The Shooting Party

by Anton Chekhov

  And the fop imperiously shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Drink your tea, it’s getting cold,’ I said in an indifferent tone.

  ‘I like it cold.’

  The deputy prosecutor leant over the papers. Filling the whole room with his heavy breathing he started reading in an undertone, occasionally making his own notes and corrections. Twice his mouth twisted into a sarcastic smile. For some reason that cunning devil* was pleased neither with my report nor the doctors’. It was only too easy to see in that sleek, freshly washed civil servant a pedant, stuffed with self-importance and the consciousness of his own worth.

  At noon we were at the scene of the crime. It was pouring with rain. Of course, we found neither stains nor tracks. Everything had been washed away by the rain. Somehow I managed to find one of the missing buttons from the murdered Olga’s riding habit; and the deputy prosecutor picked up some kind of red pulp that later turned out to be a tobacco packet. At first we came across a bush with two of its branches broken off along one side. The deputy prosecutor was delighted at this discovery: they could have been broken off by the criminal and would therefore indicate the direction he took after murdering Olga. But his joy was unfounded: we soon found several bushes with broken-off branches and nibbled leaves. It turned out that a herd of cattle had wandered over the scene of the crime.

  Having sketched out a plan of the locality and questioned the coachmen we had taken with us about the position in which Olga had been found, we returned empty-handed. When we were inspecting the scene an outside observer would have detected apathy and sluggishness in our movements. Perhaps we were partly inhibited by the fact that the criminal was already in our hands and that there was therefore no need to embark on an analysis à la Le Coq.53

  After he returned from the forest Polugradov once again took ages to wash and dress himself, and once again he demanded hot water. After completing his toilet he expressed a wish to question Urbenin once again. Poor Pyotr Yegorych said nothing new at this cross-examination – as before, he denied his guilt and didn’t give a damn for our evidence.

  ‘I’m amazed you can even suspect me,’ he said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Very strange!’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent, old bean!’ Polugradov told him. ‘No one’s going to suspect you without good reason, and if they do then they must have reasons!’

  ‘But whatever the reasons, however strong the evidence, you must be humane in your reasoning. I’m incapable of murder… do you understand? I simply couldn’t… So, how much is your evidence worth?’

  ‘Well, well!’ exclaimed the deputy prosecutor with a wave of the arm. ‘These educated criminals are a real pain in the neck: you can din things into a peasant’s head, but you just try and talk to these fellows! – “I’m incapable”, “humane” – they’re all going in for psychology these days!’

  ‘I’m not a criminal,’ Urbenin said, ‘and I must ask you to be more careful in your choice of words!’

  ‘Oh, do shut up, old bean! We’ve no time to apologize to the likes of you or listen to your complaints! If you don’t want to confess, then don’t, only please permit us to consider you a liar.’

  ‘As you wish,’ Urbenin growled. ‘You can do what you like with me… you’re in charge…’ He waved his arm apathetically and looked out of the window. ‘It’s all the same to me anyway,’ he continued, ‘my life’s ruined…’

  ‘Listen, Pyotr Yegorych,’ I said. ‘Yesterday and the day before you were so grief-stricken that you could barely keep on your feet, you could hardly answer briefly and to the point. Today, on the other hand, you seem to be positively flourishing – relatively speaking, of course – and you’re even indulging in resounding phrases. In fact, grief-stricken people aren’t usually very talkative, but not only are you being terribly long-winded, you’re even airing your petty grievances now. How do you explain such a sharp turnaround?’

  ‘How would you explain it?’ Urbenin asked, sarcastically screwing up his eyes at me.

  ‘I explain it by the fact that you’ve forgotten your part. After all, it’s difficult to keep up play-acting for long: either one forgets one’s part or one gets bored with it…’

  ‘That’s a typical lawyer’s invention!’ laughed Urbenin. ‘And it does honour to your resourcefulness. Yes, you’re right. I’ve undergone a big change.’

  ‘Can you explain it?’

  ‘Of course I can, I’ve no reason to conceal the fact. Yesterday I was so shattered and overwhelmed by grief that I thought I might take my own life… or that I’d go mad. But last night I thought better of it. It struck me that death had freed Olga from a life of debauchery, that it had wrested her from the filthy hands of the idle rake who’s ruined me. I’m not jealous of death, as long as Olga is better off in death’s clutches than the Count’s. This thought cheered me up and gave me strength. Now I’m not so heavy at heart.’

  ‘Neatly thought out,’ Polugradov said through his teeth and swinging one leg. ‘He’s not short of a reply!’

  ‘I feel I’m speaking sincerely and I’m amazed that educated men like yourselves can’t distinguish between sincerity and pretence! Besides, prejudice is all too powerful an emotion – it’s difficult not to err under its influence. I understand your position, I can imagine what will happen when they start trying me after they’ve accepted your evidence. I can imagine them taking my brutish face and my drunkenness into consideration. Well, I don’t have a brutish appearance, but prejudice will have its way…’

  ‘Fine, fine, that’s enough,’ said Polugradov, leaning over his papers. ‘Off with you now.’

  When Urbenin had left we began questioning the Count. His Excellency attended the examination in his dressing-gown and with a vinegar compress on his head. After making Polugradov’s acquaintance he sprawled in an armchair and began his statement.

  ‘I’m going to tell you everything, right from the start. By the way, what’s that president of yours, Lionsky, up to these days? Hasn’t he divorced his wife yet? I bumped into him when I was in St Petersburg. Gentlemen, why don’t you order yourselves something? A drop of brandy always adds a little cheer to a conversation… yes, I’ve no doubts at all that Urbenin is guilty of this murder.’

  And the Count told us everything that the reader already knows. At the prosecutor’s request he told of his life with Olga down to the very last detail and in describing the charms of life with a pretty woman he became so carried away that several times he smacked his lips and winked. From his statement I learnt one very important detail that the reader doesn’t know about. I discovered that when Urbenin was living in town he perpetually bombarded the Count with letters. In some of them he cursed him, in others he begged for his wife to be returned, promising to forget all the insults and infamy. The poor devil grasped at these letters like straws.

  After questioning two or three coachmen, the deputy prosecutor ate a hearty dinner, reeled off a whole list of instructions for me and departed. Before driving off he went to the outbuilding where Urbenin was being detained and told him that our suspicions as to his guilt had become a certainty. Urbenin waved his arm despairingly and asked permission to attend his wife’s funeral: this was granted.

  Polugradov had not been lying to Urbenin. Yes, our suspicions had become certainties, we were convinced that we knew who the murderer was and that he was already in our hands. But this certainty didn’t stay with us for long!

  XXVI

  One fine morning, just as I was sealing a parcel for Urbenin to take with him to the town prison, I heard a dreadful noise. When I looked out of the window an engaging spectacle greeted my eyes: a dozen brawny youths were dragging one-eyed Kuzma out of the servants’ kitchen. Pale and dishevelled, his feet firmly planted on the ground and unable to defend himself with his hands, Kuzma was butting his assailants with his large head.

  ‘Yer ’onner, please go and sort it out, ’e don’t wanner go,’ the panic-stricken Ilya told me.

  ‘Who doesn’t want to go?�
��

  ‘The murderer.’

  ‘Which murderer?’

  ‘Kuzma… it’s ’im what done the murder, yer ’onner. Pyotr Yegorych’s suffering for what ’e ain’t done. I swear it, sir!’

  I went outside and made my way to the servants’ kitchen, where Kuzma, having detached himself from those robust hands, was distributing clouts right and left.

  ‘What’s all this about?’ I asked, going over to the crowd.

  I was told something strange and unexpected.

  ‘Yer ’onner, it’s Kuzma what murdered ’er!’

  ‘They’re lying!’ howled Kuzma. ‘God strike me down if they’re not lying!’

  ‘Then why did you – you son of the devil – wash away the blood if yer conscience is clear? You wait, ’is ’onner’ll sort it all out!’

  When he was passing the river, Trifon the horse dealer happened to notice that Kuzma was hard at work washing something. At first Trifon thought that he was washing linen, but on closer inspection he saw that it was a tight-fitting coat and a waistcoat. This struck him as strange: cloth garments are never washed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ shouted Trifon.

  Kuzma was taken aback. After an even closer look Trifon noticed reddish-brown spots on the coat.

  ‘I guessed immediately that it must be blood… I went into the kitchen and told ’em all there. They kept watch and that night they sees ’im hanging out the coat to dry in the garden. Well, ’e were scared stiff, ’e were. Why should ’e go and wash it if ’e were innersent? Must be crooked if ’e were trying to ’ide it. Racked our brains we did and in the end we hauls ’im off to yer ’onner. As we dragged ’im along he jibbed, like, and spat in our eyes. Why should ’e jib if ’e weren’t guilty?’

  After further questioning it transpired that just before the murder, when the Count was sitting at the forest edge drinking tea with his guests, Kuzma went off into the forest. He hadn’t helped carry Olga, therefore he couldn’t have got any blood on himself.

  When he was brought into my room Kuzma was at first so agitated that he couldn’t say a word. Rolling the white of his single eye, he crossed himself and muttered an oath under his breath.

  ‘Now calm down,’ I said. ‘Just tell me what you know and I’ll let you go.’

  Kuzma fell at my feet, stuttered and started swearing.

  ‘May I rot in hell if ’twere me. May neither me father nor me mother… Yer ’onner… May God destroy my soul if…’

  ‘Did you walk off into the forest?’

  ‘That I did, sir. I walks away from them – I’d bin serving the guests brandy and – begging yer pardon – I took a little swig meself. Went straight to me ’ead it did and all I wanted was to lie down. So I goes and lies down and I falls fast asleep. But as to who did the murder – I ain’t got a clue, that I ain’t. I’m telling you the truth!’

  ‘But why did you wash the blood off?’

  ‘I were scared they might think things… that they might take me as a witness…’

  ‘But how did there come to be blood on your jacket?’

  ‘Can’t rightly say, yer ’onner.’

  ‘But why can’t you say? Surely it was your coat?’

  ‘Oh yes, it were mine all right, but I just can’t say – I saw the blood there after I was already woken up.’

  ‘That means you must have soiled your coat in your sleep.’

  ‘That’s right!’

  ‘Well, off with you my friend. Go and think it over. What you’re telling me is complete nonsense. Think about it and come and tell me tomorrow. Now go!’

  Next day when I woke up I was informed that Kuzma wanted a word with me. I gave instructions for him to be brought in.

  ‘Well, have you had a good think about it?’

  ‘Yes – that I’ave!’

  ‘So, how did the blood get on your coat?’

  ‘Yer ’onner, I remembers it as if ’twere a dream. I remembers things as if they was all in a fog, can’t say for sure whether they’re true or not.’

  ‘And what do you remember?’

  Kuzma raised his one eye, reflected and replied:

  ‘It were amazing, just like in a dream or in a fog. There I be lying there drunk on the grass and dozing – neither really dozing nor dreaming, like. All I hears is someone passing by and stamping ’eavily with ’is feet. I opens me eyes and I sees – just like I were unconscious or dreaming – some gent coming up to me. ’E bends down and wipes ’is ’ands on the flaps of me jacket. Wiped them on me coat, ’e did, then ’e dabbed me waistcoat. That’s what ’appened.’

  ‘Who was that gentleman?’

  ‘That I can’t rightly say. All I remembers is that ’e weren’t no peasant, but a gent… in gent’s clothes. But who ’e was, what ’is face was like – that I can’t remember, for the life of me.’

  ‘What colour was his suit?’

  ‘How should I know? Might ’ave bin white, or might ’ave bin black… all I remembers is that ’e were a gent – and I don’t remember nothing more. Oh yes, I remembers now! When he bent down ’e wiped ’is ’ands and said “drunken swine!” ’

  ‘Did you dream it?’

  ‘Can’t say… perhaps I did. But where did that blood come from?’

  ‘That gentleman you saw… was he like Pyotr Yegorych?’

  ‘I don’t think ’twere ’e… but perhaps it were. Only ’e shouldn’t ’ave called me a swine.’

  ‘Now try and remember… go on, sit down there and try to remember. Perhaps it will all come back to you.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  XXVII

  This unexpected irruption of one-eyed Kuzma into an almost completed novel created an impenetrable muddle. I was at a loss and just didn’t know what to make of Kuzma: he denied his guilt categorically and the preliminary investigation argued against any such guilt. Olga had not been murdered for mercenary motives and any attempt at rape had ‘probably not occurred’ – according to the doctors. Could one really assume that Kuzma had committed the murder and had not taken advantage of a single one of these objectives, simply because he was terribly drunk and incapable? Or was he afraid that none of this tallied with the circumstances of the murder?

  But if Kuzma wasn’t guilty, then why had he been unable to explain the blood on his jacket and invented those dreams and hallucinations? Why had he dragged in that gentleman whom he had seen and heard, but whom he remembered so vaguely that he had even forgotten the colour of his clothes?

  Polugradov breezed in again.

  ‘So there you are, my deah sir!’ he said. ‘If you had taken the trouble to inspect the scene of the crime right away – then, believe me, everything would be as clear as daylight now! Had you questioned all the servants immediately we would have known who carried Olga’s body and who did not. But now we cannot even determine at what distance from the scene of the crime this drunkard was lying.’

  For two hours he struggled with Kuzma, but he could get nothing new out of him. All Kuzma said was that he was half-asleep when he saw the gentleman, that the gentleman had wiped his hands on the flaps of his jacket and called him ‘drunken swine’. But who this gentleman was, what his face and clothes were like he couldn’t say.

  ‘And how much brandy did you drink?’

  ‘Polished off arf a bottle.’

  ‘Well, perhaps it wasn’t really brandy?’

  ‘Oh yes it was sir, real fine shompagner…’

  ‘Ah, so you even know the names of spirits!’ laughed the deputy prosecutor.

  ‘And why shouldn’t I? Thank God, I’ve waited on gents for thirty year now… I’ve ’ad time to learn.’

  For some reason the deputy prosecutor suddenly felt that Kuzma needed to be confronted with Urbenin. Kuzma took a long look at Urbenin, shook his head and said:

  ‘No, I don’t remember. Perhaps it were Pyotr Yegorych and perhaps it weren’t. God knows!’

  Polugradov waved his arm helplessly and drove off, leaving me to find the real murderer
out of these two.

  The investigation dragged on and on. Urbenin and Kuzma were incarcerated in cells in the same village where I lived. Poor Pyotr Yegorych completely lost heart, grew thin and grey, and fell into a religious frame of mind. Twice he sent me a request to let him see the penal code. Evidently he was interested in the severity of the punishment in store for him.

  ‘What will become of my children?’ he asked me at one of the examinations. ‘If I were all on my own your mistake wouldn’t cause me any distress, but I have to live… live for my children! They’ll perish without me… and I’m in no state to part with them! What are you doing to me!?’

  When the guard started talking down to him and when they made him walk a couple of times from the village to town and back, under armed guard, in full view of people he knew, he was plunged into despair and became highly irritable.

  ‘They’re not lawyers!’ he shouted, loud enough for everyone in the prison to hear. ‘They’re cruel, heartless oafs who spare neither people nor the truth. I know why I’m locked up here, I know! By pinning the blame on me they want to cover up for the real culprit! The Count committed the murder. And if it wasn’t him it was one of his hirelings.’

  When he found out about Kuzma’s arrest he was absolutely delighted at first.

  ‘Now you’ve found the hireling!’ he told me. ‘Now you’ve got him!’

  But before long, when he saw that he wasn’t going to be released and when he was told of Kuzma’s statement, he once again became depressed.

  ‘Now I’m finished… well and truly finished,’ he said. ‘To get out of prison that one-eyed devil Kuzma will sooner or later name me and say that I… wiped my hands on his jacket. But you saw for yourself that my hands hadn’t been wiped.’

  Sooner or later our suspicions were bound to be resolved.

  That same year, at the end of November, when snowflakes were circling before my windows and the lake resembled a boundless white desert, Kuzma expressed a wish to see me. He sent the guard to tell me that he’d had a ‘good think’. I gave instructions for him to be brought to me.