Towards noon we heard extraordinary noise and shouting.
“What does this mean?” said my father. “Can your colonel have made it in such good time?”
“Impossible,” I replied. “He won’t be here before evening.”
The noise grew louder. The alarm bell rang. Mounted men were galloping around the yard. At that moment the gray head of Savelyich thrust itself into the narrow slot cut in the wall, and my poor tutor said in a pitiful voice:
“Andrei Petrovich, Avdotya Vasilyevna, my dear Pyotr Andreich, dearest Marya Ivanovna—trouble! The brigands have entered the village. And do you know, Pyotr Andreich, who’s brought them? Shvabrin, Alexei Ivanych, deuce take him!”
Hearing the hateful name, Marya Ivanovna clasped her hands and stood motionless.
“Listen,” I said to Savelyich, “send someone on horseback to the * * * ferry, to meet the hussar regiment and give their colonel word of our danger.”
“Who can I send, sir? All the boys are rebelling, and the horses have all been taken! Oh, Lord! They’re already in the yard. They’re heading for the granary.”
Just then we heard several voices outside the door. I silently made a sign to my mother and Marya Ivanovna to retreat into a corner, drew my sword, and leaned against the wall right next to the door. My father took the pistols, cocked them both, and stood beside me. The padlock clacked, the door opened, and the bailiff’s head appeared. I struck it with my sword and he fell, blocking the entrance. At the same moment my father fired a pistol through the doorway. The crowd besieging us ran off cursing. I dragged the wounded man across the threshold and bolted the door from inside. The yard was full of armed men. Among them I recognized Shvabrin.
“Don’t be afraid,” I said to the women. “There’s hope. And you, father, don’t shoot again. Let’s save the last shot.”
Mother silently prayed to God; Marya Ivanovna stood beside her, waiting with angelic calm for our fate to be decided. Outside the door we heard threats, abuse, and curses. I stood in my place, ready to cut down the first daredevil to come in. Suddenly the villains fell silent. I heard the voice of Shvabrin calling me by name.
“I’m here. What do you want?”
“Surrender, Grinyov, it’s useless to resist. Have pity on your old ones. Obstinacy won’t save you. I’m going to get you all!”
“Just try it, traitor!”
“I won’t risk my neck for nothing, or waste my people’s lives. I’ll order them to set the granary on fire, and then we’ll see what you do, Don Quixote of Belogorsk. It’s dinnertime now. Sit there for a while and think things over at your leisure. Good-bye, Marya Ivanovna, I won’t apologize to you: you’re probably not bored there in the dark with your knight.”
Shvabrin went away and left a guard by the granary. We were silent. Each of us was thinking to himself, not daring to share his thoughts with the others. I imagined all that the resentful Shvabrin was capable of inflicting on us. I cared little about myself. Shall I confess it? Even my parents’ lot did not horrify me so much as the fate of Marya Ivanovna. I knew that my mother was adored by the peasants and the house serfs; that my father, for all his strictness, was also loved, for he was a fair man and knew the true needs of the people subject to him. Their rebellion was a delusion, a momentary drunkenness, not the expression of their indignation. Here mercy was likely. But Marya Ivanovna? What lot had the depraved and shameless man prepared for her? I did not dare to dwell on that horrible thought, and prepared myself, God forgive me, sooner to kill her than to see her a second time in the hands of the cruel enemy.
About another hour went by. There was drunken singing in the village. Our guards were envious and, vexed with us, swore and taunted us with torture and death. We awaited the sequel to Shvabrin’s threats. Finally there came a big commotion in the yard, and again we heard Shvabrin’s voice:
“So, have you made up your mind? Do you voluntarily surrender to me?”
No one answered him. Having waited a little, Shvabrin ordered straw brought. After a few minutes, a burst of fire lit up the dark granary, and smoke began to make its way through the chink under the door. Then Marya Ivanovna came to me and, taking me by the hand, said softly:
“Enough, Pyotr Andreich! Don’t destroy yourself and your parents on account of me. Let me out. Shvabrin will listen to me.”
“Not for anything,” I cried hotly. “Do you know what awaits you?”
“I won’t survive dishonor,” she replied calmly. “But maybe I’ll save my deliverer and the family that so magnanimously sheltered a poor orphan. Farewell, Andrei Petrovich. Farewell, Avdotya Vasilyevna. You were more than benefactors to me. Give me your blessing. Farewell and forgive me, Pyotr Andreich. Be assured that…that…” Here she burst into tears and buried her face in her hands…I was like a madman. My mother wept.
