VIII
“Iván, Aged Thirty-Eight Years”
About midnight, the officials, having rested and taken tea, began the inquest.
In a large room, at a table covered with writing materials, sat Proskuróf. His somewhat comical vivacity had given place to a serious and dignified demeanor. Bezrýlof, who had now regained his former ease of the barracks, had had time during his brief rest to get a bath, to wax his moustache, and to give an extra touch to his gray hair. On the whole, he was still a hale and rather an elegant man. Sipping strong tea from a tumbler that stood beside him, he glanced at the examiner in a condescending sort of way. I was seated at the opposite end of the table.
“Will you have the prisoner brought in?” said Proskuróf, looking up from the sheet of paper on which he was rapidly writing the form of the interrogatories.
Bezrýlof nodded, and Yevséyitch at once rushed out of the hut.
A moment later, the door opened, and a man of tall stature—the same whom I had seen with Kostiúshka at the ferry, gazing at the clouds—made his appearance.
In entering, he slightly stumbled over the sill, and, after a glance at the place, he walked into the middle of the room, and stood still. His step was measured and composed. A broad face, with rather coarse but regular features, denoted the utmost indifference. The blue eyes were somewhat dull, and gazed vaguely into space, as though not noticing the objects before them. His hair was cut in a circle, and spots of blood were visible on his colored cotton shirt. Proskuróf passed the paper with the written interrogatories to me, and, having pushed the pen and ink in the same direction, began to put the usual questions.
“What is your name?”
“Iván, aged thirty-eight.”
“Where do you live?”
“I have no home. … I am a vagrant. …”
“Tell me, ‘Iván, aged thirty-eight,’ did you murder the driver Iván Mikháïlof?”
“I did. … That’s my doing. Your Excellency. … There’s no use trying to hide the fact … that’s evident. …”
“Well said! …” exclaimed Bezrýlof, approvingly.
“What is the use?—Your Excellency is making unnecessary delays! … There’s no denying the truth.”
After the first answers had been written down, the examiner continued:—
“At whose instigation or suggestion did you do this deed, and where did you get the fifty-two rubles and two kopeks which were found on your person?”
The vagrant raised his dreamy eyes.
“What’s the use in asking these questions, Your Excellency? You know your business, and I know mine. I did it out of my own head; that’s all there is to it. … Myself, the dark night, and the forest … three of us! …”
Bezrýlof gave a grunt of satisfaction and drank half a tumbler of tea at one gulp, bestowing, meanwhile, sarcastic glances on Proskuróf. Then he gazed at the vagrant, admiring the result of his model prison-training, as a discipline-loving officer admires that of a well trained soldier.
Proskuróf remained impassive. Evidently, he had expected no disclosures from the vagrant.
“Will you not tell us,” he went on with his interrogatory, “why you hacked Feódor Mikháïlof in such a barbarous manner? Did you have a personal grudge or hatred against the deceased?”
The man looked up at the examiner with astonishment.
“I don’t think I stabbed him more than once or twice … I believe. … Then he fell. …”
“Desyátnik,” said Proskuróf to the peasant, “hold a candle so that the prisoner can see, and let him take a look in the next room.”
The vagrant, with the same quiet step, moved towards the door, and paused, while the peasant, taking a candle from the table, entered the next room.
The rascal at first shuddered and drew back, but, instantly making an effort at self-control, he glanced once more in the same direction, and crossed over to the opposite side of the room.
As we followed the movements of this powerful man, now crushed and broken, his own excitement communicated itself to us.
He was pale, and for some time stood leaning against the wall, with his eyes cast down. Presently he lifted his head and looked at us with vague and uncertain gaze.
“Your Excellency! … Orthodox Christians! …” he began, in a pleading voice, “this is no work of mine. … Upon my conscience, I did not do this! … Can it be that in my terror I forgot. … No, it’s impossible! …”
Suddenly, his face brightened, and for the first time his eyes sparkled.
He came towards the table, and, in a resolute voice, exclaimed:—
“Set this down, Your Excellency. Kostiúshka did it. … Kostínkin with the torn nostril! It must have been he! … No one else would have so mangled a human being. That’s his work. … Mate or no mate, it’s all one to me … write it down, Your Excellency!”
At this sudden outburst of candor, Proskuróf instantly seized paper and pen, in order to write it himself; while the vagrant, slowly and with visible effort, related to us the details of this gloomy drama.
He had escaped from the prison of N⸺, where he had been confined for vagrancy … and for some time remained without “business,” until he accidentally met Kostiúshka and his friends in a certain “establishment.” It was there that for the first time he heard them talking of the deceased Mikháïlitch.
“ ‘The Slayer,’ they said, ‘is a man who cannot be killed; knife and bullet are powerless against him, because he bears a charmed life.’—‘Nonsense, fellows!’ I exclaimed; ‘that is impossible! A blade will finish any man!’
“ ‘And who are you, may we ask, and where do you belong?’
“ ‘That’s my affair,’ I replied; ‘the prison is my father, and the forest my mother; they are my kith and kin.’
“Gradually, we grew more sociable, and at last I joined the company. They called for half a measure of wine, and Kostínkin said: ‘If you are the kind of man we can trust, wouldn’t you like to join us and go shares?’—‘I would,’ I replied.—‘All right!’ was the answer. ‘We want a man like you. This business must be done in the Hollow; it matters not whether it be by day or by night. We have heard that a man is to carry a large sum of money with him from town. But consider! are you sure you are not boasting? If the gentleman goes with another driver we will share the spoils … but if the “Slayer” should be with him, look out that you don’t run away.’—‘No danger,’ I said; ‘that will not happen.’—‘All right! if you feel so confident, you may be in luck; a large reward has been offered for the “Slayer,” and you will stand a chance of getting it.’ ”
“A reward?” repeated Proskuróf; “by whom, may I ask?”
“Look here, sir,” replied the vagrant, “you listen to me at present, and keep your questions till by and by. … Well, I must acknowledge that, the first time we tried it, I did get frightened, and ran away; the mate was mostly to blame for that. Mikháïlitch had nothing but a whip in his hand when he came towards us; and Kostínkin, with his rifle, was the first to run … of course, I felt frightened too. … But that rascal was the first one to make fun of me. He is very sarcastic—that Kostínkin! ‘Very well,’ I said, ‘let us try it again. But let me tell you one thing: if you run away this time, I shall kill you too.’ For three days we stayed in the Hollow, on the lookout for him. Toward the evening of the third day he passed us—so we felt sure he would have to return that night. We were all ready, lying in wait, when we heard him coming; he was riding one of the side horses. Kostínkin fired and hit the sorrel horse. Mikháïlitch rushed toward the bushes, just at the very spot where I stood. … My heart beat fast, I must confess; for I knew that one of us, either he or I, must fall. … So I made a plunge forward and struck at him with the knife, but missed him. Then he, seizing my arm, struck the knife out of my hand and threw me to the ground—almost crushing me, in his great strength. But just as he was about to take off his belt, preparing to bind me, I drew from my boot another knife, which I had made ready for just such a crisis as this; and, bending, I stabbed him under the ribs. … He gave one groan, and, turning me face upwards, looked me in the eyes. … ‘Ah, my instinct warned me! … Well, go thy way, but don’t torture me. Thou hast killed me.’ I got up … and saw that he was in agony. … He tried to lift himself, but could not. ‘Forgive me,’ I cried.—‘Go thy way, go thy way! May God forgive thee … as I do!’ Then I left him, and I tell you the truth when I say that I did not go near him again. … This is Kostínkin’s work; probably, after I went away, he fell upon him. …”
The vagrant was silent, and threw himself on the bench, while Proskuróf hastened to finish his writing. All was still.
“Now,” continued the examiner, “complete your frank confession. What merchant was with you on the occasion of the first attack, and in whose name did Kostiúshka promise you a reward for the murder of Feódor Mikháïlof?”
Bezrýlof sat gazing with disappointment at the softened vagrant. But suddenly the latter rose from the bench and resumed his former air of indifference.
“That will do!” he said, firmly; “I shall tell nothing more! … Enough! … You have put down all that about Kostiúshka, haven’t you? It serves him right, and perhaps it will teach him better than to be such a brute in the future! You may as well order them to take me away, Your Excellency, for I shall say nothing more.”
“Listen, ‘Iván, aged thirty-eight,’ ” said the examiner, “I deem it my duty to inform you that the fuller your confession, the more leniency you may expect from the hands of justice. You cannot save your mates.”
The vagrant shrugged his shoulders.
“That is not my lookout. It is all the same to me.”
Evidently, there was no hope of obtaining any further information from him, and he was removed from the room.