“Who’s on watch?” Dubrovsky asked.
“We are, dear master,” a high voice replied. “Vasilisa and Lukerya.”
“Go home,” Dubrovsky said to them. “You’re not needed.”
“Knock off,” said Arkhip.
“Thank you, our dear provider,” the women replied and went home at once.
Dubrovsky walked on. Two men approached him; they called out to him. Dubrovsky recognized the voices of Anton and Grisha.
“Why aren’t you asleep?” he asked them.
“As if we could sleep,” Anton replied. “Who’d have thought we’d live to see…”
“Quiet!” Dubrovsky interrupted. “Where’s Egorovna?”
“In the main house, in her attic,” Grisha replied.
“Go, bring her here, and get all our people out of the house, so there’s not a soul left in it except the officials, and you, Anton, hitch up the wagon.”
Grisha left and appeared a minute later with his mother. The old woman had not undressed for the night; apart from the officials, nobody in the house had slept a wink.
“Everybody here?” asked Dubrovsky. “Nobody left in the house?”
“Nobody except the officials,” Grisha replied.
“Bring me some hay or straw,” said Dubrovsky.
People ran to the stables and came back carrying armfuls of hay.
“Lay it under the porch. Like this. Now, boys, the fire!”
Arkhip opened the lantern; Dubrovsky lit a splinter.
“Wait,” he said to Arkhip. “In my haste I think I locked the door to the front hall. Go quick and unlock it.”
Arkhip ran to the entryway—the door was unlocked. Arkhip locked it, muttering in a half whisper, “Nohow I’ll unlock it!” and went back to Dubrovsky.
Dubrovsky brought the splinter close, the hay caught fire, the flames soared and lit up the whole yard.
“Ah, no!” Egorovna cried pitifully. “Vladimir Andreevich, what are you doing?”
“Quiet!” said Dubrovsky. “And so farewell, children. I’ll go where God takes me. Good luck with your new master.”
“Our father, our provider,” people replied, “we’d rather die than leave you, we’ll come with you.”
The horses were brought. Dubrovsky got into the wagon along with Grisha and appointed the Kistenevka grove as the meeting place for them all. Anton whipped up the horses, and they drove out of the yard.
The wind picked up. In a moment flames engulfed the whole house. Red smoke whirled above the roof. Glass cracked, rained down, blazing beams began to fall, there were pitiful screams and cries:
“We’re burning! Help! Help!”
“Nohow,” said Arkhip, gazing at the fire with a malicious smile.
“Arkhipushka,” Egorovna said to him, “save the fiends. God will reward you.”
“Nohow,” said the blacksmith.
Just then the officials appeared at the window, trying to break the double frames. But here the roof came crashing down, and the screaming ceased.
Soon all the servants came pouring into the yard. The women, shouting, rushed to save their junk; the children hopped up and down, admiring the fire. Sparks flew like a fiery blizzard; cottages began to burn.
“It’s all right now,” said Arkhip. “How’s that for burning, eh? Bet it looks nice from Pokrovskoe.”
Just then a new event caught his attention. A cat went running along the roof of the blazing shed, at a loss where to jump down; it was surrounded on all sides by flames. The poor animal meowed pitifully, calling for help. The boys died with laughter, looking at its despair.
“What’re you laughing at, you little devils,” the blacksmith said angrily. “You’ve got no fear of God: God’s creature is perishing, and you fools are glad.” And leaning a ladder against the already-burning roof, he climbed up for the cat. It understood his intention and with a look of hurried gratitude clung to his sleeve. The half-singed blacksmith climbed down with his booty.
“And so farewell, lads,” he said to the confused servants. “There’s nothing for me to do here. Good luck, and don’t hold anything against me.”
The blacksmith left. The fire raged for some time. It finally died down, and heaps of flameless embers glowed brightly in the darkness of the night, and around them wandered the burnt-out inhabitants of Kistenevka.
CHAPTER SEVEN
