She spoke — and all are seized with horror,
Each heart with passion waxes bold;
Unmoved, she hears the troubled murmur,
Her face is insolent and cold,
Her gaze contemptuously circles
The thronged admirers gathered there...
Now one steps forth, two others follow,
Who greatly love and greatly dare.
As they approach her throne she rises —
Their eyes are clear, their step is free.
The bargain’s sealed: three nights are purchased,
And death will take the lovers three.
The hall is frozen into silence,
Still as a statue sits each guest,
As lots are drawn in slow succession
From the dread urn the priests have blessed.
First Flavius, face sternly chiseled.
Who in the legions had grown grizzled —
Not readily the Roman bore
Affront: was life so dear a treasure?
The cost he did not stop to measure,
Accepting, as in time of war,
The challenge that was flung by pleasure.
Next Crito came, a sage though young,
Born in the groves of Epicurus;
The Graces he had loved and sung,
And Aphrodite too, and Eros...
The last, who charmed both heart and eye,
Was like a flower scarce unfolded;
It was his lot to love and die
Unknown, alas; his cheeks were shaded
With tender down, his eyes were bright,
With youthful ecstasy alight;
The violence of virgin passion
Was surging in his boyish breast...
On him the scornful queen permitted
Briefly a grieving look to rest.
“I vow... Mother of joy, to serve you,
And strangely, since for man and boy
I play the harlot, and surrender
Myself unto a purchased joy.
Then hear my vow, great Aphrodite,
Kings of the nether regions, hear,
You gods who govern dreadful Hades,
I vow — till dawn’s first rays appear
I shall delight my masters wholly
And show them every shape of bliss
That satisfies the lover’s ardor
With soft caress and curious kiss —
But when eternal Eos enters
In morning purple, then — I vow —
The lucky ones will greet the headsman,
And to his ax their necks will bow.”
And lo! the fevered day has passed,
The golden-horned moon is rising.
About the Alexandrian palace
The tender shade of night is cast.
Rare incense smokes, the lamps burn softly,
The fountains play with sounds of mirth,
The darkness brings voluptuous coolness
For those who shall be gods on earth.
‘Midst marvels of a queen’s designing,
In a luxurious dim room,
Behind the curtains’ purple gloom,
The aureate couch is softly shining....
[Published posthumously, 1837]
DUBROVSKY
Translated by T. Keane
Written in 1832 and published after Pushkin’s death in 1841, this unfinished novel concerns Vladimir Dubrovsky, a young nobleman whose land is confiscated by Kirila Petrovitch Troekurov, a greedy and powerful aristocrat. Determined to win justice, Dubrovsky gathers a band of serfs and steals from the rich to give to the poor.
Leonid Sobinov as Vladimir Dubrovsky in Eduard Nápravník’s operatic adaptation of the unfinished novel, 1914
CONTENTS
I
II
III
IV
V
VI
VII
VIII
IX
X
XI
XII
XIII
XIV
XV
XVI
XVII
XVIII
XIX
I
SOME years ago, there lived on one of his estates a Russian gentleman of the old school named Kirila Petrovich Troyekurov. His wealth, distinguished birth, and connections gave him great weight in the provinces where his estates were situated. The neighbors were ready to gratify his slightest whim; the government officials trembled at his name. Kirila Petrovich accepted all these signs of obsequiousness as his rightful due. His house was always full of guests, ready to indulge his lordship in his hours of idleness and to share his noisy and sometimes boisterous mirth. Nobody dared to refuse his invitations or, on certain days, omit to put in an appearance at the village of Pokrovskoye. In his home circle, Kirila Petrovich exhibited all the vices of an uneducated man. Spoilt by all who surrounded him, he was in the habit of giving way to every impulse of his passionate nature, to every caprice of his somewhat narrow mind. In spite of the extraordinary vigor of his constitution, he suffered two or three times a week from surfeit, and became tipsy every evening.
Very few of the serf-girls in his household escaped the amorous attempts of this fifty-year-old satyr. Moreover, in one of the wings of his house lived sixteen girls engaged in needlework. The windows of this wing were protected by wooden bars, the doors were kept locked, and the keys retained by Kirila Petrovich. The young recluses at an appointed hour went into the garden for a walk under the surveillance of two old women. From time to time Kirila Petrovich married some of them off, and newcomers took their places. He treated his peasants and domestics in a severe and arbitrary fashion, in spite of which they were very devoted to him: they loved to boast of the wealth and influence of their master, and in their turn took many a liberty with their neighbors, trusting to his powerful protection.
Troyekurov’s usual occupations were driving over his vast domains, feasting at length, and playing practical jokes, invented newly every day, the victims being generally new acquaintances, though his old friends did not always escape, one only — Andrey Gavrilovich Dubrovsky — excepted.
This Dubrovsky, a retired lieutenant of the Guards, was his nearest neighbor, and the owner of seventy serfs. Troyekurov, haughty in his dealings with people of the highest rank, respected Dubrovsky, in spite of his humble situation. They had been in the service together and Troyekurov knew from experience his impatient and resolute character. Circumstances separated them for a long time. Dubrovsky with his reduced fortune, was compelled to leave the service and settle down in the only village that remained to him. Kirila Petrovich, hearing of this, offered him his protection; but Dubrovsky thanked him and remained poor and independent. Some years later, Troyekurov, having retired with the rank of general, arrived at his estate. They met again and were delighted with each other. After that they saw each other every day, and Kirila Petrovich, who had never deigned to visit anybody in his life, came quite without ceremony to the modest house of his old comrade. In some respects their fates had been similar: both had married for love, both had soon become widowers, and both had been left with an only child. The son of Dubrovsky was being brought up in Petersburg; the daughter of Kirila Petrovich was growing up under the eyes of her father, and Troyekurov often said to Dubrovsky:
“Listen, brother Andrey Gavrilovich; if your Volodka should turn out well, I will let him have Masha for his wife, in spite of his being as poor as a church mouse.”
Andrey Gavrilovich used to shake his head, and generally replied:
“No, Kirila Petrovich; my Volodka is no match for Marya Kirilovna. A penniless gentleman, such as he, would do better to marry a poor girl of the gentry, and be the head of his house, rather than become the bailiff of some spoilt baggage.”
Everybody envied the good understanding existing between the haughty Troyekurov and his poor neighbor, and wondered at the boldness of the latter when, at the table of Kirila Petrovich, he expresse
d his own opinion frankly, and did not hesitate to maintain an opinion contrary to that of his host. Some attempted to imitate him and ventured to overstep the limits of due respect; but Kirila Petrovich taught them such a lesson, that they never afterward felt any desire to repeat the experiment. Dubrovsky alone remained beyond the range of this general law. But an accidental occurrence upset and altered all this.
One day, in the beginning of autumn, Kirila Petrovich prepared to go out hunting. Orders had been given the evening before for the whips and huntsmen to be ready at five o’clock in the morning. The tent and kitchen had been sent on beforehand to the place where Kirila Petrovich was to dine. The host and his guests went to the kennels where more than five hundred harriers and greyhounds lived in luxury and warmth, praising the generosity of Kirila Petrovich in their canine language. There was also a hospital for the sick dogs, under the care of staff-surgeon Timoshka, and a separate place where the pedigreed bitches brought forth and suckled their pups. Kirila Petrovich was proud of this magnificent establishment, and never missed an opportunity of boasting about it before his guests, each of whom had inspected it at least twenty times. He walked through the kennels, surrounded by his guests and accompanied by Timoshka and the head whips, pausing before certain kennels, either to ask after the health of some sick dog, to make some observation more or less just and severe, or to call some dog to him by name and speak tenderly to it. The guests considered it their duty to go into raptures over Kirila Petrovich’s kennels; Dubrovsky alone remained silent and frowned. He was an ardent sportsman; but his modest fortune only permitted him to keep two harriers and one pack of greyhounds, and he could not restrain a certain feeling of envy at the sight of this magnificent establishment.
“Why do you frown, brother?” Kirila Petrovich asked him. “Don’t you like my kennels?”
“No,” replied Dubrovsky abruptly: “the kennels are marvelous, indeed I doubt whether your men live as well as your dogs.”
One of the whips took offence.
“Thanks to God and our master, we don’t complain of the way we live,” said he; “but if the truth must be told, there is many a gentleman who would not do badly if he exchanged his manor-house for any one of these kennels: he would be better fed and warmer.”
Kirila Petrovich burst out laughing at his servant’s insolent remark, and the guests followed his example, although they felt that the whip’s joke might apply to them also. Dubrovsky turned pale and said not a word. At that moment a basket, containing some new-born puppies, was brought to Kirila Petrovich; he busied himself with them, choosing two for himself and ordering the rest to be drowned. In the meantime Andrey Gavrilovich had disappeared without anybody having observed it.
On returning with his guests from the kennels, Kirila Petrovich sat down to supper, and it was only then that he noticed the absence of Dubrovsky. His people informed him that Andrey Gavrilovich had gone home. Troyekurov immediately gave orders that he was to be overtaken and brought back without fail. He had never gone hunting without Dubrovsky, who was a great connoisseur in all matters relating to dogs, and an infallible umpire in all possible disputes connected with sport. The servant who had galloped after him, returned while they were still seated at table, and informed his master that Andrey Gavrilovich had refused to listen to him and would not return. Kirila Petrovich, as usual, was heated with liquor, and becoming very angry, he sent the same servant a second time to tell Andrey Gavrilovich that if he did not return at once to spend the night at Pokrovskoye, he, Troyekurov, would never have anything further to do with him. The servant galloped off again. Kirila Petrovich rose from the table, dismissed his guests and retired to bed.
The next day his first question was: “Is Andrey Gavrilovich here?” By way of answer, he was handed a letter folded in the shape of a triangle. Kirila Petrovich ordered his secretary to read it aloud and he heard the following:
“Gracious Sir!
“I do not intend to return to Pokrovskoye until you send the whip Paramoshka to me with an apology: and it shall be for me to decide whether to punish or forgive him. I do not intend to put up with jokes from your servants, or, for that matter, from you, as I am not a buffoon, but a gentleman of ancient lineage. I remain your obedient servant,” Audrey Dubrovsky.”
According to present ideas of etiquette, such a letter would be very unbecoming; yet it irritated Kirila Petrovich, not by its strange style and form, but by its substance.
“What!” thundered Troyekurov, jumping barefooted out of bed; “send my people to him with an apology! And he to decide whether to punish or pardon them! What can he be thinking of? He doesn’t know with whom he is dealing! I’ll show him what’s what! I’ll give him something to cry about! He shall know what it is to oppose Troyekurov!”
Kirila Petrovich dressed himself and set out for the hunt with his usual ostentation. But the chase was not successful; during the whole of the day one hare only was seen, and that escaped. The dinner in the field, under the tent, was also a failure, or at least it was not to the taste of Kirila Petrovich, who struck the cook, abused the guests, and on the return journey rode intentionally, with all his suite, through Dubrovsky’s fields.
II
SEVERAL days passed, and the animosity between the two neighbors did not subside. Andrey Gavrilovich returned no more to Pokrovskoye, and Kirila Petrovich, bored without him, vented his spleen in the most insulting expressions, which, thanks to the zeal of the neighboring gentry, reached Dubrovsky revised and augmented. A fresh incident destroyed the last hope of a reconciliation.
One day, Dubrovsky was driving around his little property, when, on approaching a grove of birch trees, he heard the blows of an axe, and a minute afterward the crash of a falling tree; he hastened to the spot and found some of the Pokrovskoye peasants calmly stealing his timber. Seeing him, they took to flight; but Dubrovsky, with the assistance of his coachman, caught two of them, whom he brought home bound. Moreover, two horses, belonging, to the enemy, fell into the hands of the victor.
Dubrovsky was exceedingly angry. Before this, Troyekurov’s people, who were well-known robbers, had never dared to do any mischief within the boundaries of his property, being aware of the friendship which existed between him and their master. Dubrovsky now perceived that they were taking advantage of the rupture which had occurred between him and his neighbor, and he resolved, contrary to all ideas of the rules of war, to teach his prisoners a lesson with the rods which they themselves had collected in his grove, and to send the horses to work, adding them to his own live-stock.
The news of these proceedings reached the ears of Kirila Petrovich that very day. He was almost beside himself, and in the first moment of his rage, he wanted to take all of his domestics and make an attack upon Kistenyovka (for such was the name of his neighbor’s village), raze it to the ground, and besiege the landholder in his own manor. Such exploits were not rare with him; but his thoughts soon took another direction. Pacing with heavy steps up and down the hall, he glanced casually out of the window, and saw a troika stopping at his gate. A little man in a leather traveling- cap and a frieze cloak stepped out of the carriage and proceeded toward the wing occupied by the bailiff. Troyekurov recognized the assessor Shabashkin, and gave orders for him to be sent in to him. A minute afterward Shabashkin stood before Kirila Petrovich, and bowing repeatedly, waited respectfully to hear his orders.
“Good day — what is your name anyway?” said Troyekurov. “What has brought you here?”
“I was going to town, Your Excellency,” replied Shabashkin, “and I called on Ivan Demyanov to find out if there were any orders from Your Excellency.”
“You have come just at the right time — whatever your name is. I have need of you. Have some vodka and listen to me.”
Such a friendly welcome agreeably surprised the assessor: he declined the vodka, and listened to Kirila Petrovich with all possible attention.
“I have a neighbor,” said Troyekurov, “a small proprietor, a rude
fellow, and I want to take his property away from him.... What do you think of that?”
“Your Excellency, are there any documents, or...?”
“Don’t talk nonsense, brother, what documents are you talking about? Ukases will take care of them. The point is to take his property away from him, in spite of the law. But stop! This estate belonged to us at one time. It was bought from a certain Spitzyn, and then sold to Dubrovsky’s father. Can’t you make a case out of that?”
“It would be difficult, Your Excellency: probably the sale was effected in strict accordance with the law.”
“Think, brother; try your hardest.”
“If, for example, Your Excellency could in some way obtain from your neighbor the deed, in virtue of which he holds possession of his estate, then, of course...”
“I understand, but that is the trouble: all his papers were burnt at the time of the fire.”
“What! Your Excellency, his papers were burnt? What could be better? In that case, take proceedings according to law; without the slightest doubt you will receive complete satisfaction.”
“You think so? Well, see to it; I rely upon your zeal, and you can rest assured of my gratitude.” Shabashkin, bowing almost to the ground, took his departure; at once he began to occupy himself with the business intrusted to him and, thanks to his prompt action, exactly a fortnight afterward Dubrovsky received from town a summons to appear in court and to produce the documents, in virtue of which he held possession of the village of Kistenyovka.
Andrey Gavrilovich, greatly astonished by this unexpected request, wrote that very same day a somewhat rude reply, in which he explained that the village of Kistenyovka became his on the death of his father, that he held it by right of inheritance, that Troyekurov had nothing to do with the matter, and that anyone else’s claim to this property of his was nothing but chicanery and fraud.
This letter produced a very agreeable impression on the mind of Shabashkin; he saw, in the first place, that Dubrovsky knew very little about legal matters; and, in the second, that it would not be difficult to place such a rash and hot-tempered man in a very disadvantageous position.