I went into the cottage—or palace, as the muzhiks called it. It was lit by two tallow candles, and the walls were pasted over with gold paper; however, the benches, the table, the wash pot on a cord, the towel on a nail, the oven fork in the corner, and the wide hearth covered with pots—all of it was as in any ordinary cottage. Pugachev was sitting under the icons33 in a red kaftan and a tall hat, his arms imposingly akimbo. Around him stood several of his chief comrades, with an air of feigned obsequiousness. It was clear that the news of the arrival of an officer from Orenburg had aroused strong curiosity in the rebels, and they had prepared to meet me with ceremony. Pugachev recognized me at first glance. His pretended importance suddenly vanished.
“Ah, Your Honor!” he said with animation. “How are you doing? What brings you here?”
I told him that I was going about my own business and that his people had stopped me.
“On what sort of business?” he asked.
I did not know how to reply. Pugachev, supposing that I did not want to explain myself in front of witnesses, turned to his comrades and ordered them to leave. They all obeyed except for two, who did not budge.
“Talk freely in front of them,” said Pugachev. “I don’t hide anything from them.”
I cast a sidelong glance at the impostor’s confidants. One of them, a frail and bent old man with a gray little beard, had nothing remarkable about him, except for a blue ribbon worn over the shoulder of his gray peasant coat.34 But I will never forget his comrade. He was tall, burly, and broad-shouldered, and looked to be about forty-five. A thick red beard, flashing gray eyes, a nose without nostrils, and reddish spots on his forehead and cheeks gave his broad, pockmarked face an indescribable expression. He was wearing a red shirt, a Kirghiz robe, and Cossack balloon trousers. The first (as I learned later) was the fugitive Corporal Beloborodov; the second—Afanasy Sokolov (nicknamed Khlopusha), an exiled convict, who had escaped three times from the Siberian mines. Despite the feelings that troubled me exclusively, the company in which I so unexpectedly found myself greatly aroused my imagination. But Pugachev brought me back to myself by his question:
“Speak: On what sort of business did you leave Orenburg?”
A strange thought occurred to me: it seemed to me that Providence, which had brought me to Pugachev a second time, was giving me the chance to carry out my intention. I decided to take advantage of it and, having no time to think over what I decided, I answered Pugachev’s question:
“I was going to the Belogorsk fortress to rescue an orphan who is being mistreated there.”
Pugachev’s eyes flashed.
“Who of my people dares to mistreat an orphan?” he cried. “Though he be sly as a fox, he won’t escape my justice. Speak: Who is the guilty one?”
“Shvabrin,” I replied. “He’s holding captive the girl you saw sick at the priest’s wife’s and wants to force her to marry him.”
“I’ll teach Shvabrin,” Pugachev said menacingly. “He’ll learn from me what it means to do as he likes and mistreat people. I’ll hang him.”
“Allow me to put in a word,” said Khlopusha in a hoarse voice. “You were in a hurry to appoint Shvabrin commandant of the fortress, and now you’re in a hurry to hang him. You’ve already offended the Cossacks by setting up a nobleman as their superior; don’t frighten the nobility now by executing them at the first bit of slander.”
“There’s no cause to pity them or approve of them,” said the little old man with the blue ribbon. “Nothing’s wrong with executing Shvabrin; but it wouldn’t be bad to give Mister Officer here a proper questioning as to why he was pleased to come calling. If he doesn’t recognize you as the sovereign, he needn’t look to you for your justice, and if he does, why has he sat there in Orenburg with your enemies up to now? Why don’t you order him taken to the guardhouse and have them start a little fire there: something tells me his honor’s been sent to us by the Orenburg commanders.”
I found the old villain’s logic quite persuasive. Chills came over me at the thought of whose hands I was in. Pugachev noticed my confusion.
“Eh, Your Honor?” he said, winking at me. “My field marshal seems to be talking sense. What do you think?”
Pugachev’s mockery restored my courage. I replied calmly that I was in his power and he was free to do whatever he liked with me.
“Fine,” said Pugachev. “Now tell me, what shape is your town in?”
“Thank God,” I replied, “everything’s quite well.”
“Quite well?” Pugachev repeated. “But people are dying of hunger!”
The impostor was telling the truth; but, being duty-bound, I began to assure him that these were all empty rumors and there was enough of all sorts of supplies in Orenburg.
