The Collected Works of Anton Chekhov. Anton Chekhov
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.