The Forged Coupon, and Other Stories-4

Previous to the incident of the forged coupon, Vassily could not actually

believe that rich people lived without any moral law. But after that,

still more after having perjured himself, and not being the worse for it

in spite of his fears—on the contrary, he had gained ten roubles out

of it—Vassily became firmly convinced that no moral laws whatever

exist, and that the only thing to do is to pursue one’s own interests and

pleasures. This he now made his rule in life. He accordingly got as much

profit as he could out of purchasing goods for lodgers. But this did not

pay all his expenses. Then he took to stealing, whenever chance offered—money

and all sorts of valuables. One day he stole a purse full of money from

Eugene Mihailovich, but was found out. Eugene Mihailovich did not hand him

over to the police, but dismissed him on the spot.

Vassily had no wish whatever to return home to his village, and remained

in Moscow with his sweetheart, looking out for a new job. He got one as

yard-porter at a grocer’s, but with only small wages. The next day after

he had entered that service he was caught stealing bags. The grocer did

not call in the police, but gave him a good thrashing and turned him out.

After that he could not find work. The money he had left was soon gone; he

had to sell all his clothes and went about nearly in rags. His sweetheart

left him. But notwithstanding, he kept up his high spirits, and when the

spring came he started to walk home.

IX

PETER NIKOLAEVICH SVENTIZKY, a short man in black spectacles (he had weak

eyes, and was threatened with complete blindness), got up, as was his

custom, at dawn of day, had a cup of tea, and putting on his short fur

coat trimmed with astrachan, went to look after the work on his estate.

Peter Nikolaevich had been an official in the Customs, and had gained

eighteen thousand roubles during his service. About twelve years ago he

quitted the service—not quite of his own accord: as a matter of fact

he had been compelled to leave—and bought an estate from a young

landowner who had dissipated his fortune. Peter Nikolaevich had married at

an earlier period, while still an official in the Customs. His wife, who

belonged to an old noble family, was an orphan, and was left without

money. She was a tall, stoutish, good-looking woman. They had no children.

Peter Nikolaevich had considerable practical talents and a strong will. He

was the son of a Polish gentleman, and knew nothing about agriculture and

land management; but when he acquired an estate of his own, he managed it

so well that after fifteen years the waste piece of land, consisting of

three hundred acres, became a model estate. All the buildings, from the

dwelling-house to the corn stores and the shed for the fire engine were

solidly built, had iron roofs, and were painted at the right time. In the

tool house carts, ploughs, harrows, stood in perfect order, the harness

was well cleaned and oiled. The horses were not very big, but all

home-bred, grey, well fed, strong and devoid of blemish.

The threshing machine worked in a roofed barn, the forage was kept in a

separate shed, and a paved drain was made from the stables. The cows were

home-bred, not very large, but giving plenty of milk; fowls were also kept

in the poultry yard, and the hens were of a special kind, laying a great

quantity of eggs. In the orchard the fruit trees were well whitewashed and

propped on poles to enable them to grow straight. Everything was looked

after—solid, clean, and in perfect order. Peter Nikolaevich rejoiced

in the perfect condition of his estate, and was proud to have achieved it—not

by oppressing the peasants, but, on the contrary, by the extreme fairness

of his dealings with them.

Among the nobles of his province he belonged to the advanced party, and

was more inclined to liberal than conservative views, always taking the

side of the peasants against those who were still in favour of serfdom.

“Treat them well, and they will be fair to you,” he used to say. Of

course, he did not overlook any carelessness on the part of those who

worked on his estate, and he urged them on to work if they were lazy; but

then he gave them good lodging, with plenty of good food, paid their wages

without any delay, and gave them drinks on days of festival.

Walking cautiously on the melting snow—for the time of the year was

February—Peter Nikolaevich passed the stables, and made his way to

the cottage where his workmen were lodged. It was still dark, the darker

because of the dense fog; but the windows of the cottage were lighted. The

men had already got up. His intention was to urge them to begin work. He

had arranged that they should drive out to the forest and bring back the

last supply of firewood he needed before spring.

“What is that?” he thought, seeing the door of the stable wide open.

“Hallo, who is there?”

No answer. Peter Nikolaevich stepped into the stable. It was dark; the

ground was soft under his feet, and the air smelt of dung; on the right

side of the door were two loose boxes for a pair of grey horses. Peter

Nikolaevich stretched out his hand in their direction—one box was

empty. He put out his foot—the horse might have been lying down. But

his foot did not touch anything solid. “Where could they have taken the

horse?” he thought. They certainly had not harnessed it; all the sledges

stood still outside. Peter Nikolaevich went out of the stable.

“Stepan, come here!” he called.

Stepan was the head of the workmen’s gang. He was just stepping out of the

cottage.

“Here I am!” he said, in a cheerful voice. “Oh, is that you, Peter

Nikolaevich? Our men are coming.”

“Why is the stable door open?

“Is it? I don’t know anything about it. I say, Proshka, bring the

lantern!”

Proshka came with the lantern. They all went to the stable, and Stepan

knew at once what had happened.

“Thieves have been here, Peter Nikolaevich,” he said. “The lock is

broken.”

“No; you don’t say so!”

“Yes, the brigands! I don’t see ‘Mashka.’ ‘Hawk’ is here. But ‘Beauty’ is

not. Nor yet ‘Dapple-grey.’”

Three horses had been stolen!

Peter Nikolaevich did not utter a word at first. He only frowned and took

deep breaths.

“Oh,” he said after a while. “If only I could lay hands on them! Who was

on guard?”

“Peter. He evidently fell asleep.”

Peter Nikolaevich called in the police, and making an appeal to all the

authorities, sent his men to track the thieves. But the horses were not to

be found.

“Wicked people,” said Peter Nikolaevich. “How could they! I was always so

kind to them. Now, wait! Brigands! Brigands the whole lot of them. I will

no longer be kind.”

X

IN the meanwhile the horses, the grey ones, had all been disposed of;

Mashka was sold to the gipsies for eighteen roubles; Dapple-grey was

exchanged for another horse, and passed over to another peasant who lived

forty miles away from the estate; and Beauty died on the way. The man who

conducted the whole affair was—Ivan Mironov. He had been employed on

the estate, and knew all the whereabouts of Peter Nikolaevich. He wanted

to get back the money he had lost, and stole the horses for that reason.

After his misfortune with the forged coupon, Ivan Mironov took to drink;

and all he possessed would have gone on drink if it had not been for his

wife, who locked up his clothes, the horses’ collars, and all the rest of

what he would otherwise have squandered in public-houses. In his drunken

state Ivan Mironov was continually thinking, not only of the man who had

wronged him, but of all the rich people who live on robbing the poor. One

day he had a drink with some peasants from the suburbs of Podolsk, and was

walking home together with them. On the way the peasants, who were

completely drunk, told him they had stolen a horse from a peasant’s

cottage. Ivan Mironov got angry, and began to abuse the horse-thieves.

“What a shame!” he said. “A horse is like a brother to the peasant. And

you robbed him of it? It is a great sin, I tell you. If you go in for

stealing horses, steal them from the landowners. They are worse than dogs,

and deserve anything.”

The talk went on, and the peasants from Podolsk told him that it required

a great deal of cunning to steal a horse on an estate.

“You must know all the ins and outs of the place, and must have somebody

on the spot to help you.”

Then it occurred to Ivan Mironov that he knew a landowner—Sventizky;

he had worked on his estate, and Sventizky, when paying him off, had

deducted one rouble and a half for a broken tool. He remembered well the

grey horses which he used to drive at Sventizky’s.

Ivan Mironov called on Peter Nikolaevich pretending to ask for employment,

but really in order to get the information he wanted. He took precautions

to make sure that the watchman was absent, and that the horses were

standing in their boxes in the stable. He brought the thieves to the

place, and helped them to carry off the three horses.

They divided their gains, and Ivan Mironov returned to his wife with five

roubles in his pocket. He had nothing to do at home, having no horse to

work in the field, and therefore continued to steal horses in company with

professional horse-thieves and gipsies.

XI

PETER NIKOLAEVICH SVENTIZKY did his best to discover who had stolen his

horses. He knew somebody on the estate must have helped the thieves, and

began to suspect all his staff. He inquired who had slept out that night,

and the gang of the working men told him Proshka had not been in the whole

night. Proshka, or Prokofy Nikolaevich, was a young fellow who had just

finished his military service, handsome, and skilful in all he did; Peter

Nikolaevich employed him at times as coachman. The district constable was

a friend of Peter Nikolaevich, as were the provincial head of the police,

the marshal of the nobility, and also the rural councillor and the

examining magistrate. They all came to his house on his saint’s day,

drinking the cherry brandy he offered them with pleasure, and eating the

nice preserved mushrooms of all kinds to accompany the liqueurs. They all

sympathised with him in his trouble and tried to help him.

“You always used to take the side of the peasants,” said the district

constable, “and there you are! I was right in saying they are worse than

wild beasts. Flogging is the only way to keep them in order. Well, you say

it is all Proshka’s doings. Is it not he who was your coachman sometimes?”

“Yes, that is he.”

“Will you kindly call him?”

Proshka was summoned before the constable, who began to examine him.

“Where were you that night?”

Proshka pushed back his hair, and his eyes sparkled.

“At home.”

“How so? All the men say you were not in.”

“Just as you please, your honour.”

“My pleasure has nothing to do with the matter. Tell me where you were

that night.”

“At home.”

“Very well. Policeman, bring him to the police-station.”

The reason why Proshka did not say where he had been that night was that

he had spent it with his sweetheart, Parasha, and had promised not to give

her away. He kept his word. No proofs were discovered against him, and he

was soon discharged. But Peter Nikolaevich was convinced that Prokofy had

been at the bottom of the whole affair, and began to hate him. One day

Proshka bought as usual at the merchant’s two measures of oats. One and a

half he gave to the horses, and half a measure he gave back to the

merchant; the money for it he spent in drink. Peter Nikolaevich found it

out, and charged Prokofy with cheating. The judge sentenced the man to

three months’ imprisonment.

Prokofy had a rather proud nature, and thought himself superior to others.

Prison was a great humiliation for him. He came out of it very depressed;

there was nothing more to be proud of in life. And more than that, he felt

extremely bitter, not only against Peter Nikolaevich, but against the

whole world.

On the whole, as all the people around him noticed, Prokofy became another

man after his imprisonment, both careless and lazy; he took to drink, and

he was soon caught stealing clothes at some woman’s house, and found

himself again in prison.

All that Peter Nikolaevich discovered about his grey horses was the hide

of one of them, Beauty, which had been found somewhere on the estate. The

fact that the thieves had got off scot-free irritated Peter Nikolaevich

still more. He was unable now to speak of the peasants or to look at them

without anger. And whenever he could he tried to oppress them.

XII

AFTER having got rid of the coupon, Eugene Mihailovich forgot all about

it; but his wife, Maria Vassilievna, could not forgive herself for having

been taken in, nor yet her husband for his cruel words. And most of all

she was furious against the two boys who had so skilfully cheated her.

From the day she had accepted the forged coupon as payment, she looked

closely at all the schoolboys who came in her way in the streets. One day

she met Mahin, but did not recognise him, for on seeing her he made a face

which quite changed his features. But when, a fortnight after the incident

with the coupon, she met Mitia Smokovnikov face to face, she knew him at

once.

She let him pass her, then turned back and followed him, and arriving at

his house she made inquiries as to whose son he was. The next day she went

to the school and met the divinity instructor, the priest Michael

Vedensky, in the hall. He asked her what she wanted. She answered that she

wished to see the head of the school. “He is not quite well,” said the

priest. “Can I be of any use to you, or give him your message?”

Maria Vassilievna thought that she might as well tell the priest what was

the matter. Michael Vedensky was a widower, and a very ambitious man. A

year ago he had met Mitia Smokovnikov’s father in society, and had had a

discussion with him on religion. Smokovnikov had beaten him decisively on

all points; indeed, he had made him appear quite ridiculous. Since that

time the priest had decided to pay special attention to Smokovnikov’s son;

and, finding him as indifferent to religious matters as his father was, he

began to persecute him, and even brought about his failure in

examinations.

When Maria Vassilievna told him what young Smokovnikov had done to her,

Vedensky could not help feeling an inner satisfaction. He saw in the boy’s

conduct a proof of the utter wickedness of those who are not guided by the

rules of the Church. He decided to take advantage of this great

opportunity of warning unbelievers of the perils that threatened them. At

all events, he wanted to persuade himself that this was the only motive

that guided him in the course he had resolved to take. But at the bottom

of his heart he was only anxious to get his revenge on the proud atheist.

“Yes, it is very sad indeed,” said Father Michael, toying with the cross

he was wearing over his priestly robes, and passing his hands over its

polished sides. “I am very glad you have given me your confidence. As a

servant of the Church I shall admonish the young man—of course with

the utmost kindness. I shall certainly do it in the way that befits my

holy office,” said Father Michael to himself, really thinking that he had

forgotten the ill-feeling the boy’s father had towards him. He firmly

believed the boy’s soul to be the only object of his pious care.

The next day, during the divinity lesson which Father Michael was giving

to Mitia Smokovnikov’s class, he narrated the incident of the forged

coupon, adding that the culprit had been one of the pupils of the school.

“It was a very wicked thing to do,” he said; “but to deny the crime is

still worse. If it is true that the sin has been committed by one of you,

let the guilty one confess.” In saying this, Father Michael looked sharply

at Mitia Smokovnikov. All the boys, following his glance, turned also to

Mitia, who blushed, and felt extremely ill at ease, with large beads of

perspiration on his face. Finally, he burst into tears, and ran out of the

classroom. His mother, noticing his trouble, found out the truth, ran at

once to the photographer’s shop, paid over the twelve roubles and fifty

kopeks to Maria Vassilievna, and made her promise to deny the boy’s guilt.

She further implored Mitia to hide the truth from everybody, and in any

case to withhold it from his father.

Accordingly, when Fedor Mihailovich had heard of the incident in the

divinity class, and his son, questioned by him, had denied all

accusations, he called at once on the head of the school, told him what

had happened, expressed his indignation at Father Michael’s conduct, and

said he would not let matters remain as they were.

Father Michael was sent for, and immediately fell into a hot dispute with

Smokovnikov.

“A stupid woman first falsely accused my son, then retracts her

accusation, and you of course could not hit on anything more sensible to

do than to slander an honest and truthful boy!”

“I did not slander him, and I must beg you not to address me in such a

way. You forget what is due to my cloth.”

“Your cloth is of no consequence to me.”

“Your perversity in matters of religion is known to everybody in the

town!” replied Father Michael; and he was so transported with anger that

his long thin head quivered.

“Gentlemen! Father Michael!” exclaimed the director of the school, trying

to appease their wrath. But they did not listen to him.

“It is my duty as a priest to look after the religious and moral education

of our pupils.”

“Oh, cease your pretence to be religious! Oh, stop all this humbug of

religion! As if I did not know that you believe neither in God nor Devil.”

“I consider it beneath my dignity to talk to a man like you,” said Father

Michael, very much hurt by Smokovnikov’s last words, the more so because

he knew they were true.

Michael Vedensky carried on his studies in the academy for priests, and

that is why, for a long time past, he ceased to believe in what he

confessed to be his creed and in what he preached from the pulpit; he only

knew that men ought to force themselves to believe in what he tried to

make himself believe.

Smokovnikov was not shocked by Father Michael’s conduct; he only thought

it illustrative of the influence the Church was beginning to exercise on

society, and he told all his friends how his son had been insulted by the

priest.

Seeing not only young minds, but also the elder generation, contaminated

by atheistic tendencies, Father Michael became more and more convinced of

the necessity of fighting those tendencies. The more he condemned the

unbelief of Smokovnikov, and those like him, the more confident he grew in

the firmness of his own faith, and the less he felt the need of making

sure of it, or of bringing his life into harmony with it. His faith,

acknowledged as such by all the world around him, became Father Michael’s

very best weapon with which to fight those who denied it.

The thoughts aroused in him by his conflict with Smokovnikov, together

with the annoyance of being blamed by his chiefs in the school, made him

carry out the purpose he had entertained ever since his wife’s death—of

taking monastic orders, and of following the course carried out by some of

his fellow-pupils in the academy. One of them was already a bishop,

another an archimandrite and on the way to become a bishop.

At the end of the term Michael Vedensky gave up his post in the school,

took orders under the name of Missael, and very soon got a post as rector

in a seminary in a town on the river Volga.

XIII

MEANWHILE the yard-porter Vassily was marching on the open road down to

the south.

He walked in daytime, and when night came some policeman would get him

shelter in a peasant’s cottage. He was given bread everywhere, and

sometimes he was asked to sit down to the evening meal. In a village in

the Orel district, where he had stayed for the night, he heard that a

merchant who had hired the landowner’s orchard for the season, was looking

out for strong and able men to serve as watchmen for the fruit-crops.

Vassily was tired of tramping, and as he had also no desire whatever to go

back to his native village, he went to the man who owned the orchard, and

got engaged as watchman for five roubles a month.

Vassily found it very agreeable to live in his orchard shed, and all the

more so when the apples and pears began to grow ripe, and when the men

from the barn supplied him every day with large bundles of fresh straw

from the threshing machine. He used to lie the whole day long on the

fragrant straw, with fresh, delicately smelling apples in heaps at his

side, looking out in every direction to prevent the village boys from

stealing fruit; and he used to whistle and sing meanwhile, to amuse

himself. He knew no end of songs, and had a fine voice. When peasant women

and young girls came to ask for apples, and to have a chat with him,

Vassily gave them larger or smaller apples according as he liked their

looks, and received eggs or money in return. The rest of the time he had

nothing to do, but to lie on his back and get up for his meals in the

kitchen. He had only one shirt left, one of pink cotton, and that was in

holes. But he was strongly built and enjoyed excellent health. When the

kettle with black gruel was taken from the stove and served to the working

men, Vassily used to eat enough for three, and filled the old watchman on

the estate with unceasing wonder. At nights Vassily never slept. He

whistled or shouted from time to time to keep off thieves, and his

piercing, cat-like eyes saw clearly in the darkness.

One night a company of young lads from the village made their way

stealthily to the orchard to shake down apples from the trees. Vassily,

coming noiselessly from behind, attacked them; they tried to escape, but

he took one of them prisoner to his master.

Vassily’s first shed stood at the farthest end of the orchard, but after

the pears had been picked he had to remove to another shed only forty

paces away from the house of his master. He liked this new place very

much. The whole day long he could see the young ladies and gentlemen

enjoying themselves; going out for drives in the evenings and quite late

at nights, playing the piano or the violin, and singing and dancing. He

saw the ladies sitting with the young students on the window sills,

engaged in animated conversation, and then going in pairs to walk the dark

avenue of lime trees, lit up only by streaks of moonlight. He saw the

servants running about with food and drink, he saw the cooks, the

stewards, the laundresses, the gardeners, the coachmen, hard at work to

supply their masters with food and drink and constant amusement. Sometimes

the young people from the master’s house came to the shed, and Vassily

offered them the choicest apples, juicy and red. The young ladies used to

take large bites out of the apples on the spot, praising their taste, and

spoke French to one another—Vassily quite understood it was all

about him—and asked Vassily to sing for them.

Vassily felt the greatest admiration for his master’s mode of living,

which reminded him of what he had seen in Moscow; and he became more and

more convinced that the only thing that mattered in life was money. He

thought and thought how to get hold of a large sum of money. He remembered

his former ways of making small profits whenever he could, and came to the

conclusion that that was altogether wrong. Occasional stealing is of no

use, he thought. He must arrange a well-prepared plan, and after getting

all the information he wanted, carry out his purpose so as to avoid

detection.

After the feast of Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the last crop of

autumn apples was gathered; the master was content with the results, paid

off Vassily, and gave him an extra sum as reward for his faithful service.

Vassily put on his new jacket, and a new hat—both were presents from

his master’s son—but did not make his way homewards. He hated the

very thought of the vulgar peasants’ life. He went back to Moscow in

company of some drunken soldiers, who had been watchmen in the orchard

together with him. On his arrival there he at once resolved, under cover

of night, to break into the shop where he had been employed, and beaten,

and then turned out by the proprietor without being paid. He knew the

place well, and knew where the money was locked up. So he bade the

soldiers, who helped him, keep watch outside, and forcing the courtyard

door entered the shop and took all the money he could lay his hands on.

All this was done very cleverly, and no trace was left of the burglary.

The money Vassily had found in the shop amounted to 370 roubles. He gave a

hundred roubles to his assistants, and with the rest left for another town

where he gave way to dissipation in company of friends of both sexes. The

police traced his movements, and when at last he was arrested and put into

prison he had hardly anything left out of the money which he had stolen.

XIV

IVAN MIRONOV had become a very clever, fearless and successful

horse-thief. Afimia, his wife, who at first used to abuse him for his evil

ways, as she called it, was now quite content and felt proud of her

husband, who possessed a new sheepskin coat, while she also had a warm

jacket and a new fur cloak.

In the village and throughout the whole district every one knew quite well

that Ivan Mironov was at the bottom of all the horse-stealing; but nobody

would give him away, being afraid of the consequences. Whenever suspicion

fell on him, he managed to clear his character. Once during the night he

stole horses from the pasture ground in the village Kolotovka. He

generally preferred to steal horses from landowners or tradespeople. But

this was a harder job, and when he had no chance of success he did not

mind robbing peasants too. In Kolotovka he drove off the horses without

making sure whose they were. He did not go himself to the spot, but sent a

young and clever fellow, Gerassim, to do the stealing for him. The

peasants only got to know of the theft at dawn; they rushed in all

directions to hunt for the robbers. The horses, meanwhile, were hidden in

a ravine in the forest lands belonging to the state.

Ivan Mironov intended to leave them there till the following night, and

then to transport them with the utmost haste a hundred miles away to a man

he knew. He visited Gerassim in the forest, to see how he was getting on,

brought him a pie and some vodka, and was returning home by a side track

in the forest where he hoped to meet nobody. But by ill-luck, he chanced

on the keeper of the forest, a retired soldier.

“I say! Have you been looking for mushrooms?” asked the soldier.

“There were none to be found,” answered Ivan Mironov, showing the basket

of lime bark he had taken with him in case he might want it.

“Yes, mushrooms are scarce this summer,” said the soldier. He stood still

for a moment, pondered, and then went his way. He clearly saw that

something was wrong. Ivan Mironov had no business whatever to take early

morning walks in that forest. The soldier went back after a while and

looked round. Suddenly he heard the snorting of horses in the ravine. He

made his way cautiously to the place whence the sounds came. The grass in

the ravine was trodden down, and the marks of horses’ hoofs were clearly

to be seen. A little further he saw Gerassim, who was sitting and eating

his meal, and the horses tied to a tree.

The soldier ran to the village and brought back the bailiff, a police

officer, and two witnesses. They surrounded on three sides the spot where

Gerassim was sitting and seized the man. He did not deny anything; but,

being drunk, told them at once how Ivan Mironov had given him plenty of

drink, and induced him to steal the horses; he also said that Ivan Mironov

had promised to come that night in order to take the horses away. The

peasants left the horses and Gerassim in the ravine, and hiding behind the

trees prepared to lie in ambush for Ivan Mironov. When it grew dark, they

heard a whistle. Gerassim answered it with a similar sound. The moment

Ivan Mironov descended the slope, the peasants surrounded him and brought

him back to the village. The next morning a crowd assembled in front of

the bailiff’s cottage. Ivan Mironov was brought out and subjected to a

close examination. Stepan Pelageushkine, a tall, stooping man with long

arms, an aquiline nose, and a gloomy face was the first to put questions

to him. Stepan had terminated his military service, and was of a solitary

turn of mind. When he had separated from his father, and started his own

home, he had his first experience of losing a horse. After that he worked

for two years in the mines, and made money enough to buy two horses. These

two had been stolen by Ivan Mironov.