Part 83

Markelov frowned.

“I have said all I have to say and don’t want to repeat it.”

“But don’t you repent? Don’t you repent?”

“Oh, leave me alone with your repentance! You want to steal into my very soul? Leave that, at any rate, to me.”

Sipiagin shrugged his shoulders.

“You were always like that; never would listen to common-sense. You have a splendid chance of getting out of this quietly, honourably——”

“Quietly, honourably,” Markelov repeated savagely. “We know those words. They are always flung at a man when he’s wanted to do something mean! That is what these fine phrases are for!”

“We sympathise with you,” Sipiagin continued reproachfully, “and you hate us.”

“Fine sympathy! To Siberia and hard labour with us; that is your sympathy. Oh, let me alone! let me alone! for Heaven’s sake!”

Markelov lowered his head.

He was agitated at heart, though externally calm. He was most of all tortured by the fact that he had been betrayed—and by whom? By Eremy of Goloplok! That same Eremy whom he had trusted so much! That Mendely the sulky had not followed him, had really not surprised him. Mendely was drunk and was consequently afraid. But Eremy! For Markelov, Eremy stood in some way as the personification of the whole Russian people, and Eremy had deceived him! Had he been mistaken about the thing he was striving for? Was Kisliakov a liar? And were Vassily Nikolaevitch’s orders all stupid? And all the articles, books, works of socialists and thinkers, every letter of which had seemed to him invincible truth, were they all nonsense too? Was it really so? And the beautiful simile of the abscess awaiting the prick of the lancet—was that, too, nothing more than a phrase? “No! no!” he whispered to himself, and the colour spread faintly over his bronze-coloured face; “no! All these things are true, true... only I am to blame. I did not know how to do things, did not put things in the right way! I ought simply to have given orders, and if anyone had tried to hinder, or object—put a bullet through his head! there is nothing else to be done! He who is against us has no right to live. Don’t they kill spies like dogs, worse than dogs?”

All the details of his capture rose up in Markelov’s mind. First the silence, the leers, then the shrieks from the back of the crowd... someone coming up sideways as if bowing to him, then that sudden rush, when he was knocked down. His own cries of “What are you doing, my boys?” and their shouts, “A belt! A belt! tie him up!” Then the rattling of his bones ... unspeakable rage ... filth in his mouth, his nostrils.... “Shove him in the cart! shove him in the cart!” someone roared with laughter....

“I didn’t go about it in the right way....” That was the thing that most tormented him. That he had fallen under the wheel was his personal misfortune and had nothing to do with the cause—it was possible to bear that ... but Eremy! Eremy!!

While Markelov was standing with his head sunk on his breast, Sipiagin drew the governor aside and began talking to him in undertones. He flourished two fingers across his forehead, as though he would suggest that the unfortunate man was not quite right in his head, in order to arouse if not sympathy, at any rate indulgence towards the madman. The governor shrugged his shoulders, opened and shut his eyes, regretted his inability to do anything, but made some sort of promise in the end. “Tous les égards ... certainement, tous les égards,” the soft, pleasant words flowed through his scented moustache. “But you know the law, my boy!”

“Of course I do!” Sipiagin responded with a sort of submissive severity.

While they were talking in the corner, Kollomietzev could scarcely stand still in one spot. He walked up and down, hummed and hawed, showed every sign of impatience. At last he went up to Sipiagin, saying hastily, “Vous oublier l’autre!”

“Oh, yes!” Sipiagin exclaimed loudly. “Merci de me l’avoir rappelé. Your excellency,” he said, turning to the governor (he purposely addressed his friend Voldemar in this formal way, so as not to compromise the prestige of authority in Markelov’s presence), “I must draw your attention to the fact that my brother-in-law’s mad attempt has certain ramifications, and one of these branches, that is to say, one of the suspected persons, is to be found not very far from here, in this town. I’ve brought another with me,” he added in a whisper, “he’s in the drawing-room. Have him brought in here.”

“What a man!” the governor thought with admiration, gazing respectfully at Sipiagin. He gave the order and a minute later Sila Paklin stood before him.

Paklin bowed very low to the governor as he came in, but catching sight of Markelov before he had time to raise himself, remained as he was, half bent down, fidgetting with his cap. Markelov looked at him vacantly, but could hardly have recognised him, as he withdrew into his own thoughts.

“Is this the branch?” the governor asked, pointing to Paklin with a long white finger adorned with a turquoise ring.

“Oh, no!” Sipiagin exclaimed with a slight smile. “However, who knows!” he added after a moment’s thought. “Your excellency,” he said aloud, “the gentleman before you is Mr. Paklin. He comes from St. Petersburg and is a close friend of a certain person who for a time held the position of tutor in my house and who ran away, taking with him a certain young girl who, I blush to say, is my niece.”

“Ah! oui, oui,” the governor mumbled, shaking his head, “I heard the story.... The princess told me——”

Sipiagin raised his voice.

“That person is a certain Mr. Nejdanov, whom I strongly suspect of dangerous ideas and theories—”

“Un rouge à tous crins,” Kollomietzev put in.

“Yes, dangerous ideas and theories,” Sipiagin repeated more emphatically. “He must certainly know something about this propaganda. He is... in hiding, as I have been informed by Mr. Paklin, in the merchant Falyaeva’s factory—”

At these words Markelov threw another glance at Paklin and gave a slow, indifferent smile.

“Excuse me, excuse me, your excellency,” Paklin cried, “and you, Mr. Sipiagin, I never... never—”