“A place for him!” shouted Kirila Petrovich. “Welcome, Anton Pafnutych, sit down and tell us what this means: you weren’t in church and you’re late for dinner. It’s not like you: you’re very devout and you love to eat.”
“Sorry,” replied Anton Pafnutych, tying a napkin to the buttonhole of his pea-green kaftan, “sorry, my dear Kirila Petrovich. I set out early, but before I’d gone seven miles, the tire on the front wheel suddenly broke in two—what was I to do? Fortunately, there was a village not far away. By the time we dragged ourselves there, and found the blacksmith, and everything got somehow fixed, three hours had gone by—no help for it. I didn’t dare take the short cut through the Kistenevka wood, so I went around…”
“Aha!” Kirila Petrovich interrupted. “So you’re not one of the brave! What are you afraid of?”
“What do you mean what, my dear Kirila Petrovich? And Dubrovsky? I might just fall into his clutches. He’s nobody’s fool, he doesn’t miss a trick, and as for me, why, he’d skin me twice over.”
“Why such distinction, brother?”
“What do you mean why, my dear Kirila Petrovich? Because of the lawsuit against the late Andrei Gavrilovich. Didn’t I give evidence, for your good pleasure—that is, in all honesty and fairness—that the Dubrovskys were masters of Kistenevka without any right, but solely by your indulgence? The deceased (God rest his soul) vowed to get even with me in his own way, and the boy might just keep the father’s word. So far God has been merciful. Only one of my barns has been looted, but they could get to the house any time now.”
“And in the house they’ll have a heyday,” Kirila Petrovich observed. “I’ll bet the little red cashbox is stuffed full…”
“Ah, no, my dear Kirila Petrovich. It was full once, but now it’s quite empty!”
“Enough nonsense, Anton Pafnutych. We know you. Where do you go spending any money? At home you live like a pig, you don’t receive anybody, you fleece your peasants, hoarding is all you know.”
“You keep joking, my dear Kirila Petrovich,” Anton Pafnutych muttered with a smile, “but, by God, we’re completely ruined”—and having swallowed his host’s cavalier joke, he bit into a hunk of rich meat pie. Kirila Petrovich dropped him and turned to the new police chief, who was visiting him for the first time and was sitting at the other end of the table next to the tutor.
“And so, Mister Police Chief, will you at least catch Dubrovsky?”
The police chief shrank, bowed, smiled, stammered, and finally managed to say: “We’ll try hard, Your Excellency.”
“Hm, ‘we’ll try hard.’ They’ve been trying for a long, long time now, but nothing’s come of it. And, indeed, why catch him? Dubrovsky’s robberies are blessings for the police chiefs: travels, investigations, supplies, and money in the pocket. Why rid yourself of such a benefactor? Isn’t that so, Mister Police Chief?”
“Quite so, Your Excellency,” replied the totally embarrassed police chief.
The guests burst out laughing.
“I love the lad for his sincerity,” said Kirila Petrovich, “but it’s a pity about our late police chief Taras Alexeevich; if they hadn’t burned him up, the neighborhood would be much quieter. But what news of Dubrovsky? Where was he last seen?”
“At my house, Kirila Petrovich,” squeaked a lady’s fat voice. “Last Tuesday he dined at my house…”
All eyes turned to Anna Savishna Globova, a rather simple widow, loved by all for her kind and cheerful nature. They all prepared themselves with curiosity to hear her story.
“You should know that three weeks ago I sent my steward to the post office with money for my Vanyusha. I don’t spoil my son, and I’m not in a position to spoil him even if I wanted to; however, you yourselves will kindly agree that an officer of the guards needs to keep up a proper appearance, so I share my little income with Vanyusha as far as I can. So I sent him two thousand roubles. Though Dubrovsky came to my mind more than once, still I thought: the town’s close by, five miles at most, maybe God will spare us. In the evening my steward comes back, pale, ragged, and on foot—I just gasped: ‘What is it? What’s happened to you?’ He says: ‘Anna Savishna, dear, thieves robbed me; they nearly killed me, Dubrovsky himself was there, he wanted to hang me, then had pity and let me go, but he robbed me of everything, took the horse and the cart.’ My heart sank. Lord in Heaven, what will happen to my Vanyusha? Nothing to be done: I wrote a letter to my son, told him everything, and sent him my blessing without a penny.
“A week went by, then another—suddenly a carriage drives into my courtyard. Some general asks to see me: I bid him welcome. A man of about thirty-five comes in, dark-haired, moustache, beard, the perfect portrait of Kulnev,11 introduces himself as a friend and army comrade of my late husband, Ivan Andreevich. He was driving by and couldn’t go without visiting his widow, knowing that I lived here. I treated him to whatever God provided, we talked about this and that, and finally about Dubrovsky. I told him of my misfortune. My general frowned. ‘That’s strange,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard that Dubrovsky doesn’t attack just anybody, but only the notoriously rich, and even then he splits with them and doesn’t clean them out, and nobody accuses him of murder. There must be some hoax here. Have them send for your steward.’ The steward was sent for; he appeared; the moment he saw the general, he was simply dumbfounded. ‘Tell me now, brother, how Dubrovsky went about robbing you and how he wanted to hang you.’ My steward trembled and fell at the general’s feet. ‘I’m guilty, dear master—it was the devil’s work—I lied.’ ‘In that case,’ said the general, ‘kindly tell the lady how it all happened, and I’ll listen.’ The steward couldn’t come to his senses. ‘Well, so,’ the general continued, ‘tell us: where did you run into Dubrovsky?’ ‘By the twin pines, dear master, by the twin pines.’ ‘And what did he say to you?’ ‘He asked me whose I was, where I was going, and why.’ ‘Well, and then?’ ‘And then he demanded the letter and the money.’ ‘Well?’ ‘I gave him the letter and the money.’ ‘And he?…Well, and he?’ ‘I’m guilty, dear master.’ ‘Well, so what did he do?…’ ‘He gave me back the money and the letter and said, “Go with God, put it in the post.” ’ ‘Well, and you?’ ‘I’m guilty, dear master.’ ‘I’ll make short work of you, dear boy,’ the general said menacingly. ‘And you, my lady, have this swindler’s trunk searched and hand him over to me. I’ll teach him. Know that Dubrovsky was an officer of the guards himself, and he would not want to harm a comrade.’ I had an idea who his excellency was, there was nothing for me to discuss with him. The coachman tied the steward to the box of his carriage. The money was found; the general dined with me, then left at once and took the steward with him. My steward was found the next day in the forest, tied to an oak tree and stripped clean.”
They all listened silently to Anna Savishna’s story, especially the young ladies. Many of them secretly wished Dubrovsky well, seeing him as a romantic hero, especially Marya Kirilovna, an ardent dreamer, imbued with the mysterious horrors of Radcliffe.12
“And you suppose, Anna Savishna, that it was Dubrovsky himself?” asked Kirila Petrovich. “You’re quite mistaken. I don’t know who your visitor was, but it was not Dubrovsky.”
“How’s that, my dear sir? Not Dubrovsky? Who else takes to the highway, stopping travelers and searching them?”
“I don’t know, but it was surely not Dubrovsky. I remember him as a child; I don’t know if his hair has turned black; back then he was a curly-headed blond boy; but I know for certain that Dubrovsky is five years older than my Masha, and that means he’s not thirty-five, but around twenty-three.”
“Exactly right, Your Excellency,” the police chief exclaimed. “I have Vladimir Dubrovsky’s description in my pocket. It says that he is indeed twenty-three years old.”
“Ah!” said Kirila Petrovich, “that’s handy: read it to us and we’ll listen; it won’t be bad for us to know his description; if we chance to lay eyes on him, he won’t slip away.”
The police chi
ef took a very soiled sheet of paper from his pocket, solemnly unfolded it, and began to read in a singsong voice:
“Description of Vladimir Dubrovsky, based on the testimony of his former household serfs.
“Twenty-three years old. Height: medium; complexion: clear; beard: shaved; eyes: brown; hair: light brown; nose: straight. Distinguishing marks: none found.”
“And that’s all?” asked Kirila Petrovich.
“That’s all,” replied the police chief, folding the document.
“Congratulations, Mister Police Chief. What a document! With that description it’ll be easy for you to track down Dubrovsky. Who isn’t of medium height, who doesn’t have light brown hair, a straight nose, and brown eyes! I’ll bet you could talk to Dubrovsky himself for three hours straight and not guess whom God has brought you together with. Brainy officials, to say the least!”
The police chief meekly put the document back in his pocket and quietly started on the goose and cabbage. Meanwhile the servants had already gone around several times filling each guest’s glass. Several bottles of Gorsky and Tsimliansky wine had been loudly uncorked and graciously received under the name of champagne, faces began to glow, conversations grew more noisy, incoherent, and merry.
“No,” Kirila Petrovich continued, “we won’t see another police chief like the late Taras Alexeevich! He was no foozler, no slouch. A pity the fine lad got burned up, otherwise not a single one of that whole band would escape him. He’d catch every one of them, and Dubrovsky himself wouldn’t give him the slip or buy his way out. Taras Alexeevich would take his money and not let the man go: that was the late man’s way. Nothing to be done, it looks like I’ll have to intervene in the matter and go against the robbers with my own people. I’ll send some twenty men to begin with, so they can clear the thieves’ woods; they’re not cowardly folk, each of them goes up against a bear single-handed, they won’t back away from robbers.”
“How’s your bear, my dear Kirila Petrovich?” asked Anton Pafnutych, reminded by those words of his shaggy acquaintance and certain jokes he had once been the victim of.
“Misha13 has bid us farewell,” Kirila Petrovich replied. “He died a glorious death at the hands of the enemy. There’s his vanquisher.” Kirila Petrovich pointed to Desforges. “Venerate the holy image of my Frenchman. He avenged your…if I may put it so…Remember?”
“How could I not?” Anton Pafnutych said, scratching himself. “I remember very well. So Misha’s dead. What a pity, by God, what a pity! He was so amusing! So clever! There’s no other bear like him. Why did moosieu kill him?”
With great pleasure, Kirila Petrovich began to tell the story of his Frenchman’s exploit, for he had a lucky capacity for glorying in all that surrounded him. The guests listened attentively to the tale of Misha’s death and glanced with amazement at Desforges, who, not suspecting that the conversation was about his courage, calmly sat in his place and made moral observations to his frisky charge.
The dinner, which had gone on for about three hours, came to an end; the host placed his napkin on the table; everyone stood up and went to the drawing room, where coffee, cards, and the continuation of the drinking so nicely begun in the dining room awaited them.
CHAPTER TEN
Around seven o’clock in the evening some of the guests wanted to leave, but the host, made merry by the punch, ordered the gates locked and announced that no one would go until the next morning. Soon music rang out, the doors to the reception room were opened, and a ball began. The host and his entourage sat in a corner, drinking glass after glass and admiring the young people’s gaiety. The old ladies played cards. Since there were fewer cavaliers than ladies, as everywhere where no uhlan brigade is quartered, all the men capable of dancing were recruited. The tutor distinguished himself among them all, he danced more than any of them, the young ladies all chose him and found him quite adept at waltzing. He made several turns with Marya Kirilovna, and the young ladies took mocking notice of them. Finally, around midnight, the tired host stopped the dancing, ordered supper served, and took himself off to bed.
Kirila Petrovich’s absence gave the company more freedom and animation. The cavaliers ventured to sit beside the ladies. The girls laughed and exchanged whispers with their neighbors; the ladies conversed loudly across the table. The men drank, argued, and guffawed—in short, the supper was extremely merry and left many pleasant memories behind it.
Only one person did not share in the general mirth: Anton Pafnutych sat gloomy and silent in his place, ate distractedly, and seemed extremely uneasy. The talk about robbers had stirred his imagination. We shall soon see that he had sufficient reason to fear them.
Anton Pafnutych, in calling upon God to witness that his red cashbox was empty, had not lied and had not sinned: the red cashbox was indeed empty; the money once kept in it had been transferred to a leather pouch, which he wore on his breast under his shirt. Only by this precaution had he calmed his mistrust of everyone and his eternal fear. Being forced to spend the night in a strange house, he was afraid lest they put him in a solitary room, where thieves might easily break in, and looking around for a trustworthy companion, he finally chose Desforges. His appearance betokened strength, and, more than that, the courage he had shown in the encounter with the bear, whom poor Anton Pafnutych could not recall without a shudder, determined his choice. When they got up from the table, Anton Pafnutych began circling around the young Frenchman, grunting and coughing, and finally addressed him with an explanation.
“Ahem, ahem, moosieu, might I not spend the night in your little nook, because kindly see…”
“Que désire monsieur?”*1 asked Desforges, bowing courteously to him.
“Too bad you still haven’t learned Russian, moosieu. Zhe veuh, mooah, shay voo kooshay,*2 do you understand?”
“Monsieur, très volontiers,” replied Desforges. “Veuillez donner des ordres en conséquence.”*3
Anton Pafnutych, very pleased with his knowledge of French, went at once to make the arrangements.
The guests started saying good night to each other, and each went to the room assigned to him. Anton Pafnutych went off to the wing with the tutor. The night was dark. Desforges lit the way with a lantern, Anton Pafnutych followed him quite cheerfully, every now and then pressing the secret pouch to his breast to make sure the money was still there.
They came to the wing, the tutor lit a candle, and they both started to undress; at the same time, Anton Pafnutych strolled around the room, examining the locks and windows and shaking his head at the inauspicious inspection. The door had only one latch, the windows did not yet have double frames. He tried to complain about it to Desforges, but his knowledge of French was too limited for such a complicated explanation; the Frenchman did not understand him, and Anton Pafnutych was forced to abandon his complaints. Their beds stood opposite each other, they both lay down, and the tutor snuffed out the candle.
“Poorkwa voo snuffay, poorkwa voo snuffay,”*4 cried Anton Pafnutych, barely managing to conjugate the verb “to snuff” in the French way. “I can’t dormir*5 in the dark.”
Desforges did not understand his exclamations and wished him good night.
“Cursed heathen,” Spitsyn grumbled, wrapping himself in the blanket. “As if he needed to snuff out the candle. The worse for him. I can’t sleep without a light. Moosieu, moosieu,” he went on, “zhe veuh avek voo parlay.”*6 But the Frenchman did not reply and soon began to snore.
“The beastly Frenchman’s snoring away,” Anton Pafnutych thought, “and I can’t even conceive of sleeping. At any moment thieves might come in the open door or climb through the window, and him, the beast, even gunshots won’t wake him up.”
“Moosieu, hey, moosieu, devil take you!”
Anton Pafnutych fell silent—fatigue and alcoholic vapors gradually overcame his fearfulness, he began to doze off, and soon deep sleep enveloped him completely.
A strange awakening was in store for him. Through sleep he felt someone
gently pulling at his shirt collar. Anton Pafnutych opened his eyes and in the pale light of the autumn morning saw Desforges before him; the Frenchman held a pocket pistol in one hand, and with the other was unfastening the cherished pouch. Anton Pafnutych went numb.
“Kess ke say, moosieu, kess ke say?”*7 he said in a trembling voice.
“Shh, keep still,” the tutor replied in pure Russian, “keep still, or you’re lost. I am Dubrovsky.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Now we ask the reader’s permission to explain the latest events in our story by prior circumstances, which we have not yet had time to relate.
At the * * * posting station, in the house of the stationmaster, whom we have already mentioned, a traveler sat in a corner with a humble and patient air, betokening a commoner or a foreigner, that is, someone who has no voice on the post road. His britzka stood in the yard waiting to be greased. In it lay a small suitcase, meager evidence of a none-too-substantial fortune. The traveler did not ask for tea or coffee; he kept glancing out the window and whistling, to the great displeasure of the stationmaster’s wife, who was sitting behind the partition.
“The Lord God’s sent us a whistler,” she said in a half whisper. “Just keeps on whistling, blast him, the cursed heathen.”
“So what?” said the stationmaster. “Where’s the harm in it, let him whistle.”
“Where’s the harm?” his angry spouse retorted. “Don’t you know about the omen?”
“What omen? That whistling drives out money? Ahh, Pakhomovna, with us, whistle or not, there’s never any anyway!”
“Send him on his way, Sidorych. Why on earth keep him? Give him horses and let him go to the devil.”
“He can wait, Pakhomovna, we’ve only got three troikas in the stables, the fourth one’s resting. Good travelers may turn up in a wink; I don’t want to answer for the Frenchman with my neck. There! Hear that? Somebody’s galloping up. Oh-ho-ho, quite a clip! A general, maybe?”
Novels, Tales, Journeys Page 21
