Works of Alexander Pushkin (95 page)

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

“The horses are ready,” said the postmaster, entering the room at that moment.

The servant confirmed this statement.

“Presently,” replied the officer: “leave the room for a moment.” The postmaster and the servant withdrew. “I am not joking,” he continued in French. “I can give you ten thousand rubles; I only want your absence and your papers.”

So saying, he opened his small box and took out of it several bank notes. The Frenchman stared. He did not know what to think.

“My absence... my papers!” he repeated in astonishment. “Here are my papers... but you are surely joking. What do you want my papers for?”

“That does not concern you. I ask you, do you consent or not?”

The Frenchman, still unable to believe his own ears, handed his papers to the young officer, who rapidly examined them.

“Your passport... very well; your letter of recommendation... let us see; your birth certificate... capital! Well, here is your money; return home. Farewell.”

The Frenchman stood as if glued to the spot. The officer came back.

“I had almost forgotten the most important thing of all. Give me your word of honor that all this will remain between you and me.... Your word of honor.”

“My word of honor,” replied the Frenchman. “But my papers? What shall I do without them?”

“In the first town you come to, announce that you have been robbed by Dubrovsky. They will believe you, and give you the necessary documents. Farewell: God grant you a safe and speedy return to Paris, and may you find your mother in good health.”

Dubrovsky left the room, got into the coach and dashed off.

The postmaster stood looking out of the window, and when the coach had driven off, he turned to his wife, exclaiming:

“Pakhomovna, do you know who that was? That was Dubrovsky!”

The postmaster’s wife rushed toward the window, but it was too late. Dubrovsky was already a long way off. Then she began to scold her husband.

“You have no fear of God, Sidorych. Why did you not tell me sooner, I should at least have had a glimpse of Dubrovsky. But now I shall have to wait long enough before he looks in on us again. You have no conscience — that’s what it is, no conscience!”

The Frenchman stood as if petrified. The agreement with the officer, the money — everything seemed like a dream to him. But the bundle of bank notes was there in his pocket, eloquently confirming the reality of the wonderful adventure.

He resolved to hire horses to take him to the next town. He was driven very slowly, and he reached the town at nightfall.

Just before they reached the gates where, in place of a sentinel, stood a dilapidated sentry-box, the Frenchman told the driver to stop, got out of the carriage and proceeded on foot, explaining by signs to the driver that he might keep the vehicle and the portmanteau as a tip. The driver was as much astonished at his generosity as the Frenchman himself had been at Dubrovsky’s proposal. But concluding that the foreigner had taken leave of his senses, the driver thanked him with a very profound bow, and not caring about entering the town, he made his way to a house of entertainment which was well known to him, and the proprietor of which was a friend of his. There he passed the whole night, and the next morning he started back on his return journey with the troika, without the carriage and without the portmanteau, but with a swollen face and red eyes.

Dubrovsky, having possessed himself of the Frenchman’s papers, boldly presented himself to Troyekurov, as we have already seen, and settled in the house. Whatever were his secret intentions — we shall know them later on — there was nothing at all objectionable in his behavior. It is true that he did not occupy himself very much with the education of little Sasha, to whom he allowed full liberty, nor was he very exacting in the matter of the boy’s lessons, which were only given as a matter of form, but he paid great attention to the musi- ical studies of his fair pupil, and frequently sat for hours beside her at the piano.

Everybody liked the young tutor: Kirila Petrovich, for his boldness and dexterity in the hunting-field; Marya Kirilovna, for his unbounded zeal and slavish attentiveness; Sasha, for his tolerance; and the members of the household for his kindness and generosity, apparently incompatible with his station. He himself seemed to be attached to the whole family, and already regarded himself as a member of it.

Between the time that he entered upon a tutor’s calling and the date of the memorable fête, about a month had elapsed and nobody suspected that the modest young Frenchman was in reality the terrible brigand whose name was a source of terror to all the landed proprietors of the neighborhood. During all this time, Dubrovsky had never quitted Pokrovskoye, but the reports of his depredations did not cease for all that, thanks to the inventive imagination of the country people. It is possible, too, that his band may have continued their exploits during their chief’s absence.

Passing the night in the same room with a man whom he could only regard as a personal enemy, and one of the principal authors of his misfortune, Dubrovsky had not been able to resist temptation. He knew of the existence of the pouch, and had resolved to take possession of it.

We have seen how he astounded poor Anton Pafnutyich by his unexpected transformation from a tutor into a brigand.

At nine o’clock in the morning, the guests who had passed the night at Pokrovskoye repaired one after the other to the sitting-room, where the samovar was already boiling, while before it sat Marya Kirilovna in a morning frock, and Kirila Petrovich in a frieze coat and slippers, drinking his tea out of a large cup like a slop-basin.

The last to appear was Anton Pafnutyich; he was so pale, and seemed so troubled, that everybody was struck by his appearance, and Kirila Petrovich inquired after his health. In reply Spitzyn said something unintelligible, glaring with horror at the tutor, who sat there as if nothing had happened. A few minutes afterward a servant entered and announced to Spitzyn that his carriage was ready. Anton Pafnutyich hastened to take his leave of the company, and then hurried out of the room and, in spite of the host’s efforts to detain him, drove off immediately. No one could understand what had happened to him, and Kirila Petrovich came to the conclusion that he had over-eaten.

After tea and the farewell breakfast, the other guests began to take their leave, and soon Pokrovskoye grew empty, and life there resumed its ordinary course.

XII

SEVERAL days passed, and nothing remarkable had happened. The life of the inhabitants of Pokrovskoye was monotonous. Kirila Petrovich went out hunting every day; while Marya Kirilovna devoted her time to reading, walking, and especially to music lessons. She was beginning to understand her own heart, and acknowledged to herself with involuntary vexation that she was not indifferent to the good qualities of the young Frenchman. He, on his side, never overstepped the limits of respect and strict decorum, and thereby quieted her pride and her timid doubts. With more and more confidence she gave herself up to the alluring habit of seeing him. She felt dull without Deforges, and in his presence she was constantly occupied with him, wishing to know his opinion of everything, and always agreeing with him. She was not yet in love with him perhaps; but at the first accidental obstacle or sudden adverse move of Fate, the flame of passion was sure to burst forth within her heart.

One day, on entering the parlor, where the tutor awaited her, Marya Kirilovna observed with astonishment that he looked pale and troubled. She opened the piano and sang a few notes; but Dubrovsky, under the pretext of a headache, apologized, interrupted the lesson, and, closing the music-book, immediately slipped a note into her hand. Marya Kirilovna, without pausing to reflect, took it, and immediately repented. But Dubrovsky had gone. Marya Kirilovna went to her room, unfolded the note, and read as follows:

“Be in the arbor near the brook this evening, at seven o’clock: I must speak to you.”

Her curiosity was strongly excited. She had long expected a declaration, both desiring it and dreading it. It would have been agreeable to her to hear the confirmation of what she divined; but she felt that it would have been unbecoming to hear such a declaration from a man who, on account of his position, ought never to aspire to win her hand. She resolved to keep the tryst, but she hesitated about one thing: in what manner she ought to receive the tutor’s declaration — with aristocratic indignation, with friendly admonition, with good-humored banter, or with silent sympathy. In the meantime she kept constantly looking at the clock. It grew dark: candles were brought in. Kirila Petrovich sat down to play at Boston with some of his neighbors who had come to pay him a visit. The clock struck a quarter to seven, and Marya Kirilovna walked quietly out on to the steps, looked round on every side, and then ran into the garden.

The night was dark, the sky was covered with clouds, and it was impossible to see anything at a distance of two paces; but Marya Kirilovna went forward in the darkness along paths that were quite familiar to her, and in a few minutes she reached the arbor. There she paused in order to draw breath and to present herself before Deforges with an air of unhurried indifference. But Deforges already stood before her.

“I thank you,” he said in a low, sad voice, “for having granted my request. I should have been in despair if you had not complied with it.”

Marya Kirilovna answered him in the words she had prepared beforehand.

“I hope you will not cause me to repent of my condescension.”

He was silent, and seemed to be collecting himself.

“Circumstances demand — I am obliged to leave you,” he said at last. “It may be that you will soon hear — but before going away, I must have an explanation with you.”

Marya Kirilovna made no reply. In these words she saw the preface to the expected declaration.

“I am not what you suppose,” he continued, lowering his head: “I am not the Frenchman Deforges — I am Dubrovsky.”

Marya Kirilovna uttered a cry.

“Do not be alarmed, for God’s sake! You need not be afraid of my name. Yes, I am that unhappy man, whom your father, after depriving him of his last crust of bread, drove out of his paternal home and sent on to the highway to rob. But you need not be afraid, either on your own account or on your father’s. All is over.... I have forgiven him; you have saved him. My first bloody deed was to have had him for its victim. I prowled round his house, determining where the fire was to burst out, where I should enter his bedroom, and how I should cut him off from all means of escape; at that moment you passed by me like a heavenly vision, and my heart was subdued. I understood that the house, in which you dwelt, was sacred; that not a single being, connected with you by the ties of blood, could be subject to my curse. I repudiated vengeance as though it were madness. For days on end I wandered around the gardens of Pokrovskoye, in the hope of seeing your white dress in the distance. On your incautious walks I followed you, stealing from bush to bush, happy in the thought that I was protecting you, that for you there was no danger, where I was secretly present. At last an opportunity presented itself.... I came to live in your house. Those three weeks were for me days of happiness; the recollection of them will be the joy of my sad life.... To-day I received news which renders it impossible for me to remain here any longer. I part from you to-day — at this very moment.... But before doing so, I felt that it was necessary that I should reveal myself to you, so that you might not curse me nor despise me. Think sometimes of Dubrovsky. Know that be was born for another fate, that his soul was capable of loving you, that never — ”

Just then a low whistle sounded, and Dubrovsky stopped. He seized her hand and pressed it to his burning lips. The whistle was repeated.

“Farewell,” said Dubrovsky: “they are calling me. A moment’s delay may undo me.”

He moved away.... Marya Kirilovna stood motionless. Dubrovsky returned and once more took her hand.

“If misfortune should ever overtake you,” he said, in a tender and moving voice, “and you are unable to obtain help or protection from anybody, will you promise to apply to me, to demand from me everything that may be necessary for your happiness? Will you promise not to reject my devotion?”

Marya Kirilovna wept silently. The whistle sounded for the third time.

“You are ruining me!” cried Dubrovsky: “but I will not leave you until you give me a reply. Do you promise me or not?”

“I promise!” murmured the poor girl.

Greatly agitated by her interview with Dubrovsky, Marya Kirilovna returned from the garden. As she approached the house, she perceived a great crowd of people in the courtyard; a troika was standing in front of the steps, the servants were running hither and thither, and the whole house was in a commotion. In the distance she heard the voice of Kirila Petrovich, and she hastened to reach her room, fearing that her absence might be noticed. Kirila Petrovich met her in the hall. The visitors were pressing round our old acquaintance the sheriff, and were overwhelming him with questions. The sheriff, in traveling clothes, and armed to the teeth, answered them with a mysterious and anxious air.

“Where have you been, Masha?” asked Kirila Petrovich. “Have you seen Monsieur Deforges?”

Masha could scarcely answer in the negative.

“Just imagine,” continued Kirila Petrovich: “the sheriff has come to arrest him, and assures me that he is Dubrovsky.”

“He answers the description in every respect, Your Excellency,” said the sheriff respectfully.

“Oh! brother,” interrupted Kirila Petrovich, “go to — you know where — with your description. I will not surrender my Frenchman to you until I have investigated the matter myself. How can anyone believe the word of Anton Pafnutyich, a coward and a liar? He must have dreamt that the tutor wanted to rob him. Why didn’t he tell me about it the next morning? He never said a word about the matter.”

“The Frenchman scared him, Your Excellency,” replied the sheriff, “and made him swear that he would preserve silence.”