Works of Alexander Pushkin (94 page)

“Exactly, Your Excellency,” observed the sheriff: “I have in my pocket the description of Vladimir Dubrovsky. There it is distinctly stated that he is twenty- three years of age.”

“Ah!” said Kirila Petrovich. “By the way, read it, and we will listen: it will not be a bad thing for us to know what he looks like. Perhaps we may catch a glimpse of him, and if so, he will not escape in a hurry.”

The sheriff drew from his pocket a rather dirty sheet of paper, unfolded it with an air of importance, and began to read in a sing-song manner:

“Description of Vladimir Dubrovsky, based upon the depositions of his former house-serfs:

“Age:
twenty-two;
height:
medium;
complexion:
clear;
beard:
shaven;
eyes:
hazel;
hair:
light;
nose:
straight;
special marks:
none.”

“And is that all?” said Kirila Petrovich.

“That is all,” replied the sheriff, folding up the paper.

“I congratulate you, Mr. Sheriff. A very valuable document! With that description it will not be difficult for you to find Dubrovsky! Who is not of medium height? Who has not light hair, a straight nose and hazel eyes? I would wager that you would talk for three hours at a stretch to Dubrovsky himself, and you would never guess in whose company you were. There is no denying that these officials are clever fellows.”

The sheriff, meekly replacing the paper in his pocket, silently attacked his goose and cabbage. Meanwhile the servants had already gone the round of the guests several times, filling up each one’s glass. Several bottles of Don and Caucasian wine had been opened with a great deal of noise, and had been favorably received under the name of champagne. Faces began to glow, and the conversation grew louder, more incoherent and more lively.

“No,” continued Kirila Petrovich, “we shall never see another sheriff like the late Taras Alexeyevich! He was no blunderhead, no simpleton. It is a pity that the fellow was burnt, for otherwise not one of the band would have got away from him. He would have laid his hands upon the whole lot of them, and not even Dubrovsky himself would have escaped, or bribed his way out. Taras Alexeyevich would surely have taken his money, but he would not have let him go. That was the man’s way. Evidently there is nothing else to be done but for me to take the matter in hand and go after the brigands with my people. I will begin by sending out twenty men to scour the wood. My people are not cowards. Each of them would attack a bear single-handed, and they certainly would not fall back before a brigand.”

“How is your bear, Kirila Petrovich?” asked Anton Pafnutyich, being reminded by these words of his shaggy acquaintance and of certain pleasantries of which he had once been the victim.

“Misha has departed this life,” replied Kirila Petrovich: “he died a glorious death at the hands of the enemy. There is his conqueror!” Kirila Petrovich pointed to the French tutor. “You should have an image of the Frenchman’s patron saint. He has avenged you — if you will allow me to say so — do you remember?”

“How should I not remember?” said Anton Pafnutyich, scratching his head: “I remember it only too well. So Misha is dead. I am very sorry for Misha — upon my word, I am very sorry! How amusing he was! How intelligent! You will not find another bear like him. And why did
mossoo
kill him?”

Kirila Petrovich began, with great satisfaction, to relate the exploit of his Frenchman, for he possessed the happy faculty of boasting of all that belonged to his entourage. The guests listened with great attention to the story of Misha’s death, and gazed in astonishment at Deforges, who, not suspecting that his bravery was the subject of the conversation, calmly sat in his place, occasionally rebuking his restive pupil.

The dinner, which had lasted about three hours, came to an end; the host placed his napkin upon the table, and everybody rose and repaired to the parlor, where coffee and cards were awaiting them, and a continuation of the drinking so famously begun in the dining-room.

X

ABOUT seven o’clock in the evening, some of the guests wished to depart, but the host, merry with punch, ordered the gates to be locked, and declared that he would let no one leave the house until the next morning. Music soon resounded, the doors of the ballroom were thrown open and the dancing began. The host and his intimates sat in a corner, draining glass after glass, and admiring the gaiety of the young people. The old ladies played cards. There were fewer men than women, as is always the case, except where a brigade of Uhlans is stationed, and all the men, suitable for partners, were soon pressed into service. The tutor particularly distinguished himself; he danced more than anyone else; all the young ladies wanted to have him as a partner, finding it very pleasant to waltz with him. He danced several times with Marya Kirilovna, and the young ladies observed them mockingly. At last, about midnight, the tired host stopped the dancing, ordered supper to be served, while he betook himself to bed.

The retirement of Kirila Petrovich allowed the company more freedom and animation. The gentlemen ventured to sit near the ladies; the girls laughed and whispered to their neighbors; the ladies spoke in loud voices across the table; the gentlemen drank, disputed, and laughed boisterously. In a word, the supper was exceedingly merry, and left behind it many agreeable memories.

One man only did not share in the general joy. Anton Pafnutyich sat gloomy and silent in his place, ate absently, and seemed extremely uneasy. The conversation about the brigands had worked upon his imagination. We shall soon see that he had good cause to fear them.

Anton Pafnutyich, in invoking God as a witness that the little red cash-box was empty, had not lied and sinned. The little red cash-box was really empty. The money which it had at one time contained had been transferred to a leather pouch, which he carried on his breast under his shirt. This precaution alone quieted his distrust of everybody and his constant fear. Being compelled to spend the night in a strange house, he was afraid that he might be lodged in some solitary room, where thieves could easily break in. He looked round in search of a trustworthy companion, and at last his choice fell upon Deforges. His appearance — indicative of strength — but especially the bravery shown by him in his encounter with the bear, which poor Anton Paf- nutyich could never think of without a shudder, decided his choice. When they rose from the table, Anton Pafnutyich began to circle round the young Frenchman, clearing his throat and coughing, and at last he turned to him and addressed him:

“Hm! hm! Couldn’t I spend the night in your room,
mossoo,
because you see — ”

“Que désire monsieur?”
asked Deforges, with a polite bow.

“Ah! what a pity,
mossoo,
that you have not yet learnt Russian,
fe vais moa chez vous coucher.
Do you understand?”

“Monsieur, très volontiers,”
replied Deforges,
“veuillez donner des ordres en conséquence!’

Anton Pafnutyich, well satisfied with his knowledge of the French language, went off at once to make the necessary arrangements.

The guests began to wish each other good night, and each retired to the room assigned to him, while Anton Pafnutyich went with the tutor to the wing. The night was dark. Deforges lighted the way with a lantern. Anton Pafnutyich followed him boldly enough, pressing the hidden treasure occasionally against his breast, in order to convince himself that his money was still there.

On arriving at the wing, the tutor lit a candle and both began to undress; in the meantime Anton Pafnutyich was walking about the room, examining the locks and windows, and shaking his head at the disquieting results of his inspection. The doors fastened with only a bolt, and the windows had not yet their double frames. He tried to complain to Deforges, but his knowledge of the French language was too limited for so elaborate an explanation. The Frenchman did not understand him, and Anton Pafnutyich was obliged to cease his complaints. Their beds stood opposite each other; they both lay down, and the tutor extinguished the light.

“Pourquoi vous extinguishez; pourquoi vous extin- guishez?”
cried Anton Pafnutyich, conjugating the verb to extinguish, after the French manner. “I cannot
dormir
in the dark.”

Deforges did not understand his exclamation, and wished him good night.

“Accursed heathen!” muttered Spitzyn, wrapping himself up in the bedclothes: “he couldn’t do without extinguishing the light. So much the worse for him. I cannot sleep without a light —
Mossoo, mossoo,”
he continued:
“Je vé avec vous parler.”

But the Frenchman did not reply, and soon began to snore.

“He is snoring, the French brute,” thought Anton Pafnutyich, “while I can’t even think of sleep. Thieves might walk in at any moment through the open doors or climb in through the window, and the firing of a cannon would not wake him, the beast!”

“Mossoo! mossoo!
— the devil take you!”

Anton Pafnutyich became silent. Fatigue and the effect of the wine gradually overcame his fear. He began to doze, and soon fell into a deep sleep. A strange sensation aroused him. He felt in his sleep that someone was gently pulling him by the collar of his shirt, Anton Pafnutyich opened his eyes and, by the pale light of an autumn morning, he saw Deforges standing before him. In one hand the Frenchman held a pocket pistol, and with the other he was unfastening the strings of the precious leather pouch. Anton Pafnutyich felt faint.

“Quest ce que c’est, Mossoo, quest ce que c’est?”
said he, in a trembling voice.

“Hush! Silence!” replied the tutor in pure Russian. “Silence! or you are lost. I am Dubrovsky.”

XI

WE WILL now ask the reader’s permission to explain the last incidents of our story, by referring to the circumstances that preceded them, and which we have not yet had time to relate.

At the station, in the house of the postmaster, of whom we have already spoken, sat a traveler in a corner, looking very meek and patient, which showed him to be a man without rank or a foreigner, that is, a person unable to assert his rights on the post road. His carriage stood in the courtyard, waiting for the wheels to be greased. Within it lay a small portmanteau, evidence of a very modest fortune. The traveler ordered neither tea nor coffee, but sat looking out of the window and whistling, to the great annoyance of the postmistress sitting behind the partition.

“The Lord has sent us a whistler,” said she, in a low voice. “How he does whistle! I wish he would burst, the accursed heathen!”

“What does it matter?” said her husband. “Let him whistle!”

“What does it matter?” retorted his angry spouse; “don’t you know the saying?’

“What saying? That whistling drives money away? Oh, Pakhomovna, whether he whistles or not, we shall have precious little money anyway.”

“Then let him go, Sidorych. What pleasure have you in keeping him here? Give him the horses, and let him go to the devil.”

“He can wait, Pakhomovna. I have only three troikas in the stable, the fourth is resting. Travelers of more importance may arrive at any moment, and I don’t wish to risk my neck for a Frenchman.... Listen! there you are! Someone is driving up! And at what a rate! Can it be a general?”

A coach stopped in front of the steps. The servant jumped down from the box, opened the door, and a moment afterwards a young man in a military cloak and white cap entered the station. Behind him followed his servant, carrying a small box which he placed upon the window-ledge.

“Horses!” said the officer, in an imperious voice. “Directly!” replied the postmaster: “your pass, if you please.”

“I have no pass: I am not going to take the main road.... Don’t you recognize me?”

The postmaster began to bustle about and rushed out to hurry the drivers. The young man began to pace up and down the room, went behind the partition, and inquired in a low voice of the postmaster’s wife:

“Who is that traveler?”

“God knows!” she replied: “some Frenchman or other. He has been five hours waiting for horses, and has done nothing but whistle the whole time. I am tired of him, drat him!”

The young man spoke to the traveler in French. “Where are you bound for, sir?” he asked.

“For the neighboring town,” replied the Frenchman: “and from there I am going to a landed proprie- tor who has engaged me as tutor without ever having seen me. I thought I should have reached the place today, but the postmaster has evidently decided otherwise. In this country it is difficult to procure horses, Mr. Officer.”

“And who is the landed proprietor about here with whom you have found a position?” asked the officer. “Mr. Troyekurov,” replied the Frenchman. “Troyekurov? Who is this Troyekurov?”

“Ma foi, monsieur.
I have heard very little good of him. They say that he is a proud and wilful gentleman, and so harsh toward the members of his household, that nobody can live on good terms with him: that all tremble at his name, and that with his tutors he stands upon no ceremony whatever, indeed, that he has flogged two of them to death.”

“Good Lord! And you have decided to take a position with such a monster?”

“What can I do, Mr. Officer? He offers me a good salary: three thousand rubles a year and all found. Perhaps I shall be more fortunate than the others. I have an aged mother: one half of my salary I will send to her for her support, and out of the rest of my money I shall be able in five years to save a small capital sufficient to make me independent for the rest of my life. Then,
bon soir,
I return to Paris and set up in business.”

“Does anybody at Troyekurov’s know you?” asked the officer.

“Nobody,” replied the tutor. “He engaged me at Moscow, through one of his friends, whose cook is a countryman of mine, and who recommended me. I must tell you that I did not intend to be a tutor, but a confectioner; but I was told that in your country the profession of tutor is more lucrative.”

The officer reflected.

“Listen to me,” he said to the Frenchman: “What would you say if, instead of this position, you were offered ten thousand rubles, ready money, on condition that you returned immediately to Paris?”