So ungraciously did Troekurov part from his guests!
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Some time went by without any notable incidents. But at the beginning of the following summer many changes took place in Kirila Petrovich’s family life.
Twenty miles from him lay the rich estate of Prince Vereisky. The prince had been away in foreign parts for a long time, all his property had been managed by a retired major, and there had been no communication between Pokrovskoe and Arbatovo. But at the end of May the prince came back from abroad and went to his village, which he had never seen in his life. Accustomed to distractions, he could not bear solitude, and on the third day after his arrival he set off to have dinner with Troekurov, with whom he had once been acquainted.
The prince was around fifty, but he looked much older. Excesses of all sorts had undermined his health and left their indelible stamp on him. In spite of that, his appearance was pleasant, notable, and the habit of being always in society had lent him a certain amiability, especially with women. He had a constant need of distraction and was constantly bored. Kirila Petrovich was extremely pleased with his visit, taking it as a sign of respect from a man who knew the world; he began, as usual, by treating him to a tour of his establishment and took him to the kennels. But the prince all but choked in the doggy atmosphere and hurriedly left the place, pressing a scented handkerchief to his nose. The old garden with its trimmed lindens, rectangular pond, and regular paths was not to his liking; he preferred English gardens and so-called nature; yet he praised and admired. A servant came to announce that dinner was served. They went to the table. The prince limped, weary from his promenade and already regretting his visit.
But in the reception room they were met by Marya Kirilovna, and the old philanderer was struck by her beauty. Troekurov seated the guest next to her. The prince was revived by her presence, grew merry, and managed several times to attract her attention by his curious stories. After dinner Kirila Petrovich suggested that they go riding, but the prince excused himself, pointing to his velvet boots and joking about his gout; he preferred a promenade in a phaeton, so as not to part from his sweet neighbor. The phaeton was hitched up. The old men and the beauty got in together and drove off. The conversation never lapsed. Marya Kirilovna was listening with pleasure to the flattering and merry compliments of the society man, when Vereisky, suddenly turning to Kirila Petrovich, asked him what was the meaning of that burnt-down building, and did it belong to him?…Kirila Petrovich frowned; the memories evoked by the burnt-down manor were unpleasant for him. He replied that the land was now his and that formerly it had belonged to Dubrovsky.
“To Dubrovsky?” Vereisky repeated. “What, to that famous robber?”
“To his father,” Troekurov replied, “and the father was a pretty good robber himself.”
“What’s become of our Rinaldo now?14 Is he alive? Have they caught him?”
“He’s alive and on the loose, and as long as our police connive with thieves, he won’t be caught. By the way, Prince, Dubrovsky has paid you a visit in Arbatovo, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, last year it seems he did some burning or pillaging…It would be curious to become more closely acquainted with this romantic hero, wouldn’t it, Marya Kirilovna?”
“Curious, hah!” said Troekurov. “She knows him: he taught her music for a whole three weeks, and took nothing for the lessons, thank God.” Here Kirila Petrovich began to tell the story of his French tutor. Marya Kirilovna was on pins and needles. Vereisky listened with great attention, found it all very strange, and changed the subject. On returning, he ordered his carriage brought and, despite Kirila Petrovich’s insistent requests that he stay the night, left right after tea. But before that, he begged Kirila Petrovich to come and visit him with Marya Kirilovna, and the proud Troekurov gave his promise, for, taking into consideration the princely rank, the two stars, and the three thousand souls of the family estate, he considered Vereisky to a certain degree his equal.
Two days after this visit, Kirila Petrovich and his daughter went to call on Prince Vereisky. As they approached Arbatovo, he could not help admiring the clean and cheerful peasant cottages and the stone manor house, built after the fashion of English castles. Before the house spread a lush green meadow where Swiss cows grazed, tinkling their bells. A vast park surrounded the house on all sides. The host met his guests at the porch and offered the young beauty his arm. They entered a magnificent reception room, where a table had been laid for three. The prince led his guests to the window, and before them opened a lovely view. The Volga flowed past the windows, with loaded barges floating on it under wind-filled sails, and small fishing boats, so expressively nicknamed “smacks,” flitted by. Beyond the river stretched hills and fields, with a few villages animating the landscape. Then they set about examining the gallery of pictures that the prince had bought in foreign parts. The prince explained to Marya Kirilovna their various subjects, the history of the painters, pointed out their merits and shortcomings. He spoke of the pictures not in the conventional language of a pedantic connoisseur, but with feeling and imagination. Marya Kirilovna listened to him with pleasure. They went to the table. Troekurov did full justice to his Amphitryon’s wines15 and to the art of his chef, and Marya Kirilovna did not feel the least embarrassment or constraint conversing with a man she was seeing for the second time in her life. After dinner the host suggested to his guests that they go to the garden. They had coffee in a gazebo on the shore of a wide lake dotted with islands. Suddenly brass music rang out and a six-oared boat moored just by the gazebo. They went out on the lake, around the islands, landed on some of them, on one found a marble statue, on another a secluded grotto, on a third a memorial with a mysterious inscription that aroused Marya Kirilovna’s maidenly curiosity, which was not fully satisfied by the prince’s courteous reticence. Time passed imperceptibly; it was growing dark. The prince, under the pretext of chilliness and dewfall, hurried them back home. The samovar was waiting for them. He asked Marya Kirilovna to play the hostess in the old bachelor’s house. She poured tea, listening to the inexhaustible stories of the amiable chatterer. Suddenly a shot rang out and a rocket lit up the sky. The prince gave Marya Kirilovna her shawl and invited her and Troekurov to the balcony. In the darkness outside the house multicolored fires flashed, spun, soared up like sheaves, palm trees, fountains, showered down like rain, stars, dying out and flaring up again. Marya Kirilovna was happy as a child. Prince Vereisky rejoiced in her delight, and Troekurov was extremely pleased with him, for he took tous les frais*9 of the prince as tokens of respect and a desire to oblige him.
The supper was in no way inferior to the dinner. The guests retired to the rooms assigned to them and the next morning parted from the amiable host, promising that they would see each other again soon.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Marya Kirilovna sat in her room, embroidering on a tambour by the open window. She did not confuse the silks, as did Konrad’s mistress,16 who, in amorous distraction, embroidered a rose in green silk. Under her needle, the canvas unerringly repeated the original pattern, even though her thoughts did not follow her work but were far away.
Suddenly a hand reached quietly through the window, placed a letter on the tambour, and disappeared before Marya Kirilovna had time to come to her senses. Just then a servant came into her room and summoned her to Kirila Petrovich. She tremblingly hid the letter behind her fichu and hurried to her father’s study.
Kirila Petrovich was not alone. Prince Vereisky was sitting with him. At the appearance of Marya Kirilovna, the prince rose and silently bowed to her with an embarrassment unusual for him.
“Come here, Masha,” said Kirila Petrovich. “I shall tell you some news, which I hope you will be glad to hear. This is your suitor: the prince has proposed to marry you.”
Masha was dumbfounded, a deathly pallor came over her face. She said nothing. The prince went to her, took her hand, and, with apparent feeling, asked if she would consent to make his happiness. Masha said no
thing.
“She consents, of course, she consents,” said Kirila Petrovich. “But you know, Prince, it’s hard for a girl to pronounce that word. So, children, kiss and be happy.”
Masha stood motionless, the old prince kissed her hand, and tears suddenly poured down her pale face. The prince frowned slightly.
“Go, go, go,” said Kirila Petrovich, “dry your tears, and come back a cheerful girl. They all cry at their engagement,” he went on, turning to Vereisky. “It’s a custom of theirs…Now, Prince, let’s talk business, that is, the dowry.”
Marya Kirilovna eagerly availed herself of the permission to leave. She ran to her room, locked herself in, and gave free rein to her tears, imagining herself the old prince’s wife. He suddenly seemed repulsive and hateful to her…Marriage frightened her like the scaffold, the grave…“No, no,” she repeated in despair, “better to die, better to enter a convent, better to marry Dubrovsky.” Here she remembered about the letter and eagerly hastened 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 in the same place.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The moon shone, the July night was quiet, a breeze arose now and then and sent a light rustling through the whole garden.
Like a light shadow, the young beauty approached the place of the appointed meeting. There was nobody to be seen. Suddenly, from behind the gazebo, Dubrovsky emerged before her.
“I know everything,” he said in a soft and sad voice. “Remember your promise.”
“You offer me your protection,” Masha replied. “Don’t be angry, but it frightens me. In what way can you be of help to me?”
“I can rid you of the hateful man.”
“For God’s sake, don’t touch him, don’t you dare touch him, if you love me. I don’t want to be the cause of some horror…”
“I won’t touch him, your will is sacred to me. He owes you his life. Never will villainy be committed in your name. You must be pure even of my crimes. But how am I to save you from your cruel father?”
“There is still hope. I hope to move him by my tears and despair. He’s stubborn, but he loves me so.”
“Don’t have vain hopes: in those tears he’ll see only the usual timidity and revulsion common to all young girls when they marry not out of passion, but from sensible convenience. What if he takes it into his head to make you happy despite yourself? What if you’re forcibly led to the altar, so that your fate is forever handed over to an old husband’s power?”
“Then, then there’s no help for it; come for me, I will be your wife.”
Dubrovsky trembled and a crimson flush spread over his pale face, which a moment later became still paler than before. For a long time he hung his head and said nothing.
“Gather all your inner forces, beg your father, throw yourself at his feet, picture for him all the horror to come, your youth fading away at the side of a feeble and depraved old man, dare to speak harshly: tell him that if he remains implacable, you…you will find a terrible defense…Tell him that wealth will not bring you a moment’s happiness; that luxury is only a comfort for poverty, and then only for a moment, only from being unaccustomed; don’t let up on him, don’t be frightened by his wrath or his threats, as long as there’s even a shadow of hope, for God’s sake, don’t let up. But if there’s no other way left…”
Here Dubrovsky covered his face with his hands, he seemed to be choking. Masha wept…
“Oh, my wretched, wretched fate!” he said with a bitter sigh. “I would give my life for you, to see you from afar, to touch your hand would be ecstasy for me. And when the possibility opens for me to press you to my agitated heart and say: ‘My angel, let us die!’—wretched man, I must beware of that bliss, I must hold it off with all my strength…I dare not fall at your feet, to thank heaven for its incomprehensible, undeserved reward. Oh, how I should hate that man…but I feel that there is now no room for hatred in my heart.”
He gently put his arms around her slender waist and gently drew her to his heart. She trustingly lowered her head to the young robber’s shoulder. Both were silent.
Time flew by.
“I must go,” Masha said at last. It was as if Dubrovsky awoke from a trance. He took her hand and placed a ring on her finger.
“If you decide to resort to me,” he said, “bring the ring here, put it into the hollow of this oak, and I will know what to do.”
Dubrovsky kissed her hand and disappeared into the trees.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Prince Vereisky’s marriage plans were no longer a secret in the neighborhood. Kirila Petrovich received congratulations, the wedding was in preparation. Masha kept postponing the decisive talk from one day to the next. Meanwhile she treated her elderly suitor coldly and stiffly. The prince was not worried by that. He was not concerned about love, he was satisfied with her tacit consent.
But time was passing. Masha finally decided to act and wrote a letter to Prince Vereisky; she tried to arouse a feeling of magnanimity in his heart, openly admitted that she felt not the slightest attachment to him, begged him to renounce her hand and protect her from parental authority. She handed the letter to Prince Vereisky in secret; he read it when he was alone, and was not moved in the least by his fiancée’s candor. On the contrary, he saw the necessity of hastening the wedding, and to that end deemed it proper to show the letter to his future father-in-law.
Kirila Petrovich was furious; the prince barely persuaded him not to let Masha see that he knew about the letter. Kirila Petrovich agreed not to speak to her about it, but decided to waste no time and set the wedding for the very next day. The prince found that quite reasonable, went to his fiancée, told her that the letter had grieved him very much, but that he hoped in time to win her affection, that the thought of losing her was too painful for him, and that he was unable to accept his own death sentence. After which he kissed her hand respectfully and left, not saying a word to her about Kirila Petrovich’s decision.
But he had barely had time to drive out of the courtyard before her father came to her and ordered her straight out to be ready for the next day. Marya Kirilovna, already agitated by her talk with Prince Vereisky, dissolved in tears and threw herself at her father’s feet.
“Dear papa,” she cried in a pitiful voice, “dear papa, don’t destroy me, I don’t love the prince, I don’t want to be his wife…”
“What is the meaning of this?” Kirila Petrovich said menacingly. “Up to now you were silent and consenting, but now, when everything’s settled, you’ve taken a notion to be capricious and renounce it. Kindly don’t play the fool; that will get you nowhere with me.”
“Don’t destroy me,” poor Masha repeated. “Why do you drive me away and give me to a man I don’t love? Are you tired of me? I want to stay with you as before. Dear papa, it will be sad for you without me, and sadder still when you think how unhappy I am, dear papa. Don’t force me, I don’t want to get married…”
Kirila Petrovich was moved, but he concealed his perplexity and, pushing her away, said sternly:
“This is all nonsense, do you hear? I know better than you what’s necessary for your happiness. Tears won’t help you, your wedding will be the day after tomorrow.”
“The day after tomorrow!” cried Masha. “My God! No, no, it’s impossible, it will not be. Dear papa, listen, if you’re already resolved to destroy me, I’ll find a protector, one you’ve never thought of, you’ll see, you’ll be horrified at what you’ve driven me to.”
“What? What?” said Troekurov. “So you threaten me, threaten me, you impudent girl! Be it known to you that I shall do something to you that you cannot even imagine. You dare to frighten me with your protector. We’ll see who this protector turns out to be.”
“Vladimir Dubrovsky,” Masha replied in despair.
Kirila Petrovich thought she had gone out of her mind, and stared at her in amazement.
“Very well,” he said after a brief silence. “Wait for any deliverer you like, but meanwhile you’ll sit in this room, you won’t leave it till the wedding itself.”
With these words Kirila Petrovich left and locked the door behind him.
The poor girl wept for a long time, imagining all that lay ahead of her, but the stormy talk relieved her soul, and she was now able to reason more calmly about her fate and what she was to do. The main thing for her was to be delivered from the hateful marriage; the fate of a robber’s wife seemed to her like paradise compared to the lot being prepared for her. She looked at the ring Dubrovsky had left her. She ardently wished to see him alone and once more talk things over with him at length before the decisive moment. Her intuition told her that in the evening she would find Dubrovsky by the gazebo in the garden; she decided to go and wait for him there as soon as it began to grow dark. It grew dark. Masha made ready, but her door was locked. The maid told her from outside the door that Kirila Petrovich had given orders not to let her out. She was under arrest. Deeply offended, she sat by the window and remained there until late at night without undressing, staring fixedly at the dark sky. At dawn she dozed off, but her light sleep was disturbed by sad visions, and the rays of the rising sun awakened her.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
She woke up, and with her first thought all the horror of her situation presented itself to her. She rang, the maid came in, and to her questions replied that Kirila Petrovich had gone to Arbatovo in the evening and come back late, that he had given strict instructions not to let her out of the room and to see that no one talked to her, that, on the other hand, no special preparations for the wedding could be seen, except that the priest had been ordered not to absent himself from the village under any pretext. After this news the maid left Marya Kirilovna and once again locked the door.
Novels, Tales, Journeys: The Complete Prose of Alexander Pushkin Page 23
