Shvabrin began to search in his pockets and then said that he had not brought the key with him. Pougatcheff pushed the door with his foot; the lock gave way, the door opened, and we entered.
I glanced round the room—and nearly fainted away. On the floor, clad in a ragged peasant’s dress, sat Maria Ivanovna, pale, thin, and with dishevelled hair. Before her stood a pitcher of water, covered with a piece of bread. Seeing me, she shuddered and uttered a piercing cry. What I felt at that moment I cannot describe.
Pougatcheff looked at Shvabrin and said with a sarcastic smile:
“You have a very nice hospital here!”
Then approaching Maria Ivanovna:
“Tell me, my little dove, why does your husband punish you in this manner?”
“My husband!” repeated she. “He is not my husband. I will never be his wife! I would rather die, and I will die, if I am not set free.”
Pougatcheff cast a threatening glance at Shvabrin.
“And you have dared to deceive me!” he said to him. “Do you know, scoundrel, what you deserve?”
Shvabrin fell upon his knees.... At that moment contempt extinguished within me all feelings of hatred and resentment. I looked with disgust at the sight of a nobleman grovelling at the feet of a runaway Cossack.