Collected Shorter Fiction, Volume 2

Pyotr Nikolayevich had been a customs officer and in that profession he had saved up the sum of eighteen thousand roubles. He had retired some twelve years earlier, not quite of his own volition, and had bought the small estate of a young landowner who had squandered his fortune. Pyotr Nikolayevich had married when he was still in government service. His wife, the poor orphaned daughter of an old aristocratic family, was a sturdy, plump and attractive woman who had borne him no children. Pyotr Nikolayevich was a man thorough and persistent in all his dealings. Although he knew nothing about farming (he was the son of a minor Polish nobleman) he went into it so efficiently that in ten years his ramshackle estate of three hundred desyatins⁶ had become a model of its kind. All the structures he put up, from the house itself to the barn and the shelter for the firehose, were solid and reliable, covered with sheet-iron and regularly repainted. In the equipment shed there was an orderly array of carts, wooden and metal ploughs, and harrows. All the harnesses were kept well greased. The horses were of a modest size and almost always from his own stud, with light-brown coats and black mane and tail, sturdy and well-fed animals, matched in pairs. The threshing-machine operated in its own covered barn, the feed was stored in a special shed, and the manure slurry flowed away into a properly paved pit. The cows too were bred on the estate, not particularly large, but good milkers. The pigs were of an English breed. There was a poultry-yard with hens of particularly good egg-laying strains. The fruit trees in the orchard were kept coated with grease and systematically replaced with new plants. Everything that could be seen was businesslike, clean, reliable and meticulous. Pyotr Nikolayevich took great delight in his estate and was proud of the fact that he had achieved all this not by treating his peasants oppressively, but on the contrary, by observing the strictest fairness in his dealings with them. Even in the society of the local nobility he maintained a moderate position that was more liberal than conservative, and invariably defended the common people to the advocates of serfdom. Treat them well, and they’ll treat you well in return. True, he did not tolerate blunders and mistakes on the part of the men who worked for him and he would occasionally be seen in person urging them to greater efforts; he demanded hard work, but on the other hand the lodging and the victuals provided were of the very best, the wages were always paid on time, and on festival days he treated his men to vodka.

Stepping carefully over the melting snow – this was in February – Pyotr Nikolayevich made his way past the farmhands’ stable towards the large hut in which the farm-hands lived. It was still dark, all the darker because of the fog, but in the windows of the living-hut some light could be seen. The farm-hands were just getting up. He was intending to hurry them along: according to the work schedule six of them were to take a cart over to the copse and collect the last loads of firewood.

‘What’s this then?’ he wondered, seeing the door of the stable wide open.

‘Hey, who’s in there?’

No one answered. Pyotr Nikolayevich went into the stable.

‘Who’s in there, I say?’

There was still no answer. It was dark in the stable, the ground beneath his feet was soft and there was a smell of manure. To the right of the doorway was a stall which should have been occupied by a pair of young chestnut horses. Pyotr Nikolayevich stretched out his hand – but the stall was empty. He felt in front of him with his foot. Perhaps the horses might be lying down. His foot encountered nothing but empty space. ‘Where can they have taken them?’ he thought. Could they have been taken out to be harnessed up? No, the sleigh was still there outside. He went outside again and called loudly: ‘Hey, Stepan.’

Stepan was the head farm-hand. He was just emerging from the living-hut.

‘Hello there!’ Stepan called back cheerfully. ‘Is that you, Pyotr Nikolaich? The lads are on their way.’

‘Why have you left the stable door open?’

‘The stable? I’ve no idea. Hey, Proshka, bring us a lantern here.’ Proshka came running up with a lantern. They all went into the stable. Stepan realized at once what had occurred.

‘We’ve had thieves here, Pyotr Nikolaich. The lock’s been broken.’

‘That can’t be, surely.’

‘They’ve taken them, the scoundrels. Mashka’s gone, so is Hawk. No, he’s over here. But Dapple isn’t here. And neither is Beauty.’

Three horses were missing. Pyotr Nikolayevich did not say anything. He was frowning and breathing heavily.

‘Ah, if I could get my hands on them … Who was on watch?’

‘Pyetka. Pyetka fell asleep.’

Pyotr Nikolayevich reported the theft to the police, to the district police superintendent and to the head of the zemstvo,⁷ and he sent out his own men to look for the horses. But they were not found.