Once, coming into the reception room where her tutor was waiting for her, Marya Kirilovna was surprised to notice a look of embarrassment on his pale face. She opened the piano, sang a few notes, but Dubrovsky excused himself under the pretext of a headache, broke off the lesson, and, while closing the score, stealthily slipped her a note. Marya Kirilovna, having no time to think better of it, took the note and instantly regretted it, but Dubrovsky was no longer in the room. Marya Kirilovna went to her room, unfolded the note, and read the following:
“Be in the gazebo by the brook at seven o’clock this evening. I must speak with you.”
Her curiosity was strongly piqued. She had long been waiting for a confession, wishing for it and fearing it. It would be pleasing for her to hear the confirmation of what she surmised, yet she felt it would be improper for her to listen to such a declaration from a man who by his position could never hope to obtain her hand. She decided to keep the appointment, but was hesitant about one thing: how was she to receive the tutor’s confession? With aristocratic indignation? With friendly admonition? With merry jokes, or with silent sympathy? Meanwhile she kept glancing at the clock every minute. It was growing dark, candles were brought. Kirila Petrovich sat down to play Boston with some visiting neighbors. The dining room clock struck a quarter to seven, and Marya Kirilovna quietly went out to the porch, looked all around, and ran to the garden.
The night was dark, the sky covered with clouds, two steps away nothing could be seen, but Marya Kirilovna walked through the darkness by familiar paths and a minute later found herself at the gazebo. There she paused so as to catch her breath and appear before Desforges looking indifferent and unhurried. But Desforges was already standing before her.
“I thank you,” he said in a soft and sad voice, “that you did not refuse me in my request. I would be in despair if you had not consented to it.”
Marya Kirilovna replied with a prepared phrase:
“I hope that you will not make me repent of my indulgence.”
He was silent and seemed to be plucking up his courage.
“Circumstances demand…I must leave you,” he said at last. “You may soon hear…But before we part, I myself must explain to you…”
Marya Kirilovna made no reply. In these words she saw a preface to the confession she was expecting.
“I am not what you suppose me to be,” he went on, looking down. “I am not the Frenchman Desforges, I am Dubrovsky.”
Marya Kirilovna cried out.
“Don’t be afraid, for God’s sake, you shouldn’t be afraid of my name. Yes, I am that unfortunate man whom your father deprived of his crust of bread, drove out of his parental home, and sent to rob on the highways. But you needn’t be afraid of me—either for yourself, or for him. It’s all over. I’ve forgiven him. Listen, it was you who saved him. My first bloody exploit was to be done against him. I circled around his house, fixing on where to start the fire, from where to enter his bedroom, how to cut off all ways of escape, and just then you walked past me, like a heavenly vision, and my heart was appeased. I realized that the house you dwelt in was sacred, that not a single being connected to you by ties of blood was subject to my curse. I renounced revenge as folly. For whole days I roamed about the gardens of Pokrovskoe in hopes of seeing your white dress in the distance. I followed you in your imprudent walks, moving stealthily from bush to bush, happy in the thought that I was protecting you, that there was no danger for you where I was secretly present. At last a chance offered itself. I came to live in your house. These three weeks have been days of happiness for me. The memory of them will be the consolation of my sorrowful life…Today I received news after which it is impossible for me to stay here any longer. I must part from you today…right now…But first I had to reveal myself to you, so that you would not curse me, would not despise me. Think now and then of Dubrovsky, know that he was born for a different destiny, that his soul was able to love you, that never…”
Here a light whistle was heard, and Dubrovsky fell silent. He seized her hand and pressed it to his burning lips. The whistle was repeated.
“Farewell,” said Dubrovsky. “They’re calling me; a minute could be my undoing.” He walked away, Marya Kirilovna stood motionless, Dubrovsky came back and took her hand again.
“If ever,” he said in a tender and touching voice, “if ever misfortune befalls you and you cannot look for help or protection from anyone, in that case will you promise to resort to me, to demand anything from me for your salvation? Do you promise not to reject my devotion?”
Marya Kirilovna was silently weeping. The whistle was heard for a third time.
“You will be my undoing!” cried Dubrovsky. “I won’t leave you until you give me an answer. Do you promise or not?”
“I promise,” the poor beauty whispered.
