Egorovna left. There was no one in the front hall; all the servants had run to the yard to look at Kirila Petrovich. She went out to the porch and heard the servant’s reply, delivered on behalf of the young master. Kirila Petrovich heard him out sitting in his droshky. His face became darker than night; he smiled contemptuously, glanced menacingly at the servants, and drove slowly around the yard. He looked at the window where Andrei Gavrilovich had been sitting a moment before, but where he no longer was. The nanny stood on the porch, forgetting her master’s order. The servants loudly talked over what had happened. Suddenly Vladimir appeared among them and said curtly: “No need for a doctor, father is dead.”
A commotion set in. The servants rushed to the old master’s room. He lay in the armchair to which Vladimir had moved him; his right arm hung down to the floor, his head was lowered on his chest, there was no sign of life in his body, not yet cold, but already disfigured by death. Egorovna began to wail. The servants surrounded the corpse, which was left to their care, washed it, dressed it in a uniform made back in the year 1797, and laid it out on the same table at which they had served their master for so many years.6
CHAPTER FIVE
The funeral took place three days later. The body of the poor old man lay on the table covered with a shroud and surrounded with candles. The dining room was filled with servants. They were preparing for the carrying-out. Vladimir and three servants lifted the coffin. The priest went ahead; the sexton accompanied him intoning the funeral prayers. The owner of Kistenevka crossed the threshold of his house for the last time. The coffin was carried through the grove. The church was beyond it. The day was clear and cold. Autumn leaves were falling from the trees.
On coming out of the grove, they saw the Kistenevka wooden church and the graveyard, shaded by old lindens. There the body of Vladimir’s mother lay at rest; there, beside her grave, a new hole had been dug the day before.
The church was filled with Kistenevka peasants, who had come to pay their last respects to their master. Young Dubrovsky stood by the choir; he did not weep and he did not pray, but his face was terrible. The mournful rite came to an end. Vladimir went first to take leave of the body, and after him all the servants. The lid was brought and nailed to the coffin. The women wailed loudly; the men occasionally wiped their tears with their fists. Vladimir and the same three servants carried it to the graveyard, accompanied by the whole village. The coffin was lowered into the grave, everyone there threw a handful of earth into it, the hole was filled in, people bowed and went their ways. Vladimir quickly left, got ahead of everyone, and disappeared into the Kistenevka grove.
On his behalf, Egorovna invited the priest and the rest of the church people to a memorial dinner, announcing that the young master did not intend to be present, and thus Father Anton, his wife Fedotovna, and the sexton went on foot to the master’s house, talking with Egorovna about the dead man’s virtues and about what apparently awaited his heir. (Troekurov’s visit and the reception he had been shown were already known to the whole neighborhood, and local politicians predicted serious consequences from it.)
“What will be, will be,” said the priest’s wife, “but it’s too bad if Vladimir Andreich is not our master. A fine fellow, I must say.”
“But who will be our master if not him?” Egorovna interrupted. “Kirila Petrovich gets worked up for nothing. He’s not dealing with the timid sort: no, my young falcon can stand up for himself, and, God willing, his benefactors won’t desert him. Kirila Petrovich is mighty arrogant, but I dare say he put his tail between his legs when my Grishka shouted at him: ‘Away, you old dog! Clear out of the yard!’ ”
“Ah, no, Egorovna,” said the sexton, “how did Grigory have the pluck to say it? I’d sooner bark at our bishop than look askance at Kirila Petrovich. You see him and you’re in fear and trembling, you break into a sweat, and your back just bends, just bends by itself…”
“Vanity of vanities,” said the priest, “and Kirila Petrovich will have ‘Memory Eternal’ sung over him,7 the same as Andrei Gavrilovich did just now, only the funeral will be richer and there’ll be more guests invited, but for God it’s all the same!”
“Ah, dear father! We, too, wanted to invite the whole neighborhood, but Vladimir Andreich didn’t want it. I dare say we’ve got enough to treat them all, but what could we do? Since there’s no people, at least we can feast you, our dear guests.”
This agreeable promise and the hope of finding tasty pies quickened the company’s steps, and they safely reached the master’s house, where the table was already laid and the vodka served.
