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