Vasily’s first hut was at the far end of the orchard, but the second, where he lived for the sweet apple harvest, was only forty yards from the master’s house. And in this hut Vasily enjoyed himself even more. All day long Vasily could see the gentlemen and the young ladies playing games, going out for drives or walks, and in the evenings and at night playing the piano or the violin, singing or dancing. He would see the students and the young ladies sitting in the windows snuggling up to one another, and then some of them would go for walks in the dark avenues of lime trees, where the moonlight only came through in streaks and patches. He would see the servants hurrying about with food and drink, he would see how the cooks, the laundresses, the stewards, the gardeners, the coachmen – all of them worked just to keep the masters supplied with food and drink and amusement. Sometimes the young gentlefolk would drop in to see him in his hut, and he would choose the finest apples, the ripe and rosy ones, to give to them, and the young ladies would bite into them there and then with a crunching noise, and praise the apples and say something – Vasily knew it was about him – in French, and get him to sing for them.
Vasily greatly admired this way of life, remembering the kind of life he had led in Moscow, and the thought that the beginning and the end of everything was to have money came more and more often into his head.
And Vasily began to think more and more about what he could do to get hold of some more money right away. He started to recall how he had made the odd profit before and he decided that that wasn’t the way to go about it, just helping yourself to whatever was lying about; he needed to work out things in advance, to see what was what, and do a clean job leaving no evidence behind. Towards Christmas time they picked the last of the winter apples. The boss had made a good profit and he paid off all the watchmen, including Vasily, and thanked them.
Vasily put on the coat and the hat the young master had given him, but he did not go home, for the thought of that brutish, peasant life filled him with disgust – instead he went back to the town with the hard-drinking ex-conscripts who had worked alongside him as watchmen. Once back in the town he decided to break into and burgle the shop owned by his former employer who had beaten him and thrown him out without his wages. He knew the layout of the place and where the money was kept. He got one of the ex-soldiers to stand guard outside, and he himself smashed a window opening on to the yard, climbed in and took all the money. The thing was carried out skilfully, and no traces were found. Vasily got away with three hundred and seventy roubles. He gave a hundred to his assistant and went off with the rest to another town, where he went on a binge with his comrades and girlfriends.
XIV
Meanwhile Ivan Mironov had become an accomplished, daring and successful horse-thief. His wife Afimya, who used to nag him on account of what she called his ‘botched schemes’, was now well pleased with her husband and even quite proud of him, for he was the owner of a sheepskin coat with a hood, and she had a shawl and a new fur coat.
Everyone in the village and surrounding district knew that there was never a horse-theft in which he was not somehow involved, but they were afraid to give evidence against him, and even when some suspicion did fall on him he invariably emerged without a stain on his character. His most recent theft had been from the night-grazing ground at Kolotovka. As far as possible Ivan Mironov liked to choose who to steal from, and he got particular satisfaction when his victims were landowners and merchants. But stealing from landowners and merchants was more difficult. And so when landowners’ and merchants’ horses were not accessible he would steal peasants’ horses instead. Thus he stole from the night-grazing at Kolotovka as many horses as he could get hold of. This job, however, was carried out not by him, but by a skilful young fellow called Gerasim whom he had persuaded to do it. The muzhiks did not discover that their horses were gone until daybreak, and then they rushed off along all possible roads to look for them. The horses were in fact already hidden in a ravine in the middle of the state forest. Ivan Mironov planned to keep them there until the following night, then to make off with them to a yardman he knew in a place forty versts away. Ivan Mironov visited Gerasim in the forest and brought him some pie and vodka, returning home by a forest path on which he hoped not to meet anybody. Unfortunately for him he came up against a forest guard.
‘Been out after mushrooms, have you?’ asked the guard.
‘Yes, but I haven’t found any today,’ replied Ivan Mironov, pointing to the bast basket which he had brought with him in case of need.
‘That’s right, it’s not the mushroom season,’ said the guard, ‘but there’ll be some coming up in Lent.’ And he went on his way.
The forest guard realized that there was something suspicious here. There was no reason for Ivan Mironov to be out walking in the state forest early in the morning. The guard turned back and started to circle round through the trees. On getting near to the ravine he heard the sound of horses snorting and he crept up very quietly to the place the sound was coming from. The ground in the ravine was trampled by horses’ hooves and it was all over horse droppings. A little further on Gerasim was sitting eating something, and there were two horses standing tethered to a tree.
The guard ran back to the village and fetched the village elder, the constable and two witnesses. They approached the place where Gerasim was sitting from three directions, and seized him. Gerasim made no attempt to protest his innocence, but being drunk he at once confessed to everything. He told them that Ivan Mironov had got him drunk and talked him into doing the job, and had promised to come to the forest today to fetch the horses. The muzhiks left the horse and Gerasim where they were in the forest and set an ambush for Ivan Mironov. As soon as night had fallen they heard a whistle. Gerasim whistled back in reply. As soon as Ivan Mironov started to come down the slope they rushed at him, captured him and led him back to their village.
The next morning a crowd assembled in front of the elder’s hut. Ivan Mironov was brought out and they began to interrogate him. Stepan Pelageyushkin, a tall, stooping, long-armed muzhik with a beaky nose and a dour expression, was the first to ask him a question. Stepan was an independent peasant who had completed his military service. He had not long since moved out of his father’s house and was starting to do quite well, when his horse had been stolen from him. By working for a year in the mines Stepan managed to set himself up with two horses. Both of these had now been stolen.
‘Tell me where my horses are,’ began Stepan, pale with anger and glaring now at the ground, now straight into Ivan’s face.
Ivan Mironov denied all knowledge of them. Then Stepan struck him in the face and broke his nose, from which the blood started to trickle.
‘Tell me, or I’ll kill you!’
Ivan Mironov bent his head but said nothing. Stepan struck him again with his long arm – once, then a second time. Ivan still did not speak, just swung his head from side to side.
‘Come, all of you – beat him!’ shouted the village elder. And they all began to beat him. Ivan Mironov fell silently to the ground, then cried out: ‘You barbarians, you devils, beat me to death then. I’m not scared of you.’