She awoke, and all the horror of her position rose up in her mind. She
rang. The maid entered, and in answer to her questions, replied that
Kirila Petrovitch had set out the evening before for Arbatova, and had
returned very late; that he had given strict orders that she was not
to be allowed out of her room and that nobody was to be permitted to
speak to her; that otherwise, there were no signs of any particular
preparations for the wedding, except that the pope had been ordered not
to leave the village under any pretext whatever. After disburdening
herself of this news, the maid left Maria Kirilovna and again locked
the door.
Her words hardened the young prisoner. Her head burned, her blood
boiled. She resolved to inform Doubrovsky of everything, and she began
to think of some means by which she could get the ring conveyed to
the hole in the sacred oak. At that moment a stone struck against her
window; the glass rattled, and Maria Kirilovna, looking out into the
courtyard, saw the little Sasha making signs to her. She knew that he
was attached to her, and she was pleased to see him.
“Good morning, Sasha; why do you call me?”
“I came, sister, to know if you wanted anything. Papa is angry, and has
forbidden the whole house to obey you; but order me to do whatever you
like, and I will do it for you.”
“Thank you, my dear Sasha. Listen; you know the old hollow oak near the
arbour?”
“Yes, I know it, sister.”
“Then, if you love me, run there as quickly as you can and put this
ring in the hollow; but take care that nobody sees you.”
With these words, she threw the ring to him and closed the window.
The lad picked up the ring, and ran off with all his might, and in
three minutes he arrived at the sacred tree. There he paused, quite out
of breath, and after looking round on every side, placed the ring in
the hollow. Having successfully accomplished his mission, he wanted to
inform Maria Kirilovna of the fact at once, when suddenly a red-haired
ragged boy darted out from behind the arbour, dashed towards the oak
and thrust his hand into the hole. Sasha, quicker than a squirrel,
threw himself upon him and seized him with both hands.
“What are you doing here?” said he sternly.
“What business is that of yours?” said the boy, trying to disengage
himself.
“Leave that ring alone, red head,” cried Sasha, “or I will teach you a
lesson in my own style.”
Instead of replying, the boy gave him a blow in the face with his fist;
but Sasha still held him firmly in his grasp, and cried out at the top
of his voice:
“Thieves! thieves! help! help!”
The boy tried to get away from him. He seemed to be about two years
older than Sasha, and very much stronger; but Sasha was more agile.
They struggled together for some minutes; at last the red-headed boy
gained the advantage. He threw Sasha upon the ground and seized him by
the throat. But at that moment a strong hand grasped hold of his shaggy
red hair, and Stepan, the gardener, lifted him half a yard from the
ground.
“Ah! you red-headed beast!” said the gardener. “How dare you strike the
young gentleman?”
In the meantime, Sasha had jumped to his feet and recovered himself.
“You caught me under the arm-pits,” said he, “or you would never have
thrown me. Give me the ring at once and be off.”
“It’s likely!” replied the red-headed one, and suddenly twisting
himself round, he disengaged his bristles from Stepan’s hand.
Then he started off running, but Sasha overtook him, gave him a blow in
the back, and the boy fell. The gardener again seized him and bound him
with his belt.
“Give me the ring!” cried Sasha.
“Wait a moment, young master,” said Stepan; “we will lead him to the
bailiff to be questioned.”.
The gardener led the captive into the courtyard of the manor-house,
accompanied by Sasha, who glanced uneasily at his trousers, torn and
stained with the grass. Suddenly all three found themselves face to
face with Kirila Petrovitch, who was going to inspect his stables.
“What is the meaning of this?” he said to Stepan.
Stepan in a few words related all that had happened.
Kirila Petrovitch listened to him with attention.
“You rascal,” said he, turning to Sasha: “why did you wrestle with
him?”
“He stole a ring out of the hollow tree, papa; make him give up the
ring.”
“What ring? Out of what hollow tree?”
“The one that Maria Kirilovna ... the ring....” Sasha stammered and
became confused. Kirila Petrovitch frowned and said, shaking his head:
“Ah! Maria Kirilovna is mixed up in this. Confess everything, or I
will give you such a birching as you have never had in your life.”
“As true as heaven, papa, I ... papa ... Maria Kirilovna never told me
to do anything, papa.”
“Stepan, go and cut me some fine, fresh birch twigs.”
“Stop, papa, I will tell you all. I was running about the courtyard
to-day, when sister Maria Kirilovna opened the window. I ran towards
her, and she accidentally dropped a ring, and I went and hid it in the
hollow tree, and ... and this red-headed fellow wanted to steal the
ring.”
“She did not drop it accidentally,--you wanted to hide it ... Stepan,
go and get the birch twigs.”
“Papa, wait, I will tell you everything. Sister Maria Kirilovna told
me to run to the oak tree and put the ring in the hollow; I ran and
did so, but this nasty fellow----”
Kirila Petrovitch turned to the “nasty fellow” and said to him sternly:
“To whom do you belong?”
“I belong to my master Doubrovsky.”
Kirila Petrovitch’s face grew dark.
“It seems, then, that you do not recognize me as your master. Very
well. What were you doing in my garden?”
“I was stealing raspberries.”
“Ah, ah! the servant is like his master. As the pope is, so is his
parish. And do my raspberries grow upon oak trees? Have you ever heard
so?”
The boy did not reply.
“Papa, make him give up the ring,” said Sasha.
“Silence, Alexander!” replied Kirila Petrovitch; “don’t forget that
I intend to settle with you presently. Go to your room. And you,
squint-eyes, you seem to me to be a knowing sort of lad; if you confess
everything to me, I will not whip you, but will give you a five copeck
piece to buy nuts with. Give up the ring and go.”
The boy opened his fist and showed that there was nothing in his hand.
“If you don’t, I shall do something to you that you little expect. Now!”
The boy did not answer a word, but stood with his head bent down,
looking like a perfect simpleton.
“Very well!” said Kirila Petrovitch: “lock him up somewhere, and see
that he does not escape, or I’ll skin the whole household.”
Stepan conducted the boy to the pigeon loft, locked him in there, and
ordered the old poultry woman, Agatha, to keep a watch upon him.
“There is no doubt about it: she has kept up intercourse with that
accursed Doubrovsky. But if she has really invoked his aid----” thought
Kirila Petrovitch, pacing up and down the room, and angrily whistling
his favourite air,----“I am hot upon his track, at all events, and he
shall not escape me. We shall take advantage of this opportunity....
Hark! a bell; thank God, that is the sheriff. Bring here the boy that
is locked up.”
In the meantime, a small _telega_ drove into the courtyard, and our old
acquaintance, the sheriff, entered the room, all covered with dust.
“Glorious news!” said Kirila Petrovitch: “I have caught Doubrovsky.”
“Thank God, Your Excellency!” said the sheriff, his face beaming with
delight. “Where is he?”
“That is to say, not Doubrovsky himself, but one of his band. He will
be here presently. He will help us to apprehend his chief. Here he is.”
The sheriff, who expected to see some fierce-looking brigand, was
astonished to perceive a lad of thirteen years of age, of somewhat
delicate appearance. He turned to Kirila Petrovitch with an incredulous
look, and awaited an explanation. Kirila Petrovitch then began to
relate the events of the morning, without, however, mentioning the name
of Maria Kirilovna.
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 apart?” said the sheriff
at last.
Kirila Petrovitch conducted him into the next 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,” said the sheriff to him, “to have you locked up
in the town gaol, to be whipped, and then to be sent to the convict
settlement; 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 Petrovitch and kissed his hand.
“Run away home,” said Kirila Petrovitch 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
Kistenevka. On reaching the village, he stopped at a half-ruined hut,
the first from the corner, 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, Mitia;[1] but where have you been all this time, you
little devil?” 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 it with avidity, and then continued his course, eating it
as he went.
It was beginning to grow dark. Mitia made his way along by the corn
kilns and kitchen gardens into the Kistenevka wood. On arriving at
the two pine trees, standing like advanced guards before the wood, he
paused, looked round on every side, gave a shrill, abrupt whistle,
and then listened. A light and prolonged whistle was heard in reply,
and somebody came out of the wood and advanced towards him.
[Footnote 1: Diminutive of Dimitry (Demetrius).]