Vladimir Andreevich was approaching the posting station where he had to turn off for Kistenevka. His heart was full of sad forebodings, he feared he would not find his father alive, he pictured the melancholy way of life awaiting him in the country, the remoteness, the solitude, the poverty, and the bother with things he knew nothing about. On reaching the station, he went to the stationmaster and inquired about hiring horses. The stationmaster asked him where he had to go, and announced that horses sent from Kistenevka had already been awaiting him for three days. Soon the old coachman Anton, who once used to take him around the stables and looked after his little horse, appeared before Vladimir Andreevich. Anton shed a few tears on seeing him, bowed to the ground, said that the old master was still alive, and ran to hitch up the horses. Vladimir Andreevich refused the lunch offered him and hastened to set off. Anton drove him along the country roads, and a conversation started between them.
“Tell me, please, Anton, what’s this business between my father and Troekurov?”
“God knows about them, dear Vladimir Andreevich…They say the master didn’t see eye to eye with Kirila Petrovich, and the man took it to court, though oftener than not he’s his own court. It’s not a servant’s business to sort out the master’s will, but, by God, your father shouldn’t have gone against Kirila Petrovich. You can’t chop down a tree with a penknife.”
“So it’s clear this Kirila Petrovich does whatever he likes around here?”
“That he does, master: they say he doesn’t give a hoot about the assessor, and the police chief just runs errands for him. Squires come and fawn on him, and as the saying goes, where there’s a trough, there’ll be pigs.”
“Is it true that he’s taking away our estate?”
“Oh, master, we’ve heard that, too. The other day the Pokrovskoe sacristan said at a christening at our village headman’s: ‘Your fun is over; Kirila Petrovich’ll take you in hand.’ Mikita the blacksmith said to him: ‘Enough, Savelyich, don’t upset the host, don’t trouble the guests. Kirila Petrovich is his own man, and Andrei Gavrilovich is his own man, and we’re all God’s and the sovereign’s; but still, you can’t button another man’s lip.’ ”
“Meaning you don’t want to be owned by Troekurov?”
“Owned by Troekurov! Lord, save us and deliver us! His own people sometimes have a bad time of it, but once he gets hold of another man’s, he won’t just skin them, he’ll tear them to pieces. No, God grant Andrei Gavrilovich a long life, and if God takes him, we don’t want anybody but you, our provider. Don’t give us up, and we’ll stand by you.”
With those words, Anton swung the whip, shook the reins, and his horses broke into a brisk trot.
Touched by the old coachman’s devotion, Dubrovsky kept silent and fell again into reflection. More than an hour went by; suddenly Grisha wakened him with the exclamation: “Here’s Pokrovskoe!” Dubrovsky raised his head. He was driving along the bank of a wide lake, from which a small river flowed and went meandering among the hills in the distance; on one hill, above the dense greenery of a copse, rose the green roof and belvedere of an immense stone house, on another a five-domed church and an ancient bell tower; peasant cottages were scattered around them, with their wells and kitchen gardens. Dubrovsky recognized these places; he remembered that on that same hill he had played with little Masha Troekurov, who was two years his junior and even then promised to be a beauty. He wanted to ask Anton about her, but some sort of shyness held him back.
Driving up to the manor house, he caught sight of a white dress flashing among the trees in the garden. At that moment Anton whipped up the horses and, obedient to the ambition common to country coachmen and city drivers, raced at top speed over the bridge and past the village. Leaving the village behind, they went up the hill, and Vladimir glimpsed a birch grove and, to the left, in an open space, a small gray house with a red roof. His heart throbbed. Before him he saw Kistenevka and his father’s poor home.
Ten minutes later he drove into the courtyard. He looked around him with indescribable emotion. For twelve years he had not seen his birthplace. The birches, which in his time had just been planted along the fence, had grown and were now tall, branchy trees. The courtyard, once adorned with three regular flowerbeds with wide, well-swept paths between them, had been turned into an unmowed meadow on which a hobbled horse grazed. The dogs were beginning to bark, but, recognizing Anton, they stopped and wagged their shaggy tails. Servants poured out of their cottages and surrounded the young master with noisy expressions of joy. He could barely force his way through their zealous crowd and run up the decrepit porch; in the front hall Egorovna met him and tearfully embraced her nursling.
