It was Dron that Alpatych, now back from the ruined estate at Bald Hills, summoned on the day of the prince’s funeral. He told him to get twelve horses ready for the princess’s carriages, and eighteen wagons for the onward move from Bogucharovo. Although the peasants paid rent instead of working as serfs, Alpatych was not anticipating any difficulty in having this order carried out because there were two hundred and thirty households down in Bogucharovo, and the peasants were not short of a rouble or two. But when Dron heard the order he looked down and said nothing in reply. Alpatych gave him the names of some peasants he knew; Dron was to take the carts from them.
Dron told him the horses belonging to those peasants were away working. Alpatych named some other peasants, but they too, according to Dron, had no horses available: some were working in government transport, some had gone lame, and some had died of starvation. The way Dron saw it, there wouldn’t be any horses, not even for the princess’s carriages, let alone the baggage transport.
Alpatych fixed his man with a close stare and a dark scowl. Dron was the very model of a village elder, but Alpatych had not spent twenty years managing the prince’s estates for nothing, and he was himself a model steward. He had a remarkable capacity for sensing the needs and instincts of the peasants he was dealing with, and this made him an outstanding steward. One glance at Dron told him that these responses were not an expression of his own thinking, but that of a general mood that had permeated the Bogucharovo community and captured his imagination. At the same time, he knew that Dron, who had feathered his own nest and was loathed in the village, must surely be vacillating between the two camps – the masters and the peasants. He could see equivocation in his very eyes, so he came up close and scowled at Dron.
‘Now listen, Dronushka,’ he said, ‘don’t give me that nonsense. His Excellency Prince Andrey gave me the orders personally – to move the people away, and not leave them behind with the enemy, and the Tsar has said the same thing in a decree. Anyone who stays behind is a traitor to the Tsar. Do you hear what I say?’
‘Yes,’ said Dron, still looking down.
This was not enough for Alpatych.
‘Listen, Dron, there’s going to be trouble!’ said Alpatych with a shake of his head.
‘You’re in charge!’ said Dron gloomily.
‘Dron, that’s enough!’ repeated Alpatych, taking his hand out of his coat-front and pointing down at the floor under Dron’s feet with great solemnity. ‘I can see straight through you. Nay, son, I can see three yards down underneath you,’ he said, staring at the floor beneath Dron’s feet.
Dron, visibly disconcerted, managed one quick glance at Alpatych before looking down again.
‘Now you can just drop this nonsense, and tell everybody to get packed and ready to leave for Moscow, and get some carts ready tomorrow morning for the princess’s things. And don’t you go to the meeting. Do you hear what I say?’
Suddenly Dron fell at his feet.
‘Yakov Alpatych, let me go! Take my keys. Let me go, for the love of Christ!’
‘That’s enough!’ cried Alpatych sternly. ‘I can see three yards down underneath you,’ he repeated, knowing that his wizardry with bees, his uncanny instinct for sowing at just the right time, and his skill in pleasing the old prince over twenty years had long ago given him the reputation of a magician, and folk knew that the ability to see three yards down underneath people was something only magicians can do.
Dron got to his feet and was about to speak, but Alpatych cut him short.
‘Where did you get such an idea? Eh? What are you thinking about? Eh?’
‘What can I do with the people?’ said Dron. ‘They’re all worked up. I’ve tried to tell them . . .’
‘Tried to tell them!’ said Alpatych. ‘Are they drinking?’ he asked abruptly.
‘They’re all worked up, Yakov Alpatych. Yes, they’ve got another barrel.’
‘Then you listen to me. I’m off to the police. You tell them that. And tell them to stop all this nonsense and get the carts ready.’
‘Yes sir,’ answered Dron.
Yakov Alpatych had had his say. He had been handling peasants for many a long year, and he knew that the best way to bring them into line was not to give them the slightest inkling they could do anything other than obey. Alpatych was happy enough with the submissive ‘Yes sir’ that he had got out of Dron, though he still had his doubts, amounting to near-certainty that the carts would not be forthcoming without the intervention of the military authorities.
And indeed, when evening came there were still no carts. Another village meeting had been held outside the tavern, and a decision had been taken to drive the horses out into the woods and not provide any carts. Without a word of this to the princess, Alpatych ordered his own things to be unloaded from the wagons from Bald Hills and those horses to be harnessed to the princess’s carriage. Meanwhile he went to the police.
CHAPTER 10
