Pugachev looked at me in surprise and made no reply. We both fell silent, each immersed in his own reflections. The Tatar struck up a mournful song; Savelyich, dozing, swayed on the box. The kibitka flew down the smooth winter road…Suddenly I saw a hamlet on the steep bank of the Yaik, with a palisade and a belfry—and a quarter of an hour later we drove into the Belogorsk fortress.
CHAPTER TWELVE The Orphan
Our pretty little apple tree
Has no branches and no crown;
Our pretty little princess-bride
Has no father and no mother.
There is nobody to dress her,
There is nobody to bless her.
WEDDING SONG
The kibitka drove up to the porch of the commandant’s house. The people recognized Pugachev’s harness bell and ran thronging after him. Shvabrin met the impostor on the porch. He was dressed as a Cossack and had let his beard grow. The traitor helped Pugachev out of the kibitka, expressing his joy and zeal in abject phrases. Seeing me, he was perplexed, but quickly recovered and gave me his hand, saying:
“So you’re one of us? None too soon!”
I turned away from him and made no reply.
My heart was wrung when we found ourselves in the long-familiar room, where the late commandant’s diploma still hung on the wall as a sorrowful epitaph of past times. Pugachev sat down on the same sofa on which Ivan Kuzmich used to doze, lulled by the grumbling of his spouse. Shvabrin himself served him vodka. Pugachev drank off the glass and said to him, pointing at me:
“Offer some to his honor.”
Shvabrin came up to me with his tray; but I turned away from him for the second time. He seemed not himself. With his usual sharpness he had, of course, realized that Pugachev was displeased with him. He was afraid of him and kept glancing at me suspiciously. Pugachev inquired about the condition of the fortress, the rumors about the enemy army, and so on, and suddenly asked him unexpectedly:
“Tell me, brother, who is this girl you’re keeping here under guard? Show her to me.”
Shvabrin turned deathly pale.
“My sovereign,” he said in a trembling voice, “my sovereign, she’s not under guard…She’s ill…lying in her room.”
“Take me to her,” said the impostor, standing up. It was impossible to get out of it. Shvabrin led Pugachev to Marya Ivanovna’s room. I followed them.
Shvabrin stopped on the stairs.
“My sovereign!” he said. “It is in your power to ask anything you like from me; but do not allow a stranger to enter my wife’s bedroom.”
I shuddered.
“So you’re married!” I said to Shvabrin, ready to tear him to pieces.
“Quiet!” Pugachev interrupted. “This is my business. And you,” he went on, turning to Shvabrin, “stop being clever and making difficulties: wife or not, I’ll take anyone I want to her. Follow me, Your Honor.”
At the door of the bedroom Shvabrin stopped again and said in a faltering voice:
“My sovereign, I warn you that she’s delirious and has been raving these past three days.”
“Open up!” said Pugachev.
Shvabrin started searching in his pockets and said he had not taken the key with him. Pugachev shoved the door with his foot; the latch tore loose; the door opened and we went in.
I looked and my heart sank. On the floor, in a ragged peasant dress, sat Marya Ivanovna, pale, thin, with disheveled hair. Before her stood a jug of water covered with a hunk of bread. Seeing me, she gave a start and cried out. What I felt then—I don’t remember.
Pugachev looked at Shvabrin and said with a wry grin:
“A nice sick ward you’ve got here!” Then, going to Marya Ivanovna: “Tell me, dear heart, what is your husband punishing you for? What wrong have you done him?”
“My husband!” she repeated. “He is not my husband. I will never be his wife! I’d rather die, and I will die, if nobody saves me.”
Pugachev cast a terrible glance at Shvabrin.
“So you dared to deceive me!” he said to him. “Do you know, wastrel, what you deserve for that?”
Shvabrin fell on his knees…At that moment contempt stifled all feelings of hatred and wrath in me. I looked with loathing at a nobleman lying at the feet of a fugitive Cossack. Pugachev softened.
“I’ll pardon you this time,” he said to Shvabrin, “but know that if you make another slip, I’ll also remember this one.”
Then he turned to Marya Ivanovna and said to her gently:
“Go, fair maiden; I grant you freedom. I am the sovereign.”
Marya Ivanovna glanced quickly at him and realized that before her was her parents’ murderer. She covered her face with both hands and fainted. I rushed to her, but just then my old acquaintance Palasha quite boldly thrust herself into the room and started looking after her young mistress. Pugachev left the bedroom, and the three of us went down to the drawing room.
“So, Your Honor?” Pugachev said, laughing. “We’ve rescued the fair maiden! What do you think, shall we send for the priest and have him marry off his niece? If you like, I’ll be the bride’s proxy father and Shvabrin the best man; we’ll feast, we’ll revel—and send the rest to the devil!”
