Novels, Tales, Journeys

Volume Two

CHAPTER NINE

On the eve of the feast, the guests began to arrive. Some stayed in the manor house or in the wings, others at the steward’s, still others at the priest’s, and others again with well-to-do peasants. The stables were filled with carriage horses, the yards and coach houses were cluttered with all sorts of vehicles. At nine o’clock in the morning, the bells rang for the liturgy, and everyone moved towards the new stone church, built by Kirila Petrovich and adorned every year with his offerings. Such a multitude of honorable worshippers gathered that simple peasants could not get into the church and stood on the porch or inside the fence. The liturgy had not started yet; they were waiting for Kirila Petrovich. He drove up in a coach-and-six and solemnly walked to his place accompanied by Marya Kirilovna. The eyes of men and women turned to her; the former marveled at her beauty, the latter attentively examined her dress. The liturgy began, the serf choir sang, Kirila Petrovich himself joined in, prayed, looking neither right nor left, and bowed to the ground with proud humility when the deacon made vociferous mention of “the benefactor of this church.”

The liturgy ended. Kirila Petrovich went up first to kiss the cross. Everyone followed after him, then the neighbors approached him deferentially. The ladies surrounded Masha. Kirila Petrovich, coming out of the church, invited them all to dinner, got into his carriage, and went home. They all drove along behind him. The rooms filled with guests. New persons came in every minute and could barely make their way to the host. The ladies sat in a decorous semicircle, dressed in outmoded fashion, in much-worn but expensive outfits, all covered with pearls and diamonds; the men crowded around the caviar and vodka, talking among themselves in a loud hubbub. In the reception room the table was being laid for eighty people. Servants bustled about, arranging bottles and carafes and adjusting tablecloths. Finally the butler announced “Dinner is served”—and Kirila Petrovich went first to take his place at the table; the ladies followed after him and solemnly took their seats, with some observance of seniority; the girls crowded together like a flock of timid little goats and chose seats next to each other. The men placed themselves opposite them. At the end of the table sat the tutor beside little Sasha.

The servants began to serve dishes according to rank, guiding themselves in perplexing cases by Lavaterian guesswork,10 almost always unerringly. The clatter of dishes and spoons merged with the loud talk of the guests. Kirila Petrovich cheerfully surveyed his table and fully relished the happiness of a hospitable host. Just then a carriage drawn by six horses drove into the yard.

“Who’s this?” asked the host.

“Anton Pafnutych,” replied several voices.

The door opened and Anton Pafnutych Spitsyn, a fat man of about fifty with a round and pockmarked face adorned by a triple chin, lumbered into the dining room, bowing, smiling, and already preparing to apologize…

“A place for him!” shouted Kirila Petrovich. “Welcome, Anton Pafnutych, sit down and tell us what this means: you weren’t in church and you’re late for dinner. It’s not like you: you’re very devout and you love to eat.”

“Sorry,” replied Anton Pafnutych, tying a napkin to the buttonhole of his pea-green kaftan, “sorry, my dear Kirila Petrovich. I set out early, but before I’d gone seven miles, the tire on the front wheel suddenly broke in two—what was I to do? Fortunately, there was a village not far away. By the time we dragged ourselves there, and found the blacksmith, and everything got somehow fixed, three hours had gone by—no help for it. I didn’t dare take the short cut through the Kistenevka wood, so I went around…”

“Aha!” Kirila Petrovich interrupted. “So you’re not one of the brave! What are you afraid of?”

“What do you mean what, my dear Kirila Petrovich? And Dubrovsky? I might just fall into his clutches. He’s nobody’s fool, he doesn’t miss a trick, and as for me, why, he’d skin me twice over.”

“Why such distinction, brother?”

“What do you mean why, my dear Kirila Petrovich? Because of the lawsuit against the late Andrei Gavrilovich. Didn’t I give evidence, for your good pleasure—that is, in all honesty and fairness—that the Dubrovskys were masters of Kistenevka without any right, but solely by your indulgence? The deceased (God rest his soul) vowed to get even with me in his own way, and the boy might just keep the father’s word. So far God has been merciful. Only one of my barns has been looted, but they could get to the house any time now.”

“And in the house they’ll have a heyday,” Kirila Petrovich observed. “I’ll bet the little red cashbox is stuffed full…”

“Ah, no, my dear Kirila Petrovich. It was full once, but now it’s quite empty!”

“Enough nonsense, Anton Pafnutych. We know you. Where do you go spending any money? At home you live like a pig, you don’t receive anybody, you fleece your peasants, hoarding is all you know.”

“You keep joking, my dear Kirila Petrovich,” Anton Pafnutych muttered with a smile, “but, by God, we’re completely ruined”—and having swallowed his host’s cavalier joke, he bit into a hunk of rich meat pie. Kirila Petrovich dropped him and turned to the new police chief, who was visiting him for the first time and was sitting at the other end of the table next to the tutor.

“And so, Mister Police Chief, will you at least catch Dubrovsky?”

The police chief shrank, bowed, smiled, stammered, and finally managed to say: “We’ll try hard, Your Excellency.”

“Hm, ‘we’ll try hard.’ They’ve been trying for a long, long time now, but nothing’s come of it. And, indeed, why catch him? Dubrovsky’s robberies are blessings for the police chiefs: travels, investigations, supplies, and money in the pocket. Why rid yourself of such a benefactor? Isn’t that so, Mister Police Chief?”

“Quite so, Your Excellency,” replied the totally embarrassed police chief.

The guests burst out laughing.

“I love the lad for his sincerity,” said Kirila Petrovich, “but it’s a pity about our late police chief Taras Alexeevich; if they hadn’t burned him up, the neighborhood would be much quieter. But what news of Dubrovsky? Where was he last seen?”

“At my house, Kirila Petrovich,” squeaked a lady’s fat voice. “Last Tuesday he dined at my house…”

All eyes turned to Anna Savishna Globova, a rather simple widow, loved by all for her kind and cheerful nature. They all prepared themselves with curiosity to hear her story.

“You should know that three weeks ago I sent my steward to the post office with money for my Vanyusha. I don’t spoil my son, and I’m not in a position to spoil him even if I wanted to; however, you yourselves will kindly agree that an officer of the guards needs to keep up a proper appearance, so I share my little income with Vanyusha as far as I can. So I sent him two thousand roubles. Though Dubrovsky came to my mind more than once, still I thought: the town’s close by, five miles at most, maybe God will spare us. In the evening my steward comes back, pale, ragged, and on foot—I just gasped: ‘What is it? What’s happened to you?’ He says: ‘Anna Savishna, dear, thieves robbed me; they nearly killed me, Dubrovsky himself was there, he wanted to hang me, then had pity and let me go, but he robbed me of everything, took the horse and the cart.’ My heart sank. Lord in Heaven, what will happen to my Vanyusha? Nothing to be done: I wrote a letter to my son, told him everything, and sent him my blessing without a penny.

“A week went by, then another—suddenly a carriage drives into my courtyard. Some general asks to see me: I bid him welcome. A man of about thirty-five comes in, dark-haired, moustache, beard, the perfect portrait of Kulnev,11 introduces himself as a friend and army comrade of my late husband, Ivan Andreevich. He was driving by and couldn’t go without visiting his widow, knowing that I lived here. I treated him to whatever God provided, we talked about this and that, and finally about Dubrovsky. I told him of my misfortune. My general frowned. ‘That’s strange,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard that Dubrovsky doesn’t attack just anybody, but only the notoriously rich, and even then he splits with them and doesn’t clean them out, and nobody accuses him of murder. There must be some hoax here. Have them send for your steward.’ The steward was sent for; he appeared; the moment he saw the general, he was simply dumbfounded. ‘Tell me now, brother, how Dubrovsky went about robbing you and how he wanted to hang you.’ My steward trembled and fell at the general’s feet. ‘I’m guilty, dear master—it was the devil’s work—I lied.’ ‘In that case,’ said the general, ‘kindly tell the lady how it all happened, and I’ll listen.’ The steward couldn’t come to his senses. ‘Well, so,’ the general continued, ‘tell us: where did you run into Dubrovsky?’ ‘By the twin pines, dear master, by the twin pines.’ ‘And what did he say to you?’ ‘He asked me whose I was, where I was going, and why.’ ‘Well, and then?’ ‘And then he demanded the letter and the money.’ ‘Well?’ ‘I gave him the letter and the money.’ ‘And he?…Well, and he?’ ‘I’m guilty, dear master.’ ‘Well, so what did he do?…’ ‘He gave me back the money and the letter and said, “Go with God, put it in the post.” ’ ‘Well, and you?’ ‘I’m guilty, dear master.’ ‘I’ll make short work of you, dear boy,’ the general said menacingly. ‘And you, my lady, have this swindler’s trunk searched and hand him over to me. I’ll teach him. Know that Dubrovsky was an officer of the guards himself, and he would not want to harm a comrade.’ I had an idea who his excellency was, there was nothing for me to discuss with him. The coachman tied the steward to the box of his carriage. The money was found; the general dined with me, then left at once and took the steward with him. My steward was found the next day in the forest, tied to an oak tree and stripped clean.”

They all listened silently to Anna Savishna’s story, especially the young ladies. Many of them secretly wished Dubrovsky well, seeing him as a romantic hero, especially Marya Kirilovna, an ardent dreamer, imbued with the mysterious horrors of Radcliffe.12

“And you suppose, Anna Savishna, that it was Dubrovsky himself?” asked Kirila Petrovich. “You’re quite mistaken. I don’t know who your visitor was, but it was not Dubrovsky.”

“How’s that, my dear sir? Not Dubrovsky? Who else takes to the highway, stopping travelers and searching them?”

“I don’t know, but it was surely not Dubrovsky. I remember him as a child; I don’t know if his hair has turned black; back then he was a curly-headed blond boy; but I know for certain that Dubrovsky is five years older than my Masha, and that means he’s not thirty-five, but around twenty-three.”

“Exactly right, Your Excellency,” the police chief exclaimed. “I have Vladimir Dubrovsky’s description in my pocket. It says that he is indeed twenty-three years old.”

“Ah!” said Kirila Petrovich, “that’s handy: read it to us and we’ll listen; it won’t be bad for us to know his description; if we chance to lay eyes on him, he won’t slip away.”

The police chief took a very soiled sheet of paper from his pocket, solemnly unfolded it, and began to read in a singsong voice:

“Description of Vladimir Dubrovsky, based on the testimony of his former household serfs.

“Twenty-three years old. Height: medium; complexion: clear; beard: shaved; eyes: brown; hair: light brown; nose: straight. Distinguishing marks: none found.”

“And that’s all?” asked Kirila Petrovich.

“That’s all,” replied the police chief, folding the document.

“Congratulations, Mister Police Chief. What a document! With that description it’ll be easy for you to track down Dubrovsky. Who isn’t of medium height, who doesn’t have light brown hair, a straight nose, and brown eyes! I’ll bet you could talk to Dubrovsky himself for three hours straight and not guess whom God has brought you together with. Brainy officials, to say the least!”

The police chief meekly put the document back in his pocket and quietly started on the goose and cabbage. Meanwhile the servants had already gone around several times filling each guest’s glass. Several bottles of Gorsky and Tsimliansky wine had been loudly uncorked and graciously received under the name of champagne, faces began to glow, conversations grew more noisy, incoherent, and merry.

“No,” Kirila Petrovich continued, “we won’t see another police chief like the late Taras Alexeevich! He was no foozler, no slouch. A pity the fine lad got burned up, otherwise not a single one of that whole band would escape him. He’d catch every one of them, and Dubrovsky himself wouldn’t give him the slip or buy his way out. Taras Alexeevich would take his money and not let the man go: that was the late man’s way. Nothing to be done, it looks like I’ll have to intervene in the matter and go against the robbers with my own people. I’ll send some twenty men to begin with, so they can clear the thieves’ woods; they’re not cowardly folk, each of them goes up against a bear single-handed, they won’t back away from robbers.”

“How’s your bear, my dear Kirila Petrovich?” asked Anton Pafnutych, reminded by those words of his shaggy acquaintance and certain jokes he had once been the victim of.

“Misha13 has bid us farewell,” Kirila Petrovich replied. “He died a glorious death at the hands of the enemy. There’s his vanquisher.” Kirila Petrovich pointed to Desforges. “Venerate the holy image of my Frenchman. He avenged your…if I may put it so…Remember?”

“How could I not?” Anton Pafnutych said, scratching himself. “I remember very well. So Misha’s dead. What a pity, by God, what a pity! He was so amusing! So clever! There’s no other bear like him. Why did moosieu kill him?”

With great pleasure, Kirila Petrovich began to tell the story of his Frenchman’s exploit, for he had a lucky capacity for glorying in all that surrounded him. The guests listened attentively to the tale of Misha’s death and glanced with amazement at Desforges, who, not suspecting that the conversation was about his courage, calmly sat in his place and made moral observations to his frisky charge.

The dinner, which had gone on for about three hours, came to an end; the host placed his napkin on the table; everyone stood up and went to the drawing room, where coffee, cards, and the continuation of the drinking so nicely begun in the dining room awaited them.

CHAPTER TEN

Around seven o’clock in the evening some of the guests wanted to leave, but the host, made merry by the punch, ordered the gates locked and announced that no one would go until the next morning. Soon music rang out, the doors to the reception room were opened, and a ball began. The host and his entourage sat in a corner, drinking glass after glass and admiring the young people’s gaiety. The old ladies played cards. Since there were fewer cavaliers than ladies, as everywhere where no uhlan brigade is quartered, all the men capable of dancing were recruited. The tutor distinguished himself among them all, he danced more than any of them, the young ladies all chose him and found him quite adept at waltzing. He made several turns with Marya Kirilovna, and the young ladies took mocking notice of them. Finally, around midnight, the tired host stopped the dancing, ordered supper served, and took himself off to bed.

Kirila Petrovich’s absence gave the company more freedom and animation. The cavaliers ventured to sit beside the ladies. The girls laughed and exchanged whispers with their neighbors; the ladies conversed loudly across the table. The men drank, argued, and guffawed—in short, the supper was extremely merry and left many pleasant memories behind it.

Only one person did not share in the general mirth: Anton Pafnutych sat gloomy and silent in his place, ate distractedly, and seemed extremely uneasy. The talk about robbers had stirred his imagination. We shall soon see that he had sufficient reason to fear them.

Anton Pafnutych, in calling upon God to witness that his red cashbox was empty, had not lied and had not sinned: the red cashbox was indeed empty; the money once kept in it had been transferred to a leather pouch, which he wore on his breast under his shirt. Only by this precaution had he calmed his mistrust of everyone and his eternal fear. Being forced to spend the night in a strange house, he was afraid lest they put him in a solitary room, where thieves might easily break in, and looking around for a trustworthy companion, he finally chose Desforges. His appearance betokened strength, and, more than that, the courage he had shown in the encounter with the bear, whom poor Anton Pafnutych could not recall without a shudder, determined his choice. When they got up from the table, Anton Pafnutych began circling around the young Frenchman, grunting and coughing, and finally addressed him with an explanation.

“Ahem, ahem, moosieu, might I not spend the night in your little nook, because kindly see…”

“Que désire monsieur?”^*1 asked Desforges, bowing courteously to him.

“Too bad you still haven’t learned Russian, moosieu. Zhe veuh, mooah, shay voo kooshay,^*2 do you understand?”

“Monsieur, très volontiers,” replied Desforges. “Veuillez donner des ordres en conséquence.”^*3

Anton Pafnutych, very pleased with his knowledge of French, went at once to make the arrangements.

The guests started saying good night to each other, and each went to the room assigned to him. Anton Pafnutych went off to the wing with the tutor. The night was dark. Desforges lit the way with a lantern, Anton Pafnutych followed him quite cheerfully, every now and then pressing the secret pouch to his breast to make sure the money was still there.

They came to the wing, the tutor lit a candle, and they both started to undress; at the same time, Anton Pafnutych strolled around the room, examining the locks and windows and shaking his head at the inauspicious inspection. The door had only one latch, the windows did not yet have double frames. He tried to complain about it to Desforges, but his knowledge of French was too limited for such a complicated explanation; the Frenchman did not understand him, and Anton Pafnutych was forced to abandon his complaints. Their beds stood opposite each other, they both lay down, and the tutor snuffed out the candle.

“Poorkwa voo snuffay, poorkwa voo snuffay,”^*4 cried Anton Pafnutych, barely managing to conjugate the verb “to snuff” in the French way. “I can’t dormir^*5 in the dark.”

Desforges did not understand his exclamations and wished him good night.

“Cursed heathen,” Spitsyn grumbled, wrapping himself in the blanket. “As if he needed to snuff out the candle. The worse for him. I can’t sleep without a light. Moosieu, moosieu,” he went on, “zhe veuh avek voo parlay.”^*6 But the Frenchman did not reply and soon began to snore.

“The beastly Frenchman’s snoring away,” Anton Pafnutych thought, “and I can’t even conceive of sleeping. At any moment thieves might come in the open door or climb through the window, and him, the beast, even gunshots won’t wake him up.”

“Moosieu, hey, moosieu, devil take you!”

Anton Pafnutych fell silent—fatigue and alcoholic vapors gradually overcame his fearfulness, he began to doze off, and soon deep sleep enveloped him completely.

A strange awakening was in store for him. Through sleep he felt someone gently pulling at his shirt collar. Anton Pafnutych opened his eyes and in the pale light of the autumn morning saw Desforges before him; the Frenchman held a pocket pistol in one hand, and with the other was unfastening the cherished pouch. Anton Pafnutych went numb.

“Kess ke say, moosieu, kess ke say?”^*7 he said in a trembling voice.

“Shh, keep still,” the tutor replied in pure Russian, “keep still, or you’re lost. I am Dubrovsky.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Now we ask the reader’s permission to explain the latest events in our story by prior circumstances, which we have not yet had time to relate.

At the * * * posting station, in the house of the stationmaster, whom we have already mentioned, a traveler sat in a corner with a humble and patient air, betokening a commoner or a foreigner, that is, someone who has no voice on the post road. His britzka stood in the yard waiting to be greased. In it lay a small suitcase, meager evidence of a none-too-substantial fortune. The traveler did not ask for tea or coffee; he kept glancing out the window and whistling, to the great displeasure of the stationmaster’s wife, who was sitting behind the partition.

“The Lord God’s sent us a whistler,” she said in a half whisper. “Just keeps on whistling, blast him, the cursed heathen.”

“So what?” said the stationmaster. “Where’s the harm in it, let him whistle.”

“Where’s the harm?” his angry spouse retorted. “Don’t you know about the omen?”

“What omen? That whistling drives out money? Ahh, Pakhomovna, with us, whistle or not, there’s never any anyway!”

“Send him on his way, Sidorych. Why on earth keep him? Give him horses and let him go to the devil.”

“He can wait, Pakhomovna, we’ve only got three troikas in the stables, the fourth one’s resting. Good travelers may turn up in a wink; I don’t want to answer for the Frenchman with my neck. There! Hear that? Somebody’s galloping up. Oh-ho-ho, quite a clip! A general, maybe?”

A carriage stopped at the porch. A servant jumped off the box, opened the doors, and a moment later a young man in a military greatcoat and a white visored cap came into the stationmaster’s house. After him the servant brought in a box and set it on the windowsill.

“Horses,” the officer said peremptorily.

“This minute,” the stationmaster replied. “Your travel papers, please.”

“I have no papers. I’m turning off for…Don’t you recognize me?”

The stationmaster got into a bustle and ran out to hurry the coachmen. The young man started pacing up and down the room, went behind the partition, and quietly asked the stationmaster’s wife who the traveler was.

“God knows,” the woman replied. “Some Frenchman. He’s been waiting five hours for horses and keeps whistling. He’s a damned nuisance.”

The young man addressed the traveler in French.

“Where might you be going?” he asked him.

“To the next town,” the Frenchman replied, “and from there I’ll make my way to a certain landowner who has hired me as a tutor sight unseen. I had hoped to get there today, but it seems Mister Stationmaster has judged otherwise. It is difficult to find horses in these parts, Mister Officer.”

“And with which of the local landowners have you found employment?” asked the officer.

“With Mr. Troekurov,” replied the Frenchman.

“Troekurov? Who is this Troekurov?”

“Ma foi, mon officier…I’ve heard little good of him. They say that he is a proud and capricious gentleman, that he is cruel in the treatment of his domestics, that no one can get along with him, that everyone trembles at the sound of his name, that he is unceremonious with tutors (avec les ouchitels^*8) and has already whipped two of them to death.”

“Good heavens! And you’d venture to be employed by such a monster?”

“What can I do, Mister Officer? He offers me a good salary, three thousand roubles a year and everything provided. Maybe I’ll be luckier than the others. I have an old mother, I’ll send half the salary for her upkeep, and with the rest of the money I can lay aside a small capital in five years, enough to secure my future independence—and then, bonsoir, I’ll go to Paris and set up some commercial dealings.”

“Does anyone at Troekurov’s know you?” he asked.

“No one,” replied the tutor. “He invited me from Moscow through one of his friends, whose chef, my compatriot, recommended me. You should know that I was trained to be a pastry chef, not a tutor, but I was told that in your country the title of tutor is much more advantageous…”

The officer pondered.

“Listen,” he interrupted the Frenchman, “what if, instead of this future, you were offered ten thousand in ready cash, with the provision that you go back to Paris at once?”

The Frenchman looked at the officer in amazement, smiled, and shook his head.

“The horses are ready,” said the stationmaster, coming in. The servant confirmed it.

“Right away,” said the officer. “Step out for a moment.” The stationmaster and the servant left. “I’m not joking,” he went on in French. “I can give you ten thousand. All I need is your absence and your papers.” With those words he unlocked the box and took out several wads of banknotes.

The Frenchman goggled his eyes. He did not know what to think.

“My absence…my papers,” he repeated in amazement. “Here are my papers…But you’re joking: what do you need my papers for?”

“That’s not your business. I’m asking, do you agree or not?”

The Frenchman, still refusing to believe his ears, handed his papers to the young officer, who quickly looked through them.

“Your passport…good. A letter of introduction, let’s see. Birth certificate, excellent. Well, here’s your money, go back home. Good-bye…”

The Frenchman stood as if rooted to the spot.

The officer came back.

“I almost forgot the most important thing. Give me your word of honor that all this will remain just between us—your word of honor.”

“On my word of honor,” said the Frenchman. “But my papers, what am I to do without them?”

“At the first town you come to, declare that you were robbed by Dubrovsky. They’ll believe you and give you the necessary papers. Good-bye, and God grant you get to Paris quickly and find your mother in good health.”

Dubrovsky left the room, got into the carriage, and galloped off.

The stationmaster was looking out the window, and when the carriage had driven off, he turned to his wife and exclaimed: “Do you know what, Pakhomovna? That was Dubrovsky!”

His wife rushed headlong to the window, but it was too late: Dubrovsky was already far away. She started scolding her husband:

“Have you no fear of God, Sidorych? Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I could at least have caught a glimpse of Dubrovsky, but now just sit and wait till he comes this way again! Shame on you, really, shame on you!”

The Frenchman stood as if rooted to the spot. The arrangement with the officer, the money—it all seemed like a dream to him. But the wads of banknotes were there in his pocket and eloquently confirmed the reality of the astonishing incident.

He decided to hire horses for town. The coachman drove at a walk and it was night by the time they dragged their way to town.

Before they reached the town gates, where instead of a sentry there stood a dilapidated sentry box, the Frenchman ordered the driver to stop, got out of the britzka, and continued on foot, explaining by signs to the coachman that he was leaving him the britzka and the suitcase as a tip. The coachman was as amazed at his generosity as the Frenchman himself had been at Dubrovsky’s offer. But, concluding that the foreigner had lost his mind, the coachman thanked him with a zealous bow and, deciding it might be best not to drive into the town, headed for a certain pleasure establishment he knew and whose owner was a good acquaintance. There he spent the whole night, and the next morning he set out for home on an empty troika, without the britzka and without the suitcase, his face puffy and his eyes red.

Dubrovsky, having come into possession of the Frenchman’s papers, boldly presented himself to Troekurov and, as we have seen, settled in his house. Whatever his secret intentions were (we shall learn of them later), there was nothing reprehensible in his behavior. True, he paid scant attention to little Sasha’s education, gave him full freedom to romp about, and was not terribly demanding in his lessons, assigning them only for the sake of form; however, he followed with great diligence the young lady’s musical successes and often sat with her at the piano for hours at a time. Everybody loved the young tutor: Kirila Petrovich for his bold agility at hunting; Marya Kirilovna for his boundless zeal and shy attentiveness; Sasha for his indulgence towards his pranks; the domestics for his kindness and for a generosity apparently incompatible with his position. He himself, it seemed, was attached to the whole family and considered himself already a member of it.

About a month went by from his entering into his tutorial position till the memorable feast day, and no one suspected that in the modest young Frenchman was hidden the fearsome robber whose name inspired terror in all the neighboring landowners. During all that time Dubrovsky never absented himself from Pokrovskoe, but the rumors of his robberies did not subside, thanks to the inventive imagination of the village dwellers, though it might also be that his band continued to be active in the absence of their chief.

Spending the night in the same room with a man whom he could consider his personal enemy and one of the chief perpetrators of his misfortune, Dubrovsky could not resist the temptation. He knew of the existence of the pouch and decided to lay hands on it. We saw how he astounded poor Anton Pafnutych by his unexpected transformation from tutor into robber.

At nine o’clock in the morning, the guests who had spent the night in Pokrovskoe gathered one by one in the drawing room, where a samovar was at the boil, beside which Marya Kirilovna sat in a morning dress, and Kirila Petrovich, in a flannel jacket and slippers, was emptying his wide cup, which resembled a barber’s basin. The last to appear was Anton Pafnutych; he was so pale and seemed so upset that the sight of him struck everybody, and Kirila Petrovich inquired after his health. Spitsyn made a senseless reply and glanced in terror at the tutor, who sat right there as if nothing had happened. A few minutes later a servant came in and announced that Spitsyn’s carriage was ready. Anton Pafnutych hurriedly made his bows and, despite the host’s insistence, quickly left the room and drove off at once. No one understood what had happened to him, and Kirila Petrovich decided that he had overeaten. After tea and a farewell breakfast the other guests began to depart, Pokrovskoe was soon deserted, and everything settled into its usual order.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Several days went by and nothing noteworthy happened. The life of Pokrovskoe’s inhabitants was monotonous. Kirila Petrovich went out hunting every day; reading, walks, and music lessons occupied Marya Kirilovna, especially music lessons. She was beginning to understand her own heart and acknowledged, with involuntary vexation, that it was not indifferent to the young Frenchman’s merits. He, for his part, never went beyond the bounds of respect and strict propriety, and thus set her pride and fearful doubts at ease. With greater and greater trustfulness she gave herself to the captivating habit. She was bored without Desforges, in his presence she was constantly preoccupied with him, wanted to know his opinion about everything, and always agreed with him. Maybe she was not yet in love, but at the first chance obstacle or contrariness of fate, the flame of passion was bound to flare up in her heart.

Once, coming into the reception room where her tutor was waiting for her, Marya Kirilovna was surprised to notice a look of embarrassment on his pale face. She opened the piano, sang a few notes, but Dubrovsky excused himself under the pretext of a headache, broke off the lesson, and, while closing the score, stealthily slipped her a note. Marya Kirilovna, having no time to think better of it, took the note and instantly regretted it, but Dubrovsky was no longer in the room. Marya Kirilovna went to her room, unfolded the note, and read the following:

“Be in the gazebo by the brook at seven o’clock this evening. I must speak with you.”

Her curiosity was strongly piqued. She had long been waiting for a confession, wishing for it and fearing it. It would be pleasing for her to hear the confirmation of what she surmised, yet she felt it would be improper for her to listen to such a declaration from a man who by his position could never hope to obtain her hand. She decided to keep the appointment, but was hesitant about one thing: how was she to receive the tutor’s confession? With aristocratic indignation? With friendly admonition? With merry jokes, or with silent sympathy? Meanwhile she kept glancing at the clock every minute. It was growing dark, candles were brought. Kirila Petrovich sat down to play Boston with some visiting neighbors. The dining room clock struck a quarter to seven, and Marya Kirilovna quietly went out to the porch, looked all around, and ran to the garden.

The night was dark, the sky covered with clouds, two steps away nothing could be seen, but Marya Kirilovna walked through the darkness by familiar paths and a minute later found herself at the gazebo. There she paused so as to catch her breath and appear before Desforges looking indifferent and unhurried. But Desforges was already standing before her.

“I thank you,” he said in a soft and sad voice, “that you did not refuse me in my request. I would be in despair if you had not consented to it.”

Marya Kirilovna replied with a prepared phrase:

“I hope that you will not make me repent of my indulgence.”

He was silent and seemed to be plucking up his courage.

“Circumstances demand…I must leave you,” he said at last. “You may soon hear…But before we part, I myself must explain to you…”

Marya Kirilovna made no reply. In these words she saw a preface to the confession she was expecting.

“I am not what you suppose me to be,” he went on, looking down. “I am not the Frenchman Desforges, I am Dubrovsky.”

Marya Kirilovna cried out.

“Don’t be afraid, for God’s sake, you shouldn’t be afraid of my name. Yes, I am that unfortunate man whom your father deprived of his crust of bread, drove out of his parental home, and sent to rob on the highways. But you needn’t be afraid of me—either for yourself, or for him. It’s all over. I’ve forgiven him. Listen, it was you who saved him. My first bloody exploit was to be done against him. I circled around his house, fixing on where to start the fire, from where to enter his bedroom, how to cut off all ways of escape, and just then you walked past me, like a heavenly vision, and my heart was appeased. I realized that the house you dwelt in was sacred, that not a single being connected to you by ties of blood was subject to my curse. I renounced revenge as folly. For whole days I roamed about the gardens of Pokrovskoe in hopes of seeing your white dress in the distance. I followed you in your imprudent walks, moving stealthily from bush to bush, happy in the thought that I was protecting you, that there was no danger for you where I was secretly present. At last a chance offered itself. I came to live in your house. These three weeks have been days of happiness for me. The memory of them will be the consolation of my sorrowful life…Today I received news after which it is impossible for me to stay here any longer. I must part from you today…right now…But first I had to reveal myself to you, so that you would not curse me, would not despise me. Think now and then of Dubrovsky, know that he was born for a different destiny, that his soul was able to love you, that never…”

Here a light whistle was heard, and Dubrovsky fell silent. He seized her hand and pressed it to his burning lips. The whistle was repeated.

“Farewell,” said Dubrovsky. “They’re calling me; a minute could be my undoing.” He walked away, Marya Kirilovna stood motionless, Dubrovsky came back and took her hand again.

“If ever,” he said in a tender and touching voice, “if ever misfortune befalls you and you cannot look for help or protection from anyone, in that case will you promise to resort to me, to demand anything from me for your salvation? Do you promise not to reject my devotion?”

Marya Kirilovna was silently weeping. The whistle was heard for a third time.

“You will be my undoing!” cried Dubrovsky. “I won’t leave you until you give me an answer. Do you promise or not?”

“I promise,” the poor beauty whispered.

Shaken by her meeting with Dubrovsky, Marya Kirilovna came back from the garden. It seemed to her that all the servants were running around, the house was astir, there were many people in the courtyard, a troika stood by the porch, she heard Kirila Petrovich’s voice in the distance and hurried inside, fearing her absence might have been noticed. Kirila Petrovich met her in the reception room. The guests surrounded the police chief, our acquaintance, showering him with questions. The police chief, dressed for the road, armed from head to foot, answered them with a mysterious and bustling air.

“Where were you, Masha?” asked Kirila Petrovich. “Did you run into M. Desforges?”

Masha was barely able to answer in the negative.

“Imagine,” Kirila Petrovich went on, “the police chief has come to arrest him and assures me that he is Dubrovsky himself.”

“By all distinguishing marks, Your Excellency,” the police chief said deferentially.

“Eh, brother,” Kirila Petrovich interrupted, “you can go you know where with your distinguishing marks. I won’t hand my Frenchman over to you before I’ve looked into the matter myself. How can you believe the word of that coward and liar Anton Pafnutych? He dreamed up that the tutor wanted to rob him. Why didn’t he say a word to me about it that same morning?”

“The Frenchman intimidated him, Your Excellency,” the police chief replied, “and extracted an oath of silence from him…”

“Nonsense!” Kirila Petrovich decided. “I’ll get to the bottom of all this in no time. Where’s the tutor?” he asked a servant who had just come in.

“Nowhere to be found, sir,” replied the servant.

“Go and look for him,” shouted Troekurov, beginning to have doubts. “Show me your famous marks,” he said to the police chief, who handed him the paper at once. “Hm, hm, twenty-three years old…That’s right, but it doesn’t prove anything. What about the tutor?”

“Hasn’t been found, sir,” was again the answer. Kirila Petrovich began to worry. Marya Kirilovna was more dead than alive.

“You’re pale, Masha,” her father observed. “You’ve been frightened.”

“No, papa,” Masha replied, “I have a headache.”

“Go to your room, Masha, and don’t worry.” Masha kissed his hand and quickly went to her room, where she threw herself on her bed and sobbed in a fit of hysterics. The maids came running, undressed her, barely managed to calm her with cold water and all possible spirits, laid her down, and she fell into a slumber.

Meanwhile the Frenchman could not be found. Kirila Petrovich paced up and down the reception room, menacingly whistling “Thunder of victory resound.” The guests whispered among themselves, the police chief looked like a fool, the Frenchman was not found. He had probably managed to steal away, having been warned. But by whom and how? That remained a mystery.

It struck eleven and no one even thought of sleeping. Finally Kirila Petrovich said angrily to the police chief:

“Well, so? You’re not going to stay here till dawn. My house is not a tavern. It will take more adroitness than you’ve got to catch Dubrovsky, brother, if that is Dubrovsky. Go back where you came from, and in the future be more efficient. It’s time for all of you to go home as well,” he went on, addressing his guests. “Order the hitching up, I want to get some sleep.”

So ungraciously did Troekurov part from his guests!

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Some time went by without any notable incidents. But at the beginning of the following summer many changes took place in Kirila Petrovich’s family life.

Twenty miles from him lay the rich estate of Prince Vereisky. The prince had been away in foreign parts for a long time, all his property had been managed by a retired major, and there had been no communication between Pokrovskoe and Arbatovo. But at the end of May the prince came back from abroad and went to his village, which he had never seen in his life. Accustomed to distractions, he could not bear solitude, and on the third day after his arrival he set off to have dinner with Troekurov, with whom he had once been acquainted.

The prince was around fifty, but he looked much older. Excesses of all sorts had undermined his health and left their indelible stamp on him. In spite of that, his appearance was pleasant, notable, and the habit of being always in society had lent him a certain amiability, especially with women. He had a constant need of distraction and was constantly bored. Kirila Petrovich was extremely pleased with his visit, taking it as a sign of respect from a man who knew the world; he began, as usual, by treating him to a tour of his establishment and took him to the kennels. But the prince all but choked in the doggy atmosphere and hurriedly left the place, pressing a scented handkerchief to his nose. The old garden with its trimmed lindens, rectangular pond, and regular paths was not to his liking; he preferred English gardens and so-called nature; yet he praised and admired. A servant came to announce that dinner was served. They went to the table. The prince limped, weary from his promenade and already regretting his visit.

But in the reception room they were met by Marya Kirilovna, and the old philanderer was struck by her beauty. Troekurov seated the guest next to her. The prince was revived by her presence, grew merry, and managed several times to attract her attention by his curious stories. After dinner Kirila Petrovich suggested that they go riding, but the prince excused himself, pointing to his velvet boots and joking about his gout; he preferred a promenade in a phaeton, so as not to part from his sweet neighbor. The phaeton was hitched up. The old men and the beauty got in together and drove off. The conversation never lapsed. Marya Kirilovna was listening with pleasure to the flattering and merry compliments of the society man, when Vereisky, suddenly turning to Kirila Petrovich, asked him what was the meaning of that burnt-down building, and did it belong to him?…Kirila Petrovich frowned; the memories evoked by the burnt-down manor were unpleasant for him. He replied that the land was now his and that formerly it had belonged to Dubrovsky.

“To Dubrovsky?” Vereisky repeated. “What, to that famous robber?”

“To his father,” Troekurov replied, “and the father was a pretty good robber himself.”

“What’s become of our Rinaldo now?14 Is he alive? Have they caught him?”

“He’s alive and on the loose, and as long as our police connive with thieves, he won’t be caught. By the way, Prince, Dubrovsky has paid you a visit in Arbatovo, hasn’t he?”

“Yes, last year it seems he did some burning or pillaging…It would be curious to become more closely acquainted with this romantic hero, wouldn’t it, Marya Kirilovna?”

“Curious, hah!” said Troekurov. “She knows him: he taught her music for a whole three weeks, and took nothing for the lessons, thank God.” Here Kirila Petrovich began to tell the story of his French tutor. Marya Kirilovna was on pins and needles. Vereisky listened with great attention, found it all very strange, and changed the subject. On returning, he ordered his carriage brought and, despite Kirila Petrovich’s insistent requests that he stay the night, left right after tea. But before that, he begged Kirila Petrovich to come and visit him with Marya Kirilovna, and the proud Troekurov gave his promise, for, taking into consideration the princely rank, the two stars, and the three thousand souls of the family estate, he considered Vereisky to a certain degree his equal.

Two days after this visit, Kirila Petrovich and his daughter went to call on Prince Vereisky. As they approached Arbatovo, he could not help admiring the clean and cheerful peasant cottages and the stone manor house, built after the fashion of English castles. Before the house spread a lush green meadow where Swiss cows grazed, tinkling their bells. A vast park surrounded the house on all sides. The host met his guests at the porch and offered the young beauty his arm. They entered a magnificent reception room, where a table had been laid for three. The prince led his guests to the window, and before them opened a lovely view. The Volga flowed past the windows, with loaded barges floating on it under wind-filled sails, and small fishing boats, so expressively nicknamed “smacks,” flitted by. Beyond the river stretched hills and fields, with a few villages animating the landscape. Then they set about examining the gallery of pictures that the prince had bought in foreign parts. The prince explained to Marya Kirilovna their various subjects, the history of the painters, pointed out their merits and shortcomings. He spoke of the pictures not in the conventional language of a pedantic connoisseur, but with feeling and imagination. Marya Kirilovna listened to him with pleasure. They went to the table. Troekurov did full justice to his Amphitryon’s wines15 and to the art of his chef, and Marya Kirilovna did not feel the least embarrassment or constraint conversing with a man she was seeing for the second time in her life. After dinner the host suggested to his guests that they go to the garden. They had coffee in a gazebo on the shore of a wide lake dotted with islands. Suddenly brass music rang out and a six-oared boat moored just by the gazebo. They went out on the lake, around the islands, landed on some of them, on one found a marble statue, on another a secluded grotto, on a third a memorial with a mysterious inscription that aroused Marya Kirilovna’s maidenly curiosity, which was not fully satisfied by the prince’s courteous reticence. Time passed imperceptibly; it was growing dark. The prince, under the pretext of chilliness and dewfall, hurried them back home. The samovar was waiting for them. He asked Marya Kirilovna to play the hostess in the old bachelor’s house. She poured tea, listening to the inexhaustible stories of the amiable chatterer. Suddenly a shot rang out and a rocket lit up the sky. The prince gave Marya Kirilovna her shawl and invited her and Troekurov to the balcony. In the darkness outside the house multicolored fires flashed, spun, soared up like sheaves, palm trees, fountains, showered down like rain, stars, dying out and flaring up again. Marya Kirilovna was happy as a child. Prince Vereisky rejoiced in her delight, and Troekurov was extremely pleased with him, for he took tous les frais^*9 of the prince as tokens of respect and a desire to oblige him.

The supper was in no way inferior to the dinner. The guests retired to the rooms assigned to them and the next morning parted from the amiable host, promising that they would see each other again soon.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Marya Kirilovna sat in her room, embroidering on a tambour by the open window. She did not confuse the silks, as did Konrad’s mistress,16 who, in amorous distraction, embroidered a rose in green silk. Under her needle, the canvas unerringly repeated the original pattern, even though her thoughts did not follow her work but were far away.

Suddenly a hand reached quietly through the window, placed a letter on the tambour, and disappeared before Marya Kirilovna had time to come to her senses. Just then a servant came into her room and summoned her to Kirila Petrovich. She tremblingly hid the letter behind her fichu and hurried to her father’s study.

Kirila Petrovich was not alone. Prince Vereisky was sitting with him. At the appearance of Marya Kirilovna, the prince rose and silently bowed to her with an embarrassment unusual for him.

“Come here, Masha,” said Kirila Petrovich. “I shall tell you some news, which I hope you will be glad to hear. This is your suitor: the prince has proposed to marry you.”

Masha was dumbfounded, a deathly pallor came over her face. She said nothing. The prince went to her, took her hand, and, with apparent feeling, asked if she would consent to make his happiness. Masha said nothing.

“She consents, of course, she consents,” said Kirila Petrovich. “But you know, Prince, it’s hard for a girl to pronounce that word. So, children, kiss and be happy.”

Masha stood motionless, the old prince kissed her hand, and tears suddenly poured down her pale face. The prince frowned slightly.

“Go, go, go,” said Kirila Petrovich, “dry your tears, and come back a cheerful girl. They all cry at their engagement,” he went on, turning to Vereisky. “It’s a custom of theirs…Now, Prince, let’s talk business, that is, the dowry.”

Marya Kirilovna eagerly availed herself of the permission to leave. She ran to her room, locked herself in, and gave free rein to her tears, imagining herself the old prince’s wife. He suddenly seemed repulsive and hateful to her…Marriage frightened her like the scaffold, the grave…“No, no,” she repeated in despair, “better to die, better to enter a convent, better to marry Dubrovsky.” Here she remembered about the letter and eagerly hastened to read it, having a presentiment that it was from him. In fact it was written by him and contained only the following words:

“This evening at ten o’clock in the same place.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

The moon shone, the July night was quiet, a breeze arose now and then and sent a light rustling through the whole garden.

Like a light shadow, the young beauty approached the place of the appointed meeting. There was nobody to be seen. Suddenly, from behind the gazebo, Dubrovsky emerged before her.

“I know everything,” he said in a soft and sad voice. “Remember your promise.”

“You offer me your protection,” Masha replied. “Don’t be angry, but it frightens me. In what way can you be of help to me?”

“I can rid you of the hateful man.”

“For God’s sake, don’t touch him, don’t you dare touch him, if you love me. I don’t want to be the cause of some horror…”

“I won’t touch him, your will is sacred to me. He owes you his life. Never will villainy be committed in your name. You must be pure even of my crimes. But how am I to save you from your cruel father?”

“There is still hope. I hope to move him by my tears and despair. He’s stubborn, but he loves me so.”

“Don’t have vain hopes: in those tears he’ll see only the usual timidity and revulsion common to all young girls when they marry not out of passion, but from sensible convenience. What if he takes it into his head to make you happy despite yourself? What if you’re forcibly led to the altar, so that your fate is forever handed over to an old husband’s power?”

“Then, then there’s no help for it; come for me, I will be your wife.”

Dubrovsky trembled and a crimson flush spread over his pale face, which a moment later became still paler than before. For a long time he hung his head and said nothing.

“Gather all your inner forces, beg your father, throw yourself at his feet, picture for him all the horror to come, your youth fading away at the side of a feeble and depraved old man, dare to speak harshly: tell him that if he remains implacable, you…you will find a terrible defense…Tell him that wealth will not bring you a moment’s happiness; that luxury is only a comfort for poverty, and then only for a moment, only from being unaccustomed; don’t let up on him, don’t be frightened by his wrath or his threats, as long as there’s even a shadow of hope, for God’s sake, don’t let up. But if there’s no other way left…”

Here Dubrovsky covered his face with his hands, he seemed to be choking. Masha wept…

“Oh, my wretched, wretched fate!” he said with a bitter sigh. “I would give my life for you, to see you from afar, to touch your hand would be ecstasy for me. And when the possibility opens for me to press you to my agitated heart and say: ‘My angel, let us die!’—wretched man, I must beware of that bliss, I must hold it off with all my strength…I dare not fall at your feet, to thank heaven for its incomprehensible, undeserved reward. Oh, how I should hate that man…but I feel that there is now no room for hatred in my heart.”

He gently put his arms around her slender waist and gently drew her to his heart. She trustingly lowered her head to the young robber’s shoulder. Both were silent.

Time flew by.

“I must go,” Masha said at last. It was as if Dubrovsky awoke from a trance. He took her hand and placed a ring on her finger.

“If you decide to resort to me,” he said, “bring the ring here, put it into the hollow of this oak, and I will know what to do.”

Dubrovsky kissed her hand and disappeared into the trees.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Prince Vereisky’s marriage plans were no longer a secret in the neighborhood. Kirila Petrovich received congratulations, the wedding was in preparation. Masha kept postponing the decisive talk from one day to the next. Meanwhile she treated her elderly suitor coldly and stiffly. The prince was not worried by that. He was not concerned about love, he was satisfied with her tacit consent.

But time was passing. Masha finally decided to act and wrote a letter to Prince Vereisky; she tried to arouse a feeling of magnanimity in his heart, openly admitted that she felt not the slightest attachment to him, begged him to renounce her hand and protect her from parental authority. She handed the letter to Prince Vereisky in secret; he read it when he was alone, and was not moved in the least by his fiancée’s candor. On the contrary, he saw the necessity of hastening the wedding, and to that end deemed it proper to show the letter to his future father-in-law.

Kirila Petrovich was furious; the prince barely persuaded him not to let Masha see that he knew about the letter. Kirila Petrovich agreed not to speak to her about it, but decided to waste no time and set the wedding for the very next day. The prince found that quite reasonable, went to his fiancée, told her that the letter had grieved him very much, but that he hoped in time to win her affection, that the thought of losing her was too painful for him, and that he was unable to accept his own death sentence. After which he kissed her hand respectfully and left, not saying a word to her about Kirila Petrovich’s decision.

But he had barely had time to drive out of the courtyard before her father came to her and ordered her straight out to be ready for the next day. Marya Kirilovna, already agitated by her talk with Prince Vereisky, dissolved in tears and threw herself at her father’s feet.

“Dear papa,” she cried in a pitiful voice, “dear papa, don’t destroy me, I don’t love the prince, I don’t want to be his wife…”

“What is the meaning of this?” Kirila Petrovich said menacingly. “Up to now you were silent and consenting, but now, when everything’s settled, you’ve taken a notion to be capricious and renounce it. Kindly don’t play the fool; that will get you nowhere with me.”

“Don’t destroy me,” poor Masha repeated. “Why do you drive me away and give me to a man I don’t love? Are you tired of me? I want to stay with you as before. Dear papa, it will be sad for you without me, and sadder still when you think how unhappy I am, dear papa. Don’t force me, I don’t want to get married…”

Kirila Petrovich was moved, but he concealed his perplexity and, pushing her away, said sternly:

“This is all nonsense, do you hear? I know better than you what’s necessary for your happiness. Tears won’t help you, your wedding will be the day after tomorrow.”

“The day after tomorrow!” cried Masha. “My God! No, no, it’s impossible, it will not be. Dear papa, listen, if you’re already resolved to destroy me, I’ll find a protector, one you’ve never thought of, you’ll see, you’ll be horrified at what you’ve driven me to.”

“What? What?” said Troekurov. “So you threaten me, threaten me, you impudent girl! Be it known to you that I shall do something to you that you cannot even imagine. You dare to frighten me with your protector. We’ll see who this protector turns out to be.”

“Vladimir Dubrovsky,” Masha replied in despair.

Kirila Petrovich thought she had gone out of her mind, and stared at her in amazement.

“Very well,” he said after a brief silence. “Wait for any deliverer you like, but meanwhile you’ll sit in this room, you won’t leave it till the wedding itself.”

With these words Kirila Petrovich left and locked the door behind him.

The poor girl wept for a long time, imagining all that lay ahead of her, but the stormy talk relieved her soul, and she was now able to reason more calmly about her fate and what she was to do. The main thing for her was to be delivered from the hateful marriage; the fate of a robber’s wife seemed to her like paradise compared to the lot being prepared for her. She looked at the ring Dubrovsky had left her. She ardently wished to see him alone and once more talk things over with him at length before the decisive moment. Her intuition told her that in the evening she would find Dubrovsky by the gazebo in the garden; she decided to go and wait for him there as soon as it began to grow dark. It grew dark. Masha made ready, but her door was locked. The maid told her from outside the door that Kirila Petrovich had given orders not to let her out. She was under arrest. Deeply offended, she sat by the window and remained there until late at night without undressing, staring fixedly at the dark sky. At dawn she dozed off, but her light sleep was disturbed by sad visions, and the rays of the rising sun awakened her.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

She woke up, and with her first thought all the horror of her situation presented itself to her. She rang, the maid came in, and to her questions replied that Kirila Petrovich had gone to Arbatovo in the evening and come back late, that he had given strict instructions not to let her out of the room and to see that no one talked to her, that, on the other hand, no special preparations for the wedding could be seen, except that the priest had been ordered not to absent himself from the village under any pretext. After this news the maid left Marya Kirilovna and once again locked the door.

Her words infuriated the young captive. Her head was seething, her blood was stirred, she decided to inform Dubrovsky of everything and began to seek some way of sending the ring to the hollow of the secret oak. At that moment a little stone struck her window, the glass made a ping, and Marya Kirilovna looked out and saw little Sasha making mysterious signs to her. She knew his affection for her and was glad to see him. She opened the window.

“Hello, Sasha,” she said. “Why are you calling me?”

“I came to find out if you need anything, sister. Papa’s angry and has forbidden the whole household to obey you, but tell me and I’ll do whatever you like.”

“Thank you, my dear Sashenka. Listen: you know the old oak with the hollow that’s by the gazebo?”

“I do, sister.”

“Then if you love me, run there quickly and put this ring into the hollow, and make sure nobody sees you.”

With those words she tossed him the ring and closed the window.

The boy picked up the ring, set off running as fast as he could, and in three minutes reached the secret tree. There he stopped for breath, looked all around, and put the ring into the hollow. Having done his job successfully, he wanted to report at once to Marya Kirilovna, when suddenly a ragged boy, red-haired and squint-eyed, shot from behind the gazebo, dashed to the oak tree, and thrust his hand into the hollow. Sasha rushed at him quicker than a squirrel and caught hold of him with both hands.

“What are you doing here?” he said menacingly.

“None of your business!” the boy replied, trying to free himself.

“Leave that ring alone, you red-haired rat,” Sasha shouted, “or I’ll teach you what’s what.”

Instead of an answer, the boy punched him in the face with his fist, but Sasha did not let go and shouted at the top of his voice: “Thieves, thieves, help, help…”

The boy tried to break free of him. He was apparently a couple of years older than Sasha and much stronger, but Sasha was more nimble. They struggled for several minutes, and the red-haired boy finally won. He threw Sasha to the ground and took him by the throat.

But just then a strong hand seized his red and bristling hair, and the gardener Stepan lifted him a foot off the ground…

“Ah, you red-haired rascal,” the gardener said. “How dare you beat the young master…”

Sasha had time to jump up and brush himself off.

“You grabbed me under the arms, otherwise you’d never have thrown me down. Give me back the ring and get out of here.”

“Nohow,” the redhead replied and, suddenly twisting around, freed his bristles from Stepan’s hand. Then he broke into a run, but Sasha caught up with him, shoved him in the back, and the boy went sprawling. The gardener seized him again and bound him with his belt.

“Give me the ring!” Sasha shouted.

“Wait, master,” said Stepan. “We’ll take him to the steward and he’ll deal with him.”

The gardener led the prisoner to the manor yard, and Sasha went with them, casting worried glances at his torn and grass-stained trousers. Suddenly the three of them found themselves in front of Kirila Petrovich, who was on his way to inspect the stables.

“What’s this?” he asked Stepan.

Stepan briefly described the whole incident. Kirila Petrovich listened to him attentively.

“You scapegrace,” he said, turning to Sasha. “Why did you have anything to do with him?”

“He stole the ring from the hollow, papa. Tell him to give back the ring.”

“What ring, from what hollow?”

“The one Marya Kirilovna…the ring she…”

Sasha became embarrassed, confused. Kirila Petrovich frowned and said, shaking his head:

“So Marya Kirilovna’s mixed up in it. Confess everything, or I’ll give you such a birching you won’t know who you are.”

“By God, papa, I…Marya Kirilovna didn’t tell me to do anything, papa…”

“Stepan, go and cut me a good, fresh birch rod…”

“Wait, papa, I’ll tell you everything. Today I was running around in the yard, and my sister Marya Kirilovna opened the window, I ran over, and my sister accidentally dropped a ring, and I hid it in the hollow, and…and this red-haired boy wanted to steal it.”

“She accidentally dropped it, and you wanted to hide it…Stepan, fetch the rod.”

“Papa, wait, I’ll tell you everything. My sister Marya Kirilovna told me to run to the oak and put the ring in the hollow, so I ran and put the ring in it, and this nasty boy…”

Kirila Petrovich turned to the nasty boy and asked menacingly: “Whose are you?”

“I’m a household serf of the Dubrovskys,” replied the red-haired boy.

Kirila Petrovich’s face darkened.

“So it seems you don’t recognize me as your master. Fine,” he replied. “And what were you doing in my garden?”

“Stealing raspberries,” the boy replied with great indifference.

“Aha, servant and master, like priest, like parish. Do my raspberries grow on oak trees?”

The boy made no reply.

“Papa, tell him to give back the ring,” said Sasha.

“Quiet, Alexander,” replied Kirila Petrovich. “Don’t forget, I still intend to settle with you. Go to your room. And you, squint-eye, you seem bright enough. Give me the ring and go home.”

The boy opened his fist and showed that he had nothing in his hand.

“If you confess everything to me, I won’t thrash you, and I’ll give you five kopecks for nuts. If not, I’ll do something to you that you’d never expect. Well?”

The boy did not say a word and stood there, hanging his head and giving himself the look of a real little fool.

“Fine,” said Kirila Petrovich. “Lock him up somewhere and see that he doesn’t escape, or I’ll skin the whole household alive.”

Stepan took the boy to the dovecote, locked him in, and set the old poultry maid Agafya to keep watch on him.

“Go to town right now for the police chief,” said Kirila Petrovich, following the boy with his eyes, “as quick as you can.”

“There’s no doubt about it. She kept in touch with that cursed Dubrovsky. Can it really be that she called for his help?” thought Kirila Petrovich, pacing the room and angrily whistling “Thunder of victory.” “Maybe I’ve finally found his warm tracks, and he won’t get away from us. We must take advantage of the occasion. Hah! A bell. Thank God, it’s the police chief.”

“Hey! Bring me the boy we caught.”

Meanwhile a buggy drove into the yard, and the police chief already known to us came into the room all covered with dust.

“Great news,” Kirila Petrovich said to him. “I’ve caught Dubrovsky.”

“Thank God, Your Excellency,” the police chief said joyfully. “Where is he?”

“That is, not Dubrovsky, but one of his band. They’ll bring him presently. He’ll help us to catch their chief. Here he is.”

The police chief, who was expecting a fearsome robber, was amazed to see a thirteen-year-old boy of rather weak appearance. He turned to Kirila Petrovich in perplexity and waited for an explanation. Kirila Petrovich began at once to recount the morning’s incident, though without mentioning Marya Kirilovna.

The police chief listened to him attentively, glancing every other moment at the little scoundrel, who, pretending to be a fool, seemed to pay no attention to all that was going on around him.

“Allow me to speak with you in private, Your Excellency,” the police chief finally said.

Kirila Petrovich took him to another room and locked the door behind him.

Half an hour later they came back to the reception room where the prisoner was waiting for his fate to be decided.

“The master,” said the police chief, “wanted to put you in the town jail, have you flogged and then sent to a penal colony, but I interceded for you and persuaded him to forgive you. Untie him.”

The boy was untied.

“Thank the master,” said the police chief. The boy went up to Kirila Petrovich and kissed his hand.

“Go on home,” Kirila Petrovich said to him, “and in the future don’t steal raspberries from hollow trees.”

The boy went out, cheerfully jumped off the porch, and ran across the fields to Kistenevka without looking back. On reaching the village, he stopped at a dilapidated hut, the first at the edge, and knocked on the window; the window was raised, and an old woman appeared.

“Give me some bread, grandma,” said the boy. “I haven’t eaten since morning, I’m starved.”

“Ah, it’s you, Mitya. Where did you disappear to, you little devil?” the old woman replied.

“I’ll tell you later, grandma. Give me some bread, for God’s sake.”

“Come in, then.”

“No time, grandma, I still have to run somewhere else. Bread, for Christ’s sake, give me bread.”

“What a fidget!” the old woman grumbled. “Here’s a slice for you.” And she handed a slice of dark bread out the window. The boy greedily bit into it and, chewing, instantly headed off again.

It was growing dark. Mitya made his way past the barns and kitchen gardens to the Kistenevka grove. Having reached the two pine trees that stood as front-line sentinels of the grove, he stopped, looked around, gave an abrupt, piercing whistle, and began to listen; he heard a light and prolonged whistle in response; someone came out of the wood and approached him.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Kirila Petrovich paced up and down the reception room, whistling his song more loudly than usual; the whole house was astir, servants ran around, maids bustled, in the shed the coachmen hitched up the carriage, people crowded in the courtyard. In the young mistress’s dressing room, before the mirror, a lady, surrounded by maids, was decking out the pale, motionless Marya Kirilovna, whose head bent languidly under the weight of the diamonds. She winced slightly when a careless hand pricked her, but kept silent, vacantly gazing into the mirror.

“Soon now?” Kirila Petrovich’s voice was heard at the door.

“One moment!” replied the lady. “Marya Kirilovna, stand up, look at yourself, is it all right?”

Marya Kirilovna stood up and made no reply. The door opened.

“The bride is ready,” the lady said to Kirila Petrovich. “Have them put her in the carriage.”

“Godspeed,” replied Kirila Petrovich and, taking an icon from the table, he said in a moved voice. “Come to me, Masha. I give you my blessing…”

The poor girl fell at his feet and sobbed.

“Papa…dear papa…” she said in tears, and her voice died away. Kirila Petrovich hastened to bless her, she was picked up and all but carried to the carriage. Her proxy mother and one of the maids sat with her. They drove to the church. There the groom was already waiting for them. He came out to meet her and was struck by her pallor and strange look. Together they entered the cold, empty church; the door was locked behind them. The priest came out from the altar and began at once. Marya Kirilovna saw nothing, heard nothing, she thought of only one thing: since morning she had waited for Dubrovsky, hope had not abandoned her for a moment, but when the priest turned to her with the usual questions, she shuddered and her heart sank, but she still tarried, still waited. The priest, getting no answer from her, pronounced the irrevocable words.

The ceremony was over. She felt the cold kiss of her unloved husband, she heard the cheerful congratulations of those present, and still could not believe that her life was forever bound, that Dubrovsky had not come flying to set her free. The prince addressed some tender words to her, she did not understand them, they left the church, the porch was crowded with peasants from Pokrovskoe. Her gaze ran quickly over them and again showed the former insensibility. The newlyweds got into the carriage together and drove to Arbatovo; Kirila Petrovich had already gone on ahead so as to meet the newlyweds there. Alone with his young wife, the prince was not put out in the least by her cold look. He did not bother her with sugary talk and ridiculous raptures; his words were simple and called for no response. In this way they drove some seven miles, the horses sped over the bumps of the country road, and the carriage barely rocked on its English springs. Suddenly shouts of pursuit rang out, the carriage stopped, a crowd of armed men surrounded it, and a man in a half mask, opening the doors on the young princess’s side, said to her:

“You’re free, come out.”

“What is the meaning of this?” cried the prince. “Who are you?…”

“It’s Dubrovsky,” said the princess.

The prince, not losing his presence of mind, drew a traveling pistol from his side pocket and fired at the masked robber. The princess cried out and covered her face with both hands in horror. Dubrovsky was wounded in the shoulder; blood appeared. The prince, not wasting a moment, drew a second pistol, but he was given no time to fire. The doors of the carriage were opened and several strong hands pulled him out and tore the pistol from him. Knives flashed over him.

“Don’t touch him!” cried Dubrovsky, and his grim accomplices drew back.

“You are free,” Dubrovsky went on, turning to the pale princess.

“No,” she replied. “It’s too late, I’m married, I’m Prince Vereisky’s wife.”

“What are you saying?” Dubrovsky cried in despair. “No, you’re not his wife, you were forced, you could never have consented…”

“I did consent, I took the vow,” she objected firmly. “The prince is my husband, order him freed and leave me with him. I did not deceive you. I waited for you till the last moment…But now, I tell you, now it’s too late. Let us go.”

But Dubrovsky no longer heard her. The pain of the wound and the strong agitation of his soul took his strength away. He collapsed by the wheel, the robbers surrounded him. He managed to say a few words to them, they put him on a horse, two of them supported him, a third took the horse by the bridle, and they all went off, leaving the carriage in the middle of the road, with the servants bound, the horses unhitched, but stealing nothing and shedding not a single drop of blood in revenge for the blood of their leader.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

On a narrow clearing in the middle of a dense forest rose a small earthen fortress, consisting of a rampart and a ditch, behind which were several huts and dugouts.

In the yard a large number of men, in varied dress but all of them armed, which showed them at once to be robbers, were having dinner, sitting hatless around a fraternal cauldron. On the rampart, next to a small cannon, sat a sentry, his legs tucked under; he was putting a patch on a certain part of his clothing, working the needle with a skill that betrayed an experienced tailor, and kept glancing in all directions.

Though a dipper had been passed around several times, a strange silence reigned in the company. The robbers finished their dinner, got up one after another, and said a prayer. Some dispersed to the huts, others went off to the forest or lay down for a nap as Russians usually do.

The sentry finished his work, shook out his rag, admired the patch, stuck the needle in his sleeve, sat down astride the cannon, and began to sing at the top of his voice a melancholy old song:

Rustle not, leafy mother, forest green,

Keep me not, a fine lad, from thinking my thoughts.

Just then the door to one of the huts opened and an old woman in a white bonnet, neatly and primly dressed, appeared on the threshold.

“Enough of that, Styopka,” she said angrily. “The master’s asleep and you’re bellowing away; you’ve got no shame or pity.”

“Sorry, Egorovna,” Styopka replied. “All right, I won’t go on. Let our dear master rest and recover.”

The old woman went back in, and Styopka started pacing the rampart.

In the hut the old woman had emerged from, behind a partition, the wounded Dubrovsky lay on a camp bed. Before him on a small table lay his pistols, and a saber hung by his head. The floor and walls of the mud hut were covered with luxurious carpets; in the corner was a lady’s silver dressing table and a pier glass. Dubrovsky held an open book in his hand, but his eyes were shut. And the old woman, who kept glancing at him from beyond the partition, could not tell whether he was asleep or merely thinking.

Suddenly Dubrovsky gave a start, the alarm rang in the fortress, and Styopka thrust his head through the window.

“Master Vladimir Andreevich,” he cried, “our boys have given the signal: they’re tracking us down.”

Dubrovsky jumped off the bed, grabbed a pistol, and came out of the hut. The robbers were crowding noisily in the yard; at his appearance a deep silence fell.

“Is everybody here?” asked Dubrovsky.

“Everybody except the lookouts,” came the answer.

“To your places!” cried Dubrovsky.

And each robber went to his appointed place. Just then three lookouts came running to the gate. Dubrovsky went to meet them.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Soldiers in the forest,” they replied. “They’re surrounding us.”

Dubrovsky ordered the gates locked and went himself to examine the little cannon. From the forest came the sound of several voices, and they began to approach; the robbers waited in silence. Suddenly three or four soldiers emerged from the forest and at once fell back, firing shots to signal their comrades.

“Prepare to fight,” said Dubrovsky.

There was a stir among the robbers, after which everything fell silent again. Then they heard the noise of the approaching detachment, weapons gleamed among the trees, some hundred and fifty soldiers poured out of the forest and, shouting loudly, rushed towards the rampart. Dubrovsky touched off the fuse, the shot was lucky: one man had his head blown off, two more were wounded. There was confusion among the soldiers, but the officer threw himself forward, the soldiers followed him and ran down into the ditch. The robbers fired at them with rifles and pistols, and, with axes in their hands, began to defend the rampart, which the enraged soldiers attacked, leaving twenty wounded comrades in the ditch. Hand-to-hand combat began, the soldiers were already on the rampart, the robbers were beginning to fall back, but Dubrovsky, walking up to the officer, put a pistol to his chest and fired. The officer went crashing on his back. Several soldiers picked him up and quickly carried him into the forest; the rest, left without a leader, stopped. The encouraged robbers took advantage of this moment of bewilderment, overran them and drove them into the ditch. The besiegers fled, the robbers, shouting loudly, rushed after them. The victory was assured. Dubrovsky, trusting in the complete discomfiture of the enemy, stopped his men and shut himself up in the fortress, commanding the wounded to be brought in, doubling the sentries, and ordering that nobody leave.

The latest events attracted the government’s attention to Dubrovsky’s daring brigandage in earnest. Information was gathered concerning his whereabouts. A company of soldiers was sent to take him dead or alive. They caught several men from his band and learned from them that Dubrovsky was no longer among them. A few days after [the battle]^*10 he had gathered all his companions, announced to them that he intended to leave them forever, and advised them to change their way of life.

“You’ve grown rich under my leadership, each of you has documents with which you can safely make your way to some remote province and there spend the rest of your lives in honest labor and abundance. But you’re all rascals and probably won’t want to abandon your trade.”

After that speech he left them, taking only * * * with him. No one knew where he had disappeared to. At first the truth of this testimony was doubted: the robbers’ devotion to their chief was well known. It was supposed that they were trying to protect him. But subsequent events bore them out: the terrible visits, arsons, and robberies ceased. The roads became clear. From other sources it was learned that Dubrovsky had escaped abroad.

*1 “What does monsieur wish?”

*2 I.e., Je veux, moi, chez vous coucher [“I want, me, to sleep in your room”].

*3 “Very gladly, monsieur…Please give orders to that effect.”

*4 Pourquoi vous snuffez, pourquoi vous snuffez? [“Why do you snuff it, why do you snuff it?”]

*5 sleep

*6 Monsieur, monsieur…je veux avec vous parler [“Monsieur, monsieur…I want with you to talk”].

*7 Qu’est-ce que c’est, monsieur, qu’est-ce que c’est? [“What is this, monsieur, what is this?”]

*8 with the ouchitels [Russian for “tutors”]

*9 all the expenses (French)

*10 There is a gap here in the original manuscript. Translator.