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At last his shop and his goods were to be sold up. Eugene Mihailovich and his wife applied to every one they knew, but they could not raise the four hundred roubles they needed to save the shop anywhere. They had some hope of the merchant Krasnopuzov, Eugene Mihailovich's wife being on good terms with his mistress. But news came that Krasnopuzov had been robbed of a huge sum of money.
He accordingly got as much profit as he could out of purchasing goods for lodgers. But this did not pay all his expenses. Then he took to stealing, whenever chance offered money and all sorts of valuables. One day he stole a purse full of money from Eugene Mihailovich, but was found out. Eugene Mihailovich did not hand him over to the police, but dismissed him on the spot.
Some said of half a million roubles. "And do you know who is said to be the thief?" said Eugene Mihailovich to his wife. "Vassily, our former yard-porter. They say he is squandering the money, and the police are bribed by him." "I knew he was a villain. You remember how he did not mind perjuring himself? But I did not expect it would go so far."
"I cannot." The strange man handed the letter and disappeared. "How extraordinary!" said Eugene Mihailovich, and tore open the envelope. To his great amazement several hundred rouble notes fell out. "Four hundred roubles!" he exclaimed, hardly believing his eyes. "What does it mean?" The envelope also contained a badly-spelt letter, addressed to Eugene Mihailovich.
"Farewell, brother," he said. "Death has come, I see. I was so afraid of it before. And now I don't mind. I only wish it to come quicker." IN the meanwhile, the affairs of Eugene Mihailovich had grown worse and worse. Business was very slack. There was a new shop in the town; he was losing his customers, and the interest had to be paid. He borrowed again on interest.
He banged the door and went to his study. Somebody knocked at the door. "Who the devil is that?" he thought; and shouted, "Who is there?" The door opened and a boy of fifteen came in, the son of Fedor Mihailovich, a pupil of the fifth class of the local school. "What do you want?" "It is the first of the month to-day, father." "Well! You want your money?"
It is all very well for you to speak as you do." "Be off, you silly boy! Be off!" Fedor Mihailovich jumped from his seat and pounced upon his son. "Be off, I say!" he shouted. "You deserve a good thrashing, all you boys!" His son was at once frightened and embittered. The bitterness was even greater than the fright. With his head bent down he hastily turned to the door.
"It is said in the Gospels," ran the letter, "do good for evil. You have done me much harm; and in the coupon case you made me wrong the peasants greatly. But I have pity for you. Here are four hundred notes. Take them, and remember your porter Vassily." "Very extraordinary!" said Eugene Mihailovich to his wife and to himself.
FEDOR MIHAILOVICH SMOKOVNIKOV, the president of the local Income Tax Department, a man of unswerving honesty and proud of it, too a gloomy Liberal, a free-thinker, and an enemy to every manifestation of religious feeling, which he thought a relic of superstition, came home from his office feeling very much annoyed.
The quarrel she had with her husband revived in her memory; she frowned, and her hands, from which she had not taken off the mittens, shook with fury against him. "Oh, there he is. We have just been speaking of you," said the hostess to Eugene Mihailovich, who came in at that very moment. "Why are you so late?" "I was busy," answered Eugene Mihailovich, in a gay voice, rubbing his hands.
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