Works of Alexander Pushkin

by Alexander Pushkin

  XVII

  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 Petrovich had been to Arbatovo the previous evening, 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 priest had been ordered not to leave the village under any pretext whatever. After giving her this news, the maid left Marya Kirilovna and again locked the door.

  Her words hardened the young prisoner. Her head burned, her blood boiled. She resolved to inform Dubrovsky of everything, and she began to think of some means by which she could get the ring conveyed to the hollow in the chosen oak. At that moment a stone struck against her window; the glass rattled, and Marya Kirilovna, looking out into the courtyard, saw little Sasha making signs to her. She knew that he was attached to her, and she was pleased to see him. She opened the window.

  “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 do anything for 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 arbor?”

  “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 chosen 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 Marya Kirilovna of the fact at once, when suddenly a red-haired, cross-eyed boy in rags darted out from behind the arbor, dashed toward 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 freed his mop from Ste- pan’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 take 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 torn and grass-stained trousers. Suddenly all three found themselves face to face with Kirila Petrovich, 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 Petrovich listened to him with attention.

  “You rascal,” said he, turning to Sasha: “why did you get into a fight with him?”

  “He stole a ring from the hollow, papa; make him give up the ring.”

  “What ring? From what hollow?”

  “The one that Marya Kirilovna... that ring....” Sasha stammered and became confused. Kirila Petrovich frowned and said, shaking his head:

  “Ah! Marya Kirilovna is mixed up in this. Confess everything, or I will give you such a thrashing as you have never had in your life.”

  “As true as Heaven, papa, I... papa... Marya Kirilovna never told me to do anything, papa.”

  “Stepan, go and cut me some fine, fresh birch switches.”

  “Stop, papa, I will tell you all. I was running about the courtyard today, when sister opened the window. I ran toward her, and she opened the window and dropped a ring, not on purpose, and I went and hid it in the hollow, and... and this red-headed fellow wanted to steal the ring.”

  “She dropped it, not on purpose — you wanted to hide it... Stepan, go and get the switches.”

  “Papa, wait, I will tell you everything. Sister 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 Petrovich turned to the “nasty fellow” and said to him sternly:

  “To whom do you belong?”

  “I am a house-serf of the Dubrovsky’s,” answered the red-headed boy.

  Kirila Petrovich’s face darkened.

  “It seems, then, that you do not recognize me as your master. Very well. What were you doing in my garden?”

  “Stealing raspberries,” the boy answered with complete indifference.

  “Aha! like master, like servant. As the priest is, so is his parish. And do my raspberries grow upon oak trees?”

  The boy made no reply.

  “Papa, make him give up the ring,” said Sasha.

  “Silence, Alexander!” replied Kirila Petrovich; “don’t forget that I intend to settle with you presently. Go to your room. And you, squint-eyes, you seem a clever 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 home.”

  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, looking like a perfect simpleton.

  “Very well!” said Kirila Petrovich: “lock him up somewhere, and see that he does not escape, or I ‘ll flay everyone of you.”

  Stepan conducted the boy to the pigeon-house, locked him in there, and ordered the old poultry woman, Agafya, to keep a watch upon him.

  “There is no doubt about it: she has been in touch with that accursed Dubrovsky. But can it be that she has really asked his help?” thought Kirila Petrovich, pacing up and down the room, and whistling “Thunder of Victory,” angrily — ”Perhaps I am hot upon his track, and he will not escape us. We shall take advantage of this opportunity.... Hark! a bell; thank God, that is the sheriff. Bring here the boy that is locked up.”

  Meanwhile, a small carriage drove into the courtyard, and our old acquaintance, the sheriff, entered the room, all covered with dust.

  “Glorious news!” said Kirila Petrovich: “I have caught Dubrovsky.”

  “Thank God, Your Excellency!” said the sheriff, his face beaming with delight. “Where is he?”

  “That is to say, not Dubrovsky himself, but one of his band. He will be here presently. He will help us to catch his chief. Here he is.”

  The sheriff, who expected to see some fierce-looking brigand, was astonished to perceive a thirteen-year-old lad, of somewhat delicate appearance. He turned to Kirila Petrovich with an incredulo
us look, and awaited an explanation. Kirila Petrovich then began to relate the events of the morning, without, however, mentioning the name of Marya 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 privately?” said the sheriff at last.

  Kirila Petrovich took him into another 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,” the sheriff said to him, “to have you locked up in the town gaol, to be whipped, and then deported as a convict; 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 Petrovich and kissed his hand.

  “Run away home,” Kirila Petrovich said 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 Kistenyovka. On reaching the village, he stopped at a ramshackle hut, on the edge of the settlement, 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, Mitya; but where have you been all this time, you imp?” 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 into it greedily, and went on slowly, chewing as he walked.

  It was beginning to grow dark. Mitya made his way along past the barns and kitchen gardens toward the Kistenyovka grove. On arriving at the two pine trees, standing like advance guards before the grove, he paused, looked round on every side, gave a shrill, abrupt whistle, and then listened. A faint and prolonged whistle was heard in reply, and somebody came out of the grove and advanced toward him.

  XVIII

  KIRILA PETROVICH was pacing up and down the hall, whistling his favorite air louder than usual. The whole house was in commotion; the servants were running about, and the maids were busy. In the coachhouse horses were being hitched up to a carriage. In the courtyard there was a crowd of people. In Marya Kirilovna’s dressing-room, before the looking-glass, a lady, surrounded by maidservants, was attiring the pale, motionless young bride. Her head bent languidly beneath the weight of her diamonds; she started slightly when a careless hand pricked her, but she remained silent, gazing absently into the mirror.

  “Will you soon be ready?” the voice of Kirila Petrovich was heard at the door.

  “In a minute!” replied the lady. “Marya Kirilovna, get up and look at yourself. Is everything right?”

  Marya Kirilovna rose, but made no reply. The door was opened.

  “The bride is ready,” said the lady to Kirila Petrovich; “order the carriage.”

  “May God be with us!” replied Kirila Petrovich, and taking a sacred ikon from the table, “Approach, Masha,” he said, with emotion; “I bless you...”

  The poor girl fell at his feet and began to sob.

  “Papa... papa...” she said through her tears, and then her voice failed her.

  Kirila Petrovich hastened to give her his blessing. She was lifted up and almost carried into the carriage. The matron of honor and one of the maidservants got in with her, and they drove off to the church. There the bridegroom was already waiting for them. He came forward to meet the bride, and was struck by her pallor and her strange look. They entered the cold deserted church together, and the door was locked behind them. The priest came out of the chancel, and the ceremony at once began.

  Marya Kirilovna saw nothing, heard nothing; she had been thinking of but one thing the whole morning: she expected Dubrovsky; nor did her hope abandon her for one moment. When the priest turned to her with the usual question, she started and felt faint; but still she hesitated, still she expected. The priest, receiving no reply from her, pronounced the irrevocable words.

  The ceremony was over. She felt the cold kiss of her unloved husband; she heard the flattering congratulations of those present; and yet she could not believe that her life was bound for ever, that Dubrovsky had not arrived to deliver her. The Prince turned to her with tender words — she did not understand them. They left the church; in the porch was a crowd of peasants from Pokrovskoye. Her glance rapidly scanned them, and again she seemed unaware of what was going on around her. The newly married couple seated themselves in the carriage and drove off to Arbatovo, whither Kirila Petrovich had already gone on before, in order to welcome the wedded pair there.

  Alone with his young wife, the Prince was not in the least piqued by her cold manner. He did not begin to weary her with amorous protestations and ridiculous enthusiasm; his words were simple and required no answer. In this way they traveled about ten versts. The horses dashed rapidly along the uneven country roads, and the carriage scarcely shook upon its English springs. Suddenly shouts of pursuit were heard. The carriage stopped, and a crowd of armed men surrounded it. A man in a half mask opened the door on the side where the young Princess sat, and said to her:

  “You are free! Alight.”

  “What does this mean?” cried the Prince. “Who are you that — ”

  “It is Dubrovsky,” replied the Princess.

  The Prince, without losing his presence of mind, drew from his side pocket a traveler’s pistol and fired at the masked brigand. The Princess shrieked, and, in horror, covered her face with both hands. Dubrovsky was wounded in the shoulder; the blood was flowing. The Prince, without losing a moment, drew another pistol; but he was not allowed time to fire; the door was opened, and several strong hands dragged him out of the carriage and snatched the pistol from him. Above him flashed several knives.

  “Do not touch him!” cried Dubrovsky, and his somber companions drew back.

  “You are free!” continued Dubrovsky, turning to the pale Princess.

  “No!” she replied; “it is too late! I am married. I am the wife of Prince Vereysky.”

  “What are you saying?” cried Dubrovsky in despair. “No! you are not his wife. You were forced, you could never have consented.”

  “I did consent, I took the oath,” she answered with firmness. “The Prince is my husband; give orders for him to be set at liberty, and leave me with him. I have not deceived you. I waited for you till the last moment... but now, I tell you, now, it is too late. Let us go.”

  But Dubrovsky no longer heard her. The pain of his wound, and his violent emotion had deprived him of his strength. He fell against the wheel; the brigands surrounded him. He managed to say a few words to them. They placed him on horseback; two of them supported him, a third took the horse by the bridle, and all withdrew from the spot, leaving the carriage in the middle of the road, the servants bound, the horses unharnessed, but without having done any pillaging, and without having shed one drop of blood in revenge for the blood of their chief.

  XIX

  IN THE MIDST of a dense forest, in a narrow clearing, rose a small fort, consisting of earthworks and a ditch, behind which were some shacks and mud-huts. Within the inclosed space, a crowd of men who, by their varied garments and by their arms, could at once be recognized as brigands, were having their dinner, seated bareheaded around a common cauldron. On the earthworks, by the side of a small cannon, squatted a sentinel, with his legs crossed under him. He was sewing a patch upon a certain part of his garment, p
lying his needle with a dexterity that bespoke the experienced tailor, and every now and then glancing round on every side.

  Although a certain mug had passed from hand to hand several times, a strange silence reigned among this crowd. The brigands finished their dinner; one after another rose and said a prayer; some dispersed among the shacks, others strolled away into the forest or lay down to sleep, according to the Russian custom.

  The sentinel finished his work, shook his garment, gazed admiringly at the patch, stuck the needle in his sleeve, sat astride the cannon, and began to sing a melancholy old song at the top of his lungs:

  “Green boughs, do not murmur, be still, Mother Forest, Hinder me not from thinking my thoughts!’

  At that moment the door of one of the shacks opened, and an old woman in a white cap, neatly and even primly dressed, appeared upon the threshold,” Enough of that, Styopka,” she said angrily. “The master is resting, and yet you must go on bawling like that; you have neither conscience nor pity.”

  “I beg pardon, Yegorovna,” replied Styopka. “I won’t do it any more. Let our good master rest and get well.”

  The old woman withdrew into the hut, and Styopka began to pace to and fro upon the earthworks.

  Within the shack, from which the old woman had emerged, lay the wounded Dubrovsky upon an army cot behind a partition. Before him, upon a small table, lay his pistols, and a sword above the head of the bed. Rich carpets covered the floor and walls of the mud- hut. In the corner was a lady’s silver toilet set and mirror. Dubrovsky held in his hand an open book, but his eyes were closed, and the old woman, peeping at him from behind the partition, could not tell whether he was asleep or only lost in thought.

  Suddenly Dubrovsky started. The fort was roused by an alarm, and Styopka thrust his head in through the window.

  “Vladimir Andreyevich!” he cried; “our men are signaling — they are on our track!”