The prince was around fifty, but he looked much older. Excesses of all sorts had undermined his health and left their indelible stamp on him. In spite of that, his appearance was pleasant, notable, and the habit of being always in society had lent him a certain amiability, especially with women. He had a constant need of distraction and was constantly bored. Kirila Petrovich was extremely pleased with his visit, taking it as a sign of respect from a man who knew the world; he began, as usual, by treating him to a tour of his establishment and took him to the kennels. But the prince all but choked in the doggy atmosphere and hurriedly left the place, pressing a scented handkerchief to his nose. The old garden with its trimmed lindens, rectangular pond, and regular paths was not to his liking; he preferred English gardens and so-called nature; yet he praised and admired. A servant came to announce that dinner was served. They went to the table. The prince limped, weary from his promenade and already regretting his visit.
But in the reception room they were met by Marya Kirilovna, and the old philanderer was struck by her beauty. Troekurov seated the guest next to her. The prince was revived by her presence, grew merry, and managed several times to attract her attention by his curious stories. After dinner Kirila Petrovich suggested that they go riding, but the prince excused himself, pointing to his velvet boots and joking about his gout; he preferred a promenade in a phaeton, so as not to part from his sweet neighbor. The phaeton was hitched up. The old men and the beauty got in together and drove off. The conversation never lapsed. Marya Kirilovna was listening with pleasure to the flattering and merry compliments of the society man, when Vereisky, suddenly turning to Kirila Petrovich, asked him what was the meaning of that burnt-down building, and did it belong to him?…Kirila Petrovich frowned; the memories evoked by the burnt-down manor were unpleasant for him. He replied that the land was now his and that formerly it had belonged to Dubrovsky.
“To Dubrovsky?” Vereisky repeated. “What, to that famous robber?”
“To his father,” Troekurov replied, “and the father was a pretty good robber himself.”
“What’s become of our Rinaldo now?14 Is he alive? Have they caught him?”
“He’s alive and on the loose, and as long as our police connive with thieves, he won’t be caught. By the way, Prince, Dubrovsky has paid you a visit in Arbatovo, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, last year it seems he did some burning or pillaging…It would be curious to become more closely acquainted with this romantic hero, wouldn’t it, Marya Kirilovna?”
“Curious, hah!” said Troekurov. “She knows him: he taught her music for a whole three weeks, and took nothing for the lessons, thank God.” Here Kirila Petrovich began to tell the story of his French tutor. Marya Kirilovna was on pins and needles. Vereisky listened with great attention, found it all very strange, and changed the subject. On returning, he ordered his carriage brought and, despite Kirila Petrovich’s insistent requests that he stay the night, left right after tea. But before that, he begged Kirila Petrovich to come and visit him with Marya Kirilovna, and the proud Troekurov gave his promise, for, taking into consideration the princely rank, the two stars, and the three thousand souls of the family estate, he considered Vereisky to a certain degree his equal.
