For the little tavern saw only modest business. The landlord did not intend to let an obviously rich gentleman like Ilya slip through his hands too cheaply. As soon as Ilya had his tea, therefore, the fellow had slipped out, hurried off down the street, and did not return for half an hour.
Ilya was delighted with the landlord’s proposal. He had enjoyed a short catnap and now, stimulated by the journey and the new plans hatching in his brain, felt unusually lively.
‘Stop grumbling, Suvorin,’ he said. ‘It’s a capital idea.’ And then to the landlord, still bowing low: ‘Go and fetch them. And bring wine and vodka too.’
The landlord smiled. It was certainly good luck that those gypsies should have been passing through: if they would entertain the fat gentleman, he had already agreed to split whatever they were paid. As darkness fell, the little inn suddenly became a hive of activity. There was a smell of cooking. Wine and vodka appeared. So, miraculously, did a number of people. And then, with the food, came the gypsies.
There were eight of them, brightly dressed, swarthy skinned and not bad-looking. They sang, two of the women danced. Ilya grinned and tapped his foot. Yes, he felt livelier than he had in years. He did not usually drink much, but tonight… ‘More wine,’ he called to the landlord.
One of the girls was singing now, while the men strummed. What a strange sound the song had. Where did it come from? Was it Asiatic? He had no idea. The girl was about fifteen, he supposed, rather a scrawny little thing really. And yet… he felt a definite stirring. She was coming towards him, almost touching… My God, he thought, I must live, that’s it. I must travel.
By the time the evening finally ended, he had treated everyone in the inn to half a dozen drinks, had danced, ponderously, with the fifteen-year-old girl, and was quite in love – not exactly with her, but with life itself.
And it was well past midnight when, having cleared away some of the debris, the landlord made up a bed for him on one of the benches and Ilya lay down to sleep. ‘For the fact is, dear old Suvorin,’ he muttered, ‘I think I may be rather drunk.’
‘Yes, sir.’ The serf quietly arranged himself on another bench and closed his eyes.
It was five minutes later that, still lying with his eyes open, Ilya was suddenly struck by a thought. The portmanteau on the floor beside him was not locked. It was his own fault. Somehow he had mislaid the key while they were in Riazan; and it would scarcely have mattered except for one thing: all the money was in there.
And now, through the haze of his drunkenness, this idea seemed to grow in importance. It was urgent. The dim awareness that he had probably made a fool of himself with the gypsies became translated into the idea: They wanted to make a fool out of me. One of those devils, probably the girl, would sneak in there and rob them – with the landlord’s help, no doubt. He sat bolt upright.
‘Suvorin, wake up,’ he hissed. The old man stirred. ‘Come over here and open the portmanteau.’ Suvorin came. ‘Take the money out. The bag and the packet. That’s it.’
The bag contained silver roubles; the packet the banknotes, in use since Catherine’s time, which the Russians called assignats.
‘You keep them, Suvorin. They’ll never be able to rob you, I’m sure.’ The old man shrugged, but complied. Then they both lay down again. ‘You’re a capital fellow,’ Ilya said. Then he fell asleep.
It was an hour later that something woke him. Was it a sound or the moonlight outside the window? Scarcely awake, he was vaguely aware that there was something important he had not done. What the devil was it? Ah, yes, the money. Somehow, in the deep recesses of his sleep, the thought had formulated – what if all the gypsies crept up on poor old Suvorin and took the money? They’d get it all. But he’d outwit them.
Slowly, with difficulty, he managed to rise and lurch across the room and shake Suvorin awake. ‘The packet. Give me the packet.’ Unquestioningly, the serf fumbled in his clothing and produced it. Then Ilya lurched back and sat down heavily. Where could he conceal it? He opened the portmanteau and peered inside at the jumble of his possessions. His head fell forward: God he was sleepy. Ah, yes, that would do.
In the bottom of the portmanteau lay a book of Derzhavin’s verses. Unfortunately, the spine had broken and he had tied the book together with a cord. Fighting off sleep, Ilya undid the cord, slipped the packet in the book and tied it up again. I don’t suppose a gypsy would think of looking in a book, he thought as he closed the portmanteau. Suvorin was snoring. ‘I must keep watch,’ he muttered, and instantly fell back into a deep sleep from which he did not awake until well into the morning.
One of Ilya’s first acts, when he was back in his room at home, was to put the volume of Derzhavin’s verse back in his bookshelf. He had no memory whatever of waking up and putting the money there; and so he never gave the book a thought.
He was therefore completely mystified when, after he and old Suvorin had showed the accounts to his father, half the money was missing.
‘But you’ve got it, Suvorin,’ he said plaintively to the old serf.
‘You took back the notes, sir,’ the other replied with the faintest hint of impatience.
‘Do you swear to that?’ Alexander Bobrov demanded sharply.
‘I do, sir.’
And poor Ilya could only look baffled.
‘I just remember giving it all to you,’ he said.
It was not however until Tatiana herself had gone through his clothes and the portmanteau, and returned puzzled and shaking her head, that Alexander Bobrov made his terrible decision.
‘Suvorin, you have stolen it. I shall decide what to do with you tomorrow.’
In a way, Alexander Bobrov was glad. He had regretted giving way to his wife over the Suvorins, though he would not go back on his word: and now that he had an excuse to think old Suvorin was a thief, he was determined to believe it. ‘Either he’s a liar or your son is,’ he snapped when Tatiana pleaded with him. And when she reminded him that, according to Suvorin, Ilya had been drunk, Bobrov merely remarked: ‘All the easier to steal from him, then. You see,’ he added in justification, ‘if you offer a man like that the chance to buy his freedom, it just tempts him to steal the money to pay you.’
It was nonsense. Tatiana told him so. In his heart of hearts, he perhaps knew it. But the facts seemed unassailable; even Tatiana admitted that. And, it had to be admitted, this turn of events worked out very nicely for the Bobrovs.
For the next day Alexander Bobrov held court. This meant that he summoned Suvorin before him and acted, as was his right, as the serf’s accuser, judge, jury and executioner. Since he judged Suvorin guilty of a serious theft against him, the sentence was harsh.
‘I am sending you to Siberia,’ he announced.
He did not even need to add what the sentence also assumed – that everything the Suvorin family possessed would pass directly into his hands. So whatever money he would have paid for his freedom became Bobrov’s anyway. His son, now penniless, would remain a serf. It was certainly all very convenient.
‘But you can’t,’ Tatiana protested. ‘It’s against the law.’ For the law said that a master could not send a serf of over forty-five to Siberia. And Suvorin was forty-eight.
But the law was not strong, when confronted by a landowner.
‘I’m sending him to the military governor of Vladimir,’ Alexander said bluntly. ‘He’s a friend of mine.’ And though she tried all day, there was nothing Tatiana could say this time to change his mind.
Alexander Bobrov was quietly triumphant. He was within his rights, more or less. He had outmanoeuvred those cunning serfs and decidedly added to the value of the estate. Several small signs had told him recently that he might not have many years left to do that.