On the eve of the feast, the guests began to arrive. Some stayed in the manor house or in the wings, others at the steward’s, still others at the priest’s, and others again with well-to-do peasants. The stables were filled with carriage horses, the yards and coach houses were cluttered with all sorts of vehicles. At nine o’clock in the morning, the bells rang for the liturgy, and everyone moved towards the new stone church, built by Kirila Petrovich and adorned every year with his offerings. Such a multitude of honorable worshippers gathered that simple peasants could not get into the church and stood on the porch or inside the fence. The liturgy had not started yet; they were waiting for Kirila Petrovich. He drove up in a coach-and-six and solemnly walked to his place accompanied by Marya Kirilovna. The eyes of men and women turned to her; the former marveled at her beauty, the latter attentively examined her dress. The liturgy began, the serf choir sang, Kirila Petrovich himself joined in, prayed, looking neither right nor left, and bowed to the ground with proud humility when the deacon made vociferous mention of “the benefactor of this church.”
The liturgy ended. Kirila Petrovich went up first to kiss the cross. Everyone followed after him, then the neighbors approached him deferentially. The ladies surrounded Masha. Kirila Petrovich, coming out of the church, invited them all to dinner, got into his carriage, and went home. They all drove along behind him. The rooms filled with guests. New persons came in every minute and could barely make their way to the host. The ladies sat in a decorous semicircle, dressed in outmoded fashion, in much-worn but expensive outfits, all covered with pearls and diamonds; the men crowded around the caviar and vodka, talking among themselves in a loud hubbub. In the reception room the table was being laid for eighty people. Servants bustled about, arranging bottles and carafes and adjusting tablecloths. Finally the butler announced “Dinner is served”—and Kirila Petrovich went first to take his place at the table; the ladies followed after him and solemnly took their seats, with some observance of seniority; the girls crowded together like a flock of timid little goats and chose seats next to each other. The men placed themselves opposite them. At the end of the table sat the tutor beside little Sasha.
The servants began to serve dishes according to rank, guiding themselves in perplexing cases by Lavaterian guesswork,10 almost always unerringly. The clatter of dishes and spoons merged with the loud talk of the guests. Kirila Petrovich cheerfully surveyed his table and fully relished the happiness of a hospitable host. Just then a carriage drawn by six horses drove into the yard.
“Who’s this?” asked the host.
“Anton Pafnutych,” replied several voices.
The door opened and Anton Pafnutych Spitsyn, a fat man of about fifty with a round and pockmarked face adorned by a triple chin, lumbered into the dining room, bowing, smiling, and already preparing to apologize…
“A place for him!” shouted Kirila Petrovich. “Welcome, Anton Pafnutych, sit down and tell us what this means: you weren’t in church and you’re late for dinner. It’s not like you: you’re very devout and you love to eat.”
“Sorry,” replied Anton Pafnutych, tying a napkin to the buttonhole of his pea-green kaftan, “sorry, my dear Kirila Petrovich. I set out early, but before I’d gone seven miles, the tire on the front wheel suddenly broke in two—what was I to do? Fortunately, there was a village not far away. By the time we dragged ourselves there, and found the blacksmith, and everything got somehow fixed, three hours had gone by—no help for it. I didn’t dare take the short cut through the Kistenevka wood, so I went around…”
“Aha!” Kirila Petrovich interrupted. “So you’re not one of the brave! What are you afraid of?”
“What do you mean what, my dear Kirila Petrovich? And Dubrovsky? I might just fall into his clutches. He’s nobody’s fool, he doesn’t miss a trick, and as for me, why, he’d skin me twice over.”
“Why such distinction, brother?”
“What do you mean why, my dear Kirila Petrovich? Because of the lawsuit against the late Andrei Gavrilovich. Didn’t I give evidence, for your good pleasure—that is, in all honesty and fairness—that the Dubrovskys were masters of Kistenevka without any right, but solely by your indulgence? The deceased (God rest his soul) vowed to get even with me in his own way, and the boy might just keep the father’s word. So far God has been merciful. Only one of my barns has been looted, but they could get to the house any time now.”
“And in the house they’ll have a heyday,” Kirila Petrovich observed. “I’ll bet the little red cashbox is stuffed full…”
“Ah, no, my dear Kirila Petrovich. It was full once, but now it’s quite empty!”
