Short Stories by Chekhov
murmur of wonder and delight runs through the crowd; the bells peal more
loudly still, the day grows brighter; the banners oscillate and move
over the crowd as over the waves. The procession, glittering with the
settings of the ikons and the vestments of the clergy, comes slowly down
the road and turns towards the Jordan. Hands are waved to the belfry for
the ringing to cease, and the blessing of the water begins. The priests
conduct the service slowly, deliberately, evidently trying to prolong
the ceremony and the joy of praying all gathered together. There is
perfect stillness.
But now they plunge the cross in, and the air echoes with an
extraordinary din. Guns are fired, the bells peal furiously, loud
exclamations of delight, shouts, and a rush to get the pegs. Seryozhka
listens to this uproar, sees thousands of eyes fixed upon him, and the
lazy fellow's soul is filled with a sense of glory and triumph.
THE SWEDISH MATCH (The Story of a Crime) I
ON the morning of October 6, 1885, a well-dressed young man presented
himself at the office of the police superintendent of the 2nd division
of the S. district, and announced that his employer, a retired cornet of
the guards, called Mark Ivanovitch Klyauzov, had been murdered. The
young man was pale and extremely agitated as he made this announcement.
His hands trembled and there was a look of horror in his eyes.
"To whom have I the honour of speaking?" the superintendent asked him.
"Psyekov, Klyauzov's steward. Agricultural and engineering expert."
The police superintendent, on reaching the spot with Psyekov and the
necessary witnesses, found the position as follows.
Masses of people were crowding about the lodge in which Klyauzov lived.
The news of the event had flown round the neighbourhood with the
rapidity of lightning, and, thanks to its being a holiday, the people
were flocking to the lodge from all the neighbouring villages. There was
a regular hubbub of talk. Pale and tearful faces were to be seen here
and there. The door into Klyauzov's bedroom was found to be locked. The
key was in the lock on the inside.
"Evidently the criminals made their way in by the window" Psyekov
observed, as they examined the door.
They went into the garden into which the bedroom window looked. The
window had a gloomy, ominous air. It was covered by a faded green
curtain. One corner of the curtain was slightly turned back, which made
it possible to peep into the bedroom.
"Has anyone of you looked in at the window?" inquired the
superintendent.
"No, your honour," said Yefrem, the gardener, a little, grey-haired old
man with the face of a veteran non-commissioned officer. "No one feels
like looking when they are shaking in every limb!"
"Ech, Mark Ivanitch! Mark Ivanitch!" sighed the superintendent, as he
looked at the window. "I told you that you would come to a bad end! I
told you, poor dear--you wouldn't listen! Dissipation leads to no good!"
"It's thanks to Yefrem," said Psyekov. "We should never have guessed it
but for him. It was he who first thought that something was wrong. He
came to me this morning and said: 'Why is it our master hasn't waked up
for so long? He hasn't been out of his bedroom for a whole week! When he
said that to me I was struck all of a heap . . . . The thought flashed
through my mind at once. He hasn't made an appearance since Saturday of
last week, and to-day's Sunday. Seven days is no joke!"
"Yes, poor man," the superintendent sighed again. "A clever fellow,
well-educated, and so good-hearted. There was no one like him, one may
say, in company. But a rake; the kingdom of heaven be his! I'm not
surprised at anything with him! Stepan," he said, addressing one of the
witnesses, "ride off this minute to my house and send Andryushka to the
police captain's, let him report to him. Say Mark Ivanitch has been
murdered! Yes, and run to the inspector--why should he sit in comfort
doing nothing? Let him come here. And you go yourself as fast as you can
to the examining magistrate, Nikolay Yermolaitch, and tell him to come
here. Wait a bit, I will write him a note."
The police superintendent stationed watchmen round the lodge, and went
off to the steward's to have tea. Ten minutes later he was sitting on a
stool, carefully nibbling lumps of sugar, and sipping tea as hot as a
red-hot coal.
"There it is! . . ." he said to Psyekov, "there it is! . . . a
gentleman, and a well-to-do one, too . . . a favourite of the gods, one
may say, to use Pushkin's expression, and what has he made of it?
Nothing! He gave himself up to drinking and debauchery, and . . . here
now . . . he has been murdered!"
Two hours later the examining magistrate drove up. Nikolay Yermolaitch
Tchubikov (that was the magistrate's name), a tall, thick-set old man of
sixty, had been hard at work for a quarter of a century. He was known to
the whole district as an honest, intelligent, energetic man, devoted to
his work. His invariable companion, assistant, and secretary, a tall
young man of six and twenty, called Dyukovsky, arrived on the scene of
action with him.
"Is it possible, gentlemen?" Tchubikov began, going into Psyekov's room
and rapidly shaking hands with everyone. "Is it possible? Mark Ivanitch?
Murdered? No, it's impossible! Imposs-i-ble!"
"There it is," sighed the superintendent
"Merciful heavens! Why I saw him only last Friday. At the fair at
Tarabankovo! Saving your presence, I drank a glass of vodka with him!"
"There it is," the superintendent sighed once more.
They heaved sighs, expressed their horror, drank a glass of tea each,
and went to the lodge.
"Make way!" the police inspector shouted to the crowd.
On going into the lodge the examining magistrate first of all set to
work to inspect the door into the bedroom. The door turned out to be
made of deal, painted yellow, and not to have been tampered with. No
special traces that might have served as evidence could be found. They
proceeded to break open the door.
"I beg you, gentlemen, who are not concerned, to retire," said the
examining magistrate, when, after long banging and cracking, the door
yielded to the axe and the chisel. "I ask this in the interests of the
investigation. . . . Inspector, admit no one!"
Tchubikov, his assistant, and the police superintendent opened the door
and hesitatingly, one after the other, walked into the room. The
following spectacle met their eyes. In the solitary window stood a big
wooden bedstead with an immense feather bed on it. On the rumpled
feather bed lay a creased and crumpled quilt. A pillow, in a cotton
pillow case--also much creased, was on the floor. On a little table
beside the bed lay a silver watch, and silver coins to the value of
twenty kopecks. Some sulphur matches lay there too. Except the bed, the
table, and a solitary chair, there was no furniture in the room. Looking
under the bed, the superintendent saw two dozen empty bottles, an old
straw hat, and a jar of vodka. Under the table lay one boot, covered
with dust. Taking a look round the room, Tchubikov frowned and flushed
crimson.
"The blackguards!" he muttered, clenching his fists.
"And where is Mark Ivanitch?" Dyukovsky asked quietly.
"I beg you not to put your spoke in," Tchubikov answered roughly.
"Kindly examine the floor. This is the second case in my experience,
Yevgraf Kuzmitch," he added to the police superintendent, dropping his
voice. "In 1870 I had a similar case. But no doubt you remember it. . .
. The murder of the merchant Portretov. It was just the same. The
blackguards murdered him, and dragged the dead body out of the window."
Tchubikov went to the window, drew the curtain aside, and cautiously
pushed the window. The window opened.
"It opens, so it was not fastened. . . . H'm there are traces on the
window-sill. Do you see? Here is the trace of a knee. . . . Some one
climbed out. . . . We shall have to inspect the window thoroughly."
"There is nothing special to be observed on the floor," said Dyukovsky.
"No stains, nor scratches. The only thing I have found is a used Swedish
match. Here it is. As far as I remember, Mark Ivanitch didn't smoke; in
a general way he used sulphur ones, never Swedish matches. This match
may serve as a clue. . . ."
"Oh, hold your tongue, please!" cried Tchubikov, with a wave of his
hand. "He keeps on about his match! I can't stand these excitable
people! Instead of looking for matches, you had better examine the bed!"
On inspecting the bed, Dyukovsky reported:
"There are no stains of blood or of anything else. . . . Nor are there
any fresh rents. On the pillow there are traces of teeth. A liquid,
having the smell of beer and also the taste of it, has been spilt on the
quilt. . . . The general appearance of the bed gives grounds for
supposing there has been a struggle."
"I know there was a struggle without your telling me! No one asked you
whether there was a struggle. Instead of looking out for a struggle you
had better be . . ."
"One boot is here, the other one is not on the scene."
"Well, what of that?"
"Why, they must have strangled him while he was taking off his boots. He
hadn't time to take the second boot off when . . . ."
"He's off again! . . . And how do you know that he was strangled?"
"There are marks of teeth on the pillow. The pillow itself is very much
crumpled, and has been flung to a distance of six feet from the bed."
"He argues, the chatterbox! We had better go into the garden. You had
better look in the garden instead of rummaging about here. . . . I can
do that without your help."
When they went out into the garden their first task was the inspection
of the grass. The grass had been trampled down under the windows. The
clump of burdock against the wall under the window turned out to have
been trodden on too. Dyukovsky succeeded in finding on it some broken
shoots, and a little bit of wadding. On the topmost burrs, some fine
threads of dark blue wool were found.
"What was the colour of his last suit? Dyukovsky asked Psyekov.
"It was yellow, made of canvas."
"Capital! Then it was they who were in dark blue. . . ."
Some of the burrs were cut off and carefully wrapped up in paper. At
that moment Artsybashev-Svistakovsky, the police captain, and Tyutyuev,
the doctor, arrived. The police captain greeted the others, and at once
proceeded to satisfy his curiosity; the doctor, a tall and extremely
lean man with sunken eyes, a long nose, and a sharp chin, greeting no
one and asking no questions, sat down on a stump, heaved a sigh and
said:
"The Serbians are in a turmoil again! I can't make out what they want!
Ah, Austria, Austria! It's your doing!"
The inspection of the window from outside yielded absolutely no result;
the inspection of the grass and surrounding bushes furnished many
valuable clues. Dyukovsky succeeded, for instance, in detecting a long,
dark streak in the grass, consisting of stains, and stretching from the
window for a good many yards into the garden. The streak ended under one
of the lilac bushes in a big, brownish stain. Under the same bush was
found a boot, which turned out to be the fellow to the one found in the
bedroom.
"This is an old stain of blood," said Dyukovsky, examining the stain.
At the word "blood," the doctor got up and lazily took a cursory glance
at the stain.
"Yes, it's blood," he muttered.
"Then he wasn't strangled since there's blood," said Tchubikov, looking
malignantly at Dyukovsky.
"He was strangled in the bedroom, and here, afraid he would come to,
they stabbed him with something sharp. The stain under the bush shows
that he lay there for a comparatively long time, while they were trying
to find some way of carrying him, or something to carry him on out of
the garden."