But most striking of all, and what captured the stunned onlookers’ attention more than anything else, were his bloodstained hands: his hands and cuffs were soaked as if they had been washed in a bath of blood.
After standing there in a stupor for a further three minutes, Urbenin squatted on the grass as if waking from a dream and started groaning… The dogs, scenting something unusual, surrounded him and began to bark. Surveying the company with his dull eyes, Urbenin covered his face with both hands and sank into another stupor.
‘Olga, Olga! What have you done?’ he groaned.
Dull sobs came from his chest and his powerful shoulders started shaking. When he removed his hands from his face the company could see the blood left by his hands on his cheeks and forehead.
At this point the Count waved his arm and feverishly downed a glass of vodka.
‘After that my memory becomes confused,’ he continued. ‘As you can imagine, all these events shocked me so much that I lost all capacity for thought. I don’t remember anything after that! All I remember is that some men carried a body in a torn, bloodstained dress out of the forest. I couldn’t bring myself to look at it. They put it into a carriage and drove off. I heard neither groans nor weeping. They say she’d been stabbed in the side with the little dagger she always carried with her. Do you remember it? I gave it her as a present. It was a blunt dagger, blunter than the edge of this glass. Imagine the strength it must have taken to thrust it into her! I used to be fond of Caucasian weapons, dear chap, but to hell with them now! Tomorrow I’ll give orders for them to be thrown out!’
The Count drank another glass of vodka.
‘What a disgrace!’ he continued. ‘What an abomination! We brought her back to the house… you know, everyone was in despair, horrified. And suddenly – to hell with those gipsies! – we heard wild singing… They were drawn up in rows and then those devils let rip. You see, they wanted to greet her in style, but it was completely misplaced. It was rather like that Ivan the Fool who went into raptures on meeting a funeral and yelled: “Keep carrying, but don’t carry it off.” Yes, my friend, I wanted to entertain my guests, that’s why I sent for the gipsies. But it all turned out a dreadful mess. I should have invited doctors and priests instead of gipsies! And now I don’t know what to do! What shall I do? I’m not familiar with all the formalities, the correct procedure, whom to call in, whom to send for… Perhaps the police should be here, the investigating magistrate? Damned if I know, for the life of me! Thank heaven Father Jeremiah came to perform the last rites when he heard of the scandal – I’d never have thought of sending for him myself. I beg you, old boy, please take all this off my hands! God, I’m going out of my mind! My wife turning up… the murder… brrr! Where’s my wife now? Have you seen her?’
‘Yes I have. She’s having tea with Pshekhotsky.’
‘With her brother, that is… Pshekhotsky. What a bastard! When I slipped secretly out of St Petersburg he got wind of my flight and now I can’t shake him off. The mind cannot comprehend how much money he swindled me out of during all that time!’
I had no time for lengthy conversations with the Count, so I stood up and went towards the door.
‘Listen,’ the Count said, stopping me. ‘That Urbenin won’t stab me, will he?’
‘Surely it wasn’t he who stabbed Olga?’
‘Of course it was. Only, I don’t know where he turned up from… what the hell brought him to the forest? And why that particular forest? Let’s assume he hid there and waited for us: then how did he know I’d want to make a halt just there and not somewhere else?’
‘You don’t understand a thing,’ I said. ‘By the way, I’m asking you for the very last time… If I take this case on I’d rather you didn’t give me your opinion on the matter. You must try and simply answer my questions, nothing more.’
XXII
After leaving the Count I went to the room where Olga was lying.* A small blue lamp was burning in the room, faintly illuminating people’s faces. It was impossible to read or write by its light. Olga was lying on her bed, her head bandaged. All I could make out was her extraordinarily pale, sharp nose and her closed eyelids. At the moment I entered, her breast was bare; they were putting an ice bag on it.* That meant Olga was still alive. Two doctors were fussing around her. When I entered, Pavel Ivanych, huffing and puffing non-stop and screwing up his eyes, was listening to her heart.
The district doctor, who looked extremely weary and by all appearances was a sick man, sat pensively in an armchair by the bed, apparently taking her pulse. Father Jeremiah, who had just finished what he had to do, was wrapping his crucifix in his stole and preparing to leave.
‘Don’t grieve, Pyotr Yegorych!’ he said, sighing and looking into one corner. ‘Everything is as God wills it. You must turn to God for help.’
Urbenin was sitting on a stool in a corner of the room. He had changed so dramatically that I barely recognized him. His recent idleness and drunkenness were as evident in his clothes as in his general appearance. These clothes were as worn out as his face. The poor devil sat motionless, rested his head on his fists and didn’t take his eyes off the bed. His face and hands were still covered with bloodstains… he had forgotten all about washing them off.
Oh, that prophecy of my soul and my poor bird! Whenever that noble bird of mine, that I had killed, squawked that phrase about the husband who murdered his wife, Urbenin invariably made his appearance in my imagination. Why? I knew that jealous husbands often kill unfaithful wives – and at the same time, that men like Urbenin don’t go around murdering people. And I dismissed any possibility of Olga having been murdered by her husband as preposterous.
‘Was it him or wasn’t it?’ I asked myself as I looked at his wretched face.
To be honest, I didn’t answer myself in the affirmative, in spite of the Count’s story and the blood I had seen on his hands and face.
‘If he had done it he would have washed the blood from his hands and face long ago,’ I thought, recalling the theory of an investigating magistrate I once knew: murderers cannot stomach the blood of their victims.
If I’d been inclined to stir my grey matter I could have thought of many similar situations, but it was no good anticipating and stuffing my head with premature conclusions.
‘My compliments!’ the district doctor said. ‘I’m delighted that you’ve at last done us the honour of coming. Now, please tell me who’s master of this house.’
‘There’s no master here… here reigneth chaos,’ I replied.
‘A charming little phrase, but it doesn’t help me in the least,’ said the doctor with an irritable cough. ‘I’ve been asking for three hours now, simply begging for a bottle of port or champagne to be brought to me and not one person has seen fit to grant my request! They’re all as deaf as doorposts here. They’ve only just brought me some ice, although I asked for it three hours ago. What’s going on here? Someone is dying of thirst and all they can do is laugh! It’s all very well for the Count to swig liqueurs in his study, but they can’t even bring me a glass! When I wanted to send someone to the chemist in town they told me that the horses were exhausted and that no one was in a fit state to go because they were all drunk. I wanted to send for medicine and bandages from my hospital and they do me a favour – they give me some drunkard who can barely stand up. It’s about two hours since I told him to go – and what happens? They say he’s only just left! Isn’t that a disgrace? They’re nothing but drunken oafs, the whole lot of them – one way or the other they’re all idiots! I swear by God it’s the first time in my life I’ve come across such heartless people!’