“Hello, hello, nanny,” he repeated, pressing the kind old woman to his heart. “What about papa? Where is he? How is he?”
Just then a tall old man, pale and thin, in a dressing gown and a nightcap, came into the room, barely able to move his feet.
“Greetings, Volodka!” he said in a weak voice, and Vladimir warmly embraced his father. Joy produced too great a shock in the sick man, he grew weak, his legs gave way under him, and he would have fallen, if his son had not held him up.
“Why did you get up?” Egorovna said to him. “You can’t keep your feet, yet you head off to where people are.”
The old man was carried to the bedroom. He kept trying to talk with him, but the thoughts were confused in his head and his words had no connection. He fell silent and lapsed into somnolence. Vladimir was struck by his condition. He settled in his bedroom and asked to be left alone with his father. The servants obeyed, and then they all turned to Grisha and took him to their own quarters, where they regaled him country-style, with all possible hospitality, wearing him out with questions and salutations.
CHAPTER FOUR
The once festive table now bears a coffin.
DERZHAVIN4
A few days after his arrival, young Dubrovsky wanted to get down to business, but his father was in no condition to give him the necessary explanations—Andrei Gavrilovich had no attorney. Sorting through his papers, Vladimir found only the first letter from the assessor and the draft of a reply to it; from them he could get no clear idea of the lawsuit and decided to wait for the consequences, trusting in the justice of the cause itself.
Meanwhile, Andrei Gavrilovich’s health was getting worse by the hour. Vladimir foresaw his imminent demise and did not leave the old man, who had lapsed into total senility.
Meanwhile, the deadline passed and no appeal was made. Kistenevka belonged to Troekurov. Shabashkin presented himself to him with bows and congratulations and the request that he specify when His Excellency would like to take possession of the newly acquired estate—either in person or through whomever he chose to grant power of attorney. Kirila Petrovich felt embarrassed. He was not mercenary by nature, the desire for revenge had lured him too far, his conscience murmured. He knew what condition his adversary, the old comrade of his youth, was in, and his victory did not gladden his heart. He cast a menacing glance at Shabashkin, seeking some reason to yell at him, but finding no sufficient pretext, said angrily: “Get out, I can’t be bothered with you.”
Shabashkin, seeing that he was out of sorts, bowed and hastened to withdraw. And Kirila Petrovich, left alone, began to pace up and down, whistling “Thunder of victory resound,”5 which in him always signified extraordinary mental agitation.
Finally, he ordered a racing droshky hitched up, dressed more warmly (it was already the end of September), and, taking the reins himself, drove out of the yard.
Soon he caught sight of Andrei Gavrilovich’s little house, and conflicting feelings filled his soul. Satisfied vengeance and lust of power stifled his more noble feelings to a certain degree, but the latter finally triumphed. He decided to make peace with his old neighbor, to wipe out the traces of their quarrel by giving him back his property. Having unburdened his soul with this good intention, Kirila Petrovich set out at a trot for his neighbor’s homestead and drove straight into his yard.
Just then the sick man was sitting at the window in his bedroom. He recognized Kirila Petrovich, and terrible agitation showed on his face: a crimson flush replaced his usual pallor, his eyes flashed, he uttered inarticulate sounds. His son, who was sitting there over the account books, raised his head and was struck by his condition. The sick man was pointing to the yard with an expression of horror and wrath. He hastily gathered the skirts of his dressing gown, preparing to get up from the chair, rose a little…and suddenly fell. His son rushed to him. The old man lay without feeling and without breathing, struck by paralysis.
“Quick, quick, send to town for a doctor!” cried Vladimir.
“Kirila Petrovich is asking to see you,” said a servant, coming in. Vladimir threw him a terrible glance.
“Tell Kirila Petrovich to get out of here quickly, before I order him driven out…Off with you!”
The servant ran joyfully to fulfill his master’s order. Egorovna clasped her hands.
“Master dear,” she said in a squeaky voice, “it will cost you your head! Kirila Petrovich will eat us up.”
“Quiet, nanny,” Vladimir said vexedly. “Send Anton to town for a doctor at once.”
