THE CONFESSION OF VASSILII.
I met Vassilii Poklévski at the post-house at Durnovskaia, a small
village a few miles from Astrakhan. He had been recommended to me as a
steady, intelligent _yamstchik_ (driver) of superior education to the
average Muscovite, and he would, I was assured, serve me faithfully and
well on the long journey I had been compelled to undertake. I therefore
engaged him. Outwardly, he was a rough, uncouth-looking fellow with
unkempt grey hair and unshorn beard, but very soon I ascertained that he
was well read, and that he spoke French quite fluently.
We set out together in a rather rickety _telega_ drawn by a pair of
shaggy horses I had purchased, and for a fortnight had travelled along
the post-road that follows the Volga. To inquiries as to where he had
picked up his knowledge of literature and languages Vassilii always gave
evasive replies, and although I knew he was an ardent supporter of the
Cause, I began to suspect that his past was enveloped in some mystery, a
surmise which proved correct.
At Nijni Novgorod we encountered the first snow, and exchanged our
_telega_ for a sleigh. One afternoon, just as twilight was setting
in, we were crossing the wide snow-covered steppe which stretched out
on one side from Veliki Usting as far as the eye could reach towards
Vondokurskoi, in Vologda Province, while on the other was a dense forest
of tall gloomy pines, rendered picturesque by the hoar-frost upon the
branches. Vassilii was wrapped in his sheepskin until only his eyes and
moustache were visible, while I, enveloped in my heavy fur-coat, sat back
in the sleigh ruminating.
The drive was weary, monotonous, and comfortless. In those parts of the
road sheltered by trees the coating of snow was absent, but the ground
was covered with ice. The runners of my sleigh would grind over the bare
patches, and the ragged-coated little horses would flounder about on the
frozen surface, while Vassilii would crack his long-thonged whip and yell
imprecations at the horses, at the ground, at the snow because it was not
there, and at the devil as the author of all his troubles.
He had driven about fifteen versts from the little town of Nikolskoi
towards Gorodezkoi, when suddenly we came upon the ruins of a good-sized
house that had evidently been burned down a considerable time before, as
ivy had thickly overgrown part of the bare blackened walls. It stood
near the road, overlooking the frozen river, while at the rear was a
cluster of wooden _isbas_, which I afterwards learnt formed the village
of Nagorskoie. The ruin came into view as we rounded a bend in the road,
and I was startled at the effect it had upon Vassilii.
He turned, looked at the black crumbling walls for a moment, then,
crossing himself and uttering a brief exhortation to the Virgin, gathered
up his reins. “_Shiväi! shiväi!_” (“Faster! faster!”) he cried to his
horses, and as he brought the long thongs of his whip into play we
redoubled our pace and quickly left the dilapidated building far behind.
I did not seek any explanation just then, but a couple of hours later,
when we were sitting together in the post-house at Gorodezkoi, where we
had put up for the night, I referred to the incident.
The bare room had that air of discomfort characteristic of the Russian
post-station. A table, a few chairs, and a large round stove comprised
the furniture, while upon the walls hung a cheap portrait of his Majesty
the Tzar and a badly executed picture of the Virgin. A steaming _samovar_
stood on the table between us, for we were taking tea and cigarettes
after our meal, and conversing in French so that the inquisitive keeper
of the place should not understand what we said.
When I mentioned the ruined house and his apparent desire to get away
from it, Vassilii drew a long breath, passed his hand across his eyes,
and gazed up to the _ikon_ hanging opposite. His _papiroska_ trembled a
little in his lean brown hand, and he began in a voice that had a strange
quiver in it.
“You noticed that woman—the one with fair hair and pale complexion—who
came in for a letter just now? I spoke to her. There was such a
remarkable resemblance that I could not refrain from asking her a
question—and yet how foolish!
“I am not an old man, scarcely sixty, nevertheless I might have seen a
century of things in the years that have passed since I last sat in this
post-station. I feel as though I have utterly wasted my life; still I do
not know that I regret that the sweets came first, all at once, and the
dregs afterwards. Why not? One may at least sit and rail at the present,
though he envy his neighbours.
“You know nothing of the tragedy that has overshadowed my life? No. Then
I will tell you. See! I wear the ribbon of St. Andrew in my buttonhole.
It is worn, and the colours have faded. The Tzar bestowed it upon me
for bravery in the Crimea. Bravery! Bah! it was not valour but sheer
recklessness, because I had no desire to live longer.
“The story is a queer one, and still more queer perhaps that it should be
I who tell it.
“In that house the ruins of which we passed this afternoon I once lived
with my father, Count Alexander Nechaieff. My mother died soon after my
birth, and all my earlier days were passed in that great gloomy old place
without any companions of my own age. My father, the _barin_ of that
wretched little village of Nagorskoie, owned many serfs. He was cruel,
harsh, unjust, and hard-hearted, and the peasants regarded him with
terror. This part of Vologda is, you see, flat and exposed; the soil is
poor, the population sparse, and the long winter is always more severe
than away in Petersburg. The consequence of this was that the inhabitants
of Nagorskoie had become wild and embittered, for my father’s exactions
had reduced his serfs to the direst poverty; the _isbas_ were devoid of
all but absolute necessities, the fields neglected, and the wretched
_moujiks_ starving. In the majority of the cottages the stove had gone
out owing to lack of fuel, and the _samovar_ disused because there was no
tea. The poverty was worse than in previous years, and the peasantry were
driven to despair.
“One day, in the bitterest season of that merciless winter, my father
and I were sitting before the stove in the dining-room, smoking our
_papiroski_ after our mid-day meal. I was then only twenty, having just
returned from my studies at Moscow. The room in which we sat was cosy
and well furnished, for my father, arrogant and selfish, denied himself
no luxury, and led a life of idleness and ease, spending half his time at
Petersburg, and the remainder at Nagorskoie.
“Suddenly Artem Makaroff, my father’s secretary, entered. I had always
disliked him, for he was an oleaginous, soft-spoken man whose ugly face
always wore a sinister expression. Addressing my father, he said—
“‘_Barin_, some of the people desire to see you. They are waiting
outside.’
“‘To see me!’ asked my father, in surprise. ‘What do they want?’
“‘They refuse to tell me, _barin_. They say they must see you personally.’
“‘Oh! very well!’ cried my father, rising angrily and standing with his
back to the stove. ‘If there is any grumbling or sign of disaffection,
I’ll teach them a lesson. Let them enter.’
“Artem retired, and a few moments later the _starosta_ came in,
accompanied by about a dozen half-starved, shivering _moujiks_ with
white, haggard faces and ragged sheepskins.
“‘Well!’ exclaimed my father, scanning them with angry eye. ‘What does
this mean, pray? What right have you to come here in a body?’
“‘Have pity, _barin_,’ implored the elder, bending himself almost double.
‘We have come to beg mercy of you, to cast ourselves upon your sympathy.’
“‘What for?’
“‘We are starving, our cattle are dying, our homes have been denuded of
almost everything, and—and we cannot pay your rent, your High Nobility.
We have come to beg you to allow us time.’
“The serfs held their tattered caps in their hands and fidgeted uneasily
while their _starosta_ was speaking. There was a look of intense anxiety
upon their pinched faces, for they had been driven to the last extremity.
“‘It is your duty to pay me,’ replied my father impatiently. ‘If you do
not I shall treat it as insubordination. You know what that means.’
“‘_Batiushka!_’ exclaimed the white-haired old man whose head was bowed.
‘We cannot pay just yet, even if our Father the Tzar came himself and
demanded the tax.’
“‘Silence!’ thundered my father. ‘You shall pay it. I’ll hear no excuses,
you understand. It must be paid within a week from to-day—every kopeck.’
“The _starosta_ shook his head sorrowfully, saying—
“‘Your High Nobility, it is impossible. We have no money, and we have
nothing that we can sell.’
“‘No more words!’ my father cried. ‘I’ll not be dictated to. You have
nothing that you can sell, have you? Very well. I give you one week in
which to find the money.’
“‘Have you no pity, _barin_?’ implored the old man.
“My father smiled sarcastically. ‘Begone! You know my decision,’ he said
coldly, and, lighting a fresh cigarette, turned his back upon them.
“Broken-hearted and despairing, the starving _moujiks_ filed slowly out
of the warm, well-furnished room, and with revenge in their souls sought
their own cheerless homes. I endeavoured to mediate on behalf of the poor
wretches, but to my supplications my father turned a deaf ear. ‘No, I’ll
teach the brutes a lesson,’ he said.
“He kept his word, for within a week the knout fell heavily upon the
backs of some of the defaulters. These arbitrary acts nearly caused a
revolt, but this was rapidly suppressed by my father, who caused the
ringleaders, together with the _starosta_ to receive publicly two hundred
lashes, as a warning to all who tried to oppose his authority.
“The weeks passed, the snow disappeared, and spring came.
“My favourite spot was at the bottom of the lower garden, on a little
bridge that was thrown over a small swamp. The view was extremely
restricted, but very melancholy and pleasing. There was a small pond
with overgrown banks, directly behind it was the dense pine forest, and
drooping over the pond was an ancient birch clinging to the damp bank
with its thick roots, and swaying its curling branches over the unruffled
surface of the pool, which gave back the reflection of the drooping
boughs and surrounding greenery.
“Seated one afternoon upon an old stump I was smoking, enjoying the
bright sunshine and calm solitude, when suddenly I discovered an
intruder. Leaning on the railing of the little bridge, with her profile
towards me, and looking down into the water, was a young girl. She had
evidently forgotten herself, and had no thought that she was being
observed. Her large eyes were full of intent observation, of deep clear
thought, her pose was unaffected, yet hers was the most beautiful face I
had ever seen.
“A tall, graceful figure, well set off by her picturesque peasant dress,
tiny hands, delicate and white, a clear, fresh complexion, deep violet
eyes with long black lashes, wavy auburn hair, and small white teeth just
visible between a pair of lips that seemed made alone for kisses, while
her features had that sweet, half-sad expression that is the birth-gift
of every Russian woman, rich or poor.
“I rose, and advancing, greeted her. She blushed deeply and appeared
confused. Very soon, however, we were chatting in friendly manner, and
she told me her name was Natiónka, and that she was the daughter of old
Savischnoff, one of my father’s serfs.
“After an hour’s pleasant gossip I walked with her to her home, a small,
lonely cottage in the heart of the forest, five versts along the road to
Seniki. Had she been of noble birth she could not have treated me with
more queenly reserve, and before I bade her good-bye we had arranged to
meet on the morrow.
“From that time I waited for her daily in a secluded part of the
forest, into which no one ever penetrated. As you may well guess I fell
violently in love with her, even though she was but the daughter of a
poor wood-cutter. We kept our secret, meeting clandestinely with only the
chattering birds in the trees above as witnesses. As a token of affection
I had given her a small heart-shaped locket of blue malachite set round
with diamonds and containing my miniature. This she wore concealed in the
breast of her dress.
“So four months passed—bright months, sunny months. I adored her with all
my being, and she, in return, loved me passionately.”
Vassilii tossed his dead cigarette away, and passed his hand again
wearily over his eyes, brushing away what appeared suspiciously like a
tear. Sighing heavily, as if the recollection of Natiónka stirred sad and
painful memories, he murmured an apology. Then he went on, talking to
himself rather than to me.
“I summoned courage at last to go to old Savischnoff. His _isba_ was
poorly furnished but clean, and the _ikon_ was over the door—always a
good sign. When we were alone I told him how I loved his daughter, and
the effect of the announcement was almost magical.
“‘What! You love her? You love Natiónka?’ the old man gasped in a fierce
whisper. ‘No, no, you must not,’ he urged. ‘What would the _barin_ say?
If he knew, he would kill my child.’
“I laughed at his consternation. ‘Have no fear,’ I said. ‘I shall marry
her, and as my wife she will be under my protection.’
“‘No. A thousand times, no!’ he declared. ‘Think! It would bring ruin and
death upon us.’
“‘Bah! Leave it all to me,’ I said. I was young, madly impetuous, and
Natiónka was my idol. Little did I imagine that the drama would have such
a _dénouement_.
“Our wedding took place on a day in bright autumn. I told the Count
that I had grown tired of Nagorskoie, and intended to go to Nijni for
a change. To this he raised no objection, and I set out alone with a
_tarantass_. Twelve versts along the road I found Natiónka awaiting me,
and we drove together to the village _pope_ at Dinkova, who, according
to previous arrangement, made us man and wife. Then we travelled on to
Nijni, and after three weeks’ absence returned to Nagorskoie. We were
still bound to keep our marriage secret, therefore Natiónka went home and
we both led the same lives as before, spending whole days together in
the solitude of the great pine forest, happy in each other’s love.
“She was charming. But, alas! how brief a paradise was ours.
“Standing one evening at our favourite spot in the wood, with my wife
clasped to my breast, I was uttering words of passionate affection and
tenderness.
“‘I want you to assume your proper position,’ I said. ‘Yet I confess,
Natiónka, that I dare not tell my father.’
“‘No, do not tell him,’ she urged earnestly. ‘For the present let us
remain as we are. If your father knew he would separate us. He would send
me to another serf-owner, as he did Anna Ivanovna, Marya Zadlewski, and
the others.’
“‘Fear not, little one,’ I replied reassuringly. ‘He dare not send you
away now you are my wife.’
“‘Could you not take me to Petersburg or Moscow, where we could live
together unknown?’ she suggested. ‘You have enough money to do that,
haven’t you?’
“‘Yes, dearest. But unfortunately you are still a serf. If you left the
estate he could have you arrested. He even has the right by law to exile
you to Siberia for desertion. This latter course he would certainly adopt
if he knew we were wedded.’
“‘Ah! You are right,’ she replied sorrowfully. ‘I never thought of that.’
“At that moment we were startled at hearing the cracking of dried twigs,
apparently broken by footsteps. Holding our breath we listened.
“‘A wolf perhaps!’ exclaimed Natiónka in alarm.
“I drew my revolver and waited.
“‘No!’ I exclaimed aloud, as I caught a glimpse of a figure moving
stealthily among the trunks of the trees. ‘Not a wolf, but a more
dangerous animal, Artem Makaroff, my father’s agent!’
“It was evident that he had followed us, listened to our conversation,
and overheard the declaration I had made regarding our marriage! I felt
certain that sooner or later he would betray us.
“On my return home that night the Count was unusually gracious towards
me, and, after watching him narrowly, I came to the conclusion that Artem
had not informed him of the incident. In the course of the evening,
however, my father’s habitual moroseness returned, and he sat smoking and
thinking. Suddenly he grew confidential, and said—
“‘Vassilii, will you do me a favour? I am in a financial difficulty, and
I want you to take a letter to our friend Mikhailovitch, at Vasilova, and
bring back the money he will give you.’
“‘Very well,’ I replied. ‘When shall I start?’
“‘At daybreak. You must be in Vasilova by the day after to-morrow,
otherwise he will have departed for Petersburg.’
“I announced my readiness to go, and he wrote the letter. At dawn I
set out on horseback for Mikhailovitch’s, distant two days’ journey by
road. Unsuspicious of any double dealing, I had not told Natiónka of my
departure, for as I should only be absent four days I knew she would not
feel any uneasiness.
“It was not before noon that the suspicion crossed my mind that I had
been sent on the errand for an ulterior purpose. Try how I would I could
not get rid of the thought that I had left Natiónka unprotected. Indeed,
a strange presage of evil seemed to possess me, forcing me at last to
turn and ride with all speed back to Nagorskoie. The afterglow was in
the sky when I spurred my horse into the village. Something unusual had
evidently happened, for all the inhabitants had collected in the tiny
market-place.
“As I dismounted and turned the corner into the open space a shrill
scream broke upon my ear. Looking round upon the white, scared faces of
the assembled _moujiks_, I saw that the cause of the commotion was a
public knouting.
“Elbowing my way to the centre of the throng, I reached the
whipping-post, where a scene of inhuman brutality met my eyes, causing
the spirit of murder to enter my soul.
“Stretched face downwards was the form of a woman, whose wrists and
ankles were bound tightly to an inclined wooden frame. Her back was
covered with blood, the flesh having been cut into strips by the thongs
of the terrible knout, which, wielded by a brawny brutal servant of
my father’s, was falling with monotonous regularity upon the victim.
The Count, with folded arms, stood near, watching the torture with
undisguised satisfaction.
“At first I could not see the face of the unfortunate girl, but a few
seconds later I recognised the colour of the hair and the distorted
features. It was Natiónka!
“Rushing forward with a wild cry I flung myself upon the man who was
administering the horrible punishment. I was young and athletic, and
succeeded in arresting the blow that was falling, an action which was
regarded with approval by the crowd of indignant but trembling serfs.
“‘You have no right here,’ cried the Count, white with rage. ‘Return to
the house at once!’
“‘What is the meaning of this?’ I demanded fiercely. ‘What has she done?’
“‘It is no business of yours. The wench is insubordinate; to-morrow she
starts for Siberia.’
“‘She will not. She is my wife,’ I cried.
“‘I am well aware of that,’ he answered coldly. Then, turning to the
grinning brute who had been interrupted, he added, ‘Ivan, give her the
death-blow.’
“I knew that if the knout fell it would prove fatal. The death-blow
seldom fails to despatch the victim. Springing towards him I endeavoured
to arrest the stroke.
“But too late! The heavy leaden-weighted thongs struck the insensible
girl with a noise like a pistol-shot.
“Turning upon my father I cursed him. But he merely laughed, and,
lighting a fresh cigarette, affected to treat my angry passion with utter
indifference.
“With my pocket-knife I severed the cords that bound my hapless wife to
the reeking frame, and, lifting her off, held her in my arms.
“I kissed her ashen, blood-smeared face, and eagerly placed my hand upon
her breast.
“There was no movement. She was dead!
“When I withdrew my hand the little blue malachite heart fell to the
ground. It had been broken in half by the pressure of the body against
the frame.
“Lifting my face to heaven, I swore that the murder of the woman I loved
should be avenged.
“But my father only laughed sarcastically. ‘Bah! you’re but a lad,’ he
said contemptuously, as he turned away. ‘And, after all, death under the
knout is preferable to work in the mines.’”
Vassilii was silent and thoughtful. Then, with a muttered imprecation, he
ground his teeth, and his lean hands clenched tightly.
Several minutes passed before he resumed.
“Yes, my father caused my wife to be murdered. The wretched peasants, who
were compelled by their master to witness his brutality, were ripe for
revolt, this inhuman act having aroused their fiercest indignation and
hatred.
“Insane with grief, I wandered alone in the forest, but on the night
of the second day, when I sought food and shelter at old Savischnoff’s
_isba_, I was surprised to find a dozen determined-looking men assembled
there. Without hesitation they boldly informed me that it was their
intention to proceed to the _Barin’s_ house and avenge Natiónka’s death.
Heedless of consequences I assumed the leadership of the band. In the
dead of night we broke into the house, and three of us crept stealthily
upstairs to where the Count lay sleeping. When I struck a match he sprang
up in alarm, but I clutched him tightly by the throat.
“Recognising me, and noticing the long keen knife in my hand, he gasped——
“‘Mercy, Vassilii! Surely you would not kill me?’
“‘What mercy did you extend to her?’ I cried. ‘Why, none. You murdered
her.’ At that moment I seemed possessed of fiendish strength, and in my
mad demoniacal grasp he was absolutely powerless.
“Laughing at his entreaties, I raised the weapon and plunged it deep into
his heart.
“Then, appalled by my horrible crime, I stole out of the room and left
the house with the murderous band; not, however, before they had set
fire to the place in order to destroy the evidence of the murder.
“Before the sun rose I was already on my journey south, and the house
was a pile of smouldering ruins. For weeks I, a conscience-stricken
parricide, rode onward until I reached the Caspian shore. Assuming the
name of Vassilii Poklévski I obtained employment as a post-driver at
Durnovskaia, where I have lived ever since. The police subsequently
discovered that my father had been murdered, and searched diligently
for the assassin, but it never occurred to them that he had adopted the
disguise of a Volga _yamstchik_.
“So the years have passed. I have never visited the spot where I
committed my crime until to-day, lest I should betray myself.
“Poor Natiónka! Is it surprising that I am sad to-night? Is it surprising
that I am a revolutionist? One memento only I possess of her—the blue
heart. See! here it is. Broken! An emblem of her own tragic end.”
Vassilii handed me the two halves of the malachite ornament, which he had
taken from a small, well-worn bag of chamois leather. I saw how costly
the locket must have been when new, for the diamonds set around the edge
were large and of the first water. When, after examining the broken
portions, I handed them back to him, he sighed, and carefully replaced
them in his pocket. Then rising, he wished me “Good-night” in a strained,
harsh voice, and sought his room.
Next day we continued our journey to Onega.