Dukovski. "But all the same, that safety match is tormenting me
frightfully. I can't stand it any longer. Good-by! I am off!"
Dukovski put on his cap and drove off. Chubikoff began to examine
Aquilina. Aquilina declared that she knew nothing whatever about
it.
At six that evening Dukovski returned. He was more agitated than
he had ever been before. His hands trembled so that he could not
even unbutton his greatcoat. His cheeks glowed. It was clear that
he did not come empty-handed.
"Veni, vidi, vici!" he cried, rushing into Chubikoff's room, and
falling into an armchair. "I swear to you on my honor, I begin to
believe that I am a genius! Listen, devil take us all! It is
funny, and it is sad. We have caught three already--isn't that so?
Well, I have found the fourth, and a woman at that. You will never
believe who it is! But listen. I went to Klausoff's village, and
began to make a spiral round it. I visited all the little shops,
public houses, dram shops on the road, everywhere asking for safety
matches. Everywhere they said they hadn't any. I made a wide
round. Twenty times I lost faith, and twenty times I got it back
again. I knocked about the whole day, and only an hour ago I got
on the track. Three versts from here. They gave me a packet of
ten boxes. One box was missing. Immediately: 'Who bought the
other box?' 'Such-a-one! She was pleased with them!' Old man!
Nicholas Yermolaiyevitch! See what a fellow who was expelled from
the seminary and who has read Gaboriau can do! From to-day on I
begin to respect myself! Oof! Well, come!"
"Come where?"
"To her, to number four! We must hurry, otherwise--otherwise I'll
burst with impatience! Do you know who she is? You'll never
guess! Olga Petrovna, Marcus Ivanovitch's wife--his own wife--
that's who it is! She is the person who bought the matchbox!"
"You--you--you are out of your mind!"
"It's quite simple! To begin with, she smokes. Secondly, she was
head and ears in love with Klausoff, even after he refused to live
in the same house with her, because she was always scolding his
head off. Why, they say she used to beat him because she loved him
so much. And then he positively refused to stay in the same house.
Love turned sour. 'Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.' But
come along! Quick, or it will be dark. Come!"
"I am not yet sufficiently crazy to go and disturb a respectable
honorable woman in the middle of the night for a crazy boy!"
"Respectable, honorable! Do honorable women murder their husbands?
After that you are a rag, and not an examining magistrate! I never
ventured to call you names before, but now you compel me to. Rag!
Dressing-gown!--Dear Nicholas Yermolaiyevitch, do come, I beg of
you--!"
The magistrate made a deprecating motion with his hand.
"I beg of you! I ask, not for myself, but in the interests of
justice. I beg you! I implore you! Do what I ask you to, just
this once!"
Dukovski went down on his knees.
"Nicholas Yermolaiyevitch! Be kind! Call me a blackguard, a
ne'er-do-weel, if I am mistaken about this woman. You see what an
affair it is. What a case it is. A romance! A woman murdering
her own husband for love! The fame of it will go all over Russia.
They will make you investigator in all important cases.
Understand, O foolish old man!"
The magistrate frowned, and undecidedly stretched his hand toward
his cap.
"Oh, the devil take you!" he said. "Let us go!"
It was dark when the magistrate's carriage rolled up to the porch
of the old country house in which Olga Petrovna had taken refuge
with her brother.
"What pigs we are," said Chubikoff, taking hold of the bell, "to
disturb a poor woman like this!"
"It's all right! It's all right! Don't get frightened! We can
say that we have broken a spring."
Chubikoff and Dukovski were met at the threshold by a tall buxom
woman of three and twenty, with pitch-black brows and juicy red
lips. It was Olga Petrovna herself, apparently not the least
distressed by the recent tragedy.
"Oh, what a pleasant surprise!" she said, smiling broadly. "You
are just in time for supper. Kuzma Petrovitch is not at home. He
is visiting the priest, and has stayed late. But we'll get on
without him! Be seated. You have come from the examination?"
"Yes. We broke a spring, you know," began Chubikoff, entering the
sitting room and sinking into an armchair.
"Take her unawares--at once!" whispered Dukovski; "take her
unawares!"
"A spring--hum--yes--so we came in."
"Take her unawares, I tell you! She will guess what the matter is
if you drag things out like that."
"Well, do it yourself as you want. But let me get out of it,"
muttered Chubikoff, rising and going to the window.
"Yes, a spring," began Dukovski, going close to Olga Petrovna and
wrinkling his long nose. "We did not drive over here--to take
supper with you or--to see Kuzma Petrovitch. We came here to ask
you, respected madam, where Marcus Ivanovitch is, whom you
murdered!"
"What? Marcus Ivanovitch murdered?" stammered Olga Petrovna, and
her broad face suddenly and instantaneously flushed bright scarlet.
"I don't--understand!"
"I ask you in the name of the law! Where is Klausoff? We know
all!"
"Who told you?" Olga Petrovna asked in a low voice, unable to
endure Dukovski's glance.
"Be so good as to show us where he is!"
"But how did you find out? Who told you?"
"We know all! I demand it in the name of the law!"
The examining magistrate, emboldened by her confusion, came forward
and said:
"Show us, and we will go away. Otherwise, we--"
"What do you want with him?"
"Madam, what is the use of these questions? We ask you to show us!
You tremble, you are agitated. Yes, he has been murdered, and, if
you must have it, murdered by you! Your accomplices have betrayed
you!"
Olga Petrovna grew pale.
"Come!" she said in a low voice, wringing her hands. "I have him--
hid--in the bath house! Only for heaven's sake, do not tell Kuzma
Petrovitch. I beg and implore you! He will never forgive me!"
Olga Petrovna took down a big key from the wall, and led her guests
through the kitchen and passage to the courtyard. The courtyard
was in darkness. Fine rain was falling. Olga Petrovna walked in
advance of them. Chubikoff and Dukovski strode behind her through
the long grass, as the odor of wild hemp and dishwater splashing
under their feet reached them. The courtyard was wide. Soon the
dishwater ceased, and they felt freshly broken earth under their
feet. In the darkness appeared the shadowy outlines of trees, and
among the trees a little house with a crooked chimney.
"That is the bath house," said Olga Petrovna. "But I implore you,
do not tell my brother! If you do, I'll never hear the end of it!"
Going up to the bath house, Chubikoff and Dukovski saw a huge
padlock on the door.
"Get your candle and matches ready," whispered the examining
magistrate to his deputy.
Olga Petrovna unfastened the padlock, and let her guests into the
bath house. Dukovski struck a match and lit up the anteroom. In
the middle of the anteroom stood a table. On the table, beside a
sturdy little samovar, stood a soup tureen with cold cabbage soup
and a plate with the remnants of some sauce.
"Forward!"
They went into the next room, where the bath was. There was a
table there also. On the table was a dish with some ham, a bottle
of vodka, plates, knives, forks.
"But where is it--where is the murdered man?" asked the examining
magistrate.
"On the top tier," whispered Olga Petrovna, still pale and
trembling.
Dukovski took the candle in his hand and climbed up to the top tier
of the sweating frame. There he saw a long human body lying
motionless on a large feather bed. A slight snore came from the
body.
"You are making fun of us, devil take it!" cried Dukovski. "That
is not the murdered man! Some live fool is lying here. Here,
whoever you are, the devil take you!"
The body drew in a quick breath and stirred. Dukovski stuck his
elbow into it. It raised a hand, stretched itself, and lifted its
head.
"Who is sneaking in here?" asked a hoarse, heavy bass. "What do
you want?"
Dukovski raised the candle to the face of the unknown, and cried
out. In the red nose, disheveled, unkempt hair, the pitch-black
mustaches, one of which was jauntily twisted and pointed insolently
toward the ceiling, he recognized the gallant cavalryman Klausoff.
"You--Marcus--Ivanovitch? Is it possible?"
The examining magistrate glanced sharply up at him, and stood
spellbound.
"Yes, it is I. That's you, Dukovski? What the devil do you want
here? And who's that other mug down there? Great snakes! It is
the examining magistrate! What fate has brought him here?"
Klausoff rushed down and threw his arms round Chubikoff in a
cordial embrace. Olga Petrovna slipped through the door.
"How did you come here? Let's have a drink, devil take it! Tra-
ta-ti-to-tum--let us drink! But who brought you here? How did you
find out that I was here? But it doesn't matter! Let's have a
drink!"
Klausoff lit the lamp and poured out three glasses of vodka.
"That is--I don't understand you," said the examining magistrate,
running his hands over him. "Is this you or not you!"
"Oh, shut up! You want to preach me a sermon? Don't trouble
yourself! Young Dukovski, empty your glass! Friends, let us bring
this--What are you looking at? Drink!"
"All the same, I do not understand!" said the examining magistrate,
mechanically drinking off the vodka. "What are you here for?"
"Why shouldn't I be here, if I am all right here?"
Klausoff drained his glass and took a bite of ham.
"I am in captivity here, as you see. In solitude, in a cavern,
like a ghost or a bogey. Drink! She carried me off and locked me
up, and--well, I am living here, in the deserted bath house, like a
hermit. I am fed. Next week I think I'll try to get out. I'm
tired of it here!"
"Incomprehensible!" said Dukovski.
"What is incomprehensible about it?"
"Incomprehensible! For Heaven's sake, how did your boot get into
the garden?"
"What boot?"
"We found one boot in the sleeping room and the other in the
garden."
"And what do you want to know that for? It's none of your
business! Why don't you drink, devil take you? If you wakened me,
then drink with me! It is an interesting tale, brother, that of
the boot! I didn't want to go with Olga. I don't like to be
bossed. She came under the window and began to abuse me. She
always was a termagant. You know what women are like, all of them.
I was a bit drunk, so I took a boot and heaved it at her. Ha-ha-
ha! Teach her not to scold another time! But it didn't! Not a
bit of it! She climbed in at the window, lit the lamp, and began
to hammer poor tipsy me. She thrashed me, dragged me over here,
and locked me in. She feeds me now--on love, vodka, and ham! But
where are you off to, Chubikoff? Where are you going?"
The examining magistrate swore, and left the bath house. Dukovski
followed him, crestfallen. They silently took their seats in the
carriage and drove off. The road never seemed to them so long and
disagreeable as it did that time. Both remained silent. Chubikoff
trembled with rage all the way. Dukovski hid his nose in the
collar of his overcoat, as if he was afraid that the darkness and
the drizzling rain might read the shame in his face.
When they reached home, the examining magistrate found Dr. Tyutyeff
awaiting him. The doctor was sitting at the table, and, sighing
deeply, was turning over the pages of the Neva.
"Such goings-on there are in the world!" he said, meeting the
examining magistrate with a sad smile. "Austria is at it again!
And Gladstone also to some extent--"
Chubikoff threw his cap under the table, and shook himself.
"Devils' skeletons! Don't plague me! A thousand times I have told
you not to bother me with your politics! This is no question of
politics! And you," said Chubikoff, turning to Dukovski and
shaking his fist, "I won't forget this in a thousand years!"
"But the safety match? How could I know?"
"Choke yourself with your safety match! Get out of my way! Don't
make me mad, or the devil only knows what I'll do to you! Don't
let me see a trace of you!"
Dukovski sighed, took his hat, and went out.
"I'll go and get drunk," he decided, going through the door, and
gloomily wending his way to the public house.
Vsevolod Vladimirovitch Krestovski
Knights of Industry
I
THE LAST WILL OF THE PRINCESS
Princess Anna Chechevinski for the last time looked at the home of
her girlhood, over which the St. Petersburg twilight was
descending. Defying the commands of her mother, the traditions of
her family, she had decided to elope with the man of her choice.
With a last word of farewell to her maid, she wrapped her cloak
round her and disappeared into the darkness.
The maid's fate had been a strange one. In one of the districts
beyond the Volga lived a noble, a bachelor, luxuriously, caring
only for his own amusement. He fished, hunted, and petted the
pretty little daughter of his housekeeper, one of his serfs, whom
he vaguely intended to set free. He passed hours playing with the
pretty child, and even had an old French governess come to give her
lessons. She taught little Natasha to dance, to play the piano, to
put on the airs and graces of a little lady. So the years passed,
and the old nobleman obeyed the girl's every whim, and his serfs
bowed before her and kissed her hands. Gracefully and willfully
she queened it over the whole household.
Then one fine day the old noble took thought and died. He had
forgotten to liberate his housekeeper and her daughter, and, as he
was a bachelor, his estate went to his next of kin, the elder
Princess Chechevinski. Between the brother and sister a cordial
hatred had existed, and they had not seen one another for years.
Coming to take possession of the estate, Princess Chechevinski
carried things with a high hand. She ordered the housekeeper to
the cow house, and carried off the girl Natasha, as her daughter's
maid, to St. Petersburg, from the first hour letting her feel the
lash of her bitter tongue and despotic will. Natasha had tried in
vain to dry her mother's tears. With growing anger and sorrow she
watched the old house as they drove away, and looking at the old
princess she said to herself, "I hate her! I hate her! I will
never forgive her!"
Princess Anna, bidding her maid good-by, disappeared into the
night. The next morning the old princess learned of the flight.
Already ill, she fell fainting to the floor, and for a long time
her condition was critical. She regained consciousness, tried to
find words to express her anger, and again swooned away. Day and
night, three women watched over her, her son's old nurse, her maid,
and Natasha, who took turns in waiting on her. Things continued
thus for forty-eight hours. Finally, on the night of the third day
she came to herself. It was Natasha's watch.
"And you knew? You knew she was going?" the old princess asked her
fiercely.
The girl started, unable at first to collect her thoughts, and
looked up frightened. The dim flicker of the night light lit her
pale face and golden hair, and fell also on the grim, emaciated
face of the old princess, whose eyes glittered feverishly under her
thick brows.
"You knew my daughter was going to run away?" repeated the old
woman, fixing her keen eyes on Natasha's face, trying to raise
herself from among the lace-fringed pillows.
"I knew," the girl answered in a half whisper, lowering her eyes in
confusion, and trying to throw off her first impression of terror.
"Why did you not tell me before?" the old woman continued, even
more fiercely.
Natasha had now recovered her composure, and raising her eyes with
an expression of innocent distress, she answered:
"Princess Anna hid everything from me also, until the very last.
How dare I tell you? Would you have believed me? It was not my
business, your excellency!"
The old princess shook her head, smiling bitterly and
incredulously.
"Snake!" she hissed fiercely, looking at the girl; and then she
added quickly:
"Did any of the others know?"
"No one but myself!" answered Natasha.
"Never dare to speak of her again! Never dare!" cried the old
princess, and once more she sank back unconscious on the pillows.
About noon the next day she again came to herself, and ordered her
son to be called. He came in quietly, and affectionately
approached his mother.
The princess dismissed her maid, and remained alone with her son.
"You have no longer a sister!" she cried, turning to her son, with
the nervous spasm which returned each time she spoke of her
daughter. "She is dead for us! She has disgraced us! I curse
her! You, you alone are my heir!"
At these words the young prince pricked up his ears and bent even
more attentively toward his mother. The news of his sole heirship
was so pleasant and unexpected that he did not even think of asking
how his sister had disgraced them, and only said with a deep sigh:
"Oh, mamma, she was always opposed to you. She never loved you!"
"I shall make a will in your favor," continued the princess,
telling him as briefly as possible of Princess Anna's flight.
"Yes, in your favor--only on one condition: that you will never
recognize your sister. That is my last wish!
"Your wish is sacred to me," murmured her son, tenderly kissing her
hand. He had always been jealous and envious of his sister, and
was besides in immediate need of money.
The princess signed her will that same day, to the no small
satisfaction of her dear son, who, in his heart, was wondering how
soon his beloved parent would pass away, so that he might get his
eyes on her long-hoarded wealth.
II
THE LITHOGRAPHER'S APPRENTICE
Later on the same day, in a little narrow chamber of one of the
huge, dirty tenements on Vosnesenski Prospekt, sat a young man of
ruddy complexion. He was sitting at a table, bending toward the
one dusty window, and attentively examining a white twenty-five
ruble note.
The room, dusty and dark, was wretched enough. Two rickety chairs,
a torn haircloth sofa, with a greasy pillow, and the bare table at
the window, were its entire furniture. Several scattered
lithographs, two or three engravings, two slabs of lithographer's
stone on the table, and engraver's tools sufficiently showed the
occupation of the young man. He was florid, with red hair; of
Polish descent, and his name was Kasimir Bodlevski. On the wall,
over the sofa, between the overcoat and the cloak hanging on the
wall, was a pencil drawing of a young girl. It was the portrait of
Natasha.
The young man was so absorbed in his examination of the twenty-five
ruble note that when a gentle knock sounded on the door he started
nervously, as if coming back to himself, and even grew pale, and
hurriedly crushed the banknote into his pocket.
The knock was repeated--and this time Bodlevski's face lit up. It
was evidently a well-known and expected knock, for he sprang up and
opened the door with a welcoming smile.
Natasha entered the room.
"What were you dreaming about that you didn't open the door for
me?" she asked caressingly, throwing aside her hat and cloak, and
taking a seat on the tumble-down sofa. "What were you busy at?"
"You know, yourself."
And instead of explaining further, he drew the banknote from his
pocket and showed it to Natasha.
"This morning the master paid me, and I am keeping the money," he
continued in a low voice, tilting back his chair. "I pay neither
for my rooms nor my shop, but sit here and study all the time."
"It's so well worth while, isn't it?" smiled Natasha with a
contemptuous grimace.
"You don't think it is worth while?" said the young man. "Wait!
I'll learn. We'll be rich!
"Yes, if we aren't sent to Siberia!" the girl laughed. "What kind
of wealth is that?" she went on. "The game is not worth the
candle. I'll be rich before you are."
"All right, go ahead!"
"Go ahead? I didn't come to talk nonsense, I came on business.
You help me, and, on my word of honor, we'll be in clover!"
Bodlevski looked at his companion in astonishment.
"I told you my Princess Anna was going to run away. She's gone!
And her mother has cut her off from the inheritance," Natasha
continued with an exultant smile. "I looked through the scrap
basket, and have brought some papers with me."
"What sort of papers?"
"Oh, letters and notes. They are all in Princess Anna's
handwriting. Shall I give them to you?" jested Natasha. "Have a
good look at them, examine them, learn her handwriting, so that you
can imitate every letter. That kind of thing is just in your line;
you are a first-class copyist, so this is just the job for you."
The engraver listened, and only shrugged his shoulders.
"No, joking aside," she continued seriously, drawing nearer
Bodlevski, "I have thought of something out of the common; you will
be grateful. I have no time to explain it all now. You will know
later on. The main thing is--learn her handwriting."
"But what is it all for?" said Bodlevski wonderingly.
"So that you may be able to write a few words in the handwriting of
Princess Anna; what you have to write I'll dictate to you."
"And then?"
"Then hurry up and get me a passport in some one else's name, and
have your own ready. But learn her handwriting. Everything
depends on that!"
"It won't be easy. I'll hardly be able to!" muttered Bodlevski,
scratching his head.
Natasha flared up.
"You say you love me?" she cried energetically, with a glance of
anger. "Well, then, do it. Unless you are telling lies, you can
learn to do banknotes."
The young man strode up and down his den, perplexed.
"How soon do you want it?" he asked, after a minute's thought. "In
a couple of days?"
"Yes, in about two days, not longer, or the whole thing is done
for!" the girl replied decisively. "In two days I'll come for the
writing, and be sure my passport is ready!"
"Very well. I'll do it," consented Bodlevski. And Natasha began
to dictate to him the wording of the letter.
As soon as she was gone the engraver got to work. All the evening
and a great part of the night he bent over the papers she had
brought, examining the handwriting, studying the letters, and
practicing every stroke with the utmost care, copying and repeating
it a hundred times, until at last he had reached the required
clearness. At last he mastered the writing. It only remained to
give it the needed lightness and naturalness. His head rang from
the concentration of blood in his temples, but he still worked on.
Finally, when it was almost morning, the note was written, and the
name of Princess Anna was signed to it. The work was a
masterpiece, and even exceeded Bodlevski's expectations. Its
lightness and clearness were remarkable. The engraver, examining
the writing of Princess Anna, compared it with his own work, and
was astonished, so perfect was the resemblance.
And long he admired his handiwork, with the parental pride known to
every creator, and as he looked at this note he for the first time
fully realized that he was an artist.
III
THE CAVE
"Half the work is done!" he cried, jumping from the tumble-down
sofa. "But the passport? There's where the shoe pinches,"
continued the engraver, remembering the second half of Natasha's
commission. "The passport--yes--that's where the shoe pinches!" he
muttered to himself in perplexity, resting his head on his hands
and his elbows on his knees. Thinking over all kinds of possible
and impossible plans, he suddenly remembered a fellow countryman of
his, a shoemaker named Yuzitch, who had once confessed in a moment
of intoxication that "he would rather hook a watch than patch a
shoe." Bodlevski remembered that three months before he had met
Yuzitch in the street, and they had gone together to a wine shop,
where, over a bottle generously ordered by Yuzitch, Bodlevski had
lamented over the hardships of mankind in general, and his own in
particular. He had not taken advantage of Yuzitch's offer to
introduce him to "the gang," only because he had already determined
to take up one of the higher branches of the "profession," namely,
to metamorphose white paper into, banknotes. When they were
parting, Yuzitch had warmly wrung his hand, saying:
"Whenever you want anything, dear friend, or if you just want to
see me, come to the Cave; come to Razyeziy Street and ask for the
Cave, and at the Cave anyone will show you where to find Yuzitch.
If the barkeeper makes difficulties just whisper to him that
'Secret' sent you, and he'll show you at once."