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First published posthumously in 1911,

Berlin, “Svobodnoe Slovo”

This book is in the public domain

Reprint by Publishing House №10

Publication date July 25, 2025

Translation from Russian

139 Pages, Font 12 pt, Bookman Old Style

Electronic edition, File size 933 KB

Cover design, Translate by Yulia Basharova

Copyright© Yulia Basharova 2025. All rights reserved

Table of Contents

I 10

II 16

III 18

1. IV. 20
2. V. 22

VI 24

VII 28

VIII 31

1. IX. 35
2. X. 39

XI 41

XII 45

XIII 51

XIV. 55

1. XV. 59

XVI 64

XVII 67

XVIII 70

XIX. 72

1. XX. 74

XXI 77

XXII 81

XXIII 84

PART TWO

I 89

II 93

III 97

1. IV. 102
2. V. 105

VI 107

VII 109

VIII 112

1. IX. 114
2. X. 117

XI 120

XII 123

XIII 127

XIV. 128

1. XV. 130

XVI 131

XVII 134

XVIII 136

XIX. 137

1. XX. 139

PART ONE

I

Fyodor Mikhailovich Smokovnikov, chairman of the Treasury Chamber, a man of unimpeachable honesty, of which he was proud, and a gloomily liberal man, not only free-thinking but hating all manifestations of religiosity, which he considered a relic of superstitions, returned from the Chamber in the worst possible mood. The governor had sent him an extremely stupid paper, from which one could infer a reprimand implying that Fyodor Mikhailovich had acted dishonestly. Fyodor Mikhailovich became very embittered and immediately wrote a sharp and biting reply.

At home, everything seemed to be done to spite Fyodor Mikhailovich.

It was five minutes to five. He thought dinner would be served immediately, but it wasn’t ready yet. Fyodor Mikhailovich slammed the door and went into his room. Someone knocked on the door. “What the devil is it now,” he thought, and shouted:

“Who’s there?”

A fifth-grade gymnasium student, a fifteen-year-old boy, Fyodor Mikhailovich’s son, entered the room.

“What do you want?”

“It’s the first of the month today.”

“What? Money?”

It was customary for the father to give his son three rubles for entertainment on the first of every month. Fyodor Mikhailovich frowned, took out his wallet, searched, and pulled out a 2 ½ ruble coupon, then got a piece of silver and counted out another fifty kopecks. The son remained silent and didn’t take the money.

“Papa, please, give me an advance.”

“What?”

“I wouldn’t ask, but I borrowed on my word of honor, I promised. As an honest person, I can’t… I need three more rubles, honestly, I won’t ask again… not that I won’t ask, but simply… please, Papa.”

“You’ve been told…”

“But Papa, it’s just this once…”

“You get three rubles for allowance, and it’s still not enough. When I was your age, I didn’t even get fifty kopecks.”

“Now all my friends get more. Petrov, Ivanitsky get fifty rubles.”

“And I’ll tell you that if you act like this, you’ll be a swindler. I’ve said it.”

“But what have you said? You’ll never understand my situation, I’ll have to be a scoundrel. It’s easy for you.”

“Get out, you good-for-nothing. Get out.”

Fyodor Mikhailovich jumped up and lunged at his son.

“Get out. You need a good thrashing.”

The son was scared and embittered, but more embittered than scared, and, bowing his head, quickly walked towards the door. Fyodor Mikhailovich didn’t want to hit him, but he was pleased with his anger and continued to shout abusive words for a long time, seeing his son off.

When the maid came and said that dinner was ready, Fyodor Mikhailovich got up.

“Finally,” he said. “I don’t even feel like eating anymore.”

And, scowling, he went to dinner.

At the table, his wife spoke to him, but he grumbled such a short, angry reply that she fell silent. The son also didn’t lift his eyes from his plate and remained silent. They ate in silence and silently got up and went their separate ways.

After dinner, the gymnasium student returned to his room, took the coupon and change from his pocket and threw them on the table, then took off his uniform and put on his jacket. At first, the gymnasium student picked up a tattered Latin grammar, then locked the door with the hook, swept the money from the table into a drawer, took cigarette tubes from the drawer, filled one, plugged it with cotton, and began to smoke.

He sat over his grammar and notebooks for about two hours, understanding nothing, then got up and began to pace the room, stomping his heels, remembering everything that had happened with his father. All of his father’s abusive words, especially his angry face, came back to him as if he were hearing and seeing him right now. “Good-for-nothing. Needs a thrashing.” And the more he remembered, the angrier he became at his father. He recalled his father telling him: “I see what you’ll turn out to be – a swindler. Just you wait.” – “And you will be a swindler if you continue like this. It’s easy for him. He’s forgotten what it was like to be young. Well, what crime have I committed? I just went to the theater, didn’t have money, borrowed from Petya Grushetsky. What’s wrong with that? Someone else would feel sorry, ask questions, but he just curses and thinks about himself. When he doesn’t have something, it’s a yell throughout the whole house, but I’m a swindler. No, even though he’s my father, I don’t love him. I don’t know if everyone is like this, but I don’t love him.”

The maid knocked on the door. She brought a note.

“They said an answer is absolutely required.”

The note read: “This is the third time I’ve asked you to return the six rubles you borrowed from me, but you’re evading. Honest people don’t act like this. Please send it immediately with this messenger. I desperately need it myself. Can’t you really get it?

Your, depending on whether you return it or not, despising or respecting comrade Grushetsky.”

“Just think. What a pig. Can’t wait. I’ll try again.”

Mitya went to his mother. This was his last hope. His mother was kind and couldn’t refuse, and she might have helped him, but today she was worried about the illness of his youngest brother, two-year-old Petya. She got angry at Mitya for coming and making noise, and immediately refused him.

He grumbled something under his breath and walked out the door. She felt sorry for her son and called him back.

“Wait, Mitya,” she said. “I don’t have it now, but I’ll get it tomorrow.”

But Mitya was still seething with anger at his father.

“Why would I need it tomorrow when I need it today? Just so you know, I’m going to my friend’s.”

He left, slamming the door.

“Nothing else to do, he’ll show me where to pawn the watch,” he thought, feeling the watch in his pocket.

Mitya took the coupon and change from the table, put on his coat, and went to Makhin’s.

II

Makhin was a gymnasium student with a mustache. He gambled, knew women, and always had money. He lived with his aunt. Mitya knew that Makhin was a bad sort, but when he was with him, he involuntarily submitted to him. Makhin was home and getting ready for the theater; his small, dirty room smelled of scented soap and cologne.

“This, brother, is the last resort,” Makhin said when Mitya told him his troubles, showed him the coupon and the fifty kopecks, and said he needed nine rubles. “You could pawn your watch, or even better,” Makhin said, winking one eye.

“Better how?”

“Oh, very simple.” Makhin took the coupon. “Put a one in front of the 2 rubles 50, and it’ll be 12 rubles 50.”

“But do they even have those?”

“Of course, on thousand-ruble notes. I passed one myself.”

“No, that can’t be?”

“So, should I forge it?” Makhin said, picking up a pen and smoothing the coupon with the finger of his left hand.

“But that’s wrong.”

“Oh, what nonsense.”

“Exactly,” Mitya thought, and his father’s curses came back to him: “swindler.” “Now I’ll be a swindler.” He looked at Makhin’s face. Makhin looked back at him, smiling calmly.

“So, should I forge it?”

“Go ahead.”

Makhin carefully drew a one.

“Well, now let’s go to the shop. Right here on the corner: photographic supplies. By the way, I need a frame for this person.”

He took out a photograph of a large-eyed girl with enormous hair and a magnificent bust.

“Isn’t she a darling? Huh?”

“Yes, yes. How…”

“Very simple. Let’s go.”

Makhin got dressed, and they left together.

III

The bell at the entrance of the photography shop jingled. The gymnasium students entered, looking around the empty shop with its shelves of supplies and display cases on the counters. From the back room, an unattractive woman with a kind face emerged and, standing behind the counter, asked what they needed.

“A nice little frame, madam.”

“What price?” the lady asked, quickly and deftly sorting through frames of various styles with her mittened hands and swollen finger joints. “These are fifty kopecks, and these are more expensive. And this one is very pretty, a new style, one ruble twenty.”

“Well, let’s take that one. Can’t you give us a discount? Take a ruble.”

“We don’t bargain,” the lady said with dignity.

“Oh, suit yourself,” Makhin said, placing the coupon on the counter. “Give us the frame and the change, and quickly. We don’t want to be late for the theater.”

“You’ll still make it,” the lady said and began examining the coupon with nearsighted eyes.

“It’ll look lovely in this frame. Eh?” Makhin said, turning to Mitya.

“Don’t you have any other money?” the saleswoman asked.

“That’s the trouble, we don’t. My father gave it to me; it needs to be changed.”

“But don’t you have one ruble twenty?”

“We have fifty kopecks. What’s wrong? Are you afraid we’re trying to cheat you with fake money?”

“No, not at all.”

“Then give it back. We’ll get it changed.”

“So, how much do you need?”

“Well, about eleven and something.”

The saleswoman clicked on the abacus, unlocked a small desk, took out a ten-ruble banknote, and, rummaging through the change, gathered six more twenty-kopeck pieces and two five-kopeck pieces.

“Please wrap it,” Makhin said, unhurriedly taking the money.

“Right away.”

The saleswoman wrapped it and tied it with string.

Mitya didn’t breathe a sigh of relief until the entrance bell jingled behind them and they were out on the street.

“Here’s ten rubles for you, and give me these. I’ll pay you back.”

And Makhin went to the theater, while Mitya went to Grushetsky’s and settled his debt.

IV

An hour after the gymnasium students left, the shop owner came home and began counting the day’s earnings.

“Oh, you clumsy fool! What a dolt you are!” he shouted at his wife, seeing the coupon and immediately noticing the forgery. “Why do you even accept coupons?”

“But you yourself, Zhenya, accepted them in front of me, specifically twelve-ruble ones,” said his wife, embarrassed, distressed, and on the verge of tears. “I don’t even know how they fooled me,” she said, “the gymnasium students. A handsome young man, seemed so well-mannered.”

“A well-mannered fool!” her husband continued to scold, counting the cash. “When I take a coupon, I know and see what’s written on it. But you, I suppose, were just admiring the gymnasium students’ faces in your old age.”

His wife couldn’t take it anymore and became angry herself.

“A real man! Only good at judging others, but losing fifty-four rubles gambling – that’s nothing.”

“I’m different.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” his wife said and went to her room, recalling how her family hadn’t wanted her to marry him, considering her husband far beneath their station, and how she alone had insisted on the marriage. She remembered her deceased child, her husband’s indifference to that loss, and hated her husband so much that she thought about how good it would be if he died. But, having thought this, she became frightened by her feelings and hurried to get dressed and leave. When her husband returned to the apartment, his wife was already gone. Without waiting for him, she had dressed and gone alone to a French tutor she knew, who had invited them for an evening gathering.

V

At the French tutor’s, a Russian Pole, there was a formal tea with sweet pastries, and afterward, they sat down at several tables to play whist.

The photograph shop owner’s wife sat with the host, an officer, and an old, deaf lady in a wig, the widow of a music shop owner, who was a great enthusiast and skilled player. The cards were falling favorably for the photograph shop owner’s wife. Twice she bid for a grand slam. Next to her was a plate with grapes and a pear, and she felt cheerful.

“Why isn’t Evgeny Mikhailovich coming?” the hostess from another table asked. “We signed him up as the fifth.”

“He’s probably engrossed in his accounts,” said Evgeny Mikhailovich’s wife. “Today are the calculations for provisions, for firewood.” And, remembering the scene with her husband, she frowned, and her mittened hands trembled with anger at him.

“Speak of the devil,” the host said, turning to the entering Evgeny Mikhailovich. “What kept you?”

“Oh, various matters,” Evgeny Mikhailovich replied in a cheerful voice, rubbing his hands. And, to his wife’s surprise, he walked up to her and said:

“You know, I passed that coupon.”

“Really?”

“Yes, to the peasant for firewood.”

And Evgeny Mikhailovich told everyone with great indignation—his wife added details to his story—how the unscrupulous gymnasium students had cheated his wife.

“Well then, to business,” he said, sitting down at the table when it was his turn, and shuffling the cards.

VI

Indeed, Evgeny Mikhailovich had passed the coupon to a peasant named Ivan Mironov for firewood.

Ivan Mironov’s trade involved buying a cord of firewood from wood depots, delivering it around the city, and arranging it in such a way that one cord yielded five “quarter-cords,” which he then sold for the same price as a quarter-cord at the wood yard. On this unfortunate day for Ivan Mironov, he had delivered an eighth-cord early in the morning and, having sold it quickly, loaded another eighth-cord, hoping to sell it. However, he drove around until evening, searching for a buyer, but no one bought it. He kept encountering experienced city dwellers who knew the common tricks of peasants selling firewood and didn’t believe his assurances that he had brought the wood from the village. He himself was hungry and chilled in his worn sheepskin coat and torn peasant’s overcoat; the frost had reached twenty degrees by evening. His small horse, which he didn’t spare because he intended to sell it to knackers, had completely stopped. So Ivan Mironov was even ready to sell the firewood at a loss when he encountered Evgeny Mikhailovich, who was returning home from the shop after buying tobacco.

“Take it, master, I’ll give it to you cheap. The horse has completely stopped.”

“Where are you from?”

“We’re from the village. Our own wood, good, dry.”

“We know your kind. Well, what will you take?”

Ivan Mironov named a price, then began to lower it, and finally sold it for his asking price.

“Only for you, master, since it’s a short haul,” he said.

Evgeny Mikhailovich didn’t haggle much, pleased with the thought of passing off the coupon. With some difficulty, even pulling the shafts himself, Ivan Mironov brought the firewood into the yard and unloaded it into the woodshed himself. The yardman was not there. Ivan Mironov initially hesitated to take the coupon, but Evgeny Mikhailovich convinced him so thoroughly and seemed like such an important gentleman that he agreed to take it.

Entering the maid’s room from the back porch, Ivan Mironov crossed himself, thawed the icicles from his beard, and, turning up the hem of his caftan, took out a leather purse. From it, he produced eight rubles and fifty kopecks and gave the change, then wrapped the coupon in a piece of paper and put it in his purse.

After thanking the master, as was customary, Ivan Mironov, driving his ice-covered nag — now barely moving its legs, not with a whip but with the whip handle, and destined for death — headed empty towards the tavern.

At the tavern, Ivan Mironov ordered eight kopecks worth of wine and tea. Warming up and even sweating, he was in a cheerful mood, chatting with a yardman sitting at his table. He opened up to him, telling him all about his circumstances. He explained that he was from the village of Vasilievskoye, twelve versts from the city, that he had separated from his father and brothers and now lived with his wife and two children, the elder of whom only attended school and didn’t help with anything yet. He shared that he was staying in a rented room here and that tomorrow he would go to the horse market to sell his old nag and look around, and if need be, buy a new horse. He mentioned that he had almost a quarter-rouble saved up, and half of his money was in the form of a coupon. He took out the coupon and showed it to the yardman. The yardman was illiterate but said he had exchanged such money for lodgers, that the money was good, but sometimes there were fakes, and therefore advised him to give it to the counter for certainty. Ivan Mironov handed it to the waiter and asked for change, but the waiter didn’t bring change. Instead, a bald, glossy-faced clerk came with the coupon in his plump hand.

“Your money is no good,” he said, showing the coupon but not returning it.

“The money is good, the master gave it to me.”

“That’s just it, it’s not good, it’s fake.”

“If it’s fake, then give it back here.”

“No, brother, your kind needs to be taught a lesson. You’ve colluded with swindlers.”

“Give me the money, what full right do you have?”

“Sidor! Call the policeman,” the bartender turned to the waiter.

Ivan Mironov had been drinking. And when he drank, he became agitated. He grabbed the clerk by the collar and shouted:

“Give it back, I’ll go to the master. I know where he lives.”

The clerk struggled away from Ivan Mironov, and his shirt ripped.

“Ah, so that’s how it is. Hold him.”

The waiter grabbed Ivan Mironov, and immediately a policeman appeared. After listening, like a superior, to what the matter was, he immediately decided it:

“To the precinct.”

The policeman put the coupon in his wallet and, along with the horse, took Ivan Mironov to the precinct.

VII

Ivan Mironov spent the night at the precinct with drunks and thieves. Around noon, he was called to the precinct officer. The officer interrogated him and sent him with a policeman to the photograph shop owner. Ivan Mironov remembered the street and the house.

When the policeman summoned the master and presented him with the coupon and Ivan Mironov, who claimed that this very master had given him the coupon, Evgeny Mikhailovich put on a surprised, then stern face.

“What are you talking about? You must be out of your mind. I’ve never seen him before.”

“Master, it’s a sin, we’ll die,” Ivan Mironov pleaded.

“What’s wrong with him? You must have overslept. You sold it to someone else,” Evgeny Mikhailovich said. “However, wait, I’ll go ask my wife if she bought firewood yesterday.”

Evgeny Mikhailovich left and immediately called the yardman, a handsome, unusually strong and nimble dandy, a cheerful fellow named Vasily. He told him that if anyone asked where the last batch of firewood came from, he should say it was from the depot, and that they never bought wood from peasants.

“There’s this peasant claiming I gave him a forged coupon. The peasant’s a simpleton, God knows what he’s saying, but you’re a sensible man. So just say that we only buy wood from the depot. And this, I’ve been meaning to give you for a jacket,” Evgeny Mikhailovich added, giving the yardman five rubles.

Vasily took the money, his eyes gleaming at the banknote, then at Evgeny Mikhailovich’s face. He shook his hair and smiled slightly.

“Of course, peasants are simple-minded. Ignorance. Don’t you worry. I know what to say.”

No matter how much and how tearfully Ivan Mironov begged Evgeny Mikhailovich to acknowledge his coupon and for the yardman to confirm his words, both Evgeny Mikhailovich and the yardman stood their ground: they had never taken firewood from carts. And the policeman took Ivan Mironov, accused of forging the coupon, back to the precinct.

Only on the advice of a drunken scribe sitting with him, and after giving five rubles to the precinct officer, Ivan Mironov managed to get out of custody without the coupon and with seven rubles instead of the twenty-five he had yesterday. Ivan Mironov drank three of those seven rubles and arrived home to his wife with a bruised face and dead drunk.

His wife was heavily pregnant and ill. She began to scold her husband; he pushed her away, and she started hitting him. Without responding, he lay face down on the bunk and wept loudly.

Only the next morning did his wife understand what had happened, and, believing her husband, she long cursed the brigand master who had cheated her Ivan. And Ivan, sobered, remembered what the craftsman he had been drinking with yesterday had advised him, and decided to go to a lawyer to complain.

VIII

The lawyer took on the case not so much for the money he might receive, but because he believed Ivan and was outraged by how shamelessly the peasant had been deceived.

Both parties appeared in court, and the yardman Vasily was a witness. In court, the same events unfolded. Ivan Mironov invoked God, speaking of their impending deaths. Evgeny Mikhailovich, though tormented by the awareness of the nastiness and danger of what he was doing, could not now change his testimony and continued to deny everything with an outwardly calm demeanor.

The yardman Vasily received another ten rubles and calmly, with a smile, asserted that he had never seen Ivan Mironov before. And when he was brought to take the oath, though inwardly timid, he outwardly calmly repeated the words of the oath after the old priest who had been summoned, swearing on the cross and the Holy Gospel that he would tell the whole truth.

The case concluded with the judge denying Ivan Mironov’s claim, ordering him to pay five rubles in court costs, which Evgeny Mikhailovich generously forgave him. Dismissing Ivan Mironov, the judge read him an admonition to be more careful in the future when leveling accusations against respectable people and to be grateful that he was forgiven the court costs and was not prosecuted for slander, for which he would have served three months in prison.

“Thank you kindly,” said Ivan Mironov, and, shaking his head and sighing, he left the courtroom.

All of this, it seemed, ended well for Evgeny Mikhailovich and the yardman Vasily. But that was only how it seemed. Something happened that no one saw, but which was more important than anything people witnessed.

Vasily had left his village three years ago and was living in the city. With each passing year, he sent less and less money to his father and did not send for his wife, not needing her. Here, in the city, he could have as many women as he wanted, and not just his unattractive wife. With each passing year, Vasily increasingly forgot the village law and became accustomed to city ways. There, everything was rough, gray, poor, disordered; here, everything was refined, good, clean, wealthy, everything in order. And he became more and more convinced that villagers lived without understanding, like forest beasts, while here were real people. He read books by good authors, novels, and went to performances at the public theater. In the village, you wouldn’t even dream of such things. In the village, the elders say: live according to the law with your wife, work hard, don’t eat too much, don’t show off. But here, people are smart, educated — meaning they know the true laws — and live for their own pleasure. And it’s all good. Until the coupon incident, Vasily had never believed that gentlemen had no law regarding how to live. It always seemed to him that he simply didn’t know their law, but that a law existed. But the latest incident with the coupon, and, most importantly, his false oath, from which, despite his fear, nothing bad came, but on the contrary, he gained another ten rubles, completely convinced him that there were no laws and one should live for one’s own pleasure. So he lived, and so he continued to live. At first, he only took advantage of tenants’ purchases, but this was not enough for all his expenses, and he began to steal money and valuables from tenants’ apartments wherever he could, and stole Evgeny Mikhailovich’s wallet. Evgeny Mikhailovich caught him but did not take him to court, instead, he fired him.

Vasily did not want to go home, so he stayed in Moscow with his sweetheart, looking for work. A cheap position was found as a yardman for a shopkeeper. Vasily took the job, but the very next month he was caught stealing sacks. The owner did not complain, but beat Vasily and drove him away. After this incident, he could not find another job, his money was spent, then his clothes were spent, and it ended with him having only a torn jacket, pants, and worn-out shoes. His sweetheart left him. But Vasily did not lose his cheerful, lively disposition and, waiting for spring, walked home.

IX

Pyotr Nikolaevich Svyatitsky, a small, stocky man in dark glasses (his eyes bothered him; he was threatened with complete blindness), got up as usual before dawn. After drinking a glass of tea, he put on a sheepskin-lined half-coat and went out to attend to his estate.

Pyotr Nikolaevich had been a customs official and amassed eighteen thousand rubles there. About twelve years ago, he retired, not entirely of his own free will, and bought the estate of a spendthrift young landowner. While still in service, Pyotr Nikolaevich had married. His wife was a poor orphan from an old noble family, a tall, full-figured, beautiful woman who bore him no children. Pyotr Nikolaevich was a thorough and persistent man in all matters. Knowing nothing about farming (he was the son of a Polish nobleman), he managed the estate so well that the ruined three hundred dessiatina property became a model farm within ten years. All his buildings, from the house to the barn and the shed over the fire pipe, were sturdy, well-built, roofed with iron, and painted on time. In the tool shed, carts, plows, harrows, and harrows were neatly arranged. The harnesses were well-greased. The horses were not large, almost all bred on his own farm — dun-colored, plump, sturdy, all uniform. The threshing machine worked in a covered barn, fodder was stored in a special shed, and liquid manure flowed into a paved pit. The cows were also his own breed, not large, but good milkers. The pigs were English. There was a poultry house and especially good laying hens. The fruit orchard was plastered and replanted. Everywhere, everything was managed economically, solidly, cleanly, and correctly. Pyotr Nikolaevich rejoiced in his farm and was proud that he achieved all this not by oppressing the peasants, but, on the contrary, by treating them with strict fairness. Even among the nobility, he held a moderate, rather liberal than conservative view, and always defended the common people against serf-owners. Be good to them, and they will be good. True, he did not overlook the workers’ blunders and mistakes, sometimes even pushing them, demanding work, but in return, the living quarters and food were excellent, wages were always paid on time, and on holidays he provided vodka.

Treading carefully on the thawing snow — it was February — Pyotr Nikolaevich headed past the stable to the hut where the workers lived. It was still dark; even darker due to the fog, but light was visible in the windows of the workers’ hut. The workers were getting up. He intended to hurry them: according to the schedule, they needed to go with a team of six to the grove for the last of the firewood.

“What’s that?” he thought, seeing the open stable door.

“Hey, who’s there?”

No one answered. Pyotr Nikolaevich entered the stable.

“Hey, who’s there?”

No one answered. It was dark, soft underfoot, and smelled of manure. To the right of the door, in a stall, stood a pair of young dun horses. Pyotr Nikolaevich stretched out his hand — empty. He nudged with his foot. Had she not lain down? His foot met nothing. “Where did they take her?” he thought. They hadn’t harnessed, the sleds were still outside. Pyotr Nikolaevich stepped out of the door and shouted loudly:

“Hey, Stepan!”

Stepan was the senior worker. He was just coming out of the workers’ quarters.

“Ya-hoo!” Stepan cheerfully called back. “Is that you, Pyotr Nikolaevich? The lads are coming now.”

“Why is your stable door unlocked?”

“The stable? I wouldn’t know. Hey, Proshka, get a lantern!”

Proshka ran up with a lantern. They went into the stable. Stepan immediately understood.

“It was thieves, Pyotr Nikolaevich. The lock’s broken.”

“You’re lying?”

“They took them, the brigands. Mashka’s gone, Yastreb’s gone. Yastreb’s here. Pestriy’s gone. Krasavchik’s gone.”

Three horses were missing. Pyotr Nikolaevich said nothing. He frowned and breathed heavily.

“Oh, if only I could get my hands on them. Who was on guard?”

“Petka. Petka overslept.”

Pyotr Nikolaevich reported it to the police, the district officer, and the zemstvo chief, and sent out his own men. The horses were not found.

“Filthy people!” Pyotr Nikolaevich said. “What have they done? Haven’t I been good to them? Just you wait. Brigands, all of them. Now I’ll deal with you differently.”

X

Meanwhile, the horses, the trio of dun-colored animals, were already in new places. One, Mashka, was sold to gypsies for eighteen rubles; another, Pestriy, was traded to a peasant forty versts away; Krasavchik was run down and slaughtered. His hide was sold for three rubles. Ivan Mironov was the mastermind behind this entire operation. He had worked for Pyotr Nikolaevich and knew his ways, and he decided to get his money back. And so he arranged the whole affair.

After his misfortune with the forged coupon, Ivan Mironov drank heavily for a long time and would have drunk away everything if his wife hadn’t hidden his harnesses, clothes, and anything else that could be sold for drink. During his drunken stupor, Ivan Mironov constantly thought not only of his oppressor but of all gentlemen and petty landlords who lived only by robbing their fellow man. One time, Ivan Mironov drank with some peasants from near Podolsk. And the peasants, drunk on the road, told him how they had stolen horses from a peasant. Ivan Mironov began to curse the horse thieves for wronging a peasant. “It’s a sin,” he said, “a peasant’s horse is like a brother, and you’re dispossessing him. If you’re going to steal, steal from the masters. Those dogs deserve it.” As they continued to talk, the Podolsk peasants said that stealing horses from masters was tricky. You had to know the ins and outs, and it couldn’t be done without an insider. That’s when Ivan Mironov remembered Svyatitsky, for whom he had worked as a laborer. He recalled that Svyatitsky had short-changed him one and a half rubles for a broken linchpin when settling accounts, and he also remembered the dun-colored horses he used to work with.

Ivan Mironov went to Svyatitsky’s as if to hire himself out, but only to scout and learn everything. And having learned everything — that there was no guard, that the horses were in their stalls in the stable — he led the thieves in and orchestrated the whole act.

After sharing the proceeds with the Podolsk peasants, Ivan Mironov returned home with five rubles. There was nothing to do at home: there was no horse. From that time on, Ivan Mironov began associating with horse thieves and gypsies.

XI

Pyotr Nikolaevich Svyatitsky tried with all his might to find the thief. The deed couldn’t have been done without an insider. Therefore, he began to suspect his own people and, after inquiring among the workers who hadn’t spent the night at home, learned that Proshka Nikolaev hadn’t. Proshka was a young man, a recently discharged soldier, handsome and agile, whom Pyotr Nikolaevich used for outings instead of a coachman. The district officer was Pyotr Nikolaevich’s friend; he also knew the police chief, the district leader, and the investigator. All these individuals visited him on his name day and knew his delicious homemade liqueurs and pickled mushrooms — white, honey, and milk caps. Everyone felt sorry for him and tried to help him.

“See, and you defend the peasants,” said the district officer. “I was right; they’re worse than beasts. You can’t do anything with them without a whip and a stick. So you’re saying it’s Proshka, the one who drives for you?”

“Yes, him.”

“Bring him here.”

Proshka was summoned and interrogated:

“Where were you?”

Proshka shook his hair, his eyes gleaming.

“At home.”

“How at home? All the workers say you weren’t there.”

“As you wish.”

“It’s not about my wish. Where were you?”

“At home.”

“Alright then. The village elder, take him to the station.”

“As you wish.”

Proshka never said where he had been, and he didn’t say because he had spent the night with his girlfriend, Parasha, and had promised not to betray her, and he didn’t. There was no evidence. And Proshka was released. But Pyotr Nikolaevich was convinced that Prokofy was behind it all and hated him. One time, Pyotr Nikolaevich, taking Prokofy as his coachman, sent him on an errand. Proshka, as he always did, took two measures of oats at the inn. He fed one and a half and drank away the other half. Pyotr Nikolaevich found out and reported it to the justice of the peace. The justice of the peace sentenced Proshka to three months in prison. Prokofy was proud. He considered himself superior to others and was proud of himself. Prison humiliated him. He could no longer be proud in front of people, and he immediately lost heart.

From prison, Proshka returned home, not so much embittered against Pyotr Nikolaevich as against the whole world.

Prokofy, as everyone said, went downhill after prison; he became lazy and started drinking. Soon he was caught stealing clothes from a townsfolk woman and ended up back in prison.

Pyotr Nikolaevich, meanwhile, only learned about the horses when a hide from a dun gelding was found, which Pyotr Nikolaevich recognized as Krasavchik’s hide. And this impunity of the thieves irritated Pyotr Nikolaevich even more. He couldn’t see peasants or speak of them without anger now, and he tried to drive them away wherever he could.

XII

Despite Evgeny Mikhailovich ceasing to think about the coupon after passing it, his wife, Maria Vasilievna, couldn’t forgive herself for falling for the deception, nor her husband for the harsh words he had spoken to her, nor, most importantly, those two scoundrel boys who had so cleverly tricked her.

From the very day she was cheated, she paid close attention to all gymnasium students. Once she encountered Makhin, but didn’t recognize him because, upon seeing her, he made such a face that it completely altered his appearance. But she immediately recognized Mitya Smokovnikov when she bumped into him nose to nose on the sidewalk about two weeks after the incident. She let him pass and, turning, followed him. Upon reaching his apartment and finding out whose son he was, she went to the gymnasium the next day and met the law teacher, Mikhail Vvedensky, in the hallway. He asked what she needed. She said she wished to see the director.

“The director isn’t here; he’s unwell; perhaps I can help or pass on your message?”

Maria Vasilievna decided to tell everything to the law teacher.

The law teacher, Vvedensky, was a widower, an academic, and a very proud man. The previous year, he had met Smokovnikov’s father at a social gathering, and, clashing with him in a conversation about faith, in which Smokovnikov utterly defeated him on all points and ridiculed him, decided to pay special attention to the son. Finding in him the same indifference to God’s law as in his unbelieving father, he began to persecute him and even failed him in an exam.

Upon learning from Maria Vasilievna about young Smokovnikov’s deed, Vvedensky couldn’t help but feel pleased, finding in this case confirmation of his assumptions about the immorality of people deprived of the church’s guidance. He decided to use this incident, as he tried to assure himself, to demonstrate the danger threatening all who deviate from the church — though deep down, it was to get revenge on the proud and self-assured atheist.

“Yes, very sad, very sad,” said Father Mikhail Vvedensky, stroking the smooth sides of his pectoral cross. “I am very glad you brought this matter to me; as a servant of the church, I will try not to leave the young man without instruction, but also try to soften the admonition as much as possible.”

“Yes, I will act as befits my calling,” Father Mikhail told himself, thinking that he, having completely forgotten his ill-will towards the father, had only the youth’s well-being and salvation in mind.

The next day, during the religious law lesson, Father Mikhail told the students the entire episode of the forged coupon and said that a gymnasium student had done it.

“A bad, shameful act,” he said, “but denial is even worse. If, which I don’t believe, one of you did this, it is better for him to repent than to hide.”

As he said this, Father Mikhail stared intently at Mitya Smokovnikov. The gymnasium students, following his gaze, also looked at Smokovnikov. Mitya blushed, sweated, finally burst into tears, and ran out of the classroom.

Mitya’s mother, upon learning of this, extracted the whole truth from her son and rushed to the photograph shop. She paid the proprietress twelve rubles and fifty kopecks and persuaded her to conceal the gymnasium student’s name. She then instructed her son to deny everything and under no circumstances to confess to his father.

Indeed, when Fyodor Mikhailovich learned what had happened at the gymnasium, and his son, whom he summoned, denied everything, he went to the director and, after explaining the whole matter, said that the law teacher’s conduct was highly reprehensible and he would not let it go. The director invited the priest, and a heated exchange occurred between him and Fyodor Mikhailovich.

“A foolish woman fabricated a story about my son, then she herself recanted her testimony, and you found nothing better to do than slander an honest, truthful boy.”

“I did not slander, and I will not allow you to speak to me that way. You forget my rank.”

“I don’t care about your rank.”

“Your perverse notions,” the law teacher began, his chin trembling so that his sparse beard shook, “are known throughout the city.”

“Gentlemen, Father,” the director tried to calm the disputants. But they could not be calmed.

“By virtue of my office, I must concern myself with religious and moral education.”

“Stop pretending. Do I not know that you believe in neither sneezes nor death?”

“I consider it beneath me to speak with a gentleman like you,” Father Mikhail uttered, offended by Smokovnikov’s last words, especially because he knew they were true. He had completed a full course at the theological academy and therefore had long since stopped believing in what he confessed and preached. He only believed that everyone should force themselves to believe what he forced himself to believe.

Smokovnikov wasn’t so much outraged by the law teacher’s actions as he found it a good illustration of the clerical influence beginning to manifest in their society, and he told everyone about the incident.

Father Vvedensky, witnessing the spread of entrenched nihilism and atheism not only among the young but also the old generation, became increasingly convinced of the necessity of combating it. The more he condemned the unbelief of Smokovnikov and his ilk, the more he became convinced of the firmness and immutability of his own faith, and the less he felt the need to examine it or align it with his life. His faith, acknowledged by the world around him, was his primary weapon in the fight against its detractors.

These thoughts, provoked by his clash with Smokovnikov, along with the unpleasantness at the gymnasium resulting from this confrontation — namely, a reprimand and a note from his superiors — compelled him to make a decision that had long beckoned him since his wife’s death: to become a monk and choose the very career path that some of his academy classmates had taken, one of whom was already a bishop, and another an archimandrite awaiting a bishopric.

By the end of the academic year, Vvedensky left the gymnasium, took monastic vows under the name Misail, and very quickly secured a position as rector of a seminary in a Volga city.

XIII

Meanwhile, Vasily, the yardman, was traveling south along the main road.

He walked during the day, and at night the village elder would assign him to a lodging for the night. He was given bread everywhere, and sometimes even invited to sit down for dinner. In one village in the Oryol province, where he spent the night, he was told that a merchant who had leased an orchard from a landowner was looking for strong, able-bodied guards. Vasily was tired of begging, and he didn’t want to go home, so he went to the merchant-gardener and hired himself out as a guard for five rubles a month.

Life in the hut, especially after the pear trees began to ripen and the guards brought huge bundles of fresh straw, straight from the threshing machine, from the master’s threshing floor, was very pleasant for Vasily. He would lie all day on the fresh, fragrant straw near piles of even more fragrant fallen spring and winter apples, keeping an eye out for children trying to get apples, whistling and singing songs. And Vasily was a master at singing songs; he had a good voice. Women and girls from the village would come for apples. Vasily would joke with them, giving more or fewer apples for eggs or kopecks, depending on who caught his eye — and then he would lie down again; he only had to go for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.

Vasily had only one pink calico shirt, and it was in tatters; he had nothing on his feet, but his body was strong and healthy, and when the pot of porridge was taken off the fire, Vasily ate for three, so much so that the old guard simply marveled at him. At night, Vasily didn’t sleep; he would either whistle or shout, and like a cat, he could see far into the darkness. Once, some older boys from the village broke in to shake down apples. Vasily crept up and pounced on them; they tried to fight back, but he scattered them all, bringing one to the hut and handing him over to the owner.

Vasily’s first hut was in the distant orchard, and his second hut, after the pears were gone, was forty paces from the master’s house. And in this hut, Vasily was even merrier. All day Vasily watched as the masters and young ladies played, went for rides, and strolled, and in the evenings and at night, they played the piano and violin, sang, and danced. He saw how the young ladies sat with students at the windows and caressed each other, and then went for walks alone in the dark lime avenues where moonlight only passed in streaks and patches. He saw how servants ran with food and drink and how cooks, laundresses, clerks, gardeners, coachmen — everyone worked only to feed, water, and entertain the masters. Sometimes young gentlemen would visit his hut, and he would select and offer them the best, plumpest, and reddest apples, and the young ladies would crunch them with their teeth, praising them and saying something — Vasily understood it was about him — in French, and made him sing.

And Vasily admired this life, recalling his Moscow life, and the thought that everything revolved around money increasingly took root in his mind.

And Vasily began to think more and more about how to get a lot of money at once. He started remembering how he used to “take advantage,” and decided that he shouldn’t do it the old way, grabbing where things lay loosely, but rather plan ahead, scout things out, and do it cleanly, leaving no loose ends. By the Nativity of the Theotokos, the last Antonovkas were picked. The owner had profited well and paid and thanked all the guards, including Vasily.

Vasily got dressed — a young master had given him a jacket and a hat — and instead of going home, a prospect he found sickeningly peasant-like and crude, he returned to the city with the drunken soldiers who had guarded the orchard with him. In the city, he decided to break into and rob the very shop where he had lived with the owner who had beaten him and dismissed him without pay. He knew all the ins and outs, and where the money was. He positioned a soldier to keep watch, then broke the window from the courtyard himself, climbed through, and took all the money. The job was done skillfully, leaving no traces. He took three hundred seventy rubles. Vasily gave one hundred rubles to his comrade, and with the rest, he went to another city and caroused there with his male and female companions.

XIV

Meanwhile, Ivan Mironov became a skilled, audacious, and successful horse thief. Afimya, his wife, who used to scold him for his “bad deeds,” as she called them, was now pleased and proud of her husband, boasting of his covered sheepskin coat and her own new shawl and fur coat.

In the village and surrounding area, everyone knew that no horse theft happened without him, but they were afraid to testify against him. Even when suspicion did fall on him, he always emerged clean and innocent. His latest theft was from the night pasturing in Kolotovka. Whenever he could, Ivan Mironov was discerning about whom to steal from, preferring to take from landowners and merchants. However, stealing from landowners and merchants was more difficult. So, when aristocratic and merchant horses weren’t feasible, he took from peasants as well. That’s how he seized whatever horses he could from the night pasturing in Kolotovka. He didn’t commit the act himself, but instigated a cunning young man named Gerasim. The peasants only realized their horses were missing at dawn and rushed to search the roads. The horses, however, were hidden in a ravine in the state forest. Ivan Mironov intended to keep them there until the next night, and then ride forty versts to an acquaintance, a yardman. Ivan Mironov visited Gerasim in the forest, brought him pie and vodka, and then headed home along a forest path where he hoped to meet no one. To his misfortune, he encountered a soldier-guard.

“Were you gathering mushrooms?” the soldier asked.

“No, there’s nothing out today,” Ivan Mironov replied, pointing to the small basket he carried just in case.

“Indeed, it’s not a mushroom year,” the soldier said. “Perhaps they’ll appear after the fast,” and walked past.

The soldier understood that something was amiss. There was no reason for Ivan Mironov to be walking through the state forest early in the morning. The soldier returned and began to search the forest. Near the ravine, he heard a horse snort and quietly approached the sound. The ground in the ravine was trampled, and there was horse manure. Further on, Gerasim sat eating something, and two horses stood tied to a tree.

The soldier ran to the village, fetched the elder, the centurion, and two witnesses. They approached Gerasim’s location from three sides and captured him. Geras’ka didn’t resist and, being drunk, immediately confessed everything. He told how Ivan Mironov had plied him with drink and persuaded him, and how he had promised to come for the horses in the forest today. The peasants left the horses and Gerasim in the forest, and themselves set up an ambush, waiting for Ivan Mironov. When it grew dark, a whistle was heard. Gerasim responded. As soon as Ivan Mironov began to descend the hill, he was set upon and taken to the village. The next morning, a crowd gathered in front of the elder’s hut.

Ivan Mironov was brought out and interrogated. Stepan Pelageyushkin, a tall, stooped, long-armed peasant with an aquiline nose and a grim expression, was the first to question him. Stepan was a solitary peasant who had completed his military service. He had just separated from his father and was trying to make ends meet when his horse was stolen. After working a year in the mines, Stepan had managed to acquire two more horses. Both were stolen.

“Tell me, where are my horses?” Stepan said, glaring darkly at the ground and then at Ivan’s face, pale with rage.

Ivan Mironov denied it. Then Stepan struck him in the face, breaking his nose, from which blood flowed.

“Speak, or I’ll kill you!”

Ivan Mironov remained silent, bowing his head. Stepan struck him once, then again with his long arm. Ivan remained silent, only jerking his head from side to side.

“Keep beating him!” the elder shouted.

And everyone began to beat him. Ivan Mironov silently fell and cried out:

“Barbarians, devils, beat me to death! I’m not afraid of you!”

Then Stepan grabbed a stone from a prepared cord of wood and smashed Ivan Mironov’s head.

XV

Ivan Mironov’s murderers were tried. Among them was Stepan Pelageyushkin. He was accused more severely than the others because everyone testified that he had smashed Ivan Mironov’s head with a stone. Stepan concealed nothing in court, explaining that when his last pair of horses was stolen, he reported it to the station, and the tracks could have been found leading to the gypsies, but the district officer wouldn’t even see him and didn’t bother to search at all.

“What were we supposed to do with such a man? He ruined us.”

“Why didn’t others hit him, but you did?” the prosecutor asked.

“That’s not true, everyone hit him, the community decided to kill him. I just finished him off. Why torment him unnecessarily?”

The judges were struck by Stepan’s expression of complete calmness as he recounted his actions and how Ivan Mironov was beaten and how he finished him off.

Stepan truly saw nothing terrible in this murder. In his military service, he had had to shoot a soldier, and just as then, so too with the murder of Ivan Mironov, he saw nothing terrible. Killed meant killed. Today him, tomorrow me.

Stepan received a light sentence, one year in prison. His peasant clothes were taken from him, stored under a number in the storeroom, and he was dressed in a prisoner’s gown and bast shoes.

Stepan had never held much respect for authority, but now he was fully convinced that all authorities, all masters — everyone except the Tsar, who alone pitied the people and was just — were brigands, sucking the people’s blood. The stories of exiles and convicts he met in prison confirmed this view. One was exiled to hard labor for exposing officials’ thievery, another for striking an official when he unjustly started confiscating peasant property, a third for forging banknotes. Masters and merchants, no matter what they did, got away with everything, while poor peasants were sent to prisons to feed lice for every little thing.

His wife visited him in prison. She was already struggling without him, and then their house burned down, leaving her completely destitute and begging with their children. His wife’s misfortunes embittered Stepan even more. He was angry with everyone in prison too and once almost chopped the cook with an axe, for which he received an additional year. During this year, he learned that his wife had died and that his home no longer existed…

When Stepan’s term was up, he was called to the storeroom. His clothes, in which he had arrived, were retrieved from the shelf and given to him.

“Where will I go now?” he said, getting dressed, to the quartermaster.

“To your home, of course.”

“There’s no home. I guess I’ll have to take to the road. Rob people.”

“And if you rob, you’ll end up back here.”

“Well, that’s as it happens.”

And Stepan left. He still headed towards his home. There was nowhere else to go.

Before reaching home, he stopped to spend the night at a familiar inn with a tavern.

The inn was run by a stout Vladimir townsman. He knew Stepan. And he knew that Stepan had ended up in prison through misfortune. So, he let Stepan stay the night.

This wealthy townsman had taken his neighbor’s wife and lived with her as a worker and wife.

Stepan knew all about this affair — how the townsman had wronged the peasant, how this wretched woman had left her husband and now had grown fat and sat sweating over tea, and out of pity offered Stepan tea as well. There were no travelers present. Stepan was left to sleep in the kitchen. Matryona put everything away and went to the main room. Stepan lay on the stove, but couldn’t sleep and kept cracking the splinters of wood drying on the stove. But he couldn’t get out of his head the townsman’s fat belly, protruding from under the belt of his well-worn, faded calico shirt. He kept imagining slicing that belly with a knife, letting out the omentum. And the woman too. Sometimes he would tell himself: “Oh, to hell with them, I’ll leave tomorrow,” then he would remember Ivan Mironov and again think of the townsman’s belly and Matryona’s pale, sweaty throat. If he was going to kill, he would kill both. The second rooster crowed. If it was to be done, it had to be now, otherwise it would be dawn. He had noticed a knife and an axe the evening before. He slid off the stove, took the axe and knife, and left the kitchen. Just as he stepped out, the latch clicked on the door. The townsman had come out. He didn’t do as he had intended. He couldn’t use the knife, but he swung the axe and split the townsman’s head. The townsman toppled against the doorframe and onto the ground.

Stepan entered the main room. Matryona sprang up and stood by the bed in only her shirt. Stepan killed her too with the same axe.

Then he lit a candle, took the money from the desk, and left.

XVI

In a district town, set apart from other buildings, lived an old, former official, a drunkard, in his own house with his two daughters and son-in-law. The married daughter also drank and led a dissolute life, but the elder daughter, Maria Semyonovna, a wrinkled, thin woman of fifty, was the only one who supported everyone. She had a pension of two hundred fifty rubles. On this money, the whole family ate. Only Maria Semyonovna worked in the house. She looked after her frail, drunken old father and her sister’s child, and she cooked and did the laundry. And, as always happens, all necessary chores were piled upon her, and she was the one all three would scold, and her son-in-law even beat her when he was drunk. She endured everything silently and meekly, and, also as always happens, the more work she had, the more she managed to accomplish. She also helped the poor, cutting back on her own needs, giving away her clothes, and helping to nurse the sick.

Once, a lame, legless village tailor worked for Maria Semyonovna. He was altering an old coat for her father and covering a short sheepskin coat with cloth for Maria Semyonovna herself — for going to the market in winter.

The lame tailor was an intelligent and observant man who, by virtue of his profession, had seen many different people. Due to his lameness, he was always sitting and thus inclined to think. After living with Maria Semyonovna for a week, he couldn’t stop marveling at her life. One time, she came to him in the kitchen, where he was sewing, to wash towels, and she spoke to him about his life, how his brother had wronged him and how he had separated from him.

“I thought it would be better, but it’s still the same, need.”

“It’s better not to change, but to live as you are,” Maria Semyonovna said.

“And I, Maria Semyonovna, marvel at you, how you alone bustle around for everyone. And I see little good comes to you from them.”

Maria Semyonovna said nothing.

“You must have learned from books that there will be a reward for this in the next world.”

“We don’t know about that,” Maria Semyonovna said, “but it’s just better to live this way.”

“Is that in books?”

“It is in books,” she said and read him the Sermon on the Mount from the Gospel. The tailor fell into thought. And when he settled up and went home, he kept thinking about what he had seen at Maria Semyonovna’s and what she had told and read to him.

XVII

Pyotr Nikolaevich’s attitude towards the people changed, and the people’s attitude towards him changed as well. Less than a year passed before twenty-seven oak trees were cut down, and his uninsured threshing barn and threshing floor were burned. Pyotr Nikolaevich concluded that living with these people was impossible.

At the same time, the Liventsovs were looking for a manager for their estates, and the marshal of the nobility recommended Pyotr Nikolaevich as the best estate manager in the district. The Liventsov estates, though vast, yielded no income, and the peasants benefited from everything. Pyotr Nikolaevich undertook to bring everything into order and, leasing out his own estate, moved with his wife to a distant Volga province.

Pyotr Nikolaevich had always loved order and legality, and now, even more so, he could not allow these wild, crude people to unlawfully seize property that did not belong to them. He welcomed the opportunity to teach them a lesson and took up the task rigorously. He had one peasant imprisoned for timber theft, and personally beat another for failing to move off the road and remove his cap. Regarding the meadows, which were a point of contention and which the peasants considered their own, Pyotr Nikolaevich announced to the peasants that if they pastured their livestock there, he would impound them.

Spring arrived, and the peasants, as they had done in previous years, released their livestock onto the master’s meadows. Pyotr Nikolaevich gathered all his workers and ordered them to drive the cattle into the master’s yard. The peasants were out plowing, so the workers, despite the shouts of the women, drove the livestock in. Returning from work, the peasants gathered and came to the master’s yard to demand their livestock back. Pyotr Nikolaevich came out to them with a rifle slung over his shoulder (he had just returned from an inspection tour) and informed them that he would only return the livestock upon payment of fifty kopecks per head of horned cattle and ten kopecks per sheep. The peasants began to shout that the meadows were theirs, that their fathers and grandfathers had owned them, and that it was not customary to seize other people’s livestock.

“Give back the livestock, or there’ll be trouble,” said an old man, advancing on Pyotr Nikolaevich.

“What trouble?” Pyotr Nikolaevich shouted, completely pale, stepping towards the old man.

“Give them back, for goodness sake. You scoundrel!”

“What?” Pyotr Nikolaevich cried and struck the old man in the face.

“You dare not fight! Lads, take the livestock by force!”

The crowd surged forward. Pyotr Nikolaevich tried to leave, but they wouldn’t let him. He began to push through. The rifle fired and killed one of the peasants. A fierce brawl ensued, and Pyotr Nikolaevich was overwhelmed. Five minutes later, his disfigured body was dragged into a ravine.

A military court was appointed for the murderers, and two were sentenced to hanging.

XVIII

In the village where the tailor was from, five wealthy peasants leased one hundred and five desyatinas of arable land, black as tar and rich, from a landowner for eleven hundred rubles. They then distributed it to other peasants, charging some eighteen rubles, others fifteen. No land went for less than twelve. So the profit was good. The lessees themselves took five desyatinas each, effectively getting that land for free. One of their comrades, a peasant, died, and they offered the lame tailor a partnership.

When the lessees began to divide the land, the tailor abstained from vodka. When the discussion turned to how much land each person should receive, the tailor stated that everyone should be assessed equally, that no excess should be taken from the lessees, only what was necessary.

“How so?”

“Are we not Christians? This is good for the masters, but we are peasants. It must be according to God’s law. That is Christ’s law.”

“Where is such a law?”

“In the book, in the Gospel. Come this Sunday, and I will read and we will discuss.”

And on Sunday, not all, but three came to the tailor, and he began to read to them.

He read five chapters of Matthew, and they began to interpret. Everyone listened, but only Ivan Chuyev truly absorbed it. And he absorbed it so thoroughly that he began to live entirely according to God’s will. And his family began to live that way too. He refused the excess land, taking only his fair share.

And people began to visit the tailor and Ivan, and they began to understand, and they did understand. They stopped smoking, drinking, and using foul language; they started helping each other. And they ceased going to church and returned their icons to the priest. And there became seventeen such households. Sixty-five souls in total. And the priest became frightened and reported it to the bishop. The bishop considered what to do and decided to send Archimandrite Misail, the former law teacher from the gymnasium, to the village.

XIX

The Bishop sat Misail down and began discussing the recent developments in his diocese.

“It all stems from spiritual weakness and ignorance. You are a man of learning. I am counting on you. Go, gather the people, and clarify things for them publicly.”

“If your Eminence blesses it, I will do my best,” said Father Misail. He was pleased with this assignment. Anything that allowed him to demonstrate his faith brought him joy. And by converting others, he most powerfully convinced himself that he believed.

“Do your best, I suffer greatly for my flock,” the bishop said, leisurely accepting a glass of tea from the servant with his white, plump hands.

“Just this one jam? Bring another,” he said to the servant. “It pains me deeply, very deeply,” he continued, addressing Misail.

Misail was eager to prove himself. However, being a man of modest means, he requested money for travel expenses. Fearing resistance from the unrefined populace, he also asked for a governor’s order instructing local police to assist him if necessary.

The bishop arranged everything for him, and Misail, with the help of his servant and cook, gathered a cellar of provisions, which were essential for traveling to a remote area. He then departed for his destination. Embarking on this mission, Misail felt a pleasant sense of the importance of his ministry, and moreover, a complete cessation of any doubts about his faith; on the contrary, he had absolute certainty in its truth.

His thoughts were directed not at the essence of faith — that was considered an axiom — but at refuting the objections raised concerning its external forms.

XX

The village priest and his wife received Misail with great honor, and the day after his arrival, they gathered the people in the church. Misail, in a new silk cassock, with his pectoral cross and combed hair, ascended the ambo. Beside him stood the priest, and a little further, the deacons and choristers, with policemen by the side doors. The sectarians also came, in greasy, coarse sheepskin coats.

After the moleben (prayer service), Misail delivered a sermon, admonishing the fallen to return to the bosom of Mother Church, threatening them with the torments of hell and promising full forgiveness to those who repented.

The sectarians remained silent. When they were questioned, they answered.

Asked why they had fallen away, they replied that the church revered wooden and man-made gods, and that the scriptures not only did not show this but even prophesied the opposite. When Misail asked Chuyev if it was true that they called holy icons “boards,” Chuyev replied, “Just turn any icon you want over, and you’ll see for yourself.” When asked why they didn’t recognize the priesthood, they replied that the scripture says: “Freely you have received, freely give,” but priests only dispense their grace for money. To all of Misail’s attempts to rely on Holy Scripture, the tailor and Ivan calmly but firmly objected, pointing to the scripture, which they knew well. Misail grew angry and threatened them with worldly authority. To this, the sectarians said that it is written: “They persecuted me, and they will persecute you also.”

It ended with nothing accomplished, and everything would have passed well, but the next day at the Liturgy, Misail gave a sermon about the harmfulness of seducers, stating that they deserved all punishment. Among the people leaving the church, whispers began about how it would be worthwhile to teach the godless a lesson so they wouldn’t mislead the populace. And on that day, while Misail was dining on salmon and whitefish with the dean and an inspector who had arrived from the city, a brawl erupted in the village. The Orthodox believers gathered at Chuyev’s hut, awaiting their exit to beat them. There were about twenty sectarian men and women. Misail’s sermon, and now the gathering of the Orthodox and their threatening speeches, provoked a malicious feeling in the sectarians that had not been there before. Evening fell; it was time for the women to milk the cows, but the Orthodox still stood waiting. They beat a young man who had come out and drove him back into the hut. They discussed what to do and disagreed.

The tailor said they must endure and not defend themselves. Chuyev, however, said that if they endured like this, they would all be beaten, and grabbing a poker, he went outside. The Orthodox rushed at him.

“Now then, according to the Law of Moses!” he shouted and began to strike the Orthodox, knocking out one’s eye. The rest ran out of the hut and returned home.

Chuyev was tried and sentenced to exile for seduction and blasphemy.

Father Misail, however, was rewarded and made an archimandrite.

XXI

Two years ago, a healthy, Eastern-looking, beautiful young woman named Turchaninova arrived in St. Petersburg from the Don Host Land to attend courses. In St. Petersburg, she met and fell in love with a student named Tyurin, the son of a zemstvo chief from Simbirsk province. However, her love was not ordinary feminine love with a desire to become his wife and the mother of his children. Instead, it was a comradely love, fueled primarily by their shared indignation and hatred, not only for the existing order but also for the people who represented it. It was also sustained by her awareness of her own intellectual, educational, and moral superiority over them.

She was capable of learning and easily memorized lectures and passed exams. Moreover, she devoured the latest books in enormous quantities. She was convinced that her calling was not to bear and raise children — she even viewed such a calling with disgust and contempt — but to destroy the existing order, which shackled the best forces of the people, and to show people the new path of life that contemporary European writers pointed out to her. Full-figured, pale-skinned, rosy-cheeked, beautiful, with sparkling black eyes and a large black braid, she evoked feelings in men that she neither wanted nor could reciprocate — so completely was she absorbed in her agitational and conversational activities. Yet, she still found it pleasant that she aroused these feelings, and therefore, though she did not dress up, she did not neglect her appearance. It pleased her to be attractive while being able to show how much she despised what other women so valued. In her views on the means of combating the existing order, she went further than most of her comrades and her friend Tyurin, conceding that all means, including murder, were justifiable and usable in the struggle. And yet, this same revolutionary, Katya Turchaninova, was, at heart, a very kind and selfless woman, always instinctively preferring the gain, pleasure, and well-being of others to her own, and genuinely rejoicing in the opportunity to do something pleasant for anyone — a child, an old person, an animal.

Turchaninova spent the summer in a Volga district town with her comrade, a village schoolteacher. Tyurin’s father also lived in this same district. All three, along with the district doctor, often met, exchanged books, debated, and expressed their outrage. The Tyurin estate was adjacent to the Liventsov estate, where Pyotr Nikolaevich had taken on the role of manager. As soon as Pyotr Nikolaevich arrived and began to impose order, young Tyurin, seeing an independent spirit and firm resolve among the Liventsov peasants to defend their rights, became interested in them. He frequently visited the village and spoke with the peasants, disseminating among them the theory of socialism in general, and the nationalization of land in particular.

When Pyotr Nikolaevich’s murder occurred and the court convened, the circle of revolutionaries in the district town had strong grounds for outrage at the court and boldly voiced it. The fact that Tyurin had gone to the village and spoken with the peasants was revealed in court. Tyurin’s belongings were searched, several revolutionary pamphlets were found, and the student was arrested and taken to St. Petersburg.

Turchaninova followed him and went to the prison for a visit, but she was not allowed in on a regular day; she was only permitted on a general visiting day, where she saw Tyurin through two grates. This meeting further intensified her indignation. What pushed her outrage to the extreme was her conversation with a handsome gendarme officer, who was clearly ready to be lenient if she accepted his propositions. This brought her to the ultimate degree of indignation and malice against all authorities. She went to the police chief to complain. The police chief told her the same thing the gendarme had, that they could do nothing, that there was a ministerial order for this. She submitted a memorandum to the minister, requesting a meeting; she was refused. Then she decided on a desperate act and bought a revolver.

XXII

The minister received visitors at his usual hour. He walked past three petitioners, met with the governor, and then approached the dark-eyed, beautiful young woman in black, who stood with a paper in her left hand. A gently lustful spark ignited in the minister’s eyes at the sight of the beautiful petitioner, but remembering his position, the minister adopted a serious expression.

“What do you wish?” he asked, approaching her.

Without replying, she swiftly drew a hand holding a revolver from beneath her cape and, aiming it at the minister’s chest, fired, but missed.

The minister tried to grab her hand; she recoiled and fired a second time. The minister darted away. She was seized. She trembled and couldn’t speak. Then, suddenly, she burst into hysterical laughter. The minister wasn’t even wounded.

It was Turchaninova. She was placed in a house of preliminary detention. The minister, meanwhile, received congratulations and condolences from the highest-ranking officials, and even the sovereign himself, and appointed a commission to investigate the conspiracy that had led to this assassination attempt.

There was, of course, no conspiracy; but the officers of both overt and covert police diligently set about tracing every thread of the non-existent plot and conscientiously earned their salaries and allowances: rising early in the dark, they conducted search after search, copied papers and books, read diaries and private letters, made excellent extracts from them in beautiful handwriting on fine paper, and repeatedly interrogated Turchaninova, staging confrontations in an attempt to elicit the names of her accomplices.

The minister was a kind-hearted man and felt great pity for this healthy, beautiful Cossack woman, but he told himself that he bore heavy state responsibilities, which he carried out, however difficult they might be for him. And when his former comrade, a chamberlain, an acquaintance of the Tyurins, met him at a court ball and began to plead for Tyurin and Turchaninova, the minister shrugged, causing the red ribbon on his white waistcoat to crinkle, and said:

“Je ne demanderais pas mieux que de lâcher cette pauvre fillette, mais vous savez – le devoir.” (I would ask for nothing better than to release this poor girl, but you know – duty.)

Meanwhile, Turchaninova sat in the house of preliminary detention, sometimes calmly tapping coded messages to her comrades and reading the books she was given. At other times, she would suddenly fall into despair and rage, beating against the walls, shrieking, and laughing.

XXIII

One day, Maria Semyonovna received her pension at the treasury, and on her way back, she met a familiar teacher.

“What, Maria Semyonovna, did you get your money from the treasury?” he called out to her from across the street.

“I did,” Maria Semyonovna replied, “just enough to plug the holes.”

“Well, you have plenty of money, and you’ll plug the holes, there’ll be some left over,” the teacher said, and, bidding farewell, walked on.

“Goodbye,” Maria Semyonovna said, and, looking at the teacher, she completely collided with a tall man with very long arms and a stern face.

But as she approached her house, she was surprised to see the same long-armed man again. Upon seeing her enter the house, he stood for a moment, turned, and left.

Maria Semyonovna initially felt eerie, then sad. But when she entered the house and distributed treats to both her old father and her little scrofulous nephew Fedya, and caressed the joyfully yelping Trezorka, she felt good again. She gave the money to her father and set about her work, which never ceased for her.

The man she had collided with was Stepan.

From the inn where Stepan had killed the yardman, he did not go to the city. And strangely enough, the memory of killing the yardman was not only not unpleasant to him, but he recalled it several times a day. It pleased him to think that he could do it so cleanly and deftly, that no one would find out or prevent him from doing it again and to others. Sitting in a tavern with tea and vodka, he observed people always from the same perspective: how he could kill them. He went to stay the night with a countryman, a drayman. The drayman was not home. He said he would wait and sat talking to the woman. Then, when she turned to the stove, it occurred to him to kill her. He was surprised, shook his head at himself, then took a knife from his boot-leg, and, throwing her down, slit her throat. The children began to cry; he killed them too and left the city without staying the night. Outside the city, in a village, he entered a tavern and slept there.

The next day he came to the district town again and on the street overheard Maria Semyonovna’s conversation with the teacher. Her gaze frightened him, but still, he decided to break into her house and take the money she had received. That night, he broke the lock and entered the main room. The younger, married daughter was the first to hear him. She screamed. Stepan immediately stabbed her. The son-in-law woke up and grappled with him. He seized Stepan by the throat and struggled with him for a long time, but Stepan was stronger. And, having finished with the son-in-law, Stepan, agitated and excited by the struggle, went behind the partition.

Behind the partition, Maria Semyonovna lay in bed, and, rising, looked at Stepan with frightened, meek eyes and crossed herself. Her gaze again frightened Stepan. He lowered his eyes.

“Where’s the money?” he said, not raising his eyes.

She remained silent.

“Where’s the money?” Stepan said, showing her the knife.

“What are you doing? How can you?” she said.

“It seems, I can.”

Stepan approached her, ready to grab her hands so she wouldn’t interfere with him, but she didn’t raise her hands, didn’t resist, and only pressed them to her chest and sighed heavily and repeated:

“Oh, a great sin. What are you doing? Pity yourself. You’re ruining other souls, and even more so your own… Oh-oh!” she cried out.

Stepan could no longer bear her voice and gaze and slashed her throat with the knife. “To talk with you.” She sank onto the pillows and gasped, soaking the pillow with blood. He turned away and went through the rooms, gathering things. Having taken what he needed, Stepan lit a cigarette, sat for a while, cleaned his clothes, and left. He thought that this murder, like the previous ones, would go unpunished, but before reaching his lodging, he suddenly felt such exhaustion that he couldn’t move a single limb. He lay in a ditch and remained there for the rest of the night, all day, and the next.

PART TWO

I

Lying in the ditch, Stepan continuously saw Maria Semyonovna’s gentle, thin, frightened face before him and heard her voice: “Is that even possible?” her distinctive, lisping, pitiful voice asked. And Stepan relived everything he had done to her. He became terrified, closing his eyes and shaking his hairy head to dislodge these thoughts and memories. For a moment, he would be free of the recollections, but in their place, first one, then another black figure would appear, and then more black figures with red eyes would follow, making faces, all saying the same thing: “You finished her off — finish yourself off too, or we’ll give you no peace.” And he would open his eyes and again see her and hear her voice, and he would feel pity for her, and disgust and fear for himself. And he would close his eyes again, and again — the black figures.

By the evening of the next day, he got up and went to the tavern. He barely made it to the tavern and began to drink. But no matter how much he drank, the intoxication wouldn’t take hold. He sat silently at the table, drinking glass after glass. A rural police officer entered the tavern.

“Whose man are you?” the officer asked him.

“I’m the one,” he replied, “who cut everyone down at Dobrotvorov’s yesterday.”

He was tied up and, after being held for a day at the district police station, was sent to the provincial capital. The prison warden, recognizing him as his former troublesome inmate and now a great villain, received him sternly.

“Listen, don’t mess around in my prison,” the warden rasped, furrowing his brow and jutting out his lower jaw. “If I notice anything, I’ll flog you. You won’t escape from me.”

“Why would I run?” Stepan replied, lowering his eyes. “I gave myself up.”

“Alright, alright — don’t talk back to me. And when authority speaks, look ’em in the eye!” the warden shouted, hitting him with a fist under his jaw.

At that moment, she appeared to Stepan again, and he heard her voice. He hadn’t heard what the warden said to him.

“What?” he asked, coming to himself when he felt the blow to his face.

“Alright, alright — march! No need to play dumb.”

The warden expected violence, attempts to talk to other prisoners, escape attempts. But there was none of that. Whenever the guard or the warden himself peeked through the hole in his door, Stepan sat on a straw-filled sack, head in hands, whispering something to himself. During interrogations, he was also unlike other prisoners: he was distracted, didn’t listen to questions; and when he did understand them, he was so truthful that the interrogator, accustomed to cleverly outmaneuvering defendants, here felt a sensation similar to raising your foot for a step that isn’t there when you’re in the dark at the end of a staircase. Stepan recounted all his murders, his brows furrowed and eyes fixed on a single point, in the simplest, most businesslike tone, trying to remember every detail: “He came out,” Stepan recounted about the first murder, “barefoot, stood in the doorway, so I, you know, whacked him once, and he gasped, then I immediately went for the woman…” and so on. During the prosecutor’s inspection of the prison cells, Stepan was asked if he had any complaints or needed anything. He replied that he needed nothing and was not being mistreated. The prosecutor, walking a few steps down the foul-smelling corridor, stopped and asked the accompanying warden how this prisoner was behaving.

“I can’t get over him,” the warden replied, pleased that Stepan had praised his treatment. “He’s been with us for a second month, exemplary conduct. I just worry he might be planning something. He’s a brave man, and his strength is immeasurable.”

II

For the first month of his imprisonment, Stepan was relentlessly tormented by the same visions. He saw the grey wall of his cell, heard the sounds of the prison — the murmur from the common cell below, the guard’s footsteps in the corridor, the ticking of the clock. Simultaneously, he saw Maria Semyonovna — with her gentle gaze that had overcome him even during their encounter on the street, and her thin, wrinkled neck that he had slit. He heard her tender, pitiful, lisping voice asking, “You’re ruining other souls and your own. Is that even possible?”

Then her voice would fade, and the three black figures would appear. They would materialize whether his eyes were open or closed; with his eyes shut, they were even clearer. When Stepan opened his eyes, they would blend with the doors and walls, gradually disappearing, only to emerge again, approaching from three sides, making faces and muttering, “Finish it, finish it.” They suggested ways: “You can make a noose, you can set a fire.” At these words, a shiver would run through Stepan, and he would begin to recite the prayers he knew, like “The Theotokos” and “Our Father.”

Initially, the prayers seemed to help. While praying, he would recall his life: his father, mother, the village, the dog Volchok, his grandfather on the stove, the benches where he played with the children, then the girls and their songs, then the horses, how they were stolen, and how the horse thief was caught and he finished him off with a stone. He remembered his first prison stay, how he was released, and then recalled the fat yardman, the drayman’s wife, the children, and then her again. He would grow hot, throw off his gown, leap from his bunk, and pace rapidly back and forth in his small cell like a caged animal, turning quickly by the sweating, damp walls. He would read prayers again, but they no longer brought relief.

One long autumn evening, with the wind whistling and howling through the pipes, he, exhausted from pacing his cell, sat on his bunk. He felt he could no longer fight; the black figures had triumphed, and he surrendered to them. He had long been eyeing the stove’s air vent, realizing that if he wrapped thin twine or strips of cloth around it, it wouldn’t slip. He knew he had to arrange it cleverly. He set to work, spending two days preparing linen strips from the sack he slept on (covering his bunk with his gown when the guard entered). He tied the strips with double knots to ensure they wouldn’t break but would hold his body. While he prepared this, he felt no torment. When everything was ready, he made a noose, put it around his neck, climbed onto the bed, and hung himself.

However, just as his tongue began to protrude, the strips broke, and he fell. The guard entered at the noise. A paramedic was called, and Stepan was taken to the hospital. The next day, he had fully recovered and was moved from the hospital not to a solitary cell, but to a common cell.

In the common cell, surrounded by twenty people, he lived as if he were alone, seeing no one, speaking to no one, and continued to suffer. It was particularly agonizing when everyone else slept, but he remained awake, still seeing Maria Semyonovna, hearing her voice. Then, the black figures with their terrifying eyes would reappear and torment him.

Again, as before, he recited prayers, and as before, they offered no help.

One time, when, after a prayer, she appeared to him yet again, he began to pray to her, to her dear soul, asking her to release him, to forgive him. And when he collapsed onto his rumpled sack towards morning, he fell into a deep sleep. In his dream, she came to him, with her thin, wrinkled, slit neck.

“Well, will you forgive me?”

She looked at him with her gentle gaze and said nothing.

“Will you forgive me?”

He asked her this up to three times. But still, she said nothing. And he awoke. From then on, he felt a sense of relief, as if he had come to his senses. He looked around and, for the first time, began to connect and speak with his cellmates.

III

In the same cell as Stepan sat Vasily, who had again been caught stealing and sentenced to exile, and Chuyev, also sentenced to settlement. Vasily either sang songs with his beautiful voice or recounted his adventures to his comrades. Chuyev, on the other hand, either worked, sewing something from clothes or linen, or read the Gospel and the Psalter.

To Stepan’s question about why he was being exiled, Chuyev explained that he was exiled for the true Christian faith, because the deceitful priests could not hear the spirit of those who lived according to the Gospel and exposed them. When Stepan then asked Chuyev what the evangelical law was, Chuyev explained to him that the evangelical law was not to pray to man-made gods, but to worship in spirit and truth. And he told how they had learned this true faith from the legless tailor during the land division.

“Well, and what will happen for bad deeds?” Stepan asked.

“Everything is stated.”

And Chuyev read to him:

“When the Son of Man comes in his glory, and all the holy angels with him, then he will sit on his glorious throne. Before him will be gathered all the nations, and he will separate them one from another, as a shepherd separates the sheep from the goats, and he will place the sheep on his right, but the goats on the left. Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world: for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.’ Then the righteous will answer him, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry and feed you, or thirsty and give you drink? And when did we see you a stranger and welcome you, or naked and clothe you? And when did we see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ And the King will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did it to one of the least of these my brothers, you did it to me.’ Then he will say to those on his left, ‘Depart from me, you cursed, into the eternal fire prepared for the devil and his angels: for I was hungry and you gave me no food, I was thirsty and you gave me no drink, I was a stranger and you did not welcome me, I was naked and you did not clothe me, sick and in prison and you did not visit me.’ Then they also will answer, saying, ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry or thirsty or a stranger or naked or sick or in prison, and did not minister to you?’ Then he will answer them, ‘Truly, I say to you, as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.’ And these will go away into eternal punishment, but the righteous into eternal life.” (Matthew XXV, 31–46.)

Vasily, who had squatted on the floor opposite Chuyev and listened to the reading, nodded his handsome head approvingly.

“True,” he said decisively, ” ‘Go, you cursed,’ they say, ‘into eternal torment,’ because they didn’t feed anyone, but just ate themselves. That’s what they deserve. Here, let me read,” he added, wanting to show off his reading.

“Well, won’t there be forgiveness?” Stepan asked, listening to the reading silently, his shaggy head lowered.

“Wait, be quiet,” Chuyev said to Vasily, who kept muttering about how the rich had fed no stranger and visited no one in prison. “Wait a minute,” Chuyev repeated, flipping through the Gospel. Finding what he was looking for, Chuyev smoothed the pages with his large, strong hand, which had paled in prison.

“And they led him,” Chuyev began, meaning with Christ, “to death, and two criminals with him. And when they came to the place called The Skull, there they crucified him and the criminals, one on his right and one on his left.”

Jesus, meanwhile, said, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing…” And the people stood watching. The rulers also scoffed at him, saying, “He saved others; let him save himself, if he is the Christ, the Chosen of God.” The soldiers also mocked him, coming up and offering him sour wine and saying, “If you are the King of the Jews, save yourself.” There was also an inscription over him, written in Greek, Roman, and Hebrew letters: “This is the King of the Jews.” One of the criminals who was hanged reviled him, saying, “Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us!” But the other rebuked him, saying, “Do you not fear God, since you are under the same condemnation? And we indeed justly, for we are receiving the due reward of our deeds; but this man has done nothing wrong.” And he said to Jesus, “Remember me, Lord, when you come into your kingdom.” And Jesus said to him, “Truly, I say to you, today you will be with me in Paradise.” (Luke XXIII, 32–43.)

Stepan said nothing and sat lost in thought, as if listening, but he no longer heard anything that Chuyev read next.

“So this is what true faith is,” he thought. “Only those who fed and gave drink to the poor, who visited the imprisoned, will be saved, and those who did not do this will go to hell. And yet, the robber repented only on the cross, and even he went to paradise.” He saw no contradiction in this; on the contrary, one confirmed the other: that the merciful would go to paradise and the unmerciful to hell meant that everyone should be merciful, and that Christ forgave the robber meant that Christ himself was merciful. All of this was completely new to Stepan; he only wondered why it had been hidden from him until now. And he spent all his free time with Chuyev, asking questions and listening. And as he listened, he understood. The general meaning of the entire teaching was revealed to him: that people are brothers and they should love and pity each other, and then all will be well. And when he listened, he perceived as something forgotten and familiar everything that confirmed the general meaning of this teaching, and he disregarded what did not confirm it, attributing it to his own misunderstanding.

And from that time on, Stepan became a different person.

IV

Stepan Pelageyushkin had always been humble, but recently, he astonished the warden, the guards, and his cellmates with the change that had come over him. He performed all the heaviest tasks without being asked, even cleaning the slop bucket, and did so out of turn. Despite this obedience, his fellow prisoners respected and feared him, knowing his resolve and great physical strength, especially after an incident with two tramps. These tramps had tried to fleece a rich young prisoner, taking everything he had. Stepan intervened, taking back the money they had won. The tramps began to curse him, then beat him, but he overpowered both of them. When the warden inquired about the quarrel, the tramps declared that Pelageyushkin had started beating them. Stepan did not defend himself and humbly accepted his punishment: three days in solitary confinement and relocation to a single cell.

The solitary cell was hard on him because it separated him from Chuyev and the Gospel. Furthermore, he feared the visions of Maria Semyonovna and the black figures would return. But the visions did not come back. His entire soul was filled with a new, joyful purpose. He would have welcomed his solitude if he could read and had a Gospel. He would have been given a Gospel, but he couldn’t read.

As a boy, he had begun to learn to read in the old way: az, buki, vedi, but due to his lack of understanding, he never got beyond the alphabet and couldn’t grasp how to form syllables, remaining illiterate. Now, however, he decided to learn and asked the guard for a Gospel. The guard brought it to him, and he set to work. He recognized the letters, but he couldn’t put anything together. No matter how much he struggled to understand how letters formed words, nothing came of it. He didn’t sleep at night, constantly thinking; he had no appetite, and such a plague of lice attacked him from despair that he couldn’t shake them off.

“Well, still haven’t figured it out?” the guard once asked him.

“No.”

“But do you know ‘Our Father’?”

“I know it.”

“Well, read that. Here it is,” and the guard showed him “Our Father” in the Gospel.

Stepan began to read “Our Father,” matching the familiar letters with familiar sounds. And suddenly, the secret of combining letters was revealed to him, and he began to read. This was a great joy. From then on, he continued to read, and the meaning that gradually emerged from the difficult-to-form words gained even greater significance.

Solitude no longer oppressed Stepan; instead, it brought him joy. He was completely absorbed in his task and was not pleased when he was moved back to the common cell to make room for newly arrived political prisoners.

V

Now it was Stepan, not Chuyev, who often read the Gospel in the cell. Some prisoners sang vulgar songs, while others listened to his reading and his discussions about what he had read. Two, in particular, always listened silently and attentively: Makhorikin, a convict, murderer, and executioner, and Vasily, who had been caught stealing and was awaiting trial in the same prison. Makhorikin had twice performed his duties during his imprisonment, both times away from the prison, as no one else could be found to carry out the sentences handed down by the judges. The peasants who murdered Pyotr Nikolaevich were tried by a military court, and two of them were sentenced to death by hanging.

Makhorikin was summoned to Penza to carry out his duty. In the past, he would immediately write — he was quite literate — a letter to the governor, explaining that he was being sent to Penza to perform his duties and therefore requested the provincial head to allocate his due daily subsistence allowance. Now, however, to the surprise of the prison warden, he declared that he would not go and would no longer perform the duties of an executioner.

“Have you forgotten the whip?” the prison warden shouted.

“Well, a whip is a whip, but there’s no law to kill.”

“What’s gotten into you, learning from Pelageyushkin? A prison prophet, are we? Just you wait.”

VI

Meanwhile, Makhin, the high school student who taught how to forge coupons, had graduated from high school and completed his law degree at the university. Thanks to his success with women, particularly with the former mistress of an old deputy minister, he was appointed an investigating magistrate at a very young age. He was a dishonest man, in debt, a seducer of women, and a gambler, but he was cunning, quick-witted, had a good memory, and managed cases well.

He served as an investigating magistrate in the district where Stepan Pelageyushkin was being tried. Even during the first interrogation, Stepan surprised him with his simple, truthful, and calm answers. Makhin subconsciously felt that this man standing before him in shackles and with a shaven head, brought in and guarded by two soldiers who would lead him back to his cell, was a completely free man, morally standing unimaginably high above him. Therefore, while interrogating him, he constantly spurred and encouraged himself not to become flustered or confused. He was struck by how Stepan spoke about his actions as if they were something long past, committed not by him but by some other person.

“And you didn’t feel sorry for them?” Makhin asked.

“No. I didn’t understand then.”

“And now?”

Stepan smiled sadly.

“Now, burn me on fire, I wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because I understood that all people are brothers.”

“So, am I your brother too?”

“Of course.”

“How can I be your brother if I’m sentencing you to hard labor?”

“Out of misunderstanding.”

“What is it that I don’t understand?”

“You don’t understand, if you judge.”

“Well, let’s continue. Where did you go next?..”

What struck Makhin most of all was what he learned from the warden about Pelageyushkin’s influence on the executioner, Makhorikin, who, risking punishment, had refused to carry out his duty.

VII

At an evening gathering at the Yeropkins’  —  where two wealthy heiresses, both courted by Makhin, were present  —  after a series of romantic songs (in which the very musical Makhin particularly excelled, both in harmonies and accompaniment), he recounted, with remarkable accuracy and detail, and with complete detachment, the story of the strange criminal who had transformed the executioner. Makhin’s ability to remember and convey everything so well stemmed from his consistent emotional detachment from the people he dealt with. He didn’t, or couldn’t, delve into the inner lives of others, which is why he could so clearly recall everything that happened to people, what they did, and what they said. However, Pelageyushkin had intrigued him. He hadn’t penetrated Stepan’s soul, but he had involuntarily wondered: what was in his soul? Unable to find an answer, but sensing something interesting, he recounted the entire affair at the gathering: the conversion of the executioner, the warden’s stories about Pelageyushkin’s strange behavior, his reading of the Gospel, and his powerful influence over his fellow prisoners.

Everyone was interested in Makhin’s story, but most of all the younger sister, Liza Yeropkina, an eighteen-year-old girl who had just left the institute and was just awakening from the darkness and confinement of the false circumstances in which she had grown up, as if she had just surfaced from water, passionately inhaling the fresh air of life. She began to ask Makhin for details and why such a change had occurred in Pelageyushkin. Makhin told her what he had heard from Stepan about the last murder, and how the meekness, submission, and fearlessness in the face of death of this very kind woman, whom he had killed last, had conquered him, opened his eyes, and how the subsequent reading of the Gospel completed the transformation.

Liza Yeropkina could not sleep for a long time that night. For several months, she had been struggling between the secular life her sister drew her to and her fascination with Makhin, coupled with a desire to reform him. Now, the latter prevailed. She had heard about the murdered woman before. But now, after this terrible death and Makhin’s account of it, based on Pelageyushkin’s words, she learned the detailed story of Maria Semyonovna and was struck by everything she discovered about her.

Liza passionately yearned to be like Maria Semyonovna. She was wealthy and feared that Makhin was courting her for her money. So she decided to distribute her estate and told Makhin about it.

Makhin was pleased at the opportunity to demonstrate his selflessness and told Liza that he loved her not for her money, and this, as it seemed to him, magnanimous decision touched him himself. Meanwhile, Liza began to struggle with her mother (the estate was her father’s), who would not allow her to give away the estate. And Makhin helped Liza. The more he did so, the more he began to understand a completely different world of spiritual aspirations, previously alien to him, which he now saw in Liza.

VIII

Everything was quiet in the cell. Stepan lay on his place on the bunks and was not yet asleep. Vasily came up to him and, tugging at his leg, winked at him to get up and come out to him. Stepan slid off the bunks and approached Vasily.

“Well, brother,” said Vasily, “please, help me.”

“Help you with what?”

“Well, I want to escape.”

And Vasily revealed to Stepan that he had everything ready to escape.

“Tomorrow I’ll stir them up,” he said, indicating the sleeping prisoners. “They’ll blame me. They’ll transfer me to the upper cells, and from there, I know how. You just need to dislodge the bolt from the morgue for me.”

“That can be done. Where will you go?”

“Wherever my eyes lead me. Aren’t there enough bad people?”

“That’s true, brother, but it’s not for us to judge them.”

“Well, what am I, some kind of murderer? I haven’t ruined a single soul. As for stealing? What’s wrong with that? Don’t they rob our kind?”

“That’s their business. They will answer for it.”

“But why should I just stand by and watch them? Look, I robbed a church. Who was harmed by that? Now I want to do it differently, not just a small shop, but to seize the treasury and distribute it. Distribute it to good people.”

At that moment, one of the prisoners rose from the bunks and began to listen in. Stepan and Vasily separated.

The next day, Vasily did as he planned. He began to complain about the bread being stale, and incited all the prisoners to call the warden to them to lodge a complaint. The warden came, cursed everyone, and upon learning that Vasily was the instigator of the whole affair, ordered him to be placed separately in a solitary cell on the upper floor.

This was exactly what Vasily wanted.

IX

Vasily knew the upper cell into which he was placed. He knew the floor in it, and as soon as he got there, he started to dismantle the floorboards. When he could squeeze under the floor, he removed the ceiling planks and jumped down to the lower floor, into the morgue. That day, a single dead body lay on a table in the morgue. In the same morgue, sacks for hay mattresses were stored. Vasily knew this and was counting on this room. The bolt in this cell had been pulled out and put back. Vasily exited the door and went to the outhouse under construction at the end of the corridor. This outhouse had a through-hole from the third floor down to the lower, basement level. Feeling around the door, Vasily returned to the morgue, removed the linen from the dead man, cold as ice (he touched his hand when removing it), then took the sacks, tied them into knots to make a rope, and carried this rope of sacks to the outhouse. There, he tied the rope to a crossbar and climbed down it. The rope did not reach the floor. He didn’t know how much it was short by, but there was nothing else to do; he hung and jumped. He bruised his legs, but could walk. In the basement, there were two windows. He could have climbed through, but iron grates were installed. He had to break them out. With what? Vasily began to search. In the basement, there were pieces of planks. He found one piece with a sharp end and began to pry out the bricks holding the grates. He worked for a long time. The roosters had already crowed a second time, but the grate held firm. Finally, one side came loose. Vasily pushed the piece under and levered it, the entire grate came loose, but a brick fell and clattered. The sentries might have heard, Vasily froze. All was quiet. He climbed into the window. He got out. He had to escape over the wall. In the corner of the yard, there was an outbuilding. He had to climb onto this outbuilding and from there, over the wall. He needed to take the piece of plank with him. He couldn’t climb without it. Vasily crawled back. He crawled out again with the piece and froze, listening for the sentry. The sentry, as he had calculated, was walking on the other side of the courtyard square. Vasily approached the outbuilding, propped the piece, and climbed. The piece slipped, fell. Vasily was in his stockings. He took off his stockings to grip with his feet, put the piece back, jumped onto it and grabbed the gutter with his hand. “Father, don’t break off, hold!” He grabbed the gutter, and now his knee was on the roof. The sentry is coming. Vasily lay down and froze. The sentry doesn’t see and walks away again. Vasily jumps up. The iron creaks under his feet. One more step, two, there’s the wall. He can easily reach the wall with his hand. One hand, the other, he stretched out completely, and now he’s on the wall. Just not to get hurt jumping down. Vasily turns over, hangs by his hands, stretches out, lets go of one hand, then the other — “Lord, bless!” — On the ground. And the ground is soft. His legs are fine, and he runs.

In the Malanya suburb, she unlocks the door, and he crawls under a warm, patchwork quilted blanket, permeated with the smell of sweat.

X

Large, beautiful, always calm, childless, and plump like a barren cow, Pyotr Nikolaevich’s wife watched from the window as her husband was killed and dragged away into the field. The feeling of horror that Natalya Ivanovna (as Pyotr Nikolaevich’s widow was called) experienced at the sight of this massacre was, as is always the case, so intense that it stifled all other emotions within her. However, once the crowd disappeared beyond the garden fence and the murmur of voices faded, and barefoot Malanya, their servant girl, with bulging eyes, rushed in with the news — as if it were something joyous — that Pyotr Nikolaevich had been killed and thrown into the ravine, another feeling began to emerge from beneath the initial horror: a sense of joy at being freed from the despot with eyes hidden by black spectacles, who had kept her enslaved for nineteen years. She herself was horrified by this feeling, never admitting it to herself, let alone expressing it to anyone. As his disfigured, yellow, hairy body was washed, dressed, and laid in the coffin, she was horrified, crying and sobbing.

When the investigator for especially important cases arrived and questioned her as a witness, she saw, right there in the investigator’s apartment, two peasants in shackles, identified as the main culprits. One was an old man with a long, curly white beard and a calm, stern, handsome face; the other was of a Gypsy type, not old, with sparkling black eyes and curly, dishevelled hair. She testified to what she knew, identifying these very men as the first to grab Pyotr Nikolaevich’s hands. And despite the fact that the Gypsy-like peasant, with gleaming, shifting eyes beneath his moving eyebrows, reproachfully said, “It’s a sin, mistress! Oh, we will die,” she felt no pity for them whatsoever. On the contrary, during the investigation, a hostile feeling and a desire to avenge her husband’s murderers arose within her.

However, a month later, when the case, transferred to a military court, resulted in eight people being sentenced to hard labor, and two — the white-bearded old man and the “dark-faced Gypsy,” as he was called — being sentenced to hanging, she felt something unpleasant. But this unpleasant doubt quickly faded under the influence of the court’s solemnity. If the highest authorities determined it necessary, then it must be good.

The execution was to take place in the village. And returning from morning service on Sunday, Malanya, in a new dress and new shoes, reported to her mistress that a gallows was being built, that an executioner from Moscow was expected by Wednesday, and that the families of the condemned were wailing incessantly, audible throughout the village.

Natalya Ivanovna did not leave the house, so as not to see the gallows or the people, and she wished only one thing: for what had to happen to be over quickly. She thought only of herself, not of the condemned or their families.

XI

On Tuesday, a familiar district police officer visited Natalya Ivanovna. She offered him vodka and her homemade pickled mushrooms. After drinking the vodka and having a bite, the officer informed her that the executions would not take place tomorrow after all.

“How? Why?”

“It’s an amazing story. They couldn’t find an executioner. There was one in Moscow, and he, my son told me, read the Gospel and said: ‘I cannot kill.’ He himself was sentenced to hard labor for murder, and now suddenly — he says he cannot kill according to the law. They told him they would flog him. ‘Flog me,’ he says, ‘but I cannot.'”

Natalya Ivanovna suddenly blushed, even sweated from her thoughts.

“And can’t they be forgiven now?”

“How can they be forgiven when they’ve been sentenced by the court? Only the Tsar can forgive.”

“But how will the Tsar know?”

“They have the right to petition for clemency.”

“But they’re being executed for my sake,” said the foolish Natalya Ivanovna. “And I forgive them.”

The officer laughed.

“Well then, petition.”

“Can I?”

“Of course, you can.”

“But there isn’t enough time now?”

“You can send a telegram.”

“To the Tsar?”

“Why, yes, even to the Tsar.”

The news that the executioner had refused and was willing to suffer rather than kill suddenly turned Natalya Ivanovna’s soul upside down, and the feeling of compassion and horror that had repeatedly sought release finally broke through and overwhelmed her.

“My dear, Filipp Vasilyevich, please write a telegram for me. I want to ask the Tsar for clemency.”

The officer shook his head.

“Won’t we get into trouble for this?”

“But I’ll take responsibility. I won’t say anything about you.”

What a kind woman, thought the officer, a good woman. If mine were like that, it would be paradise, not what it is now.

And the officer wrote a telegram to the Tsar: “To His Imperial Majesty the Sovereign Emperor. Your Imperial Majesty’s loyal subject, the widow of the collegiate assessor Pyotr Nikolaevich Svyatitsky, murdered by peasants, falling at the sacred feet (this part of the telegram particularly pleased the officer composing it) of Your Imperial Majesty, implores You to pardon the peasants sentenced to death, from such-and-such province, district, volost, village.”

The telegram was sent by the officer himself, and Natalya Ivanovna’s heart felt joyful and good. It seemed to her that if she, the widow of the murdered man, forgave and asked for clemency, then the Tsar could not refuse to pardon them.

XII

Liza Yeropkina lived in a state of unceasing ecstasy. The further she progressed along the path of Christian life that had opened up to her, the more convinced she became that it was the true path, and the more joyful her soul became.

She now had two immediate goals: the first was to convert Makhin, or rather, as she told herself, to restore him to himself, to his good, beautiful nature. She loved him, and in the light of her love, the divine essence of his soul, common to all people, was revealed to her. Yet, within this universal life principle, she also saw a kindness, tenderness, and nobility unique to him. Her other goal was to cease being wealthy. She wanted to free herself from her possessions, initially to test Makhin, and then for herself, for her soul — she wanted to do this according to the word of the Gospel. At first, she began distributing her wealth, but her father stopped her, and even more so than her father, the multitude of personal and written petitioners who swarmed her. Then she decided to approach an elder, known for his saintly life, so that he might take her money and dispose of it as he saw fit. Upon learning this, her father became angry and, in a heated conversation with her, called her insane, a psychopath, and said he would take measures to protect her from herself, as if she were mad.

Her father’s angry, irritated tone was contagious, and before she could compose herself, she burst into spiteful tears and hurled insults at him, calling him a despot and even greedy.

She begged her father for forgiveness; he said he wasn’t angry, but she saw that he was offended and had not forgiven her in his heart. She didn’t want to tell Makhin about this. Her sister, who was jealous of her relationship with Makhin, completely distanced herself from her. She had no one with whom to share her feelings, no one before whom to confess.

“I must confess to God,” she told herself, and since it was Lent, she decided to prepare for communion and confess everything to her spiritual father, asking for his advice on how to proceed.

Not far from the city was a monastery where an elder lived, renowned for his life, teachings, predictions, and the healings attributed to him.

The elder received a letter from old Yeropkin, warning him of his daughter’s arrival and her abnormal, agitated state, and expressing confidence that the elder would guide her to the true path — the golden mean, a good Christian life, without violating existing conditions.

Tired from receiving visitors, the elder received Liza and calmly began to instill in her moderation, submission to existing conditions, and obedience to her parents. Liza remained silent, blushing and sweating, but when he finished, she, with tears in her eyes, began to speak, at first timidly, about Christ’s words: “Leave your father and mother and follow me.” Then, becoming more and more animated, she expressed her entire understanding of how she interpreted Christianity. The elder initially smiled slightly and countered with his usual admonitions, but then fell silent and began to sigh, only repeating, “Oh Lord.”

“Well, good, come tomorrow for confession,” he said and blessed her with his wrinkled hand.

The next day, he confessed her and, without continuing yesterday’s conversation, dismissed her, briefly refusing to take charge of her property.

The purity, complete devotion to God’s will, and fervent spirit of this girl deeply struck the elder. He had long wished to renounce the world, but the monastery required his activity. This activity provided funds for the monastery. And he agreed, although he vaguely sensed the falseness of his position. They made him a saint, a miracle worker, but he was a weak man, carried away by success. And the soul of this girl, revealed to him, also revealed his own soul to him. And he saw how far he was from what he wanted to be and what his heart yearned for.

Soon after Liza’s visit, he locked himself in seclusion and only emerged three weeks later to the church, served the liturgy, and after the service delivered a sermon in which he repented himself, accused the world of sin, and called it to repentance.

He preached every two weeks. And more and more people gathered for these sermons. And his fame as a preacher spread more and more. There was something special, bold, and sincere in his sermons. And because of this, he had such a powerful effect on people.

XIII

Meanwhile, Vasily did exactly as he intended. With his comrades, he secretly broke into the home of Krasnopuzov, a rich man, during the night. Knowing Krasnopuzov’s stinginess and depravity, Vasily managed to get into his bureau and took thirty thousand in cash. And Vasily acted as he pleased. He even stopped drinking, instead giving the money to poor brides. He arranged marriages for them, paid off their debts, and remained in hiding himself. His only concern was to distribute the money well. He even gave some to the police, and they didn’t pursue him.

His heart rejoiced. And when he was finally caught, he laughed in court and boasted that the money had been lying uselessly with the fat-bellied man, who didn’t even know its worth, while he had put it to good use, helping good people with it.

His defense was so cheerful and kind that the jury almost acquitted him. He was sentenced to exile.

He thanked them and declared beforehand that he would escape again.

XIV

Sventitskaya’s telegram to the Tsar had no effect. The petitions commission initially decided not to even present it to the Tsar. However, later, during breakfast with the sovereign, when the Sventitsky case came up, the director, who was also at breakfast, reported on the telegram from the murdered man’s wife.

“C’est très gentil de sa part,” (That’s very nice of her) one of the royal ladies remarked.

The sovereign sighed, shrugged his epauletted shoulders, and simply said, “The law,” as the chamberlain poured him sparkling Moselle wine. Everyone pretended to be impressed by the wisdom of the Tsar’s words. And so, the telegram was not mentioned again. The two peasants — the old man and the young one — were hanged with the help of a cruel murderer and beastiality practitioner, a Tatar executioner, brought in from Kazan.

The old woman wanted to dress her old man’s body in a white shirt, white footcloths, and new slippers, but she was not allowed. Both men were buried in a single pit outside the cemetery fence.

“Princess Sofya Vladimirovna told me he’s an amazing preacher,” the Tsar’s mother, the old Empress, once told her son. “Faites le venir. Il peut prêcher à la cathédrale.” (Have him come. He can preach at the cathedral.)

“No, better here with us,” the Tsar said and ordered Elder Isidor to be invited.

All the generals gathered in the palace church. The new, extraordinary preacher was an event.

Out came a little old man, grey-haired, thin, and he looked around at everyone: “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit,” and began.

At first, it went well, but the further he went, the worse it got. “Il devenait de plus en plus agressif,” (He was becoming more and more aggressive) as the Empress later said. He condemned everyone. He spoke of executions and attributed the necessity of executions to bad governance. “Can people be killed in a Christian country?” he asked.

Everyone exchanged glances, and all that occupied them was the impropriety and how unpleasant this was for the Tsar, but no one showed it. When Isidor said, “Amen,” the Metropolitan approached him and asked him to come to him.

After a conversation with the Metropolitan and the Ober-Procurator, the old man was immediately sent back to a monastery, but not his own; rather, to the Suzdal Monastery, where Father Mikhail was the abbot and commandant.

XV

Everyone pretended that nothing unpleasant had come from Isidor’s sermon, and no one mentioned it. And it seemed to the Tsar that the elder’s words had left no trace on him, but twice during the day, he remembered the execution of the peasants, for whom Sventitskaya had requested clemency by telegram. During the day, there was a parade, then an outing, then a reception for ministers, then dinner, and in the evening, the theater. As usual, the Tsar fell asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow. At night, a terrible dream woke him: gallows stood in a field, and corpses swung from them, their tongues protruding, stretching further and further. And someone cried out, “Your doing, your doing.” The Tsar woke in a sweat and began to think. For the first time, he began to think about the responsibility that lay upon him, and all the old man’s words came back to him…

But he saw himself as a man only from a distance and could not surrender to the simple demands of a man due to the demands placed on him as Tsar from all sides. He simply lacked the strength to acknowledge the demands of a man as more binding than the demands of a Tsar.

XVI

After serving his second term in prison, Prokofy, that lively, proud dandy, emerged a completely broken man. Sober, he sat, doing nothing, and no matter how much his father scolded him, he ate bread, didn’t work, and what’s more, he’d try to steal something to take to the tavern for a drink. He sat, coughed, hawked, and spat. The doctor he went to listened to his chest and shook his head.

“You, my brother, need what you don’t have.”

“That’s always true, of course.”

“Drink milk, don’t smoke.”

“It’s Lent anyway, and we don’t have a cow.”

One spring night, he couldn’t sleep at all, consumed by longing, wanting a drink. There was nothing to grab at home. He put on his hat and went out. He walked down the street, reaching the priest’s house. The sexton’s harrow was leaning outside against the wattle fence. Prokofy approached, hoisted the harrow onto his back, and carried it to Petrovna’s inn. “Maybe she’ll give me a bottle.” He hadn’t gone far when the sexton came out onto the porch. It was quite light now – he saw Prokofy carrying his harrow.

“Hey, what are you doing?”

People came out, seized Prokofy, and put him in the cold cell. The justice of the peace sentenced him to eleven months in prison.

It was autumn. Prokofy was transferred to the hospital. He coughed and tore his whole chest apart. And he couldn’t get warm. Those who were stronger still didn’t shiver. But Prokofy shivered day and night. The warden was trying to save on firewood and didn’t heat the hospital until November. Prokofy suffered greatly in body, but worst of all, he suffered in spirit. Everything disgusted him, and he hated everyone: the sexton, and the warden for not heating the place, and the guard, and his bed neighbor with the swollen red lip. He even hated the new convict who was brought to them. This convict was Stepan. He had developed erysipelas on his head, and he was transferred to the hospital and placed next to Prokofy. At first, Prokofy hated him, but then he came to love him so much that he only waited for the moment to talk to him. Only after talking to him would the anguish in Prokofy’s heart subside.

Stepan always told everyone about his last murder and how it affected him.

“It wasn’t like screaming or anything,” he said, “but just, here, cut. Don’t, I mean, spare me, spare yourself.”

“Well, of course, it’s terrifying to ruin a soul; I once even tried to butcher a ram, and I wasn’t happy about it. But I haven’t ruined anyone, so why have they, these villains, ruined me? I never did anyone any harm…”

“Well, all that will be accounted for.”

“Where then?”

“What do you mean, where? What about God?”

“Can’t see him somehow; I, brother, don’t believe – I think, you die, grass grows. That’s all there is to it.”

“So, what do you think? I’ve ruined so many souls, and she, poor thing, only helped people. Do you think I’ll have the same fate as her? No, just wait…”

“So, you think you’ll die, and your soul will remain?”

“Of course. That’s true.”

It was hard for Prokofy to die; he was suffocating. But in the last hour, it suddenly became easy. He called Stepan.

“Well, brother, goodbye. It seems my death has come. And I was afraid, but now it’s nothing. I just want it to be over quickly.”

And Prokofy died in the hospital.

XVII

Meanwhile, Evgeny Mikhailovich’s affairs went from bad to worse. The shop was mortgaged. Trade was slow. Another shop had opened in town, and interest payments were due. He had to borrow again, with interest. And it ended with the shop and all its goods being put up for sale. Evgeny Mikhailovich and his wife rushed everywhere but couldn’t find the four hundred rubles needed to save the business.

There was a small hope resting on the merchant Krasnopuzov, whose mistress was acquainted with Evgeny Mikhailovich’s wife. However, it was now known throughout the town that a huge sum of money had been stolen from Krasnopuzov. They said half a million had been stolen.

“And who stole it?” Evgeny Mikhailovich’s wife recounted. “Vasily, our former yardman. They say he’s now throwing that money around, and the police are bribed.”

“He was a scoundrel,” Evgeny Mikhailovich said. “How easily he committed perjury back then. I never would have thought it.”

“They say he visited our yard. The cook said it was him. She says he married off fourteen poor brides.”

“Oh, they’ll invent anything.”

At that moment, a strange elderly man in a kazinet jacket entered the shop.

“What do you want?”

“A letter for you.”

“From whom?”

“It’s written there.”

“So, no reply is needed? Wait a moment.”

“Can’t.”

And the strange man, handing over the envelope, quickly left.

“Strange!”

Evgeny Mikhailovich tore open the thick envelope and couldn’t believe his eyes: one-hundred-ruble banknotes. Four of them. What was this? And then an illiterate letter to Evgeny Mikhailovich: “The Gospel says, do good for evil. You did me much evil with the coupon and I greatly wronged the peasant, but I pity you. Here, take four Ekaterinkas and remember your yardman Vasily.”

“No, this is amazing,” Evgeny Mikhailovich said, speaking both to his wife and to himself. And when he recalled it or spoke about it to his wife, tears welled up in his eyes, and his heart felt joyful.

XVIII

Fourteen clergymen were held in Suzdal prison, mostly for abandoning Orthodoxy; Isidor was also sent there. Father Mikhail received Isidor according to the papers and, without speaking to him, ordered him to be placed in a separate cell, as an important criminal. In the third week of Isidor’s stay in prison, Father Mikhail was visiting the detainees. Entering Isidor’s cell, he asked: did he need anything?

“I need many things, I cannot say in front of others. Give me a chance to speak with you alone.”

They looked at each other, and Mikhail understood that he had nothing to fear. He ordered Isidor to be brought to his cell and, when they were alone, said:

“Well, speak.”

Isidor fell to his knees.

“Brother!” Isidor said. “What are you doing? Pity yourself. There is no worse villain than you; you have defiled all that is holy…”

A month later, Mikhail submitted papers for the release, as repentant, not only of Isidor but also of seven others, and he himself asked to retire to a monastery.

XIX

Ten years passed.

Mitya Smokovnikov finished his course at the technical school and was an engineer with a large salary at the gold mines in Siberia. He had to travel around the section. The director suggested he take the convict Stepan Pelageyushkin.

“A convict? Isn’t that dangerous?”

“It’s not dangerous with him. He’s a holy man. Ask anyone you like.”

“But what was he in for?”

The director smiled.

“Killed six souls, but he’s a holy man. I vouch for him.”

And so Mitya Smokovnikov took Stepan, a bald, thin, tanned man, and traveled with him.

Along the way, Stepan walked, how he cared for everyone, wherever he could, like his own child, for Smokovnikov, and on the way, he told him his whole story. And how and why and what he lives for now.

And it was a surprising thing. Mitya Smokovnikov, who until then had lived only for drinking, eating, cards, wine, and women, pondered life for the first time. And these thoughts did not leave him but unfolded his soul further and further. He was offered a position where there was great benefit. He refused and decided to use what he had to buy an estate, get married, and, as best he could, serve the people.

XX

He did just that. But first, he came to his father, with whom he had an unpleasant relationship due to a new family his father had started. Now, however, he decided to reconcile with his father. And he did so. And his father was surprised, laughed at him, and then stopped attacking him himself and remembered many, many instances where he had been at fault towards him.