Collected Shorter Fiction, Volume 2

Once inside the tavern Ivan Mironov ordered himself eight copecks’ worth of vodka and tea, and when he had warmed himself up and even begun to perspire a little and was in a really cheerful state of mind, he fell to chatting with the yardman who was sitting at the same table. He soon warmed to the conversation and told the yardman all about himself: how he came from the village of Vasilyevskoye twelve versts from the town, how he had taken his share of the family goods and left his father and brothers, and was now living with his wife and two sons, the elder of whom was attending a trade school and so wasn’t yet able to help him financially. He told him how he was staying in lodgings here in town and that tomorrow he was going to the knacker to sell his old hack, and he would see, but if it worked out all right he might buy himself a new horse. He told him how he had managed to put by some twenty-five roubles, and half the money was in the form of a coupon. He took out the coupon and showed it to the yardman. The yardman could not read or write but he said that he had changed money like that for the tenants and that it was good money, but there were forgeries about, and for that reason he advised him to be on the safe side and to get it changed here at the tavern bar. Ivan Mironov handed the coupon to the waiter and told him to bring back the cash to him, but the waiter did not bring back the money: instead the bald, shiny-faced tavern manager came over, holding the coupon in his pudgy hand.

‘Your money’s no good,’ he said, pointing at the coupon but not returning it.

‘That’s good money – a gentleman gave it me.’

‘This money is not good, it’s counterfeit.’

‘Well, if it’s counterfeit, give it back to me.’

‘No, my man, people like you need to be taught a lesson. You and your swindling friends have been tampering with it.’

‘Let me have my money, what right have you got to do this?’

‘Sidor, call the police,’ said the barman to the waiter.

Ivan Mironov was drunk, and being drunk he was starting to get worked up. He seized the manager by the collar and shouted:

‘Give it back, and I’ll go and see the gentleman. I know where to find him.’

The manager struggled free of Ivan Mironov’s grasp, tearing his shirt in the process.

‘Ah, if that’s how you want it – hold him!’

The waiter grabbed Ivan Mironov and at that moment the policeman appeared. Taking charge of the situation he listened to their explanations, then quickly brought things to a conclusion.

‘Down to the station with you.’

The policeman put the coupon into his own wallet and led Ivan Mironov and his horse off to the police station.

VII

Ivan Mironov spent the night in the cells at the police station along with drunks and thieves. It was not until almost noon the next day that he was summoned to appear before the local police officer. The officer questioned him and then sent him along with the constable to see the proprietor of the photographic shop. Ivan Mironov was able to remember the name of the street and the number of the house.

When the policeman had summoned the gentleman to the door and confronted him with the coupon and Ivan Mironov, who confirmed that this was the very gentleman who had given him the coupon, Yevgeny Mikhailovich put on an expression first of astonishment, and then of stern disapproval.

‘Whatever are you talking about? You must be out of your mind. This is the first time I have ever set eyes on him.’

‘Master, it’s a sin to say that, remember we’ve all got to die,’ said Ivan Mironov.

‘What’s the matter with him? You must have been dreaming. It was someone else you sold your firewood to,’ said Yevgeny Mikhailovich. ‘Anyway, wait there and I’ll go and ask my wife if she bought any firewood yesterday.’

Yevgeny Mikhailovich went away and at once called the yardman to him. The yardman, Vasily, was a good-looking, unusually strong and nimble fellow, cheery in nature and something of a dandy. Yevgeny Mikhailovich told him that if anyone asked him where the last lot of firewood had come from he should say that they had got it from the woodyard and that they never bought firewood from muzhiks.

‘There’s a muzhik here claiming that I gave him a forged coupon. He’s a muddle-headed peasant, but you’re a man of understanding. So you tell him that we only ever buy our firewood from the woodyard. Oh, and I’ve been meaning for some time to give you this towards a new jacket,’ added Yevgeny Mikhailovich, and he gave the yardman five roubles.

Vasily took the money, his eyes darting from the banknote to Yevgeny Mikhailovich’s face, tossed back his hair and gave a slight smile.

‘Everyone knows the common people are slow-witted. It’s lack of education. Don’t you worry, sir. I shall know well enough what to say.’