The church was filled with Kistenevka peasants, who had come to pay their last respects to their master. Young Dubrovsky stood by the choir; he did not weep and he did not pray, but his face was terrible. The mournful rite came to an end. Vladimir went first to take leave of the body, and after him all the servants. The lid was brought and nailed to the coffin. The women wailed loudly; the men occasionally wiped their tears with their fists. Vladimir and the same three servants carried it to the graveyard, accompanied by the whole village. The coffin was lowered into the grave, everyone there threw a handful of earth into it, the hole was filled in, people bowed and went their ways. Vladimir quickly left, got ahead of everyone, and disappeared into the Kistenevka grove.
On his behalf, Egorovna invited the priest and the rest of the church people to a memorial dinner, announcing that the young master did not intend to be present, and thus Father Anton, his wife Fedotovna, and the sexton went on foot to the master’s house, talking with Egorovna about the dead man’s virtues and about what apparently awaited his heir. (Troekurov’s visit and the reception he had been shown were already known to the whole neighborhood, and local politicians predicted serious consequences from it.)
“What will be, will be,” said the priest’s wife, “but it’s too bad if Vladimir Andreich is not our master. A fine fellow, I must say.”
“But who will be our master if not him?” Egorovna interrupted. “Kirila Petrovich gets worked up for nothing. He’s not dealing with the timid sort: no, my young falcon can stand up for himself, and, God willing, his benefactors won’t desert him. Kirila Petrovich is mighty arrogant, but I dare say he put his tail between his legs when my Grishka shouted at him: ‘Away, you old dog! Clear out of the yard!’ ”
“Ah, no, Egorovna,” said the sexton, “how did Grigory have the pluck to say it? I’d sooner bark at our bishop than look askance at Kirila Petrovich. You see him and you’re in fear and trembling, you break into a sweat, and your back just bends, just bends by itself…”
“Vanity of vanities,” said the priest, “and Kirila Petrovich will have ‘Memory Eternal’ sung over him,7 the same as Andrei Gavrilovich did just now, only the funeral will be richer and there’ll be more guests invited, but for God it’s all the same!”
“Ah, dear father! We, too, wanted to invite the whole neighborhood, but Vladimir Andreich didn’t want it. I dare say we’ve got enough to treat them all, but what could we do? Since there’s no people, at least we can feast you, our dear guests.”
This agreeable promise and the hope of finding tasty pies quickened the company’s steps, and they safely reached the master’s house, where the table was already laid and the vodka served.
Meanwhile, Vladimir went ever deeper into the thicket of trees, trying by movement and fatigue to stifle the grief in his soul. He walked without heeding the way; branches kept catching at him and scratching him, his feet kept sinking into the mire—he noticed nothing. He finally reached a small hollow, surrounded by the woods on all sides; a brook meandered silently among the trees, stripped half naked by autumn. Vladimir stopped, sat down on the cold grass, and thoughts, one darker than the other, crowded in his soul…He keenly felt his solitude. The future appeared to him covered with menacing clouds. The enmity with Troekurov foreshadowed new misfortunes for him. His meager inheritance might pass into another’s hands—in which case he would face destitution. For a long time he sat motionless in the same place, gazing at the quiet flow of the brook, carrying off a few withered leaves and vividly portraying for him the true likeness of life—such a commonplace likeness. Finally he noticed that it was growing dark; he got up and went in search of the way home, but he still wandered for a long time in the unfamiliar forest, before he hit upon the path that brought him straight to the gates of his house.
On his way Dubrovsky ran into the priest with the rest of the church people. The thought of an unlucky omen came to his head. He automatically turned aside and hid behind a tree. They did not notice him and walked by talking heatedly among themselves.
“Eschew evil, and do good,”8 the priest was saying to his wife. “There’s no need for us to stay here. It’s not your trouble, however the matter ends.” The wife said something in reply, but Vladimir could not catch it.
Approaching the house, he saw a great many people: peasants and house serfs were crowding in the yard. From a distance Vladimir heard unusual noise and talk. Two troikas stood by the coach house. On the porch several unknown men in uniform seemed to be discussing something.
“What’s the meaning of this?” he angrily asked Anton, who came running to meet him. “Who are they, and what do they want?”
“Ah, dear master Vladimir Andreevich,” the old man answered breathlessly. “The court has come. They’re handing us over to Troekurov, they’re taking us from Your Honor!…”
Vladimir hung his head; the servants surrounded their unfortunate master.
“You’re a father to us,” they cried, kissing his hands. “We don’t want any other master but you. Order it, sir, and we’ll deal with this court. We’ll die before we betray you.”
Vladimir looked at them and strange feelings stirred him.
“Stand quietly,” he said to them, “and I’ll have a talk with the officials.”
“Talk to them, dear master,” they cried to him from the crowd. “Shame the fiends!”
Vladimir went up to the officials. Shabashkin, with a visored cap on his head, stood arms akimbo and proudly looked around him. The police chief, a tall and fat man of about fifty with a red face and a moustache, on seeing Dubrovsky approach, grunted and said in a husky voice:
“So, I repeat to you what I’ve already said: by decision of the district court, you henceforth belong to Kirila Petrovich Troekurov, whose person is here represented by Mr. Shabashkin. Obey him in everything he orders, and you, women, love and honor him, for he is your great fancier.”
At this witticism, the police chief burst out laughing, and Shabashkin and the other members followed suit. Vladimir seethed with indignation.
“Allow me to know the meaning of this,” he asked the merry police chief with feigned coolness.
“The meaning of this,” the wily official replied, “is that we have come to put Kirila Petrovich Troekurov in possession of the estate and to ask certain others to get out while they’re still in one piece.”
“But it seems you might address yourselves to me, rather than to my peasants, and announce to the landowner that he has been dispossessed…”
“And who are you,” said Shabashkin with an impudent look. “The former landowner, Andrei Gavrilovich Dubrovsky, is dead by the will of God. You we do not know and do not wish to know.”
“Vladimir Andreevich is our young master,” said a voice from the crowd.
“Who dared to open his mouth there?” the police chief said menacingly. “What master? What Vladimir Andreevich? Your master is Kirila Petrovich Troekurov, do you hear, you oafs?”
“Nohow,” said the same voice.
“This is rebellion!” shouted the police chief. “Hey, headman, come here!”
The headman stepped forward.
“Find out at once who dared to talk back to me. I’ll show him!”
The headman turned to the crowd and asked who had spoken, but they all kept silent; soon a murmur sprang up from the back rows, grew louder, and in a moment turned into a terrible uproar. The police chief lowered his voice and tried to reason with them.
“Why stand gaping?” the servants shouted. “Come on, boys, away with them!” And the whole crowd advanced. Shabashkin and the other members hurriedly rushed into the front hall and locked the door behind them.
“Tie ’em up, boys!” the same voice shouted, and the crowd began to press forward…