Her words infuriated the young captive. Her head was seething, her blood was stirred, she decided to inform Dubrovsky of everything and began to seek some way of sending the ring to the hollow of the secret oak. At that moment a little stone struck her window, the glass made a ping, and Marya Kirilovna looked out and saw little Sasha making mysterious signs to her. She knew his affection for her and was glad to see him. She opened the window.
“Hello, Sasha,” she said. “Why are you calling me?”
“I came to find out if you need anything, sister. Papa’s angry and has forbidden the whole household to obey you, but tell me and I’ll do whatever you like.”
“Thank you, my dear Sashenka. Listen: you know the old oak with the hollow that’s by the gazebo?”
“I do, sister.”
“Then if you love me, run there quickly and put this ring into the hollow, and make sure nobody sees you.”
With those words she tossed him the ring and closed the window.
The boy picked up the ring, set off running as fast as he could, and in three minutes reached the secret tree. There he stopped for breath, looked all around, and put the ring into the hollow. Having done his job successfully, he wanted to report at once to Marya Kirilovna, when suddenly a ragged boy, red-haired and squint-eyed, shot from behind the gazebo, dashed to the oak tree, and thrust his hand into the hollow. Sasha rushed at him quicker than a squirrel and caught hold of him with both hands.
“What are you doing here?” he said menacingly.
“None of your business!” the boy replied, trying to free himself.
“Leave that ring alone, you red-haired rat,” Sasha shouted, “or I’ll teach you what’s what.”
Instead of an answer, the boy punched him in the face with his fist, but Sasha did not let go and shouted at the top of his voice: “Thieves, thieves, help, help…”
The boy tried to break free of him. He was apparently a couple of years older than Sasha and much stronger, but Sasha was more nimble. They struggled for several minutes, and the red-haired boy finally won. He threw Sasha to the ground and took him by the throat.
But just then a strong hand seized his red and bristling hair, and the gardener Stepan lifted him a foot off the ground…
“Ah, you red-haired rascal,” the gardener said. “How dare you beat the young master…”
Sasha had time to jump up and brush himself off.
“You grabbed me under the arms, otherwise you’d never have thrown me down. Give me back the ring and get out of here.”
“Nohow,” the redhead replied and, suddenly twisting around, freed his bristles from Stepan’s hand. Then he broke into a run, but Sasha caught up with him, shoved him in the back, and the boy went sprawling. The gardener seized him again and bound him with his belt.
“Give me the ring!” Sasha shouted.
“Wait, master,” said Stepan. “We’ll take him to the steward and he’ll deal with him.”
The gardener led the prisoner to the manor yard, and Sasha went with them, casting worried glances at his torn and grass-stained trousers. Suddenly the three of them found themselves in front of Kirila Petrovich, who was on his way to inspect the stables.
“What’s this?” he asked Stepan.
Stepan briefly described the whole incident. Kirila Petrovich listened to him attentively.
“You scapegrace,” he said, turning to Sasha. “Why did you have anything to do with him?”
“He stole the ring from the hollow, papa. Tell him to give back the ring.”
“What ring, from what hollow?”
“The one Marya Kirilovna…the ring she…”
Sasha became embarrassed, confused. Kirila Petrovich frowned and said, shaking his head:
“So Marya Kirilovna’s mixed up in it. Confess everything, or I’ll give you such a birching you won’t know who you are.”
“By God, papa, I…Marya Kirilovna didn’t tell me to do anything, papa…”
“Stepan, go and cut me a good, fresh birch rod…”
“Wait, papa, I’ll tell you everything. Today I was running around in the yard, and my sister Marya Kirilovna opened the window, I ran over, and my sister accidentally dropped a ring, and I hid it in the hollow, and…and this red-haired boy wanted to steal it.”
“She accidentally dropped it, and you wanted to hide it…Stepan, fetch the rod.”
“Papa, wait, I’ll tell you everything. My sister Marya Kirilovna told me to run to the oak and put the ring in the hollow, so I ran and put the ring in it, and this nasty boy…”
Kirila Petrovich turned to the nasty boy and asked menacingly: “Whose are you?”
“I’m a household serf of the Dubrovskys,” replied the red-haired boy.
Kirila Petrovich’s face darkened.
“So it seems you don’t recognize me as your master. Fine,” he replied. “And what were you doing in my garden?”
“Stealing raspberries,” the boy replied with great indifference.
“Aha, servant and master, like priest, like parish. Do my raspberries grow on oak trees?”
The boy made no reply.
“Papa, tell him to give back the ring,” said Sasha.
“Quiet, Alexander,” replied Kirila Petrovich. “Don’t forget, I still intend to settle with you. Go to your room. And you, squint-eye, you seem bright enough. Give me the ring and go home.”
The boy opened his fist and showed that he had nothing in his hand.
“If you confess everything to me, I won’t thrash you, and I’ll give you five kopecks for nuts. If not, I’ll do something to you that you’d never expect. Well?”
The boy did not say a word and stood there, hanging his head and giving himself the look of a real little fool.
“Fine,” said Kirila Petrovich. “Lock him up somewhere and see that he doesn’t escape, or I’ll skin the whole household alive.”
Stepan took the boy to the dovecote, locked him in, and set the old poultry maid Agafya to keep watch on him.
“Go to town right now for the police chief,” said Kirila Petrovich, following the boy with his eyes, “as quick as you can.”
“There’s no doubt about it. She kept in touch with that cursed Dubrovsky. Can it really be that she called for his help?” thought Kirila Petrovich, pacing the room and angrily whistling “Thunder of victory.” “Maybe I’ve finally found his warm tracks, and he won’t get away from us. We must take advantage of the occasion. Hah! A bell. Thank God, it’s the police chief.”
“Hey! Bring me the boy we caught.”
Meanwhile a buggy drove into the yard, and the police chief already known to us came into the room all covered with dust.
“Great news,” Kirila Petrovich said to him. “I’ve caught Dubrovsky.”
“Thank God, Your Excellency,” the police chief said joyfully. “Where is he?”
“That is, not Dubrovsky, but one of his band. They’ll bring him presently. He’ll help us to catch their chief. Here he is.”
The police chief, who was expecting a fearsome robber, was amazed to see a thirteen-year-old boy of rather weak appearance. He turned to Kirila Petrovich in perplexity and waited for an explanation. Kirila Petrovich began at once to recount the morning’s incident, though without mentioning Marya Kirilovna.
The police chief listened to him attentively, glancing every other moment at the little scoundrel, who, pretending to be a fool, seemed to pay no attention to all that was going on around him.
“Allow me to speak with you in private, Your Excellency,” the police chief finally said.
Kirila Petrovich took him to another room and locked the door behind him.
Half an hour later they came back to the reception room where the prisoner was waiting for his fate to be decided.
“The master,” said the police chief, “wanted to put you in the town jail, have you flogged and then sent to a penal colony, but I interceded for you and persuaded him to forgive you. Untie him.”
The boy was untied.
“Thank the master,” said the police chief. The boy went up to Kirila Petrovich and kissed his hand.
“Go on home,” Kirila Petrovich said to him, “and in the future don’t steal raspberries from hollow trees.”
The boy went out, cheerfully jumped off the porch, and ran across the fields to Kistenevka without looking back. On reaching the village, he stopped at a dilapidated hut, the first at the edge, and knocked on the window; the window was raised, and an old woman appeared.
“Give me some bread, grandma,” said the boy. “I haven’t eaten since morning, I’m starved.”
“Ah, it’s you, Mitya. Where did you disappear to, you little devil?” the old woman replied.
“I’ll tell you later, grandma. Give me some bread, for God’s sake.”
“Come in, then.”
“No time, grandma, I still have to run somewhere else. Bread, for Christ’s sake, give me bread.”
“What a fidget!” the old woman grumbled. “Here’s a slice for you.” And she handed a slice of dark bread out the window. The boy greedily bit into it and, chewing, instantly headed off again.
It was growing dark. Mitya made his way past the barns and kitchen gardens to the Kistenevka grove. Having reached the two pine trees that stood as front-line sentinels of the grove, he stopped, looked around, gave an abrupt, piercing whistle, and began to listen; he heard a light and prolonged whistle in response; someone came out of the wood and approached him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Kirila Petrovich paced up and down the reception room, whistling his song more loudly than usual; the whole house was astir, servants ran around, maids bustled, in the shed the coachmen hitched up the carriage, people crowded in the courtyard. In the young mistress’s dressing room, before the mirror, a lady, surrounded by maids, was decking out the pale, motionless Marya Kirilovna, whose head bent languidly under the weight of the diamonds. She winced slightly when a careless hand pricked her, but kept silent, vacantly gazing into the mirror.
“Soon now?” Kirila Petrovich’s voice was heard at the door.
“One moment!” replied the lady. “Marya Kirilovna, stand up, look at yourself, is it all right?”
Marya Kirilovna stood up and made no reply. The door opened.
“The bride is ready,” the lady said to Kirila Petrovich. “Have them put her in the carriage.”
“Godspeed,” replied Kirila Petrovich and, taking an icon from the table, he said in a moved voice. “Come to me, Masha. I give you my blessing…”
The poor girl fell at his feet and sobbed.
“Papa…dear papa…” she said in tears, and her voice died away. Kirila Petrovich hastened to bless her, she was picked up and all but carried to the carriage. Her proxy mother and one of the maids sat with her. They drove to the church. There the groom was already waiting for them. He came out to meet her and was struck by her pallor and strange look. Together they entered the cold, empty church; the door was locked behind them. The priest came out from the altar and began at once. Marya Kirilovna saw nothing, heard nothing, she thought of only one thing: since morning she had waited for Dubrovsky, hope had not abandoned her for a moment, but when the priest turned to her with the usual questions, she shuddered and her heart sank, but she still tarried, still waited. The priest, getting no answer from her, pronounced the irrevocable words.
The ceremony was over. She felt the cold kiss of her unloved husband, she heard the cheerful congratulations of those present, and still could not believe that her life was forever bound, that Dubrovsky had not come flying to set her free. The prince addressed some tender words to her, she did not understand them, they left the church, the porch was crowded with peasants from Pokrovskoe. Her gaze ran quickly over them and again showed the former insensibility. The newlyweds got into the carriage together and drove to Arbatovo; Kirila Petrovich had already gone on ahead so as to meet the newlyweds there. Alone with his young wife, the prince was not put out in the least by her cold look. He did not bother her with sugary talk and ridiculous raptures; his words were simple and called for no response. In this way they drove some seven miles, the horses sped over the bumps of the country road, and the carriage barely rocked on its English springs. Suddenly shouts of pursuit rang out, the carriage stopped, a crowd of armed men surrounded it, and a man in a half mask, opening the doors on the young princess’s side, said to her:
“You’re free, come out.”
“What is the meaning of this?” cried the prince. “Who are you?…”
“It’s Dubrovsky,” said the princess.
The prince, not losing his presence of mind, drew a traveling pistol from his side pocket and fired at the masked robber. The princess cried out and covered her face with both hands in horror. Dubrovsky was wounded in the shoulder; blood appeared. The prince, not wasting a moment, drew a second pistol, but he was given no time to fire. The doors of the carriage were opened and several strong hands pulled him out and tore the pistol from him. Knives flashed over him.
“Don’t touch him!” cried Dubrovsky, and his grim accomplices drew back.
“You are free,” Dubrovsky went on, turning to the pale princess.
“No,” she replied. “It’s too late, I’m married, I’m Prince Vereisky’s wife.”
“What are you saying?” Dubrovsky cried in despair. “No, you’re not his wife, you were forced, you could never have consented…”
“I did consent, I took the vow,” she objected firmly. “The prince is my husband, order him freed and leave me with him. I did not deceive you. I waited for you till the last moment…But now, I tell you, now it’s too late. Let us go.”
But Dubrovsky no longer heard her. The pain of the wound and the strong agitation of his soul took his strength away. He collapsed by the wheel, the robbers surrounded him. He managed to say a few words to them, they put him on a horse, two of them supported him, a third took the horse by the bridle, and they all went off, leaving the carriage in the middle of the road, with the servants bound, the horses unhitched, but stealing nothing and shedding not a single drop of blood in revenge for the blood of their leader.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
On a narrow clearing in the middle of a dense forest rose a small earthen fortress, consisting of a rampart and a ditch, behind which were several huts and dugouts.
In the yard a large number of men, in varied dress but all of them armed, which showed them at once to be robbers, were having dinner, sitting hatless around a fraternal cauldron. On the rampart, next to a small cannon, sat a sentry, his legs tucked under; he was putting a patch on a certain part of his clothing, working the needle with a skill that betrayed an experienced tailor, and kept glancing in all directions.
Though a dipper had been passed around several times, a strange silence reigned in the company. The robbers finished their dinner, got up one after another, and said a prayer. Some dispersed to the huts, others went off to the forest or lay down for a nap as Russians usually do.
The sentry finished his work, shook out his rag, admired the patch, stuck the needle in his sleeve, sat down astride the cannon, and began to sing at the top of his voice a melancholy old song:
Rustle not, leafy mother, forest green,
Keep me not, a fine lad, from thinking my thoughts.
Just then the door to one of the huts opened and an old woman in a white bonnet, neatly and primly dressed, appeared on the threshold.
“Enough of that, Styopka,” she said angrily. “The master’s asleep and you’re bellowing away; you’ve got no shame or pity.”
“Sorry, Egorovna,” Styopka replied. “All right, I won’t go on. Let our dear master rest and recover.”
The old woman went back in, and Styopka started pacing the rampart.
In the hut the old woman had emerged from, behind a partition, the wounded Dubrovsky lay on a camp bed. Before him on a small table lay his pistols, and a saber hung by his head. The floor and walls of the mud hut were covered with luxurious carpets; in t
he corner was a lady’s silver dressing table and a pier glass. Dubrovsky held an open book in his hand, but his eyes were shut. And the old woman, who kept glancing at him from beyond the partition, could not tell whether he was asleep or merely thinking.
Suddenly Dubrovsky gave a start, the alarm rang in the fortress, and Styopka thrust his head through the window.
“Master Vladimir Andreevich,” he cried, “our boys have given the signal: they’re tracking us down.”
Dubrovsky jumped off the bed, grabbed a pistol, and came out of the hut. The robbers were crowding noisily in the yard; at his appearance a deep silence fell.
“Is everybody here?” asked Dubrovsky.
“Everybody except the lookouts,” came the answer.
“To your places!” cried Dubrovsky.
And each robber went to his appointed place. Just then three lookouts came running to the gate. Dubrovsky went to meet them.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Soldiers in the forest,” they replied. “They’re surrounding us.”
Dubrovsky ordered the gates locked and went himself to examine the little cannon. From the forest came the sound of several voices, and they began to approach; the robbers waited in silence. Suddenly three or four soldiers emerged from the forest and at once fell back, firing shots to signal their comrades.
“Prepare to fight,” said Dubrovsky.
There was a stir among the robbers, after which everything fell silent again. Then they heard the noise of the approaching detachment, weapons gleamed among the trees, some hundred and fifty soldiers poured out of the forest and, shouting loudly, rushed towards the rampart. Dubrovsky touched off the fuse, the shot was lucky: one man had his head blown off, two more were wounded. There was confusion among the soldiers, but the officer threw himself forward, the soldiers followed him and ran down into the ditch. The robbers fired at them with rifles and pistols, and, with axes in their hands, began to defend the rampart, which the enraged soldiers attacked, leaving twenty wounded comrades in the ditch. Hand-to-hand combat began, the soldiers were already on the rampart, the robbers were beginning to fall back, but Dubrovsky, walking up to the officer, put a pistol to his chest and fired. The officer went crashing on his back. Several soldiers picked him up and quickly carried him into the forest; the rest, left without a leader, stopped. The encouraged robbers took advantage of this moment of bewilderment, overran them and drove them into the ditch. The besiegers fled, the robbers, shouting loudly, rushed after them. The victory was assured. Dubrovsky, trusting in the complete discomfiture of the enemy, stopped his men and shut himself up in the fortress, commanding the wounded to be brought in, doubling the sentries, and ordering that nobody leave.
Novels, Tales, Journeys: The Complete Prose of Alexander Pushkin Page 24
