Works of Alexander Pushkin

by Alexander Pushkin

  XIII

  SOME TIME elapsed without anything remarkable happening. But at the beginning of the following summer, many changes occurred in the family life of Kirila Petrovich.

  About thirty versts from Pokrovskoye was the wealthy estate of Prince Vereysky. The Prince had lived abroad for a long time, and his estate was managed by a retired major. No intercourse existed between Pokrovskoye and Arbatovo. But at the end of the month of May, the Prince returned from abroad and took up residence 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 Troyekurov, 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 adroitness, especially with women. He had a constant need of amusement, and he was a constant victim of ennui.

  Kirila Petrovich 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 out-buildings and kennels. But the Prince could hardly breathe in the atmosphere of the kennels, 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 liked English gardens and so-called nature; but he praised and admired everything. The servant came to announce that dinner was served, and they went in to dine. The Prince limped, being fatigued after his walk, and already repenting his visit.

  But in the reception room Marya Kirilovna met them — and the old roue was struck by her beauty. Troyekurov placed his guest beside her. The Prince was revived by her presence; he became quite cheerful, and succeeded several times in arresting her attention by his curious stories. After dinner Kirila Petrovich proposed a ride on horseback, but the Prince excused himself, pointing to his velvet boots and joking about his gout. He preferred a drive in a carriage, so that he should not be separated from his charming neighbor. The carriage was got ready. The two old men and the beautiful young girl took their seats in it, and they drove off. The conversation did not flag. Marya Kirilovna listened with pleasure to the flattering compliments and witty remarks of the man of the world, when suddenly Vereysky, turning to Kirila Petrovich, asked him what that burnt building was, and whether it belonged to him.

  Kirila Petrovich 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 Dubrovsky.

  “To Dubrovsky?” repeated Vereysky. “What! to the famous brigand?”

  “To his father,” replied Troyekurov: “and the father himself was something of a brigand, too.”

  “And what has become of our Rinaldo? Have they caught him? Is he still alive?”

  “He is still alive and at liberty, and as long as our sheriffs are in league with thieves he will not be caught. By the way, Prince, Dubrovsky paid you a visit at Ar- batovo.”

  “Yes, last year, I think, he burnt something down or got away with some loot. Don’t you think, Marya Kirilovna, that it would be very interesting to make a closer acquaintance with this romantic hero?”

  “Interesting!” said Troyekurov: “she knows him already. He taught her music for three whole weeks, and thank God, took nothing for his lessons.”

  Then Kirila Petrovich began to relate the story of his French tutor. Marya Kirilovna was on pins and needles. Vereysky, listening with deep attention, found it all very strange, and changed the subject. On returning from the drive, he ordered his carriage to be brought, and in spite of the earnest requests of Kirila Petrovich to spend the night, he took his departure immediately after tea. Before setting out, however, he invited Kirila Petrovich to pay him a visit and to bring Marya Kirilovna with him, and the proud Troyekurov promised to do so; for taking into consideration his princely dignity, his two stars, and the three thousand serfs belonging to his ancestral estate, he regarded Prince Vereysky in some degree as his equal.

  Two days after this visit, Kirila Petrovich set out with his daughter to call on Prince Vereysky. On approaching Arbatovo, 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 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 “murderers.” Beyond the river stretched hills and fields, and several villages animated the landscape.

  Then they proceeded to inspect the pictures bought by the Prince in foreign countries. The Prince explained to Marya Kirilovna their subjects, related the history of the painters, and pointed out the merits and defects of their canvases. He did not speak of pictures in the conventional language of the pedantic connoisseur, but with feeling and imagination. Marya Kirilovna listened to him with pleasure.

  They went in to dine. Troyekurov rendered full justice to his host’s wines, and to the skill of his cook; while Marya 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 a walk in the garden. They drank coffee in the arbor on the bank of a broad lake studded with little islands. Suddenly music was heard, and a boat with six oars drew up before the arbor. 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 Marya Kirilovna a girlish curiosity not completely satisfied by the polite but reticent explanations of the Prince. Time passed imperceptibly. It began to grow dark. The Prince, under the pretext of the chill and the dew, hastened to return to the house, where the samovar awaited them. The Prince requested Marya Kirilovna to discharge the functions of hostess in this home of an old bachelor. 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 Marya Kirilovna a shawl, and led her and Troyekurov onto the balcony. In front of the house, in the darkness, different colored 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. Marya Kirilovna was happy as a child. Prince Vereysky was delighted with her enjoy- ment, and Troyekurov was very well satisfied with him, for he accepted tous les frais of 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.

  XIV

  MARYA KIRILOVNA was sitting in her room, bent over her embroidery frame before the open window. She did not mistake one skein for another, like Conrad’s mistress, who, in her amorous distraction, embroidered a rose in 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 a hand was thrust silently through the window, placed a letter upon the embroidery frame and disappeared before Marya Kirilovna could recover herself. At the same moment a servant entered to call her to Kirila Petrovich. Trembling, she hid the letter under her fichu and hastened to her father in his study.

  Kirila Petrovich was not alone. Prince Vereysky was in the room with h
im. On the appearance of Marya Kirilovna, the Prince rose and silently bowed, with a confusion that was quite unusual in him.

  “Come here, Masha,” said Kirila Petrovich: “I have a piece of news to tell you which I hope will gladden you. Here is a suitor for you: the Prince seeks you in marriage.”

  Masha was dumbfounded; her face grew deathly pale. 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 consents,” said Kirila Petrovich; “but you know, Prince, it is difficult for a girl to say the word. 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 Petrovich: “dry your tears and come back to us in a merry mood. They all weep when they are betrothed,” he continued, turning to Vereysky; “it is their custom. Now, Prince, let us talk business, that is to say, about the dowry.”

  Marya 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 Dubrovsky...”

  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, at the same place.”

  XV

  THE MOON was shining; the July 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 to be seen. Suddenly, from behind the arbor, Dubrovsky 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 it alarms me. In what way can you help me?”

  “I can deliver you from the man you detest....”

  “For God’s sake, do not touch him, do not dare 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 to me. He owes his life to you. Never shall a crime be committed in your name. You must be pure, even though I commit crimes. But how can I save you from a cruel father?”

  “There is still hope; perhaps I shall touch him by 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 make a marriage of convenience instead of marrying for love. But what if he takes it into his head to bring about your happiness in spite of yourself? What if you are conducted to the altar by force, in order that your life may be placed for ever in the power of an old man?”

  “Then — then there will be nothing else to do. Come for me — I will be your wife.”

  Dubrovsky trembled; his pale face flushed, deeply, 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 decrepit and dissipated old man. Tell him that riches will not procure for you a single moment of happiness. Luxury consoles poverty alone, and at that only for a short time, until one becomes accustomed to it. 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 stop pleading with him. If, however, you have no other resource left, decide upon a cruel explanation; tell him that if he remains inexorable, then — then you will find a terrible protector.”

  Here Dubrovsky 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 I see before me the possibility of pressing you to my agitated heart, and saying to you: ‘Angel, let us die’ — miserable creature that I am! I must fly from such happiness, I must put it from me with all my strength. I dare not throw myself at your feet and thank Heaven for an unthinkable, 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. Confidingly she leaned her head upon the young brigand’s shoulder. Both were silent.... Time flew.

  “I must go,” said Masha at last.

  Dubrovsky seemed to awaken 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.”

  Dubrovsky kissed her hand and disappeared among the trees.

  XVI

  PRINCE VEREYSKY’S intention of getting married was no longer a secret to the neighbors. Kirila Petrovich was receiving congratulations and preparations were being made for the wedding. Masha postponed from day to day the decisive explanation. In the meantime her manner toward her elderly fiancé 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 time was passing. Masha at last decided to act, and wrote a letter to Prince Vereysky. 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 handed the letter to Prince Vereysky. The latter read it alone, but was not in the least moved by the candor 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 Petrovich was furious, and it was with difficulty that the Prince succeeded in persuading him not to let Masha see that he knew of the letter. Kirila Petrovich agreed 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 death sentence. Then he kissed her hand respectfully and took his departure, without saying a word to her about Kirila Petrovich’s decision.

  But scarcely had he left the house, when her father entered and peremptorily ordered her to be ready for the next day. Marya Kirilovna, already agitated by the interview with Prince Vereysky, 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 Petrovich, fiercely. “All this time you have kept silent as though you consented, and now, when everything is settled you become capricious and refuse to accept him. Don’t play the fool; you will gain nothing from me that way.”

  “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? Are you tired of me? 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 Petrovich was touched, but he concealed his emotion, and pushing her away from hi
m, 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 tomorrow your wedding will take place.”

  “The day after tomorrow!” 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 Troyekurov. “Threats! You threaten me? Insolent girl! You will see that I will do something to you that you little imagine. You dare to threaten me! Let us see, who will this protector be?”

  “Vladimir Dubrovsky,” replied Masha, in despair.

  Kirila Petrovich thought that she had gone out of her mind, and looked at her in astonishment.

  “Very well!” he said 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 Petrovich 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 eased 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 escape 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 Dubrovsky. Ardently did she long to see him alone once more and take counsel with him before the decisive moment. A presentiment told her that in the evening she would find Dubrovsky in the garden, near the arbor; 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 Petrovich 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. Toward dawn she dozed off, but her light sleep was disturbed by sad visions, and she was soon awakened by the rays of the rising sun.