The Forged Coupon and Other Stories (tr. Wright)/The Forged Coupon - Wikisource, the free online library (2024)

FEDOR MIHAILOVICH SMOKOVNIKOV, the president of the local Income TaxDepartment, a man of unswerving honesty--and proud of it, too--agloomy Liberal, a free-thinker, and an enemy to every manifestation ofreligious feeling, which he thought a relic of superstition, came homefrom his office feeling very much annoyed. The Governor of the provincehad sent him an extraordinarily stupid minute, almost assuming that hisdealings had been dishonest.

Fedor Mihailovich felt embittered, and wrote at once a sharp answer. Onhis return home everything seemed to go contrary to his wishes.

It was five minutes to five, and he expected the dinner to be served atonce, but he was told it was not ready. He banged the door and went tohis study. Somebody knocked at the door. "Who the devil is that?" hethought; and shouted,--"Who is there?"

The door opened and a boy of fifteen came in, the son of FedorMihailovich, a pupil of the fifth class of the local school.

"What do you want?"

"It is the first of the month to-day, father."

"Well! You want your money?"

It had been arranged that the father should pay his son a monthlyallowance of three roubles as pocket money. Fedor Mihailovich frowned,took out of his pocket-book a coupon of two roubles fifty kopeks whichhe found among the bank-notes, and added to it fifty kopeks in silverout of the loose change in his purse. The boy kept silent, and did nottake the money his father proffered him.

"Father, please give me some more in advance."

"What?"

"I would not ask for it, but I have borrowed a small sum from a friend,and promised upon my word of honour to pay it off. My honour is dear tome, and that is why I want another three roubles. I don't like askingyou; but, please, father, give me another three roubles."

"I have told you--"

"I know, father, but just for once."

"You have an allowance of three roubles and you ought to be content. Ihad not fifty kopeks when I was your age."

"Now, all my comrades have much more. Petrov and Ivanitsky have fiftyroubles a month."

"And I tell you that if you behave like them you will be a scoundrel.Mind that."

"What is there to mind? You never understand my position. I shall bedisgraced if I don't pay my debt. It is all very well for you to speakas you do."

"Be off, you silly boy! Be off!"

Fedor Mihailovich jumped from his seat and pounced upon his son. "Beoff, I say!" he shouted. "You deserve a good thrashing, all you boys!"

His son was at once frightened and embittered. The bitterness was evengreater than the fright. With his head bent down he hastily turned tothe door. Fedor Mihailovich did not intend to strike him, but he wasglad to vent his wrath, and went on shouting and abusing the boy till hehad closed the door.

When the maid came in to announce that dinner was ready, FedorMihailovich rose.

"At last!" he said. "I don't feel hungry any longer."

He went to the dining-room with a sullen face. At table his wife madesome remark, but he gave her such a short and angry answer that sheabstained from further speech. The son also did not lift his eyes fromhis plate, and was silent all the time. The trio finished their dinnerin silence, rose from the table and separated, without a word.

After dinner the boy went to his room, took the coupon and the changeout of his pocket, and threw the money on the table. After that he tookoff his uniform and put on a jacket.

He sat down to work, and began to study Latin grammar out of adog's-eared book. After a while he rose, closed and bolted the door,shifted the money into a drawer, took out some cigarette papers, rolledone up, stuffed it with cotton wool, and began to smoke.

He spent nearly two hours over his grammar and writing books withoutunderstanding a word of what he saw before him; then he rose and beganto stamp up and down the room, trying to recollect all that his fatherhad said to him. All the abuse showered upon him, and worst of all hisfather's angry face, were as fresh in his memory as if he saw and heardthem all over again. "Silly boy! You ought to get a good thrashing!" Andthe more he thought of it the angrier he grew. He remembered also howhis father said: "I see what a scoundrel you will turn out. I know youwill. You are sure to become a cheat, if you go on like that." He hadcertainly forgotten how he felt when he was young! "What crime have Icommitted, I wonder? I wanted to go to the theatre, and having no moneyborrowed some from Petia Grouchetsky. Was that so very wicked of me?Another father would have been sorry for me; would have asked how it allhappened; whereas he just called me names. He never thinks of anythingbut himself. When it is he who has not got something he wants--that is adifferent matter! Then all the house is upset by his shouts. And I--I ama scoundrel, a cheat, he says. No, I don't love him, although he is myfather. It may be wrong, but I hate him."

There was a knock at the door. The servant brought a letter--a messagefrom his friend. "They want an answer," said the servant.

The letter ran as follows: "I ask you now for the third time to pay meback the six roubles you have borrowed; you are trying to avoid me. Thatis not the way an honest man ought to behave. Will you please send theamount by my messenger? I am myself in a frightful fix. Can you not getthe money somewhere?--Yours, according to whether you send the money ornot, with scorn, or love, Grouchetsky."

"There we have it! Such a pig! Could he not wait a while? I will haveanother try."

Mitia went to his mother. This was his last hope. His mother was verykind, and hardly ever refused him anything. She would probably havehelped him this time also out of his trouble, but she was in greatanxiety: her younger child, Petia, a boy of two, had fallen ill. She gotangry with Mitia for rushing so noisily into the nursery, and refusedhim almost without listening to what he had to say. Mitia mutteredsomething to himself and turned to go. The mother felt sorry for him."Wait, Mitia," she said; "I have not got the money you want now, but Iwill get it for you to-morrow."

But Mitia was still raging against his father.

"What is the use of having it to-morrow, when I want it to-day? I amgoing to see a friend. That is all I have got to say."

He went out, banging the door. . . .

"Nothing else is left to me. He will tell me how to pawn my watch," hethought, touching his watch in his pocket.

Mitia went to his room, took the coupon and the watch from the drawer,put on his coat, and went to Mahin.

MAHIN was his schoolfellow, his senior, a grown-up young man with amoustache. He gambled, had a large feminine acquaintance, and always hadready cash. He lived with his aunt. Mitia quite realised that Mahin wasnot a respectable fellow, but when he was in his company he could nothelp doing what he wished. Mahin was in when Mitia called, and was justpreparing to go to the theatre. His untidy room smelt of scented soapand eau-de-Cologne.

"That's awful, old chap," said Mahin, when Mitia telling him about histroubles, showed the coupon and the fifty kopeks, and added that hewanted nine roubles more. "We might, of course, go and pawn your watch.But we might do something far better." And Mahin winked an eye.

"What's that?"

"Something quite simple." Mahin took the coupon in his hand. "Put ONEbefore the 2.50 and it will be 12.50."

"But do such coupons exist?"

"Why, certainly; the thousand roubles notes have coupons of 12.50. Ihave cashed one in the same way."

"You don't say so?"

"Well, yes or no?" asked Mahin, taking the pen and smoothing the couponwith the fingers of his left hand.

"But it is wrong."

"Nonsense!"

"Nonsense, indeed," thought Mitia, and again his father's hard wordscame back to his memory. "Scoundrel! As you called me that, I might aswell be it." He looked into Mahin's face. Mahin looked at him, smilingwith perfect ease.

"Well?" he said.

"All right. I don't mind."

Mahin carefully wrote the unit in front of 2.50.

"Now let us go to the shop across the road; they sell photographers'materials there. I just happen to want a frame--for this young personhere." He took out of his pocket a photograph of a young lady with largeeyes, luxuriant hair, and an uncommonly well-developed bust.

"Is she not sweet? Eh?"

"Yes, yes . . . of course . . ."

"Well, you see.--But let us go."

Mahin took his coat, and they left the house.

THE two boys, having rung the door-bell, entered the empty shop,which had shelves along the walls and photographic appliances on them,together with show-cases on the counters. A plain woman, with a kindface, came through the inner door and asked from behind the counter whatthey required.

"A nice frame, if you please, madam."

"At what price?" asked the woman; she wore mittens on her swollenfingers with which she rapidly handled picture-frames of differentshapes.

"These are fifty kopeks each; and these are a little more expensive.There is rather a pretty one, of quite a new style; one rouble andtwenty kopeks."

"All right, I will have this. But could not you make it cheaper? Let ussay one rouble."

"We don't bargain in our shop," said the shopkeeper with a dignifiedair.

"Well, I will take it," said Mahin, and put the coupon on the counter."Wrap up the frame and give me change. But please be quick. We must beoff to the theatre, and it is getting late."

"You have plenty of time," said the shopkeeper, examining the couponvery closely because of her shortsightedness.

"It will look lovely in that frame, don't you think so?" said Mahin,turning to Mitia.

"Have you no small change?" asked the shop-woman.

"I am sorry, I have not. My father gave me that, so I have to cash it."

"But surely you have one rouble twenty?"

"I have only fifty kopeks in cash. But what are you afraid of? You don'tthink, I suppose, that we want to cheat you and give you bad money?"

"Oh, no; I don't mean anything of the sort."

"You had better give it to me back. We will cash it somewhere else."

"How much have I to pay you back? Eleven and something."

She made a calculation on the counter, opened the desk, took outa ten-roubles note, looked for change and added to the sum sixtwenty-kopeks coins and two five-kopek pieces.

"Please make a parcel of the frame," said Mahin, taking the money in aleisurely fashion.

"Yes, sir." She made a parcel and tied it with a string.

Mitia only breathed freely when the door bell rang behind them, and theywere again in the street.

"There are ten roubles for you, and let me have the rest. I will give itback to you."

Mahin went off to the theatre, and Mitia called on Grouchetsky to repaythe money he had borrowed from him.

AN hour after the boys were gone Eugene Mihailovich, the owner of theshop, came home, and began to count his receipts.

"Oh, you clumsy fool! Idiot that you are!" he shouted, addressing hiswife, after having seen the coupon and noticed the forgery.

"But I have often seen you, Eugene, accepting coupons in payment, andprecisely twelve rouble ones," retorted his wife, very humiliated,grieved, and all but bursting into tears. "I really don't know how theycontrived to cheat me," she went on. "They were pupils of the school,in uniform. One of them was quite a handsome boy, and looked so comme ilfaut."

"A comme il faut fool, that is what you are!" The husband went onscolding her, while he counted the cash. . . . When I accept coupons, Isee what is written on them. And you probably looked only at the boys'pretty faces. "You had better behave yourself in your old age."

His wife could not stand this, and got into a fury.

"That is just like you men! Blaming everybody around you. But when it isyou who lose fifty-four roubles at cards--that is of no consequence inyour eyes."

"That is a different matter

"I don't want to talk to you," said his wife, and went to her room.There she began to remind herself that her family was opposed to hermarriage, thinking her present husband far below her in social rank, andthat it was she who insisted on marrying him. Then she went on thinkingof the child she had lost, and how indifferent her husband had been totheir loss. She hated him so intensely at that moment that she wishedfor his death. Her wish frightened her, however, and she hurriedly beganto dress and left the house. When her husband came from the shop to theinner rooms of their flat she was gone. Without waiting for him she haddressed and gone off to friends--a teacher of French in the school, aRussified Pole, and his wife--who had invited her and her husband to aparty in their house that evening.

THE guests at the party had tea and cakes offered to them, and sat downafter that to play whist at a number of card-tables.

The partners of Eugene Mihailovich's wife were the host himself, anofficer, and an old and very stupid lady in a wig, a widow who owned amusic-shop; she loved playing cards and played remarkably well. But itwas Eugene Mihailovich's wife who was the winner all the time. The bestcards were continually in her hands. At her side she had a plate withgrapes and a pear and was in the best of spirits.

"And Eugene Mihailovich? Why is he so late?" asked the hostess, whoplayed at another table.

"Probably busy settling accounts," said Eugene Mihailovich's wife. "Hehas to pay off the tradesmen, to get in firewood." The quarrel she hadwith her husband revived in her memory; she frowned, and her hands, fromwhich she had not taken off the mittens, shook with fury against him.

"Oh, there he is.--We have just been speaking of you," said the hostessto Eugene Mihailovich, who came in at that very moment. "Why are you solate?"

"I was busy," answered Eugene Mihailovich, in a gay voice, rubbing hishands. And to his wife's surprise he came to her side and said,--"Youknow, I managed to get rid of the coupon."

"No! You don't say so!"

"Yes, I used it to pay for a cartload of firewood I bought from apeasant."

And Eugene Mihailovich related with great indignation to the companypresent--his wife adding more details to his narrative--how his wife hadbeen cheated by two unscrupulous schoolboys.

"Well, and now let us sit down to work," he said, taking his place atone of the whist-tables when his turn came, and beginning to shuffle thecards.

EUGENE MIHAILOVICH had actually used the coupon to buy firewood from thepeasant Ivan Mironov, who had thought of setting up in business on theseventeen roubles he possessed. He hoped in this way to earn anothereight roubles, and with the twenty-five roubles thus amassed he intendedto buy a good strong horse, which he would want in the spring for workin the fields and for driving on the roads, as his old horse was almostplayed out.

Ivan Mironov's commercial method consisted in buying from the stores acord of wood and dividing it into five cartloads, and then driving aboutthe town, selling each of these at the price the stores charged fora quarter of a cord. That unfortunate day Ivan Mironov drove out veryearly with half a cartload, which he soon sold. He loaded up again withanother cartload which he hoped to sell, but he looked in vain for acustomer; no one would buy it. It was his bad luck all that day to comeacross experienced towns-people, who knew all the tricks of the peasantsin selling firewood, and would not believe that he had actually broughtthe wood from the country as he assured them. He got hungry, and feltcold in his ragged woollen coat. It was nearly below zero when eveningcame on; his horse which he had treated without mercy, hoping soon tosell it to the knacker's yard, refused to move a step. So Ivan Mironovwas quite ready to sell his firewood at a loss when he met EugeneMihailovich, who was on his way home from the tobacconist.

"Buy my cartload of firewood, sir. I will give it to you cheap. My poorhorse is tired, and can't go any farther."

"Where do you come from?"

"From the country, sir. This firewood is from our place. Good dry wood,I can assure you."

"Good wood indeed! I know your tricks. Well, what is your price?"

Ivan Mironov began by asking a high price, but reduced it once, andfinished by selling the cartload for just what it had cost him.

"I'm giving it to you cheap, just to please you, sir.--Besides, I amglad it is not a long way to your house," he added.

Eugene Mihailovich did not bargain very much. He did not mind paying alittle more, because he was delighted to think he could make use of thecoupon and get rid of it. With great difficulty Ivan Mironov managedat last, by pulling the shafts himself, to drag his cart into thecourtyard, where he was obliged to unload the firewood unaided and pileit up in the shed. The yard-porter was out. Ivan Mironov hesitated atfirst to accept the coupon, but Eugene Mihailovich insisted, and as helooked a very important person the peasant at last agreed.

He went by the backstairs to the servants' room, crossed himself beforethe ikon, wiped his beard which was covered with icicles, turned up theskirts of his coat, took out of his pocket a leather purse, and outof the purse eight roubles and fifty kopeks, and handed the changeto Eugene Mihailovich. Carefully folding the coupon, he put it in thepurse. Then, according to custom, he thanked the gentleman for hiskindness, and, using the whip-handle instead of the lash, he belabouredthe half-frozen horse that he had doomed to an early death, and betookhimself to a public-house.

Arriving there, Ivan Mironov called for vodka and tea for which he paideight kopeks. Comfortable and warm after the tea, he chatted in the verybest of spirits with a yard-porter who was sitting at his table. Soonhe grew communicative and told his companion all about the conditionsof his life. He told him he came from the village Vassilievsky, twelvemiles from town, and also that he had his allotment of land given tohim by his family, as he wanted to live apart from his father and hisbrothers; that he had a wife and two children; the elder boy went toschool, and did not yet help him in his work. He also said he lived inlodgings and intended going to the horse-fair the next day to look for agood horse, and, may be, to buy one. He went on to state that he had nownearly twenty-five roubles--only one rouble short--and that half of itwas a coupon. He took the coupon out of his purse to show to his newfriend. The yard-porter was an illiterate man, but he said he had hadsuch coupons given him by lodgers to change; that they were good; butthat one might also chance on forged ones; so he advised the peasant,for the sake of security, to change it at once at the counter. IvanMironov gave the coupon to the waiter and asked for change. The waiter,however, did not bring the change, but came back with the manager, abald-headed man with a shining face, who was holding the coupon in hisfat hand.

"Your money is no good," he said, showing the coupon, but apparentlydetermined not to give it back.

"The coupon must be all right. I got it from a gentleman."

"It is bad, I tell you. The coupon is forged."

"Forged? Give it back to me."

"I will not. You fellows have got to be punished for such tricks. Ofcourse, you did it yourself--you and some of your rascally friends."

"Give me the money. What right have you--"

"Sidor! Call a policeman," said the barman to the waiter. Ivan Mironovwas rather drunk, and in that condition was hard to manage. He seizedthe manager by the collar and began to shout.

"Give me back my money, I say. I will go to the gentleman who gave it tome. I know where he lives."

The manager had to struggle with all his force to get loose from IvanMironov, and his shirt was torn,--"Oh, that's the way you behave! Gethold of him."

The waiter took hold of Ivan Mironov; at that moment the policemanarrived. Looking very important, he inquired what had happened, andunhesitatingly gave his orders:

"Take him to the police-station."

As to the coupon, the policeman put it in his pocket; Ivan Mironov,together with his horse, was brought to the nearest station.

IVAN MIRONOV had to spend the night in the police-station, in thecompany of drunkards and thieves. It was noon of the next day when hewas summoned to the police officer; put through a close examination,and sent in the care of a policeman to Eugene Mihailovich's shop. IvanMironov remembered the street and the house.

The policeman asked for the shopkeeper, showed him the coupon andconfronted him with Ivan Mironov, who declared that he had received thecoupon in that very place. Eugene Mihailovich at once assumed a verysevere and astonished air.

"You are mad, my good fellow," he said. "I have never seen this manbefore in my life," he added, addressing the policeman.

"It is a sin, sir," said Ivan Mironov. "Think of the hour when you willdie."

"Why, you must be dreaming! You have sold your firewood to some oneelse," said Eugene Mihailovich. "But wait a minute. I will go and ask mywife whether she bought any firewood yesterday." Eugene Mihailovich leftthem and immediately called the yard-porter Vassily, a strong, handsome,quick, cheerful, well-dressed man.

He told Vassily that if any one should inquire where the last supply offirewood was bought, he was to say they'd got it from the stores, andnot from a peasant in the street.

"A peasant has come," he said to Vassily, "who has declared to thepolice that I gave him a forged coupon. He is a fool and talks nonsense,but you, are a clever man. Mind you say that we always get the firewoodfrom the stores. And, by the way, I've been thinking some time of givingyou money to buy a new jacket," added Eugene Mihailovich, and gave theman five roubles. Vassily looking with pleasure first at the five roublenote, then at Eugene Mihailovich's face, shook his head and smiled.

"I know, those peasant folks have no brains. Ignorance, of course. Don'tyou be uneasy. I know what I have to say."

Ivan Mironov, with tears in his eyes, implored Eugene Mihailovich overand over again to acknowledge the coupon he had given him, and theyard-porter to believe what he said, but it proved quite useless; theyboth insisted that they had never bought firewood from a peasant in thestreet. The policeman brought Ivan Mironov back to the police-station,and he was charged with forging the coupon. Only after taking the adviceof a drunken office clerk in the same cell with him, and bribing thepolice officer with five roubles, did Ivan Mironov get out of jail,without the coupon, and with only seven roubles left out of thetwenty-five he had the day before.

Of these seven roubles he spent three in the public-house and came hometo his wife dead drunk, with a bruised and swollen face.

His wife was expecting a child, and felt very ill. She began to scoldher husband; he pushed her away, and she struck him. Without answering aword he lay down on the plank and began to weep bitterly.

Not till the next day did he tell his wife what had actually happened.She believed him at once, and thoroughly cursed the dastardly rich manwho had cheated Ivan. He was sobered now, and remembering the advicea workman had given him, with whom he had many a drink the day before,decided to go to a lawyer and tell him of the wrong the owner of thephotograph shop had done him.

THE lawyer consented to take proceedings on behalf of Ivan Mironov, notso much for the sake of the fee, as because he believed the peasant, andwas revolted by the wrong done to him.

Both parties appeared in the court when the case was tried, and theyard-porter Vassily was summoned as witness. They repeated in the courtall they had said before to the police officials. Ivan Mironov againcalled to his aid the name of the Divinity, and reminded the shopkeeperof the hour of death. Eugene Mihailovich, although quite aware of hiswickedness, and the risks he was running, despite the rebukes of hisconscience, could not now change his testimony, and went on calmly todeny all the allegations made against him.

The yard-porter Vassily had received another ten roubles from hismaster, and, quite unperturbed, asserted with a smile that he did notknow anything about Ivan Mironov. And when he was called upon to takethe oath, he overcame his inner qualms, and repeated with assumed easethe terms of the oath, read to him by the old priest appointed to thecourt. By the holy Cross and the Gospel, he swore that he spoke thewhole truth.

The case was decided against Ivan Mironov, who was sentenced to pay fiveroubles for expenses. This sum Eugene Mihailovich generously paid forhim. Before dismissing Ivan Mironov, the judge severely admonished him,saying he ought to take care in the future not to accuse respectablepeople, and that he also ought to be thankful that he was not forced topay the costs, and that he had escaped a prosecution for slander, forwhich he would have been condemned to three months' imprisonment.

"I offer my humble thanks," said Ivan Mironov; and, shaking his head,left the court with a heavy sigh.

The whole thing seemed to have ended well for Eugene Mihailovich andthe yard-porter Vassily. But only in appearance. Something had happenedwhich was not noticed by any one, but which was much more important thanall that had been exposed to view.

Vassily had left his village and settled in town over two years ago. Astime went on he sent less and less money to his father, and he did notask his wife, who remained at home, to join him. He was in no need ofher; he could in town have as many wives as he wished, and much betterones too than that clumsy, village-bred woman. Vassily, with eachrecurring year, became more and more familiar with the ways of the townpeople, forgetting the conventions of a country life. There everythingwas so vulgar, so grey, so poor and untidy. Here, in town, all seemed onthe contrary so refined, nice, clean, and rich; so orderly too. And hebecame more and more convinced that people in the country live just likewild beasts, having no idea of what life is, and that only life intown is real. He read books written by clever writers, and went to theperformances in the Peoples' Palace. In the country, people would notsee such wonders even in dreams. In the country old men say: "Obey thelaw, and live with your wife; work; don't eat too much; don't care forfinery," while here, in town, all the clever and learned people--those,of course, who know what in reality the law is--only pursue their ownpleasures. And they are the better for it.

Previous to the incident of the forged coupon, Vassily could notactually believe that rich people lived without any moral law. But afterthat, still more after having perjured himself, and not being the worsefor it in spite of his fears--on the contrary, he had gained ten roublesout of it--Vassily became firmly convinced that no moral laws whateverexist, and that the only thing to do is to pursue one's own interestsand pleasures. This he now made his rule in life. He accordingly got asmuch profit as he could out of purchasing goods for lodgers. But thisdid not pay all his expenses. Then he took to stealing, whenever chanceoffered--money and all sorts of valuables. One day he stole a purse fullof money from Eugene Mihailovich, but was found out. Eugene Mihailovichdid 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 remainedin Moscow with his sweetheart, looking out for a new job. He got one asyard-porter at a grocer's, but with only small wages. The next day afterhe had entered that service he was caught stealing bags. The grocer didnot call in the police, but gave him a good thrashing and turned himout. After that he could not find work. The money he had left was soongone; he had to sell all his clothes and went about nearly in rags. Hissweetheart left him. But notwithstanding, he kept up his high spirits,and when the spring came he started to walk home.

PETER NIKOLAEVICH SVENTIZKY, a short man in black spectacles (he hadweak eyes, and was threatened with complete blindness), got up, as washis custom, at dawn of day, had a cup of tea, and putting on his shortfur coat trimmed with astrachan, went to look after the work on hisestate.

Peter Nikolaevich had been an official in the Customs, and had gainedeighteen thousand roubles during his service. About twelve years ago hequitted the service--not quite of his own accord: as a matter of fact hehad been compelled to leave--and bought an estate from a young landownerwho had dissipated his fortune. Peter Nikolaevich had married at anearlier period, while still an official in the Customs. His wife, whobelonged to an old noble family, was an orphan, and was left withoutmoney. She was a tall, stoutish, good-looking woman. They had nochildren. Peter Nikolaevich had considerable practical talents and astrong will. He was the son of a Polish gentleman, and knew nothingabout agriculture and land management; but when he acquired an estate ofhis own, he managed it so well that after fifteen years the waste pieceof land, consisting of three hundred acres, became a model estate. Allthe buildings, from the dwelling-house to the corn stores and the shedfor the fire engine were solidly built, had iron roofs, and were paintedat the right time. In the tool house carts, ploughs, harrows, stood inperfect order, the harness was well cleaned and oiled. The horses werenot very big, but all home-bred, grey, well fed, strong and devoid ofblemish.

The threshing machine worked in a roofed barn, the forage was kept ina separate shed, and a paved drain was made from the stables. The cowswere home-bred, not very large, but giving plenty of milk; fowls werealso 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 werewell whitewashed and propped on poles to enable them to grow straight.Everything was looked after--solid, clean, and in perfect order. PeterNikolaevich rejoiced in the perfect condition of his estate, and wasproud to have achieved it--not by oppressing the peasants, but, on thecontrary, by the extreme fairness of his dealings with them.

Among the nobles of his province he belonged to the advanced party, andwas more inclined to liberal than conservative views, always taking theside 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. Ofcourse, he did not overlook any carelessness on the part of those whoworked 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 theirwages without any delay, and gave them drinks on days of festival.

Walking cautiously on the melting snow--for the time of the year wasFebruary--Peter Nikolaevich passed the stables, and made his way to thecottage where his workmen were lodged. It was still dark, the darkerbecause 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 beginwork. He had arranged that they should drive out to the forest and bringback 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; theground was soft under his feet, and the air smelt of dung; on the rightside of the door were two loose boxes for a pair of grey horses. PeterNikolaevich stretched out his hand in their direction--one box wasempty. He put out his foot--the horse might have been lying down. Buthis foot did not touch anything solid. "Where could they have taken thehorse?" he thought. They certainly had not harnessed it; all the sledgesstood 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 ofthe cottage.

"Here I am!" he said, in a cheerful voice. "Oh, is that you, PeterNikolaevich? Our men are coming."

"Why is the stable door open?

"Is it? I don't know anything about it. I say, Proshka, bring thelantern!"

Proshka came with the lantern. They all went to the stable, and Stepanknew at once what had happened.

"Thieves have been here, Peter Nikolaevich," he said. "The lock isbroken."

"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 andtook deep breaths.

"Oh," he said after a while. "If only I could lay hands on them! Who wason guard?"

"Peter. He evidently fell asleep."

Peter Nikolaevich called in the police, and making an appeal to all theauthorities, sent his men to track the thieves. But the horses were notto be found.

"Wicked people," said Peter Nikolaevich. "How could they! I was alwaysso kind to them. Now, wait! Brigands! Brigands the whole lot of them. Iwill no longer be kind."

IN the meanwhile the horses, the grey ones, had all been disposed of;Mashka was sold to the gipsies for eighteen roubles; Dapple-grey wasexchanged for another horse, and passed over to another peasant wholived forty miles away from the estate; and Beauty died on the way.The man who conducted the whole affair was--Ivan Mironov. He hadbeen employed on the estate, and knew all the whereabouts of PeterNikolaevich. He wanted to get back the money he had lost, and stole thehorses 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 hiswife, who locked up his clothes, the horses' collars, and all the restof what he would otherwise have squandered in public-houses. In hisdrunken state Ivan Mironov was continually thinking, not only of the manwho had wronged him, but of all the rich people who live on robbingthe poor. One day he had a drink with some peasants from the suburbsof Podolsk, and was walking home together with them. On the way thepeasants, who were completely drunk, told him they had stolen a horsefrom a peasant's cottage. Ivan Mironov got angry, and began to abuse thehorse-thieves.

"What a shame!" he said. "A horse is like a brother to the peasant. Andyou robbed him of it? It is a great sin, I tell you. If you go in forstealing horses, steal them from the landowners. They are worse thandogs, and deserve anything."

The talk went on, and the peasants from Podolsk told him that itrequired 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 somebodyon 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, haddeducted one rouble and a half for a broken tool. He remembered well thegrey horses which he used to drive at Sventizky's.

Ivan Mironov called on Peter Nikolaevich pretending to ask foremployment, but really in order to get the information he wanted. Hetook precautions to make sure that the watchman was absent, and thatthe horses were standing in their boxes in the stable. He brought thethieves to the place, and helped them to carry off the three horses.

They divided their gains, and Ivan Mironov returned to his wife withfive roubles in his pocket. He had nothing to do at home, having nohorse to work in the field, and therefore continued to steal horses incompany with professional horse-thieves and gipsies.

PETER NIKOLAEVICH SVENTIZKY did his best to discover who had stolen hishorses. He knew somebody on the estate must have helped the thieves,and began to suspect all his staff. He inquired who had slept out thatnight, and the gang of the working men told him Proshka had not been inthe whole night. Proshka, or Prokofy Nikolaevich, was a young fellow whohad just finished his military service, handsome, and skilful in all hedid; Peter Nikolaevich employed him at times as coachman. The districtconstable was a friend of Peter Nikolaevich, as were the provincialhead of the police, the marshal of the nobility, and also the ruralcouncillor and the examining magistrate. They all came to his houseon his saint's day, drinking the cherry brandy he offered them withpleasure, and eating the nice preserved mushrooms of all kinds toaccompany the liqueurs. They all sympathised with him in his trouble andtried to help him.

"You always used to take the side of the peasants," said the districtconstable, "and there you are! I was right in saying they are worse thanwild 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 coachmansometimes?"

"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 werethat 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 thathe had spent it with his sweetheart, Parasha, and had promised not togive her away. He kept his word. No proofs were discovered against him,and he was soon discharged. But Peter Nikolaevich was convinced thatProkofy had been at the bottom of the whole affair, and began to hatehim. One day Proshka bought as usual at the merchant's two measures ofoats. One and a half he gave to the horses, and half a measure hegave back to the merchant; the money for it he spent in drink. PeterNikolaevich found it out, and charged Prokofy with cheating. The judgesentenced the man to three months' imprisonment.

Prokofy had a rather proud nature, and thought himself superior toothers. Prison was a great humiliation for him. He came out of it verydepressed; there was nothing more to be proud of in life. And more thanthat, he felt extremely bitter, not only against Peter Nikolaevich, butagainst the whole world.

On the whole, as all the people around him noticed, Prokofy becameanother man after his imprisonment, both careless and lazy; he took todrink, 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 hideof one of them, Beauty, which had been found somewhere on the estate.The fact that the thieves had got off scot-free irritated PeterNikolaevich still more. He was unable now to speak of the peasants orto look at them without anger. And whenever he could he tried to oppressthem.

AFTER having got rid of the coupon, Eugene Mihailovich forgot all aboutit; but his wife, Maria Vassilievna, could not forgive herself forhaving been taken in, nor yet her husband for his cruel words. And mostof all she was furious against the two boys who had so skilfully cheatedher. From the day she had accepted the forged coupon as payment, shelooked 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 herhe made a face which quite changed his features. But when, a fortnightafter the incident with the coupon, she met Mitia Smokovnikov face toface, she knew him at once.

She let him pass her, then turned back and followed him, and arrivingat his house she made inquiries as to whose son he was. The next day shewent to the school and met the divinity instructor, the priest MichaelVedensky, in the hall. He asked her what she wanted. She answered thatshe wished to see the head of the school. "He is not quite well," saidthe 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 whatwas the matter. Michael Vedensky was a widower, and a very ambitiousman. A year ago he had met Mitia Smokovnikov's father in society, andhad had a discussion with him on religion. Smokovnikov had beatenhim decisively on all points; indeed, he had made him appear quiteridiculous. Since that time the priest had decided to pay specialattention to Smokovnikov's son; and, finding him as indifferent toreligious matters as his father was, he began to persecute him, and evenbrought 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 theboy's conduct a proof of the utter wickedness of those who are notguided by the rules of the Church. He decided to take advantage of thisgreat opportunity of warning unbelievers of the perils that threatenedthem. At all events, he wanted to persuade himself that this was theonly motive that guided him in the course he had resolved to take. Butat the bottom of his heart he was only anxious to get his revenge on theproud atheist.

"Yes, it is very sad indeed," said Father Michael, toying with the crosshe was wearing over his priestly robes, and passing his hands over itspolished sides. "I am very glad you have given me your confidence. As aservant of the Church I shall admonish the young man--of course with theutmost kindness. I shall certainly do it in the way that befits my holyoffice," said Father Michael to himself, really thinking that he hadforgotten the ill-feeling the boy's father had towards him. He firmlybelieved the boy's soul to be the only object of his pious care.

The next day, during the divinity lesson which Father Michael was givingto Mitia Smokovnikov's class, he narrated the incident of the forgedcoupon, adding that the culprit had been one of the pupils of theschool. "It was a very wicked thing to do," he said; "but to deny thecrime is still worse. If it is true that the sin has been committed byone of you, let the guilty one confess." In saying this, Father Michaellooked sharply at Mitia Smokovnikov. All the boys, following his glance,turned also to Mitia, who blushed, and felt extremely ill at ease, withlarge beads of perspiration on his face. Finally, he burst into tears,and ran out of the classroom. His mother, noticing his trouble, foundout the truth, ran at once to the photographer's shop, paid over thetwelve roubles and fifty kopeks to Maria Vassilievna, and made herpromise to deny the boy's guilt. She further implored Mitia to hide thetruth from everybody, and in any case to withhold it from his father.

Accordingly, when Fedor Mihailovich had heard of the incident inthe divinity class, and his son, questioned by him, had denied allaccusations, he called at once on the head of the school, told him whathad happened, expressed his indignation at Father Michael's conduct, andsaid he would not let matters remain as they were.

Father Michael was sent for, and immediately fell into a hot disputewith Smokovnikov.

"A stupid woman first falsely accused my son, then retracts heraccusation, and you of course could not hit on anything more sensible todo than to slander an honest and truthful boy!"

"I did not slander him, and I must beg you not to address me in such away. 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 thetown!" replied Father Michael; and he was so transported with anger thathis 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 moraleducation of our pupils."

"Oh, cease your pretence to be religious! Oh, stop all this humbugof religion! As if I did not know that you believe neither in God norDevil."

"I consider it beneath my dignity to talk to a man like you," saidFather Michael, very much hurt by Smokovnikov's last words, the more sobecause 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 heconfessed to be his creed and in what he preached from the pulpit; heonly knew that men ought to force themselves to believe in what he triedto make himself believe.

Smokovnikov was not shocked by Father Michael's conduct; he only thoughtit illustrative of the influence the Church was beginning to exerciseon society, and he told all his friends how his son had been insulted bythe priest.

Seeing not only young minds, but also the elder generation, contaminatedby atheistic tendencies, Father Michael became more and more convincedof the necessity of fighting those tendencies. The more he condemned theunbelief of Smokovnikov, and those like him, the more confident hegrew in the firmness of his own faith, and the less he felt the needof making sure of it, or of bringing his life into harmony with it. Hisfaith, acknowledged as such by all the world around him, became FatherMichael's very best weapon with which to fight those who denied it.

The thoughts aroused in him by his conflict with Smokovnikov, togetherwith the annoyance of being blamed by his chiefs in the school, made himcarry out the purpose he had entertained ever since his wife's death--oftaking monastic orders, and of following the course carried out by someof 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 asrector in a seminary in a town on the river Volga.

MEANWHILE the yard-porter Vassily was marching on the open road down tothe south.

He walked in daytime, and when night came some policeman would gethim shelter in a peasant's cottage. He was given bread everywhere, andsometimes he was asked to sit down to the evening meal. In a village inthe Orel district, where he had stayed for the night, he heard thata merchant who had hired the landowner's orchard for the season,was looking out for strong and able men to serve as watchmen for thefruit-crops. Vassily was tired of tramping, and as he had also no desirewhatever to go back to his native village, he went to the man who ownedthe orchard, and got engaged as watchman for five roubles a month.

Vassily found it very agreeable to live in his orchard shed, and all themore so when the apples and pears began to grow ripe, and when the menfrom the barn supplied him every day with large bundles of fresh strawfrom the threshing machine. He used to lie the whole day long on thefragrant straw, with fresh, delicately smelling apples in heaps at hisside, looking out in every direction to prevent the village boys fromstealing fruit; and he used to whistle and sing meanwhile, to amusehimself. He knew no end of songs, and had a fine voice. When peasantwomen and young girls came to ask for apples, and to have a chat withhim, Vassily gave them larger or smaller apples according as he likedtheir looks, and received eggs or money in return. The rest of the timehe had nothing to do, but to lie on his back and get up for his mealsin the kitchen. He had only one shirt left, one of pink cotton, and thatwas in holes. But he was strongly built and enjoyed excellent health.When the kettle with black gruel was taken from the stove and served tothe working men, Vassily used to eat enough for three, and filled theold watchman on the estate with unceasing wonder. At nights Vassilynever slept. He whistled or shouted from time to time to keep offthieves, and his piercing, cat-like eyes saw clearly in the darkness.

One night a company of young lads from the village made their waystealthily to the orchard to shake down apples from the trees. Vassily,coming noiselessly from behind, attacked them; they tried to escape, buthe took one of them prisoner to his master.

Vassily's first shed stood at the farthest end of the orchard, but afterthe pears had been picked he had to remove to another shed only fortypaces away from the house of his master. He liked this new place verymuch. The whole day long he could see the young ladies and gentlemenenjoying themselves; going out for drives in the evenings and quite lateat 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 thedark avenue of lime trees, lit up only by streaks of moonlight. He sawthe servants running about with food and drink, he saw the cooks, thestewards, the laundresses, the gardeners, the coachmen, hard at workto supply their masters with food and drink and constant amusem*nt.Sometimes the young people from the master's house came to the shed,and Vassily offered them the choicest apples, juicy and red. The youngladies used to take large bites out of the apples on the spot, praisingtheir taste, and spoke French to one another--Vassily quite understoodit 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 andmore 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. Heremembered his former ways of making small profits whenever he could,and came to the conclusion that that was altogether wrong. Occasionalstealing is of no use, he thought. He must arrange a well-prepared plan,and after getting all the information he wanted, carry out his purposeso as to avoid detection.

After the feast of Nativity of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the last cropof autumn apples was gathered; the master was content with the results,paid off Vassily, and gave him an extra sum as reward for his faithfulservice.

Vassily put on his new jacket, and a new hat--both were presents fromhis master's son--but did not make his way homewards. He hated the verythought of the vulgar peasants' life. He went back to Moscow in companyof some drunken soldiers, who had been watchmen in the orchard togetherwith him. On his arrival there he at once resolved, under cover ofnight, to break into the shop where he had been employed, and beaten,and then turned out by the proprietor without being paid. He knew theplace well, and knew where the money was locked up. So he bade thesoldiers, who helped him, keep watch outside, and forcing the courtyarddoor 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 gavea hundred roubles to his assistants, and with the rest left for anothertown where he gave way to dissipation in company of friends of bothsexes. The police traced his movements, and when at last he was arrestedand put into prison he had hardly anything left out of the money whichhe had stolen.

IVAN MIRONOV had become a very clever, fearless and successfulhorse-thief. Afimia, his wife, who at first used to abuse him for hisevil ways, as she called it, was now quite content and felt proud of herhusband, who possessed a new sheepskin coat, while she also had a warmjacket and a new fur cloak.

In the village and throughout the whole district every one knew quitewell that Ivan Mironov was at the bottom of all the horse-stealing; butnobody would give him away, being afraid of the consequences. Wheneversuspicion fell on him, he managed to clear his character. Once duringthe night he stole horses from the pasture ground in the villageKolotovka. He generally preferred to steal horses from landowners ortradespeople. But this was a harder job, and when he had no chance ofsuccess he did not mind robbing peasants too. In Kolotovka he drove offthe horses without making sure whose they were. He did not go himselfto the spot, but sent a young and clever fellow, Gerassim, to do thestealing 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 thestate.

Ivan Mironov intended to leave them there till the following night, andthen to transport them with the utmost haste a hundred miles away toa man he knew. He visited Gerassim in the forest, to see how he wasgetting on, brought him a pie and some vodka, and was returning homeby a side track in the forest where he hoped to meet nobody. But byill-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 basketof lime bark he had taken with him in case he might want it.

"Yes, mushrooms are scarce this summer," said the soldier. He stoodstill for a moment, pondered, and then went his way. He clearly saw thatsomething was wrong. Ivan Mironov had no business whatever to take earlymorning walks in that forest. The soldier went back after a while andlooked round. Suddenly he heard the snorting of horses in the ravine. Hemade his way cautiously to the place whence the sounds came. The grassin the ravine was trodden down, and the marks of horses' hoofs wereclearly to be seen. A little further he saw Gerassim, who was sittingand eating his meal, and the horses tied to a tree.

The soldier ran to the village and brought back the bailiff, a policeofficer, and two witnesses. They surrounded on three sides the spotwhere Gerassim was sitting and seized the man. He did not deny anything;but, being drunk, told them at once how Ivan Mironov had given himplenty of drink, and induced him to steal the horses; he also said thatIvan Mironov had promised to come that night in order to take the horsesaway. The peasants left the horses and Gerassim in the ravine, andhiding behind the trees prepared to lie in ambush for Ivan Mironov. Whenit grew dark, they heard a whistle. Gerassim answered it with a similarsound. The moment Ivan Mironov descended the slope, the peasantssurrounded him and brought him back to the village. The next morninga crowd assembled in front of the bailiff's cottage. Ivan Mironov wasbrought out and subjected to a close examination. Stepan Pelageushkine,a tall, stooping man with long arms, an aquiline nose, and a gloomyface was the first to put questions to him. Stepan had terminatedhis military service, and was of a solitary turn of mind. When he hadseparated from his father, and started his own home, he had his firstexperience of losing a horse. After that he worked for two years inthe mines, and made money enough to buy two horses. These two had beenstolen by Ivan Mironov.

"Tell me where my horses are!" shouted Stepan, pale with fury,alternately looking at the ground and at Ivan Mironov's face.

Ivan Mironov denied his guilt. Then Stepan aimed so violent a blow athis face that he smashed his nose and the blood spurted out.

"Tell the truth, I say, or I'll kill you!"

Ivan Mironov kept silent, trying to avoid the blows by stooping. Stepanhit him twice more with his long arm. Ivan Mironov remained silent,turning his head backwards and forwards.

"Beat him, all of you!" cried the bailiff, and the whole crowd rushedupon Ivan Mironov. He fell without a word to the ground, and thenshouted,--"Devils, wild beasts, kill me if that's what you want! I amnot afraid of you!"

Stepan seized a stone out of those that had been collected for thepurpose, and with a heavy blow smashed Ivan Mironov's head.

IVAN MIRONOV'S murderers were brought to trial, Stepan Pelageushkineamong them. He had a heavier charge to answer than the others, all thewitnesses having stated that it was he who had smashed Ivan Mironov'shead with a stone. Stepan concealed nothing when in court. He contentedhimself with explaining that, having been robbed of his two last horses,he had informed the police. Now it was comparatively easy at that timeto trace the horses with the help of professional thieves among thegipsies. But the police officer would not even permit him, and no searchhad been ordered.

"Nothing else could be done with such a man. He has ruined us all."

"But why did not the others attack him. It was you alone who broke hishead open."

"That is false. We all fell upon him. The village agreed to kill him.I only gave the final stroke. What is the use of inflicting unnecessarysufferings on a man?"

The judges were astonished at Stepan's wonderful coolness in narratingthe story of his crime--how the peasants fell upon Ivan Mironov, andhow he had given the final stroke. Stepan actually did not see anythingparticularly revolting in this murder. During his military servicehe had been ordered on one occasion to shoot a soldier, and, now withregard to Ivan Mironov, he saw nothing loathsome in it. "A man shot isa dead man--that's all. It was him to-day, it might be me to-morrow," hethought. Stepan was only sentenced to one year's imprisonment, which wasa mild punishment for what he had done. His peasant's dress was takenaway from him and put in the prison stores, and he had a prison suit andfelt boots given to him instead. Stepan had never had much respect forthe authorities, but now he became quite convinced that all the chiefs,all the fine folk, all except the Czar--who alone had pity on thepeasants and was just--all were robbers who suck blood out of thepeople. All he heard from the deported convicts, and those sentenced tohard labour, with whom he had made friends in prisons, confirmed himin his views. One man had been sentenced to hard labour for havingconvicted his superiors of a theft; another for having struck anofficial who had unjustly confiscated the property of a peasant; a thirdbecause he forged bank notes. The well-to-do-people, the merchants,might do whatever they chose and come to no harm; but a poor peasant,for a trumpery reason or for none at all, was sent to prison to becomefood for vermin.

He had visits from his wife while in prison. Her life without him wasmiserable enough, when, to make it worse, her cottage was destroyed byfire. She was completely ruined, and had to take to begging with herchildren. His wife's misery embittered Stepan still more. He got on verybadly with all the people in the prison; was rude to every one; andone day he nearly killed the cook with an axe, and therefore got anadditional year in prison. In the course of that year he received thenews that his wife was dead, and that he had no longer a home.

When Stepan had finished his time in prison, he was taken to the prisonstores, and his own dress was taken down from the shelf and handed tohim.

"Where am I to go now?" he asked the prison officer, putting on his olddress.

"Why, home."

"I have no home. I shall have to go on the road. Robbery will not be apleasant occupation."

"In that case you will soon be back here."

"I am not so sure of that."

And Stepan left the prison. Nevertheless he took the road to his ownplace. He had nowhere else to turn.

On his way he stopped for a night's rest in an inn that had a public barattached to it. The inn was kept by a fat man from the town, Vladimir,and he knew Stepan. He knew that Stepan had been put into prison throughill luck, and did not mind giving him shelter for the night. He was arich man, and had persuaded his neighbour's wife to leave her husbandand come to live with him. She lived in his house as his wife, andhelped him in his business as well.

Stepan knew all about the innkeeper's affairs--how he had wronged thepeasant, and how the woman who was living with him had left her husband.He saw her now sitting at the table in a rich dress, and looking veryhot as she drank her tea. With great condescension she asked Stepan tohave tea with her. No other travellers were stopping in the inn thatnight. Stepan was given a place in the kitchen where he might sleep.Matrena--that was the woman's name--cleared the table and went to herroom. Stepan went to lie down on the large stove in the kitchen, buthe could not sleep, and the wood splinters put on the stove to dry werecrackling under him, as he tossed from side to side. He could not helpthinking of his host's fat paunch protruding under the belt of hisshirt, which had lost its colour from having been washed ever so manytimes. Would not it be a good thing to make a good clean incision inthat paunch. And that woman, too, he thought.

One moment he would say to himself, "I had better go from hereto-morrow, bother them all!" But then again Ivan Mironov came backto his mind, and he went on thinking of the innkeeper's paunch andMatrena's white throat bathed in perspiration. "Kill I must, and it mustbe both!"

He heard the co*ck crow for the second time.

"I must do it at once, or dawn will be here." He had seen in the eveningbefore he went to bed a knife and an axe. He crawled down from thestove, took the knife and axe, and went out of the kitchen door. At thatvery moment he heard the lock of the entrance door open. The innkeeperwas going out of the house to the courtyard. It all turned out contraryto what Stepan desired. He had no opportunity of using the knife;he just swung the axe and split the innkeeper's head in two. The mantumbled down on the threshold of the door, then on the ground.

Stepan stepped into the bedroom. Matrena jumped out of bed, and remainedstanding by its side. With the same axe Stepan killed her also.

Then he lighted the candle, took the money out of the desk, and left thehouse.

IN a small district town, some distance away from the other buildings,an old man, a former official, who had taken to drink, lived in his ownhouse with his two daughters and his son-in-law. The married daughterwas also addicted to drink and led a bad life, and it was the elderdaughter, the widow Maria sem*novna, a wrinkled woman of fifty, whosupported the whole family. She had a pension of two hundred and fiftyroubles a year, and the family lived on this. Maria sem*novna did allthe work in the house, looked after the drunken old father, who was veryweak, attended to her sister's child, and managed all the cooking andthe washing of the family. And, as is always the case, whatever therewas to do, she was expected to do it, and was, moreover, continuallyscolded by all the three people in the house; her brother-in-law usedeven to beat her when he was drunk. She bore it all patiently, and asis also always the case, the more work she had to face, the quickershe managed to get through it. She helped the poor, sacrificing her ownwants; she gave them her clothes, and was a ministering angel to thesick.

Once the lame, crippled village tailor was working in Maria sem*novna'shouse. He had to mend her old father's coat, and to mend and repairMaria sem*novna's fur-jacket for her to wear in winter when she went tomarket.

The lame tailor was a clever man, and a keen observer: he had seen manydifferent people owing to his profession, and was fond of reflection,condemned as he was to a sedentary life.

Having worked a week at Maria sem*novna's, he wondered greatly abouther life. One day she came to the kitchen, where he was sitting with hiswork, to wash a towel, and began to ask him how he was getting on. Hetold her of the wrong he had suffered from his brother, and how he nowlived on his own allotment of land, separated from that of his brother.

"I thought I should have been better off that way," he said. "But I amnow just as poor as before."

"It is much better never to change, but to take life as it comes," saidMaria sem*novna. "Take life as it comes," she repeated.

"Why, I wonder at you, Maria sem*novna," said the lame tailor. "Youalone do the work, and you are so good to everybody. But they don'trepay you in kind, I see."

Maria sem*novna did not utter a word in answer.

"I dare say you have found out in books that we are rewarded in heavenfor the good we do here."

"We don't know that. But we must try to do the best we can."

"Is it said so in books?"

"In books as well," she said, and read to him the Sermon on the Mount.The tailor was much impressed. When he had been paid for his job andgone home, he did not cease to think about Maria sem*novna, both whatshe had said and what she had read to him.

PETER NIKOLAEVICH SVENTIZKY'S views of the peasantry had now changed forthe worse, and the peasants had an equally bad opinion of him. In thecourse of a single year they felled twenty-seven oaks in his forest, andburnt a barn which had not been insured. Peter Nikolaevich came to theconclusion that there was no getting on with the people around him.

At that very time the landowner, Liventsov, was trying to find a managerfor his estate, and the Marshal of the Nobility recommended PeterNikolaevich as the ablest man in the district in the management of land.The estate owned by Liventsov was an extremely large one, but there wasno revenue to be got out of it, as the peasants appropriated allits wealth to their own profit. Peter Nikolaevich undertook to bringeverything into order; rented out his own land to somebody else; andsettled with his wife on the Liventsov estate, in a distant province onthe river Volga.

Peter Nikolaevich was always fond of order, and wanted things to beregulated by law; and now he felt less able of allowing those raw andrude peasants to take possession, quite illegally too, of property thatdid not belong to them. He was glad of the opportunity of giving them agood lesson, and set seriously to work at once. One peasant was sent toprison for stealing wood; to another he gave a thrashing for not havingmade way for him on the road with his cart, and for not having liftedhis cap to salute him. As to the pasture ground which was a subject ofdispute, and was considered by the peasants as their property, PeterNikolaevich informed the peasants that any of their cattle grazing on itwould be driven away by him.

The spring came and the peasants, just as they had done in previousyears, drove their cattle on to the meadows belonging to the landowner.Peter Nikolaevich called some of the men working on the estate andordered them to drive the cattle into his yard. The peasants wereworking in the fields, and, disregarding the screaming of the women,Peter Nikolaevich's men succeeded in driving in the cattle. When theycame home the peasants went in a crowd to the cattle-yard on the estate,and asked for their cattle. Peter Nikolaevich came out to talk to themwith a gun slung on his shoulder; he had just returned from a ride ofinspection. He told them that he would not let them have their cattleunless they paid a fine of fifty kopeks for each of the horned cattle,and twenty kopeks for each sheep. The peasants loudly declared thatthe pasture ground was their property, because their fathers andgrandfathers had used it, and protested that he had no right whatever tolay hand on their cattle.

"Give back our cattle, or you will regret it," said an old man coming upto Peter Nikolaevich.

"How shall I regret it?" cried Peter Nikolaevich, turning pale, andcoming close to the old man.

"Give them back, you villain, and don't provoke us."

"What?" cried Peter Nikolaevich, and slapped the old man in the face.

"You dare to strike me? Come along, you fellows, let us take back ourcattle by force."

The crowd drew close to him. Peter Nikolaevich tried to push his way,through them, but the peasants resisted him. Again he tried force.

His gun, accidentally discharged in the melee, killed one of thepeasants. Instantly the fight began. Peter Nikolaevich was trodden down,and five minutes later his mutilated body was dragged into the ravine.

The murderers were tried by martial law, and two of them sentenced tothe gallows.

IN the village where the lame tailor lived, in the Zemliansk districtof the Voronesh province, five rich peasants hired from the landowner ahundred and five acres of rich arable land, black as tar, and let it outon lease to the rest of the peasants at fifteen to eighteen roublesan acre. Not one acre was given under twelve roubles. They got a veryprofitable return, and the five acres which were left to each of theircompany practically cost them nothing. One of the five peasants died,and the lame tailor received an offer to take his place.

When they began to divide the land, the tailor gave up drinking vodka,and, being consulted as to how much land was to be divided, and towhom it should be given, he proposed to give allotments to all on equalterms, not taking from the tenants more than was due for each piece ofland out of the sum paid to the landowner.

"Why so?"

"We are no heathens, I should think," he said. "It is all very well forthe masters to be unfair, but we are true Christians. We must do as Godbids. Such is the law of Christ."

"Where have you got that law from?

"It is in the Book, in the Gospels; just come to me on Sunday, I willread you a few passages, and we will have a talk afterwards."

They did not all come to him on Sunday, but three came, and he beganreading to them.

He read five chapters of St. Matthew's Gospel, and they talked. One manonly, Ivan Chouev, accepted the lesson and carried it out completely,following the rule of Christ in everything from that day. His familydid the same. Out of the arable land he took only what was his due, andrefused to take more.

The lame tailor and Ivan had people calling on them, and some of thesepeople began to grasp the meaning of the Gospels, and in consequencegave up smoking, drinking, swearing, and using bad language and tried tohelp one another. They also ceased to go to church, and took theirikons to the village priest, saying they did not want them any more. Thepriest was frightened, and reported what had occurred to the bishop.The bishop was at a loss what to do. At last he resolved to send thearchimandrite Missael to the village, the one who had formerly beenMitia Smokovnikov's teacher of religion.

ASKING Father Missael on his arrival to take a seat, the bishop told himwhat had happened in his diocese.

"It all comes from weakness of spirit and from ignorance. You are alearned man, and I rely on you. Go to the village, call the parishionerstogether, and convince them of their error."

"If your Grace bids me go, and you give me your blessing, I will do mybest," said Father Missael. He was very pleased with the task entrustedto him. Every opportunity he could find to demonstrate the firmness ofhis faith was a boon to him. In trying to convince others he was chieflyintent on persuading himself that he was really a firm believer.

"Do your best. I am greatly distressed about my flock," said the bishop,leisurely taking a cup with his white plump hands from the servant whobrought in the tea.

"Why is there only one kind of jam? Bring another," he said to theservant. "I am greatly distressed," he went on, turning to FatherMissael.

Missael earnestly desired to prove his zeal; but, being a man of smallmeans, he asked to be paid for the expenses of his journey; and beingafraid of the rough people who might be ill-dis-posed towards him,he also asked the bishop to get him an order from the governor of theprovince, so that the local police might help him in case of need. Thebishop complied with his wishes, and Missael got his things ready withthe help of his servant and his cook. They furnished him with a casefull of wine, and a basket with the victuals he might need in going tosuch a lonely place. Fully provided with all he wanted, he started forthe village to which he was commissioned. He was pleasantly conscious ofthe importance of his mission. All his doubts as to his own faith passedaway, and he was now fully convinced of its reality.

His thoughts, far from being concerned with the real foundation of hiscreed--this was accepted as an axiom--were occupied with the argumentsused against the forms of worship.

THE village priest and his wife received Father Missael with greathonours, and the next day after he had arrived the parishioners wereinvited to assemble in the church. Missael in a new silk cassock, witha large cross on his chest, and his long hair carefully combed, ascendedthe pulpit; the priest stood at his side, the deacons and the choir ata little distance behind him, and the side entrances were guarded by thepolice. The dissenters also came in their dirty sheepskin coats.

After the service Missael delivered a sermon, admonishing the dissentersto return to the bosom of their mother, the Church, threatening themwith the torments of hell, and promising full forgiveness to those whowould repent.

The dissenters kept silent at first. Then, being asked questions, theygave answers. To the question why they dissented, they said that theirchief reason was the fact that the Church worshipped gods made of wood,which, far from being ordained, were condemned by the Scriptures.

When asked by Missael whether they actually considered the holy ikons tobe mere planks of wood, Chouev answered,--"Just look at the back of anyikon you choose and you will see what they are made of."

When asked why they turned against the priests, their answer was thatthe Scripture says: "As you have received it without fee, so you mustgive it to the others; whereas the priests require payment for the gracethey bestow by the sacraments." To all attempts which Missael madeto oppose them by arguments founded on Holy Writ, the tailor and IvanChouev gave calm but very firm answers, contradicting his assertions byappeal to the Scriptures, which they knew uncommonly well.

Missael got angry and threatened them with persecution by theauthorities. Their answer was: It is said, I have been persecuted and sowill you be.

The discussion came to nothing, and all would have ended well if Missaelhad not preached the next day at mass, denouncing the wicked seducers ofthe faithful and saying that they deserved the worst punishment. Comingout of the church, the crowd of peasants began to consult whether itwould not be well to give the infidels a good lesson for disturbing theminds of the community. The same day, just when Missael was enjoyingsome salmon and gangfish, dining at the village priest's in company withthe inspector, a violent brawl arose in the village. The peasants camein a crowd to Chouev's cottage, and waited for the dissenters to comeout in order to give them a thrashing.

The dissenters assembled in the cottage numbered about twenty men andwomen. Missael's sermon and the attitude of the orthodox peasants,together with their threats, aroused in the mind of the dissenters angryfeelings, to which they had before been strangers. It was near evening,the women had to go and milk the cows, and the peasants were stillstanding and waiting at the door.

A boy who stepped out of the door was beaten and driven back into thehouse. The people within began consulting what was to be done, and couldcome to no agreement. The tailor said, "We must bear whatever is done tous, and not resist." Chouev replied that if they decided on that coursethey would, all of them, be beaten to death. In consequence, he seizeda poker and went out of the house. "Come!" he shouted, "let us follow thelaw of Moses!" And, falling upon the peasants, he knocked out one man'seye, and in the meanwhile all those who had been in his house contrivedto get out and make their way home.

Chouev was thrown into prison and charged with sedition and blasphemy.

Two years previous to those events a strong and handsome young girlof an eastern type, Katia Turchaninova, came from the Don militarysettlements to St. Petersburg to study in the university college forwomen. In that town she met a student, Turin, the son of a districtgovernor in the Simbirsk province, and fell in love with him. But herlove was not of the ordinary type, and she had no desire to become hiswife and the mother of his children. He was a dear comrade to her, andtheir chief bond of union was a feeling of revolt they had in common,as well as the hatred they bore, not only to the existing forms ofgovernment, but to all those who represented that government. Theyhad also in common the sense that they both excelled their enemiesin culture, in brains, as well as in morals. Katia Turchaninova was agifted girl, possessed of a good memory, by means of which sheeasily mastered the lectures she attended. She was successful in herexaminations, and, apart from that, read all the newest books. She wascertain that her vocation was not to bear and rear children, and evenlooked on such a task with disgust and contempt. She thought herselfchosen by destiny to destroy the present government, which was fetteringthe best abilities of the nation, and to reveal to the people a higherstandard of life, inculcated by the latest writers of other countries.She was handsome, a little inclined to stoutness: she had a goodcomplexion, shining black eyes, abundant black hair. She inspired themen she knew with feelings she neither wished nor had time to share,busy as she was with propaganda work, which consisted chiefly in meretalking. She was not displeased, however, to inspire these feelings;and, without dressing too smartly, did not neglect her appearance. Sheliked to be admired, as it gave her opportunities of showing how littleshe prized what was valued so highly by other women.

In her views concerning the method of fighting the government she wentfurther than the majority of her comrades, and than her friend Turin;all means, she taught, were justified in such a struggle, not excludingmurder. And yet, with all her revolutionary ideas, Katia Turchaninovawas in her soul a very kind girl, ready to sacrifice herself for thewelfare and the happiness of other people, and sincerely pleased whenshe could do a kindness to anybody, a child, an old person, or ananimal.

She went in the summer to stay with a friend, a schoolmistress ina small town on the river Volga. Turin lived near that town, on hisfather's estate. He often came to see the two girls; they gave eachother books to read, and had long discussions, expressing their commonindignation with the state of affairs in the country. The districtdoctor, a friend of theirs, used also to join them on many occasions.

The estate of the Turins was situated in the neighbourhood of theLiventsov estate, the one that was entrusted to the management of PeterNikolaevich Sventizky. Soon after Peter Nikolaevich had settled there,and begun to enforce order, young Turin, having observed an independenttendency in the peasants on the Liventsov estate, as well as theirdetermination to uphold their rights, became interested in them. He cameoften to the village to talk with the men, and developed his socialistictheories, insisting particularly on the nationalisation of the land.

After Peter Nikolaevich had been murdered, and the murderers sentto trial, the revolutionary group of the small town boiled over withindignation, and did not shrink from openly expressing it. The factof Turin's visits to the village and his propaganda work among thestudents, became known to the authorities during the trial. A search wasmade in his house; and, as the police found a few revolutionary leafletsamong his effects, he was arrested and transferred to prison in St.Petersburg.

Katia Turchaninova followed him to the metropolis, and went to visithim in prison. She was not admitted on the day she came, and was told tocome on the day fixed by regulations for visits to the prisoners. Whenthat day arrived, and she was finally allowed to see him, she hadto talk to him through two gratings separating the prisoner from hisvisitor. This visit increased her indignation against the authorities.And her feelings become all the more revolutionary after a visit shepaid to the office of a gendarme officer who had to deal with the Turincase. The officer, a handsome man, seemed obviously disposed to granther exceptional favours in visiting the prisoner, if she would allow himto make love to her. Disgusted with him, she appealed to the chief ofpolice. He pretended--just as the officer did when talking officiallyto her--to be powerless himself, and to depend entirely on orders comingfrom the minister of state. She sent a petition to the minister askingfor an interview, which was refused.

Then she resolved to do a desperate thing and bought a revolver.

THE minister was receiving petitioners at the usual hour appointed forthe reception. He had talked successively to three of them, and now apretty young woman with black eyes, who was holding a petition in herleft hand, approached. The minister's eyes gleamed when he saw howattractive the petitioner was, but recollecting his high position he puton a serious face.

"What do you want?" he asked, coming down to where she stood. Withoutanswering his question the young woman quickly drew a revolver fromunder her cloak and aiming it at the minister's chest fired--but missedhim.

The minister rushed at her, trying to seize her hand, but she escaped,and taking a step back, fired a second time. The minister ran out of theroom. The woman was immediately seized. She was trembling violently, andcould not utter a single word; after a while she suddenly burst into ahysterical laugh. The minister was not even wounded.

That woman was Katia Turchaninova. She was put into the prison ofpreliminary detention. The minister received congratulations andmarks of sympathy from the highest quarters, and even from the emperorhimself, who appointed a commission to investigate the plot that had ledto the attempted assassination. As a matter of fact there was no plotwhatever, but the police officials and the detectives set to workwith the utmost zeal to discover all the threads of the non-existingconspiracy. They did everything to deserve the fees they were paid;they got up in the small hours of the morning, searched one house afteranother, took copies of papers and of books they found, read diaries,personal letters, made extracts from them on the very best notepaper andin beautiful handwriting, interrogated Katia Turchaninova ever somany times, and confronted her with all those whom they suspected ofconspiracy, in order to extort from her the names of her accomplices.

The minister, a good-natured man at heart, was sincerely sorry for thepretty girl. But he said to himself that he was bound to consider hishigh state duties imposed upon him, even though they did not imply muchwork and trouble. So, when his former colleague, a chamberlain and afriend of the Turins, met him at a court ball and tried to rouse hispity for Turin and the girl Turchaninova, he shrugged his shoulders,stretching the red ribbon on his white waistcoat, and said: "Je nedemanderais pas mieux que de relacher cette pauvre fillette, mais voussavez le devoir." And in the meantime Katia Turchaninova was keptin prison. She was at times in a quiet mood, communicated with herfellow-prisoners by knocking on the walls, and read the books that weresent to her. But then came days when she had fits of desperate fury,knocking with her fists against the wall, screaming and laughing like amad-woman.

ONE day Maria sem*novna came home from the treasurer's office, where shehad received her pension. On her way she met a schoolmaster, a friend ofhers.

"Good day, Maria sem*novna! Have you received your money?" theschoolmaster asked, in a loud voice from the other side of the street.

"I have," answered Maria sem*novna. "But it was not much; just enough tofill the holes."

"Oh, there must be some tidy pickings out of such a lot of money," saidthe schoolmaster, and passed on, after having said good-bye.

"Good-bye," said Maria sem*novna. While she was looking at her friend,she met a tall man face to face, who had very long arms and a stern lookin his eyes. Coming to her house, she was very startled on again seeingthe same man with the long arms, who had evidently followed her. Heremained standing another moment after she had gone in, then turned andwalked away.

Maria sem*novna felt somewhat frightened at first. But when she hadentered the house, and had given her father and her nephew Fedia thepresents she had brought for them, and she had patted the dog Treasure,who whined with joy, she forgot her fears. She gave the money to herfather and began to work, as there was always plenty for her to do.

The man she met face to face was Stepan.

After he had killed the innkeeper, he did not return to town. Strange tosay, he was not sorry to have committed that murder. His mind went backto the murdered man over and over again during the following day; andhe liked the recollection of having done the thing so skilfully, socleverly, that nobody-would ever discover it, and he would not thereforebe prevented from murdering other people in the same way. Sitting in thepublic-house and having his tea, he looked at the people around him withthe same thought how he should murder them. In the evening he called ata carter's, a man from his village, to spend the night at his house. Thecarter was not in. He said he would wait for him, and in the meanwhilebegan talking to the carter's wife. But when she moved to the stove,with her back turned to him, the idea entered his mind to kill her. Hemarvelled at himself at first, and shook his head; but the next momenthe seized the knife he had hidden in his boot, knocked the woman downon the floor, and cut her throat. When the children began to scream, hekilled them also and went away. He did not look out for another place tospend the night, but at once left the town. In a village some distanceaway he went to the inn and slept there. The next day he returned to thedistrict town, and there he overheard in the street Maria sem*novna'stalk with the schoolmaster. Her look frightened him, but yet he madeup his mind to creep into her house, and rob her of the money she hadreceived. When the night came he broke the lock and entered the house.The first person who heard his steps was the younger daughter, themarried one. She screamed. Stepan stabbed her immediately with hisknife. Her husband woke up and fell upon Stepan, seized him by histhroat, and struggled with him desperately. But Stepan was the strongerman and overpowered him. After murdering him, Stepan, excited by thelong fight, stepped into the next room behind a partition. That wasMaria sem*novna's bedroom. She rose in her bed, looked at Stepan withher mild frightened eyes, and crossed herself.

Once more her look scared Stepan. He dropped his eyes.

"Where is your money?" he asked, without raising his face.

She did not answer.

"Where is the money?" asked Stepan again, showing her his knife.

"How can you . . ." she said.

"You will see how."

Stepan came close to her, in order to seize her hands and prevent herstruggling with him, but she did not even try to lift her arms or offerany resistance; she pressed her hands to her chest, and sighed heavily.

"Oh, what a great sin!" she cried. "How can you! Have mercy on yourself.To destroy somebody's soul . . . and worse, your own! . . ."

Stepan could not stand her voice any longer, and drew his knife sharplyacross her throat. "Stop that talk!" he said. She fell back with ahoarse cry, and the pillow was stained with blood. He turned away, andwent round the rooms in order to collect all he thought worth taking.Having made a bundle of the most valuable things, he lighted acigarette, sat down for a while, brushed his clothes, and left thehouse. He thought this murder would not matter to him more than thosehe had committed before; but before he got a night's lodging, he feltsuddenly so exhausted that he could not walk any farther. He steppeddown into the gutter and remained lying there the rest of the night, andthe next day and the next night.

THE whole time he was lying in the gutter Stepan saw continually beforehis eyes the thin, kindly, and frightened face of Maria sem*novna,and seemed to hear her voice. "How can you?" she went on saying in hisimagination, with her peculiar lisping voice. Stepan saw over againand over again before him all he had done to her. In horror he shuthis eyes, and shook his hairy head, to drive away these thoughts andrecollections. For a moment he would get rid of them, but in theirplace horrid black faces with red eyes appeared and frightened himcontinuously. They grinned at him, and kept repeating, "Now you havedone away with her you must do away with yourself, or we will not leaveyou alone." He opened his eyes, and again he saw HER and heard hervoice; and felt an immense pity for her and a deep horror anddisgust with himself. Once more he shut his eyes, and the black facesreappeared. Towards the evening of the next day he rose and went, withhardly any strength left, to a public-house. There he ordered a drink,and repeated his demands over and over again, but no quantity of liquorcould make him intoxicated. He was sitting at a table, and swallowedsilently one glass after another.

A police officer came in. "Who are you?" he asked Stepan.

"I am the man who murdered all the Dobrotvorov people last night," heanswered.

He was arrested, bound with ropes, and brought to the nearestpolice-station; the next day he was transferred to the prison in thetown. The inspector of the prison recognised him as an old inmate, and avery turbulent one; and, hearing that he had now become a real criminal,accosted him very harshly.

"You had better be quiet here," he said in a hoarse voice, frowning, andprotruding his lower jaw. "The moment you don't behave, I'll flog you todeath! Don't try to escape--I will see to that!"

"I have no desire to escape," said Stepan, dropping his eyes. "Isurrendered of my own free will."

"Shut up! You must look straight into your superior's eyes when you talkto him," cried the inspector, and struck Stepan with his fist under thejaw.

At that moment Stepan again saw the murdered woman before him, andheard her voice; he did not pay attention, therefore, to the inspector'swords.

"What?" he asked, coming to his senses when he felt the blow on hisface.

"Be off! Don't pretend you don't hear."

The inspector expected Stepan to be violent, to talk to the otherprisoners, to make attempts to escape from prison. But nothing of thekind ever happened. Whenever the guard or the inspector himself lookedinto his cell through the hole in the door, they saw Stepan sitting on abag filled with straw, holding his head with his hands and whispering tohimself. On being brought before the examining magistrate charged withthe inquiry into his case, he did not behave like an ordinary convict.He was very absent-minded, hardly listening to the questions; but whenhe heard what was asked, he answered truthfully, causing the utmostperplexity to the magistrate, who, accustomed as he was to the necessityof being very clever and very cunning with convicts, felt a strangesensation just as if he were lifting up his foot to ascend a step andfound none. Stepan told him the story of all his murders; and did itfrowning, with a set look, in a quiet, businesslike voice, trying torecollect all the circ*mstances of his crimes. "He stepped out of thehouse," said Stepan, telling the tale of his first murder, "and stoodbarefooted at the door; I hit him, and he just groaned; I went to hiswife, . . ." And so on.

One day the magistrate, visiting the prison cells, asked Stepan whetherthere was anything he had to complain of, or whether he had any wishesthat might be granted him. Stepan said he had no wishes whatever,and had nothing to complain of the way he was treated in prison. Themagistrate, on leaving him, took a few steps in the foul passage, thenstopped and asked the governor who had accompanied him in his visit howthis prisoner was behaving.

"I simply wonder at him," said the governor, who was very pleased withStepan, and spoke kindly of him. "He has now been with us about twomonths, and could be held up as a model of good behaviour. But Iam afraid he is plotting some mischief. He is a daring man, andexceptionally strong."

DURING the first month in prison Stepan suffered from the same agonisingvision. He saw the grey wall of his cell, he heard the sounds of theprison; the noise of the cell below him, where a number of convicts wereconfined together; the striking of the prison clock; the steps of thesentry in the passage; but at the same time he saw HER with that kindlyface which conquered his heart the very first time he met her in thestreet, with that thin, strongly-marked neck, and he heard her soft,lisping, pathetic voice: "To destroy somebody's soul . . . and, worst ofall, your own. . . . How can you? . . ."

After a while her voice would die away, and then black faces wouldappear. They would appear whether he had his eyes open or shut. With hisclosed eyes he saw them more distinctly. When he opened his eyes theyvanished for a moment, melting away into the walls and the door; butafter a while they reappeared and surrounded him from three sides,grinning at him and saying over and over: "Make an end! Make an end!Hang yourself! Set yourself on fire!" Stepan shook all over when heheard that, and tried to say all the prayers he knew: "Our Lady" or "OurFather." At first this seemed to help. In saying his prayers he began torecollect his whole life; his father, his mother, the village, the dog"Wolf," the old grandfather lying on the stove, the bench on which thechildren used to play; then the girls in the village with their songs,his horses and how they had been stolen, and how the thief was caughtand how he killed him with a stone. He recollected also the first prisonhe was in and his leaving it, and the fat innkeeper, the carter's wifeand the children. Then again SHE came to his mind and again he wasterrified. Throwing his prison overcoat off his shoulders, he jumped outof bed, and, like a wild animal in a cage, began pacing up and down histiny cell, hastily turning round when he had reached the damp walls.Once more he tried to pray, but it was of no use now.

The autumn came with its long nights. One evening when the wind whistledand howled in the pipes, Stepan, after he had paced up and down his cellfor a long time, sat down on his bed. He felt he could not struggle anymore; the black demons had overpowered him, and he had to submit. Forsome time he had been looking at the funnel of the oven. If he could fixon the knob of its lid a loop made of thin shreds of narrow linen strapsit would hold. . . . But he would have to manage it very cleverly. Heset to work, and spent two days in making straps out of the linen bagon which he slept. When the guard came into the cell he covered thebed with his overcoat. He tied the straps with big knots and made themdouble, in order that they might be strong enough to hold his weight.During these preparations he was free from tormenting visions. When thestraps were ready he made a slip-knot out of them, and put it round hisneck, stood up in his bed, and hanged himself. But at the very momentthat his tongue began to protrude the straps got loose, and he felldown. The guard rushed in at the noise. The doctor was called in, Stepanwas brought to the infirmary. The next day he recovered, and was removedfrom the infirmary, no more to solitary confinement, but to share thecommon cell with other prisoners.

In the common cell he lived in the company of twenty men, but felt as ifhe were quite alone. He did not notice the presence of the rest; did notspeak to anybody, and was tormented by the old agony. He felt it most ofall when the men were sleeping and he alone could not get one moment ofsleep. Continually he saw HER before his eyes, heard her voice, and thenagain the black devils with their horrible eyes came and tortured him inthe usual way.

He again tried to say his prayers, but, just as before, it did not helphim. One day when, after his prayers, she was again before his eyes, hebegan to implore her dear soul to forgive him his sin, and release him.Towards morning, when he fell down quite exhausted on his crushed linenbag, he fell asleep at once, and in his dream she came to him with herthin, wrinkled, and severed neck. "Will you forgive me?" he asked. Shelooked at him with her mild eyes and did not answer. "Will you forgiveme?" And so he asked her three times. But she did not say a word, andhe awoke. From that time onwards he suffered less, and seemed to come tohis senses, looked around him, and began for the first time to talk tothe other men in the cell.

STEPAN'S cell was shared among others by the former yard-porter,Vassily, who had been sentenced to deportation for robbery, and byChouev, sentenced also to deportation. Vassily sang songs the whole daylong with his fine voice, or told his adventures to the other men in thecell. Chouev was working at something all day, mending his clothes, orreading the Gospel and the Psalter.

Stepan asked him why he was put into prison, and Chouev answered that hewas being persecuted because of his true Christian faith by the priests,who were all of them hypocrites and hated those who followed the law ofChrist. Stepan asked what that true law was, and Chouev made clear tohim that the true law consists in not worshipping gods made with hands,but worshipping the spirit and the truth. He told him how he had learntthe truth from the lame tailor at the time when they were dividing theland.

"And what will become of those who have done evil?" asked Stepan.

"The Scriptures give an answer to that," said Chouev, and read aloud tohim Matthew xxv. 31:--"When the Son of Man shall come in His glory, andall the holy angels with Him, then shall He sit upon the throne ofHis glory: and before Him shall be gathered all nations: and He shallseparate them one from another, as a shepherd divideth His sheep fromthe goats: and He shall set the sheep on His right hand, but the goatson the left. Then shall the King say unto them on His right hand, Come,ye blessed of My Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from thefoundation of the world: for I was an hungred, and ye gave Me meat: Iwas thirsty, and ye gave Me drink: I was a stranger, and ye took Mein: naked, and ye clothed Me: I was sick, and ye visited Me: I wasin prison, and ye came unto Me. Then shall the righteous answer Him,saying, Lord, when saw we Thee an hungred, and fed Thee? or thirsty,and gave Thee drink? When saw we Thee a stranger, and took Thee in? ornaked, and clothed Thee? Or when saw we Thee sick, or in prison, andcame unto Thee? And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily Isay unto you, inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of theseMy brethren, ye have done it unto Me. Then shall He say also unto themon the left hand, Depart from Me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire,prepared for the devil and his angels: for I was an hungred, and ye gaveMe no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave Me no drink: I was a stranger andye took Me not in: naked, and ye clothed Me not; sick, and in prison,and ye visited Me not. Then shall they also answer Him, saying, Lord,when saw we Thee an hungred, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, orsick, or in prison, and did not minister unto Thee? Then shall He answerthem, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to oneof the least of these, ye did it not to Me. And these shall go away intoeverlasting punishment: but the righteous into life eternal."

Vassily, who was sitting on the floor at Chouev's side, and waslistening to his reading the Gospel, nodded his handsome head inapproval. "True," he said in a resolute tone. "Go, you cursed villains,into everlasting punishment, since you did not give food to the hungry,but swallowed it all yourself. Serves them right! I have read the holyNikodim's writings," he added, showing off his erudition.

"And will they never be pardoned?" asked Stepan, who had listenedsilently, with his hairy head bent low down.

"Wait a moment, and be silent," said Chouev to Vassily, who went ontalking about the rich who had not given meat to the stranger, norvisited him in the prison.

"Wait, I say!" said Chouev, again turning over the leaves of the Gospel.Having found what he was looking for, Chouev smoothed the page with hislarge and strong hand, which had become exceedingly white in prison:

"And there were also two other malefactors, led with Him"--it means withChrist--"to be put to death. And when they were come to the place, whichis called Calvary, there they crucified Him, and the malefactors, oneon the right hand, and the other on the left. Then said Jesus,--'Father,forgive them; for they know not what they do.' And the people stoodbeholding. And the rulers also with them derided Him, saying,--'He savedothers; let Him save Himself if He be Christ, the chosen of God.' Andthe soldiers also mocked Him, coming to Him, and offering Him vinegar,and saying, 'If Thou be the King of the Jews save Thyself.' And asuperscription also was written over Him in letters of Greek, and Latin,and Hebrew, 'This is the King of the Jews.' And one of the malefactorswhich were hanged railed on Him, saying, 'If thou be Christ, saveThyself and us.' But the other answering rebuked Him, saying, 'Dost notthou fear God, seeing thou art in the same condemnation? And we indeedjustly, for we receive the due reward of our deeds: but this man hathdone nothing amiss.' And he said unto Jesus, 'Lord, remember me whenThou comest into Thy kingdom.' And Jesus said unto him, 'Verily I sayunto thee, to-day shalt thou be with Me in paradise.'"

Stepan did not say anything, and was sitting in thought, as if he werelistening.

Now he knew what the true faith was. Those only will be saved who havegiven food and drink to the poor and visited the prisoners; those whohave not done it, go to hell. And yet the malefactor had repented onthe cross, and went nevertheless to paradise. This did not strike him asbeing inconsistent. Quite the contrary. The one confirmed the other: thefact that the merciful will go to Heaven, and the unmerciful to hell,meant that everybody ought to be merciful, and the malefactor havingbeen forgiven by Christ meant that Christ was merciful. This was all newto Stepan, and he wondered why it had been hidden from him so long.

From that day onward he spent all his free time with Chouev, asking himquestions and listening to him. He saw but a single truth at the bottomof the teaching of Christ as revealed to him by Chouev: that all men arebrethren, and that they ought to love and pity one another in order thatall might be happy. And when he listened to Chouev, everything that wasconsistent with this fundamental truth came to him like a thing he hadknown before and only forgotten since, while whatever he heard thatseemed to contradict it, he would take no notice of, as he thought thathe simply had not understood the real meaning. And from that time Stepanwas a different man.

STEPAN had been very submissive and meek ever since he came tothe prison, but now he made the prison authorities and all hisfellow-prisoners wonder at the change in him. Without being ordered, andout of his proper turn he would do all the very hardest work in prison,and the dirtiest too. But in spite of his humility, the other prisonersstood in awe of him, and were afraid of him, as they knew he was aresolute man, possessed of great physical strength. Their respect forhim increased after the incident of the two tramps who fell upon him; hewrenched himself loose from them and broke the arm of one of them in thefight. These tramps had gambled with a young prisoner of some means anddeprived him of all his money. Stepan took his part, and deprived thetramps of their winnings. The tramps poured their abuse on him; but whenthey attacked him, he got the better of them. When the Governor askedhow the fight had come about, the tramps declared that it was Stepanwho had begun it. Stepan did not try to exculpate himself, and borepatiently his sentence which was three days in the punishment-cell, andafter that solitary confinement.

In his solitary cell he suffered because he could no longer listen toChouev and his Gospel. He was also afraid that the former visions of HERand of the black devils would reappear to torment him. But the visionswere gone for good. His soul was full of new and happy ideas. He feltglad to be alone if only he could read, and if he had the Gospel. Heknew that he might have got hold of the Gospel, but he could not read.

He had started to learn the alphabet in his boyhood, but could not graspthe joining of the syllables, and remained illiterate. He made uphis mind to start reading anew, and asked the guard to bring him theGospels. They were brought to him, and he sat down to work. He contrivedto recollect the letters, but could not join them into syllables. Hetried as hard as he could to understand how the letters ought to be puttogether to form words, but with no result whatever. He lost his sleep,had no desire to eat, and a deep sadness came over him, which he wasunable to shake off.

"Well, have you not yet mastered it?" asked the guard one day.

"No."

"Do you know 'Our Father'?"

"I do."

"Since you do, read it in the Gospels. Here it is," said the guard,showing him the prayer in the Gospels. Stepan began to read it,comparing the letters he knew with the familiar sounds.

And all of a sudden the mystery of the syllables was revealed to him,and he began to read. This was a great joy. From that moment he couldread, and the meaning of the words, spelt out with such great pains,became more significant.

Stepan did not mind any more being alone. He was so full of his workthat he did not feel glad when he was transferred back to the commoncell, his private cell being needed for a political prisoner who hadbeen just sent to prison.

IN the meantime Mahin, the schoolboy who had taught his friendSmokovnikov to forge the coupon, had finished his career at school andthen at the university, where he had studied law. He had the advantageof being liked by women, and as he had won favour with a vice-minister'sformer mistress, he was appointed when still young as examiningmagistrate. He was dishonest, had debts, had gambled, and had seducedmany women; but he was clever, sagacious, and a good magistrate. He wasappointed to the court of the district where Stepan Pelageushkinehad been tried. When Stepan was brought to him the first time to giveevidence, his sincere and quiet answers puzzled the magistrate. Hesomehow unconsciously felt that this man, brought to him in fetters andwith a shorn head, guarded by two soldiers who were waiting to takehim back to prison, had a free soul and was immeasurably superior tohimself. He was in consequence somewhat troubled, and had to summon upall his courage in order to go on with the inquiry and not blunder inhis questions. He was amazed that Stepan should narrate the story of hiscrimes as if they had been things of long ago, and committed not by himbut by some different man.

"Had you no pity for them?" asked Mahin.

"No. I did not know then."

"Well, and now?"

Stepan smiled with a sad smile. "Now," he said, "I would not do it evenif I were to be burned alive."

"But why?

"Because I have come to know that all men are brethren."

"What about me? Am I your brother also?"

"Of course you are."

"And how is it that I, your brother, am sending you to hard labour?"

"It is because you don't know."

"What do I not know?"

"Since you judge, it means obviously that you don't know."

"Go on. . . . What next?"

Now it was not Chouev, but Stepan who used to read the gospel in thecommon cell. Some of the prisoners were singing coarse songs, whileothers listened to Stepan reading the gospel and talking about what hehad read. The most attentive among those who listened were two of theprisoners, Vassily, and a convict called Mahorkin, a murderer who hadbecome a hangman. Twice during his stay in this prison he was calledupon to do duty as hangman, and both times in far-away places wherenobody could be found to execute the sentences.

Two of the peasants who had killed Peter Nikolaevich Sventizky, had beensentenced to the gallows, and Mahorkin was ordered to go to Pensa tohang them. On all previous occasions he used to write a petition to thegovernor of the province--he knew well how to read and to write--statingthat he had been ordered to fulfil his duty, and asking for moneyfor his expenses. But now, to the greatest astonishment of the prisonauthorities, he said he did not intend to go, and added that he wouldnot be a hangman any more.

"And what about being flogged?" cried the governor of the prison.

"I will have to bear it, as the law commands us not to kill."

"Did you get that from Pelageushkine? A nice sort of a prison prophet!You just wait and see what this will cost you!"

When Mahin was told of that incident, he was greatly impressed by thefact of Stepan's influence on the hangman, who refused to do his duty,running the risk of being hanged himself for insubordination.

AT an evening party at the Eropkins, Mahin, who was paying attentionsto the two young daughters of the house--they were rich matches, both ofthem--having earned great applause for his fine singing and playingthe piano, began telling the company about the strange convict who hadconverted the hangman. Mahin told his story very accurately, as he had avery good memory, which was all the more retentive because of histotal indifference to those with whom he had to deal. He never paid theslightest attention to other people's feelings, and was therefore betterable to keep all they did or said in his memory. He got interested inStepan Pelageushkine, and, although he did not thoroughly understandhim, yet asked himself involuntarily what was the matter with theman? He could not find an answer, but feeling that there was certainlysomething remarkable going on in Stepan's soul, he told the companyat the Eropkins all about Stepan's conversion of the hangman, and alsoabout his strange behaviour in prison, his reading the Gospels and hisgreat influence on the rest of the prisoners. All this made a specialimpression on the younger daughter of the family, Lisa, a girl ofeighteen, who was just recovering from the artificial life she hadbeen living in a boarding-school; she felt as if she had emerged out ofwater, and was taking in the fresh air of true life with ecstasy. Sheasked Mahin to tell her more about the man Pelageushkine, and to explainto her how such a great change had come over him. Mahin told her what heknew from the police official about Stepan's last murder, and also whathe had heard from Pelageushkine himself--how he had been conquered bythe humility, mildness, and fearlessness of a kind woman, who had beenhis last victim, and how his eyes had been opened, while the reading ofthe Gospels had completed the change in him.

Lisa Eropkin was not able to sleep that night. For a couple of months astruggle had gone on in her heart between society life, into which hersister was dragging her, and her infatuation for Mahin, combined witha desire to reform him. This second desire now became the stronger. Shehad already heard about poor Maria sem*novna. But, after that kind womanhad been murdered in such a ghastly way, and after Mahin, who learntit from Stepan, had communicated to her all the facts concerning Mariasem*novna's life, Lisa herself passionately desired to become like her.She was a rich girl, and was afraid that Mahin had been courting herbecause of her money. So she resolved to give all she possessed to thepoor, and told Mahin about it.

Mahin was very glad to prove his disinterestedness, and told Lisa thathe loved her and not her money. Such proof of his innate nobility madehim admire himself greatly. Mahin helped Lisa to carry out her decision.And the more he did so, the more he came to realise the new world ofLisa's spiritual ambitions, quite unknown to him heretofore.

ALL were silent in the common cell. Stepan was lying in his bed, butwas not yet asleep. Vassily approached him, and, pulling him by his leg,asked him in a whisper to get up and to come to him. Stepan stepped outof his bed, and came up to Vassily.

"Do me a kindness, brother," said Vassily. "Help me!"

"In what?"

"I am going to fly from the prison."

Vassily told Stepan that he had everything ready for his flight.

"To-morrow I shall stir them up--" He pointed to the prisoners asleep intheir beds. "They will give me away, and I shall be transferred to thecell in the upper floor. I know my way from there. What I want you foris to unscrew the prop in the door of the mortuary." "I can do that. Butwhere will you go?"

"I don't care where. Are not there plenty of wicked people in everyplace?"

"Quite so, brother. But it is not our business to judge them."

"I am not a murderer, to be sure. I have not destroyed a living soul inmy life. As for stealing, I don't see any harm in that. As if they havenot robbed us!"

"Let them answer for it themselves, if they do."

"Bother them all! Suppose I rob a church, who will be hurt? This timeI will take care not to break into a small shop, but will get hold of alot of money, and then I will help people with it. I will give it to allgood people."

One of the prisoners rose in his bed and listened. Stepan and Vassilybroke off their conversation. The next day Vassily carried out his idea.He began complaining of the bread in prison, saying it was moist, andinduced the prisoners to call the governor and to tell him of theirdiscontent. The governor came, abused them all, and when he heard itwas Vassily who had stirred up the men, he ordered him to be transferredinto solitary confinement in the cell on the upper floor. This was allVassily wanted.

VASSILY knew well that cell on the upper floor. He knew its floor, andbegan at once to take out bits of it. When he had managed to get underthe floor he took out pieces of the ceiling beneath, and jumped downinto the mortuary a floor below. That day only one corpse was lying onthe table. There in the corner of the room were stored bags to make haymattresses for the prisoners. Vassily knew about the bags, and thatwas why the mortuary served his purposes. The prop in the door had beenunscrewed and put in again. He took it out, opened the door, and wentout into the passage to the lavatory which was being built. In thelavatory was a large hole connecting the third floor with the basem*ntfloor. After having found the door of the lavatory he went back to themortuary, stripped the sheet off the dead body which was as cold as ice(in taking off the sheet Vassily touched his hand), took the bags, tiedthem together to make a rope, and carried the rope to the lavatory. Thenhe attached it to the cross-beam, and climbed down along it. The ropedid not reach the ground, but he did not know how much was wanting.Anyhow, he had to take the risk. He remained hanging in the air, andthen jumped down. His legs were badly hurt, but he could still walk on.The basem*nt had two windows; he could have climbed out of one of thembut for the grating protecting them. He had to break the grating, butthere was no tool to do it with. Vassily began to look around him, andchanced on a piece of plank with a sharp edge; armed with that weapon hetried to loosen the bricks which held the grating. He worked a long timeat that task. The co*ck crowed for the second time, but the grating stillheld. At last he had loosened one side; and then he pushed the plankunder the loosened end and pressed with all his force. The grating gaveway completely, but at that moment one of the bricks fell down heavily.The noise could have been heard by the sentry. Vassily stood motionless.But silence reigned. He climbed out of the window. His way of escape wasto climb the wall. An outhouse stood in the corner of the courtyard. Hehad to reach its roof, and pass thence to the top of the wall. But hewould not be able to reach the roof without the help of the plank; so hehad to go back through the basem*nt window to fetch it. A moment laterhe came out of the window with the plank in his hands; he stood stillfor a while listening to the steps of the sentry. His expectations werejustified. The sentry was walking up and down on the other side of thecourtyard. Vassily came up to the outhouse, leaned the plank against it,and began climbing. The plank slipped and fell on the ground. Vassilyhad his stockings on; he took them off so that he could cling with hisbare feet in coming down. Then he leaned the plank again against thehouse, and seized the water-pipe with his hands. If only this timethe plank would hold! A quick movement up the water-pipe, and his kneerested on the roof. The sentry was approaching. Vassily lay motionless.The sentry did not notice him, and passed on. Vassily leaped to hisfeet; the iron roof cracked under him. Another step or two, and he wouldreach the wall. He could touch it with his hand now. He leaned forwardwith one hand, then with the other, stretched out his body as far ashe could, and found himself on the wall. Only, not to break his legs injumping down, Vassily turned round, remained hanging in the air by hishands, stretched himself out, loosened the grip of one hand, then theother. "Help, me, God!" He was on the ground. And the ground was soft.His legs were not hurt, and he ran at the top of his speed. In a suburb,Malania opened her door, and he crept under her warm coverlet, made ofsmall pieces of different colours stitched together.

THE wife of Peter Nikolaevich Sventizky, a tall and handsome woman, asquiet and sleek as a well-fed heifer, had seen from her window how herhusband had been murdered and dragged away into the fields. The horrorof such a sight to Natalia Ivanovna was so intense--how could it beotherwise?--that all her other feelings vanished. No sooner had thecrowd disappeared from view behind the garden fence, and the voices hadbecome still; no sooner had the barefooted Malania, their servant, runin with her eyes starting out of her head, calling out in a voicemore suited to the proclamation of glad tidings the news that PeterNikolaevich had been murdered and thrown into the ravine, than NataliaIvanovna felt that behind her first sensation of horror, there wasanother sensation; a feeling of joy at her deliverance from the tyrant,who through all the nineteen years of their married life had made herwork without a moment's rest. Her joy made her aghast; she did notconfess it to herself, but hid it the more from those around. Whenhis mutilated, yellow and hairy body was being washed and put into thecoffin, she cried with horror, and wept and sobbed. When the coroner--aspecial coroner for serious cases--came and was taking her evidence, shenoticed in the room, where the inquest was taking place, two peasants inirons, who had been charged as the principal culprits. One of them wasan old man with a curly white beard, and a calm and severe countenance.The other was rather young, of a gipsy type, with bright eyes and curlydishevelled hair. She declared that they were the two men who had firstseized hold of Peter Nikolaevich's hands. In spite of the gipsy-likepeasant looking at her with his eyes glistening from under his movingeyebrows, and saying reproachfully: "A great sin, lady, it is. Rememberyour death hour!"--in spite of that, she did not feel at all sorry forthem. On the contrary, she began to hate them during the inquest, andwished desperately to take revenge on her husband's murderers.

A month later, after the case, which was committed for trial bycourt-martial, had ended in eight men being sentenced to hard labour,and in two--the old man with the white beard, and the gipsy boy, as shecalled the other--being condemned to be hanged, Natalia felt vaguelyuneasy. But unpleasant doubts soon pass away under the solemnity of atrial. Since such high authorities considered that this was the rightthing to do, it must be right.

The execution was to take place in the village itself. One SundayMalania came home from church in her new dress and her new boots, andannounced to her mistress that the gallows were being erected, and thatthe hangman was expected from Moscow on Wednesday. She also announcedthat the families of the convicts were raging, and that their criescould be heard all over the village.

Natalia Ivanovna did not go out of her house; she did not wish to seethe gallows and the people in the village; she only wanted what had tohappen to be over quickly. She only considered her own feelings, and didnot care for the convicts and their families.

On Tuesday the village constable called on Natalia Ivanovna. He was afriend, and she offered him vodka and preserved mushrooms of herown making. The constable, after eating a little, told her that theexecution 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 theGospels a good deal and says: 'I will not commit a murder.' He hadhimself been sentenced to hard labour for having committed a murder, andnow he objects to hang when the law orders him. He was threatened withflogging. 'You may flog me,' he said, 'but I won't do it.'"

Natalia Ivanovna grew red and hot at the thought which suddenly cameinto her head.

"Could not the death sentence be commuted now?"

"How so, since the judges have passed it? The Czar alone has the rightof 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 preferringto take the flogging instead, suddenly changed the soul of NataliaIvanovna. The pity and the horror she felt the moment she heard that thepeasants were sentenced to death, could not be stifled now, but filledher whole soul.

"Filip Vassilievich, my friend. Write that telegram for me. I want toappeal to the Czar to pardon them."

The constable shook his head. "I wonder whether that would not involveus 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 ImperialMajesty, the Emperor. Your Majesty's loyal subject, the widow of PeterNikolaevich Sventizky, murdered by the peasants, throws herself at thesacred feet (this sentence, when he wrote it down, pleased the constablehimself most of all) of your Imperial Majesty, and implores you to grantan 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 Ivanovnafelt relieved and happy. She had a feeling that since she, the widow ofthe murdered man, had forgiven the murderers, and was applying for anamnesty, the Czar could not possibly refuse it.

LISA EROPKIN lived in a state of continual excitement. The longer shelived a true Christian life as it had been revealed to her, the moreconvinced she became that it was the right way, and her heart was fullof 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 goodand kind. She loved him, and the light of her love revealed the divineelement 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 anoble mind. Her other aim was to abandon her riches. She had firstthought of giving away what she possessed in order to test Mahin; butafterwards she wanted to do so for her own sake, for the sake of her ownsoul. She began by simply giving money to any one who wanted it. But herfather stopped that; besides which, she felt disgusted at the crowd ofsupplicants who personally, and by letters, besieged her with demandsfor money. Then she resolved to apply to an old man, known to be asaint by his life, and to give him her money to dispose of in the wayhe thought best. Her father got angry with her when he heard about it.During a violent altercation he called her mad, a raving lunatic, andsaid he would take measures to prevent her from doing injury to herself.

Her father's irritation proved contagious. Losing all controlover herself, and sobbing with rage, she behaved with the greatestimpertinence 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 notforgive her. She did not feel inclined to tell Mahin about her quarrelwith her father; as to her sister, she was very cold to Lisa, beingjealous of Mahin's love for her.

"I ought to confess to God," she said to herself. As all this happenedin Lent, she made up her mind to fast in preparation for the communion,and to reveal all her thoughts to the father confessor, asking hisadvice as to what she ought to decide for the future.

At a small distance from her town a monastery was situated, where an oldmonk lived who had gained a great reputation by his holy life, by hissermons and prophecies, as well as by the marvellous cures ascribed tohim.

The monk had received a letter from Lisa's father announcing the visitof his daughter, and telling him in what a state of excitement the younggirl was. He also expressed the hope in that letter that the monk wouldinfluence her in the right way, urging her not to depart from the goldenmean, and to live like a good Christian without trying to upset thepresent conditions of her life.

The monk received Lisa after he had seen many other people, and beingvery tired, began by quietly recommending her to be modest and to submitto her present conditions of life and to her parents. Lisa listenedsilently, blushing and flushed with excitement. When he had finishedadmonishing her, she began saying with tears in her eyes, timidlyat 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 whenadmonishing his penitents; but after a while he remained silent,repeating with heavy sighs, "O God!" Then he said, "Well, come toconfession to-morrow," and blessed her with his wrinkled hands.

The next day Lisa came to confession, and without renewing theirinterrupted conversation, he absolved her and refused to dispose of herfortune, giving no reasons for doing so.

Lisa's purity, her devotion to God and her ardent soul, impressed themonk deeply. He had desired long ago to renounce the world entirely; butthe brotherhood, which drew a large income from his work as a preacher,insisted on his continuing his activity. He gave way, although he had avague feeling that he was in a false position. It was rumoured that hewas a miracle-working saint, whereas in reality he was a weak man, proudof 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 towhat 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 hisown sins and those of the world, and urging all to repent.

From that day he preached every fortnight, and his sermons attractedincreasing audiences. His fame as a preacher spread abroad. His sermonswere extraordinarily fearless and sincere, and deeply impressed all wholistened to him.

VASSILY was actually carrying out the object he had in leaving theprison. With the help of a few friends he broke into the house of therich merchant Krasnopuzov, whom he knew to be a miser and a debauchee.Vassily took out of his writing-desk thirty thousand roubles, and begandisposing of them as he thought right. He even gave up drink, so asnot 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 doingthis all without ever revealing himself to those he helped; his onlydesire was to distribute his money in the right way. As he also gavebribes 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 totrial, he confessed with pride that he had robbed the fat merchant. "Themoney," he said, "was lying idle in that fool's desk, and he did noteven know how much he had, whereas I have put it into circulation andhelped a lot of good people."

The counsel for the defence spoke with such good humour and kindnessthat the jury felt inclined to discharge Vassily, but sentenced himnevertheless to confinement in prison. He thanked the jury, and assuredthem that he would find his way out of prison before long.

NATALIA IVANOVNA SVENTIZKY'S telegram proved useless. The committeeappointed to deal with the petitions in the Emperor's name, decided noteven to make a report to the Czar. But one day when the Sventizky casewas discussed at the Emperor's luncheon-table, the chairman of thecommittee, who was present, mentioned the telegram which had beenreceived from Sventizky's widow.

"C'est tres gentil de sa part," said one of the ladies of the imperialfamily.

The Emperor sighed, shrugged his shoulders, adorned with epaulettes."The law," he said; and raised his glass for the groom of the chamber topour out some Moselle.

All those present pretended to admire the wisdom of the sovereign'swords. There was no further question about the telegram. The twopeasants, the old man and the young boy, were hanged by a Tartar hangmanfrom Kazan, a cruel convict and a murderer.

The old man's wife wanted to dress the body of her husband in a whiteshirt, with white bands which serve as stockings, and new boots, but shewas not allowed to do so. The two men were buried together in the samepit 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, andordered the hermit Isidor to be invited.

All the generals, and other high officials, assembled in the church ofthe imperial palace; it was an event to hear the famous preacher.

A thin and grey old man appeared, looked at those present, and said: "Inthe 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. "Ildevient de plus en plus aggressif," as the Empress put it afterwards. Hefulminated against every one. He spoke about the executions andcharged the government with having made so many necessary. How can thegovernment of a Christian country kill men?

Everybody looked at everybody else, thinking of the bad taste of thesermon, 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 tocall on him.

After Isidor had had a talk with the metropolitan and with theattorney-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 thatfriary was now Father Missael.

EVERY one tried to look as if Isidor's sermon contained nothingunpleasant, and nobody mentioned it. It seemed to the Czar that thehermit's words had not made any impression on himself; but once or twiceduring that day he caught himself thinking of the two peasants who hadbeen hanged, and the widow of Sventizky who had asked an amnesty forthem. That day the Emperor had to be present at a parade; after which hewent out for a drive; a reception of ministers came next, then dinner,after dinner the theatre. As usual, the Czar fell asleep the moment hishead touched the pillow. In the night an awful dream awoke him: he sawgallows in a large field and corpses dangling on them; the tonguesof the corpses were protruding, and their bodies moved and shook. Andsomebody shouted, "It is you--you who have done it!" The Czar woke upbathed in perspiration and began to think. It was the first time that hehad ever thought of the responsibilities which weighed on him, and thewords of old Isidor came back to his mind. . . .

But only dimly could he see himself as a mere human being, and he couldnot consider his mere human wants and duties, because of all that wasrequired of him as Czar. As to acknowledging that human duties were moreobligatory than those of a Czar--he had not strength for that.

HAVING served his second term in the prison, Prokofy, who had formerlyworked on the Sventizky estate, was no longer the brisk, ambitious,smartly dressed fellow he had been. He seemed, on the contrary, acomplete wreck. When sober he would sit idle and would refuse to do anywork, however much his father scolded him; moreover, he was continuallyseeking to get hold of something secretly, and take it to thepublic-house for a drink. When he came home he would continue to sitidle, 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 adrink. There was nothing in the house he could lay his hand on to taketo the public-house. He put on his cap and went out. He walked along thestreet up to the house where the priest and the deacon lived together.The deacon's harrow stood outside leaning against the hedge. Prokofyapproached, took the harrow upon his shoulder, and walked to an inn keptby a woman, Petrovna. She might give him a small bottle of vodka forit. But he had hardly gone a few steps when the deacon came out of hishouse. It was already dawn, and he saw that Prokofy was carrying awayhis 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 theprison hospital. He was coughing badly; his chest was heaving from theexertion; and he could not get warm. Those who were stronger contrivednot to shiver; Prokofy on the contrary shivered day and night, as thesuperintendent would not light the fires in the hospital till November,to save expense.

Prokofy suffered greatly in body, and still more in soul. He wasdisgusted with his surroundings, and hated every one--the deacon, thesuperintendent who would not light the fires, the guard, and the manwho was lying in the bed next to his, and who had a swollen red lip. Hebegan also to hate the new convict who was brought into hospital. Thisconvict 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 thecontrary, extremely fond of him; he delighted in talking to him. It wasonly 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 ithad impressed him.

"Far from shrieking, or anything of that kind," he said to Prokofy, "shedid not move. 'Kill me! There I am,' she said. 'But it is not my soulyou destroy, it is your own.'"

"Well, of course, it is very dreadful to kill. I had one day toslaughter a sheep, and even that made me half mad. I have not destroyedany living soul; why then do those villains kill me? I have done no harmto 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'tbelieve in Him, brother. I think when a man dies, grass will grow overthe 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 Iare 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. Hecalled Stepan to him. "Farewell, brother," he said. "Death has come, Isee. I was so afraid of it before. And now I don't mind. I only wish itto come quicker."

IN the meanwhile, the affairs of Eugene Mihailovich had grown worse andworse. Business was very slack. There was a new shop in the town; he waslosing his customers, and the interest had to be paid. He borrowed againon interest. At last his shop and his goods were to be sold up. EugeneMihailovich and his wife applied to every one they knew, but theycould not raise the four hundred roubles they needed to save the shopanywhere.

They had some hope of the merchant Krasnopuzov, Eugene Mihailovich'swife being on good terms with his mistress. But news came thatKrasnopuzov had been robbed of a huge sum of money. Some said of halfa million roubles. "And do you know who is said to be the thief?" saidEugene Mihailovich to his wife. "Vassily, our former yard-porter. Theysay 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 perjuringhimself? But I did not expect it would go so far."

"I hear he has recently been in the courtyard of our house. Cook saysshe 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 theenvelope. To his great amazement several hundred rouble notes fell out."Four hundred roubles!" he exclaimed, hardly believing his eyes. "Whatdoes it mean?"

The envelope also contained a badly-spelt letter, addressed to EugeneMihailovich. "It is said in the Gospels," ran the letter, "do good forevil. You have done me much harm; and in the coupon case you made mewrong the peasants greatly. But I have pity for you. Here are fourhundred notes. Take them, and remember your porter Vassily."

"Very extraordinary!" said Eugene Mihailovich to his wife and tohimself. And each time he remembered that incident, or spoke about it tohis wife, tears would come to his eyes.

FOURTEEN priests were kept in the Suzdal friary prison, chiefly forhaving been untrue to the orthodox faith. Isidor had been sent to thatplace also. Father Missael received him according to the instructions hehad been given, and without talking to him ordered him to be put into aseparate cell as a serious criminal. After a fortnight Father Missael,making a round of the prison, entered Isidor's cell, and asked himwhether there was anything he wished for.

"There is a great deal I wish for," answered Isidor; "but I cannottell you what it is in the presence of anybody else. Let me talk to youprivately."

They looked at each other, and Missael saw he had nothing to be afraidof in remaining alone with Isidor. He ordered Isidor to be brought intohis own room, and when they were alone, he said,--"Well, now you canspeak."

Isidor fell on his knees.

"Brother," said Isidor. "What are you doing to yourself! Have mercy onyour own soul. You are the worst villain in the world. You have offendedagainst all that is sacred . . ."

A month after Missael sent a report, asking that Isidor should bereleased as he had repented, and he also asked for the release of therest of the prisoners. After which he resigned his post.

TEN years passed. Mitia Smokovnikov had finished his studies in theTechnical 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 thedistrict. The governor offered him a convict, Stepan Pelageushkine, toaccompany 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 willall tell you so."

"Why has he been sent here?"

The governor smiled. "He had committed six murders, and yet he is a holyman. I go bail for him."

Mitia Smokovnikov took Stepan, now a bald-headed, lean, tanned man, withhim on his journey. On their way Stepan took care of Smokovnikov, likehis own child, and told him his story; told him why he had been senthere, and what now filled his life.

And, strange to say, Mitia Smokovnikov, who up to that time used tospend his time drinking, eating, and gambling, began for the first timeto meditate on life. These thoughts never left him now, and produceda complete change in his habits. After a time he was offered a veryadvantageous position. He refused it, and made up his mind to buy anestate with the money he had, to marry, and to devote himself to thepeasantry, helping them as much as he could.

HE carried out his intentions. But before retiring to his estate hecalled on his father, with whom he had been on bad terms, and who hadsettled apart with his new family. Mitia Smokovnikov wanted to make itup. The old man wondered at first, and laughed at the change he noticedin his son; but after a while he ceased to find fault with him, andthought of the many times when it was he who was the guilty one.