the river for a long distance are swarming with people. Everything that
makes up the Jordan is scrupulously concealed under new mats. Seryozhka
is meekly moving about near the mats, trying to control his emotion. He
sees thousands of people. There are many here from other parishes; these
people have come many a mile on foot through the frost and the snow
merely to see his celebrated Jordan. Matvey, who had finished his
coarse, rough work, is by now back in the church, there is no sight, no
sound of him; he is already forgotten . . . . The weather is lovely. . .
. There is not a cloud in the sky. The sunshine is dazzling.
The church bells ring out on the hill . . . Thousands of heads are
bared, thousands of hands are moving, there are thousands of signs of
the cross!
And Seryozhka does not know what to do with himself for impatience. But
now they are ringing the bells for the Sacrament; then half an hour
later a certain agitation is perceptible in the belfry and among the
people. Banners are borne out of the church one after the other, while
the bells peal in joyous haste. Seryozhka, trembling, pulls away the mat
. . . and the people behold something extraordinary. The lectern, the
wooden ring, the pegs, and the cross in the ice are iridescent with
thousands of colors. The cross and the dove glitter so dazzlingly that
it hurts the eyes to look at them. Merciful God, how fine it is! A
murmur of wonder and delight runs through the crowd; the bells peal more
loudly still, the day grows brighter; the banners oscillate and move
over the crowd as over the waves. The procession, glittering with the
settings of the ikons and the vestments of the clergy, comes slowly down
the road and turns towards the Jordan. Hands are waved to the belfry for
the ringing to cease, and the blessing of the water begins. The priests
conduct the service slowly, deliberately, evidently trying to prolong
the ceremony and the joy of praying all gathered together. There is
perfect stillness.
But now they plunge the cross in, and the air echoes with an
extraordinary din. Guns are fired, the bells peal furiously, loud
exclamations of delight, shouts, and a rush to get the pegs. Seryozhka
listens to this uproar, sees thousands of eyes fixed upon him, and the
lazy fellow's soul is filled with a sense of glory and triumph.
THE SWEDISH MATCH (The Story of a Crime) I
ON the morning of October 6, 1885, a well-dressed young man presented
himself at the office of the police superintendent of the 2nd division
of the S. district, and announced that his employer, a retired cornet of
the guards, called Mark Ivanovitch Klyauzov, had been murdered. The
young man was pale and extremely agitated as he made this announcement.
His hands trembled and there was a look of horror in his eyes.
"To whom have I the honour of speaking?" the superintendent asked him.
"Psyekov, Klyauzov's steward. Agricultural and engineering expert."
The police superintendent, on reaching the spot with Psyekov and the
necessary witnesses, found the position as follows.
Masses of people were crowding about the lodge in which Klyauzov lived.
The news of the event had flown round the neighbourhood with the
rapidity of lightning, and, thanks to its being a holiday, the people
were flocking to the lodge from all the neighbouring villages. There was
a regular hubbub of talk. Pale and tearful faces were to be seen here
and there. The door into Klyauzov's bedroom was found to be locked. The
key was in the lock on the inside.
"Evidently the criminals made their way in by the window" Psyekov
observed, as they examined the door.
They went into the garden into which the bedroom window looked. The
window had a gloomy, ominous air. It was covered by a faded green
curtain. One corner of the curtain was slightly turned back, which made
it possible to peep into the bedroom.
"Has anyone of you looked in at the window?" inquired the
superintendent.
"No, your honour," said Yefrem, the gardener, a little, grey-haired old
man with the face of a veteran non-commissioned officer. "No one feels
like looking when they are shaking in every limb!"
"Ech, Mark Ivanitch! Mark Ivanitch!" sighed the superintendent, as he
looked at the window. "I told you that you would come to a bad end! I
told you, poor dear--you wouldn't listen! Dissipation leads to no good!"
"It's thanks to Yefrem," said Psyekov. "We should never have guessed it
but for him. It was he who first thought that something was wrong. He
came to me this morning and said: 'Why is it our master hasn't waked up
for so long? He hasn't been out of his bedroom for a whole week! When he
said that to me I was struck all of a heap . . . . The thought flashed
through my mind at once. He hasn't made an appearance since Saturday of
last week, and to-day's Sunday. Seven days is no joke!"
"Yes, poor man," the superintendent sighed again. "A clever fellow,
well-educated, and so good-hearted. There was no one like him, one may
say, in company. But a rake; the kingdom of heaven be his! I'm not
surprised at anything with him! Stepan," he said, addressing one of the
witnesses, "ride off this minute to my house and send Andryushka to the
police captain's, let him report to him. Say Mark Ivanitch has been
murdered! Yes, and run to the inspector--why should he sit in comfort
doing nothing? Let him come here. And you go yourself as fast as you can
to the examining magistrate, Nikolay Yermolaitch, and tell him to come
here. Wait a bit, I will write him a note."
The police superintendent stationed watchmen round the lodge, and went
off to the steward's to have tea. Ten minutes later he was sitting on a
stool, carefully nibbling lumps of sugar, and sipping tea as hot as a
red-hot coal.
"There it is! . . ." he said to Psyekov, "there it is! . . . a
gentleman, and a well-to-do one, too . . . a favourite of the gods, one
may say, to use Pushkin's expression, and what has he made of it?
Nothing! He gave himself up to drinking and debauchery, and . . . here
now . . . he has been murdered!"
Two hours later the examining magistrate drove up. Nikolay Yermolaitch
Tchubikov (that was the magistrate's name), a tall, thick-set old man of
sixty, had been hard at work for a quarter of a century. He was known to
the whole district as an honest, intelligent, energetic man, devoted to
his work. His invariable companion, assistant, and secretary, a tall
young man of six and twenty, called Dyukovsky, arrived on the scene of
action with him.
"Is it possible, gentlemen?" Tchubikov began, going into Psyekov's room
and rapidly shaking hands with everyone. "Is it possible? Mark Ivanitch?
Murdered? No, it's impossible! Imposs-i-ble!"
"There it is," sighed the superintendent
"Merciful heavens! Why I saw him only last Friday. At the fair at
Tarabankovo! Saving your presence, I drank a glass of vodka with him!"
"There it is," the superintendent sighed once more.
They heaved sighs, expressed their horror, drank a glass of tea each,
and went to the lodge.
"Make way!" the police inspector shouted to the crowd.
On going into the lodge the examining magistrate first of all set to
work to inspect the door into the bedroom. The door turned out to be
made of deal, painted yellow, and not to have been tampered with. No
special traces that might have served as evidence could be found. They
proceeded to break open the door.
"I beg you, gentlemen, who are not concerned, to retire," said the
examining magistrate, when, after long banging and cracking, the door
yielded to the axe and the chisel. "I ask this in the interests of the
investigation. . . . Inspector, admit no one!"
Tchubikov, his assistant, and the police superintendent opened the door
and hesitatingly, one after the other, walked into the room. The
following spectacle met their eyes. In the solitary window stood a big
wooden bedstead with an immense feather bed on it. On the rumpled
feather bed lay a creased and crumpled quilt. A pillow, in a cotton
pillow case--also much creased, was on the floor. On a little table
beside the bed lay a silver watch, and silver coins to the value of
twenty kopecks. Some sulphur matches lay there too. Except the bed, the
table, and a solitary chair, there was no furniture in the room. Looking
under the bed, the superintendent saw two dozen empty bottles, an old
straw hat, and a jar of vodka. Under the table lay one boot, covered
with dust. Taking a look round the room, Tchubikov frowned and flushed
crimson.
"The blackguards!" he muttered, clenching his fists.
"And where is Mark Ivanitch?" Dyukovsky asked quietly.
"I beg you not to put your spoke in," Tchubikov answered roughly.
"Kindly examine the floor. This is the second case in my experience,
Yevgraf Kuzmitch," he added to the police superintendent, dropping his
voice. "In 1870 I had a similar case. But no doubt you remember it. . .
. The murder of the merchant Portretov. It was just the same. The
blackguards murdered him, and dragged the dead body out of the window."
Tchubikov went to the window, drew the curtain aside, and cautiously
pushed the window. The window opened.
"It opens, so it was not fastened. . . . H'm there are traces on the
window-sill. Do you see? Here is the trace of a knee. . . . Some one
climbed out. . . . We shall have to inspect the window thoroughly."
"There is nothing special to be observed on the floor," said Dyukovsky.
"No stains, nor scratches. The only thing I have found is a used Swedish
match. Here it is. As far as I remember, Mark Ivanitch didn't smoke; in
a general way he used sulphur ones, never Swedish matches. This match
may serve as a clue. . . ."
"Oh, hold your tongue, please!" cried Tchubikov, with a wave of his
hand. "He keeps on about his match! I can't stand these excitable
people! Instead of looking for matches, you had better examine the bed!"
On inspecting the bed, Dyukovsky reported:
"There are no stains of blood or of anything else. . . . Nor are there
any fresh rents. On the pillow there are traces of teeth. A liquid,
having the smell of beer and also the taste of it, has been spilt on the
quilt. . . . The general appearance of the bed gives grounds for
supposing there has been a struggle."
"I know there was a struggle without your telling me! No one asked you
whether there was a struggle. Instead of looking out for a struggle you
had better be . . ."
"One boot is here, the other one is not on the scene."
"Well, what of that?"
"Why, they must have strangled him while he was taking off his boots. He
hadn't time to take the second boot off when . . . ."
"He's off again! . . . And how do you know that he was strangled?"
"There are marks of teeth on the pillow. The pillow itself is very much
crumpled, and has been flung to a distance of six feet from the bed."
"He argues, the chatterbox! We had better go into the garden. You had
better look in the garden instead of rummaging about here. . . . I can
do that without your help."
When they went out into the garden their first task was the inspection
of the grass. The grass had been trampled down under the windows. The
clump of burdock against the wall under the window turned out to have
been trodden on too. Dyukovsky succeeded in finding on it some broken
shoots, and a little bit of wadding. On the topmost burrs, some fine
threads of dark blue wool were found.
"What was the colour of his last suit? Dyukovsky asked Psyekov.
"It was yellow, made of canvas."
"Capital! Then it was they who were in dark blue. . . ."
Some of the burrs were cut off and carefully wrapped up in paper. At
that moment Artsybashev-Svistakovsky, the police captain, and Tyutyuev,
the doctor, arrived. The police captain greeted the others, and at once
proceeded to satisfy his curiosity; the doctor, a tall and extremely
lean man with sunken eyes, a long nose, and a sharp chin, greeting no
one and asking no questions, sat down on a stump, heaved a sigh and
said:
"The Serbians are in a turmoil again! I can't make out what they want!
Ah, Austria, Austria! It's your doing!"
The inspection of the window from outside yielded absolutely no result;
the inspection of the grass and surrounding bushes furnished many
valuable clues. Dyukovsky succeeded, for instance, in detecting a long,
dark streak in the grass, consisting of stains, and stretching from the
window for a good many yards into the garden. The streak ended under one
of the lilac bushes in a big, brownish stain. Under the same bush was
found a boot, which turned out to be the fellow to the one found in the
bedroom.
"This is an old stain of blood," said Dyukovsky, examining the stain.
At the word "blood," the doctor got up and lazily took a cursory glance
at the stain.
"Yes, it's blood," he muttered.
"Then he wasn't strangled since there's blood," said Tchubikov, looking
malignantly at Dyukovsky.
"He was strangled in the bedroom, and here, afraid he would come to,
they stabbed him with something sharp. The stain under the bush shows
that he lay there for a comparatively long time, while they were trying
to find some way of carrying him, or something to carry him on out of
the garden."
"Well, and the boot?"
"That boot bears out my contention that he was murdered while he was
taking off his boots before going to bed. He had taken off one boot, the
other, that is, this boot he had only managed to get half off. While he
was being dragged and shaken the boot that was only half on came off of
itself. . . ."
"What powers of deduction! Just look at him!" Tchubikov jeered. "He
brings it all out so pat! And when will you learn not to put your
theories forward? You had better take a little of the grass for analysis
instead of arguing!"
After making the inspection and taking a plan of the locality they went
off to the steward's to write a report and have lunch. At lunch they
talked.
"Watch, money, and everything else . . . are untouched," Tchubikov began
the conversation. "It is as clear as twice two makes four that the
murder was committed not for mercenary motives."
"It was committed by a man of the educated class," Dyukovsky put in.
"From what do you draw that conclusion?"
"I base it on the Swedish match which the peasants about here have not
learned to use yet. Such matches are only used by landowners and not by
all of them. He was murdered, by the way, not by one but by three, at
least: two held him while the third strangled him. Klyauzov was strong
and the murderers must have known that."
"What use would his strength be to him, supposing he were asleep?"
"The murderers came upon him as he was taking off his boots. He was
taking off his boots, so he was not asleep."
"It's no good making things up! You had better eat your lunch!"
"To my thinking, your honour," said Yefrem, the gardener, as he set the
samovar on the table, "this vile deed was the work of no other than
Nikolashka."
"Quite possible," said Psyekov.
"Who's this Nikolashka?"
"The master's valet, your honour," answered Yefrem. "Who else should it
be if not he? He's a ruffian, your honour! A drunkard, and such a
dissipated fellow! May the Queen of Heaven never bring the like again!
He always used to fetch vodka for the master, he always used to put the
master to bed. . . . Who should it be if not he? And what's more, I
venture to bring to your notice, your honour, he boasted once in a
tavern, the rascal, that he would murder his master. It's all on account
of Akulka, on account of a woman. . . . He had a soldier's wife. . . .
The master took a fancy to her and got intimate with her, and he . . .
was angered by it, to be sure. He's lolling about in the kitchen now,
drunk. He's crying . . . making out he is grieving over the master . . .
."
"And anyone might be angry over Akulka, certainly," said Psyekov. "She
is a soldier's wife, a peasant woman, but . . . Mark Ivanitch might well
call her Nana. There is something in her that does suggest Nana . . .
fascinating . . ."
"I have seen her . . . I know . . ." said the examining magistrate,
blowing his nose in a red handkerchief.
Dyukovsky blushed and dropped his eyes. The police superintendent
drummed on his saucer with his fingers. The police captain coughed and
rummaged in his portfolio for something. On the doctor alone the mention
of Akulka and Nana appeared to produce no impression. Tchubikov ordered
Nikolashka to be fetched. Nikolashka, a lanky young man with a long
pock-marked nose and a hollow chest, wearing a reefer jacket that had
been his master's, came into Psyekov's room and bowed down to the ground
before Tchubikov. His face looked sleepy and showed traces of tears. He
was drunk and could hardly stand up.
"Where is your master?" Tchubikov asked him.
"He's murdered, your honour."
As he said this Nikolashka blinked and began to cry.
"We know that he is murdered. But where is he now? Where is his body?"
"They say it was dragged out of window and buried in the garden."
"H'm . . . the results of the investigation are already known in the
kitchen then. . . . That's bad. My good fellow, where were you on the
night when your master was killed? On Saturday, that is?"
Nikolashka raised his head, craned his neck, and pondered.
"I can't say, your honour," he said. "I was drunk and I don't remember."
"An alibi!" whispered Dyukovsky, grinning and rubbing his hands.
"Ah! And why is it there's blood under your master's window!"
Nikolashka flung up his head and pondered.
"Think a little quicker," said the police captain.
"In a minute. That blood's from a trifling matter, your honour. I killed
a hen; I cut her throat very simply in the usual way, and she fluttered
out of my hands and took and ran off. . . .That's what the blood's
from."
Yefrem testified that Nikolashka really did kill a hen every evening and
killed it in all sorts of places, and no one had seen the half-killed
hen running about the garden, though of course it could not be
positively denied that it had done so.
"An alibi," laughed Dyukovsky, "and what an idiotic alibi."
"Have you had relations with Akulka?"
"Yes, I have sinned."
"And your master carried her off from you?"
"No, not at all. It was this gentleman here, Mr. Psyekov, Ivan
Mihalitch, who enticed her from me, and the master took her from Ivan
Mihalitch. That's how it was."
Psyekov looked confused and began rubbing his left eye. Dyukovsky
fastened his eyes upon him, detected his confusion, and started. He saw
on the steward's legs dark blue trousers which he had not previously
noticed. The trousers reminded him of the blue threads found on the
burdock. Tchubikov in his turn glanced suspiciously at Psyekov.
"You can go!" he said to Nikolashka. "And now allow me to put one
question to you, Mr. Psyekov. You were here, of course, on the Saturday
of last week?
"Yes, at ten o'clock I had supper with Mark Ivanitch."
"And afterwards?"
Psyekov was confused, and got up from the table.
"Afterwards . . . afterwards . . . I really don't remember," he
muttered. "I had drunk a good deal on that occasion. . . . I can't
remember where and when I went to bed. . . . Why do you all look at me
like that? As though I had murdered him!"
"Where did you wake up?"
"I woke up in the servants' kitchen on the stove . . . . They can all
confirm that. How I got on to the stove I can't say. . . ."
"Don't disturb yourself . . . Do you know Akulina?"
"Oh well, not particularly."
"Did she leave you for Klyauzov?"
"Yes. . . . Yefrem, bring some more mushrooms! Will you have some tea,
Yevgraf Kuzmitch?"
There followed an oppressive, painful silence that lasted for some five
minutes. Dyukovsky held his tongue, and kept his piercing eyes on
Psyekov's face, which gradually turned pale. The silence was broken by
Tchubikov.
"We must go to the big house," he said, "and speak to the deceased's
sister, Marya Ivanovna. She may give us some evidence."
Tchubikov and his assistant thanked Psyekov for the lunch, then went off
to the big house. They found Klyauzov's sister, a maiden lady of five
and forty, on her knees before a high family shrine of ikons. When she
saw portfolios and caps adorned with cockades in her visitors' hands,
she turned pale.
"First of all, I must offer an apology for disturbing your devotions, so
to say," the gallant Tchubikov began with a scrape. "We have come to you
with a request. You have heard, of course, already. . . . There is a
suspicion that your brother has somehow been murdered. God's will, you
know. . . . Death no one can escape, neither Tsar nor ploughman. Can you
not assist us with some fact, something that will throw light?"
"Oh, do not ask me!" said Marya Ivanovna, turning whiter still, and
hiding her face in her hands. "I can tell you nothing! Nothing! I
implore you! I can say nothing . . . What can I do? Oh, no, no . . . not
a word . . . of my brother! I would rather die than speak!"
Marya Ivanovna burst into tears and went away into another room. The
officials looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, and beat a
retreat.
"A devil of a woman!" said Dyukovsky, swearing as they went out of the
big house. "Apparently she knows something and is concealing it. And
there is something peculiar in the maid-servant's expression too. . . .
You wait a bit, you devils! We will get to the bottom of it all!"
In the evening, Tchubikov and his assistant were driving home by the
light of a pale-faced moon; they sat in their waggonette, summing up in
their minds the incidents of the day. Both were exhausted and sat
silent. Tchubikov never liked talking on the road. In spite of his
talkativeness, Dyukovsky held his tongue in deference to the old man.
Towards the end of the journey, however, the young man could endure the
silence no longer, and began:
"That Nikolashka has had a hand in the business," he said, "non
dubitandum est. One can see from his mug too what sort of a chap he is.
. . . His alibi gives him away hand and foot. There is no doubt either
that he was not the instigator of the crime. He was only the stupid
hired tool. Do you agree? The discreet Psyekov plays a not unimportant
part in the affair too. His blue trousers, his embarrassment, his lying
on the stove from fright after the murder, his alibi, and Akulka."
"Keep it up, you're in your glory! According to you, if a man knows
Akulka he is the murderer. Ah, you hot-head! You ought to be sucking
your bottle instead of investigating cases! You used to be running after
Akulka too, does that mean that you had a hand in this business?"
"Akulka was a cook in your house for a month, too, but . . . I don't say
anything. On that Saturday night I was playing cards with you, I saw
you, or I should be after you too. The woman is not the point, my good
sir. The point is the nasty, disgusting, mean feeling. . . . The
discreet young man did not like to be cut out, do you see. Vanity, do
you see. . . . He longed to be revenged. Then . . . His thick lips are a
strong indication of sensuality. Do you remember how he smacked his lips
when he compared Akulka to Nana? That he is burning with passion, the
scoundrel, is beyond doubt! And so you have wounded vanity and
unsatisfied passion. That's enough to lead to murder. Two of them are in
our hands, but who is the third? Nikolashka and Psyekov held him. Who
was it smothered him? Psyekov is timid, easily embarrassed, altogether a
coward. People like Nikolashka are not equal to smothering with a
pillow, they set to work with an axe or a mallet. . . . Some third
person must have smothered him, but who?"
Dyukovsky pulled his cap over his eyes, and pondered. He was silent till
the waggonette had driven up to the examining magistrate's house.
"Eureka!" he said, as he went into the house, and took off his overcoat.
"Eureka, Nikolay Yermolaitch! I can't understand how it is it didn't
occur to me before. Do you know who the third is?"
"Do leave off, please! There's supper ready. Sit down to supper!"
Tchubikov and Dyukovsky sat down to supper. Dyukovsky poured himself out
a wine-glassful of vodka, got up, stretched, and with sparkling eyes,
said:
"Let me tell you then that the third person who collaborated with the
scoundrel Psyekov and smothered him was a woman! Yes! I am speaking of
the murdered man's sister, Marya Ivanovna!"
Tchubikov coughed over his vodka and fastened his eyes on Dyukovsky.
"Are you . . . not quite right? Is your head . . . not quite right? Does
it ache?"