“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?”
A carriage stopped at the porch. A servant jumped off the box, opened the doors, and a moment later a young man in a military greatcoat and a white visored cap came into the stationmaster’s house. After him the servant brought in a box and set it on the windowsill.
“Horses,” the officer said peremptorily.
“This minute,” the stationmaster replied. “Your travel papers, please.”
“I have no papers. I’m turning off for…Don’t you recognize me?”
The stationmaster got into a bustle and ran out to hurry the coachmen. The young man started pacing up and down the room, went behind the partition, and quietly asked the stationmaster’s wife who the traveler was.
“God knows,” the woman replied. “Some Frenchman. He’s been waiting five hours for horses and keeps whistling. He’s a damned nuisance.”
The young man addressed the traveler in French.
“Where might you be going?” he asked him.
“To the next town,” the Frenchman replied, “and from there I’ll make my way to a certain landowner who has hired me as a tutor sight unseen. I had hoped to get there today, but it seems Mister Stationmaster has judged otherwise. It is difficult to find horses in these parts, Mister Officer.”
“And with which of the local landowners have you found employment?” asked the officer.
“With Mr. Troekurov,” replied the Frenchman.
“Troekurov? Who is this Troekurov?”
“Ma foi, mon officier…I’ve heard little good of him. They say that he is a proud and capricious gentleman, that he is cruel in the treatment of his domestics, that no one can get along with him, that everyone trembles at the sound of his name, that he is unceremonious with tutors (avec les ouchitels*8) and has already whipped two of them to death.”
“Good heavens! And you’d venture to be employed by such a monster?”
“What can I do, Mister Officer? He offers me a good salary, three thousand roubles a year and everything provided. Maybe I’ll be luckier than the others. I have an old mother, I’ll send half the salary for her upkeep, and with the rest of the money I can lay aside a small capital in five years, enough to secure my future independence—and then, bonsoir, I’ll go to Paris and set up some commercial dealings.”
“Does anyone at Troekurov’s know you?” he asked.
“No one,” replied the tutor. “He invited me from Moscow through one of his friends, whose chef, my compatriot, recommended me. You should know that I was trained to be a pastry chef, not a tutor, but I was told that in your country the title of tutor is much more advantageous…”
The officer pondered.
“Listen,” he interrupted the Frenchman, “what if, instead of this future, you were offered ten thousand in ready cash, with the provision that you go back to Paris at once?”
The Frenchman looked at the officer in amazement, smiled, and shook his head.
“The horses are ready,” said the stationmaster, coming in. The servant confirmed it.
“Right away,” said the officer. “Step out for a moment.” The stationmaster and the servant left. “I’m not joking,” he went on in French. “I can give you ten thousand. All I need is your absence and your papers.” With those words he unlocked the box and took out several wads of banknotes.
The Frenchman goggled his eyes. He did not know what to think.
“My absence…my papers,” he repeated in amazement. “Here are my papers…But you’re joking: what do you need my papers for?”
“That’s not your business. I’m asking, do you agree or not?”
The Frenchman, still refusing to believe his ears, handed his papers to the young officer, who quickly looked through them.
“Your passport…good. A letter of introduction, let’s see. Birth certificate, excellent. Well, here’s your money, go back home. Good-bye…”
The Frenchman stood as if rooted to the spot.
The officer came back.
“I almost forgot the most important thing. Give me your word of honor that all this will remain just between us—your word of honor.”
“On my word of honor,” said the Frenchman. “But my papers, what am I to do without them?”
“At the first town you come to, declare that you were robbed by Dubrovsky. They’ll believe you and give you the necessary papers. Good-bye, and God grant you get to Paris quickly and find your mother in good health.”
Dubrovsky left the room, got into the carriage, and galloped off.
The stationmaster was looking out the window, and when the carriage had driven off, he turned to his wife and exclaimed: “Do you know what, Pakhomovna? That was Dubrovsky!”
His wife rushed headlong to the window, but it was too late: Dubrovsky was already far away. She started scolding her husband:
“Have you no fear of God, Sidorych? Why didn’t you tell me earlier? I could at least have caught a glimpse of Dubrovsky, but now just sit and wait till he comes this way again! Shame on you, really, shame on you!”
The Frenchman stood as if rooted to the spot. The arrangement with the officer, the money—it all seemed like a dream to him. But the wads of banknotes were there in his pocket and eloquently confirmed the reality of the astonishing incident.
He decided to hire horses for town. The coachman drove at a walk and it was night by the time they dragged their way to town.
Before they reached the town gates, where instead of a sentry there stood a dilapidated sentry box, the Frenchman ordered the driver to stop, got out of the britzka, and continued on foot, explaining by signs to the coachman that he was leaving him the britzka and the suitcase as a tip. The coachman was as amazed at his generosity as the Frenchman himself had been at Dubrovsky’s offer. But, concluding that the foreigner had lost his mind, the coachman thanked him with a zealous bow and, deciding it might be best not to drive into the town, headed for a certain pleasure establishment he knew and whose owner was a good acquaintance. There he spent the whole night, and the next morning he set out for home on an empty troika, without the britzka and without the suitcase, his face puffy and his eyes red.
Dubrovsky, having come into possession of the Frenchman’s papers, boldly presented himself to Troekurov and, as we have seen, settled in his house. Whatever his secret intentions were (we shall learn of them later), there was nothing reprehensible in his behavior. True, he paid scant attention to little Sasha’s education, gave him full freedom to romp about, and was not terribly demanding in his lessons, assigning them only for the sake of form; however, he followed with great diligence the young lady’s musical successes and often sat with her at the piano for hours at a time. Everybody loved the young tutor: Kirila Petrovich for his bold agility at hunting; Marya Kirilovna for his boundless zeal and shy attentiveness; Sasha for his indulgence towards his pranks; the domestics for his kindness and for a generosity apparently incompatible with his position. He himself, it seemed, was attached to the whole family and considered himself already a member of it.
About a month went by from his entering into his tutorial position till the memorable feast day, and no one suspected that in the modest young Frenchman was hidden the fearsome robber whose name inspired terror in all the neighboring landowners. During all that time Dubrovsky never absented himself from Pokrovskoe, but the rumors of his robberies did not subside, thanks to the inventive imagination of the village dwellers, though it might also be that his band continued to be active in the absence of their chief.
Spending the night in the same room with a man whom he could consider his personal enemy and one of the chief perpetrators of his misfortune, Dubrovsky could not resist the temptation. He knew of the existence of the pouch and decided to lay hands on it. We saw how he astounded poor Anton
Pafnutych by his unexpected transformation from tutor into robber.
At nine o’clock in the morning, the guests who had spent the night in Pokrovskoe gathered one by one in the drawing room, where a samovar was at the boil, beside which Marya Kirilovna sat in a morning dress, and Kirila Petrovich, in a flannel jacket and slippers, was emptying his wide cup, which resembled a barber’s basin. The last to appear was Anton Pafnutych; he was so pale and seemed so upset that the sight of him struck everybody, and Kirila Petrovich inquired after his health. Spitsyn made a senseless reply and glanced in terror at the tutor, who sat right there as if nothing had happened. A few minutes later a servant came in and announced that Spitsyn’s carriage was ready. Anton Pafnutych hurriedly made his bows and, despite the host’s insistence, quickly left the room and drove off at once. No one understood what had happened to him, and Kirila Petrovich decided that he had overeaten. After tea and a farewell breakfast the other guests began to depart, Pokrovskoe was soon deserted, and everything settled into its usual order.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Several days went by and nothing noteworthy happened. The life of Pokrovskoe’s inhabitants was monotonous. Kirila Petrovich went out hunting every day; reading, walks, and music lessons occupied Marya Kirilovna, especially music lessons. She was beginning to understand her own heart and acknowledged, with involuntary vexation, that it was not indifferent to the young Frenchman’s merits. He, for his part, never went beyond the bounds of respect and strict propriety, and thus set her pride and fearful doubts at ease. With greater and greater trustfulness she gave herself to the captivating habit. She was bored without Desforges, in his presence she was constantly preoccupied with him, wanted to know his opinion about everything, and always agreed with him. Maybe she was not yet in love, but at the first chance obstacle or contrariness of fate, the flame of passion was bound to flare up in her heart.
Once, coming into the reception room where her tutor was waiting for her, Marya Kirilovna was surprised to notice a look of embarrassment on his pale face. She opened the piano, sang a few notes, but Dubrovsky excused himself under the pretext of a headache, broke off the lesson, and, while closing the score, stealthily slipped her a note. Marya Kirilovna, having no time to think better of it, took the note and instantly regretted it, but Dubrovsky was no longer in the room. Marya Kirilovna went to her room, unfolded the note, and read the following:
“Be in the gazebo by the brook at seven o’clock this evening. I must speak with you.”
Her curiosity was strongly piqued. She had long been waiting for a confession, wishing for it and fearing it. It would be pleasing for her to hear the confirmation of what she surmised, yet she felt it would be improper for her to listen to such a declaration from a man who by his position could never hope to obtain her hand. She decided to keep the appointment, but was hesitant about one thing: how was she to receive the tutor’s confession? With aristocratic indignation? With friendly admonition? With merry jokes, or with silent sympathy? Meanwhile she kept glancing at the clock every minute. It was growing dark, candles were brought. Kirila Petrovich sat down to play Boston with some visiting neighbors. The dining room clock struck a quarter to seven, and Marya Kirilovna quietly went out to the porch, looked all around, and ran to the garden.
The night was dark, the sky covered with clouds, two steps away nothing could be seen, but Marya Kirilovna walked through the darkness by familiar paths and a minute later found herself at the gazebo. There she paused so as to catch her breath and appear before Desforges looking indifferent and unhurried. But Desforges was already standing before her.
“I thank you,” he said in a soft and sad voice, “that you did not refuse me in my request. I would be in despair if you had not consented to it.”
Marya Kirilovna replied with a prepared phrase:
“I hope that you will not make me repent of my indulgence.”
He was silent and seemed to be plucking up his courage.
“Circumstances demand…I must leave you,” he said at last. “You may soon hear…But before we part, I myself must explain to you…”
Marya Kirilovna made no reply. In these words she saw a preface to the confession she was expecting.
“I am not what you suppose me to be,” he went on, looking down. “I am not the Frenchman Desforges, I am Dubrovsky.”
Marya Kirilovna cried out.
“Don’t be afraid, for God’s sake, you shouldn’t be afraid of my name. Yes, I am that unfortunate man whom your father deprived of his crust of bread, drove out of his parental home, and sent to rob on the highways. But you needn’t be afraid of me—either for yourself, or for him. It’s all over. I’ve forgiven him. Listen, it was you who saved him. My first bloody exploit was to be done against him. I circled around his house, fixing on where to start the fire, from where to enter his bedroom, how to cut off all ways of escape, and just then you walked past me, like a heavenly vision, and my heart was appeased. I realized that the house you dwelt in was sacred, that not a single being connected to you by ties of blood was subject to my curse. I renounced revenge as folly. For whole days I roamed about the gardens of Pokrovskoe in hopes of seeing your white dress in the distance. I followed you in your imprudent walks, moving stealthily from bush to bush, happy in the thought that I was protecting you, that there was no danger for you where I was secretly present. At last a chance offered itself. I came to live in your house. These three weeks have been days of happiness for me. The memory of them will be the consolation of my sorrowful life…Today I received news after which it is impossible for me to stay here any longer. I must part from you today…right now…But first I had to reveal myself to you, so that you would not curse me, would not despise me. Think now and then of Dubrovsky, know that he was born for a different destiny, that his soul was able to love you, that never…”
Here a light whistle was heard, and Dubrovsky fell silent. He seized her hand and pressed it to his burning lips. The whistle was repeated.
“Farewell,” said Dubrovsky. “They’re calling me; a minute could be my undoing.” He walked away, Marya Kirilovna stood motionless, Dubrovsky came back and took her hand again.
“If ever,” he said in a tender and touching voice, “if ever misfortune befalls you and you cannot look for help or protection from anyone, in that case will you promise to resort to me, to demand anything from me for your salvation? Do you promise not to reject my devotion?”
Marya Kirilovna was silently weeping. The whistle was heard for a third time.
“You will be my undoing!” cried Dubrovsky. “I won’t leave you until you give me an answer. Do you promise or not?”
“I promise,” the poor beauty whispered.
Shaken by her meeting with Dubrovsky, Marya Kirilovna came back from the garden. It seemed to her that all the servants were running around, the house was astir, there were many people in the courtyard, a troika stood by the porch, she heard Kirila Petrovich’s voice in the distance and hurried inside, fearing her absence might have been noticed. Kirila Petrovich met her in the reception room. The guests surrounded the police chief, our acquaintance, showering him with questions. The police chief, dressed for the road, armed from head to foot, answered them with a mysterious and bustling air.
“Where were you, Masha?” asked Kirila Petrovich. “Did you run into M. Desforges?”
Masha was barely able to answer in the negative.
“Imagine,” Kirila Petrovich went on, “the police chief has come to arrest him and assures me that he is Dubrovsky himself.”
“By all distinguishing marks, Your Excellency,” the police chief said deferentially.
“Eh, brother,” Kirila Petrovich interrupted, “you can go you know where with your distinguishing marks. I won’t hand my Frenchman over to you before I’ve looked into the matter myself. How can you believe the word of that coward and liar Anton Pafnutych? He dreamed up that the tutor wanted to rob him. Why didn’t he say a word to me about it that same morning?”
“The Frenchman intimidated him, Your Excellency,” the police chief replied, “and extracted an oath of silence from him…”
“Nonsense!” Kirila Petrovich decided. “I’ll get to the bottom of all this in no time. Where’s the tutor?” he asked a servant who had just come in.
“Nowhere to be found, sir,” replied the servant.
“Go and look for him,” shouted Troekurov, beginning to have doubts. “Show me your famous marks,” he said to the police chief, who handed him the paper at once. “Hm, hm, twenty-three years old…That’s right, but it doesn’t prove anything. What about the tutor?”
“Hasn’t been found, sir,” was again the answer. Kirila Petrovich began to worry. Marya Kirilovna was more dead than alive.
“You’re pale, Masha,” her father observed. “You’ve been frightened.”
“No, papa,” Masha replied, “I have a headache.”
“Go to your room, Masha, and don’t worry.” Masha kissed his hand and quickly went to her room, where she threw herself on her bed and sobbed in a fit of hysterics. The maids came running, undressed her, barely managed to calm her with cold water and all possible spirits, laid her down, and she fell into a slumber.
Meanwhile the Frenchman could not be found. Kirila Petrovich paced up and down the reception room, menacingly whistling “Thunder of victory resound.” The guests whispered among themselves, the police chief looked like a fool, the Frenchman was not found. He had probably managed to steal away, having been warned. But by whom and how? That remained a mystery.
It struck eleven and no one even thought of sleeping. Finally Kirila Petrovich said angrily to the police chief:
“Well, so? You’re not going to stay here till dawn. My house is not a tavern. It will take more adroitness than you’ve got to catch Dubrovsky, brother, if that is Dubrovsky. Go back where you came from, and in the future be more efficient. It’s time for all of you to go home as well,” he went on, addressing his guests. “Order the hitching up, I want to get some sleep.”
Novels, Tales, Journeys: The Complete Prose of Alexander Pushkin Page 22
