"That's to say, you bargained with Him?" asked Ilya, with a smile.
"His will be done! How He received my prayer I do not know," said the hunchback, looking upwards.
"But your conscience?"
"How do you mean?"
"Is it at peace?"
Terenti considered for a moment, as if he were listening, then said:
"It is silent."
Lunev smiled.
"Prayer, if it comes from a clean heart, always brings relief," said the hunchback, softly but emphatically.
Ilya got up and went to the window. Wide streams of dirty water flowed down the gutters; little pools were formed between the stones of the pavement; they trembled under the descending shower, so that it looked as though all the pavement quivered. The house over the way was quite wet and gloomy, its window-panes were dim and the flowers behind them invisible. The streets were deserted and quiet; only the rain hissed and all the little gutters splashed along. A solitary pigeon was sheltering under the eaves by the gable-window, and a damp, heavy dreariness invaded the town from all sides.
"Autumn is here!" The thought shot through Lunev's brain.
"How else can a man set himself right with God except through prayer?" asked Terenti, as he began to open one of his bags.
"It's very simple," remarked Ilya gloomily, without turning round. "You sin as you please; then you pray hard, and it's all right! All settled, begin again, sin some more!"
"But why? On the contrary, live honestly!"
"Why?"
"How d'you mean?"
"What I say. Why should you?"
"To have a clear conscience."
"What's the good of that?"
"Oh—oh!" said Terenti, slowly and reproachfully, "How can you say that?"
"I do say it, though," said Ilya obstinately and firmly, turning his back.
"That is wicked!"
"Tcha! Wicked!"
"Punishment will follow."
"No!"
At this he turned away from the window and looked Terenti in the face. The hunchback, in his turn looked searchingly at his nephew's strong face, moving his lips, he tried to find a word in reply, and at last he said, emphatically:
"'No' you say; but it does come! There—I fell into sin, and have been punished for it."
"How?" asked Ilya, darkly.
"Is anxiety nothing? I lived in fear and trembling. Any moment it might be found out, and I should——"
"Well. I fell into sin, and I'm not afraid at all," said Ilya, with an insolent laugh.
"Don't jest!" said Terenti warningly.
"It's a fact! I'm not afraid! Life is hard for me, but——"
"Aha!" cried Terenti, and stood up in triumph. "Hard, you say?"
"Yes! Every one keeps away from me as if I were a mangey dog."
"That's your punishment! D'you see?"
"But why?" screamed Ilya, almost in fury; his jaw quivered, and he tore at the wall behind his back with his fingers. Terenti looked at him in terror, and flourished in the air with a piece of string.
"Don't shout—don't shout so!" he said, half aloud.
But Ilya went on unheeding. It was so long since he had spoken to any one, and now he hurled from his soul all that had accumulated there in these last days of loneliness; he spoke passionately and furiously.
"You've been on a pilgrimage for nothing—nothing—nothing! It's all the same. Nothing would have happened to you. It's not only stealing; you can kill if you like. Nothing will come of it. There's no one to punish you! The stupid get punished; but the clever man—he can do anything, everything!"
"Ilya," answered Terenti, approaching him anxiously, "Wait, wait. Don't get so excited! Sit down. We can talk of it quite quietly."
Suddenly from the other side of the door came the noise of something breaking; there was a rolling and a cracking, and finally whatever it was came to a stop close to the door. The two men startled and were silent for a moment. All was still again; only the rain poured down.
"What was that?" asked the hunchback, softly and timidly.
Ilya went silently to the door, opened it, and looked through.
"Some card-board boxes have fallen down," he said, closed the door and returned to his old place by the window. Terenti still stood up arranging his belongings. After a short silence he began again.
"No—no, think a moment! You say such things! Such Godlessness does not anger God, but it destroys you yourself. Try to understand that; they are wise words. I heard them on my pilgrimage. Ah! how many wise sayings I heard!"
He began again to tell of his travels, looking sideways at Ilya from time to time. But his nephew listened, as he listened to the patter of the rain, and wondered all the time how he should live with his uncle.
Things adjusted themselves fairly well.
Terenti knocked a bed together out of some old boxes, placed it in the corner between the stove and the door, where the darkness was thickest at night. He observed the course of Ilya's life and took upon himself the duties Gavrik had formerly fulfilled; he set out the samovar, swept the shop and the room, went to the tavern to fetch the mid-day meal, humming all the time his pious hymns. In the evening he related to his nephew how the wife of Alliluevov had saved Christ from his enemies by throwing her own infant into the glowing fire and taking the child Jesus in her arms. Or he told of the monk who had listened to the bird's song for three hundred years; or of Kirik and Ulit and of many others. Lunev listened and followed the course of his own thoughts. At this time he made a point of taking a walk every evening, and was always overjoyed to leave the town behind him. There in the open fields, at night, it was still and dark and desolate, as in his own soul.
A week after his return Terenti went to the house of Petrusha Filimonov, and came away sad and grieved. But when Ilya asked him what was wrong, he answered: "Nothing—nothing at all. I went. I mean I saw them all, and we had a talk—h'm—yes!"
"What's Jakov doing?" asked Ilya.
"Jakov? Jakov is dying; he spoke of you; so yellow, and coughs."
Terenti was silent and looked at one corner of the room, sad and melancholy, gnawing his lips.
Life went on uniformly and monotonously every day as like the rest as copper pennies of the same year. Dark misery hid in the depths of Ilya's soul like a huge snake, that swallowed the sensations of the days. None of his old acquaintances visited him; Pavel and Masha seemed to have found for themselves another road in life; Matiza was run over by a horse and died in hospital; Perfishka had disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him. Lunev determined from time to time to go and see Jakov, and could not carry out his determination; he felt only too well that he had nothing to say to his dying comrade.
In the morning he read the newspaper, all day he sat in the shop and watched the yellow withered leaves whirl down the street before the autumn wind. Sometimes a leaf would drift into the shop.
"Holy Father Tichon intercede for us in Heaven," murmured Terenti in a voice that seemed to resemble the dry leaves, while he busied himself about the room.
One Sunday, when Ilya opened the newspaper, he saw a poem on the first page: "Then and Now," and the signature at the end was P. Gratschev.
"Once my heart like a strife-weary warriorTorn by black thoughts as by fierce birds of prey,All hope seemed dead and for evermore buried,Torment and pain were my portion each day."
So Pavel wrote. Lunev read the verse and before his eyes he seemed to see the lively face of his comrade; now restless, with bright bold eyes, now sad and darkened, concentrated on one thought. In his verses Pavel told again how he wandered poor and alone in a foreign town, receiving no greeting or friendly word. But when he was at the point of death from longing and want, then he found kind people, who bade him welcome to their hearth, where he drank new life: "Drank from their words that were radiant with love," words that fell upon his heart like sparks of fire:
"Hope flamed again in the heart of the hopeless,Songs of rejoicing resound through his soul."
Lunev read to the end, and then pushed the paper impatiently aside.
"Always rhyming, always with some crank in your head! Wait a little! these kind people of yours will handle you presently! kind people!" A scornful smile drew his mouth awry. Then suddenly he thought as though with a new soul. "Suppose I went there? Just went and said: 'Here I am, forgive me?'"
"Why?" he asked himself the next moment, and he ended with the gloomy words: "They'll turn me out."
He read the verses again with sorrow and envy, and fell into a new meditation on the girl. "She's proud. She'll just look at me, and well; I should go away the way I'd come."
In the same newspaper among the official information, he found that the case against Vyera Kapitanovna for robbery would be tried in court on September 23rd.
A malicious feeling flared up in him, and in his thought he addressed Pavel: "Make verses do you? and she—she's in prison!"
"Lord be merciful to me a sinner," murmured Terenti with a sigh, and shook his head sadly. Then he looked at his nephew who was turning over his paper and called to him: "Ilya!"
"Well?"
"Petrusha——" the hunchback smiled sadly and stopped.
"Well—what?"
"He has robbed me!" Terenti explained in a slow, conscience-stricken voice, and smiled again in a melancholy way.
"Serves you right!"
"He's done me fairly!"
"How much did you steal altogether?" asked Ilya quietly. His uncle pushed his chair back from the table, and with his hands on his knees began to twist his fingers.
"Say, ten thousand?" asked Lunev again.
The hunchback turned his head quickly, and said in a long-drawn tone of astonishment.
"T—e—n?"
Then he waved his hand and added:
"Whatever's got into your head? good Lord! Altogether it was three thousand seven hundred and a little over, and you think ten thousand—ten; you've fine ideas!"
"Jeremy had more than ten thousand," said Ilya, laughing mockingly.
"That's a lie!"
"Not a bit; he told me himself."
"Why, could he reckon money?"
"As well as you and Petrusha."
Terenti fell into deep thought, and his head sank again on his breast.
"How much has Petrusha to pay you still?"
"About seven hundred," answered Terenti, with a sigh. "Well, well, more than ten."
Lunev was silent; he hated the sight of his uncle's troubled, disappointed face.
"Where on earth did he hide it all?" asked the hunchback thoughtfully and wonderingly. "I thought we had taken the lot; but perhaps Petrusha had been there already, eh?"
"I wish you'd stop talking of it!" said Lunev harshly.
"Yes, it's no good now; what's the good of talking?" agreed Terenti with another deep sigh.
Lunev could not keep his mind off the greed of mankind, and the evil and miserable meanness practised for money. Then he began to think; if he possessed all this money, ten thousand, a hundred thousand then he'd show the world! How they should creep on all fours before him! Carried away with revengeful feelings, he smashed on the table with his fist; at the blow he started, glanced at his uncle, and saw that he was staring with terrified eyes and mouth half open.
"I was thinking of something," he said moodily, and stood up.
"Yes, of course," said his uncle suspiciously, as Ilya passed into the shop he looked searchingly at Terenti, and saw his lips moving silently; he felt the suspicious look behind his back, though he could not see; he had noticed for some time that his uncle followed his every movement and seemed anxious to find out something, or to ask something. But this only made Lunev anxious to avoid all conversation; every day he felt more plainly that his hunchbacked guest troubled the course of his life, and more and more often he asked himself:
"Will it go on much longer?"
It was as though a cancer were gnawing at his soul; life became daily more wearisome, and worst of all was the sense that he had no longer any desire to do anything. Days passed aimlessly, and often his feeling was that he sank slowly, but every hour deeper, into a bottomless abyss. Convinced that mankind had deeply injured him, he concentrated all the strength of his soul on one point—the bitter sense of injury; he stirred the flames by constant brooding and found therein the exculpation for every fault he had himself committed.
Shortly after Terenti's arrival, Tatiana Vlassyevna appeared, after a holiday spent some distance from the town. When she saw the hunchbacked peasant in brown fustian, she pinched her lips together in disgust and asked Ilya:
"Is that your uncle?"
"Yes"
"Is he going to live with you?"
"Naturally."
Tatiana perceived dislike and challenge in her partner's answers and ceased to take any notice of Terenti. But he, who had Gavrik's old place by the door, twisted his yellow beard and followed the small, slender woman in grey clothes with eager curious eyes.
Lunev noticed how she hopped about the shop like a sparrow, and waited silently for further questions, fully prepared to hurl at her rough ill-tempered words. But she spoke no more, after stealing a glance at his grim, cold face, standing at the desk, turning over the leaves of the book of daily sales. She remarked how pleasant it was to spend a couple of weeks in the country, and live in a village; how cheap it was, and how good for the health.
"There was a little stream, so quiet and still, and pleasant company, a telegraph official, for instance, who played the violin beautifully. I learned to row, but the peasant children! a perfect plague! like flies, they worry, and beg and whine—give—give! they learn it from their parents; it's disgusting!"
"No one teaches them anything!" replied Ilya coldly. "Their parents work, and the children live as they can—it's not true what you say."
Tatiana looked at him in astonishment and opened her mouth to speak; but at that moment Terenti smiled propitiatingly and remarked:
"When ladies come to the villages nowadays, that's quite a wonder to the people. Formerly the owner used to live there all his life, and now they only come for a holiday."
Madame Avtonomov looked at him, then at Ilya, and without saying anything fixed her eyes on the book. Terenti was confused, and began to pull at his shirt. For a minute no one spoke in the shop, only the rustling leaves of the book and a kind of purring as Terenti rubbed his hump against the door posts.
"But you," said Ilya's calm, cold voice suddenly, "before you address a lady, say, 'Excuse me, or allow me, and bow.'"
The book fell from Tatiana's hand and slipped over the desk; but she caught it, slapped her hand on it and began to laugh. Terenti went out, hanging his head. Tatiana looked up smiling into Ilya's gloomy face, and asked softly: "You're cross, is it with me? Why?"
Her face was roguish, tender; her eyes shone teasingly. Lunev stretched out his arm and caught her by the shoulder.
All at once his hate against her flared up, a wild tigerish desire to embrace her, to hug her till he heard her bones crack. He drew her towards him, showing his teeth; she caught his hand, tried to loosen his grasp, and whispered:
"Let go, you hurt me, are you mad? you can't kiss me here. And listen: I don't like your uncle being here, he's a hunchback, and people will be afraid of him; let go, I say. We must get rid of him somehow, d'you hear?"
But he held her in his arms and bent his head down to her, with wide-open eyes.
"What are you doing, it's impossible here. Let go!"
Suddenly she let herself sink to the ground and slipped out of his hands like a fish. Through a hot mist he saw her standing in the street door, straightening her jacket with trembling hands: she said:
"Oh, you're brutal! can't you wait, then?"
In his head was a noise of running waters; standing motionless, with fingers intertwined, he looked at her from behind the counter as if in her alone he saw all the evil and sorrow of his life.
"I like you to be passionate, but, my dear, you must be able to control yourself."
"Go!" said Ilya.
"I'm going. I can't see you to-day, but the day after to-morrow, the twenty-third, it's my birthday, will you come?"
As she spoke she fingered her brooch without looking at Ilya.
"Go away!" he repeated, trembling with desire to clutch and torture her.
She went. Almost immediately, Terenti reappeared and asked politely:
"Is that your partner?"
Ilya sighed with relief and nodded.
"A fine lady! isn't she? Small but——"
"She's a beast!" said Ilya.
"H'm—h'm," growled Terenti suspiciously. Ilya felt the searching look on his face, and asked angrily, "Well what are you looking at?"
"I? good Lord! nothing."
"I know what I'm saying. I said a beast, and that's all about it. And if I said worse things it'd be just as true!"
"A—ha! Is that it? O—Oh!" said the hunchback slowly, with an air of condolence.
"What? cried Ilya roughly.
"Only that."
"Only what?"
Terenti stood shifting from one foot to the other, frightened and hurt at being shouted at; his face was sorrowful and he blinked his eyes rapidly.
"Only, you know best, of course," he said at last.
"And that's enough," cried Ilya. "I know them; these people that are so clean and tidy outside!"
"I talked with the boot boy once," said the hunchback gently, as he sat down, "about his brother, the magistrate sentenced him to seven days, think! The lad said he was such a peaceable fellow, never drunk, and yet all at once he broke out as if he were mad. He got drunk and smashed up everything; hit his master on the nose, and the shopman, and before, think! his master had often struck him and he kept quite quiet, never did anything."
Lunev listened and thought.
"I'll have to drop all this and get away. This beautiful life can go to the devil! There's no life left for me! I'll give it all up and go. I'll get away—here, I'm just going to pieces."
"He bore it, bore everything and then at last bang, like a bombshell!" Terenti went on.
"Who?"
"Why, the boy's brother. He got seven days for assault."
"Ah!"
"Seven days! I say, the fellow had borne it, stood everything, but it had all piled up in his soul like the soot in the chimney, and then all of a sudden it catches fire, and the flames flare up."
"Uncle, look after the shop for a bit! I'm going out," answered Lunev.
His uncle's monotonous, well-meant words rang in his ears as mournfully as the sound of bells in Lent, and it was cold in the shop and there seemed no room to move, but it was hardly more cheerful in the street. It had been raining now for several days steadily. The clean, grey pavement stones stared unwinkingly back at the grey sky, and seemed weary like the faces of men. The dirt in the spaces between the stones, showed up clearly against the cold, clean surface. The air was heavy with damp, and the houses seemed oppressed with it. The yellow leaves still left on the trees seemed to shudder with the knowledge of approaching death.
At the end of the street behind the roofs clouds, bluish-grey or white, rose up to the height of the sky. They shouldered over one another higher and higher, constantly changing their shapes, now like the reek of a bonfire, now like mountains, or waves of a turbid river. They seemed to mount to the summit only to fall the heavier on houses and trees and ground. Lunev grew weary of the moving wall and turned back to the shop, shivering from dreariness and cold.
"I must give it up, the shop and all, uncle can see to it with Tanyka, but I, I'll go away."
In his mind he had a vision of a wet, boundless plain, arched by grey clouds; there was a broad road set with birch-trees; he himself walked forward, his knapsack on his back; his feet stuck fast in the mud, a cold rain drove in his face, and on the plain and on the road no living soul, not even crows on the branches.
"I'll hang myself," he thought, without emotion, when he saw that he had no place to go to, nowhere in all the world.
When he awoke on the morning of the next day but one, he saw on his calendar the black figure 23, and remembered that this was the day that Vyera would appear for trial. He rejoiced at the excuse to get away from the shop, and felt keen curiosity over the girl's fate. He dressed hastily, drank his tea, almost ran to the court, and reached it too early. No one was admitted yet—a little crowd of people pressed about the steps, waiting for the doors to open; Lunev took his place with the rest and leant his back against the wall. There was an open space before the court-house, with a big church in the middle of it. Shadows swept over the ground. The sun's disc, dim and pale, now appeared, now vanished behind the clouds. Almost every moment a shadow fell widely over the square, gliding over the stones, climbing the trees, so that the branches seemed to bend under its weight; then it wrapped the church from base to cross, covered it entirely, then noiselessly moved further to the court of justice and the waiting crowd.
The people all looked strangely grey, with hungry faces; they looked at one another with tired eyes and spoke slowly. One—a long-haired man in a light overcoat buttoned to his chin and a crushed hat, twisted his pointed red beard with cold red fingers, and stamped the ground impatiently with his worn out shoes. Another in a patched waistcoat, and cap pulled down over his brows, stood with bent head, one hand in his bosom, the other in his pocket. He seemed asleep. A little swarthy man in an overcoat and high boots looking like a cockchafer, moved about restlessly. He looked up to the sky showing a pale pointed little nose, whistled, wrinkled his brows, ran his tongue over the edge of his moustache and spoke more than all the others.
"Are they opening?" he called, listening with his head on one side.
"No—h'm. Time is cheap! Been to the library yet, my boy?"
"No—too early," answered the long-haired man briefly.
"The Devil! itiscold!"
The other growled agreement and said thoughtfully:
"Where should we warm ourselves if it weren't for the law courts and the libraries?"
The dark man shrugged his shoulders. Ilya looked at them more carefully and listened. He saw they were loafers—people who passed their lives in various "shady" businesses either cheating the peasants, for whom they drew up petitions or papers of different kinds, or going from house to house with begging letters. Once he had feared them, now they roused his curiosity.
"What's the good of these people? Yet, they live."
A pair of pigeons settled on the pavement near the steps. The man with the bent head swayed from one foot to the other and began to circle round the birds, making a loud cooing noise.
"Pfui!" whistled the dark little man sharply. The man in the waistcoat started and looked up; his face was blue and swollen, and his eyes glassy.
"I can't stand pigeons," cried the little man watching them as they flew away. "Fat—as rich tradesmen—and their beastly cooing! Are you summoned?" he asked Ilya, unexpectedly.
"No."
"You're not called?"
"No."
The dark man looked Ilya up and down and growled: "That's strange."
"What is strange?" asked Ilya, laughing.
"You have the kind of face," answered the little man speaking quickly. "Ah, they're opening."
He was one of the first to enter the building. Struck by his remark Ilya followed him and in the doorway pushed the long-haired man with his shoulder.
"Don't shove so, you clown!" said the man half aloud, and giving Ilya a push in his turn passed in first. The push did not anger Ilya, but only astonished him.
"Odd!" he thought. "He pushes in as if he were a great lord and must go in first, and he's only just a poor wretch."
In the court of justice it was dark and quiet. The long table covered with a green cloth, the high-backed chairs, the gold frames round the big full-length portraits, the mulberry coloured chairs for the jury, the big wooden bench behind the railing—all this inspired respect and a sense of gravity. The windows were set deep in gray walls; curtains of canvas hung in heavy folds in front of them, and the window panes looked dim. The heavy doors opened without noise, and people in uniform walked here and there with rapid silent steps. Everything in the big room seemed to bid the spectators to remain quiet and still. Lunev looked round him, and a painful sensation caught at his heart; when an official announced—"The Court," he started and sprang up before any one else, though he did not know that he was expected to rise. One of the four men who entered was Gromov, who lived in the house opposite Ilya's shop. He took the middle chair, ran both his hands over his hair, rumpling it a little and settled the gold-trimmed collar of his uniform. The sight of his face had a calming effect on Ilya; it was just as jolly and red-cheeked as ever, only the ends of the moustache were turned up. On his right sat a good-natured looking old man with a little, grey beard, a blunt nose, and spectacles—on the left a bald-headed man with a divided foxy beard, and a yellow, expressionless face. Besides these a young judge stood at a desk, with a round head, smoothly plastered hair, and black prominent eyes. They were all silent for a few moments, looking through the papers on the table. Lunev looked at them full of respect and waited for one of them to rise and say something loudly and importantly. But suddenly, turning his head to the left Ilya saw the well-known fat face of Petrusha Filimonov shining as if it were lacquered. Petrusha sat in the front row of the jury, with his head against the back of the chair looking placidly at the public. Twice his glance passed over Ilya, and both times Ilya felt a wish to stand up and say something to Petrusha or to Gromov or to all the people.
"Thief, who killed his son!" flamed through his brain, and there was a feeling in his throat like heartburn.
"You are therefore accused," said Gromov in a friendly voice, but Ilya did not see who was addressed; he looked at Petrusha's face, oppressed with doubt and could not reconcile himself to the thought that Filimonov should be a dispenser of justice.
"Now, tell us," asked the president, rubbing his forehead. "You said to the tradesman Anissimov, you wait! I'll pay you for this!"
A ventilator squeaked somewhere, "ee—oo, ee—oo."
Among the jury Ilya saw two other faces he knew. Behind Petrusha and above him sat a worker in stucco—Silatschev, a big peasant's figure with long arms and little ill-tempered face, a friend of Filimonov and his constant companion at cards. It was told of Silatschev, that once in a quarrel he had pushed his master from a scaffolding, with fatal result. And in the front row, two places from Petrusha sat Dodonov, the proprietor of a big fancy-ware shop. Ilya bought from him and knew him for hard and grasping and a man who had been twice bankrupt, and paid his creditors only ten per cent.
"Witness! when did you see that Anissimov's house was on fire?"
The ventilator lamented steadily, seeming to echo the sadness in Lunev's breast.
"Fool!" said the man next him in a whisper. Ilya looked round, it was the little dark man who now sat with his lips contemptuously drawn.
"A fool," he repeated, nodding to Ilya.
"Who?" whispered Ilya stupidly.
"The accused—he had a fine chance to upset the witness and lets it go. If I—ah."
Ilya looked at the prisoner. He was a tall, bony peasant with an angular head. His face was terrified and gloomy; he showed his teeth like a tired, beaten dog, crowded into a corner by its foes and without strength to defend itself. Stupid, animal fear was impressed on every feature; and Petrusha, Silatschev and Dodonov looked at him quietly with the eyes of the well fed. To Lunev it seemed as though they thought: "He's been caught—that is, he is guilty."
"Dull!" whispered his neighbour. "Nothing interesting. The accused—a fool, the Public Prosecutor a gaping idiot, the witnesses blockheads as usual. If I were Prosecutor I'd settle his job in ten minutes."
"Guilty?" asked Lunev in a whisper, shivering as if with cold.
"Probably not. But easy to condemn him. He doesn't know how to defend himself. These peasants never do. A poor lot! Bones and muscles—but intelligence, quickness—not a glimmer!"
"That is true. Ye—es."
"Have you by any chance twenty kopecks about you?" asked the little man suddenly.
"Oh, yes."
"Give it to me."
Ilya had taken out his purse and handed over the piece of money, before he could make up his mind whether to give it or no. When he had parted with it he thought with an involuntary respect as he looked sideways at his neighbour:
"He's quick, but that's the way to live; just take——"
"A stupid ass, that's all," whispered the dark man again, and indicated the accused with his eyes.
"Sh!—sh!" said the usher.
"Gentlemen of the jury," began the Prosecutor with a low but emphatic voice, "look at the face of this man—it is more eloquent than any testimony of the witnesses who have given their evidence without contradiction—er—er—it must be so—it must convince you that a typical criminal stands before you, an enemy of law and order, an enemy of society—stands before you."
The enemy of society was sitting down; but as it evidently troubled him to sit while he was being spoken of, he stood up slowly with bent head. His arms hung feebly by his sides, and the long gray figure bowed as though before the vengeance of justice.
Lunev let his head fall also. His heart was sick, almost to death; helpless thoughts circled slowly and heavily in his head—he could find no words for them, and they fought him and strangled him. Petrusha's red, uneasy face drifted through his thoughts, as the moon through clouds.
When Gromov announced the adjournment of the sitting Ilya went out into the corridor with the little man who took a damaged cigarette from his coat pocket, pressed it into shape and began:
"The silly fellow stands there and swears he has not kindled the fire. Oaths are no good here. It's a serious business—some shopkeeper's been injured—you have done it or another—that doesn't matter. What does matter is to have it punished—you walk into the net. Very well, you shall be punished."
"Do you think he's guilty, that fellow?" asked Ilya thoughtfully.
"Of course he's guilty, because he's stupid; clever people don't get condemned," said the little man calmly and quickly, and smoked his cigarette vigorously. He had little black eyes like a mouse, and his teeth were also small-pointed and mouse-like.
"In that jury," began Ilya slowly and with emphasis, "there are men."
"Not men, tradesmen," the dark-headed man improved the phrase. Ilya looked at him and repeated:
"Tradesmen. I know some of them."
"Aha!"
"A fine sort—not to put it too finely."
"Thieves—eh?" his companion helped him out. He spoke loudly, but in an ordinary way, then threw away his cigarette end, pinched up his lips in a loud whistle and looked at Ilya with eyes bold almost to insolence; all these movements followed one another in eager restlessness.
"Of course; anyway, justice so-called is mostly a pretty good farce," he said shrugging. "The fat people improve the criminal tendencies of the hungry people. I often come to the courts, but I never saw a hungry man sit in judgment on the well fed—if the well fed do it among themselves—it happens generally from extra greed and means—don't take everything, leave me some!"
"It also means—the well fed can't understand the hungry," said Ilya.
"Oh, nonsense!" answered his companion. "They understand all right—that's what makes them so severe."
"Well—well fed and honourable—that might pass!" Ilya went on half aloud. "But well fed scoundrels, how can they judge other men?"
"The scoundrels are the severest judges," the black-haired man announced quietly.
"Now, sir, we'll hear a case of robbery."
"It's some one I know," said Lunev softly.
"Ah!" cried the little man and shot a glance at him. "Let us have a look at your acquaintance!"
In Ilya's head all was confusion. He wanted to question this clever little man about many things, but the words rattled in his brain like peas in a basket. There was in the man something unpleasant, dangerous, that frightened Ilya, but at once the persistent thought of Petrusha in the seat of justice, swamped every other idea. The thought forged an iron ring round his heart and kept out every other.
As he drew near to the door of the hall he saw in the crowd in front of him the thick neck and small ears of Pavel Gratschev. Overjoyed, he twitched Pavel by the sleeve and smiled in his face; Pavel smiled too, but feebly, with evident effort.
"How are you?"
"How are you?"
They stood for a few moments in silence, and the thought of each was expressed almost simultaneously.
"Come to see?" asked Pavel with a wry smile.
"She—is she here?" asked Ilya.
"Who?"
"Why—your Sophie Nik——"
"She isn't mine," answered Pavel, interrupting coldly.
Both went into the hall without further speech. "Sit near me!" asked Lunev.
Pavel stammered. "You see—I—I'm with some people."
"Oh, very well."
"I say—d'you know," added Pavel quickly. "Listen to what her advocate says."
"I'll listen," said Ilya quietly, and added in a lower voice: "So—good-bye—brother."
"Good-bye—we'll meet presently."
Gratschev turned away and walked quickly to one side. Ilya looked at him with the sensation that Pavel had rubbed an open wound. Burning sorrow possessed him, and an envious, evil feeling to see his friend in a good new overcoat, looking, too, healthier, clearer in the face. Gavrik's sister sat on the same bench with Pavel; he said something to her, and she turned her head quickly to Lunev. When he saw her expressive, eager face, he turned away and his soul was wrapped more firmly and densely in dark feelings of injury, enmity and inability to understand. His thoughts stormed giddily in his head like a whirlwind, one tangled in another; suddenly they stopped—vanished; he felt a void in his brain, and everything outside seemed to move against him malevolently—and he ceased to follow the course of events.
Vyera had already been brought in. She stood behind the railing in a grey dress, reaching to her heels like a night-gown, with a white kerchief. A strand of yellow hair lay against her left temple, her cheeks were pale, her lips compressed, and her eyes, widely opened, rested earnestly and immovably on Gromov.
"Yes—yes—no—yes," her voice rang in Ilya's ears, as though muffled.
Gromov looked at her kindly, and spoke in a subdued low voice like a cat purring.
"And do you plead guilty, Kapitanovna, that on that night——" his insinuating voice glided on.
Lunev looked at Pavel; he sat bent forward, his head down, twisting his fur cap in his hands. His neighbour, however, sat straight and upright, and looked as though she were sitting in judgment on every one there, Vyera and the judges and the public. Her head turned often from side to side, her lips were compressed scornfully, and her proud eyes glanced coldly and sternly from under her wrinkled brows.
"I plead guilty," said Vyera. Her voice broke and the sound was like the ring of a cup that is cracked.
Two of the jury, Dodonov and his neighbour, a red-haired, clean-shaven man, bent their heads together, moved their lips silently, and their eyes, that rested on the girl, smiled. Petrusha, holding with both hands to his chair, bent his whole body forward; his face was even redder than usual and the ends of his moustache twitched; others of the jury looked at Vyera, all with the same definite attentiveness, which Lunev understood but hated furiously.
"They sit in judgment, and every one of them looks at her lustfully!" he thought, and clenched his teeth; he longed to call out to Petrusha:
"You rascal! what are you thinking? Where are you? What is your duty?"
Something stuck in his throat, like a heavy ball, and hampered his breath.
"Tell me, Kapitanovna," said Gromov lazily, while his eyes stood out like those of a lustful he-goat, "have you-ah—practised prostitution long?"
Vyera passed her hand over her face as though the question stuck fast to her fiery red cheeks.
"A long time."
She answered firmly. A whisper ran among the people like a snake. Gratschev bowed lower as though he would hide, and twisted his cap ceaselessly.
"About how long?"
Vyera said nothing, but looked earnestly, seriously at Gromov out of her wide-open eyes:
"One year? Two? Five?" persisted the president.
She was still silent; her grey figure stood as though hewn from stone, only the ends of her kerchief quivered on her breast.
"You have the right not to reply, if you wish," said Gromov, stroking his beard.
Now an advocate sprang up, a thin man with a small pointed beard and long eyes. His nose was long and thin, and the nape of his neck wide so that his face looked like a hatchet.
"Say, what compelled you to adopt this, this profession!" he said loudly and clearly.
"Nothing compelled me," answered Vyera, her eyes fixed on the judge's.
"H'm, that's not altogether correct; you see, I know, you told me."
"You know nothing!" answered Vyera.
She turned her head towards him, and looking at him sternly, went on angrily:
"I told you nothing, you yourself have made it all up!"
Her eyes glanced quickly over the audience, then she turned back to the judges and asked with a movement of her head towards her defender:
"Need I answer him?"
A new hissing whisper crawled through the room, but louder and plainer. Ilya shivered with the tension and looked at Gratschev. He expected something from him, awaited it with confidence. But Pavel, looking out from behind the shoulders of the people in front of him, sat silent and motionless. Gromov smiled and said, his words were smooth and oily; then Vyera began not loudly but quite firmly:
"It's quite simple. I wanted to be rich, so I took it, that is all, there's nothing else, and I was always like that."
The jury began to whisper together; their faces grew dark and displeasure appeared on the features of the judges. The room was still; from the street came the dull regular sound of footsteps on the pavement; soldiers were marching by outside.
"In view of the prisoner's confession," said the Prosecutor.
Ilya felt he could sit still no longer. He got up, and took a step forward.
"Sh—silence!" said the usher loudly. He sat down again and hung his head like Pavel. He could not see Petrusha's red face, now puffed out importantly, and apparently annoyed at something; but for all the unaltered friendliness of Gromov's face, he saw a cold heart behind the kind demeanour of the judge, and he understood that this cheerful man was accustomed to condemn men and women as a joiner is to plane boards. And an angry, oppressive thought rose in Ilya's mind:
"If I confessed, it would be the same with me. Petrusha would judge; to the prison with me, while he stays here."
At this he stopped and sat there, to listen, seeing nobody.
"I will not have you speak of it," came in a trembling, sorrowful cry from Vyera; she screamed, cried, caught at her breast, and tore the kerchief from her head.
"I will not. I will not."
A confused noise filled the room.
The girl's cry set all in movement, but she threw herself down behind the railing as though burnt, and sobbed heart-brokenly.
"Don't torture me, let me go, for Christ's sake!"
Ilya sprang up and tried to force his way forward, but the people opposed him and before he could realize it he found himself in the corridor.
"They've stripped her soul," said the voice of the black-haired man.
Pavel, pale, and with dishevelled hair, stood against the wall, his jaw quivering. Ilya went up to him and scowled at him in anger; people stood or moved round them talking eagerly. There was a smell of tobacco smoke in the air.
"It's imprisonment! She can scream till she's tired, it's all the same."
"She confessed, little fool!"
"But they found the money."
"Why didn't she say he gave it to her."
The words buzzed about the corridor like autumn flies, and penetrated into Ilya's ears.
"What?" he asked Pavel gloomily and angrily, going quite close to him.
Pavel looked at him and opened his mouth but said nothing.
"You've ruined a human being," said Lunev. Pavel started as though he had been lashed with a whip; he raised his hand, laid it on Ilya's shoulder, and asked in a sorrowful voice:
"Is it my fault?"
Ilya shook off the hand from his shoulder; he wanted to say: "you—oh! don't be afraid, no one called out that it was for you she stole," but he said instead, "and Petrusha Filimonov to condemn her, that's as it should be, isn't it?" and laughed.
Then with scorn in his face he went out into the street, and went slowly along with a sense as though he were fast bound by invisible cords. Anxiety lay like a heavy stone on his heart; it sent a coldness through him confusing his thoughts, and until the evening he wandered about aimlessly, from street to street, like a stray dog, tired and hungry. No wish, no desire moved within him, and he saw nothing of all that passed round about him, till at last a sick feeling of hunger roused him from his brooding.
It was already dark; lights shone in the houses, broad yellow streaks fell across the road, and against them stood out the shadows of the flowers in the windows. Lunev stood still, and the sight of these shadows reminded him of Gromov's house, of the lady who was like the queen in a fairy tale, and the sorrowful songs that did not disturb the laughter—a cat came cautiously across the street, shaking its paws.
He went on till he reached a place of four cross roads, then stood still again. One of the houses at the corner was brilliantly lighted up, and from it came the sound of music.
"I'll go into the Restaurant," Ilya decided, and began to cross the road.
"Look out!" cried a voice. The black head of a horse sprang up close to his face—he felt its warm breath. He jumped to one side, while the droshky driver swore at him; he went on away from the tavern.
"There's no fun in being run over," he thought quietly. "I must get something to eat!—and now Vyera is done for."
His mind ran still on the girl, his thoughts revolved about her almost mechanically. All the time he felt with one small part of his brain, that he ought to be thinking of himself, and not of Vyera, but he had no strength of will to change the course of his reflections.
"She's proud too—she wouldn't say a word of Pashka—saw that it was no good, there—she's the best of the lot—Olympiada would have. No! Olympiada was a good sort too—but Tanyka."
Suddenly he remembered that to-day Tatiana Vlassyevna had a birthday festivity, and that he was invited. At first he felt quite disinclined to go, but almost at once came an ill-tempered desire to compel himself against his wish, and then a sharp burning sensation shot through his heart. He called a droshky, and, a few minutes later, stood at the dining-room door, blinking his eyes in the strong light. He looked at the company sitting packed round the table in the big room, with a stupid smile.
"Ah! there he is at last!" cried Kirik.
"How pale he is!" said Tatiana.
"Have you brought any sweetmeats? a birthday present, eh? What's the matter, my friend?"
"Where have you come from?" asked his hostess.
Kirik caught him by the sleeve, and led him round the table presenting him to the guests. Lunev pressed several warm hands, but the faces swam before his eyes, and blended into one long cold face, smiling politely and showing big teeth. The reek of cooking tickled his nose; the chattering of the women sounded in his ears like rushing rain; his eyes were hot, a dull pain prevented him from moving them, and a coloured mist seemed to widen out before them. When he sat down he felt that his knees were aching with weariness, while hunger gnawed his entrails. He took a piece of bread and began to eat. One of the guests blew his nose loudly, while Tatiana said:
"Won't you congratulate me? You're a nice person! You come here, and say nothing, and sit down and begin to eat."
Beneath the table she pressed her foot hard on his, and bent over the teapot as she poured him out his tea. Ilya heard her whisper through the noise of pouring,
"Behave yourself properly!"
He put his bread back on the table, rubbed his hands, and said loudly. "I've been at the law courts all day."
His voice dominated the noise of conversation, and there was a silence among the guests. Lunev was confused as he felt their glances on his face, and looked back at them stupidly from under his brows. They looked at him a little suspiciously, as though doubting if this broad-shouldered, curly-haired youth could have anything interesting to relate. An embarrassed silence continued in the room. Isolated thoughts circled in Ilya's brain—disconnected and gray, they seemed to sink and suddenly disappear in the darkness of his soul.
"Sometimes it's very interesting in the courts," remarked Madame Felizata Yegarovna Grislova, nibbling a piece of marmalade cake. Red patches appeared on Tatiana's cheeks, Kirik blew his nose loudly and said:
"Well, brother, you begin, but you don't go on. You were at the court——?"
"I'll let them have it!" thought Ilya, and smiled slowly. The conversation began again here and there.
"I once heard a murder trial," said a young telegraph official, a pale dark-eyed man with a small moustache.
"I love to read or hear about murders," cried Madame Travkina; her husband looked round the table and said, "Public trials are an excellent institution."
"It was a friend of mine, Yevgeniyev—you see he was on duty in the strong room, got playing with a young fellow and shot him by accident."
"Ah—how horrible!" cried Tatiana.
"Dead as a door nail!" added the telegraph official, with distinct enjoyment.
"I was called as a witness once," began Travkin now in a dry, creaking voice, "and I heard a man condemned who had carried out twenty-three robberies—not so bad, eh?"
Kirik laughed loudly. The company fell into two groups, one listening to the tale of the boy who was shot, the other to the drawling remarks of Travkin on the man who had carried out twenty-three robberies. Ilya looked at his hostess, and felt a little flame begin to flicker within him—it illuminated nothing but caused a persistent burning at his heart. From the moment he realised that the Avtonomovs were anxious lest he should commit some solecism before their guests, his thoughts became clearer as though he had found a clue to their course.
Tatiana Vlassyevna was busy in the next room at a table covered with bottles. Her bright red silk blouse flamed against the white walls; in her tightly-laced corset she flitted about like a butterfly, all the pride of the skilful housewife shining in her face. Twice Ilya saw her beckon him to her with quick, hardly noticeable gestures, but he did not go and felt glad to think that his refusal would disturb her.
"Why, brother, you're sitting there like an owl!" said Kirik, suddenly. "Say something—don't be afraid—these are educated people who won't be offended with you!"
"There was a girl being tried," Ilya began loudly all at once, "a girl I know, she is a prostitute, but she's a good girl for all that."
Again he attracted the attention of the company, and all eyes were once more fixed on him. Felizata Yegarovna showed her big teeth in a broad, mocking smile; the telegraph official twisted his moustache, covering his mouth with his hand; almost all tried hard to seem serious and attentive. Tatiana suddenly dropped a handful of knives and forks, and the clash rang in Ilya's heart like loud martial music. He looked quietly round the company with widely opened eyes and went on:
"Why do you smile? There are good girls among——"
"Quite possible," Kirik interrupted, "but you needn't be quite so frank about it."
"These are cultivated people," said Ilya, "if I say anything that is unusual, they won't be offended."
A whole sheaf of bright sparks shot up suddenly in his breast; a sneering smile appeared on his face, and he felt almost choked with the flood of words that poured from his brain.
"This girl had stolen some money from a merchant."
"Better and better," cried Kirik, and shook his head with a comical grimace.
"You can readily imagine under what circumstances she stole it, but perhaps she did not steal it, perhaps he gave it to her."
"Tanitshka!" cried Kirik, "come here a minute! Ilya's telling such anecdotes."
But Tatiana was already close to Ilya, and said with a forced smile and a shrug of her shoulders: "What's the fuss about? It's a very ordinary story; you, Kirik, know hundreds of cases like that, there are no young girls here. But let us leave that till later, shan't we?—and now we'll have something to eat."
"Yes, of course," cried Kirik, "I'm ready, he! he! Clever conversation is all very well, but——"
"Anyhow, it gives an appetite," said Travkin, and stroked his throat.
All turned away from Ilya. He understood that the guests did not want to hear, that his hosts were anxious he should not continue, and the thought spurred him on. He rose from his chair and said, addressing the company:
"And men sat in judgment on this girl, who perhaps had themselves more than once made use of her. I know some of them, and to call them rascals is to put it mildly."
"Excuse me," said Travkin, firmly, holding up a finger, "you must not speak like that! They're a sworn jury, and I myself——"
"Quite right, they're sworn in," cried Ilya. "But can men like that judge fairly if——"
"Excuse me, the jury system is one of the great reforms instituted by the Czar Alexander the Second. How can you make such aspersions on a state institution?"
He hurled his words in Ilya's face, and his fat, smooth-shaved cheeks shook, and his eyes rolled right and left. The company crowded round in the hope of a rousing scandal. Felizata Yegarovna looked at her hostess condescendingly, and Tatiana, pale and excited, plucked her guests by the sleeve and called hurriedly:
"Oh, do let that alone! it is so uninteresting. Kirik, ask the ladies and gentlemen——"
Kirik looked distractedly here and there and cried: "Please, for my sake, these reforms, and all this philosophy——"
"This is not philosophy, it's politics," croaked Travkin, "and people who express opinions like this gentleman are called untrustworthy politicians."
A hot whirlwind swept round Ilya. He rejoiced to oppose this fat, smooth-shaved, wet-lipped man, and see him grow angry. The consciousness that the Avtonomovs felt embarrassed before their guests filled him with malicious pleasure.
He grew calmer, and the impulse to have matters out with these people, to say insolent things to them and drive them to fury, swelled up in his breast, and raised him to a mental height that was at once pleasant and terrifying. Every moment he felt calmer, and his voice sounded more and more assured.
"Call me what you like," he said to Travkin. "You are an educated man. I hold to my opinion, and I say, 'can the well fed understand the hungry?' The hungry man may be a thief, but the well fed was a thief before him."
"Kirik Nikodimovitch!" shouted Travkin in fury. "What does this mean? I—I cannot——"
At this moment Tatiana Vlassyevna slipped her arm through his and drew him away, saying loudly:
"Come along, the little rolls you like are here, with herrings and hard-boiled eggs, and grated onions with melted butter."
"Ha! I ought not to let this pass," said Travkin, still excited, and smacked his lips. His wife looked contemptuously at Ilya, and took her husband's other arm, saying: "Don't excite yourself, Anton, over such foolishness!"
Tatiana continued to quiet her most honoured guest. "Pickled sturgeon with tomato——"
"That was not right, young man," said Travkin suddenly, in a tone both reproachful and magnanimous, standing firm and turning round towards Ilya. "That was not right! you should know how to value things—you need to understand them."
"But I don't understand," cried Ilya, "that's just what I'm talking about. How does it come about that Petrusha Filimonov is the lord of life and death?"
The guests went past Ilya without looking at him, and carefully avoided even touching his clothes. Kirik, however, came close up to him, and said in a harsh, insulting voice, "Go to the devil, you clown, that's what you are!"
Ilya started, a mist came over his eyes as though he had received a blow on the head, and he moved threateningly against Avtonomov with his fist clenched. But Kirik had already turned away without heeding his movements, and entered the other room. Ilya groaned aloud. He stood in the doorway, regarding the backs of the people round the table, and heard them eating noisily. The bright blouse of the hostess seemed to colour everything red, and make a cloud before his eyes.
"Ah," said Travkin. "This is good, quite excellent."
"Have some pepper with it?" asked the hostess tenderly.
"I'll add the pepper," thought Lunev scornfully. He was strung to the highest tension, and in two strides was standing by the table with head erect. He grasped the first glass of wine he saw, held it out towards Tatiana Vlassyevna, and said clearly and sharply, as though he would stab her with the words:
"To your health, Tanyka!"
His words had an effect on the company as though the lights had gone out with a deafening crash, and every one stood frozen to the floor in dense darkness. The half-open mouths, with their unswallowed morsels, looked like wounds on their terror-stricken faces.
"Come! let us drink! Kirik Nikodimovitch, tell my mistress to drink with me! Don't be disturbed—what do these others matter? Why should we sin always in secret? Let us deal openly. I have resolved, you see, from henceforth everything shall be done openly."
"You beast!" screamed the piercing voice of Tatiana.
Ilya saw her hand shoot out, and struck aside the plate she hurled at him. The crash of the flying pieces added to the confusion of the guests. They crept aside slowly and noiselessly, leaving Ilya alone face to face with the Avtonomovs. Kirik was holding a small fish by the tail, and blinked, looking pale and miserable and almost idiotic. Tatiana Vlassyevna shook in every limb, and threatened Ilya with her fists; her face was the colour of her dress, and her tongue could hardly form a word.
"You liar—you liar!" she hissed, stretching out her head towards Ilya.
"Shall I mention some of your birthmarks?" said Ilya quietly, "and your husband shall say if I speak the truth or no."
There was a murmur in the room and suppressed laughter. Tatiana stretched up her arms, caught at her throat and sank on a chair without a sound.
"Police!" cried the telegraph official. Kirik turned round at the cry, then suddenly ran at Ilya headlong. Ilya stretched out his arms and pushed him away as he came, shouting roughly,
"Where are you coming?—you're too impatient. I can send you flying with one blow. Listen—all of you—listen, you'll hear the truth for once."
Kirik paid no attention, but bent his head forward and attacked again. The guests looked on silently; no one moved except Travkin, who went quietly on tiptoe into a corner, sat down on the seat by the stove and put his clasped hands between his knees.
"Look out. I'll hit you!" Ilya warned the furious Kirik. "I've no wish to hurt you—you're a stupid ass, but you never did me any harm—get away."
He pushed Kirik off again, this time more forcibly, and got his own back against the wall. Here he stood and began to speak, his eyes travelling over the company.
"Your wife threw herself into my arms. Oh, she's clever—but vicious! In the whole world there's no one worse. But all of you—all are vicious and degraded. I was in the court to-day—there I learnt to judge."
He had so much to say, that he was in no condition to arrange his thoughts, and hurled them like fragments of rock.
"But I will not condemn Tanya—it just happened so—just of itself—as long as I've lived, everything seems to happen of itself—as if by accident. I strangled a man by accident. I didn't mean to, but I strangled him—and think, Tanyka—the money I stole from him is the money that helps to carry on our business!"
"He's mad," cried Kirik in sudden joy, and sprang round the room from one to the other, crying with joy and excitement.
"D'you hear? d'you see? he's out of his mind! Ah, Ilya—oh you—how you hurt me!"
Ilya laughed aloud; his heart was easier and lighter now that he had spoken of the murder. He hardly felt the floor under his feet, and seemed to rise higher and higher. Broad-shouldered and sturdy, he stood there before them all with head erect, and chest thrown out. His black curls framed his high pale brow and temples, and his eyes were full of scorn and malice.
Tatiana got up, tottered to Felizata Yegarovna, and said in a trembling voice:
"I've seen it coming on—a long time—his eyes have looked so wild and terrible for ever so long."
"If he's mad, we must call the police," said Felizata, looking in Ilya's face.
"Mad? of course he's mad!" cried Kirik.
"He may attack us all," whispered Gryslov, and looked anxiously round the room.
All were afraid to move.
Lunev stood close to the door, and whoever wanted to go out had to pass him. He laughed again; he loved to see how these people feared him, and when he looked at their faces, he saw that they had no compassion for their hosts, and would have listened all night, while he held them up to scorn, had they not themselves been afraid of him.
"I am not mad," he said, and his brows contracted, "I only want you to stay here and listen. I won't let you out, and if you come near I'll strike you—and if I kill you—I am strong."
He held up a long arm and powerful fist, shook it, and let it drop again.
"Tell me," he went on, "what sort of men are you? What do you live for? Such stingy wretches—such a rabble!"
"Here, listen—you—you shut up!" cried Kirik.
"Shut up yourself! I will speak now. I look at you—stuffing and swilling, and lying to one another—and loving no one. What do you want in this world? I have striven for a clean honourable life—there's no such thing. Nowhere is there such a thing. I have only soiled and destroyed myself. A good man cannot live among you—he must go under—you kill good men—and I—I am bad, but among you I'm like a feeble cat in a dark cellar among a thousand rats—you—are everywhere! You judge, you rule—you make the laws—you wretches—you have devoured me—destroyed me."
Suddenly a deep sorrow overcame him.
"And now—what am I to do now?" he asked, and his head sank and he fell into a dull brooding. In a moment the telegraph official sprang by him and slipped out of the room.
"Ah! I've let one get away!" said Ilya, and held his head up again.
"I'll fetch the police!" came a cry from the next room.
"I don't care—fetch them!" said Ilya.
Tatiana went by him, tottering, walking as if asleep, without looking at him.
"She's had enough," said Lunev with a scornful nod at her, "but she deserves it, the snake."
"Shut up!" cried Avtonomov from his corner; he was on his knees fumbling in a box.
"Don't shout, good stupid fellow," answered Ilya, sitting down and crossing his arms, "Why do you shout? I've lived with you, I know you—I killed a man too—Poluektov the merchant. I've spoken of it with you ever so many times, do you remember? I did it because it was I who strangled him—and his money is in our business—by God!"
Ilya looked round the room. Terrified and trembling the guests stood round the walls in silence. He felt that he had said his say, that a yawning, melancholy emptiness was growing in his breast, from which echoed the cold inquiry:
"What now?" and he said, listening to the ring of his own words:
"Perhaps you think I'm sorry, that I'm making amends here before you all? Ha! ha! you can wait for that. I rejoice over you—do you understand?"
Kirik sprang from his corner, dishevelled and red; he brandished a revolver, and rolled his eyes and shouted:
"Now you shan't escape! Aha! you have murdered, too, have you?"
The women screamed, Travkin sprang from the bench where he had been sitting and running aimlessly to and fro croaked: "Let me go—I can't bear it—Let me go!—this is a family affair."
But Avtonomov paid no attention; he ran backwards and forwards before Ilya aiming at him and screaming:
"Penal servitude! wait—that's what we'll give you."
"Listen—your pistol is not even loaded, is it?" asked Ilya indifferently, looking at him wearily, "why do you make such a fuss? I shan't run away. I don't know where to go. Penal servitude, eh? Well, as for that, it's all one to me now."
"Anton! Anton!" shrieked Madame Travkin. "Come at once!"
"I can't, my dear, I can't."
She took his arm, and both slipped by Ilya, huddled together, with bowed heads. Tatiana sat in the next room, whimpering and sobbing, and in Lunev's breast the dark cold feeling of emptiness grew and grew.
"All my life is ruined," he said slowly and thoughtfully, "and there's nothing to be pitied about—who has destroyed it?"
Avtonomov stood in front of him and cried triumphantly:
"Aha! how you want to work on our feelings! but you won't."
"I don't want that, go to the devil all of you! I shall not make you sorry, the only thing that can do that is the money that doesn't reach your pocket, nor am I sorry for you. I'd far sooner pity a dog. I'd rather live with dogs than with men. Ah! why don't the police come. I am tired; get out, Kirik, I can't bear the sight of you."
It really troubled him to sit opposite Avtonomov. The guests left the room, slipped out softly with anxious glances at Ilya. He saw nothing but grey flecks floating before him, that roused in him neither thought nor feeling. The emptiness in his soul grew and enfolded everything. He was silent for a space, listening to Avtonomov's cries, then suddenly proposed jestingly:
"Come Kirik, come and wrestle."
"I'll put a bullet in you," growled Kirik.
"You haven't a bullet there," answered Ilya mockingly, and added, "I'll throw you in a minute!"
After that he said nothing, but sat there without moving, without thinking. At last two policemen came with the district inspector. Lunev shuddered at the sight of them, and stood up; close behind them came Tatiana Vlassyevna, she pointed to Ilya, and said in breathless haste:
"He has confessed that he murdered Poluektov the money-changer, you remember?"
"Do you admit that?" asked the inspector harshly.
"Oh yes! I admit it," answered Ilya, quietly and wearily. "Good-bye Tanyka, don't trouble, don't be afraid, and for the rest of you, go to the devil!"
The inspector sat down at the table, and began to write; the two policemen stood right and left of Lunev; he looked at them, sighed and let his head fall. The room was still, save for the scratching of the pen; outside in the street, the night built up its black impenetrable walls. Kirik stood by the window, and looked out into the darkness; suddenly he threw the revolver into a corner of the room, and said:
"Savelyev! give him a kick and let him go, he's quite mad."