Short Fiction Vladimir Korolenko (best motivational novels .TXT) 📖

to have hurried you. I could have waited.”

“Oh, no!⁠ ⁠… Ouf!⁠ ⁠… Duty above all things. I never want to keep anyone waiting. That is against my principles.”

The inspector spoke in a hoarse army bass, the sound of which involuntarily brought to mind the idea of rum and Zhukof34 tobacco. His small eyes, colorless yet keen, with restless scrutiny, peered in all directions, and at last rested on me.

“This is Mr. N., a friend of mine, who is temporarily performing the duties of clerk,” said Proskuróf, as he introduced me.

“I have the pleasure to have heard of you, and am very happy to make your acquaintance. Bezrýlof, a retired captain.”

Lifting his hand to his vizor, he clanked his spurs with a good deal of style.

“Very well! We will begin the investigation, then, while the daylight lasts, and make short work of it, in military fashion. Hey, there!⁠ ⁠…”

The watchers came toward us, and, together, we drew near the dead body. Bezrýlof was the first to reach it, and, with an air of indifference, instantly pulled off the covering.

We involuntarily recoiled at the spectacle before us. The entire chest of the deceased displayed gaping wounds, cut and pierced in different places. An unspeakable horror took possession of the soul at the sight of such traces of beastly rage. Any one of these wounds would have been mortal, but it was evident that the majority of them were dealt after death.

Even Bezrýlof lost his customary self-possession, and stood motionless, holding in his hand the end of the covering. His cheeks grew purple, and the ends of his moustache stood out like two spears.

“The rascals!” he said at last, and heaved a deep sigh, which may have been an expression of remorse, knowing, as he did, that for him there was no possible retreat from the path of concealment and deception upon which he had entered. Gently replacing the covering, he turned to Proskuróf, who had not once averted his eyes from him.

“If you are willing, I wish to postpone the description until the inquest tomorrow,” pleaded the inspector, with a dispirited look.⁠ ⁠… “And now let us examine the locality, and have the body carried to B⁠⸺.”

“And there the prisoner shall be questioned,” replied Proskuróf, harshly.

A startled expression came into Bezrýlofs eyes, such as is seen in those of a hunted animal.

“The prisoner?” he exclaimed. “Have you a prisoner, then?⁠ ⁠… How happens it that I have not been⁠ ⁠… how is it that I knew nothing of it?”

He was almost ludicrous, but he quickly made an effort to recover himself. Casting a reproachful glance at his driver and the peasants, he turned again to Proskuróf.

“Well done! Matters begin to look alive⁠ ⁠… remarkably so!⁠ ⁠…”

VIII “Iván, Aged Thirty-Eight Years”

About midnight, the officials, having rested and taken tea, began the inquest.

In a large room, at a table covered with writing materials, sat Proskuróf. His somewhat comical vivacity had given place to a serious and dignified demeanor. Bezrýlof, who had now regained his former ease of the barracks, had had time during his brief rest to get a bath, to wax his moustache, and to give an extra touch to his gray hair. On the whole, he was still a hale and rather an elegant man. Sipping strong tea from a tumbler that stood beside him, he glanced at the examiner in a condescending sort of way. I was seated at the opposite end of the table.

“Will you have the prisoner brought in?” said Proskuróf, looking up from the sheet of paper on which he was rapidly writing the form of the interrogatories.

Bezrýlof nodded, and Yevséyitch at once rushed out of the hut.

A moment later, the door opened, and a man of tall stature⁠—the same whom I had seen with Kostiúshka at the ferry, gazing at the clouds⁠—made his appearance.

In entering, he slightly stumbled over the sill, and, after a glance at the place, he walked into the middle of the room, and stood still. His step was measured and composed. A broad face, with rather coarse but regular features, denoted the utmost indifference. The blue eyes were somewhat dull, and gazed vaguely into space, as though not noticing the objects before them. His hair was cut in a circle, and spots of blood were visible on his colored cotton shirt. Proskuróf passed the paper with the written interrogatories to me, and, having pushed the pen and ink in the same direction, began to put the usual questions.

“What is your name?”

“Iván, aged thirty-eight.”

“Where do you live?”

“I have no home.⁠ ⁠… I am a vagrant.⁠ ⁠…”

“Tell me, ‘Iván, aged thirty-eight,’ did you murder the driver Iván Mikháïlof?”

“I did.⁠ ⁠… That’s my doing. Your Excellency.⁠ ⁠… There’s no use trying to hide the fact⁠ ⁠… that’s evident.⁠ ⁠…”

“Well said!⁠ ⁠…” exclaimed Bezrýlof, approvingly.

“What is the use?⁠—Your Excellency is making unnecessary delays!⁠ ⁠… There’s no denying the truth.”

After the first answers had been written down, the examiner continued:⁠—

“At whose instigation or suggestion did you do this deed, and where did you get the fifty-two rubles and two kopeks which were found on your person?”

The vagrant raised his dreamy eyes.

“What’s the use in asking these questions, Your Excellency? You know your business, and I know mine. I did it out of my own head; that’s all there is to it.⁠ ⁠… Myself, the dark night, and the forest⁠ ⁠… three of us!⁠ ⁠…”

Bezrýlof gave a grunt of satisfaction and drank half a tumbler of tea at one gulp, bestowing, meanwhile, sarcastic glances on Proskuróf. Then he gazed at the vagrant, admiring the result of his model prison-training, as a discipline-loving officer admires that of a well trained soldier.

Proskuróf remained impassive. Evidently, he had expected no disclosures from the vagrant.

“Will you not tell us,” he went on with his interrogatory, “why you hacked Feódor Mikháïlof in such a barbarous manner? Did you have a personal grudge or hatred against the deceased?”

The man looked up at the examiner with astonishment.

“I don’t think I stabbed him more than once or twice⁠ ⁠… I believe.⁠ ⁠… Then he fell.⁠ ⁠…”

“Desyátnik,”35 said