by Leo Tolstoy
Entering the maids’ quarters from the back porch, Ivan Mironov crossed himself, wiped the melting icicles from his beard, and turning back the flap of his sheepskin jacket, drew out a small leather purse and took from it eight roubles and fifty copecks in change. He handed over the money, and the coupon he rolled up in a piece of paper and put away in his purse.
Having thanked the gentleman in a manner befitting his rank, Ivan Mironov induced his wretched, doomed, frost-covered horse to get his legs moving, not by the whip but by the use of the whip handle, and drove the empty cart away in the direction of the tavern.
Once inside the tavern Ivan Mironov ordered himself eight copecks’ worth of vodka and tea, and when he had warmed himself up and even begun to perspire a little and was in a really cheerful state of mind, he fell to chatting with the yardman who was sitting at the same table. He soon warmed to the conversation and told the yardman all about himself: how he came from the village of Vasilyevskoye twelve versts from the town, how he had taken his share of the family goods and left his father and brothers, and was now living with his wife and two sons, the elder of whom was attending a trade school and so wasn’t yet able to help him financially. He told him how he was staying in lodgings here in town and that tomorrow he was going to the knacker to sell his old hack, and he would see, but if it worked out all right he might buy himself a new horse. He told him how he had managed to put by some twenty-five roubles, and half the money was in the form of a coupon. He took out the coupon and showed it to the yardman. The yardman could not read or write but he said that he had changed money like that for the tenants and that it was good money, but there were forgeries about, and for that reason he advised him to be on the safe side and to get it changed here at the tavern bar. Ivan Mironov handed the coupon to the waiter and told him to bring back the cash to him, but the waiter did not bring back the money: instead the bald, shiny-faced tavern manager came over, holding the coupon in his pudgy hand.
‘Your money’s no good,’ he said, pointing at the coupon but not returning it.
‘That’s good money – a gentleman gave it me.’
‘This money is not good, it’s counterfeit.’
‘Well, if it’s counterfeit, give it back to me.’
‘No, my man, people like you need to be taught a lesson. You and your swindling friends have been tampering with it.’
‘Let me have my money, what right have you got to do this?’
‘Sidor, call the police,’ said the barman to the waiter.
Ivan Mironov was drunk, and being drunk he was starting to get worked up. He seized the manager by the collar and shouted:
‘Give it back, and I’ll go and see the gentleman. I know where to find him.’
The manager struggled free of Ivan Mironov’s grasp, tearing his shirt in the process.
‘Ah, if that’s how you want it – hold him!’
The waiter grabbed Ivan Mironov and at that moment the policeman appeared. Taking charge of the situation he listened to their explanations, then quickly brought things to a conclusion.
‘Down to the station with you.’
The policeman put the coupon into his own wallet and led Ivan Mironov and his horse off to the police station.
VII
Ivan Mironov spent the night in the cells at the police station along with drunks and thieves. It was not until almost noon the next day that he was summoned to appear before the local police officer. The officer questioned him and then sent him along with the constable to see the proprietor of the photographic shop. Ivan Mironov was able to remember the name of the street and the number of the house.
When the policeman had summoned the gentleman to the door and confronted him with the coupon and Ivan Mironov, who confirmed that this was the very gentleman who had given him the coupon, Yevgeny Mikhailovich put on an expression first of astonishment, and then of stern disapproval.
‘Whatever are you talking about? You must be out of your mind. This is the first time I have ever set eyes on him.’
‘Master, it’s a sin to say that, remember we’ve all got to die,’ said Ivan Mironov.
‘What’s the matter with him? You must have been dreaming. It was someone else you sold your firewood to,’ said Yevgeny Mikhailovich. ‘Anyway, wait there and I’ll go and ask my wife if she bought any firewood yesterday.’
Yevgeny Mikhailovich went away and at once called the yardman to him. The yardman, Vasily, was a good-looking, unusually strong and nimble fellow, cheery in nature and something of a dandy. Yevgeny Mikhailovich told him that if anyone asked him where the last lot of firewood had come from he should say that they had got it from the woodyard and that they never bought firewood from muzhiks.
‘There’s a muzhik here claiming that I gave him a forged coupon. He’s a muddle-headed peasant, but you’re a man of understanding. So you tell him that we only ever buy our firewood from the woodyard. Oh, and I’ve been meaning for some time to give you this towards a new jacket,’ added Yevgeny Mikhailovich, and he gave the yardman five roubles.
Vasily took the money, his eyes darting from the banknote to Yevgeny Mikhailovich’s face, tossed back his hair and gave a slight smile.
‘Everyone knows the common people are slow-witted. It’s lack of education. Don’t you worry, sir. I shall know well enough what to say.’
However tearfully Ivan Mironov begged Yevgeny Mikhailovich to acknowledge that the coupon was his, and the yardman to confirm what he was saying, both Yevgeny Mikhailovich and the yardman stuck to their line: they had never bought firewood off carts. And the policeman took Ivan Mironov back to the police station where he was charged with forging a coupon.
Only by following the advice of his cellmate, a drunken clerk, and by slipping the local police officer a five-rouble note, did Ivan Mironov succeed in getting out of detention, minus his coupon and with just seven roubles instead of the twenty-five he had had the day before. Ivan Mironov used three of the seven roubles to get drunk, and with a face full of utter dejection and dead drunk he drove home to his wife.
His wife was pregnant and nearing her time, and she was feeling ill. She began swearing at her husband, he shoved her away, and she started hitting him. He did not retaliate, but lay belly down on the plank bed and wept loudly.
Only the next morning did his wife discover what had happened, and believing what her husband said, spent a long time cursing that brigand of a gentleman who had deceived her Ivan. And Ivan, who had now sobered up, remembered the advice of the factory-hand he had been drinking with the previous evening, and decided to go and find an ablocate and lodge a complaint.
VIII
The advocate took on the case, not so much for any money he might make from it, but rather because he believed Ivan Mironov and was indignant at the way this muzhik had been so shamelessly defrauded.
Both parties were present at the hearing, and Vasily the yardman was the sole witness. At the hearing it all came out as it had done before. Ivan Mironov referred to God and to the fact that we shall all die. Yevgeny Mikhailovich, although uncomfortably aware of the unpleasantness and the danger of what he was doing, could not now alter his testimony, and he continued with an outwardly calm appearance to deny everything.
Vasily the yardman received a further ten roubles and went on asserting with a calm smile that he had never before so much as set eyes on Ivan Mironov. And when he was called to take the oath, although he quailed inwardly, he maintained a calm exterior as he repeated the words of the oath after the old priest specially brought in for this function, swearing on the cross and the Holy Gospel that he would tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
The proceedings ended with the judge dismissing the case brought by Ivan Mironov and decreeing that he was liable for court costs of five roubles, which Yevgeny Mikhailovich magnanimously paid on his behalf. Discharging Ivan Mironov, the judge admonished him to be more careful in future about making accusations against respectable people and said that he should be duly
grateful that the court costs had been met for him and that he was not being prosecuted for slander, which could have led to his spending three months or more in prison.
‘We humbly thank you, sir,’ said Ivan Mironov, and shaking his head and sighing he left the courtroom.
It seemed as if the whole affair had ended well for Yevgeny Mikhailovich and for Vasily the yardman. But that was only how it looked. Something had actually happened which no one could see, something far more serious than anything merely human eyes could perceive.
It was more than two years now since Vasily had left his village and come to live in the town. With each year that passed he sent his father less and less of his earnings, and he did not get round to sending for his wife to come and join him, since he felt no need of her. Here in the town he had as many women as he could wish for, and not the sort of women who were anything like his old hag of a wife. With each year that passed Vasily forgot more and more the rules and standards of country life and became increasingly at home with the ways of the town. Back there in the country everything had been crude, dreary, impoverished and messy, but here everything was civilized, well-kept, clean and luxurious, as it ought to be. And he became more and more convinced that the country people lacked any understanding of life, like the beasts of the forest, whereas here – these people were real human beings. He read books by good authors, novels, and he went to theatrical performances at the People’s House.5 In his home village you would never see anything like that, not even in your dreams. In his village the old men would say: ‘Live with your wife according to the law, work hard, don’t eat too much and don’t get above yourself’; but here people were clever, educated – and that meant they understood the real laws of life – and lived for their own pleasure. And it was all wonderful. Before the court case with the coupon Vasily had still not believed that the upper classes had no law governing the way they lived. He had always thought they must have some such law, although he did not know what it was. But this court hearing over the coupon, and most of all, his own perjury, which despite his fears had brought him no unpleasant repercussions but had actually earned him an extra ten roubles, convinced him that there were no laws at all, and that a man should simply live for his own pleasure. And so he did, and so he went on doing. To begin with he merely took a little extra profit on the purchases he made for the tenants, but this was not enough to meet all his expenses, so he began, whenever he could, to pilfer money and valuables from the tenants’ apartments, and he even stole Yevgeny Mikhailovich’s wallet. Yevgeny Mikhailovich, certain of Vasily’s guilt, did not start proceedings against him, but gave him the sack.
Vasily had no desire to return home, but went on living in Moscow with his mistress while he looked for work. He found a low-paid job as a yardman to a small shopkeeper. Vasily started in the job, but the next month he was caught stealing sacks. His employer did not lodge an official complaint, but beat Vasily and threw him out. After this incident he was unable to find another job, his money was running out and he was getting short of clothes, so that in the end he was left with a single tattered coat, a pair of trousers and some down-at-heel shoes. His mistress abandoned him. But Vasily did not lose his bright and cheery disposition, and he waited until it was spring again, and then set off on foot for his home village.
IX
Pyotr Nikolayevich Sventitsky, a short stocky man who wore dark glasses (he had trouble with his eyes and was in danger of losing his sight altogether), got up as usual before daybreak, and after drinking a glass of tea, put on his knee-length sheepskin coat trimmed with lambskin and set off to make the rounds of his property.
Pyotr Nikolayevich had been a customs officer and in that profession he had saved up the sum of eighteen thousand roubles. He had retired some twelve years earlier, not quite of his own volition, and had bought the small estate of a young landowner who had squandered his fortune. Pyotr Nikolayevich had married when he was still in government service. His wife, the poor orphaned daughter of an old aristocratic family, was a sturdy, plump and attractive woman who had borne him no children. Pyotr Nikolayevich was a man thorough and persistent in all his dealings. Although he knew nothing about farming (he was the son of a minor Polish nobleman) he went into it so efficiently that in ten years his ramshackle estate of three hundred desyatins6 had become a model of its kind. All the structures he put up, from the house itself to the barn and the shelter for the firehose, were solid and reliable, covered with sheet-iron and regularly repainted. In the equipment shed there was an orderly array of carts, wooden and metal ploughs, and harrows. All the harnesses were kept well greased. The horses were of a modest size and almost always from his own stud, with light-brown coats and black mane and tail, sturdy and well-fed animals, matched in pairs. The threshing-machine operated in its own covered barn, the feed was stored in a special shed, and the manure slurry flowed away into a properly paved pit. The cows too were bred on the estate, not particularly large, but good milkers. The pigs were of an English breed. There was a poultry-yard with hens of particularly good egg-laying strains. The fruit trees in the orchard were kept coated with grease and systematically replaced with new plants. Everything that could be seen was businesslike, clean, reliable and meticulous. Pyotr Nikolayevich took great delight in his estate and was proud of the fact that he had achieved all this not by treating his peasants oppressively, but on the contrary, by observing the strictest fairness in his dealings with them. Even in the society of the local nobility he maintained a moderate position that was more liberal than conservative, and invariably defended the common people to the advocates of serfdom. Treat them well, and they’ll treat you well in return. True, he did not tolerate blunders and mistakes on the part of the men who worked for him and he would occasionally be seen in person urging them to greater efforts; he demanded hard work, but on the other hand the lodging and the victuals provided were of the very best, the wages were always paid on time, and on festival days he treated his men to vodka.
Stepping carefully over the melting snow – this was in February – Pyotr Nikolayevich made his way past the farmhands’ stable towards the large hut in which the farm-hands lived. It was still dark, all the darker because of the fog, but in the windows of the living-hut some light could be seen. The farm-hands were just getting up. He was intending to hurry them along: according to the work schedule six of them were to take a cart over to the copse and collect the last loads of firewood.
‘What’s this then?’ he wondered, seeing the door of the stable wide open.
‘Hey, who’s in there?’
No one answered. Pyotr Nikolayevich went into the stable.
‘Who’s in there, I say?’
There was still no answer. It was dark in the stable, the ground beneath his feet was soft and there was a smell of manure. To the right of the doorway was a stall which should have been occupied by a pair of young chestnut horses. Pyotr Nikolayevich stretched out his hand – but the stall was empty. He felt in front of him with his foot. Perhaps the horses might be lying down. His foot encountered nothing but empty space. ‘Where can they have taken them?’ he thought. Could they have been taken out to be harnessed up? No, the sleigh was still there outside. He went outside again and called loudly: ‘Hey, Stepan.’
Stepan was the head farm-hand. He was just emerging from the living-hut.
‘Hello there!’ Stepan called back cheerfully. ‘Is that you, Pyotr Nikolaich? The lads are on their way.’
‘Why have you left the stable door open?’
‘The stable? I’ve no idea. Hey, Proshka, bring us a lantern here.’ Proshka came running up with a lantern. They all went into the stable. Stepan realized at once what had occurred.
‘We’ve had thieves here, Pyotr Nikolaich. The lock’s been broken.’
‘That can’t be, surely.’
‘They’ve taken them, the scoundrels. Mashka’s gone, so is Hawk. No, he’s over here. But Dapple isn’t here. And neither is Beauty.’
Three ho
rses were missing. Pyotr Nikolayevich did not say anything. He was frowning and breathing heavily.
‘Ah, if I could get my hands on them … Who was on watch?’
‘Pyetka. Pyetka fell asleep.’
Pyotr Nikolayevich reported the theft to the police, to the district police superintendent and to the head of the zemstvo,7 and he sent out his own men to look for the horses. But they were not found.
‘Filthy peasants!’ said Pyotr Nikolayevich, ‘Doing this to me. Haven’t I been good to them? Just you wait. Bandits they are, the lot of them. From now on you’re going to get different treatment from me.’
X
But the horses – three chestnuts – had already been taken to outlying places. Mashka they sold to some gypsies for eighteen roubles; the second horse, Dapple, was exchanged for a peasant’s horse in a village forty versts away; and Beauty they simply rode until he dropped, then slaughtered him. They sold his hide for three roubles. The leader of this enterprise was Ivan Mironov. He had worked for Pyotr Nikolayevich in the past, knew his way round the estate, and had decided to get some of his money back. And had consequently thought up the whole plan.
After his misfortune with the forged coupon Ivan Mironov embarked on a long drinking bout and would have drunk away everything he possessed if his wife had not hidden from him the horse collars, his clothes, and anything else he might have sold to buy vodka. All the time he was on his binge Ivan Mironov was thinking incessantly not just about the individual who had wronged him, but about all the masters, some of them worse than others, who only lived by what they could filch from the likes of him. On one occasion Ivan Mironov was drinking with some peasants who came from a place near Podolsk. And as they travelled along the road the muzhiks told him about how they had driven off some horses belonging to another muzhik. Ivan Mironov began ticking off those horse-thieves for committing such an offence against another muzhik. ‘It’s a sin,’ he said. ‘To a muzhik his horse is just like a brother, yet you go and deprive him of it. If you want to steal horses, then steal them from the masters. That’s all those sons of bitches deserve anyway.’ The further they went the more they talked, and the muzhiks from Podolsk said that if you wanted to steal horses from the gentry you had to be clever about it. You needed to know all about the lie of the land, and if you hadn’t got someone on the inside, it couldn’t be done. Then Ivan Mironov remembered about Sventitsky, on whose estate he had once lived and worked, and he remembered how Sventitsky had held back a rouble and a half from his wages to pay for a broken kingpin, and he remembered too the chestnut horses he had worked with on the farm.
