Chapter X: Act II: Scene I (8)

The above reflections were uttered slowly, deliberately, and significantly, by the steward of the little steamer _Perch_, as he sat in his tiny crockery-filled pantry, cutting up a wheaten loaf into thin slices on the window-sill. The _Perch_, which travels once daily along the river Vỳdra, from the railway station to the little provincial town of M., is never very rich in passengers. Not many people care to sit for several hours at a stretch in the cabin, awaiting the moment when enough people shall have collected, “one at a time,” to repay the owner of the _Perch_ for the cost of the fifty-verst journey. Impatient passengers, instead of waiting for the steamer, prefer to drive in to M., or to go by the branch railway which runs from the main line to the next posting station. Thus the only passengers who travel on the _Perch_ are those who are in no hurry, who do not care whether they reach the town to-day or to-morrow, and who, indeed, even prefer to travel in a leisurely manner and at their ease; there is always so much room on the _Perch_ that you can stretch yourself out at full length, undress, go to sleep—anything. This state of things is very convenient and profitable for the steward. The public saunters on to the steamer, in a gradual, indefinite way; and it is really not worth while ever to close the refreshment-bar, as it would have to be opened twenty times a day. This refreshment-bar, being constantly before the eyes of passengers who have nothing to do and feel no desire to hurry anywhere, can hardly fail to be in demand. Sometimes a man will sit lazily looking at the various drinks exposed, and will finally say: “Here, just pour me out some of that; I don’t particularly want a drink, but the bottle takes my fancy; what’s in it? Give me a glass.” And once the refreshment-bar is resorted to, the passengers, who have been waiting so long for the little mosquito of a steamer to whistle, involuntarily slip into a chat; somehow or other, all the people travelling on the _Perch_ are sure to strike up acquaintance together and enter into a general conversation.

This was the case on the present occasion. In the second-class cabin about a dozen people of various kinds were sitting or lying on the sofas beside the tables and the bar window. There were two army officers, who, from their appearance and conversation, might have been shopkeepers in disguise, so feeble, effeminate, and altogether unmilitary was their manner; they were talking about their provisions, about “comfort and good living,” about the minutest of injustices and intrigues—intrigues over hay, and soldier’s kvass, and one thing and another. There were shopkeepers, artizans, and four money-lenders, evidently regular “skinflints,” who sat apart, drinking tea together, and abruptly snapping out broken phrases about their “business”: “Two six and six.”—“One rouble five.”—“And the goods?”—“All right.”—“Did you contract?”—“Yes,” &c.... In the intervals between these remarks they were affected by sudden, loud hiccoughing, almost like a volley of guns at a distance.

For some time the conversation among the passengers rather flagged, and was in no way interesting. The officers complained that every year they had to “make up out of their own pockets,” and boasted, each to the other, of their irreproachable character. The “skinflints” alternately snapped and hiccoughed; altogether, it was rather dull. In reference to what topic the steward uttered the sentence quoted at the beginning of this sketch I have no recollection. I did not hear all the previous conversation, and do not know what had made the steward feel it necessary to express his opinion about punishment; but that opinion somehow aroused in me a desire to listen further.

Having cut the bread into thin slices, and carefully swept up the crumbs into his fat hand, the steward began to cut thin slices of cheese, and continued, as gravely as before—

“That’s my opinion. If a man’s innocent and hasn’t deserved any punishment, I should like to know why I should ill-use him?”

“Very true,” remarked a shopkeeper, who was sitting with a bottle of beer.

“On the other hand,” continued the steward, “if we come across a regular scoundrel, then most certainly the law should be obeyed.”

“Of course it should. There’s no need to pity a scoundrel.”

“Then, again, you see, to punish a man is easy enough, there’s nothing very clever in that; you just take him and put him in the lock-up, or give him a thrashing—you don’t need much work for that, or much brains either.... But, first of all, you must find out, and go into the matter, and get to the root of it, and find out whether the man really is guilty or not; that’s the great thing. Supposing you’ve flogged or locked up a man, and afterwards it turns out that he was innocent, what then? It’s a bad business, that. But once you’ve made it out, and know all about it, then bury him alive if you like; that’ll be all fair and lawful.... But to go and ill-use a man before you know what it is about yourself—any fool can do that. That’s what I think. Will you have a sandwich?”

The plate of sandwiches was held out towards the two officers who were sitting next to the bar.

“I don’t mind,” half-reluctantly said one of them, adding, after a moment, “By the by, just pour me out a glass of that stuff in the green bottle; I’ll try what it’s like.... Won’t you have some?”

“Well, I don’t care if I do,” said the other officer, still more reluctantly; “you can give me a glass.”

For want of anything else to do, they began to eat and drink. The steward, for his part, started on some operation on a piece of ham, beginning by blowing on it, and continued—

“One ought to look into these matters, and not go into them at random.... Why, there are cases when, if you judge a matter properly, the man that everybody thought was a villain can prove his innocence. Before you go into it, you think he ought to be hanged; and then you go into it, and think about it, and he’s done no wrong at all. But to go and punish a man without ever knowing what it’s about—I say there’s no justice in that at all! Why do they have law courts, and trials, and judges, and all that sort of thing? Why, because any jackass knows how to knock a man about for nothing; but you have to go into it first, and then say what’s to be done.... Why, there’s a lad that serves on this very steamer. He’s been in trouble—he killed a man. Now, what’s the law for that? Why, a halter, or underground mines!... That’s so, isn’t it? And yet the fellow’s all right and straight. And why is that? Because they went into the matter, and made it all out.... There, I’ll call the man himself, and he shall tell you about it”

He went out on to the landing at the foot of the winding staircase that led up to the deck, and shouted—

“Mikhàïlo![51] come here! Come here a minute!... He’ll tell you himself....”

Mikhàïlo appeared at once. He had evidently been gambling with some friends, for he was holding several greasy cards in his hand. He was a sturdy young fellow, with a peculiarly naïve, almost childlike face. He sprang as lightly as a bird down the iron steps, with his strong, bare legs sticking out from a pair of pink cotton trousers much too short for him, and stood before his master, with his belt unfastened, evidently in a hurry to go back to his game. His whole figure and the expression of his face showed that the game was in full swing and had reached an exciting point.

“What’s up?” he asked, hastily.

“Come over here a minute.”

“Tell me what you want. I can hear you from here.”

“Come along into the cabin, you wooden figure head! You’ll have time to finish your game afterwards. Come and tell the gentlemen how you killed the old man.”

“What the plague!... What did you call me for? I thought.... Is that all you’ve got to talk about? Catch me!...”

He turned back to the staircase, but the steward caught him by his shirt.

“Hold hard! What a jackass it is! Can’t you answer when you’re asked civilly?”

“What’s the good of going over all that nonsense again?”

“Who asked you to go over it?... I want you to tell the gentlemen how it happened. You lived with a wood merchant then, didn’t you?”

“No, I didn’t. He’d only just taken me on that very day; and I’d never lived there at all——”

“All right; he’d just engaged you.... Well, what happened next?”

“Nothing at all happened next.... He engaged me, you see, to guard the timber.... He’d got a timber yard; ’twas worth hundreds and thousands.... He’s a millionaire, he is.”

“Where did it happen? Where does the merchant live?”

“’Twas in Moscow, sir.... I came straight up from the country to him.... How old was I? Don’t suppose I was more than sixteen.... Well, he engaged me; and says he, ‘Look here, boy, if you do your duty, I’ll reward you for it; but if you go conniving with thieves, I’ll let you know. I sha’n’t say many words about it, but I shall just smash you into little bits. But if so be as you do your best, I’ll raise your wages in a month. You keep your eyes open all night; don’t go to sleep; and if you see a thief, just you punch his head!’ You see, sir, these here thieves were always stealing that man’s timber; so, of course, I did as I was told—what else should I do? A lad doesn’t come up to town for his own pleasure. If you get a place, you must try and do your best in it, and please your master, so that he’ll raise your wages, and not swear at you or hit you over the head. So I set my mind to do his bidding. I chose a good cudgel—I pulled out a bit of timber, you know, a stout heavy sapling, with the root on. Well, I cut and trimmed it and made it all nice; and when it got dark, I put on my coat and went out.... It was in autumn, and a very dark night.... So I walked up and down, up and down, and suddenly I heard some one move. I called, and he didn’t answer. ‘He wants to hide,’ thought I; so I went up and gave him a good one with my cudgel. It must have caught him sideways; then I hit again, straight down from the top, and he just gave a squeal like a hare. We-ell, after that, I went to poke him a little with the butt-end; I poked him a bit, but it was a dark night, and I couldn’t see anything; I could only feel something soft, and it didn’t give a sound.... Well, when I couldn’t make him speak, I went to tell the master.... The master hadn’t gone to bed yet.... So I came in, and I said, ‘Please, I think I’ve done a mischief to a thief. He was scrabbling about in the wood, and so I knocked him down.... And I can’t make him speak,’ says I; ‘and he only squeaked a bit, like a hare.’... Well, so then the master called his coachman, and told him to take a lantern and go and see what had happened.... So we went.... Well, and after all, it was only a beggar.... But it wasn’t my fault. I was told to punch his head, and I did as I was bid. Supposing he had stolen the timber, what then? Then I suppose I should have got——”

“There, shut up!... Tell your story, and don’t argufy. What was the next thing?”

“The next thing was that when we looked at the man his head was all smashed in and his arm was broken.... Lord! it makes me feel creepy-like just to remember!... Well, we looked at him, and the coachman, he said: ‘The master’ll have to be told.’ So I went to the master, and I said: ‘Please, sir, I’ve smashed a man,’ and I told him all about it.—‘Surely he isn’t dead!’—‘Yes, that he is.’—And how he did swear at me! Then he told me to go and tell the police. So off I went to find a police-station. I hunted all over the place, and couldn’t find one, hang it all! And when I did find one, everybody was asleep. However, I waited and waited, and at last somebody came out and asked me what I wanted. ‘I’ve smashed a man,’ said I, and so on. Well, I told him all about it—why not? I hadn’t done any wrong. I didn’t want to hit the man.... I told him everything. Well, he wrote it all down.—‘And where’s the cudgel?’ said he.—‘I left the cudgel in the kitchen,’ said I.—‘Go and fetch the cudgel,’ said he; ‘it’ll be wanted.’—So I went and fetched it. Well, I gave them the cudgel. Then they put me into a dark room. In the morning they tied my hands and brought me into another room. Then they began asking questions. Well, whatever they asked me, of course I answered. Two months after, they had a trial. It was the same thing all over again:—‘You killed him?’—‘I did.’—‘How?’—So I told them: ‘First I banged him in the side, and then I banged him on the forehead.’—‘What with?’—‘A cudgel.’—You confess it?’—’Course I do.’—‘You plead guilty?’—‘Which way am I guilty? I was told to punch his head, and I punched it.... A servant’s business is to do as he’s bid.’... Well, they thought about it, and they judged about it, and they wrote, and they talked; and then they came out and said:—‘Here, you’re not guilty; you be off!’—So I went....”

“And the merchant?”

“Yes, they called up the merchant, too; but all he would say was:—‘Of course the timber had to be watched. All my capital’s in timber.... It’s always getting stolen.... The police are never there when you want them.... How was I to know he was going to keep watch that way?’... Well, and how was I to know who was there? I heard somebody scrabbling about, and I banged him.... So that’s how it all ended: I wasn’t guilty; nor the merchant wasn’t guilty neither.... Only he was a regular Jew, he was—he wouldn’t take me back again afterwards. He said:—‘You set about your work too much in earnest. I only promised you six roubles, and you went and killed a man straight off; if I were to _pay_ you your wages, the Lord knows what you’d do with your cudgel!’ So he took a soldier, and gave me the sack.... Reg’lar Jew, he was!... Well, what else do you want?”

“Is that the whole story?”

“That’s all.... Want anything else?”

“No, that’s all; you can go.”

The lad rushed up the steps like a whirlwind, and the steward started afresh upon his dissertation:—

“That’s how it was,” said he; “when you come to think of it, it seems as if the lad ought to be locked up; killed a man and smashed his head in—that’s clear enough. But when they came to look into the case, and understood all about it, he turns out innocent.... That’s just what I was saying: If so be as a man’s really guilty, you’ve got to punish him; but, however much it looks as if a man was guilty, if you can prove him innocent, you should; and if you go and punish an innocent man, I say there isn’t any justice in it.... That’s what I think....”

“Ye-e-es,” remarked the shopkeeper, to whom the steward mainly addressed himself. Pouring out the remainder of his bottle of beer, he added: “Of course, it would really be fairer-like ... to do so ... that’s true. Give me another bottle.”

The steward uncorked a bottle, took the cork off the corkscrew, put it back in its place, came out of his bar, and brought the bottle to the shopkeeper. At that moment there rose from one of the sofas, pulling down a print shirt over an enormous paunch, another passenger, also a tradesman. He was a man of gigantic height, with a good-natured expression of face. He went up to the steward, and taking him by the shoulder, asked, with a slight smile—

“But the peasant, most respected sir, what about him? Is he guilty, or not?”

“What peasant?”

“Why, the one that came by his death—the old beggarman.... Whereabouts are we to place him in the matter? You see, you can put it how you like, but we can’t get over the fact that there’s a man missing! He lived, and he walked about, and said his prayers, and all the rest of it, and all of a sudden he’s not there.... What about him, then? What sort of position is he in?”

For a moment the steward was rather put out of countenance by this unexpected question, which greatly perplexed him. But his embarrassment was relieved by a general burst of laughter, in which he joined.

“Oh, that’s what you’re talking about! I thought you meant some other peasant.... Ye-e-es, that’s a sort of thing that one may call sudden.”

“That’s just it!” continued the fat man; “that’s always the way in these parts: everybody’s innocent, and before you’ve time to turn round, somebody’s given up the ghost in the middle of the scrimmage!”

“Yes, that’s very true; it does happen sometimes,” meekly assented the steward, going back into the bar; “it certainly happens sometimes.”

“It does, sir. And more than that happens sometimes—I ought to know that!... After all, that old man had made a mess of it, in one way, by going and hanging about the timber yard. You see, it wasn’t altogether at random; people should keep away from timber.... But sometimes it’ll happen this way: A man sits quiet, never mixes up in anything, fears God and honours his rulers, and does everything all right and proper, and all of a sudden, without either why or wherefore, people come and begin hitting him over the head and on the back, and boxing his ears, and knocking him down, and banging his head again, and giving him black eyes, and pitching him face downwards on the floor, and turning him over and kicking him, and poking his head into the gutter, ... and then afterwards, here you come and say, ‘nobody’s guilty’! And it turns out that the man who stuck your head in the gutter is as innocent as a dove. And the man who dragged you about face downwards is not guilty either!... And then, at the end, the man that got all the knocks turns out to be innocent, too.... ‘Go to your homes, good people; you’re all innocent!’ And all the same, when a man goes home, however much he’s proved innocent, his nose is broken and his mug’s all swelled-up, just as if—. Doesn’t seem to me to make much difference, whether he’s innocent or guilty; anyway, three teeth are knocked out of his jaw, and his arm’s broken, and he’s been shamed and disgraced, into the bargain. What’s one to think about that, in your opinion?”

“Ah! yes,” said the steward, quite subdued, and not even attempting to orate; “certainly that’s not good manners.”

“There you are! And yet nobody’s guilty.... One says: ‘I’ve got papers!’ and the next one says; ‘I’ve got papers!’ and the third one’s got papers, too.... But look here, my good sirs, I’d like to know what all this means! You’ve all got your papers, but I’ve got my own skin! I can buy all the paper I like for three kopecks, but I can’t buy a new jaw anyway.... Seems to me there’s a difference.”

The giant tradesman spoke with evident excitement; he gesticulated with his hands, grew red in the face, and finally, quite out of breath, sat down in the middle of his sofa.

“That’s the sort of thing that happens, gentlemen!”

“Yes, it does happen, of course,” assented one of the skinflints; “a man gets half smashed, and nobody’s to blame.”

“Exactly so,” said the tradesman; “maybe something of that kind has happened to you?”

But the skinflint only growled, lifted his saucer to his lips, and made no answer.

“Do you mean,” said one of the officers to the giant, “that anything of that kind has happened to you?”

“Not only ‘that kind,’ but such a thing happened to me, that I think if I’d given way to my feelings I should have come to grief altogether....”

“What was it all about?”

“That’s just exactly what I can’t tell you!... What did the lad smash the old man’s head about? There you are—it’s the same thing here. You see, it’s a sort of thing——”

The giant broke off, and began more composedly:—

“The main reason.... First of all, I must tell you about my illness. You see what sort of a stomach I’ve got!...”

“You surely don’t mean to say that a stomach could play any part in an affair of that kind?” interrupted one of the officers.

“Part! Such a part was played as I wouldn’t wish to a Tartar!”

“Because of your stomach?”

“That’s just the very reason that I can’t explain the whole thing properly to you. I’ll tell you just how it happened, from the beginning.”

“Very interesting to hear!”

“Well, you see, it was this way: This same stomach of mine was the root of all the mischief. It began to swell up when I was a little child. There weren’t any good doctors in those days: and people of our sort went to wise women, and soldiers, to be cured. We lived in the country, and kept the mill—it was a big mill. Well, there was a sort of barber fellow that set to work to cure me. He rubbed and smeared me, and he gave me stuff to drink, and he pulled me by the legs, and in fact he spoiled my inside altogether, so that I’ve never got well of it to this day—I’ve got some doctor’s stuff with me this very minute.... Very well, ... I must tell you that I live, with my wife and children, near Sousàlov—a district town it is—at the mill. I often go into town. Well, about three years ago a new apothecary came to the town, and I got to know him. So I thought: ‘I’ll make friends with him, and perhaps he’ll give me some help about this stomach of mine.’ Well, so I made acquaintance with him. He was a good, kind-hearted young fellow. So I told him all about it, and he thought it over, and gave me a box of pills. ‘You take these,’ says he, ‘and do as I tell you.’ And I wasn’t to eat this, and I wasn’t to drink that, and so on; he was very particular. So I began to take the pills, and I got better; and whenever I’d finished one box, I had another. Only the next thing that happened was that my inside got to want more and more of these pills; if ever I was without them it just half killed me. At first a box would last me a week; but, after a bit, I’d finish it up in one day. I went and talked about it to the apothecary. He thought it over, and, says he, ‘I’m afraid this is a bad business’; but, all the same, he risked it and went on. And at last he began making such pills for me that he’d put three doses into one pill, and when he rolled it up it would be as big as a walnut. However, I took them, and they did me no harm. All of a sudden, gentlemen, my apothecary leaves the town. ‘Where are you going?’ said I. ‘Can’t get on here,’ said he; ‘no profit.’ I was sorry to lose him; he was a good fellow, and then he’d helped me, too; but there was nothing for it—he went away. So I had to get on as best I could, now with one doctor, now with another. So it went on for about a year and a half; and my wife and I thought we’d build a house for ourselves in the main-town.[52]... Because, you see, our children were growing up, and we had to put them to school. We wanted to do the best for them, and we’re not badly off; thanks be to God, we’ve money to pay with. We thought and thought it over, and at last we went to the town, and bought a bit of land, and started building. I used to go into town to see after the building, sometimes for three days at a time, sometimes for five. I often used to go into Moscow to buy materials. The main-town is on the railway, and only eighty versts from Moscow; it isn’t more than three hours in the train, so I found it cheaper to buy what I wanted in Moscow—nails and cramp-irons and all such things—for the house. Well, one day I was going into Moscow for things, and who should I meet in the train but my apothecary.... ‘Ah! it’s you, old fellow! How do you come here? Where have you been? Where are you going?’... We were right glad to meet again. Well, we got talking, of course; he told me about his affairs, and I told him about mine. He’d been in some other town, and hadn’t got on there either; and now he was going to Moscow. Then of course I told him how we were building a house. And after a bit we got talking of my illness. So I said to him: ‘For the Lord’s sake,’ says I, ‘help me like a good fellow; little father, give me some more pills! I’m half killed.’ ‘All right,’ says he, ‘if you like. When we get to Moscow,’ says he, ‘I’ll go into a chemist’s and get all the things, and make the pills at home, and give them to you.’ So we arranged where we were to meet. ‘Come to the Patrìkyevsky Tavern,’ says he, ‘the day after to-morrow. We’ll have some cabbage salad together, and talk over old times; and I’ll give you the pills.’ So that was all right....”

The narrative was interrupted for a moment by the entrance of the young fellow who had just told about the manslaughter. He came running nimbly down the steps and stopped at the door.

“What do you want?” asked the steward.

“Nothing; I just came.”

“I suppose you were beaten at cards?”

“I’ll beat them some day,” answered the lad, leaning against the lintel of the door, and rubbing one bare foot against the other.

“So that was settled,” continued the narrator, “I went about Moscow and bought the goods, and arranged my business properly, and at the time we’d agreed on I went to Patrìkyev’s. I walked through all the rooms, but my friend wasn’t there; so I sat down and waited, but he never came. I waited two whole hours, till at last I felt quite ashamed; so I ordered something, and ate it alone, and went away without him. Stupid-like, I’d forgotten to ask his address. ‘I shall have to wait another day,’ thought I, for I can’t get on without the pills. So I stopped another night, and next day, at the same time, I went to the tavern again. Still he wasn’t there! Well, there was nothing for it, I had to get back home. I didn’t go straight home, I went into the town, because I had bought some things—bottles, and flasks, and one thing and another.... I thought I’d manage to put up for the night there; the stove was all finished in the kitchen, and the windows were put in; so I went to the house. I’d got a peasant there for a watchman—Rodiòn his name was; there were ten carpenters in the house; they were just going to bed. I came in and told Rodiòn to heat the samovar. I noticed that he looked at me in a queer sort of way. He did what I told him, and all that, but I could see there was something wrong; I couldn’t rightly make it out.... He kept on looking at me.... I told him—‘Put down that box, and see you don’t set it too near the stove; for if it should get too warm—the Lord forbid!’... Because you see, I’d got varnish and spirit in the box.... Well, when I told him that, he just opened his eyes and stared at me. First he stared at me, and then he stared at the box. He stared, and stared, and then he went away. I sat and waited a quarter of an hour, but he didn’t come back; so I went out into the passage, and there stood the samovar, quite cold. ‘I wonder if he’s gone for water,’ I thought. I called, and called, and he didn’t answer. It was a wonderful sort of business altogether. I went and got out some dried fish (I’d brought two pounds of it from Moscow—good dried sturgeon, at eighty kopecks a pound)—I got out some fish, and cut a slice of white bread, and laid it on, and made a sort of sandwich, you know, and crossed myself, and just opened my mouth—the Lord make us truly thankful—when all of a sudden there was such a crackling and howling and blowing of whistles all round the house; and all the carpenters ran to the windows and stared like stuck pigs.... I threw down my sandwich and ran to the door, and knocked up right against a uniform. And there was Rodiòn pointing at me, and saying ‘That’s he!’ Seven or eight of them caught hold of me and began to drag me along; and I, of course, yelled and shouted, ‘Hold hard! What’s the matter?’—‘You’ll be told there!’—‘Anyway, let me dress myself,’ says I; ‘it’s autumn; it’s cold!’—‘We haven’t got any ladies!’... It was no use, they’d got me tight. I didn’t know what it was all about; I couldn’t make head or tail of it. And there they began dragging me along. And there were the carpenters and workmen and watchmen and doorkeepers—the Lord defend us! And why, and what it was all about, I couldn’t get the hang of it at all. ‘For mercy’s sake,’ I shrieked to them; ‘I’m a tradesman; I’m a householder; I’m a man of property; I’ve got a wife and children!’... And all the answer I got was: ‘Yes, by one of the stations in Moscow there were householders living, too, and they’d got their wives.’... When the people heard that, oho! you should have seen how they squared up to me! I saw it was a bad business; I’d got into hot water, and no mistake; and didn’t even know what for.... When they said _that_, I just felt my flesh creep.... I told them: ‘I’m innocent! May the lightning strike me dead if I.... I’ve prayed for him with tears.... I’d give my life for him!’... I was innocent before God; and yet I just shook all over! I began thinking: ‘Supposing there turns out to be some evidence! There may be something.... God knows! What will become of me then? What shall I do?’ My very inside got cold. Then I began thinking: ‘Heaven defend us! They’ll take my wife too; and it’ll kill her! She’d die if they just looked at her! What will she do when she hears about it?’ In fact, I lost my head altogether, and got so I couldn’t remember or think of anything; I just went on and on, shaking all over, and with no hat.... All of a sudden, what should come into my head: ‘Supposing it’s all a trick? There was a case in Moscow, at the Rogòzhskoye cemetery; they came in full uniform and took a lot of money, and went away; and then it turned out that they’d been only thieves.’ It just came into my head, and it made my very heart jump; and I said to myself: ‘Why, what a silly fellow I am to let them trick me like that! I left a lot of money in the house—over seven hundred roubles.... What’s the use of being such a fool?’ And directly that came into my head, I thought: ‘I’ll see if I can’t get myself out of the mess my own way;’ and I think, gentlemen, you can see for yourselves that I’m not much like a baby in arms.”... (The narrator here drew up his gigantic form to its full height, squared back his colossal shoulders, and, rolling up his sleeve, held out for inspection a mighty fist.)... “I think I’ve got what you may call means of defence. And here, at a time like that, I seemed all at once to gather up strength all over my body. I felt it rush into my neck and my chest and my legs; and into my arm there went such an iron strength of will that I just squared up, and made them see sparks enough to last their life-time; and hit and hammered, and banged and boxed, and punched their heads, and flattened their noses, and squeezed their ribs ... and when I looked round there was an empty space all about me, and there I stood alone in my shirt, like Mìnin and Pozhàrsky[53] in the Red Square; and all the people kicking and wriggling about like fish thrown up on the bank: there was one head-downwards in a puddle; and another had got stuck fast in the wattle-fence, and was kicking away and couldn’t get out. In one word, I had scattered the might of the devil till it melted away like wax! So there I stood alone in the middle of the battle-field, and said: ‘What have you done with me, you villains?’”

At this point in his story the giant was magnificent to behold, but the lad who stood listening to him was still more magnificent. When the miller told how he had “hammered and banged,” accompanying the narration with appropriate gestures, the arms and legs and whole body of the lad were continually in motion. He was utterly unable, while looking at the miller, to refrain from imitating his gestures. He kept squaring his elbows, and thrusting his fist into empty space, and more than once came into collision with the thin red-wood door of the cabin.

“What are you smashing the door for, you heathen idol?” exclaimed the steward, severely. But though the lad glanced round at the words, he evidently did not understand them; and the miller, for his part, had worked himself up into such a state of fury that he paid no heed to either the lad or the steward or the audience, who could not refrain from smiling.

“‘What have you done with me, you shameless scoundrels?’” he continued, frantically. “‘What right have you? Do you think the law allows such things? Why, it’s robbery and violence! Come near me if you dare! I’ll kill you outright! I’ll tear you in pieces!...’ There I stood, blazing away at them, and never noticed that they were getting back their senses and coming at me again. Suddenly I looked back, and if there wasn’t the whole squadron coming up behind me.... Up they came; and if you’d seen the way they rushed at me from behind, and the way they set off shouting—it’s just a wonder I’m alive!... ‘Ah! so we’re attacked in the discharge of our duty! Ah! ah! ah! So that’s what you go in for!... You’ve got a box!... If that’s it, my lads, give the great hulking fellow what for!’”

Here the lad nearly choked with laughter, but restrained himself.

“‘Hammer him black and blue!...’ And what came next?... They blew their whistles, and sprang their rattles, and banged their truncheons, and fire seemed to come out of my head and out of my ears, and my neck was just like red-hot iron.... I heard some one say, ‘There’s an important telegram about him; he’s got a box.’... And I shouted to them, ‘There’s varnish in it—varnish!...’ ‘Oho! Varnish! Pay him out, my lads, pay him out well!’”

At this point the lad could restrain himself no longer; he burst out laughing, turned to run out into the passage, and striking his head violently against the lintel of the door, literally tumbled down at the foot of the stairs in a fit of laughter. The narrator looked severely at him, but continued—

“And my friends, they _did_ pay me out! They paid me out in such a way that I lost my head altogether, and couldn’t tell where I was or what was happening. I didn’t even know whether I was alive or dead! I was just altogether——”

Here the narrator shrank down, let his arms hang helplessly, and began to speak in a kind of lifeless, almost abdominal voice.

“I could hardly move.... O Lord!... Holy Saints!... Holy Virgin!... I couldn’t even speak or breathe.... And I don’t remember whether I walked or whether they carried me.... I only know that I found myself in a dark place, and quite ill; all my bones ached, all my joints throbbed—I just lay and waited for death.”

The narrator sank slowly down upon the sofa.

“Good Lord! it’s dreadful even to remember, let alone—— Here, my good man, give me some lemonade and a glass of brandy.”

He addressed the last sentence to the steward in a tone of exhaustion; but, suddenly changing his manner, turned to the lad, and said, somewhat irritably—

“I’d like to know what you find to laugh at! What’s there to cackle about? Is there anything funny in an honest tradesman being half murdered?... Oh! of course it’s funny to you! You’re nothing but a baby, and anything can amuse you.... He’s a harmless child——”

Here the narrator turned to the audience.

“But he can take a great club, for all that, and smash a man at one blow! And then he’ll go back to his village as an innocent child, and hop about on one foot, and play skittles.... A fine sort of child you are! Pity no one’s got time to thrash you nowadays!”

“Come now!” muttered the lad, in an injured tone, from the passage.

“What do you mean by ‘come now’? Do you think I didn’t see the way you cackled?”

“What are you hanging about here for?” interposed the steward, glancing at the lad, as he carried to the miller a tray with lemonade. “You’ve no business here. Be off!”

“Where am I to go?”

“Be off, I tell you! You’ve smashed all the doors here! Get along with you!”

The lad reluctantly lounged up the stairs, but instead of going away, sat down on the top step.

“I should like to hear,” said one of the officers, “what had become of your apothecary.”

The narrator drank some lemonade, wiped his beard and moustache, and continued—

“The apothecary? He was in a bad way. The poor fellow was tearing along the post-road with express horses. They rushed him along like mad, and he didn’t know himself what for! ‘What it was all about,’ said he, ‘I can’t make out. I can’t understand anything about it.’ Those are the very words he said to me afterwards.... ‘When I got to Moscow,’ said he, ‘I went and took lodgings, and settled my business, and bought some things, and made the pills’; but something or other kept him, so that he couldn’t come to the tavern to meet me. He missed seeing me, and he hadn’t got my address; so he packed up the box of pills, and wrote my name on the packet, thinking he’d send them off next day. Just as he had finished doing that—it was in the evening time—one of his friends came in and said—

“‘Let’s go and hear the harp-playing girls outside the town.’

“‘All right.’

“So they took a _drozhki_, and off they went. Well, of course they took some of these sewing-girls with them for company, as any bachelors would.... So they drank, and larked about, and enjoyed themselves; and my apothecary came home as drunk as a lord. As soon as he got in, he just threw himself down on his bed and snored. All of a sudden some one began banging and hammering at the door as hard as they could; and as tight as he was, it woke him up. Well, he woke up and opened the door; and in came that very same Mediterranean squadron.[54]

“‘Come with us, please.’

“‘Where to?’

“‘You’ll see.’

“‘But why, for mercy’s sake? What about?’

“‘You’ll know when you get there.’

“My apothecary began blustering at them in his tipsy way; but they only told him, ‘It’ll be the worse for you; you’d better come quietly.’ So there was nothing for it; he had to dress and go. He thought he’d best hide those pills before he started; but they asked him—

“‘What’s that parcel?’

“‘That?’ says he; oh, that’s nothing!’

“They saw he wanted to hide something from them, and caught hold of the parcel; but he was afraid to let them have it. Supposing any one should analyze the pills!... There was poison in them, and his name was written on the box. ‘And I was afraid,’ he told me afterwards, ‘to leave them in the lodgings either. Supposing anybody should take a fancy to them and swallow them, there’d be the devil to pay then!’ So he tried to hide the box up his sleeve; but they didn’t give him the chance. The end of it was that one of his visitors hit him on the shoulder, and the box tumbled out of his sleeve; and they picked it up, and marched him away. They took him to their central office; and in less than half-an-hour’s time some one came up to him, asked his name, bundled him into a _troika_,[55] and—off!”

“What a disgraceful business! How could such a thing happen?” exclaimed one of the officers. “It must have been some absurd mistake.”

“Of course it was a mistake! Things like that always are mistakes. But who it was that made the mistake, that we don’t know to this day.”

“But no doubt it was afterwards proved to have been all nonsense.”

“Certainly; the truth came out, never fear. Everything was made clear enough afterwards, though even now we don’t understand anything about it.... My poor apothecary couldn’t make out what it was all about. He only just felt for his liver, to see if they hadn’t squashed it to pieces; and as for me, when I came to my senses, I couldn’t make head or tail of the whole thing....”

“And how was it all explained?”

“Listen then; I’ll tell you all as it happened.... What they did with me, and where they put me, after that fight, I really can’t rightly tell you. I can only say one thing: I suffered enough from mortal fear, that’s true, but they didn’t do me any harm; I’m bound to say they treated me kindly and politely, and altogether like real gentlemen.... I thought it would be worse; but instead of that they soon began to look into it, and clear matters up.”

“That’s just what I say,” interposed the steward; “they should have looked into it first, and not go hitting people right and left.”

“You’re right there,” assented the narrator; “and it all turned out as you say.... When they called me up before the Member[56]—and there I was with my broken head all tied up in wet rags—he asked me—

“‘What’s the matter with you? Are you ill?’

“‘Why, your Excellency,’ says I, ‘they knocked me about so!’

“‘What!’ he cried; ‘how dare they? On what ground?’

“So I told him they said they’d got a paper.

“‘Oh, the scoundrels!’ and you should have heard him give it to them! He pitched into them hot and strong; and at last he turned round to me and said—

“‘Just tell me what this is;’ and he showed me the box of pills.

“At first I wouldn’t let on that I knew anything about it, because I wasn’t sure what might be up. I thought to myself, ‘How should I know? Maybe the apothecary’s got into some mess or other. These are dangerous times; I may get into trouble if I say I know him.’ So I said, ‘I don’t know anything about it.’ Then he asked me, ‘Don’t you know a person named Làptev?’ (Làptev was the apothecary’s name, you know.) And I said again, ‘No, I don’t!’ Then he pulled out the canvas that the box of pills was done up in, and showed it to me, and there was written on the canvas—

“‘_Ivàn Ivànovich Popòv. Packet from Làptev; price 1 rouble._’

“‘You are Popòv, aren’t you?’ says he.

“‘Yes.’

“‘And the packet is to you?’

“‘It must be.’

“‘Then you must know Làptev?’

“I saw I’d put my foot in it, and so I told him—

“‘Very sorry, your Excellency—yes, I know him.’

“‘Why didn’t you say so at once?’

“‘I was afraid to, your Excellency.’

“‘What were your afraid of?’

“‘I don’t know.’

“‘That’s odd!’

“‘I’m afraid of everything, your Excellency! They nearly killed me, and for the life of me I can’t make out why!’

“Well, when I said that he began to laugh, and said—

“‘Don’t you be afraid; just tell me the truth.’

“‘I’ll tell everything I know,’ said I. And he asked me—

“‘What did you want with poisoned pills?’

“‘Poisoned! Which way poisoned?’

“‘Why, there’s poison enough in those pills to kill a man! A man! They would kill a horse! What did you want with them?’

“‘I take them,’ said I; ‘my stomach’s out of order.’

“‘But they’re poison!’

“‘Not a bit of it! The Lord forbid! I’ve got into the way of it, little by little, and they do me nothing but good.’

“‘H’m! And who made them?’

“‘The apothecary, my friend.’

“‘Tell me all about it.’

“So I told him all I knew. I said—

“‘He promised to bring me the pills at Patrìkyev’s tavern, and he never came; and I don’t know where he went.’

“‘And where’s your apothecary now?’

“‘That,’ said I, ‘is more than I can tell your Excellency.’

“Well, he thought and thought, and he poked and poked over his papers; and then he rang the bell. And presently they brought in a young man; and his Excellency asked me—

“‘Is this the gentleman who made your pills?’

“I looked at him, but it was quite a strange man.

“‘No, sir,’ said I; ‘I never saw the gentleman in my life.’ And the young man said the same thing. They showed him the pills, and he looked at them, and said—

“‘I don’t understand anything about it.’

“So then his Excellency poked and poked over the papers, and then he rang the bell, and whispered with somebody, and then with somebody else, and then he sent away the young man; and at last he said to me—

“‘Yes, there’s been a mistake; I hope you will not take it amiss.’

“‘God bless me!’ said I; ‘I’m glad enough to be alive!’

“‘You see,’ said he, ‘it was this way: we’ve got another Làptev, the young man you just saw; and he’s concerned in a very bad business. We thought that he had made those pills. And when the doctors declared that they were poison, we thought of course there might be.... Then, you see, the box was addressed in your name, and so we sent word to have you arrested, ... and those blockheads of gendarmes went and played the very deuce.’

“‘Yes, indeed, your Excellency,’ said I; ‘I shan’t forget it in this life.’

“‘Well, really, you see, it can’t be helped; they’re stupid, ignorant men, and you know yourself what dangerous times we live in nowadays.’

“‘Yes,’ said I, ‘God knows the times are bad enough!’

“Well, so after that I felt a bit encouraged; and I asked him—

“‘Please, your honour, where is my apothecary?’

“‘That’s just the very thing I’ve got to find out,’ said he. ‘There seems to have been another mistake made over him.’ And he began telling me about it. ‘There must have been a muddle at the head office.... This young man’s name is Làptev too, and he was to be forwarded on; and it seems that, instead of him, they forwarded on your apothecary.... However, all that will be put straight.’

“‘And what’s to happen to me now,’ said I, ‘if you please?’

“‘You may go.’

“‘Go quite away?’

“‘Wherever you like. It was nothing but an absurd mistake.’”

“Why, yes, of course,” remarked the officer in a dignified manner, but in a certain tone of relief; “that was to be expected.”

“Yes,” continued the narrator; “‘a mistake,’ says he. ‘Ah, well,’ thought I to myself, ‘may the Lord be praised for that.’ I just gathered up my coat-tails, and off I went—it was after dark—to the railway station. And when I got to that cursed town of ours, I drove through it hiding my face, and went straight to my own farmhouse. I didn’t even go into the new house; and to this day I don’t care to live in it, as I hope to be saved! If anybody cared to buy it of me, I’d sell it at their own price. Well, I got to the farm, and shut myself up under lock and key, and wouldn’t let the workmen or clerks or any one come near me; I wouldn’t even have my wife and children about me. I couldn’t come to myself after it all; I wasn’t fit for anything; it seemed as if I couldn’t move a limb. I just ate and slept, ate and slept; that was all I cared to do.”

“That’s the way you took your recreation, I suppose,” asked one of the skinflints.

“You’re in too much of a hurry—recreation! Just hear what happened next.”

“You don’t mean to say anything more happened?” asked the officer.

“Oh, dear me! yes. You see, it was always one mistake after another; and we never could get to the root of the thing. You’ll see how it all came out at last.”

“And where was the apothecary?”