | |
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condescended
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| 屈尊，俯就( condescend的过去式和过去分词 )； 故意表示和蔼可亲 | |
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remitting
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| v.免除（债务），宽恕( remit的现在分词 )；使某事缓和；寄回，传送 | |
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condemned
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| adj. 被责难的, 被宣告有罪的 动词condemn的过去式和过去分词 | |
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habitual
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vent
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| n.通风口，排放口；开衩；vt.表达，发泄 | |
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lament
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| n.悲叹，悔恨，恸哭；v.哀悼，悔恨，悲叹 | |
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53
martyrs
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| n.martyr的复数形式；烈士( martyr的名词复数 )；殉道者；殉教者；乞怜者（向人诉苦以博取同情） | |
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54
felons
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| n.重罪犯( felon的名词复数 )；瘭疽；甲沟炎；指头脓炎 | |
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uncertainty
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| n.易变，靠不住，不确知，不确定的事物 | |
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injustice
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| n.非正义，不公正，不公平，侵犯（别人的）权利 | |
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justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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forsake
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| vt.遗弃，抛弃；舍弃，放弃 | |
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countenance
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| n.脸色，面容；面部表情；vt.支持，赞同 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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alleged
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| a.被指控的，嫌疑的 | |
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traitor
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| n.叛徒，卖国贼 | |
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confided
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| v.吐露（秘密，心事等）( confide的过去式和过去分词 )；（向某人）吐露（隐私、秘密等） | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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betrothed
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| n. 已订婚者 动词betroth的过去式和过去分词 | |
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pompously
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| adv.傲慢地，盛大壮观地；大模大样 | |
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deigned
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| v.屈尊，俯就( deign的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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memoir
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| n.[pl.]回忆录，自传；记事录 | |
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71
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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gilded
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| a.镀金的，富有的 | |
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ERECTED
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| adj. 直立的，竖立的，笔直的 vt. 使 ... 直立，建立 | |
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rustic
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| adj.乡村的，有乡村特色的；n.乡下人，乡巴佬 | |
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attentively
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| adv.聚精会神地；周到地；谛；凝神 | |
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repose
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| v.(使)休息；n.安息 | |
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softened
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| （使）变软( soften的过去式和过去分词 )； 缓解打击； 缓和； 安慰 | |
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meddle
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| v.干预，干涉，插手 | |
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saluted
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| v.欢迎，致敬( salute的过去式和过去分词 )；赞扬，赞颂 | |
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credulous
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| adj.轻信的，易信的 | |
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81
vindicate
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| v.为…辩护或辩解，辩明；证明…正确 | |
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82
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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joyful
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| adj.欢乐的，令人欢欣的 | |
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lackey
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| n.侍从；跟班 | |
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acquit
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| vt.宣判无罪；(oneself)使(自己)表现出 | |
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suite
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| n.一套(家具)；套房；随从人员 | |
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sumptuous
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| adj.豪华的，奢侈的，华丽的 | |
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ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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caresses
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| 爱抚，抚摸( caress的名词复数 ) | |
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91
memoirs
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| n.回忆录；回忆录传( mem,自oir的名词复数) | |
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92
captivity
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| n.囚禁；被俘；束缚 | |
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glazed
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| adj.光滑的，像玻璃的；上过釉的；呆滞无神的v.装玻璃( glaze的过去式)；上釉于，上光；（目光）变得呆滞无神 | |
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