Poems & Short Stories: 4,271
Forum Members: 70,634
Forum Posts: 1,033,546
And over 2 million unique readers monthly!
PETER NIKOLAEVICH SVENTIZKY, a short man in black spectacles (he had
weak eyes, and was threatened with complete blindness), got up, as was
his custom, at dawn of day, had a cup of tea, and putting on his short
fur coat trimmed with astrachan, went to look after the work on his
Peter Nikolaevich had been an official in the Customs, and had gained
eighteen thousand roubles during his service. About twelve years ago he
quitted the service--not quite of his own accord: as a matter of fact he
had been compelled to leave--and bought an estate from a young landowner
who had dissipated his fortune. Peter Nikolaevich had married at an
earlier period, while still an official in the Customs. His wife, who
belonged to an old noble family, was an orphan, and was left without
money. She was a tall, stoutish, good-looking woman. They had no
children. Peter Nikolaevich had considerable practical talents and a
strong will. He was the son of a Polish gentleman, and knew nothing
about agriculture and land management; but when he acquired an estate of
his own, he managed it so well that after fifteen years the waste piece
of land, consisting of three hundred acres, became a model estate. All
the buildings, from the dwelling-house to the corn stores and the shed
for the fire engine were solidly built, had iron roofs, and were painted
at the right time. In the tool house carts, ploughs, harrows, stood in
perfect order, the harness was well cleaned and oiled. The horses were
not very big, but all home-bred, grey, well fed, strong and devoid of
The threshing machine worked in a roofed barn, the forage was kept in
a separate shed, and a paved drain was made from the stables. The cows
were home-bred, not very large, but giving plenty of milk; fowls were
also kept in the poultry yard, and the hens were of a special kind,
laying a great quantity of eggs. In the orchard the fruit trees were
well whitewashed and propped on poles to enable them to grow straight.
Everything was looked after--solid, clean, and in perfect order. Peter
Nikolaevich rejoiced in the perfect condition of his estate, and was
proud to have achieved it--not by oppressing the peasants, but, on the
contrary, by the extreme fairness of his dealings with them.
Among the nobles of his province he belonged to the advanced party, and
was more inclined to liberal than conservative views, always taking the
side of the peasants against those who were still in favour of serfdom.
"Treat them well, and they will be fair to you," he used to say. Of
course, he did not overlook any carelessness on the part of those who
worked on his estate, and he urged them on to work if they were lazy;
but then he gave them good lodging, with plenty of good food, paid their
wages without any delay, and gave them drinks on days of festival.
Walking cautiously on the melting snow--for the time of the year was
February--Peter Nikolaevich passed the stables, and made his way to the
cottage where his workmen were lodged. It was still dark, the darker
because of the dense fog; but the windows of the cottage were lighted.
The men had already got up. His intention was to urge them to begin
work. He had arranged that they should drive out to the forest and bring
back the last supply of firewood he needed before spring.
"What is that?" he thought, seeing the door of the stable wide open.
"Hallo, who is there?"
No answer. Peter Nikolaevich stepped into the stable. It was dark; the
ground was soft under his feet, and the air smelt of dung; on the right
side of the door were two loose boxes for a pair of grey horses. Peter
Nikolaevich stretched out his hand in their direction--one box was
empty. He put out his foot--the horse might have been lying down. But
his foot did not touch anything solid. "Where could they have taken the
horse?" he thought. They certainly had not harnessed it; all the sledges
stood still outside. Peter Nikolaevich went out of the stable.
"Stepan, come here!" he called.
Stepan was the head of the workmen's gang. He was just stepping out of
"Here I am!" he said, in a cheerful voice. "Oh, is that you, Peter
Nikolaevich? Our men are coming."
"Why is the stable door open?
"Is it? I don't know anything about it. I say, Proshka, bring the
Proshka came with the lantern. They all went to the stable, and Stepan
knew at once what had happened.
"Thieves have been here, Peter Nikolaevich," he said. "The lock is
"No; you don't say so!"
"Yes, the brigands! I don't see 'Mashka.' 'Hawk' is here. But 'Beauty'
is not. Nor yet 'Dapple-grey.'"
Three horses had been stolen!
Peter Nikolaevich did not utter a word at first. He only frowned and
took deep breaths.
"Oh," he said after a while. "If only I could lay hands on them! Who was
"Peter. He evidently fell asleep."
Peter Nikolaevich called in the police, and making an appeal to all the
authorities, sent his men to track the thieves. But the horses were not
to be found.
"Wicked people," said Peter Nikolaevich. "How could they! I was always
so kind to them. Now, wait! Brigands! Brigands the whole lot of them. I
will no longer be kind."
|Art of Worldly Wisdom Daily|
In the 1600s, Balthasar Gracian, a jesuit priest wrote 300 aphorisms on living life called "The Art of Worldly Wisdom." Join our newsletter below and read them all, one at a time.
Shakespeare wrote over 150 sonnets! Join our Sonnet-A-Day Newsletter and read them all, one at a time.