PETER NIKOLAEVICH SVENTIZKY did his best to discover who had stolen his
horses. He knew somebody on the estate must have helped the thieves,
and began to suspect all his staff. He inquired who had slept out that
night, and the gang of the working men told him Proshka had not been in
the whole night. Proshka, or Prokofy Nikolaevich, was a young fellow who
had just finished his military service, handsome, and skilful in all he
did; Peter Nikolaevich employed him at times as coachman. The district
constable was a friend of Peter Nikolaevich, as were the provincial
head of the police, the marshal of the nobility, and also the rural
councillor and the examining magistrate. They all came to his house
on his saint’s day, drinking the cherry brandy he offered them with
pleasure, and eating the nice preserved mushrooms of all kinds to
accompany the liqueurs. They all sympathised with him in his trouble and
tried to help him.
“You always used to take the side of the peasants,” said the district
constable, “and there you are! I was right in saying they are worse than
wild beasts. Flogging is the only way to keep them in order. Well,
you say it is all Proshka’s doings. Is it not he who was your coachman
sometimes?”
“Yes, that is he.”
“Will you kindly call him?”
Proshka was summoned before the constable, who began to examine him.
“Where were you that night?”
Proshka pushed back his hair, and his eyes sparkled.
“At home.”
“How so? All the men say you were not in.”
“Just as you please, your honour.”
“My pleasure has nothing to do with the matter. Tell me where you were
that night.”
“At home.”
“Very well. Policeman, bring him to the police-station.”
The reason why Proshka did not say where he had been that night was that
he had spent it with his sweetheart, Parasha, and had promised not to
give her away. He kept his word. No proofs were discovered against him,
and he was soon discharged. But Peter Nikolaevich was convinced that
Prokofy had been at the bottom of the whole affair, and began to hate
him. One day Proshka bought as usual at the merchant’s two measures of
oats. One and a half he gave to the horses, and half a measure he
gave back to the merchant; the money for it he spent in drink. Peter
Nikolaevich found it out, and charged Prokofy with cheating. The judge
sentenced the man to three months’ imprisonment.
Prokofy had a rather proud nature, and thought himself superior to
others. Prison was a great humiliation for him. He came out of it very
depressed; there was nothing more to be proud of in life. And more than
that, he felt extremely bitter, not only against Peter Nikolaevich, but
against the whole world.
On the whole, as all the people around him noticed, Prokofy became
another man after his imprisonment, both careless and lazy; he took to
drink, and he was soon caught stealing clothes at some woman’s house,
and found himself again in prison.
All that Peter Nikolaevich discovered about his grey horses was the hide
of one of them, Beauty, which had been found somewhere on the estate.
The fact that the thieves had got off scot-free irritated Peter
Nikolaevich still more. He was unable now to speak of the peasants or
to look at them without anger. And whenever he could he tried to oppress
them.