“In the commandant’s house,” replied the Cossack. “After dinner, our good father went to the bathhouse, and now he’s resting. Well, Your Honor, by all tokens, he’s a distinguished person: at dinner he was pleased to eat two roasted suckling pigs, and he made the steam in the bath so hot that even Taras Kurochkin couldn’t stand it, gave his whisk to Fomka Bikbaev, and barely revived under cold water. I tell you true: all his ways are so grand…And they say in the bathhouse he showed the signs that he’s a tsar on his chest: on one side a double-headed eagle as big as a five-kopeck piece, and on the other his own person.”
I did not deem it necessary to dispute the Cossack’s opinion and went with him to the commandant’s house, imagining beforehand my meeting with Pugachev and trying to foresee how it would end. The reader may easily imagine that I was not entirely coolheaded.
It was getting dark when I came to the commandant’s house. The gallows with its victims loomed black and dreadful. The body of the poor commandant’s wife still lay at the foot of the porch, by which two Cossacks stood guard. The Cossack who brought me went to announce my arrival and, coming back at once, led me to the same room where, the day before, I had so tenderly bid farewell to Marya Ivanovna.
An extraordinary picture presented itself to me: at the table, covered with a tablecloth and set with bottles and glasses, Pugachev and some ten Cossack chiefs sat, wearing hats and bright-colored shirts, flushed with vodka, their mugs red and their eyes gleaming. Neither Shvabrin nor our sergeant, the newly recruited traitors, was among them.
“Ah, Your Honor!” said Pugachev on seeing me. “Welcome! Sit yourself down, be my guest.” His companions made room. I silently sat down at the edge of the table. My neighbor, a young Cossack, slender and handsome, poured me a glass of plain vodka, which I did not touch. I started examining the company with curiosity. Pugachev sat at the head, leaning his elbow on the table and propping his black beard with his broad fist. His features, regular and quite pleasant, did not betray any ferocity. He often turned to a man of about fifty, referring to him now as Count, now as Timofeich, and sometimes calling him “uncle.” They all treated one another as comrades and showed no special preference for their leader. The conversation was about the morning’s assault, the success of the rebellion, and future actions. Each man boasted, offered his opinions, and freely disputed with Pugachev. And it was at this strange military council that it was decided to march on Orenburg: a bold action, and one which was nearly crowned with calamitous success! The campaign was announced for the next day.
“Well, brothers,” said Pugachev, “before we go to bed let’s strike up my favorite song. Chumakov,26 begin!”
In a high voice, my neighbor struck up a melancholy barge hauler’s song, and they all joined in the chorus:
Rustle not, leafy mother, forest green,
Keep me not, a fine lad, from thinking my thoughts.
Tomorrow, fine lad, I must go to be questioned
Before the dread judge, the great tsar himself.
And here is what the sovereign tsar will ask me:
“Tell me, tell me, my stout peasant lad,
With whom did you steal, with whom did you rob,
And how many comrades went by your side?”
“I will tell you, trusty Orthodox tsar,
In all truth I will tell you, and in all verity,
I had four comrades by my side:
My first comrade was the pitch-dark night,
My second comrade a knife of damask steel,
For my third comrade I had my good steed,
My fourth comrade was a taut-strung bow,
And tempered steel arrows were my messengers.”
Then up speaks the trusty Orthodox tsar:
“Praise to you, my stout peasant lad,
That you know how to steal and how to reply!
For that, my stout fellow, I grant to you
A lofty mansion in the midst of the fields—
A pair of straight posts and a sturdy crossbeam.”
It is impossible to describe the effect that this simple folk song about the gallows, sung by men destined for the gallows, had on me. Their stern faces, harmonious voices, the melancholy expression they gave to words that were expressive even without that—all of it shook me with a sort of poetic dread.
The guests drank one more glass, got up from the table, and took leave of Pugachev. I was going to follow them, but Pugachev said to me:
“Sit down; I want to talk to you.”
We remained face-to-face.
Our mutual silence continued for several minutes. Pugachev looked at me intently, occasionally narrowing his left eye with an extraordinary expression of slyness and mockery. Finally he burst out laughing, and with such unfeigned gaiety that, looking at him, I, too, began to laugh, not knowing why myself.
