第 十四 章 · The Sentence.
.
THE SENTENCE.
I felt convinced that the cause of my arrest was my absenting myself
from Orenburg without leave. I could easily justify myself on that
score: for sallying out against the enemy had not only not been
prohibited, but had even been encouraged. I might be accused of undue
rashness instead of disobedience of orders. But my friendly intercourse
with Pougatcheff could be proved by several witnesses, and could not
but at least appear very suspicious. During the whole of the journey I
thought of the examination that awaited me, and mentally prepared the
answers that I should make. I resolved to tell the plain unvarnished
truth before the court, feeling convinced that this was the simplest
and, at the same time, the surest way of justifying myself.
I arrived at Kazan--the town had been plundered and set on fire. In
the streets, instead of houses, there were to be seen heaps of burnt
stones, and blackened walls without roofs or windows. Such were the
traces left by Pougatcheff! I was conducted to the fortress which had
escaped the ravages of the fire. The hussars delivered me over to the
officer of the guard. The latter ordered a blacksmith to be sent for.
Chains were placed round my feet and fastened together. Then I was
taken to the prison and left alone in a dark and narrow dungeon, with
four blank walls and a small window protected by iron gratings.
Such a beginning boded no good to me. For all that, I did not lose
hope nor courage. I had recourse to the consolation of all those in
affliction, and after having tasted for the first time the sweet
comforting of prayer poured out from a pure but sorrow-stricken heart,
I went off into a calm sleep, without thinking of what might happen to
me.
The next morning the gaoler awoke me with the announcement that I was
to appear before the Commission. Two soldiers conducted me through a
courtyard to the Commandant’s house: they stopped in the ante-room and
allowed me to enter the inner room by myself.
I found myself in a good-sized apartment At the table, which was
covered with papers, sat two men: an elderly general, of a cold and
stem aspect, and a young captain of the Guards, of about twenty-eight
years of age, and of very agreeable and affable appearance. Near the
window, at a separate table, sat the secretary, with a pen behind his
ear, and bending over his paper, ready to write down my depositions.
The examination began. I was asked my name and profession. The General
inquired if I was the son of Andrei Petrovitch Grineff, and on my
replying in the affirmative, he exclaimed in a stem tone:
“It is a pity that such an honourable man should have such an unworthy
son!”
I calmly replied that whatever were the accusations against me, I hoped
to be able to refute them by the candid avowal of the truth.
My assurance did not please him.
“You are very audacious, my friend,” said he, frowning: “but we have
dealt with others like you.”
Then the young officer asked me under what circumstances and at what
time I had entered Pougatcheff’s service, and in what affairs I had
been employed by him.
I replied indignantly, that, as an officer and a nobleman, I could
never have entered Pougatcheff’s service, and could never have received
any commission from him whatever.
“How comes it then,” continued the interrogator, “that the nobleman and
officer was the only one spared by the impostor, while all his comrades
were cruelly murdered? How comes it that this same officer and nobleman
could revel with the rebellious scoundrels, and receive from the leader
of the villains presents, consisting of a pelisse, a horse, and half
a rouble? Whence came such strange friendship, and upon what does it
rest, if not upon treason, or at least upon abominable and unpardonable
cowardice?”
I was deeply offended by the words of the officer of the Guards, and I
began to defend myself with great warmth. I related how my acquaintance
with Pougatcheff began upon the steppe during a snow-storm, how he had
recognized me at the capture of the fortress of Bailogorsk and spared
my life. I admitted that I had received a pelisse and a horse from the
impostor, but that I had defended the fortress of Bailogorsk against
the rebels to the last extremity. In conclusion I appealed to my
General, who could bear witness to my zeal during the disastrous siege
of Orenburg.
The stern old man took up from the table an open letter and began to
read it aloud:
“In reply to your Excellency’s inquiry respecting Ensign Grineff, who
is charged with being implicated in the present insurrection and with
entering into communication with the leader of the robbers, contrary to
the rules of the service and the oath of allegiance, I have the honour
to report that the said Ensign Grineff formed part of the garrison in
Orenburg from the beginning of October 1773 to the twenty-fourth of
February of the present year, on which date he quitted the town, and
since that time he has not made his appearance again. We have heard
from some deserters that he was in Pougatcheff’s camp, and that he
accompanied him to the fortress of Bailogorsk, where he had formerly
been garrisoned. With respect to his conduct, I can only....”
Here the General interrupted his reading and said to me harshly:
“What do you say now by way of justification?”
I was about to continue as I began and explain the state of affairs
between myself and Maria Ivanovna as frankly as all the rest, but
suddenly I felt an invincible disgust at the thought of doing so. It
occurred to my mind, that if I mentioned her name, the Commission would
summon her to appear, and the thought of connecting her name with the
vile doings of hardened villains, and of herself being confronted with
them--this terrible idea produced such an impression upon me, that I
became confused and maintained silence.
My judges, who seemed at first to have listened to my answers with a
certain amount of good-will, were once more prejudiced against me on
perceiving my confusion. The officer of the Guards demanded that I
should be confronted with my principal accuser. The General ordered
that the “rascal of yesterday” should be summoned. I turned round
quickly towards the door, to await the appearance of my accuser.
After a few moments I heard the clanking of chains, the door opened,
and--Shvabrin entered the room. I was astonished at the change in
his appearance. He was terribly thin and pale. His hair, but a short
time ago as black as pitch, was now quite grey_;_ his long beard was
unkempt. He repeated all his accusations in a weak but determined
voice. According to his account, I had been sent by Pougatcheff to
Orenburg as a spy; every day I used to ride out to the advanced posts,
in order to transmit written information of all that took place within
the town; that at last I had gone quite over to the side of the
usurper and had accompanied him from fortress to fortress, endeavouring
in every way to injure my companions in crime, in order to occupy their
places and profit the better by the rewards of the impostor.
I listened to him in silence, and I rejoiced on account of one thing:
the name of Maria was not mentioned by the scoundrel, whether it was
that his self-love could not bear the thought of one who had rejected
him with contempt, or that within his heart there was a spark of that
self-same feeling which had induced me to remain silent. Whatever it
was, the name of the daughter of the Commandant of Bailogorsk was not
pronounced in the presence of the Commission. I became still more
confirmed in my resolution, and when the judges asked me what I had to
say in answer to Shvabrin’s evidence, I replied that I still stood by
my first statement and that I had nothing else to add in justification
of myself.
The General ordered us to be led away. We quitted the room together. I
looked calmly at Shvabrin, but did not say a word to him. He looked at
me with a malicious smile, lifted up his fetters and passed out quickly
in front of me. I was conducted back to prison, and was not compelled
to undergo a-second examination.
I was not a witness of all that now remains for me to impart to the
reader; but I have heard it related so often, that the most minute
details are indelibly engraven upon my memory, and it seems to me as if
I had taken a part in them unseen.
Maria Ivanovna was received by my parents with that sincere kindness
which distinguished people in the olden time. They regarded it as a
favour from God that the opportunity was afforded them of sheltering
and consoling the poor orphan. They soon became sincerely attached to
her, because it was impossible to know her and not to love her. My love
for her no longer appeared mere folly to my father, and my mother
had one wish only, that her Peter should marry the pretty Captain’s
daughter.
The news of my arrest filled all my family with consternation. Maria
Ivanovna had related so simply to my parents my strange acquaintance
with Pougatcheff, that not only had they felt quite easy about the
matter, but had often been obliged to laugh heartily at the whole
story. My father would not believe that I could be implicated in an
infamous rebellion, the aim of which was the destruction of the throne
and the extermination of the nobles. He questioned Savelitch severely.
My retainer did not deny that I had been the guest of Pougatcheff, and
that the villain had acted very generously towards me, but he affirmed
with a solemn oath that he had never heard a word about treason. My
old parents became easier in mind, and waited impatiently for more
favourable news. Maria Ivanovna, however, was in a state of great
agitation, but she kept silent, as she was modest and prudent in the
highest degree.
Several weeks passed.... Then my father unexpectedly received from
St. Petersburg a letter from our relative, Prince B----. The letter
was about me. After the usual compliments, he informed him that the
suspicions which had been raised concerning my participation in the
plots of the rebels, had unfortunately been shown to be only too well
founded; that capital punishment would have been meted out to me,
but that the Empress, in consideration of the faithful services and
the grey hairs of my father, had resolved to be gracious towards his
criminal son, and, instead of condemning him to suffer an ignominious
death, had ordered that he should be sent to the most remote part of
Siberia for the rest of his life.
This unexpected blow nearly killed my father. He lost his usual
firmness, and his grief, usually silent, found vent in bitter
complaints.
“What!” he cried, as if beside himself: “my son has taken part in
Pougatcheff’s plots! God of Justice, that I should live to see this!
The Empress spares his life! Does that make it any better for me? It
is not death at the hands of the executioner that is so terrible: my
great-grandfather died upon the scaffold for the defence of that which
his conscience regarded as sacred;[1] my father suffered with Volinsky
and Khrouschtcheff.[2] But that a nobleman should be false to his
oath, should associate with robbers, with murderers and with runaway
slaves!... Shame and disgrace upon our race!”
Frightened by his despair, my mother dared not weep in his presence;
she endeavoured to console him by speaking of the uncertainty of
reports, and the little dependency to be placed upon the opinions of
other people. But my father was inconsolable.
Maria Ivanovna suffered more than anybody. Being firmly convinced
that I could have justified myself if I had only wished to do so, she
guessed the reason of my silence, and considered herself the cause of
my misfortune. She hid from everyone her tears and sufferings, and was
incessantly thinking of the means by which I might be saved.
One evening my father was seated upon the sofa turning over the leaves’
of the “Court Calendar,” but his thoughts were far away, and the
reading of the book failed to produce upon him its usual effect. He
was whistling an old march. My mother was silently knitting a woollen
waistcoat, and from time to time her tears ran down upon her work.
All at once, Maria Ivanovna, who was also at work in the same room,
declared that it was absolutely necessary that she should go to St.
Petersburg, and she begged of my parents to furnish her with the means
of doing so. My mother was very much hurt at this resolution.
“Why do you wish to go to St. Petersburg?” said she. “Is it possible,
Maria Ivanovna, that you want to forsake us also?”
Maria replied that her fate depended upon this journey, that she
was going to seek help and protection from powerful persons, as the
daughter of a man who had fallen a victim to his fidelity.
My father lowered his head; every word that recalled to mind the
supposed crime of his son, was painful to him, and seemed like a bitter
reproach.
“Go, my child,” he said to her at last with a sigh; “we do not wish to
stand in the way of your happiness. May God give you an honest man for
a husband, and not an infamous traitor.”
He rose and left the room.
Maria Ivanovna, left alone with my mother, confided to her a part of
her plan. My mother, with tears in her eyes, embraced her and prayed to
God that her undertaking might be crowned with success. Maria Ivanovna
made all her preparations, and a few days afterwards she set out on her
road with the faithful Palasha and the equally faithful Savelitch, who,
forcibly separated from me, consoled himself at least with the thought
that he was serving my betrothed.
Maria Ivanovna arrived safely at Sofia, and learning that the Court
was at that time at Tsarskoe Selo, she resolved to stop there. At the
post-house, a small recess behind a. partition was assigned to her. The
postmaster’s wife came immediately to chat with her, and she informed
Maria that she was niece to one of the stove-lighters of the Court, and
she initiated her into all the mysteries of Court life. She told her
at what hour the Empress usually got up, when she took coffee, and when
she went out for a walk; what great lords were then with her; what she
had deigned to say the day before at table, and whom she had received
in the evening. In a word, the conversation of Anna Vlassievna was as
good as a volume of historical memoirs, and would be very precious to
the present generation.
Maria Ivanovna listened to her with great attention. They went together
into the palace garden. Anna Vlassievna related the history of every
alley and of every little bridge, and after seeing all that they wished
to see, they returned to the post-house, highly satisfied with each
other.
* * * * * *
The next day, early in the morning, Maria Ivanovna awoke, dressed
herself, and quietly betook herself to the palace garden. It was a
lovely morning; the sun was gilding the tops of the linden trees,
already turning yellow beneath the cold breath of autumn. The broad
lake glittered in the light. The swans, just awake, came sailing
majestically out from under the bushes overhanging the banks. Maria
Ivanovna walked towards a delightful lawn, where a monument had just
been erected in honour of the recent victories gained by Count Peter
Alexandrovitch Roumyanzoff.[3] Suddenly a little white dog of English
breed ran barking towards her. Maria grew frightened and stood still.
At the same moment she heard an agreeable female voice call out:
“Do not be afraid, it will not bite.”
Maria saw a lady seated on the bench opposite the monument. Maria sat
down on the other end of the bench. The lady looked at her attentively;
Maria on her side, by a succession of stolen glances, contrived to
examine the stranger from head to foot. She was attired in a white
morning gown, a light cap, and a short mantle. She seemed to be
about forty years of age. Her face, which was full; and red, wore an
expression of calmness and dignity, and her blue eyes and smiling lips
had an indescribable charm about them. The lady was the first to break
silence.
“You are doubtless a stranger here?” said she.
“Yes, I only arrived yesterday from the country.”
“Did you come with your parents?”
“No, I came alone.”
“Alone! But you are very young to travel alone.”
“I have neither father nor mother.”
“Perhaps you have come here on some business?”
“Yes, I have come to present a petition to the Empress.”
“You are an orphan: probably you have come to complain of some
injustice.”
“No, I have come to ask for mercy, not justice.”
“May I ask you who you are?”
“I am the daughter of Captain Mironoff.”
“Of Captain Mironoff! the same who was Commandant of one of the
Orenburg fortresses?”
“The same, Madam.”
The lady appeared moved.
“Forgive me,” said she, in a still kinder voice, “for interesting
myself in your business; but I am frequently at Court; explain to me
the nature of your request, and perhaps I may be able to help you.”
Maria Ivanovna arose and thanked her respectfully. Everything
about this unknown lady drew her towards her and inspired her with
confidence. Maria drew from her pocket a folded paper and gave it to
her unknown protectress, who read it to herself.
At first she began reading with an attentive and benevolent
expression; but suddenly her countenance changed, and Maria, whose eyes
followed all her movements, became frightened by the severe expression
of that face, which a moment before had been so calm and gracious.
“You are supplicating for Grineff?” said the lady in a cold tone. “The
Empress cannot pardon him. He went over to the usurper, not out of
ignorance and credulity, but as a depraved and dangerous scoundrel.”
“Oh! it is not true!” exclaimed Maria.
“How, not true?” replied the lady, her face flushing.
“It is not true; as God is above us, it is not true! I know all, I will
tell you everything. It was for my sake alone that he exposed himself
to all the misfortunes that have overtaken him. And if he did not
justify himself before the Commission, it was only because he did not
wish to implicate me.”
She then related with great warmth all that is already known to the
reader.
The lady listened to her attentively.
“Where are you staying?” she asked, when Maria had finished her story;
and hearing that it was with Anna Vlassievna, she added with a smile:
“Ah, I know. Farewell; do not speak to anybody about our meeting. I
hope that you will not have to wait long for an answer to your letter.”
With these words she rose from her seat and proceeded down a covered
alley, while Maria Ivanovna returned to Anna Vlassievna, filled with
joyful hopes.
Her hostess scolded her for going out so early; the autumn air, she
said, was not good for a young girl’s health. She brought an urn, and
over a cup of tea she was about to begin her endless discourse about
the Court, when suddenly a carriage with armorial bearings stopped
before the door, and a lackey entered with the announcement that the
Empress summoned to her presence the daughter of Captain Mironoff.
Anna Vlassievna was perfectly amazed.
“Good Lord!” she exclaimed: “the Empress summons you to Court. How did
she get to know anything about you? And how will you present yourself
before Her Majesty, my little mother? I do not think that you even
know how to walk according to Court manners.... Shall I conduct you? I
could at any rate give you a little caution. And how can you go in your
travelling dress? Shall I send to the nurse for her yellow gown?”
The lackey announced that it was the Empress’s pleasure that Maria
Ivanovna should go alone and in the dress that she had on. There was
nothing else to be done: Maria took her seat in the carriage and
was driven off, accompanied by the counsels and blessings of Anna
Vlassievna.
Maria felt that our fate was about to be decided; her heart beat
violently. In a few moments the carriage stopped at the gate of the
palace. Maria descended the steps with trembling feet. The doors flew
open before her. She traversed a large number of empty but magnificent
rooms, guided by the lackey. At last, coming to a closed door, he
informed her that she would be announced directly, and then left her by
herself.
The thought of meeting the Empress face to face so terrified her, that
she could scarcely stand upon her feet. In about a minute the door was
opened, and she was ushered into the Empress’s boudoir.
The Empress was seated at her toilette-table, surrounded by a number of
Court ladies, who respectfully made way for Maria Ivanovna. The Empress
turned round to her with an amiable smile, and Maria recognized in her
the lady with whom she had spoken so freely a few minutes before. The
Empress bade her approach, and said with a smile:
“I am glad that I am able to keep my word and grant your petition. Your
business is arranged. I am convinced of the innocence of your lover.
Here is a letter which you will give to your future father-in-law.”
Maria took the letter with trembling hands and, bursting into tears,
fell at the feet of the Empress, who raised her up and kissed her upon
the forehead.
“I know that you are not rich,” said she; “but I owe a debt to the
daughter of Captain Mironoff. Do not be uneasy about the future. I will
see to your welfare.”
After having consoled the poor orphan in this way, the Empress allowed
her to depart. Maria left the palace in the same carriage that had
brought her thither. Anna Vlassievna, who was impatiently awaiting
her return, overwhelmed her with questions, to which Maria returned
very vague answers. Although dissatisfied with the weakness of her
memory, Anna Vlassievna ascribed it to her provincial bashfulness, and
magnanimously excused her. The same day Maria, without even desiring to
glance at St. Petersburg, set out on her return journey.
* * * * *
The memoirs of Peter Andreitch Grineff end here. But from a family
Tradition we learn that he was released from his imprisonment towards
the end of the year 1774 by order of the Empress, and that he was
present at the execution of Pougatcheff, who recognized him in the
crowd and nodded to him with his head, which, a few moments afterwards,
was shown lifeless and bleeding to the people.[4] Shortly afterwards,
Peter Andreitch and Maria Ivanovna were married. Their descendants
still flourish in the government of Simbirsk. About thirty versts from
----, there is a village belonging to ten landholders. In the house of
one of them, there may still be seen, framed and glazed, the autograph
letter of Catherine II. It is addressed to the father of Peter
Andreitch, and contains the justification of his son, and a tribute of
praise to the heart and intellect of Captain Mironoff’s daughter.
[Footnote 1: One of Poushkin’s ancestors was condemned to death by
Peter the Great.]
[Footnote 2: Chiefs of the Russian party against Biren, the
unscrupulous German Favourite of the Empress Anne. They were put to
death under circumstances of great cruelty.]
[Footnote 3: A famous Russian general who distinguished himself in the
war against the Turks.]
[Footnote 4: It is said that even at the present day the peasants in
the south-east of Russia are firmly convinced that Pougatcheff was
really the Emperor Peter III., and not an impostor.]