THE CAPTAIN'S DAUGHTER

CHAPTER XIV

THE TRIAL

I WAS certain it was all due to my leaving Orenburg without permission. I could easily justify myself: sallying out against the enemy had never been prohibited and was, indeed, encouraged in every way. I might be accused of too great rashness, but not of disobedience. My friendly relations with Pugatchov, however, could be proved by a number of witnesses and must have seemed highly suspicious, to say the least of it. Throughout the journey I kept thinking of the questions I might be asked and pondering my answers; I decided to tell the plain truth at the trial, believing that this was the simplest and, at the same time, the most certain way of justifying myself.

I arrived at Kazan; it had been devastated and burnt down. Instead of houses there were heaps of cinders in the streets and remnants of charred walls without roofs or windows. Such was the trail left by Pugatchov! I was brought to the fortress that had remained intact in the midst of the burnt city. The hussars passed me on to the officer in charge. He called for the blacksmith. Shackles were put on my feet and soldered together. Then I was taken to the prison and left alone in the dark and narrow cell with nothing in it but bare walls and a window with iron bars.

Such a beginning boded nothing good. I did not, however, lose either hope or courage. I had recourse to the comfort of all the sorrowful and, having tasted for the first time the sweetness of prayer poured out from a pure but bleeding heart, dropped calmly asleep without caring what would happen to me.

The next morning the warder woke me up, saying I was wanted at the Committee. Two soldiers took me across the yard to the Commandant's house; they stopped in the entry and let me go into the inner room by myself.

I walked into a rather large room. Two men were sitting at a table covered with papers: an elderly general who looked cold and forbidding and a young captain of the Guards, a good-looking man of about twenty-eight, with a pleasant and easy manner. A secretary, with a pen behind his ear, sat at a separate table, bending over the paper in readiness to write down my evidence. The examination began. I was asked my name and rank. The General asked whether I was the son of Andrey Petrovitch Grinyov. When I said I was he remarked severely:

'It is a pity that so estimable a man has such an unworthy son!'

I calmly answered that whatever the accusation against me might be, I hoped to clear myself by candidly telling the truth. The General did not like my confidence.

'You are sharp, brother,' he said to me, frowning; 'but we have seen cleverer ones than you!'

Then the young man asked me:

'On what occasion and at what time did you enter Pugatchov's service, and on what commissions did he employ you?'

I answered, with indignation, that as an officer and a gentleman I could not possibly have entered Pugatchov's service or have carried out any commissions of his.

'How was it, then,' my questioner continued, 'that an officer and a gentleman was alone spared by the Pretender, while all his comrades were villainously murdered? How was it that this same officer and gentleman feasted with the rebels, as their friend, and accepted presents from the villain—a sheepskin coat, a horse, and fifty copecks in money? How had such a strange friendship arisen and what could it be based upon except treason or, at any rate, upon base and vile cowardice ?'

I was deeply offended by the officer's words and warmly began my defence. I told them how I had first met Pugatchov in the steppe in the snowstorm, and how he recognized and spared me at the taking of the Belogorsky fortress. I admitted that I had not scrupled to accept from the Pretender the horse and the sheepskin coat, but said that I had defended the Belogorsky fortress against him to the last extremity. At last I referred them to my General who could testify to my zealous service during the perilous Orenburg siege.

The stern old man took an unsealed letter from the table and began reading it aloud:

' With regard to your Excellency's inquiry concerning Ensign Grinyov, said to be involved in the present insurrection and to have had relations with the villain, contrary to the military law and to our oath of allegiance, I have the honour to report as follows: The said Ensign Grinyov served at Orenburg from the beginning of October 1773 to 24 February 1774, upon which date he left the city and returned no more to serve under my command. I have heard from refugees that he had been in Pugatchov's camp and went with him to the Belogorsky fortress, where he had served before; as to his conduct, I can . . .'

At this point he interrupted his reading and said to me sternly; 'What can you say for yourself now?'

I wanted to go on as I had begun and to explain my connection with Marya Ivanovna as candidly as all the rest, but I suddenly felt an overwhelming repulsion. It occurred to me that if I mentioned her, she would be summoned by the Committee; and I was so overcome at the awful thought ol connecting her name with the vile slanders of the villains, and of her being confronted with them, that I became confused and hesitated.

My judges, who seemed to have been listening to me with favour, were once more prejudiced against me by my confusion. The officer of the Guards asked that I should be faced with the chief informer. The General gave word that yesterday's villain should be brought in. I turned to the door with interest, waiting for the appearance of my accuser. A few minutes later there was a rattle of chains, the door opened, and Shvabrin walked in. I was surprised at the change in him. He was terribly pale and thin. His hair that had a short time ago been black as pitch was now white; his long beard was unkempt. He repeated his accusations in a weak, but confident voice. According to him I had been sent by Pugatchov to Orenburg as a spy; under the pretext of sallies, I had come out every day to give him written news of all that was happening in the town; at last I had openly joined the Pretender, had driven with him from fortress to fortress, doing my utmost to ruin my fellow-traitors so as to occupy their posts, and had taken presents from the Pretender. I heard him out in silence and was pleased with one thing only: Marya Ivanovna's name had not been uttered by the base villain, either because his vanity suffered at the thought of one who had scorned him, or because there lingered in his heart a spark of the same feeling which made me keep silent about her. In any case, the name of the Belogorsky Commandant's daughter was not mentioned before the Committee. I was more determined than ever not to bring it up, and when the judges asked me how I could disprove Shvabrin's accusations, I answered that I adhered to my original explanation and had nothing more to say in my defence. The General gave word for us to be led away. We went out together. I calmly looked at Shvabrin, but did not say a word to him. He gave a malignant smile and, lifting his chains, quickened his pace and left me behind. I was taken back to prison and not called for examination any more.

I have not witnessed the subsequent events of which I must inform the reader; but I had them told me so often that the least details are engraved on my memory and I feel as though I had been invisibly present.

The news of my arrest was a shock to my family. Marya Ivanovna had told my parents of my strange acquaintance with Pugatchov so simply that, so far from being troubled about it, they often laughed at it with whole-hearted amusement. My father refused to believe that I could have been implicated in vile rebellion the aim of which was to overthrow the throne and exterminate the gentry. He closely questioned Savelyitch. The old man did not conceal the fact that I had been to see Pugatchov and that the villain had been kind to me; but he swore that he had not heard of any treason. My parents were reassured and waited impatiently for favourable news. Marya Ivanovna was very much alarmed but said nothing, for she was extremely modest and prudent.

Several weeks passed. . . . Suddenly my father received a letter from our relative in Petersburg, Prince B. The Prince wrote about me. After beginning in the usual way he went on to say that, unfortunately, the suspicions about my complicity in the rebels' designs proved to be only too true and that I should have been put to death as an example to others had not the Empress, in consideration of my father's merits and advanced age, decided to spare the criminal son and commuted the shameful death-penalty to a mere exile for life in a remote part of Siberia.

This unexpected blow very nearly killed my father. He lost his habitual self-control, and his grief, usually silent, found expression in bitter complaints.

'What!' he repeated, beside himself. 'My son is an accomplice of Pugatchov's! Merciful heavens, what have I lived to see! The Empress reprieves him! Does that make it any better for me? It's not the death-penalty that is terrible. My great-grandfather died on the scaffold for what was to him a matter of conscience; my father suffered, together with Volynskyl and Hrushchov.(Leaders of the Russian party against Biron, the German favourite of the Empress Anna.—TRANSLATOR'S Note.) But for a gentleman to betray his oath of allegiance and join brigands, murderers, and runaway serfs! Shame and disrgace to our name!'

Terrified by his despair, my mother did not dare to weep in his presence and tried to cheer him by talking of the uncertainty of rumour and the small faith to be attached to people's opinions. My father was inconsolable.

Marya Ivanovna suffered most. She was certain that I could have cleared myself if I had chosen to do so, and, guessing the truth, considered herself the cause of my misfortune. She concealed her tears and sorrow from every one, but was continually thinking of the means to save me.

One evening my father was sitting on the sofa turning over the leaves of the Court Calendar, but his thoughts were far away and the reading did not have its usual effect upon him. He was whistling an old march. My mother was knitting a woollen coat in silence, and now and again a tear dropped on her work. Suddenly Marya Ivanovna, who sat by her doing needlework, said that it was necessary for her to go to Petersburg, and asked for the means of travelling there. My mother was very much grieved.

'What do you want in Petersburg?' she said. 'Can it be that you, too, want to leave us, Marya Ivanovna?'

Marya Ivanovna answered that her whole future depended upon this journey and that she was going to seek the help and protection of influential people, as the daughter of a man who had suffered for his loyalty.

My father bent his head: every word that reminded him of his son's alleged crime pained him and seemed to him a bitter reproach.

'Go, my dear,' he said to her, with a sigh. 'We don't want to stand in the way of your happiness. God grant you may have a good man for a husband and not a disgraced traitor.'

He got up and walked out of the room.

Left alone with my mother, Marya Ivanovna partly explained her plan to her. My mother embraced her with tears and prayed for the success of her undertaking. Marya Ivanovna was made ready for the journey, and a few days later she set off with the faithful Palasha and the faithful Savelyitch, who in his enforced parting from me comforted himself with the thought that, at least, he was serving my betrothed.

Marya Ivanovna safely arrived at Sofia and, hearing that the Court was at Tsarkoe Selo, decided to stop there. At the posting-station, a tiny recess behind the partition was assigned to her. The station-master's wife immediately got into conversation with her, said that she was the niece of the man who heated the stoves at the Palace, and initiated her into the mysteries of Court life. She told her at what time the Empress woke up in the morning, took coffee, went for walks; what courtiers were with her at the time; what she had said at dinner the day before; whom she had received in the evening. In short, Anna Vlassyevna's conversation was as good as several pages of historical memoirs and would have been precious for posterity. Marya Ivanovna listened to her attentively. They went into the gardens. Anna Vlassyevna told the history of every avenue and every bridge, and they returned to the station after a long walk, much pleased with each other.

Marya Ivanovna woke up early the next morning, dressed. and slipped out into the gardens. It was a beautiful morning; the sun was lighting the tops of the lime-trees that had already turned yellow under the fresh breath of autumn. The broad lake, without a ripple on it, glittered in the sunlight. The stately swans, just awake, came sailing out from under the bushes that covered the banks. Marya Ivanovna walked along a beautiful meadow where a monument had just been put up in honour of Count Rumyantsev's recent victories. Suddenly a little white dog of English breed ran towards her, barking. Marya Ivanovna was frightened and stood still. At that moment she heard a woman's pleasant voice.

'Don't be afraid, he won't bite.'

And Marya Ivanovna saw a lady sitting on a bench opposite the monument. Marya Ivanovna sat down at the other end of the bench. The lady was looking at her attentively; Marya Ivanovna, in her turn, cast several sidelong glances at her and succeeded in examining her from head to foot. She was wearing a white morning dress, a night-cap, and a Russian jacket. She seemed to be about forty. Her plump and rosy face wore an expression of calm and dignity, her blue eyes and slight smile had an indescribable charm. The lady was the first to break the silence.

'I expect you are a stranger here ?' she asked.

'Yes, madam; I came from the country only yesterday.'

'Have you come with your relatives?'

'No, madam; I have come alone.'

'Alone! But you are so young. . . .

'I have neither father nor mother.'

'You are here on business, of course?'

'Yes, madam. I have come to present a petition to the Empress.'

'You are an orphan; I suppose you are complaining of some wrong or injustice?'

'No, madam. I have come to ask for mercy, not justice.'

'Allow me to ask, What is your name?'

'I am Captain Mironov's daughter.'

'Captain Mironov's! The man who was Commandant in one of the Orenburg fortresses ?'

'Yes, madam.'

The lady was evidently touched.

'Excuse me,' she said, still more kindly, 'for interfering in your affairs, but I go to Court sometimes; tell me what your petition is and perhaps I may be able to help you.'

Marya Ivanovna got up and respectfully thanked her.

Everything in the unknown lady instinctively attracted her and inspired her with confidence. Marya Ivanovna took a folded paper out of her pocket and gave it to the lady who began reading it to herself.

At first she read with an attentive and kindly air, but suddenly her expression changed, and Marya Ivanovna, who was watching her every movement, was frightened at the stern look on her face, so calm and pleasant a moment before.

'You are interceding for Grinyov?' the lady said, coldly. 'The Empress cannot forgive him. He joined the Pretender not from ignorance and credulity, but as a dangerous and immoral scoundrel.'

'Oh, it isn't true!' Marya Ivanovna cried.

'How, it isn't true?' the lady repeated, flushing crimson.

'It isn't true; I swear to God it isn't! I know all about it;

I will tell you everything. It was solely for my sake that he went through it all. And if he hasn't cleared himself before the judges, it was only because he did not want to implicate me.'

And she told, with great warmth, all that is already known to the reader. The lady listened to her attentively. 'Where have you put up?' she asked, and hearing that it was at Anna Vlassyevna's, said, with a smile: 'Ah, I know. Good-bye, do not tell any one of our meeting. I hope you will not have long to wait for an answer to your letter.'

With these words, she rose and went into a covered avenue and Marya Ivanovna, full of a joyous hope, returned to Anna Vlassyevna's.

Her landlady chid her for her early walk which, she said, was not good for a young girl's health as it was autumn. She brought the samovar and had just begun, over a cup of tea, her endless stories about the Court, when suddenly a Court carriage stopped at the door and a footman from the Palace came into the room, saying that the Empress invited Miss Mironov to her presence.

Anna Vlassyevna was surprised and flurried.

'Dear me!' she cried. 'The Empress sends for you to come to the Palace! How has she heard of you? And how are you going to appear before the Empress, my dear? I expect you know nothing about Court manners. . . . Hadn't I better go with you? I could warn you about some things, at any rate. And how can you go in your travelling dress? Hadn't we better send to the midwife for her yellow gown?'

The footman announced that it was the Empress's pleasure that Marya Ivanovna should come alone and as she was. There was nothing else for it; Marya Ivanovna stepped into the carriage and drove to the Palace accompanied by Anna Vlassyevna's admonitions and blessings.

Marya Ivanovna felt that our fate was going to be decided; her heart was throbbing. A few minutes later the carriage stopped at the Palace. Marya Ivanovna walked up the stairs, trembling. The doors were flung wide open before her. She walked through a number of deserted, luxuriously furnished rooms; the footman was pointing out the way. At last, coming to a closed door, he said he would go in and announce her, and left her alone.

The thought of seeing the Empress face to face so terrified her that she could hardly keep on her feet. In another minute the door opened and she walked into the Empress's dressing-room.

The Empress was seated in front of her dressing-table. Several courtiers were standing round her, but they respectfully made way for Marya Ivanovna. The Empress turned to her kindly and Marya Ivanovna recognized her as the lady to whom she had been talking so freely not many minutes before. The Empress called her to ner side and said, with a smile:

'I am glad that I have been able to keep my promise to you, and to grant your request. Your case is settled. I am convinced that your betrothed is innocent. Here is a letter which please take yourself to your future father-in-law.'

Marya Ivanovna took the letter with a trembling hand and fell, weeping, at the feet of the Empress, who lifted her up, kissed her and engaged her in conversation.

'I know you are not rich,' she said, 'but I am in debt to Captain Mironov's daughter. Do not worry about the future. I will provide for you.'

After saying many kind things to the poor orphan, the Empress dismissed her. Marya Ivanovna was driven back in the same Court carriage. Anna Vlassyevna, who had been eagerly awaiting her return, bombarded her with questions, to which Marya Ivanovna answered rather vaguely. Anna Vlassyevna was disappointed at her remembering so little, but ascribed it to provincial shyness and generously excused her. Marya Ivanovna went back to the country that same day, without troubling to have a look at Petersburg. . . .

The memoirs of Pyotr Andreyitch Grinyov end at this point. It is known from the family tradition that he was released from confinement at the end of 1774, at the express order of the Empress; that he was present at the execution of Pugatchov, who recognized him in the crowd and nodded to him a minute before his lifeless, bleeding head was held up before the people. Soon after, Pyotr Andreyitch married Marya Ivanovna. Their descendants are flourishing in the province of Simbirsk. Thirty miles from N. there is an estate belonging to ten owners. In one of the lodges a letter written by Catherine II may be seen in a frame under glass. It is addressed to Pyotr Andreyitch's father; it affirms the innocence of his son and praises the heart and intelligence of Captain Mironov's daughter.

Pyotr Andreyitch Grinyov's memoirs have been given to me by one of his grandchildren who had heard that I was engaged upon a work dealing with the period described by his grandfather. With the relatives' consent, I have decided to publish it separately, prefixing a suitable epigraph to each chapter and taking the liberty to change some of the proper names.

THE EDITOR

1836.

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