“Tell Kirila Petrovich to take himself off as quickly as possible, before I have him turned out — go!”
The servant gladly left the room to execute his master’s orders. Yegorovna struck her hands together. “Master,” she exclaimed in a piping voice, “you will do for yourself! Kirila Petrovich will devour us all.”
“Silence, nurse,” said Vladimir angrily: “send Anton to town at once for a doctor.”
Yegorovna left the room. There was nobody in the ante-chamber; all the domestics had run out into the courtyard to look at Kirila Petrovich. She went out on the steps and heard the servant deliver his young master’s word. Kirila Petrovich heard it, seated in the droshky; his face became darker than night; he smiled contemptuously, looked threateningly at the assembled domestics, and then drove slowly out of the courtyard. He glanced up at the window where, a minute before, Andrey Gavrilovich had been sitting, but he was no longer there. The nurse remained standing on the steps, forgetful of her master’s order. The domestics were noisily talking of what had just occurred. Suddenly Vladimir appeared in the midst of them, and said abruptly:
“There is no need for a doctor — father is dead!” General consternation followed. The domestics rushed to the room of their old master. He was lying in the arm-chair in which Vladimir had placed him; his right arm hung down to the floor, his head was sunk on his chest — there was not the least sign of life in his body, which, although not yet cold, was already disfigured by death. Yegorovna set up a wail. The domestics surrounded the corpse, which was left to their care, washed it, dressed it in a uniform made in the year 1797, and laid it out on the same table at which for so many years they had waited upon their master.
V
THE funeral took place on the third day. The body of the poor old man lay in the coffin, covered with a shroud and surrounded by candles. The dining-room was filled with domestics, ready to carry out the corpse. Vladimir and three servants raised the coffin. The priest went in front, followed by the deacon, chanting the prayers for the dead. The master of Kistenyovka crossed the threshold of his house for the last time. The coffin was carried through the wood — the church lay just behind it. The day was clear and cold; the autumn leaves were falling from the trees. On emerging from the wood, they saw before them the wooden church of Kistenyovka and the cemetery shaded by old lime trees. There reposed the body of Vladimir’s mother; there, beside her tomb, a new grave had been dug the day before.
The church was full of the Kistenyovka peasantry, come to render the last homage to their master. Young Dubrovsky stood in the chancel; he neither wept nor prayed, but the expression on his face was terrible. The sad ceremony came to an end. Vladimir approached first to take leave of the corpse, after him came the domestics. The lid was brought and nailed upon the coffin. The women wailed loudly, and the men frequently wiped away their tears with their fists. Vladimir and three of the servants carried the coffin to the cemetery, accompanied by the whole village. The coffin was lowered into the grave, all present threw upon it a handful of earth, the pit was filled up, the crowd saluted for the last time and then dispersed. Vladimir hastily departed, got ahead of everybody, and disappeared into the Kistenyovka wood.
Yegorovna, in her master’s name, invited the priest and all the clergy to a funeral feast, informing them that her young master did not intend being present.
Then Father Anton, his wife Fedotovna and the deacon set out on foot for the manor-house, discoursing with Yegorovna upon the virtues of the deceased and upon what, in all probability, awaited his heir. The visit of Troyekurov and the reception given to him were already known to the whole neighborhood, and the local politicians predicted that it would have serious consequences.
“What is to be, will be,” said the priest’s wife: “but it will be a pity if Vladimir Andreyevich does not become our master. He is a fine young fellow, there is no denying that.”
“And who is to be our master if he is not to be?” interrupted Yegorovna. “Kirila Petrovich is storming to no purpose — it’s no timid soul he has to deal with. My young falcon will know how to stand up for his rights, and with God’s help, his friends in high places will stick up for him. Kirila Petrovich is too proud; and yet he did put his tail between his legs when my Grishka cried out to him: ‘Be off, you old cur! Clear out of the place!’”
“Oh! Yegorovna,” said the deacon, “however could he bring his tongue to utter such words? I think I could more easily bring myself to gainsay the bishop than look askance at Kirila Petrovich. I shiver and shake at the very sight of him, and my back bends of itself, of itself!”
“Vanity of vanities!” said the priest: “the service for the dead will some day be chanted for Kirila Petrovich, as it was today for Andrey Gavrilovich; the funeral will perhaps be more imposing, and more guests will be invited; but is it not all the same to God?”
“Oh, father, we wanted to invite all the neighborhood, but Vladimir Andreyevich forbade it. To be sure, we have plenty to entertain people with.... but what would you have had us do? At all events, if there are not many people I will treat you well, our dear guests.” This friendly promise and the hope of finding a toothsome pie, caused the talkers to quicken their steps, and they safely reached the manor-house, where the table was already laid and vodka served.
Meanwhile Vladimir advanced further into the depth of the wood, trying to deaden his grief by tiring himself out. He walked on without troubling to keep to the road; the branches constantly caught at and scratched him, and his feet continually sank into the swamp — he observed nothing. At last he reached a small glade surrounded by trees on every side; a little stream wound silently through the trees, half-stripped of their leaves by the autumn. Vladimir stopped, sat down upon the cold turf, and thoughts, each more gloomy than the other, crowded his mind.... He felt his loneliness very keenly; the future appeared to him enveloped in threatening clouds. Troyekurov’s enmity foreboded fresh misfortunes for him. His modest heritage might pass from him into the hands of another, in which case destitution awaited him. For a long time he sat quite motionless, observing the gentle flow of the stream, bearing along on its surface a few withered leaves, and vividly presenting to him a true image of life. At last he noticed that it was growing dark; he arose and began to look for the road home, but for a long time he wandered about the unknown forest before he stumbled upon the path which led straight up to the gate of his house.
There he saw the priest and his companions coming toward him. The thought immediately occurred to him that this foreboded misfortune. He automatically turned aside and disappeared behind the trees. They had not caught sight of him, and they continued talking heatedly among themselves as they passed him.
“Fly from evil and do good,” said the priest to his wife. “There is no need for us to remain here; it does not concern us, however the business may end.”
The priest’s wife made some reply, but Vladimir could not hear what she said.
Approaching the house, he saw a crowd of people; peasants and house serfs filled the courtyard. In the distance Vladimir could hear an unusual noise and the sound of voices. Near the shed stood two troikas. On the steps several unknown men in uniform were seemingly engaged in conversation.
“What does this mean?” he asked angrily of Anton, who ran forward to meet him. “Who are these people, and what do they want?”
“Oh, father Vladimir Andreyevich,” replied Anton, out of breath, “the magistrates have come. They are handing us over to Troyekurov, they are taking us from your honor!...”
Vladimir hung his head; his people surrounded their unhappy master.
“You are our father,” they cried, kissing his hands. “We want no other master but you. We will die, but we will not leave you. Give us the order, and we will settle the officials.”
Vladimir looked at them, and strange feelings moved him.
“Keep quiet,” he said to them: “I will speak to the officers.”
“That’s it — speak to them,
father,” shouted the crowd: “bring the accursed wretches to reason!” Vladimir approached the officials. Shabashkin, with his cap on his head, stood with his arms akimbo, looking proudly around him. The sheriff, a tall stout man, of about fifty years of age, with a red face and a mustache, seeing Dubrovsky approach, cleared his throat and called out in a hoarse voice:
“And therefore I repeat to you what I have already said: by the decision of the district Court, you now be-
long to Kirila Petrovich Troyekurov, who is here represented by Mr. Shabashkin. Obey all his orders; and you, women, love and honor him, for he is certainly fond of you.”
At this coarse joke the sheriff guffawed, Shabashkin and the other officials following his example. Vladimir was boiling with indignation.
“Allow me to ask, what does all this mean?” he inquired, with pretended calmness, of the jocular police officer.
“It means,” replied the witty official, “that we have come to place Kirila Petrovich Troyekurov in possession of this property, and to request certain others to take themselves off while they can do it in peace.”
“But I think that you could have communicated all this to me first, rather than to my peasants, and announced to the landowner the decision of the authorities — ”
“The former landowner, Andrey Gavrilovich Dubrovsky, died by the will of God; and who are you anyway?” said Shabashkin, with an insolent look. “We do not know you, and we don’t want to know you.”
“Your honor, that is our young master, Vladimir Andreyevich,” said a voice in the crowd.
“Who dared to open his mouth?” said the sheriff ferociously. “What master? What Vladimir Andreyevich? Your master is Kirila Petrovich Troyekurov.... do you hear, you blockheads?”
“Not quite!” said the same voice.
“But this is a revolt!” shrieked the police officer. “Hi, bailiff, come here!”
The bailiff stepped forward.
“Find out immediately who it was that dared to answer me. I’ll teach him a lesson!”
The bailiff turned toward the crowd and asked who had spoken. But all remained silent. Soon a murmur was heard at the back; it gradually grew louder, and in a minute it broke out into a terrible clamor. The sheriff lowered his voice and was about to try to persuade them to be calm.
“Don’t pay attention to him!” cried the house serfs; “Lay on, lads!” And the crowd lurched forward.
Shabashkin and the others rushed into the vestibule, and locked the door behind them.
“Break in, lads!” cried the same voice, and the crowd pressed forward.
“Hold!” cried Dubrovsky: “idiots! what are you doing? You will ruin yourselves and me, too. Go home all of you, and leave me to myself. Don’t fear, the Czar is merciful: I will present a petition to him — he will not let us be wronged. We are all his children. But how can he stand up for you, if you begin acting like rebels and brigands?”
This speech of young Dubrovsky’s, his resonant voice and imposing appearance, produced the desired effect. The crowd grew quiet and dispersed; the courtyard became empty, the officials kept indoors. Vladimir sadly ascended the steps. Shabashkin cautiously unlocked the door, came out on to the steps and with obsequious bows began to thank Dubrovsky for his kind intervention.
Vladimir listened to him with contempt and made no reply.
“We have decided,” continued the assessor, “with your permission, to remain here for the night, as it is already dark, and your peasants might attack us on the road. Be kind enough to order some hay to be put down for us on the parlor floor; as soon as it is daylight, we will leave.”
“Do what you please,” replied Dubrovsky drily: “I am no longer master here.”
With these words he retired to his father’s room and locked the door behind him.
VI
“AND SO, I’m done for!” said Vladimir to himself, “This morning I had a corner and a piece of bread; tomorrow I must leave the house where I was born. My father, with the ground where he reposes, will belong to that hateful man, the cause of his death and of my ruin!”... Vladimir clenched his teeth and fixed his eyes upon the portrait of his mother. The artist had represented her leaning upon a balustrade, in a white morning dress, with a rose in her hair.
“And that portrait will fall into the hands of the enemy of my family,” thought Vladimir. “It will be thrown into a lumber room together with broken chairs, or hung up in the ante-room, to become an object of derision for his whips; and in her bedroom, in the room where my father died, will be installed his bailiff, or his harem. No, no! he shall not have possession of the house of mourning, from which he is driving me.”
Vladimir clenched his teeth again; terrible thoughts rose up in his mind. The voices of the officials reached him; they were giving orders, demanding first one thing and then another, and disagreeably disturbing him in the midst of his sad meditations.
At last all became quiet.
Vladimir unlocked the chests and boxes and began to examine the papers of the deceased. They consisted for the most part of accounts and business letters. Vladimir tore them up without reading them. Among them he came across a packet with the inscription: “Letters from my wife.” A prey to deep emotion, Vladimir began to read them. They had been written during the Turkish campaign, and were addressed to the army from Kistenyovka. She described to her husband her lonely life and the affairs of the farm, complained with tenderness of the separation, and implored him to return home as soon as possible to the arms of his good wife. In one of these letters, she expressed to him her anxiety concerning the health of little Vladimir; in another she rejoiced over his early intelligence, and predicted for him a happy and brilliant future. Vladimir was so absorbed in his reading, that he forgot everything else in the world as his mind conjured up visions of domestic happiness, and he did not observe how the time was passing: the clock upon the wall struck eleven. Vladimir placed the letters in his pocket, took a candle and left the room. In the parlor the officials were sleeping on the floor. Upon the table were tumblers which they had emptied, and a strong smell of rum pervaded the entire room. Vladimir turned from them with disgust, and passed into the ante-room. The doors were locked. Not finding the key, Vladimir returned to the parlor; the key was lying on the table. Vladimir unlocked the door and stumbled on a man who was crouching in a corner. An ax glistened in his hands. Turning the candle on him, Vladimir recognized Arkhip the blacksmith.
“Why are you here?” he asked.
“Oh, Vladimir Andreyevich, it’s you!” Arkhip answered in a whisper. “Tbe Lord save and preserve us! It’s a good thing that you had a candle with you.”
Vladimir looked at him in amazement.
“Why are you hiding here?” he asked the blacksmith.
“I wanted — I came to find out if they were all in the house,” replied Arkhip, in a low faltering voice.
“And why have you got your ax?”
“Why have I got my ax? Can anybody go about nowadays without an ax? These officials are such impudent knaves, that one never knows — ”
“You are drunk; drop the ax and go sleep it off.”
“I drunk? Master Vladimir Andreyevich, God is my witness that not a single drop of brandy has passed my lips, nor has the thought of such a thing entered my mind. Would the thought of drink enter my mind at a time like this? Was ever such a thing heard of? These clerks have taken it into their heads to rule over us and to drive our master out of the manor-house.... How they snore, the wretches! I’d put an end to the lot and be done with it.”
Dubrovsky frowned.
“Listen, Arkhip,” said he, after a short pause: “Get such ideas out of your head. It is not the fault of the officials. Light the lantern and follow me.”
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.
“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?”
The Queen of Spades and Selected Works (Pushkin Collection) Page 76