Sister Pelagia and the White Bulldog (39 page)

THE ENTRANCE OF this witness created a genuine sensation, and in his zeal one of the illustrators even slid down from his chair onto the floor and gradually crept closer in order to capture the bishop’s solemn and majestic posture as he pronounced the words of the oath.

Mitrofanii did not address the jury directly, but immediately turned to face the counsel for the defense, as if acknowledging that he was the key figure in this bitter legal battle.

“You spoke of responsibility,” His Grace began clearly and loudly. “And you spoke the absolute truth. Everyone who speaks before a human court of law bears a great responsibility. But we bear an incomparably greater responsibility before another court to come. However, you appear to have forgotten about that.”

Gurii Samsonovich lowered his head meekly, as if not daring to contradict such a venerable opponent while yet remaining true to his own opinion.

“You are, after all, a talented man with a subtle mind,” Mitrofanii continued reproachfully. “Why do you indulge in these verbal acrobatics? The merchant and his son, the three poor Zyts, the artist, the two young women, and this Caucasian as well—see how many souls have perished. And all of them, as ill luck would have it, are connected with Bubentsov. You will not attempt to deny that, surely? Here in Zavolzhie everything had been calm and peaceful. Then this man appeared and it was as if he had cast a curse on our blessed district. There came murders, mutual suspicion, hatred, baseness, informing, mistrust in families, fear. I shall now say something that many freethinkers and atheists will regard as superstition and backwardness, but it is the pure truth. Prowling around us and among us are those who bear in their souls the spirit of evil. There are many of these people, and they look exactly the same as everyone else. Therefore we do not fear them, but we open our hearts and our embraces to them.” At this point His Grace scanned with an expressive glance the gallery where the ladies of Zavolzhsk were sitting. “And we only come to recognize these bearers of evil when for some reason, for certain requirements of their own, they decide to wound us or destroy us. And then we wail and lament, but it is nearly too late to save ourselves, because these evil powers have teeth of steel, claws of iron, and their hearts are hewn from stone.”

The bishop resembled an Old Testament prophet now, and Mitrofanii’s voice thundered as if he were leading his cavalry squadron into the attack on the English hussars in the Valley of Death at Balaclava.

“Do you know what a disaster befell our province? Evil came to us. And we who live here have all felt it—some sooner and some later. Your defendant is not only an evil man, he is a servant of evil. His entire life, his entire behavior, testify to that. And a dangerous servant, because he is intelligent, cunning, resourceful, bold, and handsome. Yes, yes, handsome. The Evil One has endowed him with a mellifluous tongue, an entrancing voice, and the power to subdue the weak with many other gifts.”

At this point Bubentsov did something foolish: He pretended to menace the bishop from behind with horns, and he stuck out his tongue. Someone snorted in laughter, but on the majority of those present the antic left an extremely unpleasant impression.

“Let us look at those things he has done that even you will not dispute,” the bishop continued, still addressing the advocate alone. “You said it was not he who killed the Vonifatievs, father and son, but his underling. Let us assume—merely assume—that to be the case. Out of one terrible crime, Bubentsov created another, even worse: He made a false allegation against an entire people, raised up a storm of hatred and intolerance, organized a shameful and repulsive hunt against those of a different faith. And how did he behave with Naina Telianova? He debauched that young woman, destroyed her life, and mocked her sinful but sincere feelings. And he did not even debauch her out of love, or even out of passion, but out of a momentary whim or, even worse, out of cupidity. Deliberately or otherwise, Bubentsov pushed Naina Telianova into committing the most repulsive acts and into direct complicity with a monstrous murder. And afterward he destroyed her. Yes, yes, in any case it was he who destroyed both Naina Georgievna and her maid, and the artist.”

This was already more than Lomeiko could stand, since he could see the effect that the bishop’s speech was having on the members of the jury.

“But by your leave!” the advocate exclaimed, rising to his feet. “You say this in a figurative sense, but the law does not acknowledge figures of speech! Mr. Chairman, this is in total breach of procedure and the regulations! I protest!”

“I can also speak non-figuratively,” Mitrofanii said in a much quieter voice. “What were those arguments that you used in an attempt to refute the accusation? That the frail Bubentsov would not have had the strength to force the heavy tripod from the photographic apparatus through Poggio’s chest? I believe that you used the phrase ‘satanic strength.’ A most apt expression. For I also think of satanic strength when I see how much evil energy and devilish stamina Mr. Bubentsov has displayed in the course of his tumultuous activities in our province. Yes, he is slender and gaunt, but it is a well-known fact that people with his physique possess special resources of nervous energy. In a frenzy or a fury they are capable of demonstrating miraculous strength, as medical science confirms. There is no need to seek too far.” The bishop looked as if a fortunate example had just at that moment occurred to him. “Last year during the trial of a certain Miss Baranova, you yourself described it quite remarkably. Your defendant, a seventeen-year-old seamstress, choked her tormentor with her bare hands and in her passion she also dragged his two-hundred-fifty-pound carcass to a pond. I read your speech, which won Baranova a light sentence, in the newspapers. Do you remember your own explanation of nervous frenzy?”

This was a crushing blow, and all the more so because it took Gurii Samsonovich entirely by surprise. Who could have expected a provincial bishop to be so well informed?

But the bishop was already proceeding further.

“Since you have studied the materials of the case, you are aware that someone attempted to kill the nun Pelagia Lisitsyna after she exposed Naina Telianova’s mischief with the white bulldogs. The material evidence includes a sack and a rope, the weapons used in the attempted murder. Bubentsov was present when Telianova was exposed, but Murad Djuraev was not. If Djuraev is the only criminal, then how did he know that Sister Pelagia was dangerous?”

The advocate cast an inquiring glance at Vladimir Lvovich, who merely shrugged.

“And in addition…” Mitrofanii paused, making it clear that he was coming to the most important point of all. “Tell me, Mr. Defender, with whom was Telianova in love—Murad Djuraev or Bubentsov?”

The public did not immediately appreciate the significance of the question, but the sharp-witted Gurii Samsonovich turned pale and tugged on his beard.

“Dead men, Mr. Advocate, can also testify. The Lord has given them that power. Engrossed in your game of words, you lost sight of the main thing: that Naina Telianova would have committed such insane acts—concealing the whereabouts of the remains, killing the dogs—only for someone whom she loved with all her heart. But not for the ignorant Circassian whom you so diligently urge upon us as the likely murderer. What have you to say to that? Who is it that cannot see the wood for the trees here?”

Half a minute passed, a minute. The luminary of legal thought was silent. The hall held its breath, sensing that the outcome of the entire trial was being decided at that very moment.

Then for the first time in his entire speech, Mitrofanii turned to the accused and asked sharply: “And what have you to say to that, Mr. Criminal?”

Vladimir Lvovich flushed and was on the point of opening his mouth to speak, but that very instant something happened that very probably even the perspicacious bishop could not have foreseen.

“A-A-A-A-GH!” THERE WAS a sickening howl, or rather a whine, and Tikhon Ieremeevich Spasyonny, who had hitherto been sitting absolutely quiet, so that everybody had almost forgotten about him, ran out of the fenced-off enclosure for the accused into the center of the hall.

He collapsed onto his knees and bowed three times down to the floor: to the court, the jurors, and the hall, all the while choking on his own convulsive sobs. The guards took hold of him under the arms and tried to lift him up, but the accused resolutely refused to stand, and he had to be dragged bodily back to the bench.

“Greatly, most greatly sinful!” the crazed secretary cried. “Woe is me, I am cursed!”

The judge rang his bell menacingly and Spasyonny bowed penitently once again.

“Your Grace,” he sobbed. “Allow me to make a candid confession.”

Then he turned to his companion on the bench and, folding his hands prayerfully, appealed to him.

“Confess, Vladimir Lvovich! Forgive me, feebleminded as I am, but I have no more strength! Many are the sins that we bear, oh, many! The bishop spoke truly about evildoers, and even such are you and I. In the name of Christ our Lord, I implore you, repent.”

The policemen were obliged to take hold of Bubentsov by the shoulders and the two of them were scarcely able to restrain the inspector, who was white with fury, which most convincingly confirmed what the bishop had said about the strength of nervous frenzy.

Mitrofanii proceeded majestically back to his place. They did not applaud him—they did not dare—but the respectful silence that accompanied His Grace on his way was more triumphant than any ovation.

“Do you wish to give testimony?” the chairman asked.

“Yes! I do!” Spasyonny wiped his tear-stained face with his sleeve. “Candid testimony. I wish to unburden my soul!”

He stood up and began speaking in a trembling voice.

“Verily, evil is ubiquitous, and I am its most loathsome servant! Vladimir Lvovich, Mr. Bubentsov, is guilty of all these terrible murders; he killed those people, but I, sinner that I am, am also guilty, for I kept silent, concealed and facilitated—out of weakness and out of fear for my own life!”

Vladimir Lvovich jerked so hard that his guards were sent flying, but another two came dashing to their aid, and the four of them managed to sit the wrathful accused back in his place. Vladimir Lvovich could not move, but he shouted: “What’s wrong with you, Undershirt, have you gone mad?”

“There, you see,” said Tikhon Ieremeevich, trembling all over. “Even now I shudder and shake at the very sound of his voice. Verily he is Satan. Alluring and full of temptation. He has been granted great power over men. And I, worm that I am, could not resist his temptation, when I realized how broad was the span of his wing. He came to this peaceful town to reduce it to dust, ashes, and groans—and all in the name of his own aggrandizement. It was his plan to elevate himself to the very peak of earthly power, and for that he would have halted at nothing. He told me: ‘Cling tight, Undershirt, to my coattails and do not be timid, do not unclench your fingers. I shall soar aloft and raise you up with me.’ But he also said: ‘Beware, Undershirt, that you do not go against me, for I will crush you like a worm.’ And he would have crushed me, for he is that kind of man. He deceived me, intimidated me, and flattered me, and I became his devoted dog. Most basely and most vilely have I acted, sinner that I am. The only thing in which I have not defiled myself is murder, but that only because my nerves are weak.”

Spasyonny broke down, sobbing and unable to carry on speaking, so that the bailiff was obliged to give him some water. Calming somewhat, the penitent continued.

“He joked about it. About the saying that other ambitious men ‘walk on people’s heads,’ but he was literally scrambling over heads to high places. There is much that I could tell you, about how he confused, tormented, and frightened those unfortunate Zyts…And I was no better, I wanted to earn his approval. What happened with the Vonifatievs was this…Vladimir Lvovich has horrendous debts, from the old days. Here in Zavolzhsk he strode about like a lion, but in Peter he darts about like a hare, hiding from his creditors. It is a hindrance to his career, and Konstantin Petrovich has reproached him for it—told him it is not seemly for a synodical official. And then, when we were staying with the general’s widow at Drozdovka, the talk turned to the merchant who had arrived. Vladimir Lvovich whispered in my ear: Ask Sytnikov how much he expects to pay for the forest.”

“Why are you lying?” Bubentsov shouted furiously from his seat, and the judge warned him: One more word and he would be removed from the hall.

“What point is there in lying now?” asked Spasyonny, glancing around fearfully at his former protector. “Now is the time to tell the truth. And so, when he learned that this Vonifatiev was going to get thirty thousand, or perhaps even forty, his eyes lit up. I sat there, thinking nothing of it. When Sytnikov grew angry with Vladimir Lvovich and got up to leave, he said to me: Overtake him and ask him not to be angry with me, and ask him at the same time whether he will bring his guest here; it would be interesting to take a look at such a savage. I thought he had some business in mind—he was planning at the time to discredit the Old Believers. It was only later that he was inspired to switch his attention to the pagans. Very well, I came back and reported to him: No, he says he won’t bring him. The merchant is traveling on once the deal is done, despite it being so late. Very well, said Vladimir Lvovich, and he seemed to lose interest. That is all that happened. But that night I knocked at his door—I had an idea, a base little idea, I won’t say what it was, because I’m ashamed of it and it has nothing to do with the case. I knocked and knocked, but he didn’t answer. At first I was surprised, because he is a light sleeper, but afterward I decided that he must be spending the night with the young mistress of Drozdovka.”