[1]The Russians put double frames to their windows in winter.
[1]The Russians put double frames to their windows in winter.
We will now ask the permission of the reader 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 of ——, at the house of the postmaster, of whom we have already spoken, sat a traveller in a corner, looking very modest and resigned, and having the appearance of a plebeian or a foreigner, that is to say, of a man having no voice in connection with the post route. Hisbritchka[1]stood in the courtyard, waiting for the wheels to be greased. Within it lay a small portmanteau, evidence of a very modest fortune. The traveller 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 pagan!”
“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 get precious little money out of him.”
“Then let him go, Sidoritch. 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 threetroikasin the stable, the fourth is resting. Besides, travellers of more importance may arrive at any moment, and I don’t wish to risk my neck for a Frenchman.... Hallo! there you are! Don’t you hear the sound of galloping! What a rate! Can it be a general?”
A caliche 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 road-pass, if you please.”
“I have no road-pass: I am not going to take the main road.... Besides, don’t you recognize me?”
The postmaster hastened to hurry the postilions. The young man began to pace up and down the room. Then he went behind the partition, and inquired of the postmistress in a low voice:
“Who is that traveller?”
“God knows!” replied the postmistress: “some Frenchman or other. He has been five hours waiting for horses, and has done nothing but whistle the whole of the time. He has quite wearied me, the heathen!”
The young man spoke to the traveller in French.
“Where are you going to?” he asked.
“To the neighbouring town,” replied the Frenchman: “and from there I am going to a landed proprietor who has engaged me as tutor without ever having seen me. I thought I should have reached the place to-day, but the postmaster has evidently decided otherwise. In this country it is difficult to procure horses, monsieur l’officier.”
“And to which of the landed proprietors about here have you engaged yourself?” asked the officer.
“To Troekouroff,” replied the Frenchman.
“To Troekouroff? Who is this Troekouroff?”
“Ma foi,monsieur. I have heard very little good of him. They say that he is a proud and wilful noble, and so harsh towards 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.”
“And you have decided to engage yourself to such a monster?”
“What is to be done, monsieur l’officier? He proposes to give me good wages: three thousand roubles a year and everything found. Perhaps I may 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 Troekouroff’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 engagement, you were offered ten thousand roubles, ready money, on condition that you returned immediately to Paris?”
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 roubles; 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 opened his eyes. 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; the certificate of your birth ... 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 honour that all this will remain a secret between us.... Your word of honour.”
“My word of honour,” 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 Doubrovsky. They will believe you, and give you fresh papers. Farewell: God grant you a safe and speedy return to Paris, and may you find your mother in good health.”
Doubrovsky left the room, mounted the caliche, and galloped off.
The postmaster stood looking out of the window, and when the caliche had driven off, he turned to his wife, exclaiming:
“Pakhomovna, do you know who that was? That was Doubrovsky!”
The postmistress rushed towards the window, but it was too late. Doubrovsky was already a long way off. Then she began to scold her husband.
“You have no fear of God. Why did you not tell me sooner, I should at least have had a glimpse of Doubrovsky. But now I shall have to wait long enough before I get a chance of seeing him again. Shameless creature that you are!”
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. The postilion drove him very slowly, and he reached the town at nightfall.
On approaching the barrier, where, in place of a sentinel, stood a dilapidated sentry-box, the Frenchman told the postilion to stop, got out of thebritchkaand proceeded on foot, explaining by signs to the driver that he might keep the vehicle and the portmanteau and buy brandy with them. The driver was as much astonished at his generosity as the Frenchman himself had been by Doubrovsky’s proposal. But concluding that the “German”[2]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 that 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 thetroika,without thebritchkaand without the portmanteau, but with a swollen face and red eyes.
Doubrovsky, having possession of the Frenchman’s papers, boldly appeared, as we have already seen, at the house of Troekouroff, and there established himself. Whatever, were his secret intentions—we shall know them later on—there was nothing in his behaviour to excite suspicion. 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 his lessons, which were only given for form’s sake, but he paid great attention to the musical studies of his fair pupil, and frequently sat for hours beside her at the piano.
Everybody liked the young tutor: Kirila Petrovitch for his boldness and dexterity in the hunting-field; Maria 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 means. He himself seemed to be attached to the whole family, and already regarded himself as a member of it.
About a month had elapsed from the time of his entering upon the calling of tutor to the date of the memorable fête, 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 neighbourhood. During all this time, Doubrovsky had never quitted Pokrovskoe, 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 the absence of the chief.
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, Doubrovsky 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 frightened poor Anton Pafnoutitch by his unexpected transformation from a tutor into a brigand.
[1]A kind of open four-wheeled carriage, with a top and shutters to close at pleasure.
[1]A kind of open four-wheeled carriage, with a top and shutters to close at pleasure.
[2]A general name for all foreigners in Russia.
[2]A general name for all foreigners in Russia.
At nine o’clock in the morning, the guests who had passed the night at Pokrovskoe repaired one after the other to the sitting-room, where the tea-urn was already boiling, and before which sat Maria Kirilovna in a morning gown, and Kirila Petrovitch in a frieze coat and slippers, drinking his tea out of a large cup like a wash-hand basin.
The last to appear was Anton Pafnoutitch; he was so pale, and seemed so troubled, that everybody was struck by his appearance, and Kirila Petrovitch inquired after his health. Spitsin replied in an evasive manner, glaring with horror at the tutor, who sat there as if nothing had happened. A few minutes afterwards a servant entered and announced to Spitsin that his carriage was ready. Anton Pafnoutitch hastened to take his leave of the company, and then hurried out of the room and started off immediately. The guests and the host could not understand what had happened to him, and Kirila Petrovitch came to the conclusion that he was suffering from an attack of indigestion.
After tea and the farewell breakfast, the other guests began to take their leave, and soon Pokrovskoe became empty, and everything went on in the usual manner.
Several days passed, and nothing remarkable had happened. The life of the inhabitants of Pokrovskoe became very monotonous. Kirila Petrovitch went out hunting every day; while Maria Kirilovna devoted her time to reading, walking, and especially to musical exercises. 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 suspicions. With more and more confidence she gave herself up to the alluring habit of seeing him. She felt dull without Desforges, 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 unexpected reverse of destiny, the flame of passion would burst forth within her heart.
One day, on entering the parlour, where the tutor awaited her, Maria Kirilovna observed with astonishment that he looked pale and troubled. She opened the piano and sang a few notes; but Doubrovsky, under the pretext of a headaches, apologized, interrupted the lesson, closed the music, and slipped a note into her hand. Maria Kirilovna, without pausing to reflect, took it, and repented almost at the same moment for having done so. But Doubrovsky was no longer in the room. Maria Kirilovna went to her room, unfolded the note, and read as follows:
“Be in the arbour near the brook this evening, at seven o’clock: it is necessary that I should speak to you.”
Her curiosity was strongly excited. She had long expected a declaration, desiring it and dreading it at one and the same time. 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 go to the meeting-place, 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-humoured banter, or with silent sympathy. In the meantime she kept constantly looking at the clock. It grew-; dark: candles were brought in. Kirila Petrovitch sat down to play at “Boston”[1]with some of his neighbours who had come to pay him a visit. The clock struck a quarter to seven, and Maria Kirilovna walked quietly out on to the steps, looked round on every side, and then hastened 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 Maria Kirilovna went forward in the darkness along paths that were quite familiar to her, and in a few minutes she reached the arbour. There she paused in order to draw breath and to present herself before Desforges with an air of calm indifference. But Desforges 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.”
Maria 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.”
Maria Kirilovna made no reply. In these words she saw the preface to the expected declaration.
“I am not what you suppose,” continued he, lowering his head: “I am not the Frenchman Desforges—I am Doubrovsky.”
Maria 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 person, 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 his. All is over.... I have forgiven him; you have saved him. My first crime of blood was to have been accomplished upon him. I prowled round his house, determining where the fire should 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 person, connected with you by the ties of blood, could lie beneath my curse. I looked upon vengeance as madness, and dismissed the thought of it from my mind. Whole days I wandered around the gardens of Pokrovskoe, in the hope of seeing your white robe in the distance. In your incautious walks I followed you, stealing from bush to bush, happy in the thought that for you there was no danger, where I was secretly present. At last an opportunity presented itself.... I established myself 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 Doubrovsky. Know that he was born for another fate, that his soul was capable of loving you, that never——”
Just then a loud whistle resounded, and Doubrovsky became silent. He seized her hand and pressed it to his burning lips. The whistle was repeated.
“Farewell,” said Doubrovsky: “they are calling me. A moment’s delay may destroy me.”
He moved away.... Maria Kirilovna stood motionless. Doubrovsky returned and once more took her by the hand.
“If misfortune should ever overtake you, 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?”
Maria Kirilovna wept silently. The whistle resounded for the third time.
“You will destroy me!” cried Doubrovsky: “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 Doubrovsky, Maria Kirilovna returned from the garden. As she approached the house, she perceived a great crowd of people in the courtyard; atroikawas 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 Petrovitch, and she hastened to reach her room, fearing that her absence might be noticed. Kirila Petrovitch met her in the hall. The visitors were pressing round our old acquaintance the sheriff, and were overwhelming him with questions. The sheriff, in travelling dress, and armed from head to foot, answered them with a mysterious and anxious air.
“Where have you been, Masha?” asked Kirila Petrovitch. “Have you seen Monsieur Desforges?”
Masha could scarcely answer in the negative.
“Just imagine,” continued Kirila Petrovitch: “the sheriff has come to arrest him, and assures me that he is Doubrovsky.”
“He answers the description in every respect, Your Excellency,” said the sheriff respectfully.
“Oh! brother,” interrupted Kirila Petrovitch, “go to—you know where—with your descriptions. I will not surrender my Frenchman to you until I have investigated the matter myself. How can anyone believe the word of Anton Pafnoutitch, a coward and a clown? 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 threatened him, Your Excellency,” replied the sheriff, “and made him swear that he would preserve silence.”
“A pack of lies!” exclaimed Kirila Petrovitch: “I will have this mystery cleared up immediately. Where is the tutor?” he asked of a servant who entered at that moment.
“He cannot be found anywhere,” replied the servant.
“Then search for him!” cried Troekouroff, beginning to entertain doubts.
“Show me your vaunted description,” said he to the sheriff, who immediately handed him the paper.
“Hm! hm! twenty-three years old, etc., etc. That is so, but yet that does not prove anything. Well, what about the tutor?”
“He is not to be found,” was again the answer.
Kirila Petrovitch began to be uneasy; Maria Kirilovna was neither dead nor alive.
“You are pale, Masha,” remarked her father to her; “have they frightened you?”
“No, papa,” replied Masha; “I have a headache.”
“Go to your own room, Masha, and don’t be alarmed.”
Masha kissed his hand and retired hastily to her room. There she threw herself upon her bed and burst into a hysterical flood of tears. The maids hastened to her assistance, undressed her with difficulty, and with difficulty succeeded in calming her by means of cold water and all possible kinds of smelling salts. They put her to bed and she fell into a slumber.
In the meantime the Frenchman could not be found. Kirila Petrovitch paced up and down the room, loudly whistling his favourite military air. The visitors whispered among themselves; the sheriff looked foolish; the Frenchman was not to be found. Probably he had managed to escape through being warned beforehand. But by whom and how? That remained a mystery.
It was eleven o’clock, but nobody thought of sleep. At last Kirila Petrovitch said angrily to the sheriff:
“Well, do you wish to stop here till daylight? My house is not an inn. It is not by any cleverness on your part, brother, that Doubrovsky will be taken—if he really be Doubrovsky. Return home, and in future be a little quicker. And it is time for you to go home, too,” he continued, addressing his guests. “Order the horses to be got ready. I want to go to bed.”
In this ungracious manner did Troekouroff take leave of his guests.
[1]A card game that was very popular on the Continent at the beginning of the present century.
[1]A card game that was very popular on the Continent at the beginning of the present century.
Some time elapsed without anything remarkable happening. But at the beginning of the following summer, many changes occurred in the family arrangements of Kirila Petrovitch.
About thirty versts from Pokrovskoe was the wealthy estate of Prince Vereisky. The Prince had lived abroad for a long time, and his estate was managed by a retired major. No intercourse existed between Pokrovskoe and Arbatova. But at the end of the month of May, the Prince returned from abroad and took up his abode in his own village, which he had never seen since he was born. Accustomed to social pleasures, he could not endure solitude, and the third day after his arrival, he set out to dine with Troekouroff, with whom he had formerly been acquainted. The Prince was about fifty years of age, but he looked much older. Excesses of every kind had ruined his health, and had placed upon him their indelible stamp. In spite of that, his appearance was agreeable and distinguished, and his having always been accustomed to society gave him a certain affability of demeanour, especially towards ladies. He had a constant need of amusement, and he was a constant victim to ennui.
Kirila Petrovitch was exceedingly gratified by this visit, which he regarded as a mark of respect from a man who knew the world. In accordance with his usual custom, he began to entertain his visitor by conducting him to inspect his establishments and kennels. But the Prince could hardly breathe in the atmosphere of the dogs, and he hurried out, holding a scented handkerchief to his nose. The old garden, with its clipped limes, square pond and regular walks, did not please him; he did not like the English gardens and the so-called natural style, but he praised them and went into ecstasies over everything. The servant came to announce that dinner was served, and they repaired to the dining-room. The Prince limped, being fatigued after his walk, and already repenting for having paid his visit.
But in the dining-hall Maria Kirilovna met them—and the old sensualist was struck by her beauty. Troekouroff placed his guest beside her. The Prince was resuscitated by her presence; he became quite cheerful, and succeeded several times in arresting her attention by the recital of some of his curious stories. After dinner Kirila Petrovitch proposed a ride on horseback, but the Prince excused himself, pointing to his velvet boots and joking about his gout. He proposed a drive in a carriage, so that he should not be separated from his charming neighbour. The carriage was got ready. The two old men and the beautiful young girl took their seats in it, and they started off. The conversation did not flag. Maria Kirilovna listened with pleasure to the flattering compliments and witty remarks of the man of the world, when suddenly Vereisky, turning to Kirila Petrovitch, said to him: “What is the meaning of that burnt building—does it belong to you?”
Kirila Petrovitch frowned: the memories awakened by the burnt manor-house were disagreeable to him. He replied that the land was his now, but that formerly it had belonged to Doubrovsky.
“To Doubrovsky?” repeated Vereisky. “What! to the famous brigand?”
“To his father,” replied Troekouroff: “and the father himself was a true brigand.”
“And what has become of our Rinaldo? Have they caught him? Is he still alive?”
“He is still alive and at liberty. By the way, Prince, Doubrovsky paid you a visit at Arbatova.”
“Yes, last year, I think, he burnt or plundered something or other. Don’t you think, Maria Kirilovna, that it would be very interesting to make a closer acquaintance with this romantic hero?”
“Interesting!” said Troekouroff: “she knows him already. He taught her music for three whole weeks, and thank God, took nothing for his lessons.”
Then Kirila Petrovitch began to relate the story of the pretended French tutor. Maria Kirilovna felt as if she were sitting upon needles. Vereisky, listening with deep attention, found it all very strange, and changed the subject of conversation. On returning from the drive, he ordered his carriage to be brought, and in spite of the earnest requests of Kirila Petrovitch to stay for the night, he took his departure immediately after tea. Before setting out, however, he invited Kirila Petrovitch to pay him a visit and to bring Maria Kirilovna with him, and the proud Troekouroff promised to do so’; for taking into consideration his princely dignity, his two stars, and the three thousand serfs belonging to his estate, he regarded Prince Vereisky in some degree as his equal.
Two days after this visit, Kirila Petrovitch set out with his daughter for the abode of Prince Vereisky. On approaching Arbatova, he could not sufficiently admire the clean and cheerful-looking huts of the peasants, and the stone manor-house built in the style of an English castle. In front of the house stretched a close green lawn, upon which were grazing some Swiss cows tinkling their bells. A spacious park surrounded the house on every side. The master met the guests on the steps, and gave his arm to the young beauty. She was then conducted into a magnificent hall, where the table was laid for three. The Prince led his guests to a window, and a charming view opened out before them. The Volga flowed past the windows, and upon its bosom floated laden barges under full sail, and small fishing-boats known by the expressive name of “soul-destroyers.” Beyond the river stretched hills and fields, and several little villages animated the landscape.
Then they proceeded to inspect the galleries of pictures bought by the Prince in foreign countries. The Prince explained to Maria Kirilovna their various characteristics, related the history of the painters, and pointed out their merits and defects. He did not speak of pictures in the pretentious language of the pedantic connoisseur, but with feeling and imagination. Maria Kirilovna listened to him with pleasure.
They sat down to table. Troekouroff rendered full justice to the wines of his Amphytrion, and to the skill of his cook; while Maria Kirilovna did not feel at all confused or constrained in her conversation with a man whom she now saw for the second time in her life. After dinner the host proposed to his guests that they should go into the garden. They drank coffee in the arbour on the bank of a broad lake studded with little islands. Suddenly resounded the music of wind instruments, and a six-oared boat drew up before the arbour. They rowed on the lake, round the islands, and visited some of them. On one they found a marble statue; on another, a lonely grotto; on a third, a monument with a mysterious inscription, which awakened within Maria Kirilovna a girlish curiosity not completely satisfied by the polite but reticent explanations of the Prince. The time passed imperceptibly. It began to grow dark. The Prince, under the pretext of the cold and the dew, hastened to return to the house, where the tea-urn awaited them. The Prince requested Maria Kirilovna to discharge the functions of hostess in his bachelor’s home. She poured out the tea, listening to the inexhaustible stories of the charming talker. Suddenly a shot was heard, and a rocket illuminated the sky. The Prince gave Maria Kirilovna a shawl, and led her and Troekouroff on to the balcony. In front of the house, in the darkness, different coloured fires blazed up, whirled round, rose up in sheaves, poured out in fountains, fell in showers of rain and stars, went out and then burst into a blaze again. Maria Kirilovna was as delighted as a child. Prince Vereisky was delighted with her enjoyment, and Troekouroff was very well satisfied with him, for he acceptedtous les fraisof the Prince as signs of respect and a desire to please him.
The supper was quite equal to the dinner in every respect. Then the guests retired to the rooms assigned to them, and the next morning took leave of their amiable host, promising each other soon to meet again.
Aria Kirilovna was sitting in her room, embroidering at her frame before the open window. She did not entangle her threads like Conrad’s mistress, who, in her amorous distraction, embroidered a rose with green silk. Under her needle, the canvas repeated unerringly the design of the original; but in spite of that, her thoughts did not follow her work—they were far away.
Suddenly an arm passed silently through the window, placed a letter upon the frame and disappeared before Maria Kirilovna could recover herself. At the same moment a servant entered to call her to Kirila Petrovitch. Trembling very much, she hid the letter under her fichu and hastened to her father in his study.
Kirila Petrovitch was not alone. Prince Vereisky was sitting in the room with him. On the appearance of Maria Kirilovna, the Prince rose and silently bowed, with a confusion that was quite unusual in him.
“Come here, Masha,” said Kirila Petrovitch: “I have a piece of news to tell you which I hope will please you very much. Here is a sweetheart for you: the Prince proposes for your hand.”
Masha was dumfounded; a deadly pallor overspread her countenance. She was silent. The Prince approached her, took her hand, and with a tender look, asked her if she would consent to make him happy. Masha remained silent.
“Consent? Of course she will consent,” said Kirila Petrovitch; “but you know, Prince, it is difficult for a girl to say such a word as that. Well, children, kiss one another and be happy.”
Masha stood motionless; the old Prince kissed her hand. Suddenly the tears began to stream down her pale cheeks. The Prince frowned slightly.
“Go, go, go!” said Kirila Petrovitch: “dry your tears and come back to us in a merry humour. They all weep at the moment of being betrothed,” he continued, turning to Vereisky; “it is their custom. Now, Prince, let us talk about business, that is to say, about the dowry.”
Maria Kirilovna eagerly took advantage of the permission to retire. She ran to her room, locked herself in and gave way to her tears, already imagining herself the wife of the old Prince. He had suddenly become repugnant and hateful to her. Marriage terrified her, like the block, like the grave.
“No, no,” She repeated in, despair; “I would rather go into a convent, I would rather marry Doubrovsky....”
Then she remembered the letter and eagerly began 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 as before.”
The moon was shining; the night was calm; the wind rose now and then, and a gentle rustle ran over the garden.
Like a light shadow, the beautiful young girl drew near to the appointed meeting-place. Nobody was yet visible, when suddenly, from behind the arbour, Doubrovsky appeared before her.
“I know all,” he said to her in a low, sad voice; “remember your promise.”
“You offer me your protection,” replied Masha; “do not be angry—but the idea alarms me. In what way can you help me?”
“I can deliver you from a detested man....”
“For God’s sake, do not touch him, do not venture to touch him, if you love me. I do not wish to be the cause of any horror....”
“I will not touch him: your wish is sacred for me. He owes his life to you. Never shall a crime be committed in your name. You shall not be stigmatized on account of my misdeeds. But how can I save you from a cruel father?”
“There is still hope; I hope to touch him with my tears—my despair. He is obstinate, but he loves me very dearly.”
“Do not put your trust in a vain hope. In those tears he will see only the usual timidity and aversion common to all young girls, when they marry from motives of interest and not from affection. But if he takes it into his head to accomplish your happiness in spite of yourself? If you are conducted to the altar by force, in order that your destiny may be placed for ever in the hands of an old man?”
“Then—then there will be nothing else to do. Come for me—I will be your wife.”
Doubrovsky trembled; his pale face became covered with a deep flush, and the next minute he became paler than before. He remained silent for a long time, with his head bent down.
“Muster the full strength of your soul, implore your father, throw yourself at his feet; represent to him all the horror of the future that he is preparing for you, your youth fading away by the side of a feeble and dissipated old man. Tell him that riches will not procure for you a single moment of happiness. Luxury consoles poverty alone, and even in that case only for a brief season. Do not be put off by him, and do not be frightened either by his anger or by his threats, as long as there remains the least shadow of hope. For God’s sake do not leave off importuning him. If, however, you have no other resource left, decide upon a plain speaking explanation; tell him that if he remains inexorable, then—then you will find a terrible protector.”
Here Doubrovsky covered his face with his hands; he seemed to be choking. Masha wept.
“My miserable, miserable fate!” said he, with a bitter sigh. “For you I would have given my life. To see you from afar, to touch your hand was for me happiness beyond expression; and when there opens up before me the possibility of pressing you to my agitated heart, and saying to you: ‘I am yours for ever’—miserable creature that I am! I must fly from such happiness, I must repel it from me with all my strength. I dare not throw myself at your feet and thank Heaven for an incomprehensible, unmerited reward. Oh! how I ought to hate him who—but I feel that now there is no place in my heart for hatred.”
He gently passed his arm round her slender figure and pressed her tenderly to his heart. She confidingly leaned her head upon the young brigand’s shoulder and both remained silent.... The time flew past.
“It is time,” said Masha at last.
Doubrovsky seemed as if awakening from a dream. He took her hand and placed a ring on her finger.
“If you decide upon having recourse to me,” said he, “then bring the ring here and place it in the hollow of this oak. I shall know what to do.”
Doubrovsky kissed her hand and disappeared among the trees.
Prince Vereisky’s intention of getting married was no longer a secret in the neighbourhood. Kirila Petrovitch received the congratulations of his acquaintances, and preparations were made for the wedding. Masha postponed from day to day the decisive explanation. In the meantime her manner towards her elderly lover was cold and constrained. The Prince did not trouble himself about that; the question of love gave him no concern; her silent consent was quite sufficient for him.
But the time went past. Masha at last decided to act, and wrote a letter to Prince Vereisky. She tried to awaken within his heart a feeling of magnanimity, candidly confessing that she had not the least attachment for him, and entreating him to renounce her hand and even to protect her from the tyranny of her father. She furtively delivered the letter to Prince Vereisky. The latter read it alone, but was not in the least moved by the candour of his betrothed. On the contrary, he perceived the necessity of hastening the marriage, and therefore he showed the letter to his future father-in-law.
Kirila Petrovitch was furious, and it was with difficulty that the Prince succeeded in persuading him not to let Masha see that he was acquainted with the contents of the letter. Kirila Petrovitch promised not to speak about the matter to her, but he resolved to lose no time and fixed the wedding for the next day. The Prince found this very reasonable, and he went to his betrothed and told her that her letter had grieved him very much, but that he hoped in time to gain her affection; that the thought of resigning her was too much for him to bear, and that he had not the strength to consent to his own sentence of death. Then he kissed her hand respectfully and took his departure, without saying a word to her about Kirila Petrovitch’s decision.
But scarcely had he left the house, when her father entered and peremptorily ordered her to be ready for the next day. Maria Kirilovna, already agitated by the interview with Prince Vereisky, burst into tears and threw herself at her father’s feet.
“Papa!” she cried in a plaintive voice, “papa! do not destroy me. I do not love the Prince, I do not wish to be his wife.”
“What does this mean?” said Kirila Petrovitch, fiercely. “Up till the present you have kept silent and consented, and now, when everything is decided upon, you become capricious and refuse to accept him. Don’t act the fool; you will gain nothing from me by so doing.”
“Do not destroy me!” repeated poor Masha. “Why are you sending me away from you and giving me to a man that I do not love? Do I weary you? I want to stay with you as before. Papa, you will be sad without me, and sadder still when you know that I am unhappy. Papa, do not force me: I do not wish to marry.”
Kirila Petrovitch was touched, but he concealed his emotion, and pushing her away from him, said harshly:
“That is all nonsense, do you hear? I know better than you what is necessary for your happiness. Tears will not help you. The day after to-morrow your wedding will take place.
“The day after to-morrow!” exclaimed Masha. “My God! No, no, impossible; it cannot be! Papa, hear me: if you have resolved to destroy me, then I will find a protector that you do not dream of. You will see, and then you will regret having driven me to despair.”
“What? What?” said Troekouroff. “Threats! threats to me? Insolent girl! Do you know that I will do with you what you little imagine. You dare to frighten me, you worthless girl! We will see who this protector will be.”
“Vladimir Doubrovsky,” replied Masha, in despair.
Kirila Petrovitch thought that she had gone out of her mind, and looked at her in astonishment.
“Very well!” said he to her, after an interval of silence; “expect whom you please to deliver you, but, in the meantime, remain in this room—you shall not leave it till the very moment of the wedding.”
With these words Kirila Petrovitch went out, locking the door behind him.
For a long time the poor girl wept, imagining all that awaited her. But the stormy interview had lightened her soul, and she could more calmly consider the question of her future and what it behoved her to do. The principal thing was—to free herself from this odious marriage. The lot of a brigand’s wife seemed paradise to her in comparison with the fate prepared for her. She glanced at the ring given to her by Doubrovsky. Ardently did she long to see him alone once more before the decisive moment, so that she might concert measures with him. A presentiment told her that in the evening she would find Doubrovsky in the garden, near the arbour; she resolved to go and wait for him there.
As soon as it began to grow dark, Masha prepared to carry out her intention, but the door of her room was locked. Her maid told her from the other side of the door, that Kirila Petrovitch had given orders that she was not to be let out. She was under arrest. Deeply hurt, she sat down by the window and remained there till late in the night, without undressing, gazing fixedly at the dark sky. Towards dawn she began to doze; but her light sleep was disturbed by sad visions, and she was soon awakened by the rays of the rising sun.
She awoke, and all the horror of her position rose up in her mind. She rang. The maid entered, and in answer to her questions, replied that Kirila Petrovitch had set out the evening before for Arbatova, and had returned very late; that he had given strict orders that she was not to be allowed out of her room and that nobody was to be permitted to speak to her; that otherwise, there were no signs of any particular preparations for the wedding, except that the pope had been ordered not to leave the village under any pretext whatever. After disburdening herself of this news, the maid left Maria Kirilovna and again locked the door.
Her words hardened the young prisoner. Her head burned, her blood boiled. She resolved to inform Doubrovsky of everything, and she began to think of some means by which she could get the ring conveyed to the hole in the sacred oak. At that moment a stone struck against her window; the glass rattled, and Maria Kirilovna, looking out into the courtyard, saw the little Sasha making signs to her. She knew that he was attached to her, and she was pleased to see him.
“Good morning, Sasha; why do you call me?”
“I came, sister, to know if you wanted anything. Papa is angry, and has forbidden the whole house to obey you; but order me to do whatever you like, and I will do it for you.”
“Thank you, my dear Sasha. Listen; you know the old hollow oak near the arbour?”
“Yes, I know it, sister.”
“Then, if you love me, run there as quickly as you can and put this ring in the hollow; but take care that nobody sees you.”
With these words, she threw the ring to him and closed the window.
The lad picked up the ring, and ran off with all his might, and in three minutes he arrived at the sacred tree. There he paused, quite out of breath, and after looking round on every side, placed the ring in the hollow. Having successfully accomplished his mission, he wanted to inform Maria Kirilovna of the fact at once, when suddenly a red-haired ragged boy darted out from behind the arbour, dashed towards the oak and thrust his hand into the hole. Sasha, quicker than a squirrel, threw himself upon him and seized him with both hands.
“What are you doing here?” said he sternly.
“What business is that of yours?” said the boy, trying to disengage himself.
“Leave that ring alone, red head,” cried Sasha, “or I will teach you a lesson in my own style.”
Instead of replying, the boy gave him a blow in the face with his fist; but Sasha still held him firmly in his grasp, and cried out at the top of his voice:
“Thieves! thieves! help! help!”
The boy tried to get away from him. He seemed to be about two years older than Sasha, and very much stronger; but Sasha was more agile. They struggled together for some minutes; at last the red-headed boy gained the advantage. He threw Sasha upon the ground and seized him by the throat. But at that moment a strong hand grasped hold of his shaggy red hair, and Stepan, the gardener, lifted him half a yard from the ground.
“Ah! you red-headed beast!” said the gardener. “How dare you strike the young gentleman?”
In the meantime, Sasha had jumped to his feet and recovered himself.
“You caught me under the arm-pits,” said he, “or you would never have thrown me. Give me the ring at once and be off.”
“It’s likely!” replied the red-headed one, and suddenly twisting himself round, he disengaged his bristles from Stepan’s hand.
Then he started off running, but Sasha overtook him, gave him a blow in the back, and the boy fell. The gardener again seized him and bound him with his belt.
“Give me the ring!” cried Sasha.
“Wait a moment, young master,” said Stepan; “we will lead him to the bailiff to be questioned.”.
The gardener led the captive into the courtyard of the manor-house, accompanied by Sasha, who glanced uneasily at his trousers, torn and stained with the grass. Suddenly all three found themselves face to face with Kirila Petrovitch, who was going to inspect his stables.
“What is the meaning of this?” he said to Stepan.
Stepan in a few words related all that had happened.
Kirila Petrovitch listened to him with attention.
“You rascal,” said he, turning to Sasha: “why did you wrestle with him?”
“He stole a ring out of the hollow tree, papa; make him give up the ring.”
“What ring? Out of what hollow tree?”
“The one that Maria Kirilovna ... the ring....” Sasha stammered and became confused. Kirila Petrovitch frowned and said, shaking his head:
“Ah! Maria Kirilovna is mixed up in this. Confess everything, or I will give you such a birching as you have never had in your life.”
“As true as heaven, papa, I ... papa ... Maria Kirilovna never told me to do anything, papa.”
“Stepan, go and cut me some fine, fresh birch twigs.”
“Stop, papa, I will tell you all. I was running about the courtyard to-day, when sister Maria Kirilovna opened the window. I ran towards her, and she accidentally dropped a ring, and I went and hid it in the hollow tree, and ... and this red-headed fellow wanted to steal the ring.”
“She did not drop it accidentally,—you wanted to hide it ... Stepan, go and get the birch twigs.”
“Papa, wait, I will tell you everything. Sister Maria Kirilovna told me to run to the oak tree and put the ring in the hollow; I ran and did so, but this nasty fellow——”
Kirila Petrovitch turned to the “nasty fellow” and said to him sternly:
“To whom do you belong?”
“I belong to my master Doubrovsky.”
Kirila Petrovitch’s face grew dark.
“It seems, then, that you do not recognize me as your master. Very well. What were you doing in my garden?”
“I was stealing raspberries.”
“Ah, ah! the servant is like his master. As the pope is, so is his parish. And do my raspberries grow upon oak trees? Have you ever heard so?”
The boy did not reply.
“Papa, make him give up the ring,” said Sasha.
“Silence, Alexander!” replied Kirila Petrovitch; “don’t forget that I intend to settle with you presently. Go to your room. And you, squint-eyes, you seem to me to be a knowing sort of lad; if you confess everything to me, I will not whip you, but will give you a five copeck piece to buy nuts with. Give up the ring and go.”
The boy opened his fist and showed that there was nothing in his hand.
“If you don’t, I shall do something to you that you little expect. Now!”
The boy did not answer a word, but stood with his head bent down, looking like a perfect simpleton.
“Very well!” said Kirila Petrovitch: “lock him up somewhere, and see that he does not escape, or I’ll skin the whole household.”
Stepan conducted the boy to the pigeon loft, locked him in there, and ordered the old poultry woman, Agatha, to keep a watch upon him.
“There is no doubt about it: she has kept up intercourse with that accursed Doubrovsky. But if she has really invoked his aid——” thought Kirila Petrovitch, pacing up and down the room, and angrily whistling his favourite air,——“I am hot upon his track, at all events, and he shall not escape me. We shall take advantage of this opportunity.... Hark! a bell; thank God, that is the sheriff. Bring here the boy that is locked up.”
In the meantime, a smalltelegadrove into the courtyard, and our old acquaintance, the sheriff, entered the room, all covered with dust.
“Glorious news!” said Kirila Petrovitch: “I have caught Doubrovsky.”
“Thank God, Your Excellency!” said the sheriff, his face beaming with delight. “Where is he?”
“That is to say, not Doubrovsky himself, but one of his band. He will be here presently. He will help us to apprehend his chief. Here he is.”
The sheriff, who expected to see some fierce-looking brigand, was astonished to perceive a lad of thirteen years of age, of somewhat delicate appearance. He turned to Kirila Petrovitch with an incredulous look, and awaited an explanation. Kirila Petrovitch then began to relate the events of the morning, without, however, mentioning the name of Maria Kirilovna.
The sheriff listened to him attentively, glancing from time to time at the young rogue, who, assuming a look of imbecility, seemed to be paying no attention to all that was going on around him.
“Will Your Excellency allow me to speak to you apart?” said the sheriff at last.
Kirila Petrovitch conducted him into the next room and locked the door after him.
Half an hour afterwards they returned to the hall, where the captive was awaiting the decision respecting his fate.
“The master wished,” said the sheriff to him, “to have you locked up in the town gaol, to be whipped, and then to be sent to the convict settlement; but I interceded for you and have obtained your pardon. Untie him!”
The lad was unbound.
“Thank the master,” said the sheriff.
The lad went up to Kirila Petrovitch and kissed his hand.
“Run away home,” said Kirila Petrovitch to him, “and in future do not steal raspberries from oak trees.”
The lad went out, ran merrily down the steps, and without looking behind him, dashed off across the fields in the direction of Kistenevka. On reaching the village, he stopped at a half-ruined hut, the first from the corner, and tapped at the window. The window was opened, and an old woman appeared.
“Grandmother, some bread!” said the boy: “I have eaten nothing since this morning; I am dying of hunger.”
“Ah! it is you, Mitia;[1]but where have you been all this time, you little devil?” asked the old woman.
“I will tell you afterwards, grandmother. For God’s sake, some bread!”
“Come into the hut, then.”
“I haven’t the time, grandmother; I’ve got to run on to another place. Bread, for the Lord’s sake, bread!”
“What a fidget!” grumbled the old woman: “there’s a piece for you,” and she pushed through the window a slice of black bread.
The boy bit it with avidity, and then continued his course, eating it as he went.
It was beginning to grow dark. Mitia made his way along by the corn kilns and kitchen gardens into the Kistenevka wood. On arriving at the two pine trees, standing like advanced guards before the wood, he paused, looked round on every side, gave a shrill, abrupt whistle, and then listened. A light and prolonged whistle was heard in reply, and somebody came out of the wood and advanced towards him.