The weather was atrocious. A cutting wind lashed a mixture of snow, rain and hail intermittently into Polikey’s face and bare hands, which he thrust down under his coat sleeves along with the cold reins, and into the leather cover of the horse collar, and on to Drum’s old head, making him put his ears back and squint.

  Then suddenly it began to ease up. The skies were soon clearing sharply, bluish snow clouds began to show themselves, and the sun seemed to be starting to peer through them, but only timidly and cheerlessly, like Polikey’s own smile. Despite everything, though, Polikey was thinking pleasant thoughts. He, the man they wanted to send into exile or into the army, the man who was cursed and beaten by everybody who wasn’t too lazy to do it, who was always shoved around worse and worse - he was now on his way to fetch a summer money, a big summer money, and the mistress trusted him, and here he was driving along in the steward’s cart, with Drum pulling, the cart that the lady herself sometimes drove in, bowling along like some rich landowner, with proper leather straps and reins. And he sat up straighter, tucked some bits of wadding back into his cap and snuggled deeper into his wrappings.

  However, if Polikey thought he looked the picture of a rich landowner, he was deluding himself. Everybody knows that traders worth a good ten thousand drive around in sledges with proper leather harnesses, but that’s neither here nor there. A man with a beard drives past dressed in a long blue coat, or a black one, sitting alone on his box and driving a sleek horse; a quick glance to establish whether the horse is well fed, whether he is himself, how good the harness is, how good the tyres are, how big his belt is, will tell you whether this man deals in thousands or hundreds. Anyone who has been around a bit would take one good look at Polikey, at his hands, his face, his stubble, his waistline, at the straw scattered about the box all over the place, at skinny old Drum and the worn tyres, and see immediately that this is no trader, no cattle-dealer, no landowner worth thousands, hundreds or even dozens of roubles - this is a common serf. But Polikey wasn’t thinking along those lines; he was deluding himself, and enjoying it. Three times five hundred roubles he would be bringing back tucked into his coat. If he wanted to, he could decide not to go home, turn Drum towards Odessa (which he called Odesta) and go wherever the fates took him. But he wasn’t going to do that; he was going to deliver the money properly to his mistress and say that even this kind of money was nothing to him. When they came to an inn Drum started pulling on the left rein, turning away and wanting to stop but, although Polikey was carrying money for the various purchases, he gave Drum a taste of the whip and drove on. He did the same thing at the next inn and just before noon he got down from the cart, opened the gate leading to the merchant’s house where people from the estate always stayed, led the horse and cart into the yard, unharnessed the horse and gave him some hay, ate his lunch with the merchant’s workmen, not omitting to mention that he was there on important business, and then went off with the letter in his cap to see the head gardener.

  The gardener read through the letter but, knowing Polikey, he looked dubious as he interrogated him closely to find out whether he really had been sent to collect the money. Polikey made a show of being offended, but he couldn’t manage it; all he did was smile his own peculiar smile. The gardener read the letter again and handed over the money. On receiving the money, Polikey put it safely inside his coat and went back to the inn. No tavern or beer shop, nothing could tempt him. He was enjoying a warm feeling of excitement that ran through his whole being, and he stopped several times outside shops with alluring goods on display - boots, coats, caps, cotton material, food. But after a short stop he would walk on with his warm feeling: I could buy all that lot, but I’m not going to. He went on to the market to buy what people had asked for, and once he had got everything he started haggling over a tanned sheepskin coat priced at twenty-five roubles. The shopkeeper took one look at Polikey and for some reason seemed to doubt that he had the wherewithal to pay for it, but Polikey pointed to his inside pocket and told him he could buy the whole shop if he wanted to. He insisted on trying it on, fingered it, patted it, blew into the fur until its smell was all over him, and then took it off with a sigh. ‘The price isn’t right. If you could let it go for fifteen roubles ...’ he said. The dealer angrily threw the coat across the table and Polikey walked out feeling good, and went back to the inn. After supper he watered Drum and gave him his oats, then climbed up on to the stove and took out the envelope, examining it closely before asking a porter who knew how to read and write if he would read out the address and the other words: ‘Enclosed: one thousand, six hundred and seventeen roubles in notes.’ The envelope was made from ordinary paper and sealed with brown wax stamped with an anchor, with one big seal in the middle and four more at the corners and a few drops of sealing wax down one side. Polikey inspected all of this, committed it to memory and even felt the sharp edges of the banknotes. It gave him a kind of childish delight simply to know that he was the holder of this kind of money. He pushed the envelope into the hole in his cap, put the cap under his head and lay down on it, but during the night he woke up several times and groped for the envelope. And every time he found the envelope just where it should be he felt a thrill of pleasure at the idea that here he was, the much maligned Polikey, a man of bad reputation, carrying this kind of money and he could be relied upon to deliver it - he would deliver it more reliably than the steward himself.

  8

  It was about midnight when the innkeeper’s men and Polikey were all woken up by a banging at the gate and peasants shouting. It was the party of conscripts from Pokrovskoye. There were about ten of them: Khoryushkin, Mityukhin and Ilya the nephew of Dutlov, two substitutes, the village elder, old man Dutlov and the drivers. A night light was burning and the cook was asleep on a bench under the icons. She jumped up and set about lighting a candle. Polikey woke up, too, leaned out over the stove and took a good look at the peasants as they entered. They came in crossing themselves and sat down on the benches. All of them were so perfectly calm that you couldn’t tell who were the conscripts and who was delivering them. They were saying hello, chattering amongst themselves and asking for food. True, some of them were quiet and gloomy, but then there were others who were unusually merry, obviously having had a few drinks, including Ilya, who had never been a drinker before.

  ‘Right, lads. Sleep or supper, what do you want?’ asked the elder.

  ‘Supper,’ said Ilya, throwing his heavy coat open wide and settling on a bench. ‘Get some vodka.’

  ‘I’ll give you vodka,’ snapped the elder, turning to the others. ‘Right. Have a bite of bread, lads. No need to wake everybody up.’

  ‘Gimme some vodka,’ Ilya repeated, looking at no one in particular. His voice made it clear that he would take some stopping.

  The peasants did what the elder had told them; got some bread from their cart, asked for a drink of rye beer and went to lie down on the floor or on the stove.

  Now and again Ilya could be heard repeating, ‘Gimme some vodka. I’m telling you I want some vodka.’ Suddenly he caught sight of Polikey.

  ‘Polikushka. Hey, Polikushka! You’re here, my good friend. Know something? I’m off into the army. Said goodbye to my mum and my missus - for ever. She didn’t half howl! Into the army. Cooked my goose, they did. Give us some vodka.’

  ‘Can’t afford it,’ said Polikey. ‘Anyway, you might get rejected,’ he added by way of consolation.

  ‘No chance, old pal. I’m as clean as a birch tree. Never had no illness. Why would I get rejected? The Tsar won’t find no fitter soldiers than me.’

  Polikey launched into a story about a peasant lad who had slipped the doctor a note and got off.

  Ilya moved over to the stove and spoke more freely.

  ‘No, Polikushka. That’s it. And I don’t want to stay now. It was my uncle what cooked my goose. Do you think he couldn’t have bought me out? Thinks too much of his own lad, he does - and his money. So I gets sent... Don’t want to stay now.’ (He spoke softly, confidingly, deeply moved by his own sadness.) ‘I am sorry for my dear old mum, though. She was right upset! And the missus, too. They’ve done for her, and no reason for it. She’s had it now. Soldier’s wife - say no more. Better off not getting married. Why did they want me to get married? They’re coming here tomorrow.’

  ‘But why did they bring you here as early as this?’ asked Polikey. ‘First we heard nothing, then all of a sudden ...’

  ‘Well, you know how it is, they thought I might do meself an injury,’ said Ilya with a grin. ‘No chance. I’m not doing nothing. When I’m a soldier I won’t come to no grief. But I am sorry for my mum. Why did they want me to get married?’ he said, softly and sadly.

  The door opened and banged to. In came old man Dutlov, shaking the wet off his cap, as always wearing bark-fibre shoes that made him look as if he had his feet stuck into great big boats.

  ‘Afanasy,’ he said, crossing himself as he turned towards the porter, ‘can I have a light? I need to get some oats.’

  Dutlov had not looked across at Ilya; he slowly began to light a bit of candle. His coat was neatly belted, with his mittens and whip tucked into his waistband. With his working man’s face wearing its usual nice and easy expression, preoccupied with the job in hand, he looked for all the world as if he had just arrived in charge of a wagon train.

  When Ilya caught sight of his uncle he stopped speaking, gloomily looked down again vaguely in the direction of the bench, and then said to the village elder, ‘Yermila. Get me some vodka. I want a nice drink.’

  His gloomy voice had a sharp edge to it.

  ‘What do you want a drink for at this time of night?’ said the elder, slurping from his cup. ‘Look, everybody’s had a bite and gone to sleep. Why are you making all this row?’

  The word ‘row’ seemed to put him in mind of really making a row.

  ‘Elder, I’m going to get things going if you don’t get me some vodka.’

  ‘Can’t you talk him round?’ said the elder, turning to Dutlov, who had lit his lantern by now but had stayed on clearly wanting to listen and see what happened. He angled a sympathetic look at his nephew, as if surprised to see him behaving like a child.

  Looking down, Ilya said once again, ‘Gimme a drink. I’m going to get things going.’

  ‘Cut it out, Ilya!’ said the elder sharply. ‘Come on. Cut it out. You’ll live to regret it.’

  But these words were scarcely out of his mouth when Ilya jumped up, smashed the window with his fist and roared at them.

  ‘If you won’t listen to me, that’s what you’ll get!’ And he rushed over to the other window to smash that one, too.

  Quick as a flash, Polikey did a double roll and disappeared into the farthest recess of the stove-top, scattering all the cockroaches. The elder dropped his spoon and rushed over to Ilya. Dutlov slowly put down the lantern, undid his girdle, shook his head and walked over, tut-tutting, towards Ilya, who was by now having a go at the elder and the porter blocking his way to the window. They had grabbed him by the arms and seemed to have a good hold on him, but the moment he saw his uncle holding the girdle his strength became that of a dozen men; he tore himself free and stepped forward to challenge Dutlov, with his eyes rolling and his fists clenched.

  ‘I’ll kill you. Don’t you come near me, you brute. You’ve done for me, you and your sons, done for me. Why did you get me married? Don’t you come near me. I’ll kill you!’

  Ilya was a hideous sight. He was red in the face, his eyes darted about all over the place, and his young man’s body shivered feverishly all over. He seemed determined to kill all three of the attacking peasants, and capable of doing it.

  ‘You’re drinking your brother’s blood, you bloodsucker!’

  Something flashed across Dutlov’s ever-impassive face. He stepped forward.

  ‘If you won’t do it the easy way ...’ he said. Then suddenly - Heaven knows where he got the strength from - in one swift movement he grabbed his nephew, wrestled him to the floor and, with the help of the elder, set about tying his hands. The struggle lasted five minutes or so. Then Dutlov got to his feet, assisted by the peasants, disentangled Ilya’s grasping hands from his coat, steadied himself, made Ilya get up with his hands tied behind his back, and sat him down on the bench in one corner.

  ‘Told you you’d regret it,’ he said, still breathless from fighting as he straightened the narrow girdle round his shirt. ‘Don’t be a sinner. We all have to die. Put a jacket under his head for him,’ he added, turning to the porter, ‘or the blood will go to his head.’ Then he picked up the lantern, pulled the cord tight round his waist and set off once again to see to the horses.

  Ilya, with his pale face, his hair all over the place and his shirt rumpled, was staring round the room as if he was trying to remember where he was. The porter was picking up shards of glass and stuffing a coat into the window space to keep the draught out. The village elder sat down to his bowl.

  ‘Oh dear, Ilya! I’m sorry for you, honest I am. We can’t do nothin’ about it. Look at Khoryushkin. He’s married, too. There’s no getting out of it.’

  ‘My uncle’s a swine. He’s the one that’s ruined me,’ he said again, his voice sharp and bitter. ‘Looks after his own, he does. My mum said the steward told him to buy me out, but he wouldn’t do it. Said he couldn’t afford to. And we’ve brought plenty into that house, we have, me and my brother. Swine!’

  Dutlov walked in, said a prayer in front of the icons, took his coat off and sat down next to the elder. A girl brought him some more kvass6 and a spoon. Ilya had stopped talking; he closed his eyes and lay down with his head on the coat. The elder pointed to him without saying anything and shook his head. Dutlov waved a hand.

  ‘Pitiful, isn’t it? My own brother’s son. It’s no good me being sorry for him, they still has me down as a villain as far as he’s concerned. Don’t know whether his old woman put the idea into his head - she’s still only young, but she’s a sharp one, she is - that we’ve got the kind of money that could buy him out. Now he blames me. Still you has to be sorry for him ...’

  ‘Yes. He’s a good lad,’ said the elder.

  ‘Well, I can’t do nothing with him. I’ll send Ignat over tomorrow, and his missus wanted to come too.’

  ‘Well, send her over. That’s all right by me,’ said the elder, getting to his feet and climbing up on to the stove. ‘What’s money got to do with it? Money’s just dust and ashes.’

  ‘If the money was there, nobody wouldn’t grudge it,’ said one of the innkeeper’s men, looking up.

  ‘Oh, it’s all money, money! A lot of evil comes from it,’ said Dutlov in response. ‘Nothin’ in the world causes more evil than money. ’Tis said in the Scriptures.’

  “Tis all said in the Scriptures,’ echoed the porter. ‘A chap was telling me about this merchant. Made a stack of money, and he didn’t want to leave none of it behind. Loved his money so much he took it with him into his grave. When he was dying he told them to put a cushion in his coffin with him. Nobody guessed what he was up to - they just did it. Then his sons starts looking for his money. Nothin’. One of his sons guessed his money must be in the cushion. It went right up to the Tsar, but they got permission to dig him up. Guess what. They opened it up - nothing in the cushion. Just the coffin full of creepycrawlies. So they buried him again. See? That’s what money does for you.’

  “Tis a known fact. A lot of evil,’ said Dutlov, getting to his feet and starting to pray.

  When he had finished he glanced at his nephew. He was asleep. Dutlov walked over, untied the girdle and lay down. Another peasant went out to sleep with the horses.

  9

  As soon as it had all gone quiet Polikey crept down sheepishly and started to get his things together. For some reason he felt awful spending the night in there with the conscripts. By now the cockerels were crowing to each other and their calls were coming faster. Drum had finished his oats and was straining towards the drinking trough. Polikey put his harness on and led him out past the peasants’ carts. His cap and its contents were intact, and the wheels of his cart were soon clattering down the frozen road to Pokrovskoye. Only when he had left the town behind did Polikey begin to feel better. And even then, for some reason he kept thinking that any moment now he might hear them chasing after him, and they would stop him, tie his hands behind his back, put him in Ilya’s place and take him next morning to the recruiting station. Whether from the cold or from fear he couldn’t have said, but a shiver kept running down his back, and Drum felt the continual play of his whip. The first person he came across was a priest in a tall fur cap walking along with a lame workman. This made him feel even more alarmed. But once out of the town he felt this fear gradually fading. Drum slowed to a walking pace, and the road ahead became clearer. Polikey took off his cap and felt the money. He wondered whether he ought to put it inside, under his coat. No, that would mean undoing his belt. At the bottom of the next hill he would get down and sort himself out. But his cap was well sewn up at the top and nothing could fall down through the lining; no, he wouldn’t take his cap off until he got home. And at the bottom of the slope Drum took it upon himself to dash on up the next hill. Polikey, who was as keen as Drum to get home, did nothing to stop him. Everything was fine now, or so he thought, and he allowed himself to dream about how grateful the mistress would be, and how she would give him five roubles, and all the family would be delighted. He took his cap off, felt the envelope and crammed the cap down harder on his head, smiling to himself. The velveteen lining was rotten and, as a direct result of Akulina carefully sewing up one torn place, it came loose at the other end, and in the darkness Polikey’s attempt to shove the money deeper into the padding tore it open, leaving one corner of the envelope sticking out of the material.