Some time elapsed, but the health of the stricken Doubrovsky showed
no signs of improvement. It is true that the fits of madness did not
recur, but his strength became visibly less. He forgot his former
occupations, rarely left his room, and for days together remained
absorbed in his own reflections. Egorovna, a kind-hearted old woman
who had once tended his son, now became his nurse. She waited upon
him like a child, reminded him when it was time to eat and sleep, fed
him and even put him to bed. Andrei Gavrilovitch obeyed her, and had
no intercourse with anybody else. He was not in a condition to think
about his affairs or to look after his property, and Egorovna saw the
necessity of informing young Doubrovsky, who was then serving in one of
the regiments of Foot Guards stationed in St. Petersburg, of everything
that had happened. And so, tearing a leaf from the account-book, she
dictated to Khariton the cook, the only literate person in Kistenevka,
a letter, which she sent off that same day to the town post.
But it is time for the reader to become acquainted with the real hero
of this story.
Vladimir Doubrovsky had been educated at the cadet school and, on
leaving it, had entered the Guards as sub-lieutenant. His father spared
nothing that was necessary to enable him to live in a becoming manner,
and the young man received from home a great deal more than he had
any right to expect. Being imprudent and ambitious, he indulged in
extravagant habits, ran into debt, and troubled himself very little
about the future. Occasionally the thought crossed his mind that sooner
or later he would be obliged to take to himself a rich bride.
One evening, when several officers were spending a few hours with him,
lolling on the couches and smoking pipes with amber mouth-pieces,
Grisha,[1] his valet, handed him a letter, the address and seal of
which immediately attracted the young man’s attention. He hastily
opened it and read the following:
“Our Lord Vladimir Andreivitch, I, your old nurse, venture to
inform you of the health of your papa. He is very poorly, sometimes
he wanders in his talk, and the whole day long he sits like a
stupid child--but life and death are in the hands of God. Come to
us, my bright little falcon, and, we will send horses to meet you
at Pesotchnoe. We hear that the Court is going to hand us over to
Kirila Petrovitch Troekouroff, because it is said that we belong to
him, although we have always belonged to you, and have always heard
so ever since we can remember. You might, living in St. Petersburg,
inform our Father the Czar of this, and he will not allow us to
be wronged. It has been raining here for the last fortnight, and
the shepherd Rodia died about Michaelmas Day. I send my maternal
blessing to Grisha. Does he serve you well? I remain your faithful
nurse,
“ARINA EGOROVNA BOUZIREVA.”
Vladimir Doubrovsky read these somewhat unintelligible lines several
times with great agitation. He had lost his mother during his
childhood, and, hardly knowing his father, had been taken to St.
Petersburg when he was eight years of age. In spite of that, he was
romantically attached to his father, and having had but little
opportunity of enjoying the pleasures of family life, he loved it all
the more in consequence.
The thought of losing his father pained him exceedingly, and
the condition of the poor invalid, which he guessed from his
nurse’s letter, horrified him. He imagined his father, left in an
out-of-the-way village, in the hands of a stupid old woman and her
fellow servants, threatened by some misfortune, and expiring without
help in the midst of tortures both mental and physical. Vladimir
Andreivitch reproached himself with criminal neglect. Not having
received any news of his father for a long time, he had not even
thought of making inquiries about him, supposing him to be travelling
about or engaged in the management of his estate. That same evening he
began to take the necessary steps for obtaining leave of absence, and
two days afterwards he set out in the stage coach, accompanied by his
faithful Grisha.
Vladimir Andreivitch neared the post station at which he was to take
the turning for Kistenevka. His heart was filled with sad forebodings;
he feared that he would no longer find his father alive. He pictured to
himself the dreary kind of life that “awaited him in the village: the
loneliness, solitude, poverty and cares of business of which he knew
nothing. Arriving at the station, he went to the postmaster and asked
for fresh horses. The postmaster, having inquired where he was going,
informed him that horses sent from Kistenevka had been waiting for him
for the last four days. Soon appeared before Vladimir Andreivitch the
old coachman Anton, who used formerly to take him over the stables
and look after his pony. Anton’s eyes filled with tears on seeing his
young master, and bowing to the ground, he told him that his old master
was still alive, and then hastened to harness the horses. Vladimir
Andreivitch declined the proffered breakfast, and hastened to depart.
Anton drove him along the cross country roads, and conversation began
between them.
“Tell me, if you please, Anton, what is this business between my father
and Troekouroff?”
“God knows, my little father Vladimir Andreivitch; our master, they
say, had a dispute with Kirila Petrovitch, and the latter summoned him
before the judge, though very often he himself is the judge. It is not
the business of servants to discuss the affairs of their masters, but
it was useless of your father to contend against Kirila Petrovitch:
better had it been if he had not opposed him.”
“It seems, then, that this Kirila Petrovitch does just what he pleases
among you?”
“He certainly does, master: he does not care a rap for the assessor,
and the chief of police runs on errands for him. The nobles repair to
his house to do homage to him, for as the proverb says: ‘Where there is
a trough, there will the pigs be also.’”
“Is it true that he wants to take our estate from us?”
“Oh, master, that is what we have heard. A few days ago, the sexton
from Pokrovskoe said at the christening held at the house of our
overseer: ‘You do well to enjoy yourselves while you are able, for
you’ll not have much chance of doing so when Kirila Petrovitch takes
you in hand;’ and Nikita the blacksmith said to him: ‘Savelitch,
don’t distress your fellow sponsor, don’t disturb the guests. Kirila
Petrovitch is what he is, and Andrei Gavrilovitch is the same--and we
are all God’s and the Czar’s.’ But you cannot sew a button upon another
person’s mouth.”
“Then you do not wish to pass into the possession of Troekouroff?”
“Into the possession of Kirila Petrovitch! The Lord save and preserve
us! His own people fare badly enough, and if he got possession of
strangers, he would strip off, not only their skin, but their flesh
also. No, may God grant long life to Andrei Gavrilovitch; and if God
should take him to Himself, we want nobody but you, our benefactor. Do
not give us up, and we will stand by you.”
With these words, Anton flourished his whip, shook the reins, and the
horses broke into a brisk trot.
Touched by the devotion of the old coachman, Doubrovsky became silent
and gave himself up to his own reflections. More than an hour passed;
suddenly Grisha roused him by exclaiming: “There is Pokrovskoe!”
Doubrovsky raised his head. They were just then driving along the bank
of a broad lake, out of which flowed a small stream winding among
the hills. On one of these, above a thick green wood, rose the green
roof and belvedere of a huge stone house, together with a five-domed
church with an ancient belfry; round about were scattered the village
huts with their gardens and wells. Doubrovsky recognized these places;
he remembered that on that very hill he had played with little Masha
Troekouroff, who was two years younger than he, and who even then gave
promise of being very beautiful. He wanted to make inquiries of Anton
about her, but a certain bashfulness restrained him.
On approaching the castle, he perceived a white dress flitting among
the trees in the garden. At that moment Anton whipped the horses, and
impelled by that vanity, common to village coachmen as to drivers in
general, he drove at full speed over the bridge and past the garden.
On emerging from the village, they ascended the hill, and Vladimir
perceived the little wood of birch trees, and to the left, in an
open place, a small grey house with a red roof. His heart began to
beat--before him was Kistenevka, the humble abode of his father.
About ten minutes afterwards he drove into the courtyard He looked
around him with indescribable emotion: twelve years had elapsed since
he last saw ’his native place. The little birches, which had just then
been planted near the wooden fence, had now become tall trees with
long branches. The courtyard, formerly ornamented with three regular
flower-beds, between which ran a broad path carefully swept, had been
converted into a meadow, in which was grazing a tethered horse. The
dogs began to bark, but recognizing Anton, they became silent and
commenced wagging their shaggy tails. The servants came rushing out of
the house and surrounded the young master with loud manifestations of
joy. It was with difficulty that he was able to make his way through
the enthusiastic crowd. He ran up the well-worn steps; in the vestibule
he was met by Egorovna, who tearfully embraced him.
“How do you do, how do you do, nurse?” he repeated, pressing the good
old woman to his heart. “And my father? Where is he? How is he?”
At that moment a tall old man, pale and thin, in a dressing-gown
and cap, entered the room, dragging one foot after the other with
difficulty.
“Where is Volodka?” said he in a weak voice, and Vladimir embraced his
father with affectionate emotion.
The joy proved too much for the sick man; he grew weak, his legs gave
way beneath him, and he would have fallen, if his son had not held him
up.
“Why did you get out of bed?” said Egorovna to him. “He cannot stand
upon his feet, and yet he wants to do the same as other people.”
The old man was carried back to his bedroom. He tried to converse with
his son, but he could not collect his thoughts, and his words had no
connection with each other. He became silent and fell into a kind of
somnolence. Vladimir was struck by his condition. He installed himself
in the bedroom and requested to be left alone with his father. The
household obeyed, and then all turned towards Grisha and led him away
to the servants’ hall, where they gave him a hearty welcome according
to the rustic custom, the while they wearied him with questions and
compliments.
[Footnote 1: Diminutive of Gregory.]