A new circumstance increased the commandant’s anxiety. A Bashkir was seized with inflammatory leaflets. On this occasion the commandant again intended to gather his officers and for that again wanted to send Vasilisa Egorovna away on some plausible pretext. But since Ivan Kuzmich was a most straightforward and truthful man, he found no other way than the same one he had already employed.
“See here, Vasilisa Egorovna,” he said, clearing his throat, “they say Father Gerasim has received from town…”
“Enough nonsense, Ivan Kuzmich,” his wife interrupted. “So you want to call a meeting and talk about Emelyan Pugachev without me; but this time you won’t pull it off!”
Ivan Kuzmich goggled his eyes.
“Well, dearest,” he said, “since you know everything, you might as well stay; we’ll talk with you here.”
“That’s the way, my dear,” she replied. “You’re no good at trickery. Send for the officers.”
We gathered again. Ivan Kuzmich, in the presence of his wife, read to us Pugachev’s proclamation, written by some semiliterate Cossack. The brigand announced his intention to go at once against our fortress; he invited the Cossacks and the soldiers to join his band, and exhorted the commanders to put up no resistance, threatening them with execution otherwise. The proclamation was written in crude but forceful language and was bound to make a dangerous impression on the minds of simple people.
“What a fraud!” exclaimed the commandant’s wife. “How dare he make us such offers! To go out to him and lay our banners at his feet! Ah, the son of a dog! Doesn’t he know we’ve already been forty years in the service and, thank God, seen it all? Can such commanders be found as would listen to the brigand?”
“Seems like there shouldn’t be,” Ivan Kuzmich replied. “Yet they say the villain has already taken many fortresses.”
“He must be really strong, then,” observed Shvabrin.
“We’ll soon see just how strong he is,” said the commandant. “Vasilisa Egorovna, give me the key to the shed. Ivan Ignatyich, bring that Bashkir and tell Yulai to fetch us a whip.”
“Wait, Ivan Kuzmich,” said his wife, getting up. “Let me take Masha away somewhere; she’ll hear the screams and get frightened. And, to tell the truth, I’m no lover of interrogations either. Good-bye and good luck.”
In the old days torture was so ingrained in legal procedure that the beneficial decree that abolished it long remained without any effect.21 The thinking was that a criminal’s own confession was necessary for his full conviction—an idea not only without foundation, but totally contrary to juridical common sense: for if a criminal’s denial is not accepted as proof of his innocence, still less should his confession be proof of his guilt. Even now I sometimes hear old judges regretting the abolition of this barbaric custom. But in our day nobody doubted the necessity of torture, neither the judges, nor the accused. And so, the commandant’s order neither surprised nor alarmed any of us. Ivan Ignatyich went for the Bashkir, who sat locked in Vasilisa Egorovna’s shed, and a few minutes later the prisoner was led into the front hall. The commandant ordered that he be brought before him.
The Bashkir stepped across the threshold with difficulty (he was in clogs) and, taking off his tall hat, stopped by the door. I looked at him and shuddered. Never will I forget this man. He looked to be over seventy. He had no nose or ears. His head was shaved; instead of a beard several gray hairs stuck out; he was short, skinny, and bent; but his narrow eyes still flashed fire.
“Aha!” said the commandant, recognizing by his terrible marks one of the rebels punished in 1741.22 “It’s clear you’re an old wolf—you’ve visited our traps. Must be this isn’t your first rebellion, since your nob’s been planed so smooth. Come closer; tell us, who sent you?”
The old Bashkir said nothing and looked at the commandant with a totally vacant air.
“Why are you silent?” Ivan Kuzmich went on. “Or maybe you don’t have a lick of Russian? Yulai, ask him in your language who sent him to our fortress.”
Yulai repeated Ivan Kuzmich’s question in Tatar. But the Bashkir looked at him with the same expression and answered not a word.
Two veterans began to undress the Bashkir. The poor man’s face showed anxiety. He looked all around like a little animal caught by children. But when one of the veterans took his arms, put them around his neck, and raised the old man onto his shoulders, while Yulai took the whip and swung it—then the Bashkir moaned in a weak, pleading voice, and, wagging his head, opened his mouth, in which, instead of a tongue, a short stump twitched.
