“Tie ’em up, boys!” the same voice shouted, and the crowd began to press forward…
“Stop!” cried Dubrovsky. “You fools! What are you doing? You’ll ruin yourselves and me. Go back home and leave me alone. Don’t be afraid, the sovereign is merciful, I’ll petition him. He won’t harm us. We’re all his children. But how can he intercede for you, if you start rioting and rampaging?”
The young Dubrovsky’s words, his resounding voice and majestic air, produced the desired effect. The people quieted down, dispersed, the yard became deserted. The members sat in the front hall. Finally Shabashkin quietly opened the door, went out to the porch, and with humble bows began to thank Dubrovsky for his merciful intercession. Vladimir listened to him with contempt and made no reply.
“We’ve decided,” the assessor went on, “to spend the night here, with your permission; it’s already dark, and your peasants may attack us on the way. Do us a favor, have some straw spread for us in the drawing room; we’ll be on our way at dawn.”
“Do as you like,” Dubrovsky answered him drily. “I’m no longer the master here.”
With those words he retired to his father’s room and locked the door behind him.
CHAPTER SIX
“So it’s all over,” he said to himself. “This morning I still had a corner and a crust of bread. Tomorrow I must leave the house where I was born and where my father died to the man who caused his death and my destitution.” And his eyes rested fixedly on the portrait of his mother. The painter had portrayed her leaning her elbow on a banister, in a white morning dress, with a red rose in her hair. “And this portrait will be taken by the enemy of my family,” thought Vladimir, “and it will be thrown into a storeroom along with some broken chairs, or hung in the front hall, a subject of mockery and rude remarks for his huntsmen, and in her bedroom, the room…where father died, he will install his steward or his harem. No! No! I won’t let him take the mournful house he’s driving me out of!” Vladimir clenched his teeth. Terrible thoughts were forming in his mind. The officials’ voices reached him. They were playing the masters, demanding now this, now that, and unpleasantly distracted him amidst his sad reflections. Finally everything grew quiet.
Vladimir opened cupboards and chests and busied himself with sorting out the dead man’s papers. They consisted for the most part of household accounts and some business correspondence. Vladimir tore them up without reading them. Among them he came upon a packet with the inscription “Letters from my wife.” Deeply moved, Vladimir started on them: they were written during the Turkish campaign9 and were addressed to the army from Kistenevka. She described her solitary life, her household chores, complained tenderly about their separation, and called him home to the arms of his dear friend. In one of them she expressed her anxiety about little Vladimir’s health; in another she rejoiced at his early abilities and predicted a happy and brilliant future for him. Vladimir lost himself in reading and forgot everything else, his soul immersed in the world of family happiness, and he did not notice how the time passed. The wall clock struck eleven. Vladimir put the letters in his pocket, took the candle, and left the study. In the drawing room the officials were asleep on the floor. Empty glasses stood on the table, and the whole room smelled strongly of rum. With disgust Vladimir walked past them to the front hall. The door was locked. Not finding the key, Vladimir went back to the drawing room—the key was lying on the table. Vladimir opened the door and stumbled onto a man crouched in a corner; an axe gleamed in his hand, and, turning to him with the candle, Vladimir recognized the blacksmith Arkhip.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Ah, Vladimir Andreevich, it’s you,” Arkhip replied in a whisper. “Lord have mercy and save us, it’s a good thing you came with a candle!”
Vladimir gazed at him in amazement.
“What are you hiding here for?” he asked the blacksmith.
“I wanted…I came…it was to see if everybody’s at home,” Arkhip stammered softly.
“And why the axe?”
“Why the axe? There’s no going around nowadays without an axe. These officials are such rascals—next thing you know…”
“You’re drunk. Drop the axe and go sleep it off.”
“Me drunk? Dear master Vladimir Andreevich, God is my witness, not one drop has passed my lips…and who’d have drink on his mind, it’s unheard of, scribblers meaning to take us over, scribblers driving our masters out of their own yard…Hear ’em snoring, the cursed wretches; get ’em all at once, and there’s an end to it.”
Dubrovsky frowned.
“Listen, Arkhip,” he said, after a brief silence, “what you’re doing isn’t right. The officials are not to blame. Light a lantern and follow me.”
Arkhip took the candle from his master’s hand, found a lamp behind the stove, lit it, and they both quietly stepped off the porch and went around the yard. A watchman started banging on a cast-iron bar. Dogs barked.
