The Shooting Party

XVIII

It was a fine day in August. The sun shone with all the warmth of summer, the blue sky fondly beckoned one into the distance, but there was already a feeling of autumn in the air. Leaves that had come to the end of their lives were turning gold in the green foliage of the pensive forest, while the darkening fields had a wistful, melancholy look.

Presentiments of inescapable, oppressive autumn took hold of us too and it was not difficult to foresee that things would very soon come to a head. At some time the thunder had to rumble and the rain start pouring to freshen the humid air! It is usually close and sultry before a thunderstorm, when dark, leaden clouds approach, but we were already being stifled morally: this was evident in everything – in our movements, our smiles, in whatever we said.

I was riding in a light wagonette. Beside me sat Nadenka, the JP’s daughter. She was as white as a sheet, her chin and lips trembling as if she were about to cry, her deep eyes were full of sorrow. But still she laughed the whole way, pretending that she was feeling extremely cheerful.

In front of us and behind us carriages of all kinds, ages and sizes were on the move. Gentlemen and ladies on horseback rode on either side. Count Karneyev, clad in a green shooting outfit that was more like a clown’s than a huntsman’s, leant forward and to one side as he mercilessly bounced up and down on his black horse. Looking at his bent body and the pained expression that constantly flitted across his haggard face you would think that he was riding a horse for the very first time. A new double-barrelled gun was slung across his back, while at his side hung a game bag, in which a wounded woodcock was writhing.

Olenka Urbenin was the shining jewel of the cavalcade. Seated on her black horse – a gift from the Count – and dressed in a black riding habit, with a white feather in her hat, she no longer resembled the ‘girl in red’, whom we had met in the forest only a few months before. Now there was something majestic about her, something of the grande dame. Every flourish of her whip, every smile – everything was calculated to appear aristocratic, magnificent. In her movements and smiles there was something provocative and inflammatory. She held her head high with snobbish affectation, and from the height of her horse she poured scorn on the whole company, as if she couldn’t care less about the loud remarks directed at her by our local ladies of virtue. She was defiant, playing the coquette with her arrogance, with her position at the Count’s – just as if she were unaware that the Count was sick and tired of her and that he was just waiting for the chance to get rid of her.

‘The Count wants to throw me out,’ she told me with a loud laugh after the cavalcade had ridden out of the courtyard. So, she must have known the position she was in – and she understood it.

But why that loud laughter? As I looked at her I was quite bewildered: where did that common forest dweller get so much energy from? When had she found time to learn to sit so gracefully in the saddle, to twitch her nostrils so proudly and to show off with such imperious gestures?

‘A dissolute woman is the same as a pig,’ Dr Pavel Ivanych told me. ‘Seat her at the table and she’ll plonk her legs on it.’

But this explanation was too simple. No one could have been more taken with Olga than I was, yet I would have been the first to throw stones at her. However, the vague voice of truth whispered to me that this was not the energy, nor the boastfulness, of a happy, contented woman, but despair, a presentiment of the imminent, inevitable denouement.

We were returning from the shoot, for which we had set off early that morning. It had been a failure. Just by the marshes, on which we had been pinning great hopes, we met a party of huntsmen who told us that all the game had been frightened off. We managed to dispatch three woodcock and one duck to the next world – that was all that fell to the lot of ten huntsmen. Finally, one of the ladies developed toothache, so we had to hurry back. We took the beautiful path across the fields, where sheaves of newly harvested rye showed yellow against the dark background of the gloomy forest. On the horizon appeared the white church and the house on the Count’s estate. To the right stretched the mirror-like surface of the lake, to the left loomed the dark mass of Stone Grave.

‘What a terrible woman!’ Nadezhda whispered to me every time Olga drew abreast of our wagonette. ‘What a terrible woman! She’s as evil as she’s pretty. It’s not long since you were best man at her wedding, is it? She’d barely time to wear out her wedding shoes⁴⁷ than she was already wearing someone else’s silk and flaunting another’s diamonds. This strange and swift metamorphosis is hardly credible. If these were her natural instincts it would have been at least tactful to have waited a year or two…’

‘She’s in a hurry to live!⁴⁸ She’s no time to wait!’ I sighed.

‘Do you know what’s happening with her husband?’

‘They say he’s hit the bottle.’

‘Yes, Papa was in town the day before yesterday and he saw him driving away from somewhere in a cab. His head was slumped to one side, he had no hat and there was mud all over his face. That man’s finished! They say the family’s terribly poor – they’ve nothing to eat, the rent’s not paid. Poor little Sasha goes for days without food. Papa’s described all this to the Count. But you know what the Count’s like! He’s honest and kind, but he doesn’t like stopping to think and weigh things up. “I’ll send him a hundred roubles,” he says. So off he sends it. Without further ado. I don’t think Urbenin could be more deeply insulted than to be sent that money… He’ll take great offence at the Count’s little sop and he’ll only start drinking all the more.’

‘Yes, the Count’s stupid,’ I said. ‘He might at least have sent that money through me, and in my name.’

‘He had no right to send him money! Do I have the right to feed you if I’m throttling the life out of you and if you hate me?’

‘That’s true.’

We became silent and pensive. The thought of Urbenin’s fate had always been painful for me. But now, when the woman who had ruined him was caracoling before my very eyes, it gave rise to a whole series of mournful reflections. What would become of him and his children? What would become of her? In what moral cesspool would that feeble, pathetic Count end his days?

Next to me sat the only being who was decent and worthy of respect. I knew only two people in our district whom I was capable of liking and respecting, who alone had the right to snub me, because they stood higher than me – Nadezhda Nikolayevna and Dr Pavel Ivanych. What was in store for them?

‘Nadezhda Nikolayevna,’ I said. ‘Without wishing to, I’ve caused you considerable grief and I’m less entitled than anyone to expect you to be frank with me. But I swear that no one will understand you as well as I do. Your sorrow is my sorrow, your happiness my happiness. If I’m asking you questions now, please don’t suspect that it’s merely out of idle curiosity. Tell me, my dear, why do you let this pygmy of a count go anywhere near you? What’s stopping you from driving him away and ignoring his loathsome endearments? Surely his attentions do a respectable woman no honour! Why do you give these scandalmongers a reason for coupling your name with his?’

Nadezhda glanced at me with her limpid eyes and smiled cheerfully, just as though she could read the sincerity in my face.

‘What are they saying?’ she asked.

‘That your Papa and yourself are trying to hook the Count and that in the end the Count will make fools of you.’

‘They talk like that because they don’t know the Count,’ Nadezhda flared up. ‘Those shameless, slandering women! They’re used to seeing only the bad side of people. The good things are beyond their comprehension!’

‘And did you find anything good in him?’

‘Yes, I did! You’re the first who should know that I would never have let him come anywhere near me if I hadn’t been convinced of his honourable intentions.’

‘So, things with you two have already come to “honourable intentions”,’ I said in surprise. ‘Soon… But why have you got “honourable intentions” into your head?’

‘You’d like to know?’ she asked – and her eyes sparkled. ‘Those scandalmongers aren’t lying. I do want to marry him! Now, don’t look so surprised – and don’t smile! You’ll be telling me next that marrying without love is dishonest and all the rest of it… all that’s been said a thousand times before but… what can I do? It’s very hard, feeling that you’re no more than a piece of unwanted furniture in this world. It’s terrible living without any purpose. But when this man whom you dislike so much has made me his wife, I shall have a purpose in life. I shall reform him, make him stop drinking, teach him to work. Just take a look at him! He doesn’t look anything like a man at the moment – but I shall make a man of him!’

‘Etcetera, etcetera,’ I said. ‘You’ll take care of his vast fortune, you’ll do good deeds… The whole district will bless you and look upon you as an angel sent from on high to comfort the wretched. You’ll be a mother, you’ll bring up his children… Yes, it’s a massive undertaking! You’re an intelligent woman, but you reason like a schoolgirl!’

‘Well, what if my idea is useless, what if it is ludicrous and naive – the fact is, I live by it. Under its influence I’ve become healthier and more cheerful. Now, please don’t disillusion me! Let me disillusion myself, but not now – some other time, later, in the distant future… Enough of this conversation!’

‘Just one more indiscreet question – are you expecting a proposal?’

‘Yes, judging from the note I received from him today my fate will be decided this evening. He writes that he has something very important to say. His whole future happiness will depend on my reply, he says.’

‘Thanks for being so frank,’ I replied.

The meaning of that note which Nadezhda received was quite clear to me. A vile proposal was awaiting that poor girl. I decided to free her from it.

‘We’ve already reached my forest,’ said the Count, drawing level with our wagonette. ‘Would you like to stop for a while, Nadezhda Nikolayevna?’

Without waiting for an answer he clapped his hands.

‘Sto-op!’ he ordered in a loud, reverberant voice.

We settled ourselves along the edge of the forest. The sun had disappeared behind the trees, colouring with golden purple only the crowns of the loftiest alders and playing on the golden cross of the Count’s church that was visible in the distance. Frightened merlins and orioles flew over our heads. One of the men fired his rifle and struck even more fear into that feathered kingdom, setting off an untiring avian concert. This kind of concert has its own peculiar charm in spring and summer, but when one senses the coming of chilly autumn in the air it irritates the nerves and hints at fast-approaching migration.

The freshness of evening wafted from the thick woods. The ladies’ noses turned blue and the Count (who was sensitive to the cold) started rubbing his hands. Nothing could have been more appropriate than the smell of samovar charcoal and the clatter of crockery. One-eyed Kuzma, puffing and panting, and entangling himself in the long grass, brought out a case of brandy. We started warming ourselves.

A lengthy walk in cool, fresh air stimulates the appetite better than any artificial appetizer. After a long walk, cured sturgeon, caviare, roast partridge and other victuals delight the eye, like roses on an early spring morning.

‘You’re very clever today!’ I told the Count, cutting myself a slice of sturgeon. ‘Cleverer than ever before. You couldn’t have arranged things better!’

‘The Count and I arranged it together,’ tittered Kalinin, winking at the coachmen who were carrying hampers of food, wine and crockery from the wagonettes. ‘It’s going to be a wonderful little picnic! And we’re going to round it off with bubbly!’

The JP’s face at this moment beamed with contentment as never before. Was he thinking that a proposal would be made to his Nadezhda that same evening? Wasn’t that his reason for stocking up with champagne to toast the young couple? I stared at his face, but as usual all I could read in it was immeasurable contentment, repletion – and a dull pomposity that suffused his entire portly figure.

Cheerfully we attacked the savouries. Only two of the company were indifferent towards the sumptuous banquet that lay spread out before us on some rugs – Olga and Nadezhda Nikolayevna. The first stood to one side, leaning on the back of the wagonette without moving or saying a word as she gazed at the game bag that the Count had thrown to the ground; the wounded woodcock was tossing about in it. Olga was following the unfortunate bird’s movements and seemed to be waiting for it to die. Nadezhda was sitting next to me, looking indifferently at the mouths of the picnickers who had been eating away so cheerfully.

‘When will it all end?’ her weary eyes said.

I offered her a caviare sandwich. She thanked me and put it to one side. Obviously she didn’t feel like eating.

‘Olga Nikolayevna! Why don’t you sit down?’ the Count shouted to her.

Olga didn’t reply and continued standing there as still as a statue, watching the bird.

‘What heartless people there are,’ I said, going over to Olga. ‘How can you, a woman, calmly watch the sufferings of that woodcock? Instead of observing its contortions you’d better give orders for it to be put out of its misery.’

‘Others suffer, so let it suffer too,’ Olga said, without looking at me and knitting her eyebrows.

‘But who else is suffering?’

‘Leave me in peace,’ she said hoarsely. ‘I don’t feel like talking to you today – nor with that idiotic Count of yours! Now go away from me!’

She glanced at me with eyes that were full of anger and tears. Her face was pale, her lips were trembling.

‘What a change!’ I said, picking up the game bag and dispatching the woodcock. ‘What a tone! I’m stunned, simply stunned!’

‘Leave me in peace, I’m telling you. I’m in no mood for jokes!’

‘What’s the matter, my enchantress?’

Olga looked me up and down and turned her back on me.

‘Only dissolute women, prostitutes, are spoken to in that tone of voice,’ she said. ‘You consider me one of them… well then, go back to your saintly women friends! In this place I’m worse, viler than anyone else. When you were riding with that virtuous Nadezhda you were too afraid to look at me. Well, go back to them, what are you waiting for? Go!’

‘Yes, you’re the worst, the lowest of the lot in this place,’ I said, feeling that anger was gradually gaining the upper hand. ‘Yes, you’re dissolute and mercenary.’

‘I remember when you offered me that damned money… I didn’t understand what it meant at the time, but I do now.’

Anger gripped my whole being – and this anger was as strong as the love that had once begun to stir within me for the girl in red. After all, what person, what stone would have remained indifferent? Before me I saw beauty that had been cast by merciless fate into the mire. Neither youth, beauty nor grace had been spared. And now, when that woman struck me as more beautiful than ever, I felt what a great loss Nature had sustained in her – and an agonizing feeling of rage at the injustice of fate and the order of things filled my heart.

In moments of anger I am unable to control myself. I simply don’t know what else Olga would have had to listen to had she not turned her back on me and walked off. She walked slowly towards the trees and soon disappeared behind them. She seemed to be crying.

‘My dear ladies, my dear gentlemen!’ I heard Kalinin say as he embarked on his speech. ‘On this day, when we are all gathered here to… to unite together… Here we are, all assembled together, we all know one another, we are all enjoying ourselves and for this long-awaited union we are indebted to none other than our luminary, the shining star of our province… Now, please don’t be embarrassed, Count! The ladies understand whom I’m talking about. Heeheehee! Well, to continue. Since we owe all of this to our enlightened, to our youthful… our youthful Count Karneyev, I propose a toast to… But who’s that coming this way? Who is it?’

A carriage was bowling along from the direction of the Count’s estate towards the clearing where we were sitting.

‘Who can that be?’ the Count said in amazement, training his field glasses on the carriage. ‘Hm… strange… It must be some people passing by. Oh no! I can see Kaetan Kazimirovich’s ugly mug. Who’s that with him?’

Suddenly the Count leapt up as if he’d been stung. His face turned deathly pale, the field glasses fell from his hands, his eyes darted about like those of a trapped mouse and – as if pleading for help – came to rest, first on me, then on Nadezhda. Not everyone noticed his confusion, since most people’s attention was distracted by the approaching carriage.

‘Seryozha! Come over here for a moment!’ he whispered, seizing my arm and leading me to one side. ‘My dear chap, I beg you, as the best of friends, as the best of men… no questions, no inquiring looks, no surprise! I’ll tell you everything later. I swear that not one iota of this will be kept a secret from you. There’s been such a calamity in my life, such a terrible disaster, that I simply cannot describe it to you. You’ll know everything later, but for the moment – no questions! Help me!’

Meanwhile the carriage came nearer and nearer… Finally it stopped and our Count’s stupid secret became the property of the whole district. Out of the carriage stepped Pshekhotsky, puffing and smiling, and clad in a new light-brown tussore⁴⁹ silk suit. After him a young lady of about twenty-three nimbly sprang out. She was a tall, shapely blonde, with regular but unpleasant features and dark-blue eyes. All I can remember is those blue, expressionless eyes, that powdered nose, that heavy but sumptuous dress and several massive bracelets on each arm… I remember the smell of evening damp and spilt brandy yielding to the pungent odour of some kind of perfume.

‘So many people here!’ the strange lady said in broken Russian. ‘You must all be having gay old time! Hullo, Aleksis!’

She went over to Aleksis and offered him her cheek. The Count quickly gave her a smacking kiss and anxiously surveyed his guests.

‘May I introduce my wife,’ he mumbled. ‘And these, Sozya, are my good friends. Hm… I’ve a bad cough…’

‘I’ve only just arrived, but Kaetan keeps telling me that I should rest. I ask you why should I rest if I slept whole way? I’d much rather go shooting! So I dressed myself and here I am! Kaetan, where’s my cigarettes?’

Pshekhotsky sprang forward and handed the blonde his gold cigarette case.

‘He’s my brother-in-law,’ the Count continued mumbling, pointing to Pshekhotsky. ‘But please help me,’ he went on, jogging my elbow. ‘Help me out of this, for God’s sake!’

They say that Kalinin suddenly came over bad and that Nadezhda wanted to help him but was unable to get up from her seat. They say that many people rushed to their carriages and drove off. I saw none of this. I do remember going into the forest, trying to find the path, not looking ahead and going where my legs took me.*

Bits of sticky clay hung from my legs and I was covered in mud when I emerged from the forest. Most probably I had to leap across a stream, but that’s something I cannot remember. I felt so exhausted, so worn out, it was as if I’d been severely beaten with sticks. I should have gone straight back to the Count’s estate, mounted Zorka and ridden off. But this I didn’t do and I set off home on foot. I couldn’t bear to see either the Count or his damned estate.†

My path lay along the banks of the lake. That watery monster had already begun to roar its evening song. Lofty, white-crested waves covered its entire, vast expanse. There was a rumbling and booming in the air. A cold, damp wind penetrated to my bones. To the left was the angry lake, while from the right came the monotonous noise of the grim forest. I felt that I was face to face with Nature, as if I were confronting someone in court. It seemed that all its anger, all those noises, all that bellowing, were intended for me alone. In any other circumstances I might have felt apprehensive, but now I barely noticed the giants that surrounded me. What was Nature’s wrath in comparison with the storm that was raging within me?*

XIX

Back home I collapsed into bed without even undressing.

‘At it again, you shameless man – swimming in the lake fully dressed!’ growled Polikarp as he pulled off my wet and muddy clothes. ‘Again I have to suffer! You think you’re a gentleman, an educated man, but you’re worse than any chimney sweep! I don’t know what they taught you at university.’

Unable to stand either human voices or faces, I wanted to shout at Polikarp to leave me in peace, but my words stuck in my throat. My tongue was as weak and exhausted as the rest of my body. However agonizing the ordeal, I still had to let Polikarp pull all my clothes off – even down to my drenched underwear.

‘You could at least turn over!’ my servant grumbled, rolling me from side to side like a small doll. ‘Tomorrow I’m handing in my notice! No, no – not for all the money in the world – I’ll be damned if I stay here any longer. This old fool’s had enough!’

Fresh, warm linen didn’t warm up or relax me. I was trembling so violently with rage and fear that my teeth were chattering. But I could find no explanation for this fear. Neither apparitions nor ghosts had ever scared me – not even the portrait of my predecessor Pospelov hanging over my head: he never took his lifeless eyes off me and seemed to be winking. But I wasn’t in the least ruffled when I looked at him. Although my future wasn’t crystal clear, I could say with a high degree of probability that nothing was threatening me, that no black clouds were near. Death was still far off, I had no serious illnesses and I attached no significance to personal disasters. So, what was I afraid of and why were my teeth chattering?

Nor was I able to explain the reason for my anger. It couldn’t have been the Count’s ‘secret’ that infuriated me so much. Neither the Count nor his marriage, which he had concealed from me, was any concern of mine. All that remains is to explain my state of mind at the time as shattered nerves and exhaustion. Any other explanation is beyond me.

When Polikarp had left I covered myself up to the head with the intention of sleeping. It was dark and quiet. My parrot kept turning restlessly in its cage and I could hear the regular ticking of the wall clock in Polikarp’s room. Everywhere else there reigned peace and quiet. Physical and moral exhaustion prevailed and I began to doze off. I felt that some great weight was gradually being lifted from me, that those hateful images were giving way in my consciousness to clouds of mist… I remember that I even began to have dreams. I dreamt that on one bright winter’s morning I was walking along Nevsky Prospekt⁵⁰ in St Petersburg, looking into shop windows for want of something to do. I felt cheerful, gay at heart. I had no reason to hurry anywhere, I had nothing to do – complete freedom, in fact. The realization that I was far from my village, from the Count’s estate and from that cold angry lake, put me in an even more relaxed and cheerful frame of mind. I stopped by the largest shop window and started inspecting women’s hats. These hats were familiar to me. I had seen Olga wearing one of them, Nadezhda another; a third I had seen on the day of the shooting party on the fair head of Sozya, who had arrived so unexpectedly. Under these hats familiar faces began to smile at me. When I wanted to tell them something all three merged into one large, red face. This face rolled its eyes angrily and stuck its tongue out. Someone squeezed my neck from behind.

‘A husband murdered his wife!’ the red face shouted. I shuddered, cried out and jumped out of bed as if I had been stung. My heart beat violently and a cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

‘A husband murdered his wife!’ repeated the parrot. ‘Now, give me some sugar! How stupid you are. You fool!’

‘It’s only the parrot,’ I said, calming myself as I lay down again on my bed… Thank God…’

Then I heard a monotonous murmur – it was the rain pattering on the roof. The clouds that I had seen in the west when I was walking along the banks of the lake had now filled the whole sky. Faint flashes of lightning illuminated the portrait of the late Pospelov; thunder rumbled right over my head.

The last storm this summer, I thought.

I remember one of the first storms. Exactly the same kind of thunder had once rumbled in the forest when I had visited the forester’s house for the first time. The girl in red and I had stood by the window then, watching the lightning illuminate the pine trees. Fear shone in the eyes of that beautiful creature. She told me that her mother had been struck by lightning and that she herself was thirsting for a dramatic death. She would have liked to dress just like the richest lady aristocrats in the district. Luxurious dresses went well with her beauty, she felt. Conscious and proud of her delusions of grandeur, she wanted to ascend Stone Grave – there to die a dramatic death!

Her dream came tr— although not on Sto—^*

Having abandoned all hope of getting to sleep, I got up and sat on my bed. The gentle murmur of the rain gradually turned into the angry roar that I loved so dearly when my heart was free from fear and anger. But now that roar appeared menacing; one thunderclap followed the other.

‘A husband murdered his wife!’ squawked the parrot.

Those were its last words. Closing my eyes in abject fear, I groped in the darkness for the cage and hurled it into the corner.

‘To hell with you!’ I shouted, hearing the crash of the cage and the parrot’s screeching.

That poor, noble bird! The flight into the corner had cost it dear. Next day its cage contained a cold corpse. Why had I killed it? If it was its favourite phrase about the husband who murdered his wife that rem . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .†

When she handed over the flat, my predecessor Pospelov’s mother made me pay for all the furniture – even for the photographs of people I didn’t know. But she wouldn’t take one copeck for the valuable parrot. On the evening of her departure for Finland she spent the whole night bidding her noble bird farewell. I remember the sobbing and lamentations that accompanied this valediction. I remember her tears when she asked me to look after her friend until her return. I gave her my word of honour that her parrot would not regret making my acquaintance. And I had not kept my word: I had killed the bird. I can imagine what the old crone would have said if she had found out about the fate of her squawker!

XX

Someone tapped cautiously on my window. The little house where I lived stood on a road that was right on the edge of the village and I often used to hear tapping on my window, especially in bad weather when travellers were looking for somewhere to stay the night. This time it was no traveller tapping on the window. When I went over to it and waited until the lightning flashed, I saw the dark outline of some tall, thin man. He was standing in front of the window and seemed to be shivering from the cold. I opened the window.

‘Who’s there? What do you want?’ I asked.

‘It’s me, Sergey Petrovich,’ came that plaintive voice in which people who are chilled to the marrow and terribly frightened tend to speak. ‘It’s me. I’ve come to see you, old chap.’

That dark silhouette’s plaintive voice I was amazed to recognize as that of my friend Dr Pavel Ivanovich. I was baffled by this visit from Screwy, who normally led a regular life and who always went to bed before midnight. What could have prompted him to break his rules and turn up at my place at two o’clock in the morning – and in such bad weather into the bargain!

‘What do you want?’ I asked, in my heart of hearts consigning that unexpected visitor to hell.

‘I’m sorry, old chap. I wanted to knock on the door but your Polikarp must surely be sleeping like a log now. So I decided to tap on the window.’

‘Well, what do you want?’

Pavel Ivanovich came closer to the window and mumbled something incomprehensible. He was shaking and seemed to be drunk.

‘I’m listening!’ I said, losing patience.

‘I can see you’re getting angry, but… if you only knew everything that’s happened you wouldn’t lose your temper over such trifles as having your sleep disturbed and being visited at this unsociable hour. There’s no time for sleeping now! Oh, my God! I’ve lived thirty years in this world and today is the first time I’ve been so dreadfully unhappy! I’m so unhappy, Sergey Petrovich!’

‘Ah… but what on earth’s happened? And what’s it got to do with me? I can barely stand up… I don’t feel like seeing anyone right now.’

‘Sergey Petrovich,’ Screwy said in a tearful voice, in the darkness holding out to my face a hand that was wet with rain. ‘You’re an honest man! You’re my friend!’

And then I heard a man weeping: it was the doctor.

‘Go home, Pavel Ivanovich!’ I said after a short silence. ‘I can’t talk just now. My state of mind scares me – and yours as well. We won’t understand each other…’

‘My dear chap,’ the doctor pleaded. ‘Marry her!’

‘You’re out of your mind!’ I said, slamming the window.

After the parrot the doctor was next to suffer from my tantrums: I hadn’t invited him in and I’d shut the window in his face. These were two boorish outbursts for which I would have challenged even a woman to a duel.^* But that meek, inoffensive Screwy had no idea about duels. He didn’t even know the meaning of ‘angry’.

Two minutes later there was a flash of lightning and as I looked through the window I could see the bent figure of my visitor. This time he was in a pleading posture, as expectant as a beggar seeking charity. No doubt he was waiting for me to forgive him and let him have his say.

Fortunately my conscience pricked me. I felt sorry for myself, sorry that Nature had implanted so much cruelty and vileness in me. My base soul was as hard as stone – just like my healthy body…^* I went to the window and opened it.

‘Come in!’ I said.

‘There’s no time! Every moment is precious! Poor Nadya has poisoned herself, she has a doctor constantly at her bedside. We just managed to save the poor girl… Isn’t that a calamity? And all you can do is ignore me and slam the window!’

‘All the same… is she still alive?’

‘ “All the same”! That’s no way to talk about unfortunate wretches, my good friend! Who would have thought that this clever, honest creature would want to depart this life because of a fellow like the Count? No, my friend, unfortunately for men, women cannot be perfect! However clever a woman may be, whatever imperfections she may be endowed with, there’s still some immovable force within her that prevents both herself and others from living. Take Nadezhda for example… Why did she do it? Vanity, simply vanity! Morbid vanity! Just to wound you she thought she would marry the Count. She needed neither his money nor his position. She merely wanted to satisfy her monstrous vanity. And suddenly she met with failure! You know that his wife has arrived. That old roué turns out to be married! And they say women have more staying-power, that they can take things better than men! But where’s her staying-power if she resorts to sulphur matches for such a pathetic reason? That’s not staying-power – it’s sheer vanity!’

‘You’ll catch cold!’

‘What I’ve just witnessed is worse than any cold… Those eyes, that pallor… ah! Unsuccessful suicide has now been added to unsuccessful love, to an unsuccessful attempt to spite you. It’s difficult to imagine a greater misfortune! My dear chap, if you have one ounce of pity if… if you could see her… well, why shouldn’t you go to her? You did love her! But even if you don’t love her any more why not sacrifice some of your time for her? Human life is precious – one could give everything for it! Save her life!’

There was a violent bang on my door. I shuddered. My heart was bleeding… I don’t believe in presentiments, but on this occasion I was not alarmed for nothing. Someone out in the street was knocking on my door.

‘Who’s there?’ I shouted out of the window.

‘I’ve come to see yer ’onner!’

‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve a letter from the Count, yer ’onner. Someone’s bin murdered!’

A dark figure wrapped in a sheepskin coat came up to the window, cursing the weather as he handed me a letter. I quickly stepped away from the window, lit the candle and read the following:

‘For God’s sake drop everything and come at once! Olga’s been murdered. I’m in a dead panic and now I go out of my mind.

Yours A. K.’

Olga murdered! That brief phrase made my head spin and I saw black. I sat on the bed and let my hands drop to my sides – I just didn’t have the strength to think about it.

‘Is that you, Pavel Ivanych?’ I heard the messenger’s voice. ‘I was just on my way to you. I’ve a letter for you too.’

XXI

Five minutes later Screwy and I were driving in a covered carriage to the Count’s estate. The rain beat on the carriage roof, ahead there were constant, blinding flashes of lightning. We could hear the roar of the lake…

The last act of the drama was beginning and two of its characters were driving off to witness a heart-rending spectacle.

‘Well, what do you think is in store for us?’ I asked Pavel Ivanych on the way.

‘I just can’t imagine… I simply don’t know…’

‘I don’t know either…’

‘As Hamlet once regretted that the Lord of heaven and earth had forbidden the sin of suicide,⁵¹ so I regret now that fate made me a doctor. I deeply regret it!’

‘And I fear that my turn might come to regret that I’m an investigating magistrate,’ I said. ‘If the Count hasn’t confused murder with suicide and Olga has actually been murdered, then my poor nerves really will suffer!’

‘You could refuse the case…’

I looked questioningly at Pavel Ivanych, but I could of course detect nothing, because it was so dark. How did he know that I could refuse the case? I was Olga’s lover, but who knew about it except Olga herself – yes, and perhaps Pshekhotsky, who had once accorded me his applause?

‘Why do you think I can refuse?’ I asked Screwy.

‘Well, you might become ill, or retire… None of that would be dishonourable – not by a long chalk – because there’s someone to take your place. But a doctor’s position is quite different.’

‘Is that all?’ I wondered.

After a long, killing journey over clayey soil the carriage finally came to a halt at the entrance. Directly above it there were brightly lit windows and through the last one on the right, in Olga’s bedroom, a light faintly glimmered; but all the others were like dark patches. On the stairs we were met by Owlet. She peered at me with her tiny, piercing eyes and her wrinkled face creased into an evil, mocking smile.

‘There’s a nice little surprise in store for you!’ her eyes said. She was probably thinking that we had come on a drinking spree and didn’t know that the house had been struck by disaster.

‘Let me recommend this woman for your attention,’ I told Pavel Ivanych, pulling off the old crone’s bonnet to reveal a completely bald head. ‘This old witch is ninety, dear chap. If you and I had to perform an autopsy on this specimen one day we’d reach very different conclusions. You would find senile atrophy of the brain, whereas I’d convince you that she’s the cleverest, craftiest creature in the whole district. A devil in petticoats!’

I was stunned when I entered the room. The scene that met me was completely unexpected. All the chairs and sofas were occupied. Groups were standing in the corners and by the windows too. Where could they have come from? If someone had told me earlier that I’d meet these people here I would have laughed my head off. Their presence was so improbable, so out of place in the Count’s house at the very time when, perhaps, the dead or dying Olga was lying in one of the rooms. It was the head gipsy Karpov’s choir from the London restaurant – the same choir with which the reader will be familiar from one of the earlier chapters. When I entered, my old friend Tina detached herself from one of the groups and on recognizing me she cried out for joy. A smile spread over her pale, dark-complexioned face when I gave her my hand and tears flowed from her eyes – she wanted to tell me something. But she couldn’t speak for tears and I didn’t manage to extract one word from her. I turned to the other gipsies and they explained their presence as follows. That morning the Count had sent a telegram to town with instructions for the whole choir – in its full complement – to be at the Count’s house by nine o’clock that same evening without fail. They had obeyed these ‘instructions’, caught the train and by eight o’clock they were already in the ballroom. ‘And we had visions of bringing pleasure to His Excellency and his gentlemen guests. We know so many new songs! And suddenly…’

And suddenly a peasant had come tearing up on horseback with the news that a brutal murder had been committed at the shooting party and with orders to prepare a bed for Olga. They hadn’t believed this peasant, as he was as drunk as a pig. But when noises were heard on the stairs and a dark body was carried across the ballroom, there was no further room for doubt.

‘And now we don’t know what to do… We can’t stay here… when there’s a priest around it’s time for cheerful people to clear off. Besides, all the girls are upset and crying. They can’t stay in a house where there’s a corpse! We want to leave, but they won’t give us any horses. Mr Count is ill in bed and won’t see anyone and the servants just laugh at us when we ask for horses. We can’t walk in this weather, on such a dark night! And generally speaking the servants are terribly rude! When we asked for a samovar for the ladies they told us to go to hell.’

All these complaints culminated in a tearful appeal to my magnanimity. Couldn’t I see that they were given carriages, so that they could get out of that damned house?

‘If the horses haven’t been stabled and if the coachmen haven’t been sent out somewhere else, you’ll be able to get away,’ I said. ‘I’ll give instructions.’

For those poor devils in buffoons’ costumes, who were used to swaggering about with great panache and bravado, those glum faces and hesitant poses were quite out of character. My promise to arrange for them to be taken to the station roused their spirits somewhat. Male whispers turned into loud talk and the women stopped crying.

And then, as I made my way to the Count’s study through a whole series of dark, unlit rooms, I peeped through one of the numerous doorways and a deeply moving sight met my eyes. At a table, by the hissing samovar, sat Sozya and her brother Pshekhotsky. Dressed in a light blouse, but still wearing those same bracelets and rings, Sozya was sniffing a scent bottle and languidly, delicately, sipping from a cup. Her eyes were red from weeping. Probably the incident at the shooting party had completely shattered her nerves and ruined her state of mind for some time to come. As wooden-faced as ever, Pshekhotsky was drinking his tea in large gulps from the saucer and telling his sister something. Judging from his mentor-like expression and gestures, he was trying to calm her and persuade her to stop crying.

Needless to say, I found the Count emotionally in tatters. That flabby, feeble man had grown thinner and more pinched-looking than ever. He was pale and his lips trembled feverishly; his head was bound with a white handkerchief, whose sharp vinegary smell filled the whole room. When I entered he leapt up from the sofa where he was lying and dashed towards me, the folds of his dressing-gown wrapped tightly around him.

‘Ah? Ah?’ he began, trembling and in a choking voice. ‘Well?’

After emitting several vague sounds he pulled me by the sleeve over to the sofa and after waiting for me to sit down pressed against me like a small, frightened dog and began pouring out his troubles.

‘Who would have expected it, eh?… Just a moment, dear chap, I want to wrap myself in this rug, I feel feverish… The poor girl’s been murdered. And how barbarously! She’s still alive, but the local doctor says she’ll die tonight. A terrible day! Then my wife suddenly turns up out of the blue, damn and blast her – that was my most unfortunate mistake! I was drunk when I got married in St Petersburg, Seryozha. I hid this from you, as I felt ashamed. But now she’s here – and you can see what she’s like. I just take one look and I blame myself! Oh, that damned weakness of mine! Under the influence of the moment and vodka I’m capable of doing anything you like! My wife’s arrival is the first little present, the scandal with Olga is the second. Now I’m waiting for the third… I know that something else will happen… I know! I shall go out of my mind!’

After a good cry, three glasses of vodka and calling himself an ass, layabout and drunkard the Count described the drama that had taken place at the shooting party, his tongue faltering from emotion. What he told me was roughly as follows:

About twenty or thirty minutes after I’d left, when my astonishment at Sozya’s arrival had somewhat subsided and when, after meeting all the assembled company, Sozya started acting like a true madam, suddenly everyone heard a piercing, heartrending shriek. It came from the direction of the forest and was echoed four times. It was so unusual that those who heard it leapt to their feet, dogs barked and horses pricked up their ears. It was an unnatural cry, but the Count managed to detect in it a woman’s voice. It was resonant with despair and horror. Women who see a ghost or witness the sudden death of a child must surely shriek like that. The alarmed guests looked at the Count and the Count at them. For three minutes, deathly silence reigned.

While the guests were surveying each other without a word, the coachmen and lackeys ran towards the place where the shriek had come from. The first messenger of woe was the old footman Ilya. He came running out of the forest to the clearing, his face pale, his pupils dilated: he wanted to tell us something but he was so breathless and agitated it was some time before he could utter a word. Finally, taking a grip and crossing himself he said:

‘The young lady’s been murdered!’

What young lady? Who murdered her? But Ilya gave no reply to these questions. The role of second messenger fell to someone whom they had not been expecting and whose appearance stunned them completely. The sudden appearance and the look of this man were truly startling. When the Count saw him and remembered that Olga had been wandering around in the forest, his heart sank and his legs gave way from some terrible foreboding.

It was Pyotr Yegorych Urbenin, the Count’s former manager and Olga’s husband. At first the company had heard heavy footsteps and the crackle of brushwood. It was as if a bear were making its way to the forest edge. But then the massive bulk of the unfortunate Pyotr Urbenin appeared. As he came out into the clearing and saw the company, he took one step back and stood as if rooted to the spot. For about two minutes he said nothing and did not budge, thus giving everyone the chance to take a good look at him. He was wearing his everyday grey waistcoat and trousers that were already pretty threadbare. He was hatless and his tousled hair clung to his sweaty forehead and temples. On this occasion his face – normally crimson and often deep purple – was pale. His eyes looked around dementedly, with an unnaturally wide stare, and his lips and hands were trembling.

But most striking of all, and what captured the stunned onlookers’ attention more than anything else, were his bloodstained hands: his hands and cuffs were soaked as if they had been washed in a bath of blood.

After standing there in a stupor for a further three minutes, Urbenin squatted on the grass as if waking from a dream and started groaning… The dogs, scenting something unusual, surrounded him and began to bark. Surveying the company with his dull eyes, Urbenin covered his face with both hands and sank into another stupor.

‘Olga, Olga! What have you done?’ he groaned.

Dull sobs came from his chest and his powerful shoulders started shaking. When he removed his hands from his face the company could see the blood left by his hands on his cheeks and forehead.

At this point the Count waved his arm and feverishly downed a glass of vodka.

‘After that my memory becomes confused,’ he continued. ‘As you can imagine, all these events shocked me so much that I lost all capacity for thought. I don’t remember anything after that! All I remember is that some men carried a body in a torn, bloodstained dress out of the forest. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it. They put it into a carriage and drove off. I heard neither groans nor weeping. They say she’d been stabbed in the side with the little dagger she always carried with her. Do you remember it? I gave it her as a present. It was a blunt dagger, blunter than the edge of this glass. Imagine the strength it must have taken to thrust it into her! I used to be fond of Caucasian weapons, dear chap, but to hell with them now! Tomorrow I’ll give orders for them to be thrown out!’

The Count drank another glass of vodka.

‘What a disgrace!’ he continued. ‘What an abomination! We brought her back to the house… you know, everyone was in despair, horrified. And suddenly – to hell with those gipsies! – we heard wild singing… They were drawn up in rows and then those devils let rip. You see, they wanted to greet her in style, but it was completely misplaced. It was rather like that Ivan the Fool who went into raptures on meeting a funeral and yelled: “Keep carrying, but don’t carry it off.” Yes, my friend, I wanted to entertain my guests, that’s why I sent for the gipsies. But it all turned out a dreadful mess. I should have invited doctors and priests instead of gipsies! And now I don’t know what to do! What shall I do? I’m not familiar with all the formalities, the correct procedure, whom to call in, whom to send for… Perhaps the police should be here, the investigating magistrate? Damned if I know, for the life of me! Thank heaven Father Jeremiah came to perform the last rites when he heard of the scandal – I’d never have thought of sending for him myself. I beg you, old boy, please take all this off my hands! God, I’m going out of my mind! My wife turning up… the murder… brrr! Where’s my wife now? Have you seen her?’

‘Yes I have. She’s having tea with Pshekhotsky.’

‘With her brother, that is… Pshekhotsky. What a bastard! When I slipped secretly out of St Petersburg he got wind of my flight and now I can’t shake him off. The mind cannot comprehend how much money he swindled me out of during all that time!’

I had no time for lengthy conversations with the Count, so I stood up and went towards the door.

‘Listen,’ the Count said, stopping me. ‘That Urbenin won’t stab me, will he?’

‘Surely it wasn’t he who stabbed Olga?’

‘Of course it was. Only, I don’t know where he turned up from… what the hell brought him to the forest? And why that particular forest? Let’s assume he hid there and waited for us: then how did he know I’d want to make a halt just there and not somewhere else?’

‘You don’t understand a thing,’ I said. ‘By the way, I’m asking you for the very last time… If I take this case on I’d rather you didn’t give me your opinion on the matter. You must try and simply answer my questions, nothing more.’

XXII

After leaving the Count I went to the room where Olga was lying.^* A small blue lamp was burning in the room, faintly illuminating people’s faces. It was impossible to read or write by its light. Olga was lying on her bed, her head bandaged. All I could make out was her extraordinarily pale, sharp nose and her closed eyelids. At the moment I entered, her breast was bare; they were putting an ice bag on it.^* That meant Olga was still alive. Two doctors were fussing around her. When I entered, Pavel Ivanych, huffing and puffing non-stop and screwing up his eyes, was listening to her heart.

The district doctor, who looked extremely weary and by all appearances was a sick man, sat pensively in an armchair by the bed, apparently taking her pulse. Father Jeremiah, who had just finished what he had to do, was wrapping his crucifix in his stole and preparing to leave.

‘Don’t grieve, Pyotr Yegorych!’ he said, sighing and looking into one corner. ‘Everything is as God wills it. You must turn to God for help.’

Urbenin was sitting on a stool in a corner of the room. He had changed so dramatically that I barely recognized him. His recent idleness and drunkenness were as evident in his clothes as in his general appearance. These clothes were as worn out as his face. The poor devil sat motionless, rested his head on his fists and didn’t take his eyes off the bed. His face and hands were still covered with bloodstains… he had forgotten all about washing them off.

Oh, that prophecy of my soul and my poor bird! Whenever that noble bird of mine, that I had killed, squawked that phrase about the husband who murdered his wife, Urbenin invariably made his appearance in my imagination. Why? I knew that jealous husbands often kill unfaithful wives – and at the same time, that men like Urbenin don’t go around murdering people. And I dismissed any possibility of Olga having been murdered by her husband as preposterous.

‘Was it him or wasn’t it?’ I asked myself as I looked at his wretched face.

To be honest, I didn’t answer myself in the affirmative, in spite of the Count’s story and the blood I had seen on his hands and face.

‘If he had done it he would have washed the blood from his hands and face long ago,’ I thought, recalling the theory of an investigating magistrate I once knew: murderers cannot stomach the blood of their victims.

If I’d been inclined to stir my grey matter I could have thought of many similar situations, but it was no good anticipating and stuffing my head with premature conclusions.

‘My compliments!’ the district doctor said. ‘I’m delighted that you’ve at last done us the honour of coming. Now, please tell me who’s master of this house.’

‘There’s no master here… here reigneth chaos,’ I replied.

‘A charming little phrase, but it doesn’t help me in the least,’ said the doctor with an irritable cough. ‘I’ve been asking for three hours now, simply begging for a bottle of port or champagne to be brought to me and not one person has seen fit to grant my request! They’re all as deaf as doorposts here. They’ve only just brought me some ice, although I asked for it three hours ago. What’s going on here? Someone is dying of thirst and all they can do is laugh! It’s all very well for the Count to swig liqueurs in his study, but they can’t even bring me a glass! When I wanted to send someone to the chemist in town they told me that the horses were exhausted and that no one was in a fit state to go because they were all drunk. I wanted to send for medicine and bandages from my hospital and they do me a favour – they give me some drunkard who can barely stand up. It’s about two hours since I told him to go – and what happens? They say he’s only just left! Isn’t that a disgrace? They’re nothing but drunken oafs, the whole lot of them – one way or the other they’re all idiots! I swear by God it’s the first time in my life I’ve come across such heartless people!’

The doctor’s indignation was justified. He was not exaggerating in the least – on the contrary. A whole night wouldn’t have sufficed for him to vent his spleen on all the goings-on and scandals that had occurred on the Count’s estate. Demoralized by idleness and lawlessness, the servants were perfectly loathsome. There wasn’t one footman who couldn’t have served as the very model of someone who had outstayed his time – and grown fat in the process.

I went off to get some wine. After distributing two or three clouts on the head I managed to obtain both champagne and Valerian drops, to the doctor’s ineffable delight. An hour later^* a male nurse arrived from the hospital, bringing all that was necessary.

Pavel Ivanovich succeeded in pouring a tablespoonful of champagne into Olga’s mouth. She tried hard to swallow and groaned. Then they injected her with something that looked like Hofman drops.⁵²

‘Olga Nikolayevna!’ the district doctor shouted, leaning towards her ear. ‘Olga Ni-ko-la-yevna!’

‘It’s too much to expect her to regain consciousness,’ sighed Pavel Ivanych. ‘A great deal of blood has been lost. Besides, the blow on the head with some blunt instrument must have caused concussion.’

It was not for me to decide whether it was concussion or not, but Olga opened her eyes and asked for a drink. The stimulants had worked.

‘Now you can ask her anything you like,’ Pavel Ivanych said, nudging my elbow. ‘Go ahead.’

I went over to the bed… Olga’s eyes were turned on me.

‘Where am I?’ she asked.

‘Olga Nikolayevna!’ I began. ‘Don’t you recognize me?’

For a few seconds Olga looked at me and then she closed her eyes. ‘Yes,’ she groaned. ‘Yes!’

‘I’m Zinovyev, the investigating magistrate,’ I went on. ‘I had the honour of knowing you and – if you remember – I was even best man at your wedding.’

‘Is it you?’ Olga whispered, holding her left arm out. ‘Sit down.’

‘She’s delirious,’ sighed Screwy.

‘I’m Zinovyev, the investigating magistrate,’ I repeated. ‘Do you remember? I was at the shooting party. How do you feel?’

‘Please restrict yourself to essential questions,’ the doctor whispered. ‘I can’t guarantee that she’ll remain conscious for much longer.’

‘I must ask you to stop lecturing me!’ I retorted, taking offence. ‘I don’t know what to say, Olga Nikolayevna,’ I continued, turning to her. ‘Please try and recall the events of the past day. I’ll help you. At one o’clock you mounted your horse and rode off with the shooting party. The shoot lasted about four hours. Then a halt was made at the edge of the forest… Do you remember?’

‘And you… you killed…’

‘The woodcock? After I finished off the wounded woodcock you frowned and left the main party. You went into the forest.^* Now, please try to summon all your strength and stir your memory. While you were walking in the forest you were attacked by some person unknown. I’m asking you as an investigating magistrate – who was it?’

Olga opened her eyes and looked at me.

‘Tell us the name of that man! There are three others here besides me.’

Olga negatively shook her head.

‘You must name him,’ I continued. ‘He will be severely punished. The law will make him pay for his barbarity. He’ll be sent to Siberia†… I’m waiting.’

Olga smiled and negatively shook her head. Further questions led to nothing. I failed to elicit one more word, one more movement from Olga. At a quarter to five she passed away.

XXIII

At about six o’clock in the morning the elder and the witnesses I had requested arrived from the village. To drive out to the scene of the crime was impossible: the rain that had started during the night was still bucketing down. Small puddles had turned into lakes. The leaden sky looked bleak and promised no sun. The soaked trees with their dejectedly drooping branches scattered great showers of heavy spray with every gust of wind. Riding there was out of the question – and perhaps there would have been no point in it anyway: the traces of the crime – bloodstains, human footprints, etc. – had probably been washed away by the rain during the night. But the formalities demanded that the scene of the crime be inspected and I postponed the visit until the police arrived. In the meantime I busied myself with making out a rough report and cross-examining the witnesses. I questioned the gipsies first. Those poor singers had been sitting all night long in the Count’s rooms waiting for horses to take them to the station. But they were not given any horses. The servants sent them to the Count, warning them at the same time that His Excellency had forbidden anyone to be ‘admitted’. They were not even given the samovar they had asked for that morning. Their more than odd, uncertain position in a strange house, where a dead woman was lying, their not knowing when they would be able to leave, the wet, miserable weather – all this reduced those wretched male and female gipsies to such despair that they grew pale and thin in the course of a single night. They wandered from one room to the other, as if scared out of their lives and expecting some stern judgement upon their heads. My questioning only lowered their spirits all the more. In the first place, my lengthy cross-examination delayed their departure from that damned house for ages; secondly, it frightened the lives out of them. When those simple folk concluded that they were strongly suspected of murder they tearfully started assuring me that they weren’t guilty, that they knew nothing at all about it. When Tina saw that I was there in my official capacity she completely forgot our previous relationship, trembled and grew numb with fear when she spoke to me – just like a girl who has been whipped. In reply to my request not to panic and my assurances that I saw them solely as witnesses, assistants of justice, the gipsies announced in one voice that they had never witnessed a thing, that they knew absolutely nothing and that they hoped in future God would free them from any close acquaintance with the legal fraternity.

I asked them which way they had driven from the station, whether they had passed through the forest where the murder had been committed, whether someone had broken off from the main party – even for a short while – and whether they had heard Olga’s heart-rending shriek.^* This line of questioning led nowhere. Alarmed by it, the gipsies detailed two young men from the choir and sent them off to the village to hire carts. Those poor devils dearly wanted to get away. Unfortunately for them, there was already much talk in the village about the murder in the forest and those swarthy envoys were looked upon with suspicion, apprehended and brought to me.

Only that evening did the exhausted choir escape from the nightmare and was it able to breathe freely: having hired five peasant carts at three times the proper price they rode away from the Count’s house. Later on they were paid for their visit, but no one paid them for the moral torments they had suffered in the Count’s mansion…

After questioning them I carried out a search in Owlet’s room.†

In her trunks I found piles of every imaginable kind of old woman’s junk, but after sorting through all those shabby bonnets and darned stockings, I found neither money nor valuables that the old crone might have stolen from the Count and his guests. Nor did I find the items that were stolen at some time from Tina. Obviously the old witch had another hiding place, known only to herself.

I shall not give my report here – the preliminary evidence from my inspection. It’s very long – what’s more, I’ve forgotten most of it. I shall give it in brief only, just the main details. First of all I described the condition in which I found Olga and my cross-examination of her, down to the very last detail. From this examination it was obvious that Olga had been fully conscious when she answered me and had deliberately concealed the murderer’s name. She did not want the murderer to be punished and this inevitably leads one to suppose that the criminal was near and dear to her.

The inspection of the clothes that I had carried out with the district police officer (who soon turned up) provided a great deal of evidence. The jacket of her riding habit (of velvet with silk lining) was still damp. The right side, with the hole made by the dagger, was soaked in blood and in places was covered with clotted blood. The bleeding had been severe and it was a wonder that Olga hadn’t died on the spot. The left side was also bloodstained. The left sleeve was torn at the shoulder and wrist. The two top buttons had been torn off and we didn’t find them during the inspection. The black kashmir skirt of the riding habit was found in a dreadfully crumpled state – this had happened when Olga was carried from the forest to the carriage and from there to her bed. Then it had been pulled off, bundled up anyhow and shoved under the bed. It was torn at the belt. This lengthwise tear, which was about six inches long, had probably occurred when the body was being conveyed and pulled along. It could also have been made when she was alive. Olga disliked mending, didn’t know to whom to give the skirt for repair and might have concealed the tear under her coat. I think that there was no evidence here of the work of a frenzied, maniacal criminal, as the deputy prosecutor later stressed in his speech. The right section of the belt and the right pocket were soaked in blood. The handkerchief and glove that were lying in this pocket resembled two shapeless, rust-coloured lumps. The whole skirt, from belt to hem, was spattered with bloodstains of varying shapes and sizes. Most of them were the imprints of the bloodstained fingers and palms (as it later transpired at the examination) of the coachmen and footmen who had conveyed Olga. The chemise was covered in blood, chiefly on the right side, where there was a hole produced by a sharp instrument. And similarly, as with the jacket, there were tears along the left shoulder and near the wrist. The cuff was half torn off.

The items that Olga had been wearing – a gold watch, a long gold chain, a diamond brooch, earrings, rings and a purse with silver coins – were found with the clothes. Clearly the criminal had not been governed by mercenary motives.

The results of the post-mortem, carried out in my presence by Screwy and the district doctor the day after Olga’s death, culminated in an extremely lengthy report, the gist of which I give here. On external examination the following injuries were found by the doctors. On the left side of the head, at the suture of the temporal and parietal bones, was a one-and-a-half inch wound that extended to the bone. The edges of the wound were neither smooth nor straight… it had been inflicted by a blunt instrument, most probably, as we later decided, by the haft of the dagger. Extending across the rear half of the neck, level with the cervical vertebrae, was a red line in the form of a circle. On the entire length of this stripe there were found lesions to the skin and slight bruising. On the left arm, about an inch above the wrist, were four blue patches: one on the back and three on the palmar side. They had been caused by pressure, most likely from fingers. This last fact was further confirmed by the discovery of a small scratch made by a fingernail in one of the patches. Corresponding to the area where these patches were found (the reader will remember), the left sleeve of the jacket had been torn off and the left sleeve of her chemise was half torn off… Between the fourth and fifth ribs, on an imaginary vertical line drawn downwards, from the middle of the armpit, there was a gaping wound, about an inch long. Its edges were smooth, as if they had been cut, and were steeped in both thin and coagulated blood. It was a deep wound and had been made by a sharp weapon. As was evident from the preliminary data that had been gathered, it was made by a dagger whose width corresponded exactly to the size of the wound. The internal examination revealed injuries to the right lung and pleura, inflammation of the lung and haemorrhage of the pleural cavity.

As far as I can remember, the doctors came to the following approximate conclusions: a) death was caused by anaemia following significant blood loss. The blood loss was explained by the presence of a gaping wound on the right side of the chest; b) the head wound must be considered a serious injury, but the chest wound was undoubtedly fatal; this latter must be taken as the immediate cause of death; c) the head wound had been inflicted by a blunt instrument, but the chest wound by a sharp and most probably two-edged blade; d) none of the above described wounds could have been self-inflicted; e) there was no apparent attempt at rape.

In order not to shelve matters and later repeat myself, I shall immediately convey to the reader the picture I formed of the crime, created from my first impressions after the inspection, two or three cross-examinations and the reading of the postmortem report.

When Olga parted from the main company, she went for a stroll in the forest. Either day-dreaming or surrendering herself to melancholy thoughts (the reader will recall her mood that fateful evening), she strayed into the depths of the forest. There she met her murderer. When she was standing under the trees, deep in thought, a man came up to her and started talking to her. There was nothing suspicious about him, otherwise she would have cried out for help – but her cries wouldn’t have been of the heart-rending variety. After a few words with her, the murderer seized her left arm – so violently, that he tore the sleeves of her jacket and blouse and left marks in the form of those four patches. At this point it is possible that she produced the shriek heard by the company – she shrieked from pain – and evidently after she had read the murderer’s intentions from his face. Whether he wanted to stop her screaming again, or perhaps under the influence of evil feelings, he grabbed her by the front of her dress, near the collar, to which the two torn-off top buttons and the red stripe found by the doctors bear witness. Grasping at her chest and shaking her, the murderer pulled off the golden chain she had been wearing around her neck. The stripe was caused by friction and the tightening of the chain. Then the murderer struck her on the head with some blunt instrument – a stick, for example, or perhaps even the haft of the dagger that was hanging on Olga’s belt. Then, in a fit of frenzy, or finding that one wound wasn’t enough, he bared the dagger and plunged it into her right side with great force: I say with great force, since the dagger was blunt.

Such was the sombre aspect of the picture that I was able to paint on the basis of the above-mentioned data. The question – who was the murderer? – was clearly not difficult and solved itself. Firstly, the murderer was not ruled by mercenary motives but by something else. Therefore there was no need to suspect some stray tramp or ruffians who had been fishing on the lake. The victim’s shriek couldn’t have frightened off a robber: removing the brooch and watch would have been the work of a second. Secondly, Olga intentionally didn’t reveal the murderer’s name – this she would never have done had the murderer been a common thief. Evidently the murderer was dear to her and she didn’t want him to suffer severe punishment on her account. It might have been her crazy father or the husband she didn’t love but before whom she probably felt guilty; or the Count, to whom in her heart of hearts she possibly felt an obligation. On the eve of the murder, as the servants subsequently testified, her crazy father was sitting in his cottage in the forest and he spent the whole evening writing a letter to the chief of police, asking him to keep under strict control those imaginary thieves who were apparently surrounding the lunatic’s home day and night. The Count didn’t leave his guests before or at the time of the murder. It only remained to bring the whole weight of suspicion to bear on that unfortunate Urbenin – no one else. His unexpected appearance on the scene, the very look of him, etc. could only serve as substantial evidence.

Thirdly, Olga’s life of late had been one uninterrupted affair. This particular affair had been the kind that usually ends in a capital crime. An old, doting husband, betrayal, jealousy, blows, flight to the lover-Count a month or two after the wedding…

If the beautiful heroine of a novel like this happens to be murdered, don’t look for thieves and crooks, but go in pursuit of the heroes. Regarding this third point, the most likely hero-murderer was that same Urbenin.

XXIV

I held the preliminary inquiry in the ‘mosaic’ room, where once I loved to loll on the soft couches and flirt with the gipsy girls. First to be examined by me was Urbenin. He was brought to me from Olga’s room, where he still continued to sit on a stool in the corner without taking his eyes off the empty bed for one moment. For a minute he stood before me in silence, looked at me indifferently and then, probably guessing that I intended addressing him in the manner of an investigating magistrate, spoke as one who was weary, broken by grief and anguish.

‘Please question the other witnesses first, Sergey Petrovich, but me afterwards… I just can’t…’

Urbenin considered himself a witness – or thought that he was considered one.

‘No, I must question you here and now,’ I said. ‘Please be seated.’

Urbenin sat down opposite me and lowered his head. He was ill and exhausted, replied reluctantly and it took a great effort to extract a statement from him.

He testified that he was Pyotr Yegorych Urbenin, gentleman, aged fifty, member of the Orthodox faith; that he had owned a property in the neighbouring district of K— where he had worked during the elections and for two periods of three years, and had been an honorary JP. After going bankrupt, he mortgaged his estate and thought he should get a job. He had become the Count’s manager about six years previously. With a great love of agriculture, he wasn’t above working for a private person and thought that only fools were ashamed of hard work. The Count always paid him his salary on the dot and he had nothing to complain about. He had a son and daughter from his first marriage, etc. etc.

He had married Olga out of passionate love: after a long and painful struggle with his feelings, neither common sense nor the logic of a practical, mature mind prevailed. He had to bow to his feelings and get married. He knew that Olga wasn’t marrying him for love, but since he thought her highly virtuous, he decided to content himself with her faithfulness and friendship, which he hoped to earn. When he reached the point where disenchantment and the insult of grey hair begins, Urbenin asked permission not to talk of ‘the past, for which God will forgive her’ – or at least to postpone any talk of this until a later date.

‘I can’t… it’s very hard for me… you can see that for yourself.’

‘All right, let’s leave it for another time. Just tell me now: is it true that you beat your wife? They say that on one occasion, when you found she had a note from the Count, you struck her.’

‘That’s not true. I only grabbed her arm, but she burst into tears and that same evening she ran off to complain about it.’

‘Did you know of her relationship with the Count?’

‘I did ask if this conversation could be postponed. And what’s the point of it?’

‘Please just answer this one question, which is extremely important. Did you know of your wife’s relationship with the Count?’

‘Of course I did.’

‘Right. I’ll make a note of that, but we’ll leave everything else that concerns your wife’s adultery for another time. Now let’s turn to another question – can you please explain how you came to be in the forest?’

‘Well, sir, I’ve been living in town with my female cousin since I lost my job. I kept myself busy trying to find work and drank to drown my sorrows. I’ve been drinking particularly heavily this month. For example, I can’t remember a thing about last week, as I drank round the clock. The day before yesterday I got drunk too. In short, I’m finished! Finished for good!’

‘You wanted to tell me how you came to be in the forest yesterday.’

‘Yes, sir. Yesterday I woke up early, at about four o’clock. I had a hangover from the day before, aches and pains all over, as if I were feverish. As I lay on my bed and looked through the window at the sunrise I remembered all kinds of different things. I felt really low. Suddenly I had the urge to see her, to see her once more, possibly for the last time. And I was gripped by anger and despair. I took out of my pocket the hundred roubles the Count had sent me, looked at them and started trampling them underfoot. I stamped and stamped, after which I decided to go and throw his charity in his face.

‘I may be hungry and down at heel, but I cannot sell my honour and I consider every attempt to buy it a personal insult. Well, sir, I wanted to have a look at Olga and fling the money right in that seducer’s ugly mug. And I was so overcome by this longing that I nearly went out of my mind. I had no money for the journey here – I couldn’t bring myself to spend his hundred roubles on myself. So I set off on foot. Fortunately, on the way, I met a peasant I knew and he took me ten miles for ten copecks, otherwise I’d still be slogging it. The peasant set me down at Tenevo. From there I made my way on foot and so I arrived at about ten o’clock.’

‘Did anyone see you at the time?’

‘Yes, sir. Nikolay the watchman was sitting by the gate and he told me that the master wasn’t at home and had gone shooting. I was almost dying from exhaustion, but my desire to see my wife was stronger than any pain. I had to walk to the place where they were shooting without resting for a single moment. I didn’t take the road, but set off through the forest. I know every single tree and it would be as hard for me to get lost in the Count’s forest as it would be in my own room.’

‘But by going through the forest and not by the road you might have got separated from the shooting party.’

‘No, sir. I kept to the road the whole time and I was so close that I could hear not only the shooting but the conversation as well.’

‘So, you didn’t expect to meet your wife in the forest?’

Urbenin glanced at me in amazement and replied after a pause for thought:

‘If you don’t mind my saying so, that’s a strange question. You wouldn’t expect to meet a wolf, but meeting with a terrible disaster is all the more unlikely. God sends misfortunes without warning. Take this dreadful incident… There I was, walking through Olkhovsk woods, not expecting any trouble, since I had enough trouble as it was, when I suddenly heard a terrible shriek. It was so piercing that I thought someone had cut my ear with a knife… I ran towards the place where the shriek came from…’

Urbenin’s mouth twisted to one side, his chin quivered. Then he blinked and burst into sobs.

‘I ran towards the shriek and suddenly I saw Olga lying there. Her hair and forehead were covered in blood, her face looked terrible. I started shouting, calling her by name. She didn’t move. I kissed her and lifted her up.’

Urbenin choked and covered his face with his sleeve. A minute later he continued:

‘I didn’t see the villain… but when I was running towards her I heard someone’s hurried footsteps. It was probably him running away.’

‘That’s all very neatly thought out, Pyotr Yegorych,’ I said. ‘But are you aware that investigating magistrates are usually very sceptical about such rare events as the murder coinciding with that chance stroll of yours, etc. Quite cleverly invented, but it explains very little.’

‘What do you mean invented?’ Urbenin exclaimed, opening his eyes wide. ‘I wasn’t inventing anything, sir.’

Urbenin suddenly went red and stood up.

‘It seems as if you suspect me,’ he muttered. ‘It’s possible to suspect anyone, but you, Sergey Petrovich, have known me a long time… It’s a sin branding me with such suspicions. After all, you know me very well.’

‘Of course I know you… but my personal opinions are irrelevant here. The law allows only juries to have personal opinions, but an investigating magistrate deals purely with the evidence… And there’s a great deal of evidence, Pyotr Yegorych.’

Urbenin looked at me in alarm and shrugged his shoulders.

‘But whatever the evidence,’ he said, ‘you must understand … Well, do you really think I would have been capable of murder…? Me? And of murdering her? I could easily kill a quail or a woodcock, but a human being, someone dearer to me than life itself, dearer than my own salvation, the very thought of whom used to brighten my miserable existence like the sun! And suddenly you suspect me!’

Urbenin made a despairing gesture and sat down.

‘As it is, all I want to do is die – and yet you have to insult me into the bargain! It would be bad enough if some civil servant. I didn’t know was insulting me, but it’s you, Sergey Petrovich!! Please let me go!’

‘You may… I’ll examine you again tomorrow, but in the meantime, Pyotr Yegorych, I must place you under house arrest… I hope that by tomorrow’s examination you’ll have come to appreciate all the importance of the evidence we have against you, that you won’t start dragging things out for nothing and that you’ll confess. I’m convinced Olga was murdered by you. That’s all I have to say today. You may go.’

This said, I bent over my papers. Urbenin looked at me in bewilderment, stood up and stretched his fingers out somewhat peculiarly.

‘Are you joking… or are you serious?’ he asked.

‘This is beyond a joke,’ I said. ‘You can go.’

Urbenin still remained standing. He was pale and he looked at my papers in dismay.

‘Why are your hands bloodstained, Pyotr Yegorych?’ I asked.

He looked down at his hands, on which there were still traces of blood, and twitched his fingers.

‘Why is there blood? Hm… if you think this is evidence then it’s very poor evidence. When I was lifting bloodstained Olga I couldn’t avoid getting my hands bloodied. I wasn’t wearing any gloves.’

‘You just told me that when you saw your wife you shouted for help. How is it no one heard your shouts?’

‘I don’t know. I was so stunned at the sight of Olga that I couldn’t shout out loud… But I don’t know anything. I don’t have to defend myself. Besides, it’s not my policy…’

‘But you could hardly have shouted… After killing your wife you ran off and were absolutely stunned to see those people at the edge of the forest.’

‘I didn’t notice those people of yours either. I had no time for people.’

With this my examination of Urbenin was over for the time being. Urbenin was then put under house arrest and locked up in one of the Count’s outbuildings.

XXV

On the second or third day Polugradov, the deputy prosecutor, a man whom I cannot recall without spoiling my mood, came bowling in from town. Imagine a tall, thin man of about thirty, dressed like a fop, smoothly shaven, with hair as curly as a lamb’s. He had fine features, but they were so dry and insipid that it wasn’t difficult to deduce that individual’s shallowness and pomposity from them. His voice was soft, sugary and sickeningly polite.

He arrived early in the morning, in a hired carriage, with two suitcases. Wearing an extremely worried expression and complaining of ‘fatigue’ with great affectation, he first of all inquired whether there was a room for him in the Count’s house. On my instructions a small but very comfortable and bright room had been set aside, where everything was provided, from a marble washstand to a box of matches.

‘Listen to what I say, my good man! Bring me some hot water,’ he began, making himself comfortable and squeamishly sniffing the air. ‘My deah fellow! I’m talking to you! Hot water, if you don’t mind!’

And before getting down to business he spent ages dressing, washing and preening himself. He even cleaned his teeth with red powder and took three minutes to clip his sharp, pink nails.

‘Well, sir!’ he said, at last getting down to business and leafing through our reports. ‘What’s it all about?’

I told him the facts of the case without omitting a single detail.

‘Have you been to the scene of the crime?’

‘No, not yet.’

The deputy prosecutor frowned, ran his white womanish hands across his freshly washed forehead and strode up and down the room.

‘I simply don’t understand why on earth you haven’t been there!’ he muttered. ‘That’s the very first thing you should have done, I assume! Did you forget – or didn’t you think it necessary?’

‘Neither: yesterday I was waiting for the police. But I shall go today.’

‘There’s nothing left there now. It’s been raining every day and you gave the criminal time to cover his tracks. You could have at least stationed a guard there. No? I don’t un-der-stand!’

And the fop imperiously shrugged his shoulders.

‘Drink your tea, it’s getting cold,’ I said in an indifferent tone.

‘I like it cold.’

The deputy prosecutor leant over the papers. Filling the whole room with his heavy breathing he started reading in an undertone, occasionally making his own notes and corrections. Twice his mouth twisted into a sarcastic smile. For some reason that cunning devil^* was pleased neither with my report nor the doctors’. It was only too easy to see in that sleek, freshly washed civil servant a pedant, stuffed with self-importance and the consciousness of his own worth.

At noon we were at the scene of the crime. It was pouring with rain. Of course, we found neither stains nor tracks. Everything had been washed away by the rain. Somehow I managed to find one of the missing buttons from the murdered Olga’s riding habit; and the deputy prosecutor picked up some kind of red pulp that later turned out to be a tobacco packet. At first we came across a bush with two of its branches broken off along one side. The deputy prosecutor was delighted at this discovery: they could have been broken off by the criminal and would therefore indicate the direction he took after murdering Olga. But his joy was unfounded: we soon found several bushes with broken-off branches and nibbled leaves. It turned out that a herd of cattle had wandered over the scene of the crime.

Having sketched out a plan of the locality and questioned the coachmen we had taken with us about the position in which Olga had been found, we returned empty-handed. When we were inspecting the scene an outside observer would have detected apathy and sluggishness in our movements. Perhaps we were partly inhibited by the fact that the criminal was already in our hands and that there was therefore no need to embark on an analysis à la Le Coq.⁵³

After he returned from the forest Polugradov once again took ages to wash and dress himself, and once again he demanded hot water. After completing his toilet he expressed a wish to question Urbenin once again. Poor Pyotr Yegorych said nothing new at this cross-examination – as before, he denied his guilt and didn’t give a damn for our evidence.

‘I’m amazed you can even suspect me,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Very strange!’

‘Don’t play the innocent, old bean!’ Polugradov told him. ‘No one’s going to suspect you without good reason, and if they do then they must have reasons!’

‘But whatever the reasons, however strong the evidence, you must be humane in your reasoning. I’m incapable of murder… do you understand? I simply couldn’t… So, how much is your evidence worth?’

‘Well, well!’ exclaimed the deputy prosecutor with a wave of the arm. ‘These educated criminals are a real pain in the neck: you can din things into a peasant’s head, but you just try and talk to these fellows! – “I’m incapable”, “humane” – they’re all going in for psychology these days!’

‘I’m not a criminal,’ Urbenin said, ‘and I must ask you to be more careful in your choice of words!’

‘Oh, do shut up, old bean! We’ve no time to apologize to the likes of you or listen to your complaints! If you don’t want to confess, then don’t, only please permit us to consider you a liar.’

‘As you wish,’ Urbenin growled. ‘You can do what you like with me… you’re in charge…’ He waved his arm apathetically and looked out of the window. ‘It’s all the same to me anyway,’ he continued, ‘my life’s ruined…’

‘Listen, Pyotr Yegorych,’ I said. ‘Yesterday and the day before you were so grief-stricken that you could barely keep on your feet, you could hardly answer briefly and to the point. Today, on the other hand, you seem to be positively flourishing – relatively speaking, of course – and you’re even indulging in resounding phrases. In fact, grief-stricken people aren’t usually very talkative, but not only are you being terribly long-winded, you’re even airing your petty grievances now. How do you explain such a sharp turnaround?’

‘How would you explain it?’ Urbenin asked, sarcastically screwing up his eyes at me.

‘I explain it by the fact that you’ve forgotten your part. After all, it’s difficult to keep up play-acting for long: either one forgets one’s part or one gets bored with it…’

‘That’s a typical lawyer’s invention!’ laughed Urbenin. ‘And it does honour to your resourcefulness. Yes, you’re right. I’ve undergone a big change.’

‘Can you explain it?’

‘Of course I can, I’ve no reason to conceal the fact. Yesterday I was so shattered and overwhelmed by grief that I thought I might take my own life… or that I’d go mad. But last night I thought better of it. It struck me that death had freed Olga from a life of debauchery, that it had wrested her from the filthy hands of the idle rake who’s ruined me. I’m not jealous of death, as long as Olga is better off in death’s clutches than the Count’s. This thought cheered me up and gave me strength. Now I’m not so heavy at heart.’

‘Neatly thought out,’ Polugradov said through his teeth and swinging one leg. ‘He’s not short of a reply!’

‘I feel I’m speaking sincerely and I’m amazed that educated men like yourselves can’t distinguish between sincerity and pretence! Besides, prejudice is all too powerful an emotion – it’s difficult not to err under its influence. I understand your position, I can imagine what will happen when they start trying me after they’ve accepted your evidence. I can imagine them taking my brutish face and my drunkenness into consideration. Well, I don’t have a brutish appearance, but prejudice will have its way…’

‘Fine, fine, that’s enough,’ said Polugradov, leaning over his papers. ‘Off with you now.’

When Urbenin had left we began questioning the Count. His Excellency attended the examination in his dressing-gown and with a vinegar compress on his head. After making Polugradov’s acquaintance he sprawled in an armchair and began his statement.

‘I’m going to tell you everything, right from the start. By the way, what’s that president of yours, Lionsky, up to these days? Hasn’t he divorced his wife yet? I bumped into him when I was in St Petersburg. Gentlemen, why don’t you order yourselves something? A drop of brandy always adds a little cheer to a conversation… yes, I’ve no doubts at all that Urbenin is guilty of this murder.’

And the Count told us everything that the reader already knows. At the prosecutor’s request he told of his life with Olga down to the very last detail and in describing the charms of life with a pretty woman he became so carried away that several times he smacked his lips and winked. From his statement I learnt one very important detail that the reader doesn’t know about. I discovered that when Urbenin was living in town he perpetually bombarded the Count with letters. In some of them he cursed him, in others he begged for his wife to be returned, promising to forget all the insults and infamy. The poor devil grasped at these letters like straws.

After questioning two or three coachmen, the deputy prosecutor ate a hearty dinner, reeled off a whole list of instructions for me and departed. Before driving off he went to the outbuilding where Urbenin was being detained and told him that our suspicions as to his guilt had become a certainty. Urbenin waved his arm despairingly and asked permission to attend his wife’s funeral: this was granted.

Polugradov had not been lying to Urbenin. Yes, our suspicions had become certainties, we were convinced that we knew who the murderer was and that he was already in our hands. But this certainty didn’t stay with us for long!

XXVI

One fine morning, just as I was sealing a parcel for Urbenin to take with him to the town prison, I heard a dreadful noise. When I looked out of the window an engaging spectacle greeted my eyes: a dozen brawny youths were dragging one-eyed Kuzma out of the servants’ kitchen. Pale and dishevelled, his feet firmly planted on the ground and unable to defend himself with his hands, Kuzma was butting his assailants with his large head.

‘Yer ’onner, please go and sort it out, ’e don’t wanner go,’ the panic-stricken Ilya told me.

‘Who doesn’t want to go?’

‘The murderer.’

‘Which murderer?’

‘Kuzma… it’s ’im what done the murder, yer ’onner. Pyotr Yegorych’s suffering for what ’e ain’t done. I swear it, sir!’

I went outside and made my way to the servants’ kitchen, where Kuzma, having detached himself from those robust hands, was distributing clouts right and left.

‘What’s all this about?’ I asked, going over to the crowd.

I was told something strange and unexpected.

‘Yer ’onner, it’s Kuzma what murdered ’er!’

‘They’re lying!’ howled Kuzma. ‘God strike me down if they’re not lying!’

‘Then why did you – you son of the devil – wash away the blood if yer conscience is clear? You wait, ’is ’onner’ll sort it all out!’

When he was passing the river, Trifon the horse dealer happened to notice that Kuzma was hard at work washing something. At first Trifon thought that he was washing linen, but on closer inspection he saw that it was a tight-fitting coat and a waistcoat. This struck him as strange: cloth garments are never washed.

‘What are you doing?’ shouted Trifon.

Kuzma was taken aback. After an even closer look Trifon noticed reddish-brown spots on the coat.

‘I guessed immediately that it must be blood… I went into the kitchen and told ’em all there. They kept watch and that night they sees ’im hanging out the coat to dry in the garden. Well, ’e were scared stiff, ’e were. Why should ’e go and wash it if ’e were innersent? Must be crooked if ’e were trying to ’ide it. Racked our brains we did and in the end we hauls ’im off to yer ’onner. As we dragged ’im along he jibbed, like, and spat in our eyes. Why should ’e jib if ’e weren’t guilty?’

After further questioning it transpired that just before the murder, when the Count was sitting at the forest edge drinking tea with his guests, Kuzma went off into the forest. He hadn’t helped carry Olga, therefore he couldn’t have got any blood on himself.

When he was brought into my room Kuzma was at first so agitated that he couldn’t say a word. Rolling the white of his single eye, he crossed himself and muttered an oath under his breath.

‘Now calm down,’ I said. ‘Just tell me what you know and I’ll let you go.’

Kuzma fell at my feet, stuttered and started swearing.

‘May I rot in hell if ’twere me. May neither me father nor me mother… Yer ’onner… May God destroy my soul if…’

‘Did you walk off into the forest?’

‘That I did, sir. I walks away from them – I’d bin serving the guests brandy and – begging yer pardon – I took a little swig meself. Went straight to me ’ead it did and all I wanted was to lie down. So I goes and lies down and I falls fast asleep. But as to who did the murder – I ain’t got a clue, that I ain’t. I’m telling you the truth!’

‘But why did you wash the blood off?’

‘I were scared they might think things… that they might take me as a witness…’

‘But how did there come to be blood on your jacket?’

‘Can’t rightly say, yer ’onner.’

‘But why can’t you say? Surely it was your coat?’

‘Oh yes, it were mine all right, but I just can’t say – I saw the blood there after I was already woken up.’

‘That means you must have soiled your coat in your sleep.’

‘That’s right!’

‘Well, off with you my friend. Go and think it over. What you’re telling me is complete nonsense. Think about it and come and tell me tomorrow. Now go!’

Next day when I woke up I was informed that Kuzma wanted a word with me. I gave instructions for him to be brought in.

‘Well, have you had a good think about it?’

‘Yes – that I’ave!’

‘So, how did the blood get on your coat?’

‘Yer ’onner, I remembers it as if ’twere a dream. I remembers things as if they was all in a fog, can’t say for sure whether they’re true or not.’

‘And what do you remember?’

Kuzma raised his one eye, reflected and replied:

‘It were amazing, just like in a dream or in a fog. There I be lying there drunk on the grass and dozing – neither really dozing nor dreaming, like. All I hears is someone passing by and stamping ’eavily with ’is feet. I opens me eyes and I sees – just like I were unconscious or dreaming – some gent coming up to me. ’E bends down and wipes ’is ’ands on the flaps of me jacket. Wiped them on me coat, ’e did, then ’e dabbed me waistcoat. That’s what ’appened.’

‘Who was that gentleman?’

‘That I can’t rightly say. All I remembers is that ’e weren’t no peasant, but a gent… in gent’s clothes. But who ’e was, what ’is face was like – that I can’t remember, for the life of me.’

‘What colour was his suit?’

‘How should I know? Might ’ave bin white, or might ’ave bin black… all I remembers is that ’e were a gent – and I don’t remember nothing more. Oh yes, I remembers now! When he bent down ’e wiped ’is ’ands and said “drunken swine!” ’

‘Did you dream it?’

‘Can’t say… perhaps I did. But where did that blood come from?’

‘That gentleman you saw… was he like Pyotr Yegorych?’

‘I don’t think ’twere ’e… but perhaps it were. Only ’e shouldn’t ’ave called me a swine.’

‘Now try and remember… go on, sit down there and try to remember. Perhaps it will all come back to you.’

‘Yes, sir.’

XXVII

This unexpected irruption of one-eyed Kuzma into an almost completed novel created an impenetrable muddle. I was at a loss and just didn’t know what to make of Kuzma: he denied his guilt categorically and the preliminary investigation argued against any such guilt. Olga had not been murdered for mercenary motives and any attempt at rape had ‘probably not occurred’ – according to the doctors. Could one really assume that Kuzma had committed the murder and had not taken advantage of a single one of these objectives, simply because he was terribly drunk and incapable? Or was he afraid that none of this tallied with the circumstances of the murder?

But if Kuzma wasn’t guilty, then why had he been unable to explain the blood on his jacket and invented those dreams and hallucinations? Why had he dragged in that gentleman whom he had seen and heard, but whom he remembered so vaguely that he had even forgotten the colour of his clothes?

Polugradov breezed in again.

‘So there you are, my deah sir!’ he said. ‘If you had taken the trouble to inspect the scene of the crime right away – then, believe me, everything would be as clear as daylight now! Had you questioned all the servants immediately we would have known who carried Olga’s body and who did not. But now we cannot even determine at what distance from the scene of the crime this drunkard was lying.’

For two hours he struggled with Kuzma, but he could get nothing new out of him. All Kuzma said was that he was half-asleep when he saw the gentleman, that the gentleman had wiped his hands on the flaps of his jacket and called him ‘drunken swine’. But who this gentleman was, what his face and clothes were like he couldn’t say.

‘And how much brandy did you drink?’

‘Polished off arf a bottle.’

‘Well, perhaps it wasn’t really brandy?’

‘Oh yes it was sir, real fine shompagner…’

‘Ah, so you even know the names of spirits!’ laughed the deputy prosecutor.

‘And why shouldn’t I? Thank God, I’ve waited on gents for thirty year now… I’ve ’ad time to learn.’

For some reason the deputy prosecutor suddenly felt that Kuzma needed to be confronted with Urbenin. Kuzma took a long look at Urbenin, shook his head and said:

‘No, I don’t remember. Perhaps it were Pyotr Yegorych and perhaps it weren’t. God knows!’

Polugradov waved his arm helplessly and drove off, leaving me to find the real murderer out of these two.

The investigation dragged on and on. Urbenin and Kuzma were incarcerated in cells in the same village where I lived. Poor Pyotr Yegorych completely lost heart, grew thin and grey, and fell into a religious frame of mind. Twice he sent me a request to let him see the penal code. Evidently he was interested in the severity of the punishment in store for him.

‘What will become of my children?’ he asked me at one of the examinations. ‘If I were all on my own your mistake wouldn’t cause me any distress, but I have to live… live for my children! They’ll perish without me… and I’m in no state to part with them! What are you doing to me!?’

When the guard started talking down to him and when they made him walk a couple of times from the village to town and back, under armed guard, in full view of people he knew, he was plunged into despair and became highly irritable.

‘They’re not lawyers!’ he shouted, loud enough for everyone in the prison to hear. ‘They’re cruel, heartless oafs who spare neither people nor the truth. I know why I’m locked up here, I know! By pinning the blame on me they want to cover up for the real culprit! The Count committed the murder. And if it wasn’t him it was one of his hirelings.’

When he found out about Kuzma’s arrest he was absolutely delighted at first.

‘Now you’ve found the hireling!’ he told me. ‘Now you’ve got him!’

But before long, when he saw that he wasn’t going to be released and when he was told of Kuzma’s statement, he once again became depressed.

‘Now I’m finished… well and truly finished,’ he said. ‘To get out of prison that one-eyed devil Kuzma will sooner or later name me and say that I… wiped my hands on his jacket. But you saw for yourself that my hands hadn’t been wiped.’

Sooner or later our suspicions were bound to be resolved.

That same year, at the end of November, when snowflakes were circling before my windows and the lake resembled a boundless white desert, Kuzma expressed a wish to see me. He sent the guard to tell me that he’d had a ‘good think’. I gave instructions for him to be brought to me.

‘I’m delighted that you’ve finally had a “good think”,’ I said, greeting him. ‘It’s high time you stopped being so secretive and trying to make fools of us, as if we were little children. So, what have you had a good think about?’

Kuzma didn’t reply. He stood in the middle of my room, looking at me without blinking or saying a word. And he really did have the look of someone scared out of his wits. He was pale and trembling and a cold sweat streamed down his face.

‘Well, tell me what you’ve had a good think about,’ I repeated.

‘About things more weird and wonderful than you could ever imagine,’ he said. ‘Yesterday I remembers the colours of tie that gent was wearing and last night I thinks ’ard about it and I remembers ’is face.’

‘So, who was it?’

Kuzma produced a sickly smile and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

‘It’s too terrible to tell, yer ’onner, please allow me not to say. It was all so weird and wonderful that I thinks I must ’ave been dreaming – or I imagined it all!’

‘Well, who did you imagine you saw?’

‘Please allow me not to say! If I do you’ll convict me. Let me ’ave a good think and I’ll tell you tomorrow. Cor, I’m scared stiff!’

‘Pah!’ I exclaimed, getting angry. ‘Why are you bothering me like this if you don’t want to tell me? Why did you come here?’

‘I thought of telling you, like, but now I’m afraid. No, yer ’onner, please let me go now. I’d better tell you tomorrow… You’d get so mad if I told you, I’d be better off in Siberia… you’d convict me.’

I lost my temper and ordered Kuzma to be taken away.^*

That same evening, in order not to waste time and to have done once and for all with that tiresome murder case, I went to the cells and fooled Urbenin by telling him that Kuzma had named him as the murderer.

‘I was expecting that,’ Urbenin said, waving his hand. ‘It’s all the same to me now…’

Solitary confinement had had a terrible effect on Urbenin’s robust health. He had turned yellowish and lost almost half his weight. I promised him that I would instruct the warders to let him walk up and down the corridors during the day – and even at night.

‘We’re not worried that you might try and escape,’ I said.

Urbenin thanked me and after I had gone he was already strolling down the corridor. His door was no longer kept locked.

After leaving him I knocked at the door of Kuzma’s cell.

‘Well, have you had a good think?’

‘No, sir,’ a feeble voice replied. ‘Let Mr Prosecutor come – I’ll tell ‘im. But I’m not telling you!’

‘Please yourself.’

Next morning everything was decided.

Warder Yegor came running to tell me that one-eyed Kuzma had been found dead in his bed. I went off to the prison and convinced myself that this was the case. That sturdy, strapping peasant, who only the day before had radiated health and had invented various fairy tales to obtain his release, was as still and cold as a stone. I shall not begin to describe the warder’s and my own horror: the reader will understand. Kuzma was valuable to me as defendant or witness, but for the warders he was a prisoner, for whose death or escape they would have to pay dearly. Our horror was all the greater when the subsequent autopsy confirmed a violent death. Kuzma died from asphyxiation. Convinced that he had been strangled, I started searching for the culprit and it did not take me long to find him… he was close at hand.

I went to Urbenin’s cell. Unable to restrain myself, and forgetting that I was an investigator, I named him as the murderer, in the harshest possible terms.

‘You scoundrel! You weren’t satisfied with killing your poor wife,’ I said. ‘On top of that you had to kill someone who had discovered your guilt. And still you persist with your filthy, villainous play-acting!’

Urbenin turned terribly pale and staggered.

‘You’re lying!’ he shouted, beating his breast with his fist.

‘It’s not me who’s lying! You shed crocodile tears at our evidence, you mocked it. There were moments when I wanted to believe you rather than the evidence itself… Oh, you’re such a fine actor! But now I wouldn’t believe you even if blood flowed from your eyes instead of those false, theatrical tears. Tell me – you did kill Kuzma, didn’t you?’

‘You’re either drunk or making fun of me, Sergey Petrovich. There are limits to a man’s patience and subservience. I can’t take any more of this!’

With flashing eyes Urbenin banged his fist on the table.

‘Yesterday I was rash enough to allow you some freedom,’ I continued. ‘I allowed you what no other inmate is allowed – to walk down the corridors. And now, as a token of gratitude, you went to that unfortunate Kuzma’s cell during the night and strangled a sleeping man. Do you realize it’s not only Kuzma whom you’ve destroyed – because of you, all the warders will be ruined.’

‘But what in heaven’s name have I done?’ Urbenin asked, clutching his head.

‘Do you want me to prove it? Let me explain. On my orders your door was left unlocked. Those idiotic warders opened the door and forgot to hide the padlock – all the cells are locked with the same key. During the night you took the key, went out into the corridor and unlocked your neighbour’s door. After strangling him you locked the door and put the key back in the lock.’

‘But why should I want to strangle him? Why?’

‘Because he named you as the murderer. If I hadn’t told you this yesterday he’d still be alive. It’s sinful and shameful, Pyotr Yegorych!’

‘Sergey Petrovich! You’re a young man!’ the murderer suddenly said in a soft and gentle voice, grasping my hand. ‘You’re an honest, respectable person… don’t ruin me and don’t sully yourself with unfounded suspicions and over-hasty accusations. You’ve no idea how cruelly and painfully you’ve insulted me by foisting a new accusation on my soul, which is guilty of absolutely nothing! I’m a martyr, Sergey Petrovich! You should be ashamed of wronging a martyr! The time will come when you’ll have to apologize to me – and that time’s not far off. I haven’t been formally charged yet, but my defence will not satisfy you. Rather than attacking and insulting me so horribly, you’d do better if you questioned me humanely – I won’t say as a friend – you’ve already washed your hands of our friendship! I would have been more useful to you in the cause of justice as witness and assistant than in the role of accused. Take for example this new accusation – I could have told you a great deal: last night I didn’t sleep and I could hear everything that was going on.’

‘What did you hear?’

‘Last night, at about two o’clock, it was very dark… I heard someone walking ever so quietly down the corridor and constantly trying my door. He kept walking and walking – and then he opened my door and came in.’

‘Who was it?’

‘I don’t know – it was too dark to see. He stood for about a minute in my cell, then he left. And just as you said, he took the key out of my door and unlocked the door to the next cell. For about two minutes I heard hoarse breathing, then a scuffle. I thought that it was the warder fussing about and I took the noise to be nothing else than snoring, otherwise I would have raised the alarm.’

‘Fairy tales!’ I said. ‘There was no one here except you who could have killed Kuzma. The duty warders were asleep. One of their wives, who didn’t sleep all night, testified that all three warders had slept like logs the whole night and never left their beds for one minute. The poor devils didn’t know that such brutes could be knocking around in this wretched prison. They’ve been employed here for more than twenty years and all that time there hasn’t been one escape, not to mention such abominations as murder. Now, thanks to you, their lives have been turned upside down. And I’ll catch it too for not sending you to the main prison and for giving you freedom to stroll down the corridors. Thank you very much!’

That was my last conversation with Urbenin. I never had occasion to talk to him again – apart from replying to two or three questions he put to me, as if I were a witness being questioned in the dock.

XXVIII

I have called my novel the story of a crime and now, when ‘The Case of Olga Urbenin’s Murder’ has become complicated by yet another murder – hard to comprehend and mysterious in many respects – the reader is entitled to expect the novel to enter its most interesting and lively phase. The discovery of the criminal and his motives offers a wide field for a display of mental agility and acumen. Here an evil will and cunning wage war with forensic knowledge and skill – a war that is fascinating in every aspect.

I waged war – and the reader is entitled to expect me to describe the way victory became mine: he will surely expect all manner of investigatory subtleties, such as those that lend sparkle to the thrillers of Gaboriau and our own Shklyarevsky,⁵⁴ and I’m ready to justify the reader’s expectations. However, one of the main characters leaves the battlefield without waiting for the end of the conflict – he’s not allowed to enjoy victory. All that he has done so far comes to naught and he joins the ranks of the spectators. This particular character in the drama is ‘Yours Truly’. The day after the above conversation with Urbenin I received an invitation – an order, rather – to resign. The tittle-tattle and idle gossip of our local scandalmongers had done their work. The murder in the prison, statements taken from the servants without my knowledge by the deputy prosecutor, and – if the reader still remembers – the blow I had dealt that peasant on the head with an oar during a nocturnal orgy of the past – all this made a substantial contribution to my dismissal. That peasant really set the ball rolling: there was a massive shake-up. After about two days I was ordered to hand over the murder case to the investigator of serious crimes.

Thanks to rumours and newspaper reports, the entire Directorate of Public Prosecutions was stirred into action. Every other day the prosecutor himself rode over to the Count’s estate and took part in the questioning. Our doctors’ official reports were sent to the Medical Board – even higher up. There was even talk of exhuming the bodies and holding fresh post-mortems, which, incidentally, would have led nowhere.

Twice Urbenin was dragged off to the county town to have his mental faculties examined and on both occasions he was found to be normal. I began to figure as witness.^* The new investigators became so carried away that even my Polikarp was called upon to testify.

A year after my retirement, when I was living in Moscow, I received a summons to attend the Urbenin trial. I was glad of the opportunity to see once more those places to which I was drawn by habit – and off I went. The Count, who was living in St Petersburg at the time, did not attend and sent in a doctor’s certificate instead.

The case was tried in our county town, at the local assizes. The public prosecutor was Polugradov, that same individual who cleaned his teeth four times a day with red powder. Acting for the defence was a certain Smirnyaev, a tall, thin, fair-haired man with a sentimental expression and long, straight hair. The jury consisted entirely of shopkeepers and peasants, only four of whom were literate, and the rest, when they were given Urbenin’s letters to his wife to read, broke into a sweat and became confused. The foreman of the jury was the shopkeeper Ivan Demyanych, the same person from whom my late parrot got its name.

When I entered the courtroom I didn’t recognize Urbenin: he had gone completely grey and had aged about twenty years. I had expected to read on his face indifference to his fate, and apathy, but I was wrong: Urbenin took a passionate interest in the proceedings. He challenged three of the jurors, embarked on lengthy explanations and questioned witnesses. He categorically denied his guilt and spent ages questioning every witness who did not testify in his favour.

The witness Pshekhotsky testified that I had been living with the late Olga.

‘That’s a lie!’ Urbenin shouted. ‘He’s a liar! I don’t trust my own wife, but I do trust him!’

When I was giving evidence the counsel for the defence questioned me as to my relationship with Olga and acquainted me with evidence given by Pshekhotsky, who had once applauded me. To have told the truth would have amounted to testifying in favour of the accused. The more depraved a wife, the more lenient juries tend to be towards an Othello-husband – that I understood very well. On the other hand, my telling the truth would have deeply wounded Urbenin – on hearing it he would have suffered incurable pain. I thought it best to tell a lie.

‘No!’ I said.

Describing Olga’s murder in the most lurid colours, the public prosecutor paid particular attention in his speech to the murderer’s brutality, his wickedness. ‘An old roué sees a pretty, young girl. Aware of the whole horror of her situation in her insane father’s house, he tempts her with food, lodgings and brightly decorated rooms. She agrees: an elderly husband of means is easier to bear than a mad father and poverty. But she was young – and youth, gentlemen of the jury, has its own inalienable rights. A girl who has been weaned on novels, brought up in the midst of Nature, is bound to fall in love sooner or later…’ The upshot of all this was:

‘He, having given her nothing but his age and brightly coloured dresses and seeing his booty slipping away from him, became as frenzied as an animal that has had a red-hot iron applied to its snout. He loved like an animal, therefore he must have hated like one’, and so on.

When he accused Urbenin of Kuzma’s murder, Polugradov singled out ‘those villainous tricks, so cleverly devised and calculated, that accompanied the murder of a sleeping man who had been imprudent enough the day before to testify against him. I assume that there is no doubt in your minds that Kuzma wanted to tell the prosecutor something that directly concerned him.’

Smirnyaev, counsel for the defence, did not deny Urbenin’s guilt: he only asked that the fact that Urbenin had acted under the influence of temporary insanity should be taken into account and that therefore they should be lenient. Describing how painful feelings of jealousy can be, he alluded to Shakespeare’s Othello as evidence for his deposition. He examined this ‘universal type’ from all aspects, quoting from various critics, and he got himself in such a muddle that the presiding judge was obliged to stop him by remarking that ‘a knowledge of foreign literature was not obligatory for jurors’.

Taking advantage of this last statement, Urbenin called on God to witness that he was guilty in neither word nor deed.

‘Personally, it’s all the same where I end up – in this district where everything reminds me of my undeserved disgrace and my wife, or in a penal colony. But I’m deeply concerned about my children’s fate.’

Turning to the public he burst into tears and begged for his children to be taken into care:

‘Take them! Of course, the Count won’t miss the opportunity of flaunting his magnanimity. But I’ve already warned the children and they won’t accept one crumb from him.’

When he noticed me among the public he glanced at me imploringly. ‘Please protect my children from the Count’s good deeds,’ he said.

Evidently he had forgotten all about the impending verdict and his thoughts were completely taken up with his children. He kept talking about them until he was stopped by the presiding judge.

The jury did not take long to reach a verdict. Urbenin was found guilty unconditionally and was not recommended for leniency on a single count. He was sentenced to loss of all civil rights and fifteen years’ hard labour.

So dearly did that meeting on a May morning with the romantic ‘girl in red’ cost him.

More than eight years have passed since the events described above. Some of the actors in the drama have departed this world and have already rotted away, others are suffering punishment for their sins, others are dragging out their lives, struggling with the tedium of a pedestrian existence and expecting death from day to day.

Much has changed during eight years. Count Karneyev, who never stopped entertaining the most sincere friendship for me, has finally become a hopeless drunkard. His estate – the scene of the crime – has passed from his hands into those of his wife and Pshekhotsky. He’s poor now and I support him. Some evenings, when he’s lying on the sofa in my flat, he loves to reminisce about the old times.

‘It would be nice to listen to the gipsies now,’ he mutters. ‘Send for some brandy, Seryozha!’

I too have changed. My strength is gradually deserting me and I feel that my health and youth are abandoning my body. No longer do I have the physical strength, the agility, the stamina that I took so much pride in flaunting at one time, when I didn’t go to bed for several nights running and drank quantities of alcohol that I could barely cope with now.

One after the other, wrinkles are appearing, my hair is going thin, my voice is growing coarser and weaker… Life is over…

I remember the past as if it were yesterday. I see places and have visions of people as if they were in a mist. I do not have the strength to view them impartially: I love and hate them as violently, as intensely as before, and not a day passes without my clutching my head in a fit of indignation or hatred. For me, the Count is as loathsome as ever, Olga revolting, Kalinin plain ridiculous with his stupid conceit. Evil I consider evil, sin I consider sin.

Yet there are often moments when I stare at the portrait that stands on my writing table and I feel an irresistible urge to go walking with the ‘girl in red’ in the forest, to the murmur of lofty pines, and to press her to my breast, despite everything. At these moments I forgive both her lies and that decline into the murky abyss: I am ready in forgive everything – if only a tiny fragment of the past could be repeated. Wearied by the boredom of the town, I would like to listen once more to the roar of the giant lake and gallop along its banks on my Zorka. I would forgive and forget everything if I could once again stroll along the road to Tenevo and meet Franz the gardener with his vodka barrel and jockey cap. There are moments when I’m even ready to shake that hand which is crimson with blood, discuss religion, the harvest, popular education with that good-natured Pyotr Yegorych. I would like to meet Screwy and his Nadenka again.

Life is as frantic, dissolute and as restless as that lake on an August night. Many victims have vanished beneath its dark waves for ever… A thick sediment lies at the bottom. But why are there times when I love life? Why do I forgive it and rush towards it with all my heart, like a loving son, like a bird released from its cage?

The life that I see now through the window of my hotel room reminds me of a grey circle – totally grey, with no shades, no glimmer of light.

But if I close my eyes and recall the past I see a rainbow formed by the sun’s spectrum. Yes, it’s stormy there – yet there it’s brighter…

S. Zinovyev.