Works of Alexander Pushkin (98 page)

The sheriff listened to him attentively, glancing from time to time at the young rogue, who, assuming a look of imbecility, seemed to be paying no attention to all that was going on around him.

“Will Your Excellency allow me to speak to you privately?” said the sheriff at last.

Kirila Petrovich took him into another room and locked the door after him.

Half an hour afterwards they returned to the hall, where the captive was awaiting the decision respecting his fate.

“The master wished,” the sheriff said to him, “to have you locked up in the town gaol, to be whipped, and then deported as a convict; but I interceded for you and have obtained your pardon. Untie him!”

The lad was unbound.

“Thank the master,” said the sheriff.

The lad went up to Kirila Petrovich and kissed his hand.

“Run away home,” Kirila Petrovich said to him, “and in future do not steal raspberries from oak trees.”

The lad went out, ran merrily down the steps, and without looking behind him, dashed off across the fields in the direction of Kistenyovka. On reaching the village, he stopped at a ramshackle hut, on the edge of the settlement, and tapped at the window. The window was opened, and an old woman appeared.

“Grandmother, some bread!” said the boy: “I have eaten nothing since this morning; I am dying of hunger.”

“Ah! it is you, Mitya; but where have you been all this time, you imp?” asked the old woman.

“I will tell you afterwards, grandmother. For God’s sake, some bread!”

“Come into the hut, then.”

“I haven’t the time, grandmother; I ‘ve got to run on to another place. Bread, for the Lord’s sake, bread!”

“What a fidget!” grumbled the old woman: “there’s a piece for you,” and she pushed through the window a slice of black bread.

The boy bit into it greedily, and went on slowly, chewing as he walked.

It was beginning to grow dark. Mitya made his way along past the barns and kitchen gardens toward the Kistenyovka grove. On arriving at the two pine trees, standing like advance guards before the grove, he paused, looked round on every side, gave a shrill, abrupt whistle, and then listened. A faint and prolonged whistle was heard in reply, and somebody came out of the grove and advanced toward him.

XVIII

KIRILA PETROVICH was pacing up and down the hall, whistling his favorite air louder than usual. The whole house was in commotion; the servants were running about, and the maids were busy. In the coachhouse horses were being hitched up to a carriage. In the courtyard there was a crowd of people. In Marya Kirilovna’s dressing-room, before the looking-glass, a lady, surrounded by maidservants, was attiring the pale, motionless young bride. Her head bent languidly beneath the weight of her diamonds; she started slightly when a careless hand pricked her, but she remained silent, gazing absently into the mirror.

“Will you soon be ready?” the voice of Kirila Petrovich was heard at the door.

“In a minute!” replied the lady. “Marya Kirilovna, get up and look at yourself. Is everything right?”

Marya Kirilovna rose, but made no reply. The door was opened.

“The bride is ready,” said the lady to Kirila Petrovich; “order the carriage.”

“May God be with us!” replied Kirila Petrovich, and taking a sacred ikon from the table, “Approach, Masha,” he said, with emotion; “I bless you...”

The poor girl fell at his feet and began to sob.

“Papa... papa...” she said through her tears, and then her voice failed her.

Kirila Petrovich hastened to give her his blessing. She was lifted up and almost carried into the carriage. The matron of honor and one of the maidservants got in with her, and they drove off to the church. There the bridegroom was already waiting for them. He came forward to meet the bride, and was struck by her pallor and her strange look. They entered the cold deserted church together, and the door was locked behind them. The priest came out of the chancel, and the ceremony at once began.

Marya Kirilovna saw nothing, heard nothing; she had been thinking of but one thing the whole morning: she expected Dubrovsky; nor did her hope abandon her for one moment. When the priest turned to her with the usual question, she started and felt faint; but still she hesitated, still she expected. The priest, receiving no reply from her, pronounced the irrevocable words.

The ceremony was over. She felt the cold kiss of her unloved husband; she heard the flattering congratulations of those present; and yet she could not believe that her life was bound for ever, that Dubrovsky had not arrived to deliver her. The Prince turned to her with tender words — she did not understand them. They left the church; in the porch was a crowd of peasants from Pokrovskoye. Her glance rapidly scanned them, and again she seemed unaware of what was going on around her. The newly married couple seated themselves in the carriage and drove off to Arbatovo, whither Kirila Petrovich had already gone on before, in order to welcome the wedded pair there.

Alone with his young wife, the Prince was not in the least piqued by her cold manner. He did not begin to weary her with amorous protestations and ridiculous enthusiasm; his words were simple and required no answer. In this way they traveled about ten versts. The horses dashed rapidly along the uneven country roads, and the carriage scarcely shook upon its English springs. Suddenly shouts of pursuit were heard. The carriage stopped, and a crowd of armed men surrounded it. A man in a half mask opened the door on the side where the young Princess sat, and said to her:

“You are free! Alight.”

“What does this mean?” cried the Prince. “Who are you that — ”

“It is Dubrovsky,” replied the Princess.

The Prince, without losing his presence of mind, drew from his side pocket a traveler’s pistol and fired at the masked brigand. The Princess shrieked, and, in horror, covered her face with both hands. Dubrovsky was wounded in the shoulder; the blood was flowing. The Prince, without losing a moment, drew another pistol; but he was not allowed time to fire; the door was opened, and several strong hands dragged him out of the carriage and snatched the pistol from him. Above him flashed several knives.

“Do not touch him!” cried Dubrovsky, and his somber companions drew back.

“You are free!” continued Dubrovsky, turning to the pale Princess.

“No!” she replied; “it is too late! I am married. I am the wife of Prince Vereysky.”

“What are you saying?” cried Dubrovsky in despair. “No! you are not his wife. You were forced, you could never have consented.”

“I did consent, I took the oath,” she answered with firmness. “The Prince is my husband; give orders for him to be set at liberty, and leave me with him. I have not deceived you. I waited for you till the last moment... but now, I tell you, now, it is too late. Let us go.”

But Dubrovsky no longer heard her. The pain of his wound, and his violent emotion had deprived him of his strength. He fell against the wheel; the brigands surrounded him. He managed to say a few words to them. They placed him on horseback; two of them supported him, a third took the horse by the bridle, and all withdrew from the spot, leaving the carriage in the middle of the road, the servants bound, the horses unharnessed, but without having done any pillaging, and without having shed one drop of blood in revenge for the blood of their chief.

XIX

IN THE MIDST of a dense forest, in a narrow clearing, rose a small fort, consisting of earthworks and a ditch, behind which were some shacks and mud-huts. Within the inclosed space, a crowd of men who, by their varied garments and by their arms, could at once be recognized as brigands, were having their dinner, seated bareheaded around a common cauldron. On the earthworks, by the side of a small cannon, squatted a sentinel, with his legs crossed under him. He was sewing a patch upon a certain part of his garment, plying his needle with a dexterity that bespoke the experienced tailor, and every now and then glancing round on every side.

Although a certain mug had passed from hand to hand several times, a strange silence reigned among this crowd. The brigands finished their dinner; one after another rose and said a prayer; some dispersed among the shacks, others strolled away into the forest or lay down to sleep, according to the Russian custom.

The sentinel finished his work, shook his garment, gazed admiringly at the patch, stuck the needle in his sleeve, sat astride the cannon, and began to sing a melancholy old song at the top of his lungs:

“Green boughs, do not murmur, be still, Mother Forest, Hinder me not from thinking my thoughts!’

At that moment the door of one of the shacks opened, and an old woman in a white cap, neatly and even primly dressed, appeared upon the threshold,” Enough of that, Styopka,” she said angrily. “The master is resting, and yet you must go on bawling like that; you have neither conscience nor pity.”

“I beg pardon, Yegorovna,” replied Styopka. “I won’t do it any more. Let our good master rest and get well.”

The old woman withdrew into the hut, and Styopka began to pace to and fro upon the earthworks.

Within the shack, from which the old woman had emerged, lay the wounded Dubrovsky upon an army cot behind a partition. Before him, upon a small table, lay his pistols, and a sword above the head of the bed. Rich carpets covered the floor and walls of the mud- hut. In the corner was a lady’s silver toilet set and mirror. Dubrovsky held in his hand an open book, but his eyes were closed, and the old woman, peeping at him from behind the partition, could not tell whether he was asleep or only lost in thought.

Suddenly Dubrovsky started. The fort was roused by an alarm, and Styopka thrust his head in through the window.

“Vladimir Andreyevich!” he cried; “our men are signaling — they are on our track!”

Dubrovsky leaped from his bed, seized his arms and came out of the shack. The brigands were noisily crowding together in the inclosure, but when he appeared a deep silence fell.

“Is everyone here?” asked Dubrovsky.

“Everyone except the sentries,” was the reply.

“To your places!” cried Dubrovsky, and each of the brigands took his appointed place.

At that moment, three of the sentries ran up to the gate of the fort. Dubrovsky went to meet them.

“What is it?” he asked.

“The soldiers are in the forest,” was the reply; “they are surrounding us.”

Dubrovsky ordered the gate to be locked, and then went himself to examine the cannon. In the wood could be heard the sound of several voices, every moment drawing nearer and nearer. The brigands waited in silence. Suddenly three or four soldiers appeared out of the forest, but immediately fell back again, firing their guns as a signal to their comrades.

“Prepare for battle!” cried Dubrovsky. There was a movement among the brigands, then all was silent again.

Then the noise of an approaching column was heard; arms glittered among the trees, and about a hundred and fifty soldiers dashed out of the forest and rushed with a wild shout toward the earthworks. Dubrovsky applied the match to the cannon; the shot was successful — one soldier had his head torn off, and two others were wounded. The troops were thrown into confusion, but the officer in command rushed forward, the soldiers followed him and jumped down into the ditch. The brigands fired down at them with muskets and pistols, and then, with axes in their hands, they began to defend the earthworks, up which the infuriated soldiers were now climbing, leaving twenty of their comrades wounded in the ditch below. A hand to hand struggle began. The soldiers were already upon the earthworks, the brigands were beginning to give way; but Dubrovsky advanced toward the officer in command, placed his pistol at his breast, and fired. The officer fell over backward. Several soldiers raised him in their arms and hastened to carry him into the forest; the others, having lost their chief, stopped fighting.

The emboldened brigands took advantage of this moment of hesitation, and surging forward, hurled their assailants back into the ditch. The besiegers began to run; the brigands with fierce yells started in pursuit of them. The victory was decisive. Dubrovsky, trusting to the complete confusion of the enemy, stopped his men and shut himself up in the fortress, doubled the sentinels, forbade anyone to absent himself, and ordered the wounded to be picked up.

This last event drew the serious attention of the government to Dubrovsky’s exploits. Information was obtained of his whereabouts, and a detachment of soldiers was sent to take him, dead or alive. Several of his band were captured, and from these it was ascertained that Dubrovsky was no longer among them. A few days after the battle we have just described, he had collected all his followers and informed them that it was his intention to leave them for ever, and advised them, too, to change their mode of life:

“You have become rich under my command. Each of you has a passport with which he will be able to make his way safely to some distant province, where he can pass the rest of his life in ease and honest labor. But you are all rascals, and probably do not wish to abandon your trade.”

Thereupon he had left them, taking with him only one of his men. Nobody knew what became of him. At first the truth of this account was doubted, for the devotion of the brigands to their chief was well known, and it was supposed that they had concocted the story to secure his safety; but after events confirmed their statement. The terrible visits, burnings, and robberies ceased; the roads again became safe. According to another report, Dubrovsky had escaped abroad.

The Plays