Works of Alexander Pushkin (92 page)

Arkhip took the candle out of his master’s hand, found the lantern behind the stove, lit it, and then both of them softly descended the steps and proceeded down the courtyard. The watchman began beating upon an iron plate; the dogs commenced to bark.

“Who is on the watch?” asked Dubrovsky.

“We, master,” replied a thin voice: “Vasilisa and Lukerya.”

“Go home,” said Dubrovsky to them, “you are not wanted.”

“You can quit,” added Arkhip.

“Thank you, kind sir,” replied the women, and they immediately went home.

Dubrovsky walked on further. Two men approached him: they challenged him, and Dubrovsky recognized the voices of Anton and Grisha.

“Why are you not in bed and asleep?” he asked them.

“This is no time for us to think of sleep,” replied Anton. “Who would have thought that we should ever have come to this?”

“Softly,” interrupted Dubrovsky. “Where is Yegorovna?”

“In the manor-house, in her room,” replied Grisha.

“Go and bring her here, and make all our people get out of the house; let not a soul remain in it except the officials; and you, Anton, get the cart ready.”

Grisha departed; a minute afterward he returned with his mother. The old woman had not undressed that night; with the exception of the officials, nobody in the house had closed an eye.

“Are all here?” asked Dubrovsky. “Has anybody been left in the house?”

“Nobody, except the clerks,” replied Grisha.

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

The servants ran to the stables and returned with armfuls of hay.

“Put it under the steps — that’s it. Now, my lads, a light!”

Arkhip opened the lantern and Dubrovsky kindled a torch.

“Wait a minute,” said he to Arkhip: “I think, in my hurry, that I locked the doors of the hall. Go quickly and open them.”

Arkhip ran to the vestibule: the doors were open. He locked them, muttering in an undertone: “It’s likely that I’ll leave them open!” and then returned to Dubrovsky.

Dubrovsky applied the torch to the hay, which burst into a blaze, the flames rising to a great height and illuminating the whole courtyard.

“Oh, dear me!” cried Yegorovna plaintively: “Vladimir Andreyevich, what are you doing?”

“Silence!” said Dubrovsky. “Now, children, farewell! I am going where God may direct me. Be happy with your new master.”

“Our father, our provider!” cried the peasants, “we will die — but we will not leave you, we will go with you.”

The horses were ready. Dubrovsky took his seat in the cart with Grisha; Anton whipped the horses and they drove out of the courtyard.

A wind rose. In one moment the whole house was enveloped in flames. The panes cracked and splintered; the burning beams began to crash; a red smoke rose above the roof, and there were piteous groans and cries of “Help, help!”

“Shout away!” said Arkhip, with a malicious smile, contemplating the fire.

“Dear Arkhip,” said Yegorovna to him, “save them, the scoundrels, and God will reward you.”

“Not a chance,” replied the blacksmith.

At that moment the officials appeared at the window, endeavoring to burst the double sash. But at the same instant the roof caved in with a crash — and the cries ceased.

Soon all the peasants came pouring into the courtyard. The women, screaming wildly, hastened to save their effects; the children danced about admiring the conflagration. The sparks flew up in a fiery shower, setting the huts on fire.

“Now everything is right!” said Arkhip. “How it burns! It must be a grand sight from Pokrovskoye.”

At that moment a new sight attracted his attention. A cat ran along the roof of a burning barn, without knowing where to leap down. Flames surrounded it on every side. The poor creature cried for help with plaintive me wings; the children screamed with laughter on seeing its despair.

“What are you laughing at, you imps?” said the blacksmith, angrily. “Do you not fear God? One of God’s creatures is perishing, and you rejoice over it.”

Then placing a ladder against the burning roof, he climbed up to fetch the cat. She understood his intention, and, with grateful eagerness, clutched hold of his sleeve. The half-burnt blacksmith descended with his burden.

“And now, lads, good-bye,” he said to the dismayed peasants: “there is nothing more for me to do here. May you be happy. Do not think too badly of me.”

The blacksmith went away. The fire raged for some time longer, and at last went out. Piles of red-hot embers glowed brightly in the darkness of the night, while round about them wandered the burnt-out inhabitants of Kistenyovka.

VII

THE next day the news of the fire spread through all the neighborhood. All discussed it and made various guesses about it. Some maintained that Dubrovsky’s servants, having got drunk at the funeral, had set fire to the house through carelessness; others blamed the officials, who were drunk also in their new quarters. Many maintained that he had himself perished in the flames with the officials and all his servants. Some guessed the truth, and affirmed that the author of the terrible calamity was Dubrovsky himself, urged on by resentment and despair.

Troyekurov came the next day to the scene of the conflagration, and conducted the inquest himself. It transpired that the sheriff, the assessor of the district Court, a solicitor and a clerk, as well as Vladimir Dubrovsky, the nurse Yegorovna, the servant Grisha, the coachman Anton, and the blacksmith Arkhip had disappeared — nobody knew where. All the servants declared that the officials perished at the moment when the roof fell in. Their charred remains in fact were discovered. Vasilisa and Lukerya, said that they had seen Dubrovsky and Arkhip the blacksmith a few minutes before the fire. The blacksmith Arkhip, all asserted, was alive, and was probably the principal, if not the sole author of the fire. Strong suspicions fell upon Dubrovsky. Kirila Petrovich sent to the Governor a detailed account of all that had happened, and a new suit was commenced.

Soon other reports furnished fresh food for curiosity and gossip. Brigands appeared at X. and spread terror throughout the neighborhood. The measures taken against them proved unavailing. Robberies, each more startling than the last, followed one after another. There was no security either on the roads or in the villages. Several
troikas,
filled with brigands, traversed the whole province in open daylight, stopping travelers and the mail. The villages were visited by them, and the manor-houses were attacked and set on fire. The chief of the band had acquired a great reputation for intelligence, daring, and a sort of generosity. Wonders were related of him. The name of Dubrovsky was upon every tongue. Everybody was convinced that it was he, and nobody else, who commanded the daring robbers. One thing was remarkable: the domains and property of Troyekurov were spared. The brigands had not attacked a single barn of his, nor stopped a single cart belonging to him. With his usual arrogance, Troyekurov attributed this exception to the fear which he had inspired throughout the whole province, as well as to the excellent police which he had organized in his villages. At first the neighbors smiled at the presumption of Troyekurov, and everyone expected that the uninvited guests would visit Pokrovskoye, where they would find something worth having, but at last they were compelled to agree and confess that the brigands showed him unaccountable respect. Troyekurov triumphed, and at the news of each fresh exploit on the part of Dubrovsky, he indulged in ironical remarks at the expense of the Governor, the police, and the company commanders, from whom Dubrovsky invariably escaped with impunity.

Meanwhile the ist of October arrived, the day of the annual church festival in Troyekurov’s village. But before we proceed to describe this solemn occasion, as well as further events, we must acquaint the reader with some characters who are new to him, or whom we merely mentioned at the beginning of our story.

VIII

THE reader has probably already guessed that Kirila Petrovich’s daughter, of whom we have as yet said but very little, is the heroine of our story. At the period about which we are writing, she was seventeen years old, and in the full bloom of her beauty. Her father loved her to distraction, but treated her with his characteristic wilfulness, at one time endeavoring to gratify her slightest whims, at another terrifying her by his stern and sometimes brutal behavior. Convinced of her attachment, he could yet never gain her confidence. She was accustomed to conceal from him her thoughts and feelings, because she never knew in what manner they would be received. She had no companions, and had grown up in solitude. The wives and daughters of the neighbors rarely visited Kirila Petrovich, whose usual conversation and amusements demanded the companionship of men, and not the presence of ladies. Our beauty rarely appeared among the guests who feasted at her father’s house. The extensive library, consisting for the most part of works of French writers of the eighteenth century, 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, after having rummaged through works of various kinds, had naturally given her preference to romances. In this manner she went on completing her education, first begun under the direction of Mademoiselle Mimi, in whom Kirila Petrovich reposed great confidence, and whom he was at last obliged to send away secretly to another estate, when the results of this friendship became too apparent.

Mademoiselle Mimi left behind her a rather agreeable recollection. She was a good-natured girl, and had never misused the influence that she evidently exercised over Kirila Petrovich, in which she differed from the other favorites, whom he constantly kept changing. Kirila Petrovich himself seemed to like her more than the others, and a dark-eyed, roguish-looking little fellow of nine, recalling the Southern features of Mademoiselle Mimi, was being brought up by him and was recognized as his son, in spite of the fact that quite a number of bare-footed lads ran about in front of his windows, who were the very spit of Kirila Petrovich, and who were considered house serfs. Kirila Petrovich had sent to Moscow for a French tutor for his little son, Sasha, and this tutor came to Pokrovskoye at the time of the events that we are now describing.

This tutor, by his pleasant appearance and simple manner, produced an agreeable impression upon Kirila Petrovich. He presented to the latter his diplomas, and a letter from one of Troyekurov’s relations, with whom he had lived as tutor for four years. Kirila Petrovich examined all these, and was dissatisfied only with the youthfulness of the Frenchman, not because he considered this agreeable defect incompatible with the patience and experience necessary for the unhappy calling of a tutor, but because he had doubts of his own, which he immediately resolved to have cleared up. For this purpose he ordered Masha to be sent to him. Kirila Petrovich did not speak French, and she acted as interpreter for him.

“Come here, Masha: tell this Monsieur that I accept him only on condition that he does not venture to run after my girls, for if he should do so, the son of a dog, I’ll... Translate that to him, Masha.”

Masha blushed, and turning to the tutor, told him in French that her father counted upon his modesty and orderly conduct.

The Frenchman bowed to her, and replied that he hoped to merit esteem, even if favor were not shown to him.

Masha translated his reply word for word.

“Very well, very well,” said Kirila Petrovich, “he needs neither favor nor esteem. His business is to look after Sasha and teach him grammar and geography — translate that to him.”

Masha softened the rude expressions of her father in translating them, and Kirila Petrovich dismissed his Frenchman to the wing of the house where a room had been assigned to him.

Masha had not given a thought to the young Frenchman. Brought up with aristocratic prejudices, a tutor, in her eyes, was only a sort of servant or artisan; and a servant or an artisan did not seem to her to be a man. Nor did she observe the impression that she had produced upon Monsieur Deforges, his confusion, his agitation, his changed voice. For several days in succession, she met him fairly often, but without deigning to pay him much attention. In an unexpected manner, however, she formed quite a new idea of him.

In Kirila Petrovich’s courtyard there were usually kept several bear-cubs, and they formed one of the chief amusements of the master of Pokrovskoye. While they were young, they were brought every day into the parlor, where Kirila Petrovich used to spend whole hours in amusing himself with them, setting them at cats and puppies. When they were grown up, they were put on a chain, being baited in earnest. Sometimes they were brought out in front of the windows of the manor- house, and an empty wine-cask, studded with nails, was put before them. The bear would sniff it, then touch it gently, and getting its paws pricked, it would become angry and push the cask with greater force, and so wound itself still more. The beast would then work itself into a perfect frenzy, and fling itself upon the cask, growling furiously, until they removed from the poor animal the object of its vain rage. Sometimes a pair of bears were harnessed to a
telega,
then, willingly or unwillingly, guests were placed in it, and the bears were allowed to gallop wherever chance might direct them. But the favorite joke of Kirila Petrovich’s was as follows:

A starved bear used to be locked up in an empty room and fastened by a rope to a ring screwed into the wall. The rope was nearly the length of the room, so that only the opposite corner was out of the reach of the ferocious beast. A novice was generally brought to the door of this room, and, as if by accident, pushed in where the bear was; the door was then locked, and the unhappy victim was left alone with the shaggy hermit. The poor guest, with torn skirt and scratched hands, soon sought the safe corner, but he was sometimes compelled to stand for three whole hours, pressed against the wall, watching the savage beast, two steps from him, leaping and standing on its hind legs, growling, tugging at the rope and endeavoring to reach him. Such were the noble amusements of a Russian gentleman!