‘All these women making a fuss! Women, women!’ said Alpatych, babbling his words just like the old prince, as he got into the little trap. Dropping his imitation of the prince, he gave the clerk some final instructions about work, then raised his hat over a bald pate and crossed himself three times.
‘If anything happens . . . you come back, Yakov Alpatych. In the name of Jesus, spare a thought for us,’ called his wife with an ear to the rumours of war and the enemy.
‘Women, women, all this fuss!’ Alpatych muttered to himself as he drove off, glancing round at the fields. He could see the rye turning yellow, thick oats that were still green, and black stretches where the second ploughing was only just under way. Alpatych drove on, admiring the corn crop that had turned out so well this year, scanning the rye fields, some of which were already being reaped, and thinking all the time like a true manager about sowing and reaping, and whether he might have forgotten any of the prince’s instructions. He stopped twice to feed the horses, and got to town in the late afternoon of the 4th of August.
On the way Alpatych had encountered and overtaken wagons and troops, and as he drove into Smolensk he could hear gunfire in the distance, though it didn’t worry him. What did worry him more than anything was that just outside Smolensk he had seen a splendid field of oats being mown down by some soldiers apparently for fodder, and they had pitched camp in the middle of it. This really worried him, but he soon forgot it when his mind went back to his own business.
All the interests in Alpatych’s life had been bounded by the will of the prince for over thirty years, and he had never strayed beyond those bounds. As far as Alpatych was concerned anything not connected with carrying out the prince’s orders was of no interest, in fact it didn’t exist.
Arriving in Smolensk, then, on the evening of the 4th of August, Alpatych stayed where he had made a habit of staying for the last thirty years, at an inn kept by Ferapontov on the other side of the Dnieper in the suburb of Gachina. Twelve years before, Ferapontov, tipped off by Alpatych, had bought some woodland from the old prince and gone into trade; by now he owned a house, an inn and a corn-merchant’s shop all in the same province. Ferapontov was a portly, dark, red-faced forty-year-old peasant with thick lips, a big knobbly nose, a knobbly forehead overlooking bunchy black brows, and a round belly.
He was standing there in a cotton shirt and waistcoat outside his shop, which opened on to the street. As soon as he saw Alpatych he came forward to meet him.
‘You’re very welcome, Yakov Alpatych. Folks is leaving town, and’ere you are comin’ in,’ he said.
‘What do you mean leaving town?’ said Alpatych.
‘Yes, I’m tellin’ you – folks is stupid. Dead scared o’ the French.’
‘Women’s talk, women’s talk!’ replied Alpatych.
‘I’m with you there, Yakov Alpatych. What I say is – there’s orders not to let him through – so they won’t. But the peasants is charging three roubles for a horse and cart. No conscience!’
Yakov Alpatych was only half-listening. He ordered a samovar, and hay for the horses, then he drank some tea and lay down to sleep.
All night long there was a constant flow of troops down the street past the inn. Next morning Alpatych put on a jacket that he kept for town wear and went about his business. It was a sunny morning, and it had been hot since eight o’clock. ‘Good day for harvesting,’ he thought.
Gunfire had been heard outside the town first thing, and since eight o’clock cannon-fire had been mingling with the rattle of muskets. The streets were crowded with people in a hurry, including soldiers, but drivers still plied for hire, shopkeepers stood at their shops, and church services were being held as usual. Alpatych went shopping, called at the government offices, went to the post and then on to the governor’s. The offices, shops and post office were abuzz with talk of the war and the enemy attack. The people were all asking what to do and trying to calm each other’s fears.
Outside the governor’s house Alpatych came across a large group of people including some Cossacks, and there at the entrance stood a travelling carriage belonging to the governor. On the steps Yakov Alpatych ran into two gentlemen, one of whom he knew, a former police-captain, who was holding forth with some passion.
‘Well, it’s no joke now,’ he was saying. ‘You’re all right if you’re on your own. One mouth to feed’s not too bad, but if you’ve got thirteen in the family and a bit of property . . . This is it . . . we’ve all had it. I blame the government . . . Brigands, dammit, I’d hang the lot of them . . .’
‘Shh! You don’t know who’s listening,’ said the other.
‘I don’t care! Let him hear! We’re not dogs, are we?’ said the former policeman, looking round and catching sight of Alpatych.
‘Hey, Yakov Alpatych, what are you doing here?’
