But he had hardly left the house before her father came in and peremptorily ordered her to be ready the next day. Maria Kirilovna, already upset by her interview with Prince Vereisky, burst into tears and threw herself at her father’s feet.
‘Papa!’ she cried piteously. ‘Papa, don’t kill me. I do not love the prince, I do not want to be his wife!’
‘What is the meaning of this?’ said Kiril Petrovich fiercely. ‘You have said nothing all this time, and been quite agreeable, and now, when everything is settled, you take it into your head to turn capricious and want to go back on it! Enough of your silly nonsense, please: you will gain nothing from me by it.’
‘Do not kill me!’ repeated poor Masha. ‘Why are you sending me away from you and giving me to a man I do not love? Are you tired of me? I want to stay with you as before. Papa, you will be miserable without me, and more miserable still when you know that I am unhappy. Don’t force me, papa: I don’t want to be married.’
Kiril Petrovich was moved, but he concealed his emotion and pushing her away from him said sternly:
‘That is all nonsense, do you hear? I know better than you what is necessary for your happiness. Tears will not help you: your wedding will take place the day after tomorrow.’
‘The day after tomorrow!’ cried Masha. ‘Merciful heavens! No, no, impossible, it cannot be! Papa, listen: if you are resolved on my destruction I will find a protector you do not dream of. You shall see, you will be horrified at what you have driven me to!’
‘What? What?’ said Troyekurov. ‘Threats! Threats to me? Insolent girl! You’ll see: I shall do something with you you little imagine. You dare threaten me with your protector! We’ll see who is going to be the protector.’
‘Vladimir Dubrovsky,’ Masha answered in despair.
Kiril Petrovich thought she had gone out of her mind, and stared at her in amazement.
‘Very well,’ he said after a pause. ‘Look to whom you please to save you, but in the meantime you stay in this room. You shall not leave it till your wedding.’
With these words Kiril Petrovich went out and locked the door behind him.
For a long time the poor girl wept, imagining all that awaited her; but the stormy scene had relieved her heart and she could reflect more calmly on her fate and on what she must now do. The principal thing was to escape from the hateful marriage; the lot of a brigand’s wife seemed paradise by comparison with the fate that was being prepared for her. She looked at Dubrovsky’s ring. She longed fervently to see him alone and talk things over once more before the decisive moment. She had a presentiment that in the evening she would find him in the garden by the arbour; she decided to go and wait for him there as soon as it grew dusk. Darkness fell. Masha got ready; but the door was locked. From the other side her maid told her that Kiril Petrovich had given orders that she was not to be let out. She was under arrest. Deeply hurt, she sat down by the window and without undressing remained there till the small hours of the morning, gazing fixedly at the dark sky. Towards dawn she dozed off; but her light sleep was disturbed by sad visions and she was soon awakened by the rays of the rising sun.
17
SHE awoke, and with her first thought all the horror of her position flashed into her mind. She rang the bell. The maid entered and in answer to her questions replied that Kiril Petrovich had gone out the evening before and returned very late; that he had given strict orders that she was not to be allowed to leave her room and to see that no one spoke to her; that otherwise there were no signs of any particular preparations for the wedding, except that the priest had been told not to leave the village on any pretext whatsoever. After telling her this news the girl left Maria Kirilovna and locked the door again.
Her words hardened the young prisoner’s heart. Her head was on fire, her blood in a turmoil. She decided to let Dubrovsky know everything, and began casting about for some means of getting the ring into the hollow of the oak-tree. At that moment a pebble struck her window, the glass rattled, and looking out into the courtyard she saw little Sasha signalling to her. She knew that he was attached to her, and rejoiced to see him.
‘Good morning, Sasha. Why did you call me?’
‘I came to see if you wanted anything. Papa is angry and has forbidden any one to do what you tell them; but you can tell me to do anything you like, and I will do it for you.’
‘Thank you, Sasha, dear. Listen, you know the old hollow oak-tree by the arbour?’
‘Yes, I know.’
‘Well, if you love me, run there as quickly as you can and put this ring in the hollow; but mind nobody sees you.’
With this she threw the ring to him and shut the window.
The boy picked up the ring and ran off as fast as his legs could carry him, and three minutes later had reached the oak. He stopped, out of breath, looked all round, and dropped the ring in the hollow. Having successfully accomplished his mission, he was keen to let Masha know at once, when suddenly a ragged red-haired boy darted out from behind the arbour, dashed towards the oak and thrust his hand in the hole. Sasha flew at him quicker than a squirrel and seized him with both hands.
‘What are you doing here?’ he said fiercely.
‘What’s that to do with you?’ the boy answered, trying to wrench himself free.
‘Leave that ring alone, ginger,’ cried Sasha, ‘or I’ll give you a good hiding.’
For answer the boy struck him in the face with his fist, but Sasha held on, shouting at the top of his voice:
‘Thieves! Thieves! Help!’
The boy fought to free himself. He looked a couple of years older than Sasha and much stronger; but Sasha was the more agile. They struggled for some minutes, until at last the red-haired boy had the better of it. He knocked Sasha down and grasped him by the throat. But at that moment a strong hand seized him by his bristly red hair and Stepan, the gardener, lifted him half a yard from the ground.
‘Ah, you red-haired little brute,’ said the gardener. ‘How dare you strike the young gentleman?’
Sasha had had time to jump up and recover.
‘You got me under the arms,’ he said, ‘otherwise you’d never have forced me down. Give me back the ring at once and clear out.’
‘Not likely,’ replied the red-haired boy, and suddenly twisting round he freed his bristly head from Stepan’s grasp.
He started to run off but Sasha caught up with him and pushed him in the back. The boy fell headlong. The gardener grabbed him again and tied his arms with his belt.
‘Give me the ring!’ Sasha cried.
‘Wait a moment, young master,’ Stepan said. ‘We’ll take him to the steward – he’ll deal with him.’
The gardener led the captive into the courtyard and Sasha followed, glancing uneasily at his knickers which were torn and stained with grass. Suddenly all three found themselves face to face with Kiril Petrovich, on his way to inspect the stables.
‘What’s this?’ he asked Stepan.
In a few words Stepan described all that had happened.
Kiril Petrovich listened carefully.
‘Now, you rascal,’ he said, turning to Sasha, ‘what did you fight him for?’
‘He stole the ring from the hollow tree, papa. Make him give me back the ring.’
‘What ring? What hollow tree?’
‘The one Masha… the ring…’
Sasha stammered and became confused. Kiril Petrovich frowned and said, shaking his head:
‘Masha is mixed up in this. Make a clean breast of it or I’ll give you such a birching that you won’t know where you are.’
‘Really and truly, papa, I… papa… Masha did not ask me anything, papa.’
‘Stepan, go and cut me a good birch switch.’
‘Wait a minute, papa, I will tell you everything. I was running about in the courtyard today and Masha opened her window, and I ran up and she dropped a ring not on purpose, and I went and hid it in the hollow tree and… and… this red-haired boy tried to steal the ring.
’
‘Dropped it not on purpose… you tried to hide it… Stepan, fetch me that switch.’
‘Papa, wait, I’ll tell you all about it. Masha told me to run to the oak-tree and put the ring in the hollow; so I ran and put the ring there but this horrid boy…’
Kiril Petrovich turned to the ‘horrid boy’ and asked him sternly:
‘Who do you belong to?’
‘I am a house-serf of Mr Dubrovsky’s.’
Kiril Petrovich’s face darkened.
‘It seems, then, that you do not acknowledge me as master-very well. And what were you doing in my garden?’
‘Stealing raspberries,’ the boy answered carelessly.
‘Aha, like master, like man, I see! And do raspberries grow on my oak-trees? Have you ever heard so?’
The boy did not answer.
‘Papa, make him give back the ring,’ Sasha said.
‘Silence!’ commanded Kiril Petrovich. ‘Do not forget, I intend to deal with you presently. Go to your room. And you, squint-eye, you seem a sharp lad: if you come out with the truth I won’t whip you but give you five kopecks to buy sweets with. Hand back the ring and be off.’ (The boy opened his fist to show that there was nothing in his hand.) ‘Or else I’ll do something to you that you little expect. Well?’
The lad made no answer and stood with his head down, pretending to look half-witted.
‘Very well!’ said Kiril Petrovich. ‘Lock him up somewhere, and see that he does not escape, or I’ll flay the lot of you.’
Stepan took the boy to the pigeon-loft and locking him in told the old poultry woman, Agatha, to keep watch on him.
‘There is no doubt whatever: she has kept up with that accursed Dubrovsky. Can she really have appealed to him for help?’ thought Kiril Petrovich, pacing up and down the room and angrily whistling ‘Thunder of victory, resound!’ ‘Perhaps I am hot on his track and he won’t evade me. We will take advantage of this opportunity…. Hark! a bell! What a good thing, it’s the police-captain. Hey, fetch the lad here that we caught.’
Meanwhile a trap had driven into the courtyard and our old acquaintance, the police-captain, entered the room, covered with dust.
‘Famous news!’ said Kiril Petrovich. ‘I have caught Dubrovsky!’
‘Thank Heavens, your excellency!’ said the police-captain, beaming with delight. ‘Where is he?’
‘That is, not Dubrovsky himself but one of his band. They’re bringing him in now. He will help us to catch his chieftain. Here he is.’
The police-captain, expecting some fierce-looking brigand, was surprised to see a somewhat puny boy of thirteen. He turned incredulously to Kiril Petrovich, waiting for an explanation. Kiril Petrovich then related the events of the morning, without, however, mentioning Masha’s name.
The police-captain listened to him attentively, glancing from time to time at the little rascal pretending to be an idiot and apparently paying not the slightest heed to what was happening around him.
‘Allow me to have a word with you alone, your excellency,’ the police-captain said at last.
Kiril Petrovich led him into the next room, shutting the door after him.
Half an hour later they returned to the hall where the little prisoner was waiting for his fate to be decided.
‘The gentleman wanted to have you locked up in prison and whipped, and then sent to the convict settlement,’ the police-captain told him, ‘but I pleaded for you and persuaded him to let you off. Untie him!’
The boy was untied.
‘Thank the gentleman,’ said the police-captain.
The lad went up to Kiril Petrovich and kissed his hand.
‘Run away home,’ Kiril Petrovich told him; ‘and don’t steal raspberries off oak-trees any more.’
The boy went, sprang cheerfully down the front steps and without looking round dashed off across the fields to Kistenyovka. Reaching the village, he stopped at a tumble-down cottage, the first in a row, and tapped at the window. The pane was lifted and an old woman looked out.
‘Granny, some bread!’ said the boy. ‘I’ve had nothing to eat all day, I’m starving.’
‘Ah, it’s you, Mitya. But where have you been all this time, you little imp?’
‘I’ll tell you afterwards, granny. For mercy’s sake, give me some bread.’
‘Come indoors then.’
‘I haven’t time, granny: I must hurry somewhere else first. Give me some bread, for Heaven’s sake!’
‘What a fidgety creature the boy is!’ grumbled the old woman. ‘Well, here’s a slice for you,’ and she pushed a hunk of black bread through the open window.
The boy bit into it greedily and continued his course, eating as he went.
It was beginning to grow dusk. Mitya made his way between barns and kitchen-gardens to the Kistenyovka wood. When he reached the two pine-trees that stood like sentinels at the edge of the wood he stopped, looked round on every side, gave a sharp, shrill whistle, and then listened. He heard a faint, prolonged whistle in reply; someone stepped out of the wood and walked towards him.
18
KIRIL PETROVICH strode up and down the large drawing-room, whistling his favourite tune louder than ever. The whole house was in a commotion; men-servants ran to and fro, maids bustled backwards and forwards. In the coach-house the carriage was being got ready. A crowd of people waited in the courtyard. In Maria Kirilovna’s room, before a looking-glass, a lady surrounded by maid-servants was dressing the pale and listless bride; her head drooped languidly beneath the weight of her diamonds; she started slightly when someone carelessly pricked her with a pin, but remained silent, gazing into the mirror with unseeing eyes.
‘Will you be long?’ Kiril Petrovich’s voice asked at the door.
‘Ready!’ replied the lady. ‘Maria Kirilovna, stand up and look at yourself – is everything all right?’
Maria Kirilovna stood up but made no answer. The door was opened.
‘The bride is ready,’ said the lady to Kiril Petrovich. ‘Tell them to bring round the carriage.’
‘God be with you!’ Kiril Petrovich responded. ‘Come here, Masha,’ he said in a voice full of feeling, and picking up the icon from the table, ‘I give you my bless –’
The poor girl fell at his feet and broke into sobs.
‘Papa… papa…’ she said through her tears, and her voice failed her.
Kiril Petrovich hastened to give her his blessing. She was lifted from the floor and almost carried to the coach. Her matron of honour and a maid-servant got in with her. They drove off to the church, where the bridegroom awaited them. He came out to meet the bride and was struck by her pallor and strange expression. Together they entered the cold empty church, and the doors were locked after them. The priest emerged from behind the ikonostasis and immediately began the ceremony. Maria Kirilovna saw nothing and heard nothing: since early morning she had had but one thought – she was waiting for Dubrovsky. Not for an instant did hope desert her. But when the priest turned to her with the customary question she shuddered and went faint with horror, but still she hung back, still she was expectant. Without waiting to hear her answer the priest pronounced the irrevocable words.
The ceremony was over. She felt the cold kiss of the husband she did not love; she heard the obsequious congratulations of those present; and yet she could not believe that her life was fettered for ever, that Dubrovsky had not come to her rescue. 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 Pokrovskoe. She scanned them with a swift glance and relapsed into her former apathy. The newly-married couple stepped into a carriage and drove off to Arbatoe, whither Kiril Petrovich had gone earlier in order to meet them there. Alone with his young wife the prince was not at all disconcerted by her cold manner. He did not worry her with mawkish protestations and ridiculous ecstasies; his remarks were commonplace and required no answer. They drove in this way for about seven miles; the horses cantered along
the uneven country roads and the carriage scarcely jolted on its English springs. Suddenly there were shouts of pursuit. The carriage stopped and a posse of armed men surrounded it. A man wearing a half-mask opened the door on the side where the young princess was sitting and said to her:
‘You are free! Alight.’
‘What does this mean?’ the prince shouted. ‘Who are you?’
‘It is Dubrovsky,’ replied the princess.
The prince, keeping his presence of mind, drew a travelling pistol from his side-pocket and fired at the masked brigand. The princess shrieked and covered her face with both hands, horror-stricken. Dubrovsky was wounded in the shoulder; blood was flowing. Not losing a moment, the prince drew another pistol. But he was not given time to use it: the carriage doors were opened and several strong arms dragged him out and snatched the pistol away. Knives glittered over him.
‘Do not touch him!’ Dubrovsky cried, and his awesome confederates fell back.
‘You are free!’ Dubrovsky continued, turning to the white-faced princess.
‘No!’ she answered. ‘It is too late! I am married – I am Prince Vereisky’s wife.’
‘What are you saying?’ Dubrovsky cried in despair. ‘No, you are not his wife! You were forced to, you could never have given your consent….’
‘I did; I made the marriage vow,’ she answered firmly. ‘The prince is my husband. Tell your men to let him go, and leave me with him. I did not play false, I waited for you up to the last moment… but now, I tell you, now it is too late. Let us go.’
But Dubrovsky could no longer hear her: the pain of his wound and the violence of his emotions overcame him. He fell against the wheel of the carriage; the brigands moved forward and stood round him. He managed to say a few words to them; they lifted him into the saddle. Two of them held him up, a third took the horse by the bridle and the company went off by a side-track, leaving the carriage in the middle of the road, the servants bound, the horses unharnessed, but without carrying anything away with them or shedding one drop of blood in revenge for the blood of their chief.