Morning at the estate began early.
Skoropadskyi woke before the sun had risen above the fields. A cold grey light stretched through the window into the room. The night had been cool, and a thin mist lay over the ground.
For a while he lay still, listening to the sounds of the house.
Somewhere downstairs a door slammed. People were already moving about in the yard. Horses snorted near the stables.
Life was beginning.
Skoropadskyi got up, dressed quickly, and stepped out into the yard.
The air was fresh and smelled of damp earth. The fields around the estate slowly emerged from the morning mist. Several carts loaded with sacks of grain stood along the road. Workers were unloading them near the warehouse.
Nearby two peasants were arguing about something, waving their hands.
One of them noticed the owner and removed his cap.
— "Good morning, Pavlo Petrovych."
— "Good morning."
Work continued calmly. No rush. No shouting orders.
After the front, such a scene felt almost unusual.
A few minutes later the estate manager approached him.
Hryhorii Stepanovych, as always neat and composed, held a small folder with papers in his hands.
— "Good morning, Pavlo Petrovych."
— "Good morning. How are things going?"
— "Calmly."
He opened the folder.
— "The distillery has been working without interruption. This month we sent three shipments of spirit to Poltava."
Skoropadskyi nodded.
— "How many people are working there now?"
— "About forty."
— "We will need to increase that. At least three times."
The manager frowned slightly.
— "Then we will have to purchase additional equipment from Kharkiv again."
— "Buy it. We will recover the investment quickly."
They slowly walked along the warehouse.
Workers carried sacks inside while several carts were already being unloaded.
Hryhorii Stepanovych continued.
— "There is another letter."
— "From where?"
— "From Kryvyi Rih."
He handed over the envelope.
Skoropadskyi broke the seal and quickly read the lines.
For a moment he remained silent.
— "The furnace has been started," he finally said.
— "So the plant is operating?"
— "It is operating. For now only at small volumes."
He glanced at the letter again.
— "They say they lack experienced masters."
The manager nodded.
— "That is expected. There have never been enterprises of that scale there before. It will take time to adjust all the mechanisms."
Skoropadskyi folded the letter and put it into his pocket.
— "The main thing is that the furnace does not stop."
They stopped near the gate.
A long line of carts loaded with grain stretched along the road.
The manager looked at them.
— "The harvest was good this year."
Skoropadskyi watched the unloading for a moment.
Then he asked:
— "How much grain passes through the estate each year?"
Hryhorii Stepanovych opened the folder and checked the records.
— "On your lands in Poltava province alone about two thousand five hundred tons of grain are grown every year."
He turned another page.
— "In addition, about eight hundred tons of tobacco."
Skoropadskyi nodded slightly.
— "Not bad."
The manager continued.
— "The tobacco is especially good this year. Several merchants have already shown interest in purchasing it."
— "At what price?"
— "They offered about seven rubles for ten kilograms."
Skoropadskyi thought for a moment.
— "Then we definitely need to build a flour mill plant."
He pointed toward the carts.
— "Right now we sell raw grain. But the main profit remains with those who process it."
He continued.
— "All of Russia sends grain to Europe for processing, and then we buy our own grain back — only now in the form of flour."
The manager thought for a moment.
— "Then we will need significantly larger warehouses."
— "We will build them."
Skoropadskyi took several steps along the road.
Then he stopped.
— "And one more thing."
Hryhorii Stepanovych raised his head.
— "Tobacco."
He pointed at the folder.
— "If we grow eight hundred tons of tobacco, why do we sell it only as raw leaf?"
The manager looked slightly surprised.
— "You mean processing?"
— "Exactly."
Skoropadskyi continued calmly.
— "A tobacco factory."
For several seconds the manager was silent.
— "That would be a large enterprise."
— "Then it is exactly what we should build."
He looked toward the fields beyond the estate.
— "First the flour mill plant."
— "Then the tobacco factory."
— "And the metal will come from Kryvyi Rih."
Hryhorii Stepanovych slowly nodded.
— "Then we will need to expand the warehouses, roads, and workers' barracks."
— "We will expand them."
Skoropadskyi added calmly:
— "In a few years this estate will look very different."
They continued walking through the yard.
Work around them continued as usual. Men carried sacks, repaired carts, and discussed something near the barn.
After some time Skoropadskyi stopped.
He looked toward the road leading to the river.
Then he mentally imagined the map of the central Ukrainian provinces.
Poltava.
Kremenchuk.
Kryvyi Rih.
The center of the country.
From here roads spread in every direction.
The railway connected the cities.
The Dnipro River opened a route south toward the Black Sea.
He did not speak these thoughts aloud.
But in his mind a system was slowly forming.
Grain.
Flour production.
Tobacco factory.
Metallurgy.
Railways.
Trade.
Meanwhile Hryhorii Stepanovych continued speaking about the affairs of the estate.
— "We will need to repair the second warehouse. The roof has started leaking."
— "Repair it."
— "And there is another question about the workers."
— "What is it?"
— "Some of them want to stay for the winter."
— "Let them stay."
— "Then we will need additional barracks."
— "Build them."
They slowly returned toward the house.
At that moment children ran out from the garden.
— "Father!"
Petro reached him first.
— "Look!"
He showed a wooden toy horse.
— "I made it myself."
Skoropadskyi smiled.
— "Not bad."
Maria, who had already begun studying, immediately started telling him something about her lessons.
Oleksandra stood on the porch watching them.
— "You have already occupied your father with your stories again."
— "We are only showing him things."
She smiled.
— "Breakfast is ready."
Skoropadskyi looked at the manager.
— "We will continue later."
— "Of course."
Hryhorii Stepanovych closed the folder and nodded.
A few minutes later they entered the house.
The house slowly filled with ordinary sounds: footsteps, voices, dishes in the kitchen.
After the war this simple life felt almost unfamiliar.
But it was exactly for this life that people fought.
Later that day Skoropadskyi returned to his study.
A map and several letters lay on the desk.
He took out the letter from Kryvyi Rih and read it once again.
The plant had begun operating.
Slowly for now.
But it was only the beginning.
He placed the letter beside the map.
There was much work ahead.
And now he finally had the time to deal with it.