Collected Shorter Fiction, Volume 2

Autumn came round. Prokofy was now transferred to the prison hospital. He was coughing all the time, fit to tear his lungs out. And he could not get warm. Those other patients must have been in better shape than he was, because they were not shivering. Prokofy, though, kept on shivering day and night. The warden was trying to economize on firewood and did not heat the prison hospital until November each year. Prokofy suffered physical agonies, but what he suffered spiritually was worse than anything. Everything seemed to him disgusting and he hated everybody: the deacon, the warden who refused to heat the hospital, the orderly, and the patient next to him who had a red, swollen lip. He also conceived a deep hatred for the new convict who was brought in to join them. This convict was Stepan. He had developed a severe inflammation of the head and had been transferred to the hospital and placed in a bed alongside Prokofy. To begin with Prokofy detested him, but later he became so fond of Stepan that his main aim in life was to have a chance of talking to him. It was only after talking to him that the pain in Prokofy’s heart was ever eased.

Stepan was constantly telling the other patients about the most recent murder he had committed and about the effect it had had on him.

‘She didn’t scream or anything like that,’ he would tell them, ‘she just said “Here you are, cut my throat. It’s not me you should feel sorry for, it’s yourself.’ ”

‘Yes, I know that well enough, it’s a terrible thing to do a person in. I once cut a sheep’s throat, and I didn’t feel too good about it myself. And here am I that’s never killed anybody, but they’ve gone and done for me, the swine. I’ve never killed anybody …’

‘Well and good, that’ll be counted in your favour.’

‘And where will that be then?’

‘What do you mean, where? What about God then?’

‘God? You don’t see much of him about, do you? I don’t believe all that stuff, friend. The way I see it is, you just die and the grass grows over you. And that’s all about it.’

‘How can you think that? I’ve done in that many, but she, she was kind-hearted, never did anything but help people. All right then, do you think it will be the same for me as it’ll be for her? No, just you wait and see …’

‘So you think that when you die, your soul goes on?’

‘That’s it. I reckon that’s the truth.’

Dying was a hard process for Prokofy as he lay there gasping for breath. But when his last hour came he suddenly felt easier. He called Stepan over to him.

‘Well, brother, goodbye. I can see it’s time for me to die now. I was really scared, but it’s all right now. I’d just like it to be quick.’

And Prokofy died in the prison hospital.

XVII

Meanwhile Yevgeny Mikhailovich’s business affairs were going from bad to worse. His shop was mortgaged. Trade refused to pick up. Another shop had opened in the town and the interest on his mortage was due. He had to take out another loan to pay the interest. And in the end he was obliged to put up the shop and all the contents for sale. Yevgeny Mikhailovich and his wife rushed hither and thither but nowhere could they find the four hundred roubles they needed in order to save their business.

They had faint hopes of the merchant Krasnopuzov, whose mistress was friendly with Yevgeny Mikhailovich’s wife. But now it was all over town that an enormous sum of money had been stolen from Krasnopuzov. People said that it amounted to half a million.

‘And who do you think stole it?’ Yevgeny Mikhailovich’s wife was saying. ‘Vasily, the one who used to be our yardman. They say he’s throwing the money about all over the place, and the police have been bribed to take no notice.’

‘He never was any good,’ said Yevgeny Mikhailovich. ‘Look how ready he was to perjure himself that time. I’d never have thought it of him.’

‘They say he actually came round to our place one day. The cook said it was him. She says he paid the dowries for fourteen poor girls to get married.’

‘Well, no doubt they’re making it up.’

Just at that moment a strange-looking elderly man in a woollen jacket came into the shop.

‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve got a letter for you.’

‘Who is it from?’

‘It says on it.’

‘I presume they will want a reply. Just wait a moment, please.’

‘I can’t.’

And the strange-looking man handed over the envelope and hurriedly departed.

‘Extraordinary!’

Yevgeny Mikhailovich tore open the bulging envelope and could hardly believe his eyes: inside there were hundred-rouble notes. Four of them. What on earth was this? And there was a semi-literate letter addressed to Yevgeny Mikhailovich. It read: ‘In the Gospel it says to retern good for evil. You did me a lot of evil with that cupon and I offended that peasant to but now I am sorry for you. So take these 4 Cathrines and remember your yardman Vasily.’

‘This is absolutely amazing,’ said Yevgeny Mikhailovich, to his wife and to himself. And whenever he subsequently remembered it or spoke of it to his wife, the tears would come into his eyes and her heart would be filled with joy.