Delphi Complete Works of Anton Chekhov (Illustrated) (483 page)

CHAPTER XXIX

On the second or third day the Assistant Public Prosecutor, Polugradov, arrived post-haste from the town; he is a man I cannot think of without upsetting myself. Imagine a tall, lean man, of about thirty, clean shaven, smartly dressed, and with hair curled like a sheep’s; his features were thin, but so dry and unexpressive that it was not difficult to guess the emptiness and foppishness of the individual to whom they belonged; his voice was low, sugary, and mawkishly polite.

He arrived early in the morning, with two portmanteaux in a hired calash. First of all he inquired with a very concerned face, complaining affectedly of fatigue, if a room had been prepared for him in the Count’s house. On my orders a small but very cosy and light room had been assigned to him, where everything he might need, from a marble washstand right down to matches, had been arranged.

‘I - I say, my good fellow! Bring me some hot water!’ he began while settling down in his room, and fastidiously sniffing the air. ‘Some hot water, please, I say, young man!’

Before beginning work he washed, dressed, and arranged his hair for a long time; he even brushed his teeth with some sort of red powder, and occupied about three minutes in trimming his sharp, pink nails.

‘Well, sir,’ he said at last, settling down to work, and turning over the leaves of our report. ‘What’s it all about?’

I told him what was the matter not leaving out a single detail...

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

‘No, not yet.’

The Assistant Public Prosecutor frowned, passed his white womanish hand over his freshly washed brow, and began walking about the room.

‘I can’t understand why you haven’t been there,’ he murmured.

‘I should suppose that was the first thing that ought to have been done. Did you forget or did you think it unnecessary?’

‘Neither the one nor the other: yesterday I waited for the police, and I intend to go today.’

‘Now nothing will be left there: it has been raining for the last few days, and you have given the criminal time to obliterate his traces. Of course you placed a guard at the spot? No? I don’t understand!’

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘You’d better drink your tea, it’s getting cold,’ I said, in a tone of indifference.

‘I like it cold.’

The Assistant Public Prosecutor bent over the papers, and with a loud sniff he began to read aloud in an undertone, occasionally jotting down his remarks and corrections. Two or three times his mouth was drawn to one side in a sarcastic smile: for some reason neither my official report nor the doctors’ pleased this cunning rogue.
 
In this sleek, well-brushed, and cleanly-washed government official, stuffed full of conceit and a high opinion of his own worth, the pedant was clearly apparent.

By midday we were on the scene of the crime. It was raining hard. Of course we found no evidence or traces; all had been washed away by the rain. By some chance I found one of the buttons that were missing on Olga’s riding habit, and the Assistant Prosecutor picked up a sort of reddish pulp, that subsequently proved to be a red wrapper from a packet of tobacco. At first we stumbled upon a bush which had two twigs broken at one side. The Assistant Prosecutor was delighted at finding these twigs. They might have been broken by the criminal and would therefore indicate the way he had gone after killing Olga. But the joy of the Prosecutor was unfounded: we soon found a number of bushes with broken twigs and nibbled leaves; it turned out that a herd of cattle had passed over the scene of the murder.

After making a plan of the place, and questioning the coachmen we had taken with us as to the position in which they had found Olga, we returned to the house with long faces. An onlooker might have noticed a certain laziness and apathy in our movements while we were examining the scene of the crime... Perhaps our movements were paralysed to a certain extent by the conviction that the criminal was already in our hands, and therefore it was unnecessary to enter on any Lecoq-like analysis.

On his return from the forest Polugradov again spent a long time washing and dressing, and he again called for hot water. Having finished his toilet he expressed a wish to examine Urbenin once more. Poor Pëtr Egorych had nothing new to tell us at this examination; as before he denied his guilt, and thought nothing of our evidence.

‘I am astonished that I can be suspected,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Strange!’

‘My good fellow, don’t be naive,’ Polugradov said to him. ‘Nobody is suspected without reason. Hence, if you are suspected, there must be a good reason for it!’

‘Whatever the causes may be, however strong the evidence may be, one must reason in a humane manner! Don’t you understand, I can’t murder? I can’t... What then is your evidence worth?’

‘Well!’ and the Assistant Prosecutor waved his hand: ‘what a trouble these educated criminals are; one can make a muzhik understand, but try to talk to one of these! “I can’t”... “in a humane manner”... they go harping on about psychology!’

‘I am no criminal,’ Urbenin said quite offended, ‘I beg you to be more careful in your expressions...’

‘Hold your tongue, my good fellow! We have no time to apologize nor to listen to your dissatisfaction... If you don’t wish to confess, you need not confess, but allow us to consider you a liar...’

‘As you like,’ Urbenin grumbled. ‘You can do with me what you like now... You have the power...’

Urbenin made a gesture of indifference, and continued to look out of the window.

‘Besides, it’s all the same to me: my life is lost.’

‘Listen to me, Pëtr Egorych,’ I said, ‘yesterday and the day before you were so overcome by grief that you were scarcely able to keep on your legs, and you were hardly able to give more than brief answers; today, on the contrary, you have a blooming - of course only comparatively blooming — and gay appearance, and even launch into idle chatter. Usually grieving people have no wish to talk, while you not only embark on long conversations, but even make all sorts of trivial complaints. How do you explain such a sudden change?’

‘And how do you explain it?’ Urbenin asked, screwing up his eyes at me in a derisive manner.

‘I explain it in this way: that you have forgotten your part. It is difficult to act for any length of time; one either forgets one’s part, or it bores one...’

‘So it was all a fabrication,’ said Urbenin, smiling; ‘and it does honour to your perspicacity... Yes, you are right; a great change has taken place in me...’

‘Can you explain it to us?’

‘Certainly, I see no cause for hiding it. Yesterday I was so entirely broken and oppressed by my grief, that I thought of taking my life... of going mad... but then I thought better of it... the thought entered my mind that death had saved Olia from a life of depravity, that it had torn her out of the dirty hands of that good-for-nothing who has ruined me. Death does not make me jealous; it is better for Olga to belong to death than to the Count. This thought cheered and strengthened me: now there is no longer the same weight on my soul.’

‘A clever story,’ Polugradov murmured under his breath, as he sat swinging his leg, ‘he is never at a loss for an answer!’

‘I know I am speaking the truth, and I can’t understand that you cultivated men cannot see the difference between truth and falsehood! But I know there is prejudice against me. It is only too easy to get the wrong idea when I come up for trial. I can understand your position... I can imagine how, taking into consideration my brutal physiognomy, my drunkenness... My physiognomy is not brutal, but prejudice will have its way...”

‘Very well, very well, enough,’ Polugradov said, bending over his papers, ‘Go!’

After Urbenin had left, we proceeded to examine the Count.

His Excellency was pleased to come to the examination in his dressing-gown, with a vinegar bandage on his head; having been introduced to Polugradov he sank into an armchair, and began to give his evidence:

I shall tell you everything from the very beginning... Well, and how is your President Lionsky getting on? Has he still not divorced his wife? I made his acquaintance in Petersburg, quite by chance... Gentlemen, why don’t you order something to be brought? Somehow it’s jollier to talk with a glass of cognac before you... I have not the slightest doubt that Urbenin committed this murder.’

And the Count told us all that the reader already knows. At the request of the prosecutor he told us all the details of his life with Olga, and described the delights of living with a beautiful woman, and was so carried away by his subject that he smacked his lips, and winked several times. From his evidence I learned a very important detail that is unknown to the reader. I learned that Urbenin while living in the town had constantly bombarded the Count with letters; in some letters he cursed him, in others he implored him to return his wife to him, promising to forget all wrongs, and dishonour; the poor devil caught at these letters like a drowning man catches at straws.

The Assistant Prosecutor examined two or three of the coachmen and then, having had a very good dinner, he gave me a long list of instructions, and drove away. Before leaving he went into the adjoining house where Urbenin was confined, and told him that our suspicions of his guilt had become certainties. Urbenin only shrugged his shoulders, and asked permission to be present at his wife’s funeral; this permission was granted him.

Polugradov did not lie to Urbenin: yes, our suspicions had become convictions, we were convinced that we knew who the criminal was, and that he was already in our hands; but this conviction did not abide with us for long!

CHAPTER XXX

One fine morning, just as I was sealing up a parcel which I was about to send by the guard, who was to take Urbenin to be locked up in the castle-prison in town, I heard a terrible noise. Looking out of the window I saw an amusing sight: some dozen strong young fellows were dragging one-eyed Kuz’ma out of the servants’ kitchen.

Kuz’ma pale and dishevelled had his feet firmly planted on the ground, and being deprived of the use of his arms, butted at his adversaries with his large head.

‘Your Honour, please go and see him!’ Il’ya said to me, in great alarm, ‘he... does not want to come!’

‘Who does not want to come?’

‘The murderer.’

‘What murderer?’

‘Kuz’ma... He committed the murder, your Honour... Pëtr Egorych is suffering unjustly... As God is my witness, sir.’

I went into the yard and walked towards the servants’ kitchen, where Kuz’ma, who had torn himself out of the strong arms of his opponents, was administering cuffs to right and left.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, when I came up to the crowd.

Then I was told something very strange and unexpected.

‘Your Honour, Kuz’ma killed her!’

‘They lie!’ Kuz’ma shouted. ‘May God kill me if they don’t lie!’

‘But why did you, son of a devil, wash off the blood, if your conscience is clear? Stop a moment, his Honour will examine all this!’

One of the grooms, Trifon, riding past the river, had seen Kuz’ma washing something carefully in the water. At first Trifon thought he was washing linen, but looking more attentively he saw it was a poddevka and a waistcoat. He thought this strange: such clothes are not usually washed.

‘What are you doing?’ Trifon called to him.

Kuz’ma became confused. Looking more attentively, Trifon noticed brown spots on the poddevka.

I guessed at once that it must be blood... I went into the kitchen and told our people; they watched, and saw him at night hanging out the poddevka to dry. Of course they took fright. Why should he wash it, if he is not guilty? He must have something on his soul he is trying to hide... We thought and thought, and decided to bring him to your Honour... We were dragging him to you, but he keeps backing away and spitting in our eyes. Why should he back away if he is not guilty?’

From further examination it appeared that just before the murder, at the time when the Count and his guests were sitting in the clearing, drinking tea, Kuz’ma had gone into the forest. He had not helped in carrying Olga, and therefore could not have got blood on his clothes by this means.

When he was brought to my room Kuz’ma was so excited that at first he could not utter a word; turning up the white of his single eye he crossed himself and mumbled oaths.

‘Be calm; tell me what you know and I will let you go,’ I said to him.

Kuz’ma fell at my feet, stammering and calling on God.

‘May I perish if I had anything to do with it... May neither my father nor my mother... Your Honour! May God destroy my soul...’

‘You went into the forest?’

‘That’s quite true, sir, I went... I had served cognac to the guests and, forgive me, I had tippled a little; it went to my head, and I wanted to lie down; I went, lay down, and fell asleep... But who killed her, or how I don’t know, so help me God... It’s the truth I’m telling you!’

‘But why did you wash off the blood?’

‘I was afraid that people might imagine... that I might be taken as a witness...’

‘How did the blood get on your poddevka?’

‘I don’t know, your Honour.’

‘Why don’t you know? Isn’t the poddevka yours?’

‘Yes, certainly it’s mine, but I don’t know: I saw the blood when I woke up again.”So then, I suppose you dirtied the poddevka with blood in your sleep?’

‘I suppose so...’

‘Well, my man, go and think it over... You’re talking nonsense; think well and tell me tomorrow... Go!’

The following morning, when I awoke, I was informed that Kuz’ma wanted to speak to me. I ordered him to be brought in.

‘Have you thought it over?’ I asked him.

‘Indeed, I have...’

‘How did the blood get on your poddevka?’

‘Your Honour, I remember as if in a dream: I remember something, as in a fog, but if it is true or not I can’t say.’

‘What is it you remember?’

Kuz’ma turned up his eye, thought, and said:

‘Extraordinary... it’s like a dream or a fog... I lay upon the grass drunk and dozing. I was not quite asleep... Then I heard somebody passing, trampling heavily with his feet... I opened my eyes and saw, as if I was unconscious, or in a dream; a gentleman came up to me, he bent over me and wiped his hands in my skirts... He wiped them in my poddevka, and then rubbed his hands on my waistcoat... so.’

‘What gentleman was it?’

I don’t know; I only remember it was not a muzhik, but a gentleman... in gentleman’s clothes; but what gentleman it was, what sort of face he had I can’t remember at all.’

‘What was the colour of his clothes?’

‘Who can say! Perhaps white, perhaps black... I only remember it was a gentleman, and that’s all I can remember... Ach, yes, I can remember! When he bent down and wiped his hands he said: “Drunken swine!”

‘You dreamt this?’

‘I don’t know... perhaps I dreamt it... But then where did the blood come from?’

‘Was the gentleman you saw like Pëtr Egorych?’

‘Not so far as I can tell... but perhaps it was... But he would not swear and call people swine.’

‘Try to remember... Go, sit down and think... Perhaps you may succeed in remembering.’

‘I’ll try.’