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One fine morning, just as I was sealing up a parcel which I was about to send by the guard, who was to take Urbenin to be locked up in the castle-prison in town, I heard a terrible noise. Looking out of the window I saw an amusing sight: some dozen strong young fellows were dragging one-eyed Kuz’ma out of the servants’ kitchen.

Kuz’ma pale and dishevelled had his feet firmly planted on the ground, and being deprived of the use of his arms, butted at his adversaries with his large head.

‘Your Honour, please go and see him!’ Il’ya said to me, in great alarm, ‘he… does not want to come!’

‘Who does not want to come?’

‘The murderer.’

‘What murderer?’

‘Kuz’ma… He committed the murder, your Honour… Pëtr Egorych is suffering unjustly… As God is my witness, sir.’

I went into the yard and walked towards the servants’ kitchen, where Kuz’ma, who had torn himself out of the strong arms of his opponents, was administering cuffs to right and left.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked, when I came up to the crowd.

Then I was told something very strange and unexpected.

‘Your Honour, Kuz’ma killed her!’

‘They lie!’ Kuz’ma shouted. ‘May God kill me if they don’t lie!’

‘But why did you, son of a devil, wash off the blood, if your conscience is clear? Stop a moment, his Honour will examine all this!’

One of the grooms, Trifon, riding past the river, had seen Kuz’ma washing something carefully in the water. At first Trifon thought he was washing linen, but looking more attentively he saw it was a poddevka and a waistcoat. He thought this strange: such clothes are not usually washed.

‘What are you doing?’ Trifon called to him.

Kuz’ma became confused. Looking more attentively, Trifon noticed brown spots on the poddevka.

I guessed at once that it must be blood… I went into the kitchen and told our people; they watched, and saw him at night hanging out the poddevka to dry. Of course they took fright. Why should he wash it, if he is not guilty? He must have something on his soul he is trying to hide… We thought and thought, and decided to bring him to your Honour… We were dragging him to you, but he keeps backing away and spitting in our eyes. Why should he back away if he is not guilty?’

From further examination it appeared that just before the murder, at the time when the Count and his guests were sitting in the clearing, drinking tea, Kuz’ma had gone into the forest. He had not helped in carrying Olga, and therefore could not have got blood on his clothes by this means.

When he was brought to my room Kuz’ma was so excited that at first he could not utter a word; turning up the white of his single eye he crossed himself and mumbled oaths.

‘Be calm; tell me what you know and I will let you go,’ I said to him.

Kuz’ma fell at my feet, stammering and calling on God.

‘May I perish if I had anything to do with it… May neither my father nor my mother… Your Honour! May God destroy my soul…’

‘You went into the forest?’

‘That’s quite true, sir, I went… I had served cognac to the guests and, forgive me, I had tippled a little; it went to my head, and I wanted to lie down; I went, lay down, and fell asleep… But who killed her, or how I don’t know, so help me God… It’s the truth I’m telling you!’

‘But why did you wash off the blood?’

‘I was afraid that people might imagine… that I might be taken as a witness…’

‘How did the blood get on your poddevka?’

‘I don’t know, your Honour.’

‘Why don’t you know? Isn’t the poddevka yours?’

‘Yes, certainly it’s mine, but I don’t know: I saw the blood when I woke up again.”So then, I suppose you dirtied the poddevka with blood in your sleep?’

‘I suppose so…’

‘Well, my man, go and think it over… You’re talking nonsense; think well and tell me tomorrow… Go!’

The following morning, when I awoke, I was informed that Kuz’ma wanted to speak to me. I ordered him to be brought in.

‘Have you thought it over?’ I asked him.

‘Indeed, I have…’

‘How did the blood get on your poddevka?’

‘Your Honour, I remember as if in a dream: I remember something, as in a fog, but if it is true or not I can’t say.’

‘What is it you remember?’

Kuz’ma turned up his eye, thought, and said:

‘Extraordinary… it’s like a dream or a fog… I lay upon the grass drunk and dozing. I was not quite asleep… Then I heard somebody passing, trampling heavily with his feet… I opened my eyes and saw, as if I was unconscious, or in a dream; a gentleman came up to me, he bent over me and wiped his hands in my skirts… He wiped them in my poddevka, and then rubbed his hands on my waistcoat… so.’

‘What gentleman was it?’

I don’t know; I only remember it was not a muzhik, but a gentleman… in gentleman’s clothes; but what gentleman it was, what sort of face he had I can’t remember at all.’

‘What was the colour of his clothes?’

‘Who can say! Perhaps white, perhaps black… I only remember it was a gentleman, and that’s all I can remember… Ach, yes, I can remember! When he bent down and wiped his hands he said: “Drunken swine!”

‘You dreamt this?’

‘I don’t know… perhaps I dreamt it… But then where did the blood come from?’

‘Was the gentleman you saw like Pëtr Egorych?’

‘Not so far as I can tell… but perhaps it was… But he would not swear and call people swine.’

‘Try to remember… Go, sit down and think… Perhaps you may succeed in remembering.’

‘I’ll try.’