Novels, Tales, Journeys

Volume One

CHAPTER ONE

Several years ago there lived on one of his estates an old-time Russian squire, Kirila Petrovich Troekurov. His wealth, noble birth, and connections gave him great weight in the provinces where his properties lay. Neighbors were happy to satisfy his slightest whim; provincial officials trembled at his name; Kirila Petrovich received these tokens of servility as a fitting tribute; his house was always full of guests ready to entertain his squirely idleness, to share in his noisy and sometimes wild amusements. No one dared to refuse his invitations or not to appear with due respect on certain days in the village of Pokrovskoe. In his domestic life Kirila Petrovich displayed all the vices of an uncultivated man. Spoiled by all that surrounded him, he was accustomed to giving free rein to all the impulses of his hot temper and all the fancies of his rather limited mind. Despite an extraordinarily strong constitution, he suffered twice a week or so from his gluttony and was in his cups every evening. In one wing of his house lived sixteen maidservants, occupied with handwork suited to their sex. The windows in the wing had wooden bars; the doors were locked, and Kirila Petrovich kept the keys. At appointed hours the young recluses were let out to the garden and strolled under the supervision of two old women. From time to time Kirila Petrovich gave some of them away in marriage, and new ones came to replace them. His treatment of the peasants and house serfs was severe and arbitrary; yet they were devoted to him: they were proud of their master’s wealth and renown, and in their turn allowed themselves much in relation to their neighbors, trusting in his powerful protection.

Troekurov’s customary occupations consisted of driving around his vast domain, of prolonged banquets, and of pranks invented each day and whose victim was usually some new acquaintance; though old friends did not always manage to evade them, with the sole exception of Andrei Gavrilovich Dubrovsky. This Dubrovsky, a retired lieutenant of the guards, was his nearest neighbor and owned seventy souls.1 Troekurov, arrogant in his dealings with people of the highest rank, respected Dubrovsky in spite of his humble condition. They had once been comrades-in-arms, and Troekurov knew from experience the impatience and resoluteness of his character. Circumstances had kept them apart for a long time. Dubrovsky, his fortune in disarray, had been forced to go into retirement and settle on his one remaining estate. On learning that, Kirila Petrovich offered him his protection, but Dubrovsky thanked him and remained poor and independent. After a few years, Troekurov, a retired general-en-chef, came to his estate; they met and were glad of each other. From then on they got together every day, and Kirila Petrovich, who in all his born days had never honored anyone with a visit, would drop in unceremoniously at his old comrade’s little house. Being of the same age, born to the same social class, brought up in the same way, they partly resembled each other in both character and inclinations. In certain respects their fates were also the same: both had married for love, both had soon been widowed, both had been left with a child. Dubrovsky’s son had been educated in Petersburg, Kirila Petrovich’s daughter had grown up under her father’s eye, and Troekurov often said to Dubrovsky:

“Listen, brother Andrei Gavrilovich: if your Volodka turns out well, I’ll give him Masha; never mind if he’s poor as a coot.”

Andrei Gavrilovich would usually shake his head and reply:

“No, Kirila Petrovich, my Volodka’s no match for Marya Kirilovna. A poor gentleman the likes of him would do better to marry a poor young miss and be the head of the household, than to become the steward of a spoiled wench.”

Everybody envied the harmony that reigned between the haughty Troekurov and his poor neighbor, and marveled at the latter’s boldness when, at Kirila Petrovich’s table, he spoke his opinion straight out, regardless of whether it contradicted the host’s opinion or not. Some tried to imitate him and cross the line of proper obedience, but Kirila Petrovich put such a scare into them that they forever lost their taste for such attempts, and Dubrovsky alone remained outside the general law. An unexpected event upset and altered all that.

Once, at the beginning of autumn, Kirila Petrovich was getting ready to go hunting. The previous evening orders had been given to the huntsmen and grooms to be ready by five in the morning. The tent and field kitchen were sent on ahead to the place where Kirila Petrovich was to dine. The host and guests went to the kennels, where more than five hundred hounds and borzoi lived in warmth and plenty, extolling Kirila Petrovich’s generosity in their doggy language. Here there was also a clinic for sick dogs, supervised by the staff medic Timoshka, and a section where noble bitches whelped and nursed their pups. Kirila Petrovich was proud of this fine institution and never missed a chance to boast of it to his guests, each of whom was already viewing it for at least the twentieth time. He strutted about the kennels, surrounded by his guests and accompanied by Timoshka and the chief huntsmen, stopped before certain kennels, now inquiring after the health of the sick, now making more or less stern and just observations, now calling over the dogs he knew and speaking amiably with them. The guests considered it their duty to admire Kirila Petrovich’s kennels. Dubrovsky alone frowned and kept silent. He was an ardent hunter. His situation allowed him to keep only two hounds and one leash of borzoi; he could not help being slightly envious at the sight of this magnificent institution.

“Why are you frowning, my friend?” Kirila Petrovich asked him. “Don’t you like my kennel?”

“No,” he replied severely, “the kennel’s a marvel; it’s unlikely your servants live as well as your dogs do.”

One of the huntsmen took offense.

“We don’t complain of our life,” he said, “thanks to God and the master, but it’s true enough that some gentleman wouldn’t do badly to exchange his estate for any of these kennels. He’d be warmer and better fed.”

Kirila Petrovich laughed loudly at his serf’s insolent remark, and the guests burst out laughing after him, though they sensed that the huntsman’s joke could refer just as well to them. Dubrovsky turned pale and did not say a word. Just then Kirila Petrovich was brought some newborn puppies in a basket; he busied himself with them, chose two, and ordered the others drowned. Meanwhile Andrei Gavrilovich disappeared, and nobody noticed it.

On returning from the kennels with his guests, Kirila Petrovich sat down to supper, and only then, not seeing Dubrovsky, did he notice his absence. The servants told him that Andrei Gavrilovich had gone home. Troekurov immediately told them to overtake him and bring him back without fail. Never yet had he gone hunting without Dubrovsky, an experienced and fine connoisseur of canine qualities and a faultless arbiter of various hunting disputes. The servant who galloped after him came back while they were still at the table and reported to his master that Andrei Gavrilovich refused to listen and would not come back. Kirila Petrovich, flushed with liqueurs as he usually was, became angry and sent the same servant a second time to tell Andrei Gavrilovich that if he did not come at once to spend the night at Pokrovskoe, he, Troekurov, would break with him forever. The servant rode off again, Kirila Petrovich got up from the table, dismissed his guests, and went to bed.

The next morning his first question was: Is Andrei Gavrilovich here? Instead of an answer, he was handed a letter folded into a triangle. Kirila Petrovich told his clerk to read it aloud, and this is what he heard:

My most gracious sir,

I have no intention of going to Pokrovskoe until you send me the huntsman Paramoshka with an apology. It will be up to me whether to punish or pardon him, but I have no intention of taking jokes from your serfs, nor will I endure them from you, because I am not a buffoon, but of ancient nobility.

With that I remain your most humble servant,

Andrei Dubrovsky.

By present-day notions of etiquette, this letter would be quite improper, but it angered Kirila Petrovich not by its odd style and attitude, but only by its substance.

“What?” Troekurov thundered, jumping out of bed barefoot. “Send him my servants with apologies, it’s for him to pardon or punish them! What on earth is he thinking of? Does he know who he’s dealing with? I’ll show him…He’ll rue the day! He’ll learn what it means to go against Troekurov!”

Kirila Petrovich dressed and rode out to the hunt with his usual splendor, but the hunt was no success. In the whole day they saw only one hare, and it got away. Dinner in the field under the tent was no success either, or at least it was not to the taste of Kirila Petrovich, who beat the cook, yelled at the guests, and on the way back deliberately rode with all his hunt across Dubrovsky’s fields.

Several days went by and the hostility between the two neighbors did not subside. Andrei Gavrilovich did not go back to Pokrovskoe, Kirila Petrovich was bored without him, and his vexation loudly gave vent to itself in the most insulting expressions, which, thanks to the diligence of the local gentlefolk, reached Dubrovsky with additions and corrections. Then a new circumstance destroyed the last hope of reconciliation.

One day Dubrovsky was driving around his small domain. Approaching a birch grove, he heard the blows of an axe and a minute later the crash of a falling tree. He hastened to the grove and came upon some Pokrovskoe muzhiks calmly stealing his wood. Seeing him, they tried to run away. Dubrovsky and his coachman caught two of them, tied them up, and brought them to his place. Three enemy horses were also taken as spoils by the victor. Dubrovsky was extremely angry: before then Troekurov’s people, who were well-known robbers, had not dared to do any mischief within the boundaries of his domain, knowing of his friendship with their master. Dubrovsky saw that they were now taking advantage of the rift that had occurred, and decided, against all notions of the rules of war, to teach his prisoners a lesson with the rods they had provided for themselves in his grove, and to set the horses to work, adding them to the manor’s herd.

Rumors of this incident reached Kirila Petrovich that same day. He was beside himself and in the first moment of wrath was about to set off with all his house serfs to launch an attack on Kistenevka (so his neighbor’s estate was called), utterly lay waste to it, and besiege the landowner himself in his own house. Such feats were nothing unusual for him. But his thoughts soon took a different turn.

Pacing with heavy steps up and down the hall, he happened to glance out the window and saw a troika stop at the gate. A little man in a leather cap and a frieze overcoat got out of the cart and went to the steward in the wing. Troekurov recognized the assessor Shabashkin and had him summoned. A moment later Shabashkin was already standing before Kirila Petrovich, making one bow after another and reverently awaiting his orders.

“Hello, what’s-your-name,” Troekurov said to him. “Why the visit?”

“I was going to town, Your Excellency,” replied Shabashkin, “and stopped at Ivan Demyanovich’s to find out if there were any orders from Your Excellency.”

“You’ve come very opportunely, what’s-your-name; I have need of you. Drink some vodka and listen.”

Such a warm reception pleasantly surprised the assessor. He declined the vodka and started listening to Kirila Petrovich with all possible attention.

“I have a neighbor,” said Troekurov, “a petty-landowning boor. I want to take his estate from him. What do you think of that?”

“Your Excellency, if there are any sort of documents or…”

“Nonsense, brother, forget about documents. That means law. The whole point is to take the estate from him without any right. Wait a minute, though. That estate used to belong to us; it was bought from a certain Spitsyn, and then sold to Dubrovsky’s father. Can’t we hang something on that?”

“It’s tricky, Your Excellency; the sale was probably done in accordance with the law.”

“Think, brother, put your mind to it.”

“If, for instance, Your Excellency could in some way or other obtain from your neighbor the record or deed of purchase authorizing his ownership of the estate, then of course…”

“I understand, but the trouble is—all his papers got burned up in a fire.”

“What, Your Excellency, his papers got burned up?! Could anything be better? In that case you can proceed according to the law, and you will undoubtedly obtain full satisfaction.”

“You think so? Well, look sharp, then. I rely on your diligence, and you can be sure of my gratitude.”

Shabashkin bowed almost to the ground, left, started busying himself that same day with the projected case, and, thanks to his adroitness, exactly two weeks later Dubrovsky received an invitation from town to provide immediately a proper explanation regarding his ownership of the village of Kistenevka.

Andrei Gavrilovich, astonished by the unexpected request, wrote in reply that same day a rather rude declaration, in which he stated that the village of Kistenevka had become his at the death of his late parent, that he owned it by right of inheritance, that Troekurov had nothing to do with the matter, and that any outside claim to his property was calumny and fraud.

This letter made a rather pleasant impression on the soul of the assessor Shabashkin. He saw, first, that Dubrovsky knew little about legal affairs, and, second, that it would be easy to put such a hot-tempered and imprudent man in a most disadvantageous position.

Andrei Gavrilovich, having considered the assessor’s inquiries cool-headedly, saw the necessity of responding in more detail. He wrote a rather sensible paper, but subsequently it turned out to be insufficient.

The case dragged on. Convinced that he was in the right, Andrei Gavrilovich worried little about it, had neither the wish nor the means to throw money around, and though he used to be the first to mock the bought conscience of the ink-slinging tribe, the thought of falling victim to calumny never entered his head. For his part, Troekurov cared just as little about the success of the case he had undertaken. Shabashkin bustled about for him, acted in his name, threatened and bribed judges, and interpreted various decrees either straightly or crookedly.

Be that as it may, in the year 18––, on the 9th day of February, Dubrovsky received, through the town police, a summons to appear before the * * * district judge for the hearing of his decision in the affair of the estate contested between him, Lieutenant Dubrovsky, and General-en-chef Troekurov and the signing of his accord or disaccord. That same day Dubrovsky set out for town; on the way Troekurov overtook him. They looked at each other proudly, and Dubrovsky noticed a malicious smile on his adversary’s face.

CHAPTER TWO

Having arrived in town, Andrei Gavrilovich stopped with a merchant acquaintance, spent the night there, and the next morning appeared in the office of the district court. No one paid any attention to him. After him came Kirila Petrovich. The clerks rose and put their pens behind their ears. The members of the court received him with expressions of profound obsequiousness, moved a chair for him in a show of respect for his rank, years, and portliness; he sat down by the open door. Andrei Gavrilovich stood leaning against the wall. A profound silence ensued, and the secretary in a ringing voice began to read the decision of the court. We insert it here in full,2 supposing that everyone will be pleased to see one of the means by which we in Russia can be deprived of an estate, to the ownership of which we have an indisputable right.

In the year 18––, the 27th day of October, the district court examined the case of the wrongful possession by Lieutenant of the Guards Dubrovsky, Andrei Gavrilovich, of an estate belonging to General-en-chef Troekurov, Kirila Petrovich, situated in * * * province in the village of Kistenevka, consisting of * * * male souls and of * * * acres of land with meadows and appurtenances. The case presents the following: on the 9th day of June past, in the year of 18––, the aforesaid General-en-chef Troekurov submitted to this court a petition to the effect that his late father, the collegiate assessor and chevalier Troekurov, Pyotr Efimovich, in the year 17––, on the 14th day of August, while serving as provincial secretary in a local office, did purchase from the gentleman and chancery clerk Spitsyn, Fadei Egorovich, an estate lying in the * * * township, in the aforementioned village of Kistenevka (which village, according to the * * * census, was then called the Kistenevka settlements), consisting, according to the 4th census, of * * * souls of the male sex with all their peasant chattels, the farmstead, with arable and non-arable land, woods, hayfields, fishing in the river, called the Kistenevka, and with all the appurtenances belonging to the estate and the wooden manor house, and, in short, everything without exception that his father, the village constable Spitsyn, Egor Terentyevich, gentleman, had left him as inheritance and that had been in his possession, not excluding a single soul, nor a single square foot of land, for the price of 2,500 roubles, the deed for which was signed on the same day in the * * * court of justice, and on the 26th day of that same August at the district court his father entered into possession and the seizin for it was recorded.—And finally, in the year 17––, the 6th day of September, by the will of God his father died, and meanwhile he, the petitioner, General-en-chef Troekurov, had been in the military service since the year 17––, almost from infancy, and for the most part had been on campaigns abroad, for which reason he could not have information of his father’s death, nor likewise of the property left to him. Now, having gone into full retirement from the service and returned to his father’s estates, located in * * * and * * * provinces, * * * and * * * districts, in various villages, comprising 3,000 souls in all, he discovers that, of the number of these above-listed estates mentioned in the * * * census, the souls (some * * * souls in that village at the present date * * *), with land and with all appurtenances, is without any title in the possession of the aforementioned Lieutenant of the Guards Andrei Dubrovsky, for which reason, presenting along with his petition the original deed of purchase which his father received from the seller Spitsyn, Troekurov requests that the said estate, removed from the wrongful possession of Dubrovsky, be placed at the full disposal of its rightful owner, Troekurov. And for the unlawful appropriation of it, with the profits he gained from its use, after making a proper inquiry into them, a penalty in accordance with the law be imposed on him, Dubrovsky, to his, Troekurov’s, satisfaction.

The investigation of this petition by the * * * district court has discovered: that the said present owner of the disputed estate, Lieutenant of the Guards Dubrovsky, gave the local assessor of the nobility the explanation that the estate now in his possession, the said village of Kistenevka, * * * souls with land and appurtenances, came to him as an inheritance after the death of his father, Sub-lieutenant of Artillery Dubrovsky, Gavrila Evgrafovich, who obtained it through purchase from the petitioner’s father, former provincial secretary, later collegiate assessor Troekurov, through the power of attorney granted by him in the year 17––, on the 30th day of August, notarized in the * * * district court, to the titular councilor Sobolev, Grigory Vassilyevich, who was to provide him, Dubrovsky’s father, with the deed, in which it would be stated that the entire estate, * * * souls with the land, obtained by him, Troekurov, through purchase from the clerk Spitsyn, had been sold to his, Dubrovsky’s, father, and the agreed sum, 3,200 roubles, had been received from the father in full and without return, and it was requested that the attorney Sobolev provide his father with the official deed. And meanwhile his father, by the same power of attorney, having paid the full sum, was to take over this estate purchased by him and manage it as its lawful owner until the deed was executed, and neither he, the seller Troekurov, nor anyone else was to intervene henceforth in this estate. But precisely when and in what office the deed was executed and given by Sobolev to his father, he, Andrei Dubrovsky, does not know, for he was in his earliest infancy at the time, and after his father’s death he was unable to find the said deed, and supposes that it may have been burned up, along with other papers and property, during the fire in their house that took place in the year of 17––, as is also known to the inhabitants of the village. And that the estate, since the purchase from Troekurov or the receipt of the power of attorney by Sobolev, that is, since the year 17––, and from the death of his father until the present day, has been in their, the Dubrovskys’, undisputed possession, this has been testified to by the local inhabitants, 52 persons in all, who, being questioned under oath, bore witness that indeed, as far as they could remember, the said disputed estate had been in the possession of the aforesaid Messrs Dubrovsky for some 70 years now with no dispute from anyone, but by precisely what act or deed they do not know. Whether the previous purchaser of the estate mentioned in this case, the former provincial secretary Pyotr Troekurov, had owned the said estate, they do not recall. The house of Messrs Dubrovsky burned down in a fire that occurred in the village during the nighttime some 30 years ago, while disinterested persons suppose that the average income of the aforementioned disputed estate, counting from that time on, could be no less than 2,000 roubles annually.

Counter to that, General-en-chef Troekurov, Kirila Petrovich, on January 3rd of this year, addressed this court with a petition that, although the aforesaid Lieutenant of the Guards Andrei Dubrovsky did present to the court the power of attorney that his father had issued to the titular councilor Sobolev, neither the original deed of purchase nor any sufficiently clear proof of such a deed, in compliance with the general regulations of chapter 19 and the decision handed down in the year of 1752 on the 29th day of November, was presented. Consequently, the power of attorney itself, owing to the death of its issuer, his father, by the decision of the year 1818, the * * * day of May, is now completely null and void. And moreover—

it is ordered that disputed estates be returned to their owners—by deed where there is a deed, and by investigation where there is no deed.

For the which estate, belonging to his father, he has already presented in evidence a deed of purchase, from which it follows, based on the aforesaid statutes, that it should be taken from the wrongful possession of the aforementioned Dubrovsky and given to him by right of inheritance. And since the aforesaid landowners, having in their possession an estate not belonging to them and without any legality, and wrongfully enjoying profits from it not belonging to them, then by calculation, as much as is due by right of…should be exacted from the landowner Dubrovsky and be given to him, Troekurov, in satisfaction.—Upon the examination of which case and of extracts from it and from the law in the * * * district court, it is determined:

Concerning the aforesaid disputed estate, presently in the possession of Lieutenant of the Guards Dubrovsky, Andrei Gavrilovich, consisting of the village of Kistenevka, with * * * souls of the male sex according to the recent…census, with land and appurtenances, the case makes it clear that General-en-chef Troekurov, Kirila Petrovich, has presented the original deed of purchase by his late father, a provincial secretary, later a collegiate assessor, in the year 17––, from the chancery clerk Fadei Spitsyn, gentleman, and moreover this purchaser, Troekurov, as is clear from an addendum to the said deed, was put in possession of it by the * * * district court, which estate was already in his seizin, and though counter to that a power of attorney was presented on the part of Lieutenant of the Guards Andrei Dubrovsky, granted by the deceased purchaser Troekurov to the titular councilor Sobolev for carrying out the purchase in the name of his, Dubrovsky’s, father, in such transactions not only the maintaining of a deed to real estate, but even temporary possession is prohibited by decree of…, since with the death of the grantor, the power of attorney is rendered completely null and void. Moreover, Dubrovsky for his part has presented no clear evidence of where and when the above-mentioned disputed estate was actually purchased by his power of attorney from the start of proceedings, that is in the year 18––, until the present time. And therefore this court decides: to confirm that the above-mentioned estate, * * * souls, with land and appurtenances, in the condition in which it now finds itself, belongs, in accordance with the deed of purchase presented, to General-en-chef Troekurov; to remove Lieutenant of the Guards Dubrovsky from disposal of it, and to put Mr. Troekurov in proper possession of it, and to require the * * * court to issue a seizin for it as coming to him by inheritance. Moreover, General-en-chef Troekurov also petitions for the recovery from Lieutenant of the Guards Dubrovsky of the profits appropriated by him through the unlawful possession of his inherited estate. But since the said estate, according to the testimony of the old people, had been in the uncontested possession of Messrs Dubrovsky for some years, and the present investigation has not discovered any previous petitions on the part of Mr. Troekurov of such wrongful possession of the said estate by the Dubrovskys, according to the code—

it is ordered, that if someone sows on another’s land, or fences it in and builds on it, and a complaint about wrongful seizure is made, and the truth is found out, then the rightful owner should be given back the land, with the crops, and the fence, and the buildings—

and therefore General-en-chefTroekurov is refused in his claim against Lieutenant of the Guards Dubrovsky, for the estate belonging to him is returned to his possession, with nothing removed from it. But if on entering it he should find that all is not where it should be, General-en-chef Troekurov has leave meanwhile, if he should have clear and legal proof of such a claim, to petition separately in the proper place. Which decision is announced in advance, on a legal basis, by appellate procedure, to the plaintiff as well as to the defendant, who will be summoned to this court for hearing of the decision and signing their accord or disaccord through the police.

Which decision is signed by all those present at the court.

The secretary fell silent, the assessor rose and, with a low bow, turned to Troekurov, inviting him to sign the proffered document, and the triumphant Troekurov, taking the pen from him, signed under the court’s decision his full accord. It was Dubrovsky’s turn. The secretary offered him the paper. But Dubrovsky stood motionless, his head lowered.

The secretary repeated his invitation to sign his full and complete accord or his outright disaccord, if contrary to expectation he felt in all conscience that his cause was just, and intended within the time prescribed by law to make an appeal to the proper quarters. Dubrovsky was silent…Suddenly he raised his head, his eyes flashed, he stamped his foot, shoved the secretary away with such force that the man fell down, and, seizing the ink bottle, flung it at the assessor. Everybody was horrified.

“What! You don’t respect the church of God! Away, heathenish tribe!” Then, turning to Kirila Petrovich: “It’s unheard of, Your Excellency,” he went on, “hunters bringing dogs into the church of God! Dogs running all over the church! Just you wait, I’ll teach you…”

Hearing the noise, the guards rushed in and with difficulty overpowered him. He was taken out and seated in the sledge. Troekurov came out after him, accompanied by the whole court. Dubrovsky’s sudden madness had a strong effect on his imagination and poisoned his triumph.

The judges, who had hoped for his gratitude, were not honored with a single pleasant word from him. He left for Pokrovskoe that same day. Meanwhile, Dubrovsky lay in bed; the district doctor, fortunately not a total ignoramus, managed to bleed him and treat him with leeches and Spanish flies. Towards evening the sick man became better and regained consciousness. The next day he was driven to Kistenevka, which now almost did not belong to him.

CHAPTER THREE

Some time passed, but poor Dubrovsky’s health was still bad. True, the fits of madness were not renewed, but his forces were noticeably weakened. He forgot his former occupations, rarely left his room, and spent whole days lost in thought. Egorovna, a kindly old woman who had once looked after his son, now became his own nanny. She watched over him as if over a child, reminded him of the times to eat and sleep, fed him, put him to bed. Andrei Gavrilovich quietly obeyed her and aside from her had no relations with anybody. He was in no condition to think about his affairs, to run the estate, and Egorovna saw the necessity of writing about it all to the young Dubrovsky, who served in one of the infantry guards regiments and was in Petersburg at the time. And so, tearing a page from the account book, she dictated a letter to the only literate man in Kistenevka, the cook Khariton, and sent it that same day to the post office in town.

But it is time the reader became acquainted with the real hero of our story.

Vladimir Dubrovsky was educated in the Cadet Corps3 and graduated as an ensign in the guards. His father spared nothing for his proper keeping, and the young man received more from home than he should have expected. Being extravagant and ambitious, he allowed himself luxurious whims, gambled and got into debt, did not worry about the future, and foresaw a rich bride for himself sooner or later—the dream of a poor young man.

One evening, when several officers were sitting around at his place, sprawled on the sofas and smoking his amber-stemmed pipes, Grisha, his valet, handed him a letter, the address and seal of which struck the young man at once. He quickly opened it and read the following:

Dear Master, Vladimir Andreevich –

I, your old nanny, have decided to report to you on your papa’s health! He is very poorly, sometimes rambles in his speech, and sits all day like a stupid child, but in life and death it is as God wills. Come to us here, my bright falcon, we will send horses to Pesochnoe for you. We have heard that the district court will be coming to us to put us under the authority of Kirila Petrovich Troekurov, because we are said to belong to him, but we have been yours time out of mind, and never in our lives heard such. Maybe, living in Petersburg, you could tell that to our dear tsar, and he will not let us be offended. I remain your faithful servant and nanny,

Orina Egorovna Buzyreva.

I send my maternal blessing to Grisha, does he serve you well? It is the second week we are having rain, and the shepherd Rodya died around St. Nicholas’s day.

Vladimir Dubrovsky reread these rather muddled lines several times with extraordinary agitation. He had lost his mother in childhood and, barely knowing his father, had been brought to Petersburg in his eighth year; but for all that he was romantically attached to him and loved family life all the more, the less he had managed to savor its quiet joys.

The thought of losing his father wrung his heart painfully, and the situation of the poor sick man, which he surmised from his nanny’s letter, horrified him. He pictured his father, abandoned in a remote village, in the hands of a stupid old woman and some servants, threatened by some sort of calamity, and fading away without help in the sufferings of body and soul. Vladimir reproached himself for criminal neglect. For a long time he had received no letters from his father and had never thought of inquiring about him, supposing that he was traveling or busy with the estate.

He decided to go to him and even to retire from the service, if his father’s ailing condition required his presence. His comrades, noticing his uneasiness, went home. Vladimir, left alone, wrote a request for a leave of absence, lit his pipe, and fell into deep reflection.

That same day he turned in his request, and three days later he was already on the high road.

Vladimir Andreevich was approaching the posting station where he had to turn off for Kistenevka. His heart was full of sad forebodings, he feared he would not find his father alive, he pictured the melancholy way of life awaiting him in the country, the remoteness, the solitude, the poverty, and the bother with things he knew nothing about. On reaching the station, he went to the stationmaster and inquired about hiring horses. The stationmaster asked him where he had to go, and announced that horses sent from Kistenevka had already been awaiting him for three days. Soon the old coachman Anton, who once used to take him around the stables and looked after his little horse, appeared before Vladimir Andreevich. Anton shed a few tears on seeing him, bowed to the ground, said that the old master was still alive, and ran to hitch up the horses. Vladimir Andreevich refused the lunch offered him and hastened to set off. Anton drove him along the country roads, and a conversation started between them.

“Tell me, please, Anton, what’s this business between my father and Troekurov?”

“God knows about them, dear Vladimir Andreevich…They say the master didn’t see eye to eye with Kirila Petrovich, and the man took it to court, though oftener than not he’s his own court. It’s not a servant’s business to sort out the master’s will, but, by God, your father shouldn’t have gone against Kirila Petrovich. You can’t chop down a tree with a penknife.”

“So it’s clear this Kirila Petrovich does whatever he likes around here?”

“That he does, master: they say he doesn’t give a hoot about the assessor, and the police chief just runs errands for him. Squires come and fawn on him, and as the saying goes, where there’s a trough, there’ll be pigs.”

“Is it true that he’s taking away our estate?”

“Oh, master, we’ve heard that, too. The other day the Pokrovskoe sacristan said at a christening at our village headman’s: ‘Your fun is over; Kirila Petrovich’ll take you in hand.’ Mikita the blacksmith said to him: ‘Enough, Savelyich, don’t upset the host, don’t trouble the guests. Kirila Petrovich is his own man, and Andrei Gavrilovich is his own man, and we’re all God’s and the sovereign’s; but still, you can’t button another man’s lip.’ ”

“Meaning you don’t want to be owned by Troekurov?”

“Owned by Troekurov! Lord, save us and deliver us! His own people sometimes have a bad time of it, but once he gets hold of another man’s, he won’t just skin them, he’ll tear them to pieces. No, God grant Andrei Gavrilovich a long life, and if God takes him, we don’t want anybody but you, our provider. Don’t give us up, and we’ll stand by you.”

With those words, Anton swung the whip, shook the reins, and his horses broke into a brisk trot.

Touched by the old coachman’s devotion, Dubrovsky kept silent and fell again into reflection. More than an hour went by; suddenly Grisha wakened him with the exclamation: “Here’s Pokrovskoe!” Dubrovsky raised his head. He was driving along the bank of a wide lake, from which a small river flowed and went meandering among the hills in the distance; on one hill, above the dense greenery of a copse, rose the green roof and belvedere of an immense stone house, on another a five-domed church and an ancient bell tower; peasant cottages were scattered around them, with their wells and kitchen gardens. Dubrovsky recognized these places; he remembered that on that same hill he had played with little Masha Troekurov, who was two years his junior and even then promised to be a beauty. He wanted to ask Anton about her, but some sort of shyness held him back.

Driving up to the manor house, he caught sight of a white dress flashing among the trees in the garden. At that moment Anton whipped up the horses and, obedient to the ambition common to country coachmen and city drivers, raced at top speed over the bridge and past the village. Leaving the village behind, they went up the hill, and Vladimir glimpsed a birch grove and, to the left, in an open space, a small gray house with a red roof. His heart throbbed. Before him he saw Kistenevka and his father’s poor home.

Ten minutes later he drove into the courtyard. He looked around him with indescribable emotion. For twelve years he had not seen his birthplace. The birches, which in his time had just been planted along the fence, had grown and were now tall, branchy trees. The courtyard, once adorned with three regular flowerbeds with wide, well-swept paths between them, had been turned into an unmowed meadow on which a hobbled horse grazed. The dogs were beginning to bark, but, recognizing Anton, they stopped and wagged their shaggy tails. Servants poured out of their cottages and surrounded the young master with noisy expressions of joy. He could barely force his way through their zealous crowd and run up the decrepit porch; in the front hall Egorovna met him and tearfully embraced her nursling.

“Hello, hello, nanny,” he repeated, pressing the kind old woman to his heart. “What about papa? Where is he? How is he?”

Just then a tall old man, pale and thin, in a dressing gown and a nightcap, came into the room, barely able to move his feet.

“Greetings, Volodka!” he said in a weak voice, and Vladimir warmly embraced his father. Joy produced too great a shock in the sick man, he grew weak, his legs gave way under him, and he would have fallen, if his son had not held him up.

“Why did you get up?” Egorovna said to him. “You can’t keep your feet, yet you head off to where people are.”

The old man was carried to the bedroom. He kept trying to talk with him, but the thoughts were confused in his head and his words had no connection. He fell silent and lapsed into somnolence. Vladimir was struck by his condition. He settled in his bedroom and asked to be left alone with his father. The servants obeyed, and then they all turned to Grisha and took him to their own quarters, where they regaled him country-style, with all possible hospitality, wearing him out with questions and salutations.

CHAPTER FOUR

The once festive table now bears a coffin.

DERZHAVIN4

A few days after his arrival, young Dubrovsky wanted to get down to business, but his father was in no condition to give him the necessary explanations—Andrei Gavrilovich had no attorney. Sorting through his papers, Vladimir found only the first letter from the assessor and the draft of a reply to it; from them he could get no clear idea of the lawsuit and decided to wait for the consequences, trusting in the justice of the cause itself.

Meanwhile, Andrei Gavrilovich’s health was getting worse by the hour. Vladimir foresaw his imminent demise and did not leave the old man, who had lapsed into total senility.

Meanwhile, the deadline passed and no appeal was made. Kistenevka belonged to Troekurov. Shabashkin presented himself to him with bows and congratulations and the request that he specify when His Excellency would like to take possession of the newly acquired estate—either in person or through whomever he chose to grant power of attorney. Kirila Petrovich felt embarrassed. He was not mercenary by nature, the desire for revenge had lured him too far, his conscience murmured. He knew what condition his adversary, the old comrade of his youth, was in, and his victory did not gladden his heart. He cast a menacing glance at Shabashkin, seeking some reason to yell at him, but finding no sufficient pretext, said angrily: “Get out, I can’t be bothered with you.”

Shabashkin, seeing that he was out of sorts, bowed and hastened to withdraw. And Kirila Petrovich, left alone, began to pace up and down, whistling “Thunder of victory resound,”5 which in him always signified extraordinary mental agitation.

Finally, he ordered a racing droshky hitched up, dressed more warmly (it was already the end of September), and, taking the reins himself, drove out of the yard.

Soon he caught sight of Andrei Gavrilovich’s little house, and conflicting feelings filled his soul. Satisfied vengeance and lust of power stifled his more noble feelings to a certain degree, but the latter finally triumphed. He decided to make peace with his old neighbor, to wipe out the traces of their quarrel by giving him back his property. Having unburdened his soul with this good intention, Kirila Petrovich set out at a trot for his neighbor’s homestead and drove straight into his yard.

Just then the sick man was sitting at the window in his bedroom. He recognized Kirila Petrovich, and terrible agitation showed on his face: a crimson flush replaced his usual pallor, his eyes flashed, he uttered inarticulate sounds. His son, who was sitting there over the account books, raised his head and was struck by his condition. The sick man was pointing to the yard with an expression of horror and wrath. He hastily gathered the skirts of his dressing gown, preparing to get up from the chair, rose a little…and suddenly fell. His son rushed to him. The old man lay without feeling and without breathing, struck by paralysis.

“Quick, quick, send to town for a doctor!” cried Vladimir.

“Kirila Petrovich is asking to see you,” said a servant, coming in. Vladimir threw him a terrible glance.

“Tell Kirila Petrovich to get out of here quickly, before I order him driven out…Off with you!”

The servant ran joyfully to fulfill his master’s order. Egorovna clasped her hands.

“Master dear,” she said in a squeaky voice, “it will cost you your head! Kirila Petrovich will eat us up.”

“Quiet, nanny,” Vladimir said vexedly. “Send Anton to town for a doctor at once.”

Egorovna left. There was no one in the front hall; all the servants had run to the yard to look at Kirila Petrovich. She went out to the porch and heard the servant’s reply, delivered on behalf of the young master. Kirila Petrovich heard him out sitting in his droshky. His face became darker than night; he smiled contemptuously, glanced menacingly at the servants, and drove slowly around the yard. He looked at the window where Andrei Gavrilovich had been sitting a moment before, but where he no longer was. The nanny stood on the porch, forgetting her master’s order. The servants loudly talked over what had happened. Suddenly Vladimir appeared among them and said curtly: “No need for a doctor, father is dead.”

A commotion set in. The servants rushed to the old master’s room. He lay in the armchair to which Vladimir had moved him; his right arm hung down to the floor, his head was lowered on his chest, there was no sign of life in his body, not yet cold, but already disfigured by death. Egorovna began to wail. The servants surrounded the corpse, which was left to their care, washed it, dressed it in a uniform made back in the year 1797, and laid it out on the same table at which they had served their master for so many years.6

CHAPTER FIVE

The funeral took place three days later. The body of the poor old man lay on the table covered with a shroud and surrounded with candles. The dining room was filled with servants. They were preparing for the carrying-out. Vladimir and three servants lifted the coffin. The priest went ahead; the sexton accompanied him intoning the funeral prayers. The owner of Kistenevka crossed the threshold of his house for the last time. The coffin was carried through the grove. The church was beyond it. The day was clear and cold. Autumn leaves were falling from the trees.

On coming out of the grove, they saw the Kistenevka wooden church and the graveyard, shaded by old lindens. There the body of Vladimir’s mother lay at rest; there, beside her grave, a new hole had been dug the day before.

The church was filled with Kistenevka peasants, who had come to pay their last respects to their master. Young Dubrovsky stood by the choir; he did not weep and he did not pray, but his face was terrible. The mournful rite came to an end. Vladimir went first to take leave of the body, and after him all the servants. The lid was brought and nailed to the coffin. The women wailed loudly; the men occasionally wiped their tears with their fists. Vladimir and the same three servants carried it to the graveyard, accompanied by the whole village. The coffin was lowered into the grave, everyone there threw a handful of earth into it, the hole was filled in, people bowed and went their ways. Vladimir quickly left, got ahead of everyone, and disappeared into the Kistenevka grove.

On his behalf, Egorovna invited the priest and the rest of the church people to a memorial dinner, announcing that the young master did not intend to be present, and thus Father Anton, his wife Fedotovna, and the sexton went on foot to the master’s house, talking with Egorovna about the dead man’s virtues and about what apparently awaited his heir. (Troekurov’s visit and the reception he had been shown were already known to the whole neighborhood, and local politicians predicted serious consequences from it.)

“What will be, will be,” said the priest’s wife, “but it’s too bad if Vladimir Andreich is not our master. A fine fellow, I must say.”

“But who will be our master if not him?” Egorovna interrupted. “Kirila Petrovich gets worked up for nothing. He’s not dealing with the timid sort: no, my young falcon can stand up for himself, and, God willing, his benefactors won’t desert him. Kirila Petrovich is mighty arrogant, but I dare say he put his tail between his legs when my Grishka shouted at him: ‘Away, you old dog! Clear out of the yard!’ ”

“Ah, no, Egorovna,” said the sexton, “how did Grigory have the pluck to say it? I’d sooner bark at our bishop than look askance at Kirila Petrovich. You see him and you’re in fear and trembling, you break into a sweat, and your back just bends, just bends by itself…”

“Vanity of vanities,” said the priest, “and Kirila Petrovich will have ‘Memory Eternal’ sung over him,7 the same as Andrei Gavrilovich did just now, only the funeral will be richer and there’ll be more guests invited, but for God it’s all the same!”

“Ah, dear father! We, too, wanted to invite the whole neighborhood, but Vladimir Andreich didn’t want it. I dare say we’ve got enough to treat them all, but what could we do? Since there’s no people, at least we can feast you, our dear guests.”

This agreeable promise and the hope of finding tasty pies quickened the company’s steps, and they safely reached the master’s house, where the table was already laid and the vodka served.

Meanwhile, Vladimir went ever deeper into the thicket of trees, trying by movement and fatigue to stifle the grief in his soul. He walked without heeding the way; branches kept catching at him and scratching him, his feet kept sinking into the mire—he noticed nothing. He finally reached a small hollow, surrounded by the woods on all sides; a brook meandered silently among the trees, stripped half naked by autumn. Vladimir stopped, sat down on the cold grass, and thoughts, one darker than the other, crowded in his soul…He keenly felt his solitude. The future appeared to him covered with menacing clouds. The enmity with Troekurov foreshadowed new misfortunes for him. His meager inheritance might pass into another’s hands—in which case he would face destitution. For a long time he sat motionless in the same place, gazing at the quiet flow of the brook, carrying off a few withered leaves and vividly portraying for him the true likeness of life—such a commonplace likeness. Finally he noticed that it was growing dark; he got up and went in search of the way home, but he still wandered for a long time in the unfamiliar forest, before he hit upon the path that brought him straight to the gates of his house.

On his way Dubrovsky ran into the priest with the rest of the church people. The thought of an unlucky omen came to his head. He automatically turned aside and hid behind a tree. They did not notice him and walked by talking heatedly among themselves.

“Eschew evil, and do good,”8 the priest was saying to his wife. “There’s no need for us to stay here. It’s not your trouble, however the matter ends.” The wife said something in reply, but Vladimir could not catch it.

Approaching the house, he saw a great many people: peasants and house serfs were crowding in the yard. From a distance Vladimir heard unusual noise and talk. Two troikas stood by the coach house. On the porch several unknown men in uniform seemed to be discussing something.

“What’s the meaning of this?” he angrily asked Anton, who came running to meet him. “Who are they, and what do they want?”

“Ah, dear master Vladimir Andreevich,” the old man answered breathlessly. “The court has come. They’re handing us over to Troekurov, they’re taking us from Your Honor!…”

Vladimir hung his head; the servants surrounded their unfortunate master.

“You’re a father to us,” they cried, kissing his hands. “We don’t want any other master but you. Order it, sir, and we’ll deal with this court. We’ll die before we betray you.”

Vladimir looked at them and strange feelings stirred him.

“Stand quietly,” he said to them, “and I’ll have a talk with the officials.”

“Talk to them, dear master,” they cried to him from the crowd. “Shame the fiends!”

Vladimir went up to the officials. Shabashkin, with a visored cap on his head, stood arms akimbo and proudly looked around him. The police chief, a tall and fat man of about fifty with a red face and a moustache, on seeing Dubrovsky approach, grunted and said in a husky voice:

“So, I repeat to you what I’ve already said: by decision of the district court, you henceforth belong to Kirila Petrovich Troekurov, whose person is here represented by Mr. Shabashkin. Obey him in everything he orders, and you, women, love and honor him, for he is your great fancier.”

At this witticism, the police chief burst out laughing, and Shabashkin and the other members followed suit. Vladimir seethed with indignation.

“Allow me to know the meaning of this,” he asked the merry police chief with feigned coolness.

“The meaning of this,” the wily official replied, “is that we have come to put Kirila Petrovich Troekurov in possession of the estate and to ask certain others to get out while they’re still in one piece.”

“But it seems you might address yourselves to me, rather than to my peasants, and announce to the landowner that he has been dispossessed…”

“And who are you,” said Shabashkin with an impudent look. “The former landowner, Andrei Gavrilovich Dubrovsky, is dead by the will of God. You we do not know and do not wish to know.”

“Vladimir Andreevich is our young master,” said a voice from the crowd.

“Who dared to open his mouth there?” the police chief said menacingly. “What master? What Vladimir Andreevich? Your master is Kirila Petrovich Troekurov, do you hear, you oafs?”

“Nohow,” said the same voice.

“This is rebellion!” shouted the police chief. “Hey, headman, come here!”

The headman stepped forward.

“Find out at once who dared to talk back to me. I’ll show him!”

The headman turned to the crowd and asked who had spoken, but they all kept silent; soon a murmur sprang up from the back rows, grew louder, and in a moment turned into a terrible uproar. The police chief lowered his voice and tried to reason with them.

“Why stand gaping?” the servants shouted. “Come on, boys, away with them!” And the whole crowd advanced. Shabashkin and the other members hurriedly rushed into the front hall and locked the door behind them.

“Tie ’em up, boys!” the same voice shouted, and the crowd began to press forward…

“Stop!” cried Dubrovsky. “You fools! What are you doing? You’ll ruin yourselves and me. Go back home and leave me alone. Don’t be afraid, the sovereign is merciful, I’ll petition him. He won’t harm us. We’re all his children. But how can he intercede for you, if you start rioting and rampaging?”

The young Dubrovsky’s words, his resounding voice and majestic air, produced the desired effect. The people quieted down, dispersed, the yard became deserted. The members sat in the front hall. Finally Shabashkin quietly opened the door, went out to the porch, and with humble bows began to thank Dubrovsky for his merciful intercession. Vladimir listened to him with contempt and made no reply.

“We’ve decided,” the assessor went on, “to spend the night here, with your permission; it’s already dark, and your peasants may attack us on the way. Do us a favor, have some straw spread for us in the drawing room; we’ll be on our way at dawn.”

“Do as you like,” Dubrovsky answered him drily. “I’m no longer the master here.”

With those words he retired to his father’s room and locked the door behind him.

CHAPTER SIX

“So it’s all over,” he said to himself. “This morning I still had a corner and a crust of bread. Tomorrow I must leave the house where I was born and where my father died to the man who caused his death and my destitution.” And his eyes rested fixedly on the portrait of his mother. The painter had portrayed her leaning her elbow on a banister, in a white morning dress, with a red rose in her hair. “And this portrait will be taken by the enemy of my family,” thought Vladimir, “and it will be thrown into a storeroom along with some broken chairs, or hung in the front hall, a subject of mockery and rude remarks for his huntsmen, and in her bedroom, the room…where father died, he will install his steward or his harem. No! No! I won’t let him take the mournful house he’s driving me out of!” Vladimir clenched his teeth. Terrible thoughts were forming in his mind. The officials’ voices reached him. They were playing the masters, demanding now this, now that, and unpleasantly distracted him amidst his sad reflections. Finally everything grew quiet.

Vladimir opened cupboards and chests and busied himself with sorting out the dead man’s papers. They consisted for the most part of household accounts and some business correspondence. Vladimir tore them up without reading them. Among them he came upon a packet with the inscription “Letters from my wife.” Deeply moved, Vladimir started on them: they were written during the Turkish campaign9 and were addressed to the army from Kistenevka. She described her solitary life, her household chores, complained tenderly about their separation, and called him home to the arms of his dear friend. In one of them she expressed her anxiety about little Vladimir’s health; in another she rejoiced at his early abilities and predicted a happy and brilliant future for him. Vladimir lost himself in reading and forgot everything else, his soul immersed in the world of family happiness, and he did not notice how the time passed. The wall clock struck eleven. Vladimir put the letters in his pocket, took the candle, and left the study. In the drawing room the officials were asleep on the floor. Empty glasses stood on the table, and the whole room smelled strongly of rum. With disgust Vladimir walked past them to the front hall. The door was locked. Not finding the key, Vladimir went back to the drawing room—the key was lying on the table. Vladimir opened the door and stumbled onto a man crouched in a corner; an axe gleamed in his hand, and, turning to him with the candle, Vladimir recognized the blacksmith Arkhip.

“What are you doing here?” he asked.

“Ah, Vladimir Andreevich, it’s you,” Arkhip replied in a whisper. “Lord have mercy and save us, it’s a good thing you came with a candle!”

Vladimir gazed at him in amazement.

“What are you hiding here for?” he asked the blacksmith.

“I wanted…I came…it was to see if everybody’s at home,” Arkhip stammered softly.

“And why the axe?”

“Why the axe? There’s no going around nowadays without an axe. These officials are such rascals—next thing you know…”

“You’re drunk. Drop the axe and go sleep it off.”

“Me drunk? Dear master Vladimir Andreevich, God is my witness, not one drop has passed my lips…and who’d have drink on his mind, it’s unheard of, scribblers meaning to take us over, scribblers driving our masters out of their own yard…Hear ’em snoring, the cursed wretches; get ’em all at once, and there’s an end to it.”

Dubrovsky frowned.

“Listen, Arkhip,” he said, after a brief silence, “what you’re doing isn’t right. The officials are not to blame. Light a lantern and follow me.”

Arkhip took the candle from his master’s hand, found a lamp behind the stove, lit it, and they both quietly stepped off the porch and went around the yard. A watchman started banging on a cast-iron bar. Dogs barked.

“Who’s on watch?” Dubrovsky asked.

“We are, dear master,” a high voice replied. “Vasilisa and Lukerya.”

“Go home,” Dubrovsky said to them. “You’re not needed.”

“Knock off,” said Arkhip.

“Thank you, our dear provider,” the women replied and went home at once.

Dubrovsky walked on. Two men approached him; they called out to him. Dubrovsky recognized the voices of Anton and Grisha.

“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked them.

“As if we could sleep,” Anton replied. “Who’d have thought we’d live to see…”

“Quiet!” Dubrovsky interrupted. “Where’s Egorovna?”

“In the main house, in her attic,” Grisha replied.

“Go, bring her here, and get all our people out of the house, so there’s not a soul left in it except the officials, and you, Anton, hitch up the wagon.”

Grisha left and appeared a minute later with his mother. The old woman had not undressed for the night; apart from the officials, nobody in the house had slept a wink.

“Everybody here?” asked Dubrovsky. “Nobody left in the house?”

“Nobody except the officials,” Grisha replied.

“Bring me some hay or straw,” said Dubrovsky.

People ran to the stables and came back carrying armfuls of hay.

“Lay it under the porch. Like this. Now, boys, the fire!”

Arkhip opened the lantern; Dubrovsky lit a splinter.

“Wait,” he said to Arkhip. “In my haste I think I locked the door to the front hall. Go quick and unlock it.”

Arkhip ran to the entryway—the door was unlocked. Arkhip locked it, muttering in a half whisper, “Nohow I’ll unlock it!” and went back to Dubrovsky.

Dubrovsky brought the splinter close, the hay caught fire, the flames soared and lit up the whole yard.

“Ah, no!” Egorovna cried pitifully. “Vladimir Andreevich, what are you doing?”

“Quiet!” said Dubrovsky. “And so farewell, children. I’ll go where God takes me. Good luck with your new master.”

“Our father, our provider,” people replied, “we’d rather die than leave you, we’ll come with you.”

The horses were brought. Dubrovsky got into the wagon along with Grisha and appointed the Kistenevka grove as the meeting place for them all. Anton whipped up the horses, and they drove out of the yard.

The wind picked up. In a moment flames engulfed the whole house. Red smoke whirled above the roof. Glass cracked, rained down, blazing beams began to fall, there were pitiful screams and cries:

“We’re burning! Help! Help!”

“Nohow,” said Arkhip, gazing at the fire with a malicious smile.

“Arkhipushka,” Egorovna said to him, “save the fiends. God will reward you.”

“Nohow,” said the blacksmith.

Just then the officials appeared at the window, trying to break the double frames. But here the roof came crashing down, and the screaming ceased.

Soon all the servants came pouring into the yard. The women, shouting, rushed to save their junk; the children hopped up and down, admiring the fire. Sparks flew like a fiery blizzard; cottages began to burn.

“It’s all right now,” said Arkhip. “How’s that for burning, eh? Bet it looks nice from Pokrovskoe.”

Just then a new event caught his attention. A cat went running along the roof of the blazing shed, at a loss where to jump down; it was surrounded on all sides by flames. The poor animal meowed pitifully, calling for help. The boys died with laughter, looking at its despair.

“What’re you laughing at, you little devils,” the blacksmith said angrily. “You’ve got no fear of God: God’s creature is perishing, and you fools are glad.” And leaning a ladder against the already-burning roof, he climbed up for the cat. It understood his intention and with a look of hurried gratitude clung to his sleeve. The half-singed blacksmith climbed down with his booty.

“And so farewell, lads,” he said to the confused servants. “There’s nothing for me to do here. Good luck, and don’t hold anything against me.”

The blacksmith left. The fire raged for some time. It finally died down, and heaps of flameless embers glowed brightly in the darkness of the night, and around them wandered the burnt-out inhabitants of Kistenevka.

CHAPTER SEVEN

The next day news of the fire spread all over the neighborhood. Everybody explained it with various conjectures and suppositions. Some insisted that Dubrovsky’s people had gotten drunk at the funeral and set fire to the house out of carelessness; others accused the officials, who had made too merry at the housewarming; many were convinced that it had burned down of itself with the court officials and all the servants. Some guessed the truth and maintained that Dubrovsky himself, moved by anger and despair, was to blame for the terrible calamity. Troekurov came to the scene of the fire the next day and conducted an investigation himself. It turned out that the police chief, the local court assessor, the lawyer, and the clerk, as well as Vladimir Dubrovsky, the nanny Egorovna, the servant Grigory, the coachman Anton, and the blacksmith Arkhip had disappeared no one knew where. All the servants testified that the officials had burned up when the roof collapsed. Their charred bones were unearthed. The women Vasilisa and Lukerya said they had seen Dubrovsky and the blacksmith Arkhip a few minutes before the fire. The blacksmith Arkhip, according to general testimony, was alive and was probably the main one, if not the only one, to blame for the fire. Dubrovsky, too, was under strong suspicion. Kirila Petrovich sent the governor a detailed account of the whole incident, and a new case was started.

Soon other news gave other food for curiosity and gossip. Robbers had appeared in * * * and spread terror through the whole region. The measures taken against them by the government proved inadequate. Robberies, one more remarkable than the other, followed one after the other. There was no safety either on the roads or in the villages. Several troikas full of robbers drove in broad daylight all over the province, stopped travelers and the post, rode into villages, robbed landowners’ houses and committed them to the flames. The chief of the band became known for his intelligence, daring, and a sort of magnanimity. Wonders were told of him; the name of Dubrovsky was on everybody’s lips, everybody was sure that he and no one else was the leader of these daring evildoers. One thing was astonishing: Troekurov’s estates had been spared; not a single barn had been robbed, not a single cart had been stopped. With his usual arrogance, Troekurov ascribed this exception to the fear he had been able to instill in the whole province, and also to the excellent quality of the police he had established in his villages. At first the neighbors laughed among themselves at Troekurov’s haughtiness, and expected every day that the uninvited guests would visit Pokrovskoe, where there was a good haul to be made, but they were finally forced to agree with him and admit that the robbers, too, had an incomprehensible respect for him…Troekurov was triumphant, and each time there was news of a new robbery by Dubrovsky, he burst into mockery of the governor, the police chiefs and company commanders from whom Dubrovsky always escaped unharmed.

Meanwhile October 1st came—the day of the church feast in Troekurov’s village. But before we set about describing this solemnity and the subsequent events, we ought to acquaint the reader with some persons new to him, or of whom we made only slight mention at the beginning of our story.

CHAPTER EIGHT

The reader has probably guessed that Kirila Petrovich’s daughter, of whom we have as yet said only a few words, is the heroine of our story. In the period we are describing, she was seventeen years old and her beauty was in full bloom. Her father loved her to distraction, but treated her with his own special willfulness, now trying to cater to her slightest whims, then frightening her with severe and sometimes cruel treatment. Assured of her affection, he could never gain her confidence. She was used to concealing her feelings and thoughts from him, because she could never know for certain how they would be received. She had no friends and grew up in solitude. The neighbors’ wives and daughters rarely visited Kirila Petrovich, whose habitual conversation and amusements called for the camaraderie of men and not the presence of ladies. Rarely did our beauty appear among the guests feasting at Kirila Petrovich’s. An enormous library, consisting for the most part of works by eighteenth-century French writers, was put at her disposal. Her father, who never read anything except The Perfect Cook, could not guide her in the choice of books, and Masha, having leafed through works of various sorts, quite naturally settled on novels. It was thus that she completed her education, begun previously under the guidance of Mam’selle Mimi, to whom Kirila Petrovich had shown great confidence and benevolence, and whom he had finally been forced to send quietly to another estate, once the consequences of his friendship became too obvious. Mam’selle Mimi left quite a pleasant memory behind her. She was a good girl and never misused the influence she obviously had over Kirila Petrovich, differing in this from other confidantes, who were replaced every minute. Kirila Petrovich himself seemed to have liked her more than the others, and a dark-eyed boy, a scamp of about nine, recalling Mam’selle Mimi’s southern features, was brought up in the house and recognized as his son, though many barefoot children, as like him as two drops of water, ran around outside his windows and were considered serfs. For his little Sasha, Kirila Petrovich invited a French tutor from Moscow, who arrived in Pokrovskoe during the events we are now describing.

Kirila Petrovich liked this tutor for his pleasant appearance and simple manners. He presented Kirila Petrovich with his references and a letter from one of Troekurov’s relations, with whom he had lived for four years as a tutor. Kirila Petrovich looked through it all and was displeased only by his Frenchman’s youth—not that he considered this agreeable drawback incompatible with the patience and experience so necessary to the unfortunate position of tutor, but he had doubts of his own, which he decided at once to explain to him. For that he ordered Masha to be sent to him (Kirila Petrovich did not speak French, and she served as his interpreter).

“Come here, Masha. Tell this moosieu that, so be it, I’ll take him; only provided that he not dare to go chasing after my girls, otherwise I’ll show the son of a dog…Translate that for him, Masha.”

Masha blushed and, turning to the tutor, told him in French that her father hoped for his modesty and proper behavior.

The Frenchman bowed and replied that he hoped to earn respect, even if favor were denied him.

Masha translated his reply word for word.

“All right, all right,” said Kirila Petrovich. “He has no need of favor or respect. His business is to look after Sasha and teach him grammar and geography. Translate that for him.”

Marya softened her father’s crude expressions in her translation, and Kirila Petrovich sent his Frenchman off to the wing, where a room had been assigned to him.

Masha, having been brought up with aristocratic prejudices, paid no attention to the young Frenchman. For her a tutor was a sort of servant or artisan, and servants or artisans did not seem like men to her. Nor did she notice the impression she had made on M. Desforges, his confusion, his trembling, his altered voice. After that, for several days in a row she met him rather often, without paying any greater attention to him. In an unexpected way, she acquired a completely new idea of him.

Several bear cubs were usually reared in Kirila Petrovich’s yard and constituted one of the Pokrovskoe landowner’s chief amusements. While still young, the cubs would be brought each day to the drawing room, where Kirila Petrovich would spend hours at a time playing with them, setting them at cats and puppies. Grown up, they would be put on chains, in anticipation of real baiting. Now and then they would be brought before the windows of the master’s house and an empty wine barrel bristling with nails would be rolled up to them. The bear would sniff it, then touch it lightly, pricking its paws, angrily shove it harder, and make the pain worse. It would fly into a complete rage, rush at the barrel with a roar, and stop only when the object of the poor beast’s vain fury was taken away. Or else a team of bears would be hitched to a wagon, some guests, willingly or unwillingly, would be seated in it, and they would be sent galloping off God knows where. But to Kirila Petrovich’s mind the best joke was the following.

A hungry bear would be locked in an empty room, tied with a rope to a ring screwed into the wall. The rope was almost the length of the whole room, so that only the opposite corner could be safe from the fearsome beast’s attack. They would bring someone, usually a novice, to the door of this room, as if inadvertently shove him in with the bear, lock the door, and the unfortunate victim would be left alone with the shaggy hermit. The poor guest, his coattails shredded and himself scratched and bleeding, would soon find the safe corner, but would sometimes be forced to stand for a whole three hours pressed to the wall and watch as the infuriated beast two steps away roared, jumped, reared, and strained, trying to reach him. Such were the noble amusements of the Russian squire! A few days after the tutor’s arrival, Troekurov remembered about him and conceived the idea of treating him to the bear room. To that end, summoning him one morning, he led him along the dark corridors; suddenly a side door opened, two servants shoved the Frenchman in and locked the door with a key. Coming to his senses, the tutor saw the tied-up bear; the beast began to snort, sniffing at his guest from a distance, and suddenly, rising on his hind legs, came towards him…The Frenchman did not panic, did not run, but waited for the attack. The bear came close; Desforges drew a small pistol from his pocket, put it into the hungry beast’s ear, and fired. The bear collapsed. Everyone came running, the door opened, Kirila Petrovich came in, amazed at the outcome of his joke. Kirila Petrovich wanted the whole matter explained at once: who had warned Desforges of the joke prepared for him, or why was there a loaded pistol in his pocket? He sent for Masha. Masha came running and translated her father’s questions for the Frenchman.

“I had not heard about the bear,” Desforges replied, “but I always carry pistols on me, because I do not intend to put up with offenses for which, owing to my position, I cannot demand satisfaction.”

Masha looked at him in amazement and translated his words for Kirila Petrovich. Kirila Petrovich made no reply, ordered the bear taken away and skinned; then, turning to his servants, he said: “There’s a fine fellow! He wasn’t scared, by God, he wasn’t scared!” From that moment on he came to like Desforges and no longer thought of testing him.

But this incident made a still greater impression on Marya Kirilovna. Her imagination was struck: she saw the dead bear, and Desforges calmly standing over him and calmly conversing with her. She saw that courage and proud self-esteem did not belong exclusively to one estate, and from then on she began to show the young tutor a respect which grew more attentive by the hour. Certain relations were established between them. Masha had a beautiful voice and great musical ability. Desforges volunteered to give her lessons. After that it will not be hard for the reader to guess that Masha fell in love with him, though she did not yet admit it to herself.