§10
Just as I got out of the Government of Vyatka, I came in contact for the last time with the officials, and this final appearance was quite in their best manner.
We stopped at a post-house, and the driver began to unharness the horses. A tall peasant appeared at the door and asked who I was.
“What business is that of yours?”
“I am the inspector’s messenger, and he told me to ask.”
“Very well: go to the office and you will find my passport there.”
The peasant disappeared but returned in a moment and told the driver that he could not have fresh horses.
This was too much. I jumped out of the sledge and entered the house. The inspector was sitting on a bench and dictating to a clerk; both were half-seas over. On another bench in a corner a man was sitting, or rather lying, with fetters on his feet and hands. There were several bottles in the room, glasses, and a litter of papers and tobacco ash on the table.
“Where is the inspector?” I called out loudly, as I went in.
“I am the inspector,” was the reply. I had seen the man before in Vyatka; his name was Lazarev. While speaking he stared very rudely at me—and then rushed towards me with open arms.
It must be remembered that, after Tufáyev’s fall, the officials, seeing that his successor and I were on fairly good terms, were a little afraid of me.
I kept him off with my hand, and asked in a very serious voice: “How could you order that I was to have no horses? What an absurdity to detain travellers on the high road!”
“It was only a joke; I hope you won’t be angry about it.” Then he shouted at his messenger: “Horses! horses at once! What are you standing there for, you idiot?”
“I hope you will have a cup of tea with some rum in it,” he said to me.
“No, thank you.”
“Perhaps we have some champagne”; he rushed to the bottles, but they were all empty.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Holding an enquiry; this fine fellow took an axe and killed his father and sister. There was a quarrel and he was jealous.”
“And so you celebrate the occasion with champagne?” I said.
The man looked confused. I glanced at the murderer. He was a Cheremiss of about twenty; there was nothing savage about his face; it was of purely Oriental type with narrow flashing eyes and black hair.
I was so disgusted by the whole scene that I went out again into the yard. The inspector ran out after me, with a bottle of rum in one hand and a glass in the other, and pressed me to have a drink.
In order to get rid of him, I accepted. He caught me by the arm and said: “I am to blame, I admit; but I hope you will not mention the facts to His Excellency and so ruin an honest man.” As he spoke, he caught hold of my hand and actually kissed it, repeating a dozen times over, “In God’s name, don’t ruin an honest man!” I pulled away my hand in disgust and said:
“You needn’t be afraid; what need have I to tell tales?”
“But can’t I do you some service?”
“Yes; you can make them harness the horses quicker.”
“Look alive there!” he shouted out, and soon began tugging at the straps himself.