It was my turn. I looked boldly at Pugachev, preparing to repeat the response of my noble-hearted comrades. Then, to my indescribable amazement, I saw Shvabrin among the rebel chiefs, his hair in a bowl cut and wearing a Cossack kaftan. He went up to Pugachev and said a few words in his ear.
“Hang him!” said Pugachev, without even glancing at me.
They threw the noose around my neck. I began to recite a prayer to myself, offering God sincere repentance for all my transgressions and asking for the salvation of all who were near to my heart. They dragged me under the gallows.
“Don’t be afraid, don’t be afraid,” repeated my undoers, perhaps truly wishing to hearten me. Suddenly I heard a shout:
“Stop, you fiends, wait!…”
The executioners stopped. I looked: Savelyich was lying at Pugachev’s feet.
“Dear father!” my poor tutor was saying. “What is the death of my master’s child to you? Let him go; you’ll get a ransom for him; and as an example and so as to put fear into people, have them hang my old self instead.”
Pugachev gave a sign, and they unbound me at once and let me go.
“Our father pardons you,” they said to me.
I cannot say that I was glad at that moment of my deliverance, though I also cannot say I regretted it. My feelings were too blurred. They brought me to the impostor again and made me go on my knees before him. Pugachev offered me his sinewy hand.
“Kiss his hand, kiss his hand!” said those around me. But I would have preferred the most cruel punishment to such base humiliation.
“Dearest Pyotr Andreich!” Savelyich whispered, standing behind me and prodding me. “Don’t be stubborn! What is it to you? Spit on it and kiss the vill—…pfui!…kiss his hand.”
I did not stir. Pugachev lowered his hand, saying with a little smirk:
“Seems his honor’s stupefied with joy. Stand him up!”
They stood me up and set me free. I started watching the continuation of the gruesome comedy.
The inhabitants began to swear allegiance. They went up one after the other, kissed the crucifix, and then bowed to the impostor. The garrison soldiers stood there, too. The company tailor, armed with his dull scissors, cut off their queues. They shook themselves and went up to kiss the hand of Pugachev, who declared them pardoned and received them into his band. All this took about three hours. Finally Pugachev got up from his chair and came down from the porch, accompanied by his chiefs. A white horse adorned with rich harness was brought to him. Two Cossacks took him under the arms and seated him on the saddle. He told Father Gerasim that he would dine with him. Just then I heard a woman’s shout. Several of the brigands dragged Vasilisa Egorovna out to the porch, disheveled and stripped naked. One of them had already managed to dress himself in her warm vest. Others were carrying featherbeds, trunks, tea sets, linen, and all sorts of chattels.
“My dear ones!” the poor old woman cried. “Let me go in peace. Kind people, take me to Ivan Kuzmich.”
Suddenly she glanced at the gallows and recognized her husband.
“Villains!” she cried in frenzy. “What have you done to him? Light of my life, Ivan Kuzmich, my brave soldier! Neither Prussian bayonets nor Turkish bullets could touch you; you laid down your life not in fair combat, but undone by a runaway convict!”
“Silence the old witch!” said Pugachev.
Here a young Cossack struck her on the head with his sword, and she fell dead on the steps of the porch. Pugachev rode off; the people rushed after him.
CHAPTER EIGHT An Uninvited Guest
An uninvited guest is worse than a Tatar.
PROVERB
The square was deserted. I went on standing in the same place and could not put my thoughts in order, confused as they were by such terrible impressions.
Uncertainty about the fate of Marya Ivanovna tormented me most of all. Where was she? What had happened to her? Had she had time to hide? Was her refuge safe?…Filled with anxious thoughts, I entered the commandant’s house…It was devastated; the chairs, tables, trunks were all broken; the dishes were all smashed; everything was pulled apart. I ran up the little stairway that led to the upper chamber and for the first time in my life entered Marya Ivanovna’s room. I saw her bed ransacked by the brigands; the wardrobe was broken and pillaged; a lamp still flickered before the empty icon stand. The little mirror on the wall between the windows was also intact…Where was the mistress of this humble maiden’s cell? A terrible thought flashed through my mind: I pictured her in the hands of the brigands…My heart was wrung…I wept bitter, bitter tears and loudly uttered the name of my beloved…Just then I heard a slight rustle and Palasha appeared from behind the wardrobe, pale and trembling.
“Ah, Pyotr Andreich!” she said, clasping her hands. “What a day! What horrors!…”
“And Marya Ivanovna?” I asked impatiently. “What of Marya Ivanovna?”
“The young miss is alive,” Palasha replied. “She’s in hiding at Akulina Pamfilovna’s.”
“At the priest’s!” I cried in horror. “My God! Pugachev’s there!…”
