“A week went by, then another—suddenly a carriage drives into my courtyard. Some general asks to see me: I bid him welcome. A man of about thirty-five comes in, dark-haired, moustache, beard, the perfect portrait of Kulnev,11 introduces himself as a friend and army comrade of my late husband, Ivan Andreevich. He was driving by and couldn’t go without visiting his widow, knowing that I lived here. I treated him to whatever God provided, we talked about this and that, and finally about Dubrovsky. I told him of my misfortune. My general frowned. ‘That’s strange,’ he said. ‘I’ve heard that Dubrovsky doesn’t attack just anybody, but only the notoriously rich, and even then he splits with them and doesn’t clean them out, and nobody accuses him of murder. There must be some hoax here. Have them send for your steward.’ The steward was sent for; he appeared; the moment he saw the general, he was simply dumbfounded. ‘Tell me now, brother, how Dubrovsky went about robbing you and how he wanted to hang you.’ My steward trembled and fell at the general’s feet. ‘I’m guilty, dear master—it was the devil’s work—I lied.’ ‘In that case,’ said the general, ‘kindly tell the lady how it all happened, and I’ll listen.’ The steward couldn’t come to his senses. ‘Well, so,’ the general continued, ‘tell us: where did you run into Dubrovsky?’ ‘By the twin pines, dear master, by the twin pines.’ ‘And what did he say to you?’ ‘He asked me whose I was, where I was going, and why.’ ‘Well, and then?’ ‘And then he demanded the letter and the money.’ ‘Well?’ ‘I gave him the letter and the money.’ ‘And he?…Well, and he?’ ‘I’m guilty, dear master.’ ‘Well, so what did he do?…’ ‘He gave me back the money and the letter and said, “Go with God, put it in the post.” ’ ‘Well, and you?’ ‘I’m guilty, dear master.’ ‘I’ll make short work of you, dear boy,’ the general said menacingly. ‘And you, my lady, have this swindler’s trunk searched and hand him over to me. I’ll teach him. Know that Dubrovsky was an officer of the guards himself, and he would not want to harm a comrade.’ I had an idea who his excellency was, there was nothing for me to discuss with him. The coachman tied the steward to the box of his carriage. The money was found; the general dined with me, then left at once and took the steward with him. My steward was found the next day in the forest, tied to an oak tree and stripped clean.”
They all listened silently to Anna Savishna’s story, especially the young ladies. Many of them secretly wished Dubrovsky well, seeing him as a romantic hero, especially Marya Kirilovna, an ardent dreamer, imbued with the mysterious horrors of Radcliffe.12
“And you suppose, Anna Savishna, that it was Dubrovsky himself?” asked Kirila Petrovich. “You’re quite mistaken. I don’t know who your visitor was, but it was not Dubrovsky.”
“How’s that, my dear sir? Not Dubrovsky? Who else takes to the highway, stopping travelers and searching them?”
“I don’t know, but it was surely not Dubrovsky. I remember him as a child; I don’t know if his hair has turned black; back then he was a curly-headed blond boy; but I know for certain that Dubrovsky is five years older than my Masha, and that means he’s not thirty-five, but around twenty-three.”
“Exactly right, Your Excellency,” the police chief exclaimed. “I have Vladimir Dubrovsky’s description in my pocket. It says that he is indeed twenty-three years old.”
“Ah!” said Kirila Petrovich, “that’s handy: read it to us and we’ll listen; it won’t be bad for us to know his description; if we chance to lay eyes on him, he won’t slip away.”
The police chief took a very soiled sheet of paper from his pocket, solemnly unfolded it, and began to read in a singsong voice:
“Description of Vladimir Dubrovsky, based on the testimony of his former household serfs.
“Twenty-three years old. Height: medium; complexion: clear; beard: shaved; eyes: brown; hair: light brown; nose: straight. Distinguishing marks: none found.”
“And that’s all?” asked Kirila Petrovich.
“That’s all,” replied the police chief, folding the document.
“Congratulations, Mister Police Chief. What a document! With that description it’ll be easy for you to track down Dubrovsky. Who isn’t of medium height, who doesn’t have light brown hair, a straight nose, and brown eyes! I’ll bet you could talk to Dubrovsky himself for three hours straight and not guess whom God has brought you together with. Brainy officials, to say the least!”
The police chief meekly put the document back in his pocket and quietly started on the goose and cabbage. Meanwhile the servants had already gone around several times filling each guest’s glass. Several bottles of Gorsky and Tsimliansky wine had been loudly uncorked and graciously received under the name of champagne, faces began to glow, conversations grew more noisy, incoherent, and merry.
