DERZHAVIN4
A few days after his arrival, young Dubrovsky wanted to get down to business, but his father was in no condition to give him the necessary explanations—Andrei Gavrilovich had no attorney. Sorting through his papers, Vladimir found only the first letter from the assessor and the draft of a reply to it; from them he could get no clear idea of the lawsuit and decided to wait for the consequences, trusting in the justice of the cause itself.
Meanwhile, Andrei Gavrilovich’s health was getting worse by the hour. Vladimir foresaw his imminent demise and did not leave the old man, who had lapsed into total senility.
Meanwhile, the deadline passed and no appeal was made. Kistenevka belonged to Troekurov. Shabashkin presented himself to him with bows and congratulations and the request that he specify when His Excellency would like to take possession of the newly acquired estate—either in person or through whomever he chose to grant power of attorney. Kirila Petrovich felt embarrassed. He was not mercenary by nature, the desire for revenge had lured him too far, his conscience murmured. He knew what condition his adversary, the old comrade of his youth, was in, and his victory did not gladden his heart. He cast a menacing glance at Shabashkin, seeking some reason to yell at him, but finding no sufficient pretext, said angrily: “Get out, I can’t be bothered with you.”
Shabashkin, seeing that he was out of sorts, bowed and hastened to withdraw. And Kirila Petrovich, left alone, began to pace up and down, whistling “Thunder of victory resound,”5 which in him always signified extraordinary mental agitation.
Finally, he ordered a racing droshky hitched up, dressed more warmly (it was already the end of September), and, taking the reins himself, drove out of the yard.
Soon he caught sight of Andrei Gavrilovich’s little house, and conflicting feelings filled his soul. Satisfied vengeance and lust of power stifled his more noble feelings to a certain degree, but the latter finally triumphed. He decided to make peace with his old neighbor, to wipe out the traces of their quarrel by giving him back his property. Having unburdened his soul with this good intention, Kirila Petrovich set out at a trot for his neighbor’s homestead and drove straight into his yard.
Just then the sick man was sitting at the window in his bedroom. He recognized Kirila Petrovich, and terrible agitation showed on his face: a crimson flush replaced his usual pallor, his eyes flashed, he uttered inarticulate sounds. His son, who was sitting there over the account books, raised his head and was struck by his condition. The sick man was pointing to the yard with an expression of horror and wrath. He hastily gathered the skirts of his dressing gown, preparing to get up from the chair, rose a little…and suddenly fell. His son rushed to him. The old man lay without feeling and without breathing, struck by paralysis.
“Quick, quick, send to town for a doctor!” cried Vladimir.
“Kirila Petrovich is asking to see you,” said a servant, coming in. Vladimir threw him a terrible glance.
“Tell Kirila Petrovich to get out of here quickly, before I order him driven out…Off with you!”
The servant ran joyfully to fulfill his master’s order. Egorovna clasped her hands.
“Master dear,” she said in a squeaky voice, “it will cost you your head! Kirila Petrovich will eat us up.”
“Quiet, nanny,” Vladimir said vexedly. “Send Anton to town for a doctor at once.”
Egorovna left. There was no one in the front hall; all the servants had run to the yard to look at Kirila Petrovich. She went out to the porch and heard the servant’s reply, delivered on behalf of the young master. Kirila Petrovich heard him out sitting in his droshky. His face became darker than night; he smiled contemptuously, glanced menacingly at the servants, and drove slowly around the yard. He looked at the window where Andrei Gavrilovich had been sitting a moment before, but where he no longer was. The nanny stood on the porch, forgetting her master’s order. The servants loudly talked over what had happened. Suddenly Vladimir appeared among them and said curtly: “No need for a doctor, father is dead.”
A commotion set in. The servants rushed to the old master’s room. He lay in the armchair to which Vladimir had moved him; his right arm hung down to the floor, his head was lowered on his chest, there was no sign of life in his body, not yet cold, but already disfigured by death. Egorovna began to wail. The servants surrounded the corpse, which was left to their care, washed it, dressed it in a uniform made back in the year 1797, and laid it out on the same table at which they had served their master for so many years.6
CHAPTER FIVE
The funeral took place three days later. The body of the poor old man lay on the table covered with a shroud and surrounded with candles. The dining room was filled with servants. They were preparing for the carrying-out. Vladimir and three servants lifted the coffin. The priest went ahead; the sexton accompanied him intoning the funeral prayers. The owner of Kistenevka crossed the threshold of his house for the last time. The coffin was carried through the grove. The church was beyond it. The day was clear and cold. Autumn leaves were falling from the trees.
On coming out of the grove, they saw the Kistenevka wooden church and the graveyard, shaded by old lindens. There the body of Vladimir’s mother lay at rest; there, beside her grave, a new hole had been dug the day before.
The church was filled with Kistenevka peasants, who had come to pay their last respects to their master. Young Dubrovsky stood by the choir; he did not weep and he did not pray, but his face was terrible. The mournful rite came to an end. Vladimir went first to take leave of the body, and after him all the servants. The lid was brought and nailed to the coffin. The women wailed loudly; the men occasionally wiped their tears with their fists. Vladimir and the same three servants carried it to the graveyard, accompanied by the whole village. The coffin was lowered into the grave, everyone there threw a handful of earth into it, the hole was filled in, people bowed and went their ways. Vladimir quickly left, got ahead of everyone, and disappeared into the Kistenevka grove.
On his behalf, Egorovna invited the priest and the rest of the church people to a memorial dinner, announcing that the young master did not intend to be present, and thus Father Anton, his wife Fedotovna, and the sexton went on foot to the master’s house, talking with Egorovna about the dead man’s virtues and about what apparently awaited his heir. (Troekurov’s visit and the reception he had been shown were already known to the whole neighborhood, and local politicians predicted serious consequences from it.)
“What will be, will be,” said the priest’s wife, “but it’s too bad if Vladimir Andreich is not our master. A fine fellow, I must say.”
“But who will be our master if not him?” Egorovna interrupted. “Kirila Petrovich gets worked up for nothing. He’s not dealing with the timid sort: no, my young falcon can stand up for himself, and, God willing, his benefactors won’t desert him. Kirila Petrovich is mighty arrogant, but I dare say he put his tail between his legs when my Grishka shouted at him: ‘Away, you old dog! Clear out of the yard!’ ”
“Ah, no, Egorovna,” said the sexton, “how did Grigory have the pluck to say it? I’d sooner bark at our bishop than look askance at Kirila Petrovich. You see him and you’re in fear and trembling, you break into a sweat, and your back just bends, just bends by itself…”
“Vanity of vanities,” said the priest, “and Kirila Petrovich will have ‘Memory Eternal’ sung over him,7 the same as Andrei Gavrilovich did just now, only the funeral will be richer and there’ll be more guests invited, but for God it’s all the same!”
“Ah, dear father! We, too, wanted to invite the whole neighborhood, but Vladimir Andreich didn’t want it. I dare say we’ve got enough to treat them all, but what could we do? Since there’s no people, at least we can feast you, our dear guests.”
This agreeable promise and the hope of finding tasty pies quickened the company’s steps, and they safely reached the master’s house, where the table was already laid and the vodka served.
Meanwhile, Vladimir wen
t ever deeper into the thicket of trees, trying by movement and fatigue to stifle the grief in his soul. He walked without heeding the way; branches kept catching at him and scratching him, his feet kept sinking into the mire—he noticed nothing. He finally reached a small hollow, surrounded by the woods on all sides; a brook meandered silently among the trees, stripped half naked by autumn. Vladimir stopped, sat down on the cold grass, and thoughts, one darker than the other, crowded in his soul…He keenly felt his solitude. The future appeared to him covered with menacing clouds. The enmity with Troekurov foreshadowed new misfortunes for him. His meager inheritance might pass into another’s hands—in which case he would face destitution. For a long time he sat motionless in the same place, gazing at the quiet flow of the brook, carrying off a few withered leaves and vividly portraying for him the true likeness of life—such a commonplace likeness. Finally he noticed that it was growing dark; he got up and went in search of the way home, but he still wandered for a long time in the unfamiliar forest, before he hit upon the path that brought him straight to the gates of his house.
On his way Dubrovsky ran into the priest with the rest of the church people. The thought of an unlucky omen came to his head. He automatically turned aside and hid behind a tree. They did not notice him and walked by talking heatedly among themselves.
“Eschew evil, and do good,”8 the priest was saying to his wife. “There’s no need for us to stay here. It’s not your trouble, however the matter ends.” The wife said something in reply, but Vladimir could not catch it.
Approaching the house, he saw a great many people: peasants and house serfs were crowding in the yard. From a distance Vladimir heard unusual noise and talk. Two troikas stood by the coach house. On the porch several unknown men in uniform seemed to be discussing something.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he angrily asked Anton, who came running to meet him. “Who are they, and what do they want?”
“Ah, dear master Vladimir Andreevich,” the old man answered breathlessly. “The court has come. They’re handing us over to Troekurov, they’re taking us from Your Honor!…”
Vladimir hung his head; the servants surrounded their unfortunate master.
“You’re a father to us,” they cried, kissing his hands. “We don’t want any other master but you. Order it, sir, and we’ll deal with this court. We’ll die before we betray you.”
Vladimir looked at them and strange feelings stirred him.
“Stand quietly,” he said to them, “and I’ll have a talk with the officials.”
“Talk to them, dear master,” they cried to him from the crowd. “Shame the fiends!”
Vladimir went up to the officials. Shabashkin, with a visored cap on his head, stood arms akimbo and proudly looked around him. The police chief, a tall and fat man of about fifty with a red face and a moustache, on seeing Dubrovsky approach, grunted and said in a husky voice:
“So, I repeat to you what I’ve already said: by decision of the district court, you henceforth belong to Kirila Petrovich Troekurov, whose person is here represented by Mr. Shabashkin. Obey him in everything he orders, and you, women, love and honor him, for he is your great fancier.”
At this witticism, the police chief burst out laughing, and Shabashkin and the other members followed suit. Vladimir seethed with indignation.
“Allow me to know the meaning of this,” he asked the merry police chief with feigned coolness.
“The meaning of this,” the wily official replied, “is that we have come to put Kirila Petrovich Troekurov in possession of the estate and to ask certain others to get out while they’re still in one piece.”
“But it seems you might address yourselves to me, rather than to my peasants, and announce to the landowner that he has been dispossessed…”
“And who are you,” said Shabashkin with an impudent look. “The former landowner, Andrei Gavrilovich Dubrovsky, is dead by the will of God. You we do not know and do not wish to know.”
“Vladimir Andreevich is our young master,” said a voice from the crowd.
“Who dared to open his mouth there?” the police chief said menacingly. “What master? What Vladimir Andreevich? Your master is Kirila Petrovich Troekurov, do you hear, you oafs?”
“Nohow,” said the same voice.
“This is rebellion!” shouted the police chief. “Hey, headman, come here!”
The headman stepped forward.
“Find out at once who dared to talk back to me. I’ll show him!”
The headman turned to the crowd and asked who had spoken, but they all kept silent; soon a murmur sprang up from the back rows, grew louder, and in a moment turned into a terrible uproar. The police chief lowered his voice and tried to reason with them.
“Why stand gaping?” the servants shouted. “Come on, boys, away with them!” And the whole crowd advanced. Shabashkin and the other members hurriedly rushed into the front hall and locked the door behind them.
“Tie ’em up, boys!” the same voice shouted, and the crowd began to press forward…
“Stop!” cried Dubrovsky. “You fools! What are you doing? You’ll ruin yourselves and me. Go back home and leave me alone. Don’t be afraid, the sovereign is merciful, I’ll petition him. He won’t harm us. We’re all his children. But how can he intercede for you, if you start rioting and rampaging?”
The young Dubrovsky’s words, his resounding voice and majestic air, produced the desired effect. The people quieted down, dispersed, the yard became deserted. The members sat in the front hall. Finally Shabashkin quietly opened the door, went out to the porch, and with humble bows began to thank Dubrovsky for his merciful intercession. Vladimir listened to him with contempt and made no reply.
“We’ve decided,” the assessor went on, “to spend the night here, with your permission; it’s already dark, and your peasants may attack us on the way. Do us a favor, have some straw spread for us in the drawing room; we’ll be on our way at dawn.”
“Do as you like,” Dubrovsky answered him drily. “I’m no longer the master here.”
With those words he retired to his father’s room and locked the door behind him.
CHAPTER SIX
“So it’s all over,” he said to himself. “This morning I still had a corner and a crust of bread. Tomorrow I must leave the house where I was born and where my father died to the man who caused his death and my destitution.” And his eyes rested fixedly on the portrait of his mother. The painter had portrayed her leaning her elbow on a banister, in a white morning dress, with a red rose in her hair. “And this portrait will be taken by the enemy of my family,” thought Vladimir, “and it will be thrown into a storeroom along with some broken chairs, or hung in the front hall, a subject of mockery and rude remarks for his huntsmen, and in her bedroom, the room…where father died, he will install his steward or his harem. No! No! I won’t let him take the mournful house he’s driving me out of!” Vladimir clenched his teeth. Terrible thoughts were forming in his mind. The officials’ voices reached him. They were playing the masters, demanding now this, now that, and unpleasantly distracted him amidst his sad reflections. Finally everything grew quiet.
Vladimir opened cupboards and chests and busied himself with sorting out the dead man’s papers. They consisted for the most part of household accounts and some business correspondence. Vladimir tore them up without reading them. Among them he came upon a packet with the inscription “Letters from my wife.” Deeply moved, Vladimir started on them: they were written during the Turkish campaign9 and were addressed to the army from Kistenevka. She described her solitary life, her household chores, complained tenderly about their separation, and called him home to the arms of his dear friend. In one of them she expressed her anxiety about little Vladimir’s health; in another she rejoiced at his early abilities and predicted a happy and brilliant future for him. Vladimir lost himself in reading and forgot everything else, his soul immersed in the world of family happiness, and he did not notice how the time passe
d. The wall clock struck eleven. Vladimir put the letters in his pocket, took the candle, and left the study. In the drawing room the officials were asleep on the floor. Empty glasses stood on the table, and the whole room smelled strongly of rum. With disgust Vladimir walked past them to the front hall. The door was locked. Not finding the key, Vladimir went back to the drawing room—the key was lying on the table. Vladimir opened the door and stumbled onto a man crouched in a corner; an axe gleamed in his hand, and, turning to him with the candle, Vladimir recognized the blacksmith Arkhip.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Ah, Vladimir Andreevich, it’s you,” Arkhip replied in a whisper. “Lord have mercy and save us, it’s a good thing you came with a candle!”
Vladimir gazed at him in amazement.
“What are you hiding here for?” he asked the blacksmith.
“I wanted…I came…it was to see if everybody’s at home,” Arkhip stammered softly.
“And why the axe?”
“Why the axe? There’s no going around nowadays without an axe. These officials are such rascals—next thing you know…”
“You’re drunk. Drop the axe and go sleep it off.”
“Me drunk? Dear master Vladimir Andreevich, God is my witness, not one drop has passed my lips…and who’d have drink on his mind, it’s unheard of, scribblers meaning to take us over, scribblers driving our masters out of their own yard…Hear ’em snoring, the cursed wretches; get ’em all at once, and there’s an end to it.”
Dubrovsky frowned.
“Listen, Arkhip,” he said, after a brief silence, “what you’re doing isn’t right. The officials are not to blame. Light a lantern and follow me.”
Arkhip took the candle from his master’s hand, found a lamp behind the stove, lit it, and they both quietly stepped off the porch and went around the yard. A watchman started banging on a cast-iron bar. Dogs barked.
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