The Forged Coupon, and Other Stories-7

The execution was to take place in the village itself. One Sunday Malania

came home from church in her new dress and her new boots, and announced to

her mistress that the gallows were being erected, and that the hangman was

expected from Moscow on Wednesday. She also announced that the families of

the convicts were raging, and that their cries could be heard all over the

village.

Natalia Ivanovna did not go out of her house; she did not wish to see the

gallows and the people in the village; she only wanted what had to happen

to be over quickly. She only considered her own feelings, and did not care

for the convicts and their families.

On Tuesday the village constable called on Natalia Ivanovna. He was a

friend, and she offered him vodka and preserved mushrooms of her own

making. The constable, after eating a little, told her that the execution

was not to take place the next day.

“Why?”

“A very strange thing has happened. There is no hangman to be found. They

had one in Moscow, my son told me, but he has been reading the Gospels a

good deal and says: ‘I will not commit a murder.’ He had himself been

sentenced to hard labour for having committed a murder, and now he objects

to hang when the law orders him. He was threatened with flogging. ‘You may

flog me,’ he said, ‘but I won’t do it.’”

Natalia Ivanovna grew red and hot at the thought which suddenly came into

her head.

“Could not the death sentence be commuted now?”

“How so, since the judges have passed it? The Czar alone has the right of

amnesty.”

“But how would he know?”

“They have the right of appealing to him.”

“But it is on my account they are to die,” said that stupid woman, Natalia

Ivanovna. “And I forgive them.”

The constable laughed. “Well—send a petition to the Czar.”

“May I do it?”

“Of course you may.”

“But is it not too late?”

“Send it by telegram.”

“To the Czar himself?”

“To the Czar, if you like.”

The story of the hangman having refused to do his duty, and preferring to

take the flogging instead, suddenly changed the soul of Natalia Ivanovna.

The pity and the horror she felt the moment she heard that the peasants

were sentenced to death, could not be stifled now, but filled her whole

soul.

“Filip Vassilievich, my friend. Write that telegram for me. I want to

appeal to the Czar to pardon them.”

The constable shook his head. “I wonder whether that would not involve us

in trouble?”

“I do it upon my own responsibility. I will not mention your name.”

“Is not she a kind woman,” thought the constable. “Very kind-hearted, to

be sure. If my wife had such a heart, our life would be a paradise,

instead of what it is now.” And he wrote the telegram,—“To his

Imperial Majesty, the Emperor. Your Majesty’s loyal subject, the widow of

Peter Nikolaevich Sventizky, murdered by the peasants, throws herself at

the sacred feet (this sentence, when he wrote it down, pleased the

constable himself most of all) of your Imperial Majesty, and implores you

to grant an amnesty to the peasants so and so, from such a province,

district, and village, who have been sentenced to death.”

The telegram was sent by the constable himself, and Natalia Ivanovna felt

relieved and happy. She had a feeling that since she, the widow of the

murdered man, had forgiven the murderers, and was applying for an amnesty,

the Czar could not possibly refuse it.

XI

LISA EROPKIN lived in a state of continual excitement. The longer she

lived a true Christian life as it had been revealed to her, the more

convinced she became that it was the right way, and her heart was full of

joy.

She had two immediate aims before her. The one was to convert Mahin; or,

as she put it to herself, to arouse his true nature, which was good and

kind. She loved him, and the light of her love revealed the divine element

in his soul which is at the bottom of all souls. But, further, she saw in

him an exceptionally kind and tender heart, as well as a noble mind. Her

other aim was to abandon her riches. She had first thought of giving away

what she possessed in order to test Mahin; but afterwards she wanted to do

so for her own sake, for the sake of her own soul. She began by simply

giving money to any one who wanted it. But her father stopped that;

besides which, she felt disgusted at the crowd of supplicants who

personally, and by letters, besieged her with demands for money. Then she

resolved to apply to an old man, known to be a saint by his life, and to

give him her money to dispose of in the way he thought best. Her father

got angry with her when he heard about it. During a violent altercation he

called her mad, a raving lunatic, and said he would take measures to

prevent her from doing injury to herself.

Her father’s irritation proved contagious. Losing all control over

herself, and sobbing with rage, she behaved with the greatest impertinence

to her father, calling him a tyrant and a miser.

Then she asked his forgiveness. He said he did not mind what she said; but

she saw plainly that he was offended, and in his heart did not forgive

her. She did not feel inclined to tell Mahin about her quarrel with her

father; as to her sister, she was very cold to Lisa, being jealous of

Mahin’s love for her.

“I ought to confess to God,” she said to herself. As all this happened in

Lent, she made up her mind to fast in preparation for the communion, and

to reveal all her thoughts to the father confessor, asking his advice as

to what she ought to decide for the future.

At a small distance from her town a monastery was situated, where an old

monk lived who had gained a great reputation by his holy life, by his

sermons and prophecies, as well as by the marvellous cures ascribed to

him.

The monk had received a letter from Lisa’s father announcing the visit of

his daughter, and telling him in what a state of excitement the young girl

was. He also expressed the hope in that letter that the monk would

influence her in the right way, urging her not to depart from the golden

mean, and to live like a good Christian without trying to upset the

present conditions of her life.

The monk received Lisa after he had seen many other people, and being very

tired, began by quietly recommending her to be modest and to submit to her

present conditions of life and to her parents. Lisa listened silently,

blushing and flushed with excitement. When he had finished admonishing

her, she began saying with tears in her eyes, timidly at first, that

Christ bade us leave father and mother to follow Him. Getting more and

more excited, she told him her conception of Christ. The monk smiled

slightly, and replied as he generally did when admonishing his penitents;

but after a while he remained silent, repeating with heavy sighs, “O God!”

Then he said, “Well, come to confession to-morrow,” and blessed her with

his wrinkled hands.

The next day Lisa came to confession, and without renewing their

interrupted conversation, he absolved her and refused to dispose of her

fortune, giving no reasons for doing so.

Lisa’s purity, her devotion to God and her ardent soul, impressed the monk

deeply. He had desired long ago to renounce the world entirely; but the

brotherhood, which drew a large income from his work as a preacher,

insisted on his continuing his activity. He gave way, although he had a

vague feeling that he was in a false position. It was rumoured that he was

a miracle-working saint, whereas in reality he was a weak man, proud of

his success in the world. When the soul of Lisa was revealed to him, he

saw clearly into his own soul. He discovered how different he was to what

he wanted to be, and realised the desire of his heart.

Soon after Lisa’s visit he went to live in a separate cell as a hermit,

and for three weeks did not officiate again in the church of the friary.

After the celebration of the mass, he preached a sermon denouncing his own

sins and those of the world, and urging all to repent.

From that day he preached every fortnight, and his sermons attracted

increasing audiences. His fame as a preacher spread abroad. His sermons

were extraordinarily fearless and sincere, and deeply impressed all who

listened to him.

XII

VASSILY was actually carrying out the object he had in leaving the prison.

With the help of a few friends he broke into the house of the rich

merchant Krasnopuzov, whom he knew to be a miser and a debauchee. Vassily

took out of his writing-desk thirty thousand roubles, and began disposing

of them as he thought right. He even gave up drink, so as not to spend

that money on himself, but to distribute it to the poor; helping poor

girls to get married; paying off people’s debts, and doing this all

without ever revealing himself to those he helped; his only desire was to

distribute his money in the right way. As he also gave bribes to the

police, he was left in peace for a long time.

His heart was singing for joy. When at last he was arrested and put to

trial, he confessed with pride that he had robbed the fat merchant. “The

money,” he said, “was lying idle in that fool’s desk, and he did not even

know how much he had, whereas I have put it into circulation and helped a

lot of good people.”

The counsel for the defence spoke with such good humour and kindness that

the jury felt inclined to discharge Vassily, but sentenced him

nevertheless to confinement in prison. He thanked the jury, and assured

them that he would find his way out of prison before long.

XIII

NATALIA IVANOVNA SVENTIZKY’S telegram proved useless. The committee

appointed to deal with the petitions in the Emperor’s name, decided not

even to make a report to the Czar. But one day when the Sventizky case was

discussed at the Emperor’s luncheon-table, the chairman of the committee,

who was present, mentioned the telegram which had been received from

Sventizky’s widow.

“C’est tres gentil de sa part,” said one of the ladies of the imperial

family.

The Emperor sighed, shrugged his shoulders, adorned with epaulettes. “The

law,” he said; and raised his glass for the groom of the chamber to pour

out some Moselle.

All those present pretended to admire the wisdom of the sovereign’s words.

There was no further question about the telegram. The two peasants, the

old man and the young boy, were hanged by a Tartar hangman from Kazan, a

cruel convict and a murderer.

The old man’s wife wanted to dress the body of her husband in a white

shirt, with white bands which serve as stockings, and new boots, but she

was not allowed to do so. The two men were buried together in the same pit

outside the church-yard wall.

“Princess Sofia Vladimirovna tells me he is a very remarkable preacher,”

remarked the old Empress, the Emperor’s mother, one day to her son:

“Faites le venir. Il peut precher a la cathedrale.”

“No, it would be better in the palace church,” said the Emperor, and

ordered the hermit Isidor to be invited.

All the generals, and other high officials, assembled in the church of the

imperial palace; it was an event to hear the famous preacher.

A thin and grey old man appeared, looked at those present, and said: “In

the name of God, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,” and began to speak.

At first all went well, but the longer he spoke the worse it became. “Il

devient de plus en plus aggressif,” as the Empress put it afterwards. He

fulminated against every one. He spoke about the executions and charged

the government with having made so many necessary. How can the government

of a Christian country kill men?

Everybody looked at everybody else, thinking of the bad taste of the

sermon, and how unpleasant it must be for the Emperor to listen to it; but

nobody expressed these thoughts aloud.

When Isidor had said Amen, the metropolitan approached, and asked him to

call on him.

After Isidor had had a talk with the metropolitan and with the

attorney-general, he was immediately sent away to a friary, not his own,

but one at Suzdal, which had a prison attached to it; the prior of that

friary was now Father Missael.

XIV

EVERY one tried to look as if Isidor’s sermon contained nothing

unpleasant, and nobody mentioned it. It seemed to the Czar that the

hermit’s words had not made any impression on himself; but once or twice

during that day he caught himself thinking of the two peasants who had

been hanged, and the widow of Sventizky who had asked an amnesty for them.

That day the Emperor had to be present at a parade; after which he went

out for a drive; a reception of ministers came next, then dinner, after

dinner the theatre. As usual, the Czar fell asleep the moment his head

touched the pillow. In the night an awful dream awoke him: he saw gallows

in a large field and corpses dangling on them; the tongues of the corpses

were protruding, and their bodies moved and shook. And somebody shouted,

“It is you—you who have done it!” The Czar woke up bathed in

perspiration and began to think. It was the first time that he had ever

thought of the responsibilities which weighed on him, and the words of old

Isidor came back to his mind. . . .

But only dimly could he see himself as a mere human being, and he could

not consider his mere human wants and duties, because of all that was

required of him as Czar. As to acknowledging that human duties were more

obligatory than those of a Czar—he had not strength for that.

XV

HAVING served his second term in the prison, Prokofy, who had formerly

worked on the Sventizky estate, was no longer the brisk, ambitious,

smartly dressed fellow he had been. He seemed, on the contrary, a complete

wreck. When sober he would sit idle and would refuse to do any work,

however much his father scolded him; moreover, he was continually seeking

to get hold of something secretly, and take it to the public-house for a

drink. When he came home he would continue to sit idle, coughing and

spitting all the time. The doctor on whom he called, examined his chest

and shook his head.

“You, my man, ought to have many things which you have not got.”

“That is usually the case, isn’t it?

“Take plenty of milk, and don’t smoke.”

“These are days of fasting, and besides we have no cow.”

Once in spring he could not get any sleep; he was longing to have a drink.

There was nothing in the house he could lay his hand on to take to the

public-house. He put on his cap and went out. He walked along the street

up to the house where the priest and the deacon lived together. The

deacon’s harrow stood outside leaning against the hedge. Prokofy

approached, took the harrow upon his shoulder, and walked to an inn kept

by a woman, Petrovna. She might give him a small bottle of vodka for it.

But he had hardly gone a few steps when the deacon came out of his house.

It was already dawn, and he saw that Prokofy was carrying away his harrow.

“Hey, what’s that?” cried the deacon.

The neighbours rushed out from their houses. Prokofy was seized, brought

to the police station, and then sentenced to eleven months’ imprisonment.

It was autumn, and Prokofy had to be transferred to the prison hospital.

He was coughing badly; his chest was heaving from the exertion; and he

could not get warm. Those who were stronger contrived not to shiver;

Prokofy on the contrary shivered day and night, as the superintendent

would not light the fires in the hospital till November, to save expense.

Prokofy suffered greatly in body, and still more in soul. He was disgusted

with his surroundings, and hated every one—the deacon, the

superintendent who would not light the fires, the guard, and the man who

was lying in the bed next to his, and who had a swollen red lip. He began

also to hate the new convict who was brought into hospital. This convict

was Stepan. He was suffering from some disease on his head, and was

transferred to the hospital and put in a bed at Prokofy’s side. After a

time that hatred to Stepan changed, and Prokofy became, on the contrary,

extremely fond of him; he delighted in talking to him. It was only after a

talk with Stepan that his anguish would cease for a while. Stepan always

told every one he met about his last murder, and how it had impressed him.

“Far from shrieking, or anything of that kind,” he said to Prokofy, “she

did not move. ‘Kill me! There I am,’ she said. ‘But it is not my soul you

destroy, it is your own.’”

“Well, of course, it is very dreadful to kill. I had one day to slaughter

a sheep, and even that made me half mad. I have not destroyed any living

soul; why then do those villains kill me? I have done no harm to anybody .

. .”

“That will be taken into consideration.”

“By whom?”

“By God, to be sure.”

“I have not seen anything yet showing that God exists, and I don’t believe

in Him, brother. I think when a man dies, grass will grow over the spot,

and that is the end of it.”

“You are wrong to think like that. I have murdered so many people, whereas

she, poor soul, was helping everybody. And you think she and I are to have

the same lot? Oh no! Only wait.”

“Then you believe the soul lives on after a man is dead?”

“To be sure; it truly lives.”

Prokofy suffered greatly when death drew near. He could hardly breathe.

But in the very last hour he felt suddenly relieved from all pain. He

called Stepan to him. “Farewell, brother,” he said. “Death has come, I

see. I was so afraid of it before. And now I don’t mind. I only wish it to

come quicker.”

XVI

IN the meanwhile, the affairs of Eugene Mihailovich had grown worse and

worse. Business was very slack. There was a new shop in the town; he was

losing his customers, and the interest had to be paid. He borrowed again

on interest. At last his shop and his goods were to be sold up. Eugene

Mihailovich and his wife applied to every one they knew, but they could

not raise the four hundred roubles they needed to save the shop anywhere.

They had some hope of the merchant Krasnopuzov, Eugene Mihailovich’s wife

being on good terms with his mistress. But news came that Krasnopuzov had

been robbed of a huge sum of money. Some said of half a million roubles.

“And do you know who is said to be the thief?” said Eugene Mihailovich to

his wife. “Vassily, our former yard-porter. They say he is squandering the

money, and the police are bribed by him.”

“I knew he was a villain. You remember how he did not mind perjuring

himself? But I did not expect it would go so far.”

“I hear he has recently been in the courtyard of our house. Cook says she

is sure it was he. She told me he helps poor girls to get married.”

“They always invent tales. I don’t believe it.”

At that moment a strange man, shabbily dressed, entered the shop.

“What is it you want?”

“Here is a letter for you.”

“From whom?”

“You will see yourself.”

“Don’t you require an answer? Wait a moment.”

“I cannot.” The strange man handed the letter and disappeared.

“How extraordinary!” said Eugene Mihailovich, and tore open the envelope.

To his great amazement several hundred rouble notes fell out. “Four

hundred roubles!” he exclaimed, hardly believing his eyes. “What does it

mean?”

The envelope also contained a badly-spelt letter, addressed to Eugene

Mihailovich. “It is said in the Gospels,” ran the letter, “do good for

evil. You have done me much harm; and in the coupon case you made me wrong

the peasants greatly. But I have pity for you. Here are four hundred

notes. Take them, and remember your porter Vassily.”

“Very extraordinary!” said Eugene Mihailovich to his wife and to himself.

And each time he remembered that incident, or spoke about it to his wife,

tears would come to his eyes.

XVII

FOURTEEN priests were kept in the Suzdal friary prison, chiefly for having

been untrue to the orthodox faith. Isidor had been sent to that place

also. Father Missael received him according to the instructions he had

been given, and without talking to him ordered him to be put into a

separate cell as a serious criminal. After a fortnight Father Missael,

making a round of the prison, entered Isidor’s cell, and asked him whether

there was anything he wished for.

“There is a great deal I wish for,” answered Isidor; “but I cannot tell

you what it is in the presence of anybody else. Let me talk to you

privately.”

They looked at each other, and Missael saw he had nothing to be afraid of

in remaining alone with Isidor. He ordered Isidor to be brought into his

own room, and when they were alone, he said,—“Well, now you can

speak.”

Isidor fell on his knees.

“Brother,” said Isidor. “What are you doing to yourself! Have mercy on

your own soul. You are the worst villain in the world. You have offended

against all that is sacred . . .”

A month after Missael sent a report, asking that Isidor should be released

as he had repented, and he also asked for the release of the rest of the

prisoners. After which he resigned his post.

XVIII

TEN years passed. Mitia Smokovnikov had finished his studies in the

Technical College; he was now an engineer in the gold mines in Siberia,

and was very highly paid. One day he was about to make a round in the

district. The governor offered him a convict, Stepan Pelageushkine, to

accompany him on his journey.

“A convict, you say? But is not that dangerous?”

“Not if it is this one. He is a holy man. You may ask anybody, they will

all tell you so.”

“Why has he been sent here?”

The governor smiled. “He had committed six murders, and yet he is a holy

man. I go bail for him.”

Mitia Smokovnikov took Stepan, now a bald-headed, lean, tanned man, with

him on his journey. On their way Stepan took care of Smokovnikov, like his

own child, and told him his story; told him why he had been sent here, and

what now filled his life.

And, strange to say, Mitia Smokovnikov, who up to that time used to spend

his time drinking, eating, and gambling, began for the first time to

meditate on life. These thoughts never left him now, and produced a

complete change in his habits. After a time he was offered a very

advantageous position. He refused it, and made up his mind to buy an

estate with the money he had, to marry, and to devote himself to the

peasantry, helping them as much as he could.

XIX

HE carried out his intentions. But before retiring to his estate he called

on his father, with whom he had been on bad terms, and who had settled

apart with his new family. Mitia Smokovnikov wanted to make it up. The old

man wondered at first, and laughed at the change he noticed in his son;

but after a while he ceased to find fault with him, and thought of the

many times when it was he who was the guilty one.

AFTER THE DANCE

“—AND you say that a man cannot, of himself, understand what is good

and evil; that it is all environment, that the environment swamps the man.

But I believe it is all chance. Take my own case . . .”

Thus spoke our excellent friend, Ivan Vasilievich, after a conversation

between us on the impossibility of improving individual character without

a change of the conditions under which men live. Nobody had actually said

that one could not of oneself understand good and evil; but it was a habit

of Ivan Vasilievich to answer in this way the thoughts aroused in his own

mind by conversation, and to illustrate those thoughts by relating

incidents in his own life. He often quite forgot the reason for his story

in telling it; but he always told it with great sincerity and feeling.

He did so now.

“Take my own case. My whole life was moulded, not by environment, but by

something quite different.”

“By what, then?” we asked.

“Oh, that is a long story. I should have to tell you about a great many

things to make you understand.”

“Well, tell us then.”

Ivan Vasilievich thought a little, and shook his head.

“My whole life,” he said, “was changed in one night, or, rather, morning.”

“Why, what happened?” one of us asked.

“What happened was that I was very much in love. I have been in love many

times, but this was the most serious of all. It is a thing of the past;

she has married daughters now. It was Varinka B——.” Ivan

Vasilievich mentioned her surname. “Even at fifty she is remarkably

handsome; but in her youth, at eighteen, she was exquisite—tall,

slender, graceful, and stately. Yes, stately is the word; she held herself

very erect, by instinct as it were; and carried her head high, and that

together with her beauty and height gave her a queenly air in spite of

being thin, even bony one might say. It might indeed have been deterring

had it not been for her smile, which was always gay and cordial, and for

the charming light in her eyes and for her youthful sweetness.”

“What an entrancing description you give, Ivan Vasilievich!”

“Description, indeed! I could not possibly describe her so that you could

appreciate her. But that does not matter; what I am going to tell you

happened in the forties. I was at that time a student in a provincial

university. I don’t know whether it was a good thing or no, but we had no

political clubs, no theories in our universities then. We were simply

young and spent our time as young men do, studying and amusing ourselves.

I was a very gay, lively, careless fellow, and had plenty of money too. I

had a fine horse, and used to go tobogganing with the young ladies.

Skating had not yet come into fashion. I went to drinking parties with my

comrades—in those days we drank nothing but champagne—if we

had no champagne we drank nothing at all. We never drank vodka, as they do

now. Evening parties and balls were my favourite amusements. I danced

well, and was not an ugly fellow.”

“Come, there is no need to be modest,” interrupted a lady near him. “We

have seen your photograph. Not ugly, indeed! You were a handsome fellow.”

“Handsome, if you like. That does not matter. When my love for her was at

its strongest, on the last day of the carnival, I was at a ball at the

provincial marshal’s, a good-natured old man, rich and hospitable, and a

court chamberlain. The guests were welcomed by his wife, who was as

good-natured as himself. She was dressed in puce-coloured velvet, and had

a diamond diadem on her forehead, and her plump, old white shoulders and

bosom were bare like the portraits of Empress Elizabeth, the daughter of

Peter the Great.

“It was a delightful ball. It was a splendid room, with a gallery for the

orchestra, which was famous at the time, and consisted of serfs belonging

to a musical landowner. The refreshments were magnificent, and the

champagne flowed in rivers. Though I was fond of champagne I did not drink

that night, because without it I was drunk with love. But I made up for it

by dancing waltzes and polkas till I was ready to drop—of course,

whenever possible, with Varinka. She wore a white dress with a pink sash,

white shoes, and white kid gloves, which did not quite reach to her thin

pointed elbows. A disgusting engineer named Anisimov robbed me of the

mazurka with her—to this day I cannot forgive him. He asked her for

the dance the minute she arrived, while I had driven to the hair-dresser’s

to get a pair of gloves, and was late. So I did not dance the mazurka with

her, but with a German girl to whom I had previously paid a little

attention; but I am afraid I did not behave very politely to her that

evening. I hardly spoke or looked at her, and saw nothing but the tall,

slender figure in a white dress, with a pink sash, a flushed, beaming,

dimpled face, and sweet, kind eyes. I was not alone; they were all looking

at her with admiration, the men and women alike, although she outshone all

of them. They could not help admiring her.

“Although I was not nominally her partner for the mazurka, I did as a

matter of fact dance nearly the whole time with her. She always came

forward boldly the whole length of the room to pick me out. I flew to meet

her without waiting to be chosen, and she thanked me with a smile for my

intuition. When I was brought up to her with somebody else, and she

guessed wrongly, she took the other man’s hand with a shrug of her slim

shoulders, and smiled at me regretfully.