“You don’t have to continue,” Fandorin stopped the narrator. - The rest is clear. Not finding the rosary, you fell into a frenzy and decided to get the relic at any cost, even if it was bloody. Only Pryakhin turned out to be a tough nut to crack... Lord, Lev Aristarkhovich, you graduated from university! How is it possible, for anything, even the secret of immortality, to chop a living person with an ax? And besides, it is unworthy of a scientist to believe in such absurdities.
“Your Honor,” the police officer pleaded. - Please, explain what’s going on! What absurdities? What secret?
“Yes, nonsense,” Erast Petrovich waved his hand angrily. - Empty tales. According to legend, Tie Guangzi tried for many years to find the secret of eternal life, once revealed by the great Laozi, who allegedly managed to gain immortality. The ancient book says that Tie Guangzi achieved enlightenment, supreme wisdom and defeated death by fingering green jade rosaries. He lived three times for eighty years, and then completely managed to overcome the threshold of eternity, which is symbolized by the number twenty-five - three times longevity plus one.
The Count shook his head, looking at the official with sincere compassion.
– The vanity of reason and logic before the greatness of the spirit. Poor lucky Erast Petrovich, how blind you are! What saved you twice from certain death if not the possession of the Elder's rosary? Why, why did they go to an indifferent layman, and not to me!
“Because, your Excellency,” the court councilor said sternly to this, offended by the “layman,” “that you did not learn the main thing from the legend.” Tie Guangzi's rosary does not go into the hands of someone who has an evil heart. I’m afraid that in your monastery you still did not comprehend the secret of existence - you were overly carried away by breaking bamboo.
Behind the dark windows there was the roar of an approaching carriage and the door slammed.
“Here comes the investigator,” the police officer announced, getting up.
A lean gentleman in a pince-nez, with a bilious, sleepy face, entered - Sergei Sergeevich Lemke from the district prosecutor's office. He shook hands with Erast Petrovich, bowed to the detainee, and nodded to the police officer.
- Where? – asked Fandorin. - To Malaya Provincial?
“No,” Sergei Sergeevich suppressed a yawn. - All the noble cells there are occupied. I’ll take you to the Krutitsa guardhouse. We'll interrogate you there. Will you go?
“With your permission, a little later,” the official replied. special assignments. – The picture of the c-crime has been completely established. Complete the formalities for now. I will be right back.
Two guards who arrived with the investigator led the detainee to the exit.
At the threshold the count stopped, turned to Fandorin and asked in a pleading voice:
– Will you let me look at them at least once more?
The guard lightly pushed the prisoner in the back.
– Still, it’s a pity. “Such a learned man goes to hard labor,” Makar Nilovich felt sorry for the murderer when the prison carriage drove off.
“What kind of hard labor there,” Fandorin consoled him. “Don’t you see that he is completely mad?” Lev Aristarkhovich is awaiting a prison hospital, a department for the violently insane.
Nebaba sat down to write a report to the bailiff about solving the murder and capturing the murderer. He puffed, creaked his pen furiously, constantly wiped his crimson forehead with a handkerchief - in general, he was busy with business. But the official on special assignments was pacing around the dull office without any apparent reason. He sighed, nervously snapped his fingers, peered through the window into the darkness, once even opened the door, as if intending to leave, but the police officer, raising his head from his writings, advised against it:
- The night is dark, not a demon is visible. Warm up. Your Asian will come and he won’t go anywhere.
Masa showed up only an hour later.
- Well? – Fandorin asked impatiently. - Why so long? Did you find everything?
“Twenty five,” the servant answered proudly. – One round one in a ruzhu upara.
His elbows and knees were indeed wet and dirty.
“Tomorrow you’ll string it on a d-double thread,” Erast Petrovich ordered. - And throw this rubbish, the reel of the Puzyrev partnership, to hell. No, that's it, give me the beads here. I'll string them myself.
Catching the police officer’s surprised glance, Fandorin explained, not without embarrassment:
“It’s a coincidence that I was saved twice thanks to them.” About immortality, of course, is superstition and nonsense. As for the highest wisdom, it is also doubtful. However, I had the opportunity to make sure that under the sound of the rosary, thought definitely works better... And there’s no point in looking at me like that.
Scarpea Baskakovs
- Tulipov, are you afraid of snakes?
The chef’s question caught Anisiy in the middle of his second cup of tea, at the very best time, when all the day's tasks have already been completed, and there is still a whole evening ahead, there is absolutely no hurry, and the mood is calm, philosophical.
The conversation at the table was about something completely different - about the tomorrow's arrival of Her Imperial Majesty to the Mother See, but Anisy was not surprised by the sudden question, for he had long been accustomed to Fandorin's manner of jumping from one thing to another.
I wasn’t surprised, but I didn’t answer at random. The question could have been asked just like that, in a metaphorical sense, or it could have been asked for a reason. For example, one day Erast Petrovich asked: “Would you like, Tyulpanov, to be dexterous and strong, so that you can playfully put any thug on both shoulder blades?” Anisy takes it and blurts out without thinking: “Of course, I would like to!” Since then, for the second year, he has been an apprentice to the chief valet, Masa, and has suffered unspeakable harassment from the evil Japanese: he runs in his underwear in the snow, breaks his hands on splintered boards, and stands upside down for half an hour, like an Australian antipode.
- What kind of snakes? – Anisiy inquired cautiously. - The ones that crawl or the paper ones that fly across the sky?
- Which crawl. Why are we afraid of paper?
The provincial secretary thought a little more and did not see a catch in the authorities’ question. Of course, everyone would be scared of a cobra or, say, an echidna, but where would they come from on Malaya Nikitskaya, echidnas?
- I'm not at all afraid.
Erast Petrovich nodded with satisfaction.
- That is great. So, tomorrow you will go to Pakhrinsky district. There they found some kind of unprecedented anaconda. The dean's father writes about the machinations of S-Satan and complains about the godlessness of the zemstvo authorities, and the chairman of the zemstvo government complains that the church incites passions and indulges superstition. Go there and figure it all out. I won’t go into details so as not to retell from other people’s words - this will only cloud the purity of perception. The story is so absurd and fantastic that, if not for the august visit, I would certainly have gone myself.
Before going home to get ready for the trip, Anisiy looked up an incomprehensible word in the encyclopedia. The Anaconda turned out to be a huge snake from the Amazon swamps. What the chief meant was unclear. He just kindled curiosity, a callous man.
All day long, Anisiy was shaking in a chaise along a bad road - first a provincial road, somehow paved, then a county dirt road, and the last eleven miles completely country road, full of puddles and potholes. I left at five o’clock, considered still dark, and only reached Pakhrinsk in the evening.
Still not knowing anything about the essence of the matter, Tyulpanov decided that in the conflict between the two Pakhrin parties he would take the side of progress, and sent a telegraph warning of his arrival to the zemstvo government. Therefore, even though the presence had already ended, the chairman himself was waiting for the Moscow guest.
“Welcome, Mr. Tyulpanov,” said the citizen, shaking off the blue road dust from the shoulders of the capital’s guest. – On behalf of progressive people, of whom there are, albeit in small numbers, in our modest district, I offer my deepest apologies for the trouble caused. It’s all our home-grown torquemadas from the pulpits that are muddying the waters. It’s good that the matter came to Mr. Fandorin, an intelligent and enlightened man, and not to some obscurantist and cleric. It is necessary to expose this harmful superstition, which plunged the population of an entire volost into the abyss of the wild Middle Ages. The darkest, reactionary elements have raised their heads. The priests are very happy, now every day there are religious processions and prayers, and a countless number of sorcerers and sorcerers have appeared. There is only talk about the swamp Scarpea.
I
- Tulipov, are you afraid of snakes?
The boss’s question caught Anisy in the middle of his second cup of tea, at the best time, when all the day’s tasks have already been completed, and there is still a whole evening ahead, there is absolutely no hurry, and the mood is calm, philosophical.
The conversation at the table was about something completely different - about the tomorrow's arrival of Her Imperial Majesty to the Mother See, but Anisy was not surprised by the sudden question, for he had long been accustomed to Fandorin's manner of jumping from one thing to another.
I wasn’t surprised, but I didn’t answer at random. The question could have been asked just like that, in a metaphorical sense, or it could have been asked for a reason. For example, one day Erast Petrovich asked: “Would you like, Tyulpanov, to be dexterous and strong, so that you can playfully put any thug on both shoulder blades?” Anisy takes it and blurts out without thinking: “Of course, I would like to!” Since then, for the second year, he has been an apprentice to the chief valet, Masa, and has suffered unspeakable harassment from the evil Japanese: he runs in his underwear in the snow, breaks his hands on splintered boards, and stands upside down for half an hour, like an Australian antipode.
- What kind of snakes? – Anisiy inquired cautiously. - The ones that crawl or the paper ones that fly across the sky?
- Which crawl. Why are we afraid of paper?
The provincial secretary thought a little more and did not see a catch in the authorities’ question. Of course, everyone would be scared of a cobra or, say, an echidna, but where would they come from on Malaya Nikitskaya, echidnas?
- I'm not at all afraid.
Erast Petrovich nodded with satisfaction.
- That is great. So, tomorrow you will go to Pakhrinsky district. There they found some kind of unprecedented anaconda. The dean's father writes about the machinations of S-Satan and complains about the godlessness of the zemstvo authorities, and the chairman of the zemstvo government complains that the church incites passions and indulges superstition. Go there and figure it all out. I won’t go into details so as not to retell from other people’s words - this will only cloud the purity of perception. The story is so absurd and fantastic that, if not for the august visit, I would certainly have gone myself.
Before going home to get ready for the trip, Anisiy looked up an incomprehensible word in the encyclopedia. The Anaconda turned out to be a huge snake from the Amazon swamps. What the chief meant was unclear. He just kindled curiosity, a callous man.
All day long, Anisiy was shaking in a chaise along a bad road - first a provincial road, somehow paved, then a county dirt road, and the last eleven miles completely country road, full of puddles and potholes. I left at five o’clock, considered still dark, and only reached Pakhrinsk in the evening.
Still not knowing anything about the essence of the matter, Tyulpanov decided that in the conflict between the two Pakhrin parties he would take the side of progress, and sent a telegraph warning of his arrival to the zemstvo government. Therefore, even though the presence had already ended, the chairman himself was waiting for the Moscow guest.
“Welcome, Mr. Tyulpanov,” said the citizen, shaking off the blue road dust from the shoulders of the capital’s guest. – On behalf of progressive people, of whom there are, albeit in small numbers, in our modest district, I offer my deepest apologies for the trouble caused. It’s all our home-grown torquemadas from the pulpits that are muddying the waters. It’s good that the matter came to Mr. Fandorin, an intelligent and enlightened man, and not to some obscurantist and cleric. It is necessary to expose this harmful superstition, which plunged the population of an entire volost into the abyss of the wild Middle Ages. The darkest, reactionary elements have raised their heads. The priests are very happy, now every day there are religious processions and prayers, and a countless number of sorcerers and sorcerers have appeared. There is only talk about the swamp Scarpea.
“About what, about what?” – Anisy almost asked again, but bit his tongue just in time. Patience - now he will tell you everything himself. And the chairman (his name was Anton Maximilianovich Blinov) looked doubtfully at the non-guard figure and the mustacheless face of the provincial secretary and added:
- Of course, it’s a pity that Erast Petrovich couldn’t come to us himself, but that’s okay. Such an extraordinary person probably has a special assistant.
From the obvious questioning nature of the last statement, Tyulpanov immediately frowned. Look what he wanted - for Fandorin himself to rush to him. The boss will be driving around the outback because of all sorts of nonsense. Much honor.
In order not to betray his humiliating ignorance, Tyulpanov decided to behave respectably with the native boss: he did not ask questions, did not express judgments other than about the weather (dry, but gratifyingly not hot), and generally for the time being made do with interjections.
Immediately, straight from the council, they boarded the shabby chairman's droshky and drove out of Pakhrinsk through a field, then through a forest, and again through a field, and then just through the forest.
“I’ll drop you off, Anisy Pitirimovich, near the Tatarskaya Gati, from there it’s a stone’s throw to Baskakovka,” Blinov explained along the way. - Don't blame me. My way to Varvara Ilyinichna is barred, I am persona non grata there now. For the heiress of this newly-minted latifundia, your humble servant is a living reproach and an annoying reminder of past good-heartedness.
Anisy nodded with an important look, although this was the first time he had heard about the heiress and he did not quite clearly imagine the meaning of the word “latifundia”. That's right, something South American too.
Anton Maximilianovich chatted incessantly, but more and more about empty things that were not relevant to the matter: about the ancient Pakhrinsky region, about the beauty of the local nature, about the great future of these stunted villages, sluggish rivers and dull swamps. According to Blinov’s deep conviction, a wonderful future was supposed to dawn on the Pakhrinsk wilderness very soon - no later than next spring, when a railway line was laid through the county.
– Can you imagine what it will be, dear Anisy Pitirimovich? “The chairman of the council turned around and in ecstasy grabbed the young man’s hand so hard that Tyulpanov grimaced - the enthusiast’s grip was serious. – Nowadays, no one needs us with our small industries and coniferous-deciduous forestry. And when it will be possible to get to Baskakovka from Moscow on a soft seat, with all possible comfort, everything here will be populated by summer residents. O blessed, idle subspecies of homo sapiens! They bring with them money, good roads, employment for local residents! Drunkenness and begging will immediately disappear, hospitals and dairy farms will appear. In two or three years our county will be unrecognizable!
– That’s why you named Baskakovka new-found lantifudia? – Anisiy casually repeated the sonorous word, hoping that he remembered it correctly.
It turned out not quite - Blinov corrected:
- Latifundia. Previously, what was Baskakovka? Two thousand acres of depleted, degenerate land, sandwiched between the Gnilovsky swamp and the Moksha wasteland. Papakhin (a local tycoon) offered the landlady thirty thousand for the entire estate, and that too in installments. And now these are two thousand summer cottages! And each one can be sold to resellers and developers for at least a thousand rubles.
- Two million! – Tulipov quickly counted and whistled.
– On a very modest account, mind you. It was from these millions that Varvara Ilyinichna’s eclipse occurred.
-Who is this, mistress? – the provincial secretary clarified.
- Now it turns out that she is the mistress. Although a month ago she was the adopted daughter of the owner, Sofia Konstantinovna, and in fact, she was a hanger-on. Sofya Konstantinovna, the deceased, lived meagerly, sending all the small funds to her only son Sergei Gavriilovich in Kushka - he served there as a mountain ranger. I often visited their house back then. Believe it or not, sometimes for tea they will serve crackers with lingonberry jam and nothing more.
At the word “deceased,” Tyulpanov perked up somewhat, like a raven who spotted the desired prey in an open field under a willow tree. Again, sudden wealth is a very promising thing in the criminal sense, or, as the boss puts it, promising.
- What happened to the old lady? – Anisiy couldn’t resist asking in an insinuating voice. And I thought: it would be nice if they solved the landowner, but somehow more mysteriously - then it would turn out that it was not in vain that he swallowed dust all day.
- So how? Didn't your boss tell you? - Blinov was surprised, and had to pretend that the question was asked not in a literal, but in a rhetorical sense - as if thinking out loud, with oneself.
“She wasn’t an old lady at all,” the Zemstvo noted. - I guess about forty-five years old and in good health. And her son, Sergei Gavriilovich, was indeed a hero, with slanting fathoms in his shoulders. A real ancient Baskakov breed. Therefore, even though Sofya Konstantinovna wrote her adopted daughter into her will, it was more out of tenderness and unfamiliarity with the disease than...
The raven fell like a stone from the sky onto its prey.
– Did you put it in your will?
- Well, yes. Last year, Baskakova fell out of the carriage - the horse bolted - and was hurt. She was sick for a week, and then she got up and became healthier than before. But while she was ill, she managed to take communion and make a will. She wrote everything, of course, to her only son, and at the end she wrote a note: if the son dies without producing offspring, let everything go to her adopted daughter Varvara. She looked after her painfully diligently: she put lotions on, brewed herbs, and Sofya Konstantinovna wanted to do something nice for her. Here comes the trick...
Anton Maximilianovich shook the reins so that the horse would take it faster - it was almost completely dark, and some malicious bird of a breed unknown to Anisius began to hoot in the thicket.
-What kind of trick? – the young man could not resist again.
- Well, of course. Judge for yourself. Last year, when the will was written, Baskakova was a fresh young woman, albeit with bruises all over her back. At the same time, she had a legal heir, a ruddy second lieutenant with such a mustache, but, between us, there was nothing special to bequeath. A month ago, three events happened one after another - two regrettable and one joyful, after which everything changed... Quacks, quacks began to fill the swamp, - suddenly, after listening, the chairman muttered something incomprehensible, and his face became affectionately dreamy. – These are local ducks, a rare breed. There are many unique birds here. Peasant poachers almost exterminated everyone, and now - every cloud has a silver lining - no one sticks their nose into the swamp, so the quacks have multiplied. Soon, soon it will be possible to wander around with a gun. I have a house on the other side of the swamp. So, the ruins of a family nest. Everything is about social work, not about farming. And what a farm. – Anton Maximilianovich waved his hand. “I would have given up altogether if it weren’t for nature and hunting.” Not into it?
- By hunting? – Tyulpanov winced, dissatisfied with the deviation from an important topic. - No.
- And I am a sinner.
“You mentioned regrettable and joyful events,” Anisiy brought the undisciplined storyteller back to business.
- Yes Yes. First came sad news from the Pamirs. Second Lieutenant Baskakov fell in a skirmish with the Afghans. Sofia Konstantinovna had a heart attack from shock. And three days later the same thing happened to her. Well, why did you come here?
“As soon as Baskakova was buried, as soon as Varvara Ilyinichna took over the rights of her unexpected inheritance, the news about the railway spread.
- And what about the heiress? – Anisy was curious. – That’s right, you were stunned by all these incidents? There was not a penny, but suddenly millions.
“At first she was rather scared. She rushed to me for comfort and support - I was her first confidant then. I must tell you that Varvara Ilyinichna previously adhered to a selfless way of thinking. I wanted to serve the people and society, to train as a teacher or midwife. How many times have we dreamed about how our modest land would blossom, if only some miracle happened - a factory was built, or a far-sighted industrialist decided to drain the Gnilovsky swamps, or a certain rich man, a native of these places, wrote in his will for the improvement of his native district thousands one hundred or two hundred...” Anton Maximilianovich sighed, and Tyulpanov vividly imagined the picture: a somewhat battered by life, but, however, still quite in the juice, a public servant and a modest, pretty young lady, and quiet evenings, and an old estate. Here, perhaps, there was some romantic interest involved.
- And what? Having become rich, Varvara Ilyinichna changed her mind about donating to the improvement of the district?
“Not right away,” Blinov sighed even more bitterly. “At first she insisted that she hadn’t changed at all. I even wrote a will: in the event of my death, I transfer all my fortune to the benefit of the Pakhrinsky society...
“Well, this is empty gestures,” the provincial secretary chuckled. - From a young girl.
The Chairman briefly looked back at the Moscow guest.
- Uh, no, dear Anisy Pitirimovich, she’s not empty at all. After all, Varvara Ilyinichna is in consumption. She was always convinced that she would end her days young. Hence comes sacrifice, hence selflessness. But then, of course, the vultures swooped in. Papakhin Egor Ivanovich offered not thirty thousand, he offered much more for the estate. And the Tatar developer Makhmetshin, who wants to set up a kumiss clinic in the Baskakovo groves, is even twice as opposed to Papakhin. They turned Varvara Ilyinichna’s head - they say that they are curing consumption from consumption in Switzerland these days, and about Paris, and about Menton... So I ended up non grata.
The road was almost no longer visible - just blank walls of bushes on both sides, and in the gap between the tops of tall pines a black strip of sky twinkled with stars.
The horse suddenly snorted and began to squat on its hind legs, and Anisy’s heart began to pound. Ahead on the side of the road stood Someone - all white, narrow, tall and emitting thin, soul-stirring sounds. Just like the evil witch-woman with whom my mother used to scare me in childhood: he’ll grab the unhearing girl by the tuft, throw him in a sack, and get the hell out of the clearing.
Anton Maximilianovich held the reins and began to shout, calming the timid horse.
- Vladimir Ivanovich, is that you? From Olkhovka?
Then Someone stopped making mournful sounds and began to move. It turned out that this was not a woman, but a very long and skinny man in an untucked white shirt, corduroy trousers and bast shoes. The moonlight fell on his face, and a bearded face with sunken cheeks, dark pits of deeply sunken eyes and a thin pipe in his hand became visible.
“Good evening, Anton Maximilianovich,” the man said in a soft, pleasant voice, and simply bowed slightly to Tyulpanov - not in a folk way, but in the most salon way. - You guessed it. I went to Olkhovka to visit the old women and write down local sayings. I bought a flute. Amazing timbre, don't you think?
“Yes, disgusting,” agreed the chairman. - Here, Anisy Pitirimovich, I recommend it. Vladimir Ivanovich Petrov, a truly Russian man and an expert on oral folk art. Apart from folklore and peasant crafts, he is not interested in anything in the world. He came to us from St. Petersburg itself, and lives in Baskakovka - here, in fact, there is nowhere else. By the way, the meeting will be accompanied by you. And this is Mr. Tyulpanov, an official of the Governor General's Office. Sent to understand the history you know.
It turned out that everyone, positively everyone, even this pipe player, knew about the story!
They said goodbye to Blinov right there, because the St. Petersburg scientist led Anisiy along a short road through the thicket. Unlike the talkative Zemstvo citizen, the ethnographer was silent, did not turn around at his companion and only from time to time blew out sad and, as it seemed to Tyulpanov, unfriendly trills from his squeaker.
For about five minutes the young man waited to see if the conversation would start naturally: about the local people there or at least about Pakhrin folklore, it doesn’t matter - just to start. Not wait. Then he started it himself.
– As a specialist in legends, you must often have to listen to strange stories. Even more outlandish than the one that Anton Maximilianovich mentioned - Anisy, not quite deftly, led to the desired subject.
“Perhaps it couldn’t be more outlandish,” Petrov muttered, but after such a promising start he fell silent again.
And then Tyulpanov decided to go ahead in order to end the charades at once.
– I notice, Vladimir Ivanovich, that you do not want to discuss the incident in Baskakovka with me. Why? Do you have any special reasons for this?
A great way to loosen the tongue of a silent person: to stun him with an unexpected attack and force him to justify himself. Anisy was once taught this psychological trick by the wise Erast Petrovich.
The maneuver worked perfectly - even better than anyone could have hoped for. Petrov suddenly pressed his head into his shoulders, turned and guiltily spread his bony hands.
– Well, I didn’t come up with the idea about Scarpea. I just retold it, I thought to entertain Sofya Konstantinovna with an old legend... Who knew that it would turn out like this.
Tulipov still didn’t understand anything, but his instinct told him: it’s hot.
“In order, in order,” he ordered sternly. - Don't jump over. When was this?
“Perhaps a week before... well, before that,” Vladimir Ivanovich stammered, unable to find an appropriate definition. - Just in time for the hostess’s name day. It started with the icon. There in the living room there hangs an icon of St. Pancras. Old, from Peter's time. Pankraty, the ancestor of the Baskakovs, lived almost five hundred years ago. On the icon, to the side of the saint, a snake is depicted - large, in a luminous crown. It’s simply amazing how little our Russian aristocrats are interested in the history of their own family! – the folklorist suddenly became excited. “Any peasant woman from Ilyinsky or Olkhovka will tell you about Scarpea with all the details and in the most poetic way, but Sofya Konstantinovna only knew that her ancestor built a house at the site of a meeting with a certain magic snake and that this event was somehow connected with the subsequent canonization of Pankratius. But she didn’t even know about the scrap grass, about the prophecy!
In essence, the picture that emerged was amazing: two respectable people - a St. Petersburg scientist and a personal assistant to an official of special assignments under the Governor General himself - at night, on a forest path, were having an outlandish conversation about God knows what, about some kind of magic snake. At the same time, Tyulpanov had a suspicious expression on his face (whether they were fooling the visitor), but the folklorist had an enthusiastic one.
– Do you know, sir, that the legend of Scarpea, also known as Scarapea, Skorospeya or Scarabea, spreads throughout the entire Great Russian plain, from Arkhangelsk to the southern provinces? – Vladimir Ivanovich asked a question to which he clearly did not expect or want an answer, because he did not make even the tiniest pause. – Etymologically, the name of this magical reptile probably goes back to the ancient Egyptian scarab. Folklore tradition gives Scarpea wisdom, clairvoyance and the miraculous ability to bring wealth. However, at the same time, the image of a crowned snake certainly symbolizes the omnipotent, omnipresent Death. All these components are present in the legend of Scarpea of the Baskakov family.
- What, the Baskakovs have their own magic snake? – Tulipov was surprised.
- Yes. The snake, which, according to legend, exalted their family and sooner or later had to destroy it. “Which, as we see, is what happened,” Petrov said with visible satisfaction (obviously of an exclusively scientific nature).
From that moment on, Anisiy listened very carefully, without interrupting.
– In the fifteenth century, during the reign of Vasily the Dark, when Moscow was still under the rule of the khans, the ferocious Tatar bask Pantar-Murza with a band of thugs rode through the local swamps and forests - delicious (and it’s clear that this was not the first or second time ) the scientist began to tell. – Legend says that the Baskak had a special order: not to touch towns and villages, but to collect tribute only from churches and monasteries. They tore off gilding from domes, frames from icons, embroidery and grain from vestments, and this desecration caused a howl throughout the entire Pakhrinsky region. And in the middle of the Gnilovsky swamp there was a vision of Pantar-Murza. The Tatar saw a huge snake, emitting light, with a golden crown on its head, and the snake said to him in a human voice: “Return to the temples of God what you took, and then come here again - I will reward you.” Murza shook from such a miracle and returned the loot to the priests and the monks, and then he himself went back to the swamp. And again Scarpea crawled out to him and said: “Because you fulfilled my will, here is a bunch of magic scrap grass for you. Wherever you throw it on the ground, you will find a great treasure. And your family will be rich and glorious for many years, until I appear again and take the last of the Baskakovites with me.” She placed a small bunch of grass in front of Pantar and disappeared, and the Tatar, neither alive nor dead, rushed away from the enchanted place, and ran so hard that he dropped the grass at the edge of the swamp. And in that very place a forged tolobas was revealed to him, all full of gold ducats. – Here Vladimir Ivanovich switched from the chanted epic tonality to the usual one, as if making a footnote or scientific commentary. – Of course, there were no Chervontsevs in the time of Vasily the Dark, but that’s what the legend says. After meeting with Scarpea, Murza converted to Christianity, built a house on the edge of the swamp and married a Russian girl of an honest family. In his declining years, having become a widow, he accepted the schema and became famous for many good deeds and even miracles, for which he was later canonized under the name of Saint Pancras. Well, a month ago, therefore, Scarpea returned and took the soul of the last in the Baskakov family. In any case, this is how the local peasants interpret the death of Sophia Konstantinovna. Rumors periodically spread among the locals that someone saw Mother Scarpea in the swamp, and this same incident with Baskakova just happened to coincide with the next wave of similar rumors: one allegedly spotted something like that, and another. For several months now, no one has set foot in the Gnilovskoye swamp, and now there’s this kind of chaos.
Anisiy looked puzzled at the ethnographer and ordered:
– Tell us about Baskakova’s death in as much detail as possible. Just let's go, it's late. You’ll finish the story as you go.
They moved again along the path illuminated by the bright moonlight, but more slowly than before, because now the scientist kept turning to his interlocutor.
– You see, on the one hand, this is, of course, a coincidence. I told the legend about the end of the Baskakovs to the hostess and the guests, and a few days later, when the sad news came from the Pamirs, it became clear that the family was really being cut short. The news of the death of her son almost drove Sofya Konstantinovna to the grave - her heart broke. She lay there for a day without memory, wanted to die, but did not die. On the second day she began to get up, on the third she could already go out into the garden, walked there alone until nightfall, and cried. They found her in the garden - clerk Krasheninnikov and his daughter. They say that Baskakova was lying on the ground and her face was simply terrible: her mouth was open, her eyes were bulging out of her sockets. While they were carrying her into the house, she only managed to repeat “Scarpea, Scarpea” twice – and walked away. According to the medical report, she died from completely natural causes - a heart attack, but still, you see, it’s creepy. When, as part of your occupation, you collect legends about witches, mermaids and other evil spirits, you begin to understand that all this is not just superstition. As they say, there is no smoke without fire... There really is a lot in the world that our sages don’t have the slightest idea about...
Vladimir Ivanovich was confused, obviously ashamed of this unenlightened judgment, and Tyulpanov moved his eyebrows in concentration, stimulating the mental process - from this exercise Anisy’s protruding ears went back and forth. Petrov, staring at the provincial secretary’s ear twitching, almost tripped.
Tyulpanov’s conclusion came naturally:
– There is no mysticism in this story. Baskakova saw some fallen branch or maybe a garden hose, remembered a legend and suddenly realized that she was the last in the family. She was afraid that the snake had crawled after her. Well, there were sore nerves, a torn heart, so she passed away, may she rest in heaven. It's a common occurrence and there's nothing to investigate.
Petrov stumbled out of the blue and grabbed the trunk of an aspen tree.
- What about the trail? - he asked, looking puzzled at the provincial secretary.
- What trace?
– Didn’t Mr. Blinov tell you? Apparently I didn't have time. Or he didn’t want to - he’s a materialist with us. It rained that evening. So on the path where Sofya Konstantinovna was found, a trace remained in the dirt - as if some huge reptile had crawled. – Vladimir Ivanovich glanced sideways at Anis’s slack jaw and sighed. - That's the thing. This is why there are rumors, this is why there is hesitation. Krasheninnikov drove pegs around that place and pulled up a canopy to preserve the trail. So you can check for yourself.
II
I'm sure. It wasn’t important to see at night, of course, but when Baskakovsky’s clerk lifted the canvas stretched on pegs and shone it with an oil lamp, Tyulpanov saw a clear winding stripe, as if someone had drawn a log of considerable thickness through the mud...
However, it’s better not to start with this.
Baskakovka appeared before Tyulpanov's gaze unexpectedly and, apparently, because of this suddenness, made an unusual impression on him.
The ethnographer walking ahead suddenly parted the branches, and behind the loosely closed square of trees an ancient white building appeared, all the windows of which glowed with a soft light. This made the house seem surprisingly similar to Anisiy’s paper Japanese lantern, like the ones that hung in Erast Petrovich’s office. From the illumination it followed that in Baskakovka they did not go to bed early. Yes, in fact, it was not such a night yet - just the eleventh hour.
The hostess nodded to Petrov as if she were one of her own, and was not at all surprised by the visit of the uninvited guest. Anisius thought that due to the incredible metamorphoses that had happened over the past month, the newly-made millionaire had generally become somewhat numb in her soul and had forgotten how to be surprised at anything.
In any case, when Tyulpanov introduced himself and explained that he was sent from Moscow to understand the circumstances of the death of the landowner Baskakova, Varvara Ilyinichna only said:
– Well, they’ve been sent – figure it out. Samson Stepanovich will take you to the guest room, leave your bag there and please go to the veranda - we are drinking tea.
A stern elderly man in a jacket and boots, whom the hostess called Samson Stepanovich, was the same clerk of Krasheninnikov, so the first thing Anisy did was to show the mysterious trail.
Well, I looked, and so what? He even squatted down and touched the dried, cracked edges of the shallow furrow with his finger, but this did not add any clarity in the investigative sense. It was only clear that none of the original Russian reptiles would leave such a fiord, not to say a canyon, behind them.
– What do you think about this? amazing phenomenon, Krasheninnikov? - Tulipov asked, looking up at the clerk.
He stood over the crouched official, stroked his long Russian beard, and looked gloomy. He did not answer immediately and with obvious reluctance:
- What is there to think about? Someone crawled by. It will be as thick as your ankle, if not your thigh. You see for yourself.
“Well,” Anisiy said cheerfully, getting up. – The signs of the magical Scarpea have been established: it is as thick as the thigh of the provincial secretary Tyulpanov. You can put him on the All-Russian wanted list. Okay, Samson Stepanych, let's go. What do you serve for tea?
What was served with tea was not the modest crackers mentioned by the zemstvo chairman, but such wonderful delicacies that Anisy, a great lover of sweets, even forgot about the matter for a while - he tasted both apricot lozenges and white Swiss chocolate (it costs one and a half rubles a bar on Kuznetsky) , and greenhouse pineapple, and Revel candied fruits. This remarkable abundance corresponded so little to the shabby furniture and neat darning on the tablecloth that Tyulpanov, using deduction, easily calculated the financial circumstances of the new owner of the estate. Although she is now rich, she is still more in the future than in reality, because the plots have not yet been sold and millions have not been received. However, in anticipation of future rivers of gold, he has a generous loan from local moneybags, which he uses for his own pleasure.
Two of the likely creditors, Papakhin and Makhmetshin, were sitting right there, near the samovar.
The first, narrowing his sharp, laughing eyes, drank tea from a saucer, and even with a sip. At the same time, he was dressed in an excellent English tweed suit, a pearl sparkled in his tie, and the sleek fingers with which Yegor Ivanovich raised a piece of sugar to his red lips were clearly not accustomed to base labor. True, when the business man, gesticulating, opened his right palm, the observant Anisiy saw a callus on it, but immediately identified its origin as a trace of commitment to the newfangled British game of lawn tennis. From this it followed that Papakhin drinks with a bite and a sip not out of barbarism, but with meaning and even, perhaps, with a challenge: they say, don’t ask, we are not white bones, not blue blood, from the simple ones. That’s why his hair is cut in a circle and his beard is a broom. In general, a typical gentleman.
The second of the local aces, who was introduced to the provincial secretary as Rafik Abdurrahmanovich, looked even more impressive: in a black frock coat, the whitest shirt with a silk tie, but at the same time in a tightly twisted turban that suited his arrogant, high-cheekboned face. From the ironic address of “haji”, which Yegor Ivanovich called his competitor, from the repeated mention of the holy Mohammedan city of Mecca, the provincial secretary figured out that Rafik Abdurrahmanovich had recently made a pilgrimage to the East, which undoubtedly explained the crowning with a turban.
But the owner of Tyulpanov was upset. In the hallway, when I met her, he didn’t really see her, it was dark. Now, under the lampshade, it became clear that Varvara Ilyinichna was not good: her skin was dull, her hair was thin, and even in a bun, and her face was somehow strangely small and a little lumpy. To tell the truth, listening to the chairman’s story in the droshky, Anisiy imagined a completely different picture. He imagined a pale but interesting girl with defenseless and frightened eyes, who was completely lost from the dramatic zigzag of fate. She can't wait for the knight-savior to take her under his protection, calm her down and save her. And she will repay him for this with heartfelt gratitude, ardent love, which is said to be especially burning among consumptive young ladies - and, of course, a couple of millions in dowry.
Anisia dreamed about the dowry when he and Petrov walked along the dark alley to the house. Now, looking at Varvara Ilyinichna, the provincial secretary thought: millions, of course, are a good thing, but you’ll have to go to Menton and leave the service. It’s stupid to trample underfoot with such wealth for a fifty-ruble salary. And without the boss Erast Petrovich, without the chubby tormentor Masa, you’ll probably start drinking out of boredom. Well, screw it, wealth.
Having eaten sweets and solved the problem with millions, Tyulpanov began the investigation.
- What about the other guests, have they left? – he asked, pointing to the empty cups and crumpled napkins.
“In our village they go to bed early,” answered the hostess with a disdainful grin. - They ate the cakes and pastries, they stared at me so that they had something to gossip about, and then went home to the side room. They're asleep now, I guess! Landowners, Mr. Tyulpanov, are boring people. Well, Rafik Abdurrahmanovich and Mr. Papakhin don’t forget, otherwise I’d be sitting at the samovar alone. Vladimir Ivanovich does not count. He only perks up when he talks about old times.
The learned ethnographer actually sat down in the corner with a cup of tea and buried his face in a plump leather notebook. Directly above the folklorist hung the same icon that Anisiy had already heard about: the holy elder (thin, like Vladimir Ivanovich, and with the same beard, only in his hand was not a notebook, but a divine book), and in front of him was a spotted snake in a shining crown.
Anisiy really didn’t like the way Varvara Ilyinichna spoke about the local landowners. How long have you, my dear, been one of the hangers-on here, he thought, and now you turn your nose up at the neighbors? And the young man wanted to say something harsh.
- And your clerk, Samson Stepanovich? Why don't you invite him to tea? Didn't get the title?
Varvara Ilyinichna, who should have been ashamed by this attack (how long has it been since she had a wonderful soul about the people’s welfare?), did not shy away at all, but rather snorted.
- There’s no way he’s going to sit down. There is a special arrogance here, humiliation more than pride. The Krasheninnikovs have been under the Baskakovs for almost a hundred years. Sitting at the master's table is like cutting sausage on the Church altar. And then, who am I to Samson Stepanych? Upstart, cuckoo tribe. Do you know what he was talking to me about?
The hostess laughed, but unsuccessfully: the laughter turned into a cough - dry, convulsive, painful to watch. Having wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and caught her breath, Varvara Ilyinichna continued as if nothing had happened:
“He is a reader of ancient books and a church elder.” He wants me to spend all my inheritance on the construction of a temple in memory of St. Pankras and the Baskakov family. And she herself went to the monastery to pray to God for Baskakov’s sins. What's it like, huh?
And she laughed again, without coughing, but still somehow annoyingly, without merriment.
– Does Krasheninnikov live in the house? - Anisiy asked, mentally wondering whether he should take a closer look at the clerk first.
- No, what are you talking about? He has a house in the garden. And there is also a guardhouse on the shore of the pond, called the “office”. There Samson Stepanych retires to read books pleasing to God, and then no, no, disturb him. Even my daughter is not allowed into the “office”. Samson Stepanych is a widower and lives with his daughter,” the hostess added in explanation. – Sweet girl, a real Russian beauty.
"Mr. Papakhin" perked up.
- Hmmm, Krasheninnikov’s daughter is a true bud. It's a pity, he'll be wasted with such a dad. Seryogin, a local clerk, wooed her, and received an uppercut from the gate. – Yegor Ivanovich waved his fist as in boxing. “Samson Stepanych won’t let his daughter marry, he’ll keep her as a girl until she’s overripe, and after that, where should she go - perhaps as a nun.” Eh, if I could dress her up, teach her a few things, and take her to Paris for an exhibition, she would blossom!
Judging by this remark, the tone between the hostess and Papakhin was taken freely. Although the industrialist accompanied the words “teach something” with an expressive wink, Varvara Ilyinichna did not get angry and did not make a reprimand - she even smiled. Anisiy noticed this detail too.
It was time to move on to the main thing.
“I had the opportunity to listen to two opposing views on a sad event that happened a month ago. - Anisy delicately glanced sideways at the hostess to see if she would become gloomy at the mention of the unpleasant. Nothing, she didn’t become gloomy. – Mr. Blinov is of the opinion that there is nothing supernatural in this story, and declares the rumor about Scarpea’s things to be empty superstition...
“...Which could scare away future summer residents,” Papakhin picked up, “and prevent the onset of the Pakhrinsky golden age.” Did Anton Maximilianovich describe to you what a wonderful and enlightened life we will all live here in two hundred years? No? Well, he'll tell you more. – Yegor Ivanovich laughed. - Pig nonsense. The summer resident doesn’t give a damn about local fairy tales. He needs oxygen, a hammock, a bath and fresh milk. And our chairman is a talker and a fool. Do you know that last year he traveled to the Far East and had a plan to get rich by trading in tiger skins? A businessman has been found! The Chinese Honghuzi almost cut off his head. Yes, he wouldn’t care; he wouldn’t even notice such a loss.
“Yegor Ivanovich is angry that Anton Maximilianovich bypassed him in the elections,” Varvara Ilyinichna explained cheerfully, and it was imperceptible that the memory of the zemstvo dreamer would in any way burden her conscience.
The Tatar smiled maliciously with his lips and nodded his turban, but Tyulpanov was not interested in the district elections; and he turned the conversation back to the source:
– ...And Mr. Petrov, who was more romantic, expressed a different point of view to me. “Your Samson Stepanovich showed me a snake trail in the garden,” Anisy slowly bent the desired line, looking at his reflection in the samovar (funny - cheeks with melons, like the Japanese Masa, and ears like pancakes). - Impressive. There don’t seem to be reptiles of this proportion in our country. I would like, Varvara Ilyinichna, to know how you understand about Scarpea? Aren't you afraid?
And then rrraz - he turned his head and looked at the hostess point-blank with a sharp gaze. I learned this trick from the boss. Those who have a guilty conscience sometimes get lost.
Varvara Ilyinichna did not allow Tulip’s penetrating gaze inside her. She giggled again, she’s so funny, and she’s still in consumption. Perhaps, after all, my mind has shifted somewhat from the unexpected wealth.
- Why should I be afraid of her? It was Sofya Konstantinovna, poor thing, when the news about Sergei Gavriilovich came, she kept repeating: “I am the last of the Baskakovs, I am the last of the Baskakovs” and cried and cried...
The young lady, without any transition, not yet wiping the smile from her face, sobbed and, sniffling her nose, finished:
- I’m not from the Baskakovs, I don’t need Scarpea.
“Don’t tell me, dear Varvara Ilyinichna,” Papakhin shook his finger. - You have Baskakov’s wealth, obtained from the magic tolobas, and therefore, you will have a family heirloom as an inheritance. “He bared his strong, smoky teeth, bulged his eyes and hissed like a snake. – And we, the Papakhins, by the way, also have our own family ghost. Old lady Trukhorushka was hanging out behind the stove at her daddy's place. Ma-scarlet, so little grey, sniffing and sniffing. I was terrified of her as a child. In Ilyinsky, almost every hut has its own evil spirits, and so from time immemorial. Such are the places here, my sir. Why be surprised - the Gnilovskaya swamp is close. What do you want, Seryogin?
The question was turned elsewhere. Anisiy turned and saw in the twilight, outside the illuminated circle from the lamp, a stooped little man who was dressed strangely: in a jacket and tie, but at the same time in knee-high boots. The little man held a large red cat in his hands, scratching its chin. The cat blinked at this.
“I will report this not to you, but to Varvara Ilyinichna,” the Plyugavets said with dignity, glancing sideways at the official in uniform. - Samson Stepanych accepted the correspondence at the post office this morning from the Land Survey Department, but not a word to you, sir. I consider it my duty as an honest person.
- Finally! – the hostess exclaimed joyfully. – Certificate of measurements of the estate?
I
- Tulipov, are you afraid of snakes?
The chef’s question caught Anisy in the middle of his second cup of tea, at the best time, when all the day’s tasks have already been completed, and there is still a whole evening ahead, there is absolutely no hurry, and the mood is calm, philosophical.
The conversation at the table was about something completely different - about the tomorrow’s arrival of Her Imperial Majesty to the Mother See, but Anisy was not surprised by the sudden question, for he had long been accustomed to Fandorin’s manner of jumping from one thing to another.
I wasn’t surprised, but I didn’t answer at random. The question could have been asked just like that, in a metaphorical sense, or it could have been asked for a reason. For example, one day Erast Petrovich asked: “Would you like, Tyulpanov, to be dexterous and strong, so that you can playfully put any thug on both shoulder blades?” Anisy takes it and blurts out without thinking: “Of course, I would like to!” Since then, for the second year, he has been an apprentice to the chief valet, Masa, and has suffered unspeakable harassment from the evil Japanese: he runs in his underwear in the snow, breaks his hands on splintered boards, and stands upside down for half an hour, like an Australian antipode.
- What kind of snakes? – Anisiy inquired cautiously. - The ones that crawl or the paper ones that fly across the sky?
- Which crawl. Why are we afraid of paper?
The provincial secretary thought a little more and did not see a catch in the authorities’ question. Of course, everyone would be scared of a cobra or, say, an echidna, but where would they come from on Malaya Nikitskaya, echidnas?
- I'm not at all afraid.
Erast Petrovich nodded with satisfaction.
- That is great. So, tomorrow you will go to Pakhrinsky district. There they found some kind of unprecedented anaconda. The dean's father writes about the machinations of S-Satan and complains about the godlessness of the zemstvo authorities, and the chairman of the zemstvo government complains that the church incites passions and indulges superstition. Go there and figure it all out. I won’t go into details so as not to retell from other people’s words - this will only cloud the purity of perception. The story is so absurd and fantastic that, if not for the august visit, I would certainly have gone myself.
Before going home to get ready for the trip, Anisiy looked up an incomprehensible word in the encyclopedia. "Anaconda" turned out to be a huge snake from the Amazon swamps. What the chief meant was unclear. Just sparked curiosity, callous man.
All day long, Anisiy shook in a chaise along a bad road - first a provincial road, somehow paved, then a county dirt road, and the last eleven miles completely country road, full of puddles and potholes. I left at five o’clock, considered still dark, and only reached Pakhrinsk in the evening.
Still not knowing anything about the essence of the matter, Tyulpanov decided that in the conflict between the two Pakhrin parties he would take the side of progress, and sent a telegraph warning of his arrival to the zemstvo government. Therefore, even though the presence had already ended, the chairman himself was waiting for the Moscow guest.
“Welcome, Mr. Tyulpanov,” said the citizen, shaking off the blue road dust from the shoulders of the capital’s guest. – On behalf of progressive people, of whom there are, albeit in small numbers, in our modest district, I offer my deepest apologies for the trouble caused. It’s all our home-grown torquemadas from the pulpits that are muddying the waters. It’s good that the matter came to Mr. Fandorin, an intelligent and enlightened man, and not to some obscurantist and cleric. It is necessary to expose this harmful superstition, which plunged the population of an entire volost into the abyss of the wild Middle Ages. The darkest, reactionary elements have raised their heads. The priests are very happy, now every day there are religious processions and prayers, and a countless number of sorcerers and sorcerers have appeared. There is only talk about the swamp Scarpea.
“About what, about what?” – Anisy almost asked again, but bit his tongue just in time. Patience - now he will tell you everything himself. And the chairman (his name was Anton Maximilianovich Blinov) looked doubtfully at the non-guard figure and the mustacheless face of the provincial secretary and added:
- Of course, it’s a pity that Erast Petrovich couldn’t come to us himself, but that’s okay. Such an extraordinary person probably has a special assistant.
From the obvious questioning nature of the last statement, Tyulpanov immediately frowned. Look what he wanted - for Fandorin himself to rush to him. The boss will be driving around the outback because of all sorts of nonsense. Much honor.
In order not to betray his humiliating ignorance, Tyulpanov decided to behave respectably with the native boss: he did not ask questions, did not express judgments other than about the weather (dry, but gratifyingly not hot), and generally for the time being made do with interjections.
Immediately, straight from the council, they boarded the shabby chairman's droshky and drove out of Pakhrinsk through a field, then through a forest, and again through a field, and then just through the forest.
“I’ll drop you off, Anisy Pitirimovich, near the Tatarskaya Gati, from there it’s a stone’s throw to Baskakovka,” Blinov explained along the way. - Don't blame me. My way to Varvara Ilyinichna is barred, I am persona non grata there now. For the heiress of this newly-minted latifundia, your humble servant is a living reproach and an annoying reminder of past good-heartedness.
Anisy nodded with an important look, although this was the first time he had heard about the heiress and he did not quite clearly imagine the meaning of the word “latifundia”. That's right, something South American too.
Anton Maximilianovich chatted incessantly, but more and more about empty things that were not relevant to the matter: about the ancient Pakhrinsky region, about the beauty of the local nature, about the great future of these stunted villages, sluggish rivers and dull swamps. According to Blinov’s deep conviction, a wonderful future was supposed to dawn on the Pakhrinsk wilderness very soon - no later than next spring, when a railway line was laid through the county.
– Can you imagine what it will be, dear Anisy Pitirimovich? “The chairman of the council turned around and in ecstasy grabbed the young man’s hand so hard that Tyulpanov grimaced - the enthusiast’s grip was serious. – Nowadays, no one needs us with our small industries and coniferous-deciduous forestry. And when it will be possible to get to Baskakovka from Moscow on a soft seat, with all possible comfort, everything here will be populated by summer residents. O blessed, idle subspecies of homo sapiens! They bring with them money, good roads, employment for local residents! Drunkenness and begging will immediately disappear, hospitals and dairy farms will appear. In two or three years our county will be unrecognizable!
– Is that why you called Baskakovka the new-found lantifudia? - Anisiy casually repeated the sonorous word, hoping that he remembered it correctly.
It turned out not quite - Blinov corrected:
- Latifundia. Previously, what was Baskakovka? Two thousand acres of depleted, degenerate land, sandwiched between the Gnilovsky swamp and the Moksha wasteland. Papakhin (a local tycoon) offered the landlady thirty thousand for the entire estate, and that too in installments. And now these are two thousand summer cottages! And each one can be sold to resellers and developers for at least a thousand rubles.
- Two million! – Tulipov quickly counted and whistled.
– On a very modest note, mind you. It was from these millions that Varvara Ilyinichna’s eclipse occurred.
-Who is this, mistress? – the provincial secretary clarified.
- Now it turns out that she is the mistress. Although just a month ago she was the adopted daughter of the owner, Sofia Konstantinovna, and in fact she was a hanger-on. Sofya Konstantinovna, the deceased, lived meagerly, sending all the small funds to her only son Sergei Gavriilovich in Kushka - he served there as a mountain ranger. I often visited their house back then. Believe it or not, sometimes for tea they will serve crackers with lingonberry jam and nothing more.
At the word “deceased,” Tyulpanov perked up somewhat, like a raven who spotted the desired prey in an open field under a willow tree. Again, sudden wealth is a very promising thing in the criminal sense, or, as the boss puts it, promising.
- What happened to the old lady? – Anisiy couldn’t resist asking in an insinuating voice. And I thought: it would be nice if they solved the landowner, but somehow more mysteriously - then it would turn out that it was not in vain that he swallowed dust all day.
- So how? Didn't your boss tell you? - Blinov was surprised, and had to pretend that the question was asked not in a literal, but in a rhetorical sense - as if thinking out loud, with oneself.
“She wasn’t an old lady at all,” the Zemstvo noted. - I guess about forty-five years old and in good health. And her son, Sergei Gavriilovich, was indeed a hero, with slanting fathoms in his shoulders. A real ancient Baskakov breed. Therefore, even though Sofya Konstantinovna wrote her adopted daughter into her will, it was more out of tenderness and unfamiliarity with the disease than...
The raven fell like a stone from the sky onto its prey.
– Did you put it in your will?
- Well, yes. Last year, Baskakova fell out of the carriage - the horse bolted - and was hurt. She was sick for a week, and then she got up and became healthier than before. But while she was ill, she managed to take communion and make a will. She wrote everything, of course, to her only son, and at the end she wrote a note: if the son dies without producing offspring, let him pass everything on to his adopted daughter Varvara. She looked after her painfully diligently: she put lotions on, brewed herbs, and Sofya Konstantinovna wanted to do something nice for her. Here comes the trick...
Anton Maximilianovich shook the reins so that the horse would take it faster - it was almost completely dark, and some malicious bird of a breed unknown to Anisius began to hoot in the thicket.
-What kind of trick? – the young man could not resist again.
- Well, of course. Judge for yourself. Last year, when the will was written, Baskakova was a fresh young woman, albeit with bruises all over her back. At the same time, she had a legal heir, a ruddy second lieutenant with such a mustache, but, between us, there was nothing special to bequeath. A month ago, three events happened one after another - two regrettable and one joyful, after which everything changed... Quacks, quacks began to fill the swamp, - suddenly, after listening, the chairman muttered something incomprehensible, and his face became affectionately dreamy. – These are local ducks, a rare breed. There are many unique birds here. The peasant poachers almost exterminated everyone, and now - every cloud has a silver lining - no one sticks their nose into the swamp, so the quacks have multiplied. Soon, soon it will be possible to wander around with a gun. I have a house on the other side of the swamp. So, the ruins of a family nest. Everything is about social work, not about farming. And what a farm. – Anton Maximilianovich waved his hand. “I would have given up altogether if it weren’t for nature and hunting.” Not into it?
- By hunting? – Tyulpanov winced, dissatisfied with the deviation from an important topic. - No.
- And I am a sinner.
“You mentioned regrettable and joyful events,” Anisiy brought the undisciplined storyteller back to business.
- Yes Yes. First came sad news from the Pamirs. Second Lieutenant Baskakov fell in a skirmish with the Afghans. Sofia Konstantinovna had a heart attack from shock. And three days later the same thing happened to her. Well, why did you come here?
“As soon as Baskakova was buried, as soon as Varvara Ilyinichna took over the rights of her unexpected inheritance, the news about the railway spread.
- And what about the heiress? – Anisy was curious. – That’s right, you were stunned by all these incidents? There was not a penny, but suddenly millions.
“At first she was rather scared. She rushed to me for comfort and support - I was her first confidant then. I must tell you that Varvara Ilyinichna previously adhered to a selfless way of thinking. I wanted to serve the people and society, to train as a teacher or midwife. How many times have we dreamed about how our modest land would blossom, if only some miracle happened - a factory was built, or a far-sighted industrialist decided to drain the Gnilovsky swamps, or a certain rich man, a native of these places, wrote in his will for the improvement of his native district thousands one hundred or two hundred... - Anton Maximilianovich sighed, and Tyulpanov vividly imagined the picture: a somewhat shabby life, but, however, still quite in the juice, a public servant and a modest, pretty young lady, and quiet evenings, and an old estate. Here, perhaps, there was some romantic interest involved.
- And what? Having become rich, Varvara Ilyinichna changed her mind about donating to the improvement of the district?
“Not right away,” Blinov sighed even more bitterly. “At first she insisted that she hadn’t changed at all. I even wrote a will: in the event of my death, I transfer all my property to the benefit of the Pakhrinsky society...
“Well, this is empty gestures,” the provincial secretary chuckled. - From a young girl.
The Chairman briefly looked back at the Moscow guest.
- Uh, no, dear Anisy Pitirimovich, she’s not empty at all. After all, Varvara Ilyinichna is in consumption. She was always convinced that she would end her days young. Hence comes sacrifice, hence selflessness. But then, of course, the vultures swooped in. Papakhin Egor Ivanovich offered not thirty thousand, he offered much more for the estate. And the Tatar developer Makhmetshin, who wants to set up a kumiss clinic in the Baskakovo groves, is even twice as opposed to Papakhin. They turned Varvara Ilyinichna’s head - they say that they are curing consumption from consumption in Switzerland these days, and about Paris, and about Menton... So I ended up non grata.
The road was almost no longer visible - just blank walls of bushes on both sides, and in the slot between the tops of tall pines a black strip of sky twinkled with stars.
The horse suddenly snorted and began to squat on its hind legs, and Anisy’s heart began to pound. Ahead on the side of the road stood Someone - all white, narrow, tall and emitting thin, soul-stirring sounds. Just like the evil witch-woman with whom my mother used to scare me in childhood: he’ll grab the unhearing girl by the tuft, throw him in a sack, and get the hell out of the clearing.
Anton Maximilianovich held the reins and began to shout, calming the timid horse.
- Vladimir Ivanovich, is that you? From Olkhovka?
Then Someone stopped making mournful sounds and began to move. It turned out that this was not a woman, but a very long and skinny man in an untucked white shirt, corduroy trousers and bast shoes. The moonlight fell on his face, and a bearded face with sunken cheeks, dark pits of deeply sunken eyes and a thin pipe in his hand became visible.
“Good evening, Anton Maximilianovich,” the man said in a soft, pleasant voice, and simply bowed slightly to Tyulpanov - not in a folk way, but in the most salon way. - You guessed it. I went to Olkhovka to visit the old women and write down local sayings. I bought a flute. Amazing timbre, don't you think?
“Yes, disgusting,” agreed the chairman. - Here, Anisy Pitirimovich, I recommend it. Vladimir Ivanovich Petrov, a truly Russian person and an expert in oral folk art. Apart from folklore and peasant crafts, he is not interested in anything in the world. He came to us from St. Petersburg itself, and lives in Baskakovka - here, in fact, there is nowhere else. By the way, the meeting will be accompanied by you. And this is Mr. Tyulpanov, an official of the Governor General's Office. Sent to understand the history you know.
It turned out that everyone, positively everyone, even this pipe player, knew about the story!
They said goodbye to Blinov right there, because the St. Petersburg scientist led Anisiy along a short road through the thicket. Unlike the talkative Zemstvo citizen, the ethnographer was silent, did not turn around at his companion and only from time to time blew out sad and, as it seemed to Tyulpanov, unfriendly trills from his squeaker.
For about five minutes the young man waited to see if the conversation would start naturally: about the local people there or at least about Pakhrin folklore, it doesn’t matter - just to start. Not wait. Then he started it himself.
– As a specialist in legends, you must often have to listen to strange stories. Even more outlandish than the one that Anton Maximilianovich mentioned - Anisy, not quite deftly, led to the desired subject.
“Perhaps it couldn’t be more outlandish,” Petrov muttered, but after such a promising start he fell silent again.
And then Tyulpanov decided to go ahead in order to end the charades at once.
– I notice, Vladimir Ivanovich, that you do not want to discuss the incident in Baskakovka with me. Why? Do you have any special reasons for this?
A great way to loosen the tongue of a silent person: to stun him with an unexpected attack and force him to justify himself. Anisy was once taught this psychological trick by the wise Erast Petrovich.
The maneuver worked perfectly - even better than one could have hoped for. Petrov suddenly pressed his head into his shoulders, turned and guiltily spread his bony hands.
– Well, I didn’t come up with the idea about Scarpea. I just retold it, I thought to entertain Sofya Konstantinovna with an old legend... Who knew that it would turn out like this.
Tulipov still didn’t understand anything, but his instinct told him: it’s hot.
“In order, in order,” he ordered sternly. - Don't jump over. When was this?
“Perhaps a week before... well, before that,” Vladimir Ivanovich stammered, unable to find an appropriate definition. - Just in time for the hostess’s name day. It started with the icon. There in the living room there hangs an icon of St. Pancras. Old, from Peter's time. Pankraty, the ancestor of the Baskakovs, lived almost five hundred years ago. On the icon, to the side of the saint, a snake is depicted - large, in a luminous crown. It’s simply amazing how little our Russian aristocrats are interested in the history of their own family! – the folklorist suddenly became excited. “Any peasant woman from Ilyinsky or Olkhovka will tell you about Scarpea with all the details and in the most poetic way, but Sofya Konstantinovna only knew that her ancestor built a house at the site of a meeting with a certain magical snake and that this event was somehow connected with the subsequent canonization of Pankratius. But she didn’t even know about the scrap grass, about the prophecy!
In essence, the picture that emerged was amazing: two respectable people - a St. Petersburg scientist and a personal assistant to an official of special assignments under the Governor General himself - at night, on a forest path, were having an outlandish conversation about God knows what, about some kind of magic snake. At the same time, Tyulpanov had a suspicious expression on his face (whether they were fooling the visitor), but the folklorist had an enthusiastic one.
– Do you know, sir, that the legend of Scarpea, also known as Scarapea, Skorospeya or Scarabea, spreads throughout the entire Great Russian plain, from Arkhangelsk to the southern provinces? – Vladimir Ivanovich asked a question to which he clearly did not expect or want an answer, because he did not make even the tiniest pause. – Etymologically, the name of this magical reptile probably goes back to the ancient Egyptian scarab. Folklore tradition gives Scarpea wisdom, clairvoyance and the miraculous ability to bring wealth. However, at the same time, the image of a crowned snake certainly symbolizes the omnipotent, omnipresent Death. All these components are present in the legend of Scarpea of the Baskakov family.
- What, the Baskakovs have their own magic snake? – Tulipov was surprised.
- Yes. The snake, which, according to legend, exalted their family and sooner or later had to destroy it. “Which, as we see, is what happened,” Petrov said with visible satisfaction (obviously of an exclusively scientific nature).
From that moment on, Anisiy listened very carefully, without interrupting.
– In the fifteenth century, during the reign of Vasily the Dark, when Moscow was still under the rule of the khans, the ferocious Tatar Baskak Pantar-Murza with a band of thugs rode through the local swamps and forests - delicious (and it’s clear that not for the first or second time ) the scientist began to tell. – Legend says that the Baskak had a special order: not to touch towns and villages, but to collect tribute only from churches and monasteries. They tore off gilding from domes, frames from icons, embroidery and grain from vestments, and this desecration caused a howl throughout the entire Pakhrinsky region. And in the middle of the Gnilovsky swamp there was a vision of Pantar-Murza. The Tatar saw a huge snake, emitting light, with a golden crown on its head, and the snake said to him in a human voice: “Return to the temples of God what you took, and then come here again - I will reward you.” Murza shook from such a miracle and returned the loot to the priests and the monks, and then he himself went back to the swamp. And again Scarpea crawled out to him and said: “Because you fulfilled my will, here is a bunch of magic scrap grass for you. Wherever you throw it on the ground, you will find a great treasure. And your family will be rich and glorious for many years, until I appear again and take the last of the Baskakovites with me.” She placed a small bunch of grass in front of Pantar and disappeared, and the Tatar, neither alive nor dead, rushed away from the enchanted place, and ran so hard that he dropped the grass at the edge of the swamp. And in that very place a forged tolobas was revealed to him, all full of gold ducats. – Here Vladimir Ivanovich switched from the chanted epic tonality to the usual one, as if making a footnote or scientific commentary. – Of course, there were no Chervontsevs in the time of Vasily the Dark, but that’s what the legend says. After meeting with Scarpea, Murza converted to Christianity, built a house on the edge of the swamp and married a Russian girl of an honest family. In his declining years, having become a widow, he accepted the schema and became famous for many good deeds and even miracles, for which he was later canonized under the name of Saint Pancras. Well, a month ago, therefore, Scarpea returned and took the soul of the last in the Baskakov family. In any case, this is how the local peasants interpret the death of Sophia Konstantinovna. Rumors periodically spread among the locals that someone saw Mother Scarpea in the swamp, and this same incident with Baskakova just happened to coincide with the next wave of similar rumors: one allegedly spotted something like that, and another. For several months now, no one has set foot in the Gnilovskoye swamp, and now there’s this kind of chaos.
Anisiy looked puzzled at the ethnographer and ordered:
– Tell us about Baskakova’s death in as much detail as possible. Just let's go, it's late. You’ll finish the story as you go.
We again moved along the path illuminated by the bright moonlight, but slower than before, because now the scientist kept turning to his interlocutor.
– You see, on the one hand, this is, of course, a coincidence. I told the legend about the end of the Baskakovs to the hostess and the guests, and a few days later, when the sad news came from the Pamirs, it became clear that the family was really being cut short. The news of the death of her son almost drove Sofya Konstantinovna to the grave - her heart broke. She lay there for a day without memory, wanted to die, but did not die. On the second day she began to get up, on the third she could already go out into the garden, walked there alone until nightfall, and cried. They found her in the garden - clerk Krasheninnikov and his daughter. They say that Baskakova was lying on the ground and her face was simply terrible: her mouth was open, her eyes were bulging out of her sockets. While they were carrying her into the house, she only managed to repeat “Scarpea, Scarpea” twice – and walked away. According to the medical report, she died from completely natural causes - a heart attack, but still, you see, it’s creepy. When, as part of your occupation, you collect legends about witches, mermaids and other evil spirits, you begin to understand that all this is not just superstition. As they say, there is no smoke without fire... There really is a lot in the world that our sages don’t have the slightest idea about...
Vladimir Ivanovich was confused, obviously ashamed of this unenlightened judgment, and Tyulpanov moved his eyebrows in concentration, stimulating the mental process - from this exercise Anisy’s protruding ears went back and forth. Petrov, staring at the provincial secretary’s ear twitching, almost tripped.
Tyulpanov’s conclusion came naturally:
– There is no mysticism in this story. Baskakova saw some fallen branch or maybe a garden hose, remembered a legend and suddenly realized that she was the last in the family. She was afraid that the snake had crawled after her. Well, there were sore nerves, a torn heart, so she passed away, may she rest in heaven. It's a common occurrence and there's nothing to investigate.
Petrov stumbled out of the blue and grabbed the trunk of an aspen tree.
- What about the trail? - he asked, looking puzzled at the provincial secretary.
- What trace?
– Didn’t Mr. Blinov tell you? Apparently I didn't have time. Or he didn’t want to - he’s a materialist with us. It rained that evening. So on the path where Sofya Konstantinovna was found, a trace remained in the dirt - as if some huge reptile had crawled. – Vladimir Ivanovich glanced sideways at Anis’s slack jaw and sighed. - That's the thing. This is why there are rumors, this is why there is hesitation. Krasheninnikov drove pegs around that place and pulled up a canopy to preserve the trail. So you can check for yourself.
II
I'm sure. It wasn’t important to see at night, of course, but when Baskakovsky’s clerk lifted the canvas stretched on pegs and shone it with an oil lamp, Tyulpanov saw a clear winding stripe, as if someone had drawn a log of considerable thickness through the mud...
However, it’s better not to start with this.
Baskakovka appeared before Tyulpanov's gaze unexpectedly and, apparently, because of this suddenness, made an unusual impression on him.
The ethnographer walking ahead suddenly parted the branches, and behind the loosely closed square of trees an ancient white building appeared, all the windows of which glowed with a soft light. This made the house seem surprisingly similar to Anisiy’s paper Japanese lantern, like the ones that hung in Erast Petrovich’s office. From the illumination it followed that in Baskakovka they did not go to bed early. Yes, in fact, it wasn’t even that kind of night yet—it was only the eleventh hour.
The hostess nodded to Petrov as if she were one of her own, and was not at all surprised by the visit of the uninvited guest. Anisius thought that due to the incredible metamorphoses that had happened over the past month, the newly-made millionaire had generally become somewhat numb in her soul and had forgotten how to be surprised at anything.
In any case, when Tyulpanov introduced himself and explained that he was sent from Moscow to understand the circumstances of the death of the landowner Baskakova, Varvara Ilyinichna only said:
– Well, they’ve been sent – figure it out. Samson Stepanovich will take you to the guest room, leave your bag there and you are welcome to the veranda - we are drinking tea.
A stern elderly man in a jacket and boots, whom the hostess called Samson Stepanovich, was the same clerk of Krasheninnikov, so the first thing Anisy did was to show the mysterious trail.
Well, I looked, and so what? He even squatted down and touched the dried, cracked edges of the shallow furrow with his finger, but this did not add any clarity in the investigative sense. It was only clear that none of the original Russian reptiles would leave such a fiord, not to say a canyon, behind them.
– What do you think about this amazing phenomenon, Krasheninnikov? - Tulipov asked, looking up at the clerk.
He stood over the crouched official, stroked his long Russian beard, and looked gloomy. He did not answer immediately and with obvious reluctance:
- What is there to think about? Someone crawled by. It will be as thick as your ankle, if not your thigh. You see for yourself.
“Well,” Anisiy said cheerfully, getting up. – The signs of the magical Scarpea have been established: it is as thick as the thigh of the provincial secretary Tyulpanov. You can put him on the All-Russian wanted list. Okay, Samson Stepanych, let's go. What do you serve for tea?
What was served with tea was not the modest crackers mentioned by the zemstvo chairman, but such wonderful delicacies that Anisy, a great lover of sweets, even forgot about the matter for a while - he tasted both apricot lozenges and white Swiss chocolate (it costs one and a half rubles a bar on Kuznetsky) , and greenhouse pineapple, and Revel candied fruits. This remarkable abundance corresponded so little to the shabby furniture and neat darning on the tablecloth that Tyulpanov, using deduction, easily calculated the financial circumstances of the new owner of the estate. Although she is now rich, she is still more in the future than in reality, because the plots have not yet been sold and millions have not been received. However, in anticipation of future rivers of gold, he has a generous loan from local moneybags, which he uses for his own pleasure.
Two of the likely creditors, Papakhin and Makhmetshin, were sitting right there, near the samovar.
The first, narrowing his sharp, laughing eyes, drank tea from a saucer, and even with a sip. At the same time, he was dressed in an excellent English tweed suit, a pearl sparkled in his tie, and the sleek fingers with which Yegor Ivanovich brought a piece of sugar to his red lips were clearly not accustomed to base labor. True, when the business man, gesticulating, opened his right palm, the observant Anisiy saw a callus on it, but immediately identified its origin as a trace of commitment to the newfangled British game of lawn tennis. From this it followed that Papakhin drinks with a bite and a sip not from barbarism, but with meaning and even, perhaps, with a challenge: they say, don’t ask, we are not white bones, not blue blood, from the simple ones. That’s why his hair is cut in a circle and his beard is a broom. In general, a typical gentleman.
The second of the local aces, who was introduced to the provincial secretary as Rafik Abdurrahmanovich, looked even more impressive: in a black frock coat, the whitest shirt with a silk tie, but at the same time in a tightly twisted turban that suited his arrogant, high-cheekboned face. From the ironic address of “haji”, which Yegor Ivanovich called his competitor, from the repeated mention of the holy Mohammedan city of Mecca, the provincial secretary figured out that Rafik Abdurrahmanovich had recently made a pilgrimage to the East, which undoubtedly explained the crowning with a turban.
But the owner of Tyulpanov was upset. In the hallway, when I met her, he didn’t really see her, it was dark. Now, under the lampshade, it became clear that Varvara Ilyinichna was not good: her skin was dull, her hair was thin, and even in a bun, and her face was somehow strangely small and a little lumpy. To tell the truth, listening to the chairman’s story in the droshky, Anisiy imagined a completely different picture. He imagined a pale but interesting girl with defenseless and frightened eyes, who was completely lost from the dramatic zigzag of fate. She can't wait for the knight-savior to take her under his protection, calm her down and save her. And she will repay him for this with heartfelt gratitude, ardent love, which is said to be especially burning among consumptive young ladies - and, of course, a couple of millions in dowry.
Anisia dreamed about a dowry when he and Petrov walked along a dark alley to the house. Now, looking at Varvara Ilyinichna, the provincial secretary thought: millions, of course, are a good thing, but he’ll have to go to Menton and leave the service. It’s stupid to trample underfoot with such wealth for a fifty-ruble salary. And without the boss Erast Petrovich, without the round-faced tormentor Masa, you’ll probably start drinking out of boredom. Well, screw it, wealth.
Having eaten sweets and solved the problem with millions, Tyulpanov began the investigation.
- What about the other guests, have they left? – he asked, pointing to the empty cups and crumpled napkins.
“In our village they go to bed early,” answered the hostess with a disdainful grin. - They ate the cakes and pastries, they stared at me so that they would have something to gossip about, and then went home to the side room. They're asleep now, I guess! Landowners, Mr. Tyulpanov, are boring people. Well, Rafik Abdurrahmanovich and Mr. Papakhin don’t forget, otherwise I’d be sitting at the samovar alone. Vladimir Ivanovich doesn't count. He only perks up when he talks about old times.
The learned ethnographer actually sat down in the corner with a cup of tea and buried his face in a plump leather notebook. Directly above the folklorist hung the same icon that Anisiy had already heard about: the holy elder (thin, like Vladimir Ivanovich, and with the same beard, only in his hand was not a notebook, but a divine book), and in front of him was a spotted snake in a shining crown.
Anisiy really didn’t like the way Varvara Ilyinichna spoke about the local landowners. How long have you, my dear, been one of the hangers-on here, he thought, and now you turn your nose up at the neighbors? And the young man wanted to say something harsh.
- And your clerk, Samson Stepanovich? Why don't you invite him to tea? Didn't get the title?
Varvara Ilyinichna, who should have been ashamed by this attack (how long has it been since she had a wonderful soul about the people’s welfare?), did not shy away at all, but rather snorted.
- There’s no way he’s going to sit down. There is a special arrogance here, humiliation more than pride. The Krasheninnikovs have been under the Baskakovs for almost a hundred years. Sitting at the master's table is like cutting sausage on the Church altar. And then, who am I to Samson Stepanych? Upstart, cuckoo tribe. Do you know what he was talking to me about?
The hostess laughed, but unsuccessfully: the laughter turned into a cough - dry, convulsive, painful to watch. Having wiped her eyes with a handkerchief and caught her breath, Varvara Ilyinichna continued as if nothing had happened:
“He is a reader of ancient books and a church elder.” He wants me to spend all my inheritance on the construction of a temple in memory of St. Pankras and the Baskakov family. And she herself went to the monastery to pray to God for Baskakov’s sins. What's it like, huh?
And she laughed again, without coughing, but still somehow annoyingly, without fun.
– Does Krasheninnikov live in the house? - Anisiy asked, mentally wondering whether he should take a closer look at the clerk first.
- No, what are you talking about? He has a house in the garden. And there is also a guardhouse on the shore of the pond, called the “office”. There Samson Stepanych retires to read books pleasing to God, and then no, no, disturb him. Even my daughter is not allowed into the “office”. Samson Stepanych is a widower and lives with his daughter,” the hostess added in explanation. – Sweet girl, a real Russian beauty.
"Mr. Papakhin" perked up.
- Hmmm, Krasheninnikov’s daughter is a true bud. It's a pity, he'll be wasted with such a dad. Seryogin, a local clerk, wooed her, and received an uppercut from the gate. – Yegor Ivanovich waved his fist as in boxing. “Samson Stepanych won’t let his daughter marry, he’ll keep her as a girl until she’s overripe, and after that, where should she go - perhaps as a nun.” Eh, if I could dress her up, teach her a few things, and take her to Paris for an exhibition, she would blossom!
Judging by this remark, the tone between the hostess and Papakhin was taken freely. Although the industrialist accompanied the words “teach something” with an expressive wink, Varvara Ilyinichna did not get angry and did not make a reprimand - she even smiled. Anisiy noticed this detail too.
It was time to move on to the main thing.
“I had the opportunity to listen to two opposing views on a sad event that happened a month ago. - Anisy delicately glanced sideways at the hostess to see if she would become gloomy at the mention of the unpleasant. Nothing, she didn’t become gloomy. – Mr. Blinov is of the opinion that there is nothing supernatural in this story, and declares the rumor about Scarpea’s things to be empty superstition...
“...Which could scare away future summer residents,” Papakhin picked up, “and prevent the onset of the Pakhrinsky golden age.” Did Anton Maximilianovich describe to you what a wonderful and enlightened life we will all live here in two hundred years? No? Well, he’ll tell you more. – Yegor Ivanovich laughed. - Pig nonsense. The summer resident doesn’t give a damn about local fairy tales. He needs oxygen, a hammock, a bath and fresh milk. And our chairman is a talker and a fool. Do you know that last year he traveled to the Far East and had a plan to get rich by trading in tiger skins? A businessman has been found! The Chinese Honghuzi almost cut off his head. Yes, he wouldn’t care; he wouldn’t even notice such a loss.
“Yegor Ivanovich is angry that Anton Maximilianovich bypassed him in the elections,” Varvara Ilyinichna explained cheerfully, and it was imperceptible that the memory of the zemstvo dreamer would in any way burden her conscience.
The Tatar smiled maliciously with his lips and nodded his turban, but Tyulpanov was not interested in the district elections; and he turned the conversation back to the source:
– ...And Mr. Petrov, who was more romantic, expressed a different point of view to me. Your Samson Stepanovich showed me a snake trail in the garden,” Anisy slowly bent the desired line, looking at his reflection in the samovar (funny - cheeks with melons, like the Japanese Masa, and ears like pancakes). - Impressive. There don’t seem to be reptiles of this proportion in our country. I would like, Varvara Ilyinichna, to know how you understand about Scarpea? Aren't you afraid?
And then rrraz - he turned his head and looked at the hostess point-blank with a sharp gaze. I learned this trick from the boss. Those who have a guilty conscience sometimes get lost.
Varvara Ilyinichna did not allow Tulip’s penetrating gaze inside her. She giggled again, she’s so funny, and she’s still in consumption. Perhaps, after all, my mind has shifted somewhat from the unexpected wealth.
- Why should I be afraid of her? It was Sofya Konstantinovna, poor thing, when the news about Sergei Gavriilovich came, she kept repeating: “I am the last of the Baskakovs, I am the last of the Baskakovs” and cried and cried...
The young lady, without any transition, not yet wiping the smile from her face, sobbed and, sniffling her nose, finished:
- I’m not from the Baskakovs, I don’t need Scarpea.
“Don’t tell me, dear Varvara Ilyinichna,” Papakhin shook his finger. - You have Baskakov’s wealth, obtained from the magic tolobas, and therefore, you will have a family heirloom as an inheritance. “He bared his strong, smoky teeth, bulged his eyes and hissed like a snake. – And we, the Papakhins, by the way, also have our own family ghost. Old lady Trukhorushka was hanging out behind the stove at her daddy's place. Ma-scarlet, so little grey, sniffing and sniffing. I was terribly afraid of her as a child. In Ilyinsky, almost every hut has its own evil spirits, and so from time immemorial. Such are the places here, my sir. Why be surprised - the Gnilovskaya swamp is close. What do you want, Seryogin?
The question was turned somewhere else. Anisy turned and saw in the twilight, outside the illuminated circle from the lamp, a stooped little man who was dressed strangely: in a jacket and tie, but at the same time in knee-high boots. The little man held a large red cat in his hands, scratching its chin. The cat blinked at this.
“I will report this not to you, but to Varvara Ilyinichna,” the Plyugavets said with dignity, glancing sideways at the official in uniform. – Samson Stepanych accepted the correspondence at the post office this morning from the Land Survey Department, but not a word to you, sir. I consider it my duty as an honest person.
- Finally! – the hostess exclaimed joyfully. – Certificate of measurements of the estate?
- The newest one, sir, made last year.
- God bless! Now you can sell. And to Menton! In Paris! To Marienbad!
Varvara Ilyinichna jumped up and twirled around the room - the hem of her modest dress, apparently from her previous life, tried to unfurl like a wave, but instead, it was unpicturesquely wrapped around the young lady’s legs.
Papakhin winked familiarly at Anisiy and nodded at Seryogin:
“He’s digging a tunnel under his superiors, the scoundrel.” He thinks Varvara Ilyinichna will take him with her abroad. And Murka will go. Now that his matchmaking didn’t work out, Murka is his bride instead.
- Some animal creatures are much more decent than other merchants, right, Musenka? – The clerk kissed the cat on the nose. “Varvara Ilyinichna is kind, they will certainly take you and me to Paris.”
“You only have one hope,” Yegor Ivanovich grinned and explained to Tyulpanov. - He knows that as soon as I buy Baskakovka, get it out of here, get it out of here.
“Why, I bought one,” Seregin snapped, without looking at the millionaire. – Rafik Abdurrahmanovich is offered more than yours.
- Varvara Ilyinichna! – Papakhin loudly called out to the waltzing young lady. - My affectionate one! Are you really thinking of selling Baskakovka to a shaven-headed koumiss? It's a sin, by God it's a sin!
The hostess stopped and answered cheerfully:
– Nothing is a sin, and even fair. It came from a Tatar, and will go to a Tatar.
At these words, Rafik Abdurrahmanovich put his palm to his forehead and chest, and then said briefly, opening his lips for the first time:
– Makhmetshin’s word is firm. A million and a half. If you order, my fellows will deliver it tomorrow, and you can have the bill of sale after.
Yegor Ivanovich slammed his fist on the table - cups clinked:
“He’ll build a mosque here and quarrel with the priests.” I give you one million six hundred!
– What do I care about priests? – Varvara Ilyinichna laughed, seeming very pleased that she had knocked both moneybags together. “I’ll go to Europe and never set foot here again.”
“That’s true, sir,” the clerk assented, kissing Murka’s furry cheeks.
Rafik Abdurrahmanovich shrugged:
– Why a mosque? I’ll build a mosque in our settlement, and then I’ll do the work here. One million seven hundred.
Citing fatigue, Tyulpanov went to his room, but did not go to bed - he started writing a detailed report to the boss about everything he saw and heard: with portraits, characteristics, retelling of conversations. In such matters, minor details are most important. Varvara Ilyinichna said that in the morning the boy would run to the post office with the gardeners and that by the evening the letter would already be with the addressee, and therefore, the day after tomorrow one could expect some instructions or recommendations from Erast Petrovich.
Went to bed after midnight. I tossed and turned, but could not sleep. As soon as he closes his eyes, all the reptiles appear, with a forked tongue and a crown on a flat diamond-shaped head.
Finally got angry with myself. Don't want to sleep, Anisy Pitirimovich? Then there is no point in wasting the feather bed. Please do some exercise. As the wise Masa says, “a lot of goryachi - a lot of fun.”
He put on his overcoat right over his nightgown, put his bare feet in his boots, and went out into the garden. The windows had already gone dark, the house stood in darkness, dark and very quiet. But from the night, numerous indistinct sounds rushed towards Anisiy: gurgling, crackling, smacking, a conspiratorial roll call of either birds, or toads, or someone else. The Moscow night sounded, smelled and turned black completely differently. Something rushed through the bushes, behind which there was a pond, and even further away the Gnilovskoe swamp; Here, along the alley (Tulpanov barely noticed it out of the corner of his eye), a black shadow darted. Those with non-materialistic views or simply weak nerves would probably be frightened. But Anisiy heard more than once from the boss that all the worst things lurk not around a person, but inside him, and therefore he walked cheerfully, without fear.
He parted the branches, and right in front of him, twinkling with reflected stars, a pond opened up. He smelled of mud, frogs, and something else that Anisy didn’t know the name of. He sat down on a stump and began to figure out which way from here Scarpein’s trail was covered with canvas.
I didn’t sit there for five minutes - I heard a rustling, and it was close, behind the raspberry tree. Someone was walking there, groaning and muttering. At this point Anisiy felt uneasy, and he regretted that he had left the revolver in the bag. Although if the person is alive, then there is nothing to be afraid of. And if there is some kind of undead, then even a revolver will not help.
What the hell are undead, the provincial secretary angrily said to himself. Someone just wanders around in the middle of the night, groaning and saying sentences. I wonder why - just like that or for what purpose?
Tulipov squatted down from the stump, became quiet, and began squinting into the darkness.
Krasheninnikov?
It was exactly like him – the silhouette was familiar, and when he turned around, a long beard emerged.
The clerk was carrying a small bag behind his back. From time to time he stopped, took some lumps out of the bag and threw them on the ground, near the water. What kind of quirk?
Quietly, quietly, Anisy followed. I felt the ground and came across something soft, like felt. He brought it to his eyes and threw it away disgustingly. Two dead mice tied by their tails. Ugh!
Well, Baskakovka. Some kind of mournful house, crazy on crazy. Only Papakhin is not even crazy. He knows what he wants, and it seems that he will achieve it.
And Anisiy began to think about Papakhin, but did not have time to turn around properly, because from afar, from the manor’s house, a heart-rending scream was heard. This sound was so terrible that the provincial secretary’s knees buckled.
III
His Honor
g. collegiate adviser
E.P. Fandorin
Into your own hands
I am sending this letter at the same time as yesterday, so read that first, and then this. I also included in the first letter about the night walk in the garden, about Krasheninnikov’s madness and about the scream, so as not to smear here, but to immediately go on to the description of the crime.
As I found out, having reached the house, a heartbreaking scream was made by the maid Nastasya Tryapkina, who looked into the hostess’s bedroom at half past two in the morning.
When asked why she didn’t sleep and why she looked in, Tryapkina testified that the young lady, going home in the evening, told her not to undress her yet and to wait - supposedly she wanted to sit by the window and dream.
The maid waited for more than an hour. According to her, she was in the corridor and did not go anywhere. True, she was not standing under the door, but near the stairs - there were pictures hanging on the walls, and Tryapkina, in order not to get bored, looked at them. However, she swears that no one came into the bedroom, she would have seen it, and the door there creaks. Finally, thinking that the hostess had fallen asleep in the chair without undressing, the maid decided to look into the room. She screamed and fainted.
I was the second to arrive at the scene of the murder, so I describe what follows based on my own observations.
Approaching the open bedroom door, I first saw Tryapkina’s unconscious body and felt the vein on her neck. When it became clear that she was alive and had no visible wounds, I entered the room.
You know, chief, I’ve seen all sorts of things in my service. Remember last year's murder of the merchant Grymzina? I didn’t feel intimidated then, I even let investigator Moskalenko sniff ammonia. And here there seems to be no blood, no severed body parts, but what a horror.
I'm better in order.
The murdered woman was sitting in a chair near the open window. I immediately realized that she was completely dead, because her head was hanging to one side, like, you know, a chamomile or a dandelion on a torn stem.
At first I wasn’t scared at all - well, they killed me, and they killed me. Usual murder, I think we'll sort it out. Even when I lit the lamp and saw the strangulation groove on the neck, I didn’t attach much importance to it. Clearly, I understand: they strangled me. Although it seemed strange to me then that the band was so wide. They usually strangle you with a strap, cord, or rope, but here there is a purple mark as thick as your arm.
The first thing I did, of course, was lean towards the open window. The window sill is clean. He jumped down and shone the lamp. And then I felt so terrified that I couldn’t take a step for two minutes, honestly.
There, around the manor house, the ground is sprinkled with fine sand so that after the rains the puddles do not stagnate. So, a flowing trail was clearly visible in the sand, which stretched from the bedroom window to the bushes. Exactly the same as I saw just now, under the canvas.
Chief, you know me. I don’t believe in evil spirits and any such nonsense, but where could the trace come from? Well, let’s assume that some giant creature has appeared in the Gnilovsky swamp; all sorts of miracles happen in nature. But how did she crawl through the window? Impossible!
I’m ashamed to say, I even said a prayer to protect myself from defilement. And only then, having calmed down a little, I began to reason as you taught me.
Okay, I think. How could this murder have happened without supernatural reasons?
Let's assume that the villain hid in the bedroom beforehand. When Varvara Ilyinichna came in and sat down by the window, he crept up from behind, strangled her, say, with a towel twisted into a thick rope, and then jumped onto the sand and depicted Scarpea’s footprint - with a log of wire or something else.
There are a lot of footprints there under the window, they walk all day long, but you yourself know what the footprints are in the sand, they are of no use.
The police officer, of course, arrived, then the doctor, the district investigator. The last one is a completely empty subject. I was terribly glad that your assistant was in Baskakovka, and happily entrusted the entire investigation to me. He says that we are in the wilderness here, such ingenious crimes have never happened before, Anisy Pitirimovich, don’t give that away. All hope lies with you. He told the police to listen to me and drove off, you scoundrel.
Of course, I understand that you must be in the company of Her Imperial Majesty and it is impossible for you to leave, but at least help me with advice.
I've compiled a list of suspects.
First those who benefit. This is, of course, Papakhin and Makhmetshin. The first one stayed until night yesterday and left an hour before the murder. His crew is a single-wheeler, without a driver, so go and check whether Papakhin really went home or not. Makhmetshin was brought by a coachman, also a Tatar. But these are the kind of people who will never betray their own. And this is what the developers will benefit from the death of Varvara Ilyinichna, the police officer explained. The estate is now left without an heir. The law gives a certain period so that relatives can be found, and if they are not found, then the escheated property falls into the possession of the treasury or, in this case, the zemstvo. Why does the zemstvo need this extra hassle with real estate? They will sell it to the same developers, but much cheaper, especially if you give the right person five, many ten thousand. This way you can gain a good half a million. Is it a joke?
Then clerk Krasheninnikov. The motive for this may not be self-interest, but mental disorder. The old man is clearly not himself, the Baskakov family is to him just like Allah is to the Mohammedans, and, apparently, he despised and even hated the murdered woman.
There is still a St. Petersburg scientist, Vladimir Ivanovich Petrov. After all, it was he who dug up and colorfully painted the legend about Scarpea. But why the folklore collector would harass Baskakova, and then her adopted daughter, is unclear.
Nothing else comes to my mind yet.
The maid Tryapkina, the gardener and the janitor packed their things and left Baskakovka before dark. The clerk Seryogin lives in a closet under the stairs, but this is what happened to him. In the morning he was very calm, he reacted calmly to the death of the hostess, ranting to me about the powerlessness of mortal people before the will of Providence. And in the evening, when the police left, he burst into my room, all bawling, blowing his nose into a handkerchief, shouting: I’ll take my life. Do you know why? His cat died. She ate some rubbish in the garden and died. It was terrible how I was dying – I had to take it off with valerian drops. I’ll leave, he said. To Australia or Brazil, because I don’t want to live in the same hemisphere with poisoners and evil heliogabals. He collected the chest, grabbed the owner's bronze lamp in the form of Mephistopheles - “for memorabilia” - and departed in an unknown direction.
I was left alone in the house. It’s okay, I have a simple upbringing, I can take care of myself.
I am enclosing copies of the crime scene examination and the pathological report, prepared on my orders by the police officer and the doctor.
I'm waiting for your answer and advice,
Your Tulipov.
And my deepest bow to Mr. Masa.
IV
Anisiy lied in his report to the boss. He presented the facts and circumstances exactly, did not hide the versions, but did not write that the object had already been planned by him. If you made a mistake, you won’t have to blush, and if you chose the right line, you’ll have something to be proud of.
Papakhin and Makhmetshin, of course, benefit from the death of Varvara Ilyinichna - no doubt. But millionaires are not the kind of people who would play mysteries for a jackpot, even a huge one. This requires a special brain structure - dark, twisting and certainly lopsided.
The chief said that there are only four motivations for premeditated murder: the first is self-interest, the second is fear, the third is burning passion (love frenzy or jealousy, revenge, envy), the fourth is madness. The most difficult crimes to solve belong to the last category, because the maniac exists in a fantasy world, the structure and logic of which are incomprehensible to normal people.
In the story with Scarpea, all the signs of a maniacal crime were seen, and then it turned out that Krasheninnikov was the first to be suspected.
A gloomy man, of strange behavior, a lover of solitude. This time.
Reader of religious books. That's two.
He opposed the conclusion of a deal to sell the estate. That's three.
With an unhealthy idea about the greatness of the Baskakov family. That's four.
And, of course, the most suspicious thing is the nightly scattering of dead mice from the bag.
After leafing through the criminology textbook he had brought from Moscow, Anisiy wrote down some useful terms on a piece of paper so that he could show off in front of his boss. The main version now looked very solid.
So, so. From an addiction to reading ancient books and an obsessional fetishization of his state as a vassal under the Baskakovs, Samson Stepanych Krasheninnikov was moved by reasoning and, perhaps, he himself did not notice how he had moved from the real world to the world of painful fantasies. The impetus may have been the legend of a magic snake told by a St. Petersburg folklorist. The clerk imagined that, being under the Baskakovs, he was actually in the service of the patroness of their family, Scarpeia. When the news of the death of young Baskakov arrived, Krasheninnikov realized that the ancient family was ending with Sofya Konstantinovna, and he obeyed the imaginary call of the swamp ruler. It must be assumed that the clerk is subject to hallucinations and even, probably, split personality. Depicting the phenomenon of Scarpea with the help of some improvised means, he immediately forgets about his tricks. How else to explain yesterday's laying out snake food along the edge of the pond? No, no, this is not self-interest, but real, unalloyed madness. The clerk brought Baskakova to heartbreak in fulfillment of the prophecy, and Varvara Ilyinichna must have been punished as an encroacher on Scarpeino’s wealth. I realized that the heiress would not erect a temple in honor of St. Pancras, so he committed ritual reprisals against the poor girl.
The version was harmonious, but the evidence so far was rather sparse.
Therefore, on the second day after the murder, from early morning, Anisiy sat down in secret opposite the clerk’s house and began to conduct external surveillance.
Krasheninnikov lived in the very thick of Baskakovo’s huge garden, in a strong log hut under a green tin roof.
The first to come out was a tall girl with a long brown braid—no less than her daughter. I fed the chickens, collected water, and watered the flowers in the small, neat front garden. Papakhin is right, the clerk’s daughter was a real beauty.
Samson Stepanych himself disappointed the provincial secretary. At nine o'clock he came down from the porch, gloomy and businesslike. He saddled his horse and rode off somewhere. It turned out that in vain Tulipov had been sitting in the bushes since dawn, got wet from dew and was bitten three times by evil ants.
So the day did not go well from the very beginning.
Compelled by the grumbling and sucking of the animals, the provincial secretary went to Olkhovka to get food, but the village seemed to be extinct. With great effort I found an ancient grandmother in one of the huts, who could barely move her legs. Asked where the population was, the old woman replied: “From Shkarpeya they spread. I mean, thank God I've lived. Will you not be from her, mother? Not after me?” And she narrowed her blind eyes with hope.
The zemstvo chairman spoke the truth: some kind of wild Middle Ages. And this is sixty miles from Moscow!
Anisy got hold of only kvass and a crust of bread from his grandmother. Since there was no one to take a horse from, I went on foot to Ilyinskoye, where there was a storehouse and a post office. In the shop I bought bagels, tea, sugar, and sausages. I waited a long time for the evening postman to see if there would be an answer from the boss to yesterday’s reports. Did not have.
We had to return to Baskakovka on our own two feet. None of the peasants agreed to carry it - not for a ruble, not for two. In the morning, they said, it was all right, but by night it was all right. Ignorance and superstition.
I reached the empty estate in the dark, tired and angry. You are doing wrong, Erast Petrovich. It’s okay that they didn’t tell us about Scarpea from the very beginning. They wanted me to form my own opinion about this outlandish matter. But why not answer the letter? After all, it’s not about trifles!
And how can we pin down this Krasheninnikov? Deduction is needed here. Maybe we should go and give him a good shake by the collar so that he confesses to everything? But where is the evidence? You can't build an accusation on dead mice alone. So, should we sit in the bushes again?
Having not yet finally decided how to act, Tyulpanov walked along the pond to the clerk’s house. The chief said that in any maniac, even the most brutal one, there certainly remains a particle of goodness and that it is this undead part of the human soul that is the main assistant to the investigation, because it sometimes prompts a criminal madman to self-exposure and even repentance.
Maybe talk to Krasheninnikov calmly, sympathetically. You look, and the path to a good beginning will be found, and then it will be possible to receive recognition. All the same, Krasheninnikov is on his way to a madhouse; they won’t send someone like that to hard labor.
This is how Tulipov thought, walking past the gloomy water surface, dotted with dark spots half-sunken logs, hummocks, reed thickets. A whitish, swaddle-like fog rose above the pond. Summer was not over yet, but it was chilly and dank.
Anisiy still took the revolver with him. Well, how will the evil half of the clerk come into play?
When something large and spread out suddenly popped out from behind a nearby hummock with a splash, Anisy grabbed his heart with his left hand and pulled the weapon out of his pocket with his right. He caught the trigger on the edge and almost shot himself in the leg.
It was not the swamp monster or the Serpent Gorynych that crawled out of the water onto the shore, but a tall man in boots, covered in mud and covered with a shaggy black beard almost up to his eyes.
The wet man waved his hand towards the swamp and began to hum incomprehensibly. Either dumb or weak.
He must be a local fool, Anisy explained to himself, calming down. That's why he's fearless. Everyone from the village fled, but this one got into the swamp itself.
From a young age, Tulipov felt compassion for the weak-minded, so he gave the fool a piece of sugar and said lightly:
- Go, go. There's no point in you hanging around here.
But there was no need to feed the brainless one sweets - he followed suit. Sometimes he lags behind, sometimes he runs ahead and keeps looking back at the pond and the swamp. And then suddenly Anisiya pushes him aside, falls on all fours and points his hand at the ground, joyfully muttering inarticulate words.
He wanted to make Tulips angry, but then the moon poked out from behind a cloud, illuminated the sodden shore, and the young man saw a sickeningly familiar winding trail in the liquid clayey mess. Again!
The swamp man hummed, cackled, and shook his shaggy head in all directions, as if he had lost his dear friend. There, by the pond, Anisy left him.
Now he walked quickly, recklessly. That's it, enough tricks! Let the village fool look for the magic snake, and you and I, Samson Stepanovich, will talk in our own way.
About two minutes later I was already at Krasheninnikov’s house. Before going up to the porch, he cocked the gun, put the weapon in his belt and pulled his overcoat over the top.
The clerk's daughter answered the knock. Up close, she turned out to be even more beautiful: her face was clean, white, her clear eyes looked attentively, radiantly. Oh, dear, what is it like for you to live with a demoniac?
Anisiy raised his cap and introduced himself. He asked what his name was – Gel.
“But the priest is not at home,” said Gelya. - He's in the office. A long time ago, from the world.
- Where is it? - Tulipov asked, looking around. - Which way?
“He doesn’t allow us to go there,” the beauty explained. “My dinner has been laid for a long time, I’m waiting, but I can’t call you.” Maybe you should sit and wait? Father will return, we will have dinner together.
The provincial secretary frowned and answered the invitation absentmindedly:
- Thank you. Someday after... That's it. I have urgent business with your dad, so I’ll risk disturbing Samson Stepanych. You're just taking me through.
Apparently she was a smart girl. She didn’t say anything else, she just knitted her chiseled eyebrows. She stood there for half a minute, threw on a scarf and led Anisiya along a narrow path along a clearing, then through currant bushes and an apple grove. The apples were already quite ripe and were reaching from the branches to the ground. On one, heavy with juice, Tulipov sensitively hit his forehead.
“Here it is, the “office,” Gelya showed.
At the very edge of the pond there was a booth with one window. Inside, behind a chintz curtain, a light was burning.
I would like to look through the crack, but it’s awkward in front of my daughter. Anisiy knocked briefly, more for show, and quickly pushed the door. I really wanted to catch Krasheninnikov in some self-exposing activity.
First I saw a kerosene lamp on a wooden table, a flask covered in suede and a camp glass, and only then Samson Stepanovich himself. He sat slumped in his chair with his head thrown back. He was dressed in something wide, baggy, like a patterned Asian robe.
Gelya screamed terribly behind Anisy’s back, pushed him away and rushed to her father. Before she could reach it, she clasped her hands and sank to the floor - fainting.
There was something to faint about. The clerk’s face was terribly blue and swollen, and on his neck, on the side of his beard, two black dots could be seen, a drop of blood flowing from each.
Anisiy was even glad that the girl became sleepy. Comfort her, give her water, and now the real work will begin: examine everything, look for traces, take measurements.
The provincial secretary extended his hand to touch the dead man's Adam's apple - was it cold or had it not yet cooled down?
I saw that the wide robe was moving in a strange way. I took a closer look.
It was not a robe, but a snake of unprecedented size, wrapped around the corpse. She raised her head, tapering towards the end, flashed her agate eyes and opened her vile mouth with two thin fangs.
Anisius felt unwell. He sluggishly waved his hand at Scarpea - like, don’t talk to me in a human voice, I still won’t believe it - and fell to the side. His eyes, before rolling under his forehead, slid across the dark ceiling, over shreds of cobwebs, and Tyulpanov temporarily parted with his disobedient consciousness.
V
What was most embarrassing later was that Krasheninnikov’s daughter woke up before the experienced investigator, and was not immediately able to bring him to his senses. And she rubbed his ears and splashed him with water from a tub, even though she herself was in tears, chattering her teeth and praying. When Tulipov finally opened his eyes, patted them and realized where he was, what was wrong with him, and why a beautiful girl was crying over him, the terrible reptile disappeared from the house - apparently, it crawled away through the open door.
At first, Anisiy decided that there was no Scarpea at all, that the gaping snake’s mouth was an image he imagined from frustrated nerves, but Gelya also saw the reptile monster, and the bite marks from the neck of the ill-fated Samson Stepanovich had not gone away.
Later, the next morning, when Anisiy returned from the volost with the entire investigative team, the zemstvo doctor, taken as a medical expert, established after an autopsy that Krasheninnikov died from respiratory paralysis, which arose as a result of exposure to some organic poison, unknown to the volost aesculapius. There was no need to be surprised at the uncertainty of the conclusion - the doctor looked drunk and did not stand very firmly on his feet. Thank you, at least I didn’t cut off my finger with a scalpel.
Well, a village is a village.
By noon, the picture of Baskakov's crimes became more or less clear. The provincial secretary outlined the objective facts and his own conclusions in a detailed report to the chief, again attached copies of the investigative reports, and a special police messenger galloped to Moscow, to Malaya Nikitskaya, to hand over the important package to Mr. Collegiate Advisor with his own hand.
The initial version turned out to be almost correct - this is, perhaps, the only thing that Tyulpanov could be proud of in this story. Krasheninnikov really went crazy and imagined himself as a slave to Scarpea. When deducting, Anisius was mistaken in only one thing: the giant snake did not exist in the sick imagination of the clerk, but in reality. But, you know, no sane person could have imagined this.
It became clear why Krasheninnikov lost his mind. If you meet such a monster, and even knowing the Baskakov legend, your brain will inevitably go askew. Some of them are not timid, and they even faint...
The village fool who met Anisiy in the evening also probably saw a huge reptile, but, being foolishly devoid of imagination, he was not frightened, but, on the contrary, was delighted at this kind of fancy rocker and became eager to catch it. Blessed are the poor in spirit.
But the God-loving Samson Stepanovich was afraid and became a snake worshiper like the sons of Israel who burned incense to the copper serpent Nekhushtan. And he fed the vile creature, and tamed it, and probably even kept it in his “office,” sometimes letting it out for walks, but in the end he himself fell victim to his reptile mistress.
A bag of mice and frogs was found in the lodge, a large bowl with the remains of milk stood at the threshold, and a reed pipe was found in the dead man’s pocket - the only way to attract a swamp creature. I had never seen a gel pipe from my parent before.
Anisiy interrogated the grief-stricken girl without the police officer or the investigator, and wrote the report himself. Firstly, I felt sorry for the poor thing, and secondly, there was no need for outsiders to know about Tulip’s impressionability; this could result in damage to the authority of the investigation. When the doctor finished the autopsy, they put the corpse on a simple cart, and Gel took her villainous father to the village. But it’s unlikely that the peasants will allow the sorcerer to be buried in the cemetery. Oh, poor thing. Where is she now?
Having melted the witness of his shame, Anisiy became bolder and lied to his colleagues that he had grabbed Scarpea by the tail, but the damn sausage slipped out and left.
Why she got angry with Krasheninnikov, her benefactor - God knows. Maybe he was boring her with his attentions. Or was he released too rarely? One way or another, Scarpeia plunged her deadly teeth into the clerk’s neck.
And then Anisy had a scientific discussion with the police officer and the doctor about what biological species this mysterious animal should be classified as.
The doctor suggested that it was most likely Vipera berus, which, due to some special circumstances, had developed to unprecedented sizes. He read that in Italy, some time ago, peasants caught a poisonous reptile one and a half times the height of a man. The doctor was skeptical about Tyulpanov’s statement that in Scarpeya there looked to be at least two fathoms, and even allowed himself a hint in the sense that fear has big eyes.
The police officer had doubts about the viper, or simply viper. Anisiy remembered well the pattern of snake skin - black with yellow zigzags, and such vipers had never been found in the Gnilovsky swamps.
In the evening, when they drank juniper tincture for the repose of Scarpe’s victims and the completion of the case, Anisius came up with a plan of decisive action: mobilize the entire volost and partly even the district police, throw a cry among the local residents and comb the swamp with a fine comb. The monster probably crawled away; it had nowhere else to go. We need to find him and catch him, and if he doesn’t manage to be taken alive, he must be destroyed. Then the biological dispute will be resolved, and at the same time it will become clear whether Anisiev’s eyes were really so big with fear (Tulpanov told the doctor this, sarcastically).
The drinking buddies warmly supported the idea of the provincial secretary. It was decided to set aside tomorrow for preparations, and to begin the dragonade itself the day after tomorrow at dawn.
The expedition turned out to be not as monumental as Anisius imagined. Two dozen guards led by a police officer and several volunteers, that’s the whole army. Three neighboring landowners led by Anton Maximilianovich Blinov, who, as an experienced hunter, was confirmed in the position of archangel, the learned folklorist Petrov (without a gun, with only one net, as if he had come to catch butterflies), the doctor Tsarevokokshaisky and both Pakhrinsky millionaires, Papakhin and Makhmetshin - one must assume, in order to show off to the local authorities in the form of an upcoming profitable lease. The Tatar brought with him half a dozen dark, narrow-eyed clerks who behaved noisily and cackled all the time, as if making it clear that they did not care about Christian superstitions. Yegor Ivanovich Papakhin arrived alone, but a true Englishman, as if he was going on a fox hunt: a black cap, a red redingote, and a thin whip in his hand (which, by the way, was not so stupid).
Of the peasants, despite the promised reward, only one volunteered to go into the swamp - a skinny grandfather with a sallow face, wearing a tattered hat. Anton Maximilianovich shook the volunteer’s hand and called him “a representative of the new conscious peasantry,” but upon closer examination, the representative turned out to be not entirely sober. He was terribly ragged, but at the same time he was wearing strong canvas mittens and for some reason had an empty sack on his shoulder. He sipped from the bottle and at times danced on the spot, humming some monotonous choruses. The folklorist approached the bearer of oral folk art and even took out a notebook, but the peasant sent the scientist to his mother.
An acquaintance of Anis’s also showed up, a dumb little man who was looking for Scarpea in the pond. Seeing Tyulpanov, he started poking his finger in his mouth - give him some sugar. Even though I’m a fool, I understood why so many people had gathered. He hissed like a snake, mooed, jumped up and generally expressed approval of the undertaking in every possible way. There was no way to drive the wretched one away.
In total, the chain consisted of thirty-six people, which, of course, was not enough for real combing. The swamp was eight miles long and one and a half wide. What kind of comb is there?
All hope was in Anton Maximilianovich’s experience. The chairman wrinkled his brow and rearranged the hunters in his own way. Anisius, as a delegate of official authorities, placed him at his right hand. Next, at the request of Tyulpanov - the only peasant (it was necessary to keep an eye on the drunkard, so that, God forbid, he would not drown), then - the runaway (the provincial secretary also felt responsible for him).
“Since there are few people, we won’t comb the entire swamp,” Blinov announced. “There’s an island in the middle that I almost never look at, because there’s no reason to.” Let's touch it. The interval will be no more than seven to eight steps. Go ahead, gentlemen! And don't be shy. If anyone fails, the neighbors will pull him out.
And he was the first to step into the muddy green muck.
We walked back and forth to the island. Anisiy looked back at the peasant every now and then, but he did not mind - he staggered, but did not fall. The fool, he seemed to feel just fine in the swamp. But the provincial secretary himself made a mistake: he shied away from a black head with yellow spots on the sides sticking out of the water, and fell through with the crown. Anton Maximilianovich immediately grabbed Tyulpanov by the collar and put him back on the path, but Anisy managed to swallow the mucus and frog eggs. This incident gave him melancholy and nervous trembling in his knees. If he was so frightened by an ordinary snake, what would happen to him if a snake’s head the size of a melon suddenly poked out from behind a hummock? Well, the wetness didn’t make me feel any better either. The tall waders now sloshed a bucketful of water.
Okay, we somehow got to the dry ground and stretched out in a chain.
“In the spring, when I was snooping, I saw some holes behind those bushes,” Blinov pointed out. – But I didn’t attach any importance, thought the water rats. Let's go, Anisy Pitirimovich, let's check it out.
In fact, behind the bushes, among the roots, three holes were visible: two nearby, one at a distance.
- Do you have gloves? – asked the chairman. - No? Well, take mine, and I'll take the left one.
Anisiy pulled on Blin's kid glove, pushed the fool aside and began to gather his courage. I really didn’t want to go into the black hole. Even if it’s a rat, it doesn’t matter if it bites your finger, you won’t be happy.
But when Anton Maximilianovich, without hesitation, climbed into the first of the holes up to his shoulder and began to poke around there, Tyulpanov felt ashamed. He bit his lip, squatted down and resolutely stuck his hand inside...
“Shhhhhhh,” there was a loud hissing hiss, and before Anisy had time to pull back, a burning pain pierced his hand.
With a heart-rending scream, he jumped back, jerked his arm out and howled in horror when he saw that a huge diamond-shaped head with fierce eyes already familiar to the provincial secretary had grown to the bitten glove. An elastic black and yellow body stretched behind the head - as thick as Anisie’s neck, or even more plump.
- A-ah, mom! – Tulipov sobbed shamefully and shook his hand to free it from the poisonous mouth.
Scarpea unclenched her jaws and with unexpected agility darted into the thicket.
- There she is, hold it! - Blinov shouted, tearing the Berdanka from his shoulder.
The fool with a triumphant cry jumped like a cat, grabbed the black and yellow tail and was immediately dragged into the tall rusty grass. The drunken peasant rushed after him.
“Help,” whispered Anisiy, pressing his sore hand to his chest. - Do something, I beg you!
He tore off his glove and saw between his thumb and index finger two black holes from which blood was dripping. Is it really death?
The chairman fussed around the dying Tyulpanov.
- Lord, what a disaster! Take a deep breath, breathe through your mouth! The main thing is that chest not constrained!
Late. Anisiy felt that he could not breathe. His mouth opened, but no air entered his lungs. Here it is - respiratory paralysis.
Pointing to the cleaver that hung on Anton Maximilianovich’s belt, Tyulpanov croaked:
- Chop... Chop my brush...
- What do you! – Blinov recoiled in panic. - I can not!
And he waved his hands, the pathetic man.
Anisiy pulled out his own knife with his left hand, tried it on - and realized that he couldn’t do it either. And what’s the point if you can’t breathe anyway.
Both peasants fell out of the thickets, looking like Siamese twins joined at their sides. The grandfather held Scarpea by the neck with his hand in a canvas mitten, the fool pressed his firmly grasped tail to his chest, while the snake entwined both with living, pulsating rings.
Pure Laocoon, thought Anisy detachedly, who at that moment was remembering his late mother, sister Sonya, Erast Petrovich, Masa. Goodbye to everyone you loved. Goodbye blue skies and green leaves.
- Beat her, you bastard! - Blinov shouted. - With a knife, with a knife!
The answer came:
- Why use a knife... We're taking her to the zoological garden...
Here comes the pre-death gloom, Anisiy realized, choking with a wheeze - the last phrase was uttered in the voice of Erast Petrovich.
The snake fighters stuffed the desperately resisting reptile into a bag, but Tyulpanov was now infinitely far from this undignified fuss.
“You’re not a good person, B-Blinov.” You call your friend a “reptile” and wish her death.
- Chief, are you?! - Anisiy exhaled, looking in amazement at the village fool, flushed from the fight. Is it possible to?
The idiot smiled gap-toothed at the provincial secretary and hummed. The old drunkard answered instead:
- T-thank you, Tulipov. You have an overly flattering opinion of my masquerade abilities.
The young man did not even try to understand how the old drunkard suddenly turned into a boss - whether it’s mortal, when life is at its very bottom and continues to flow out drop by drop. No matter how miraculously you were brought here, Erast Petrovich, you couldn’t wish for a better farewell gift.
“Goodbye, boss...” Anisy whispered with the last crumbs of air still remaining in his lungs.
Erast Petrovich frowned:
- Hey, hey, Tulipov! Just don’t even think about actually dying. It’s a shame to die from fear alone.
The provincial secretary looked reproachfully at his beloved boss.
- Why do you offend a dying man, Mr. Fandorin? This is a sin.
Out of resentment, a little more air was squeezed out:
- Poison... and hellish pain...
“It wouldn’t hurt to grab it with such teeth.” – The chief thoughtfully examined the mitten, all dotted with snake teeth. - It didn’t bite through the tarpaulin, but easily through your husky. It hurts, but it's not dangerous. The snake is non-venomous. This, Tulipov, is an Amur snake. Based on your d-report and the testimony of Angelina Krasheninnikova - and she is more observant than you - I checked the zoological atlas in the volost reading room. A most magnificent specimen, isn’t it, Anton Maximilianovich?
Zemets was pale and shook his head, as if driving away an obsession.
Anisy, silently - there was no longer an opportunity to speak - poked himself in the Adam's apple: what about, they say, respiratory paralysis?
The boss said:
- Well, say: “Ap-chhi!”
Tulipov was surprised, but sneezed. And - miracle of miracles - without even noticing, I inhaled a little air. Then again, and again, and finally, he began to breathe deeply.
- Who are you, Mr. Mummer? – the chairman woke up from shock. -Who is this, Anisy Pitirimovich? And what are these strange insinuations addressed to me?
Erast Petrovich turned to the zemstvo:
- I am collegiate adviser Fandorin. And, as I see, you have a new flask? “He pointed to the shining copper flask that hung on Anton Maximilianovich’s belt. -Where is the old one? I bet it was lined with suede and had a wonderful silver k-lid that could have been used as a drinking glass.
The proposal of this strange bet for some reason had an amazing effect. The people's representative stopped protesting and backed away.
VI
- Tell me, Tyulpanov, did you yourself read the p-protocol that you sent me the day before yesterday? The one where the police officer describes the place of Krasheninnikov’s death? – The chief looked at his assistant reproachfully.
- No, why? I just told him to immediately write under the blue... I saw everything with my own eyes and outlined it to you in a report.
- That's the thing. You wrote that there was a suede flask with a glass on the table, but the police officer did not notice any flask. This means that during the time you were in insensibility, this vessel mysteriously disappeared from the table. The snake didn’t take it with it, right?
Anisiy patted his eyes and knitted his white eyebrows.
“There was no one there except me and Krasheninnikov’s daughter!”
“That’s why I suspected the girl at first.” Yesterday morning, Her Majesty and her retinue finally left for St. Petersburg, and I immediately went here. I found Krasheninnikova in Ilyinsky and questioned her properly. If she said that she didn’t see any flask, it would mean that she was a c-criminal. After all, she woke up before you. But Krasheninnikova clearly saw and described the flask, and at the same time remembered that after fainting, the flask disappeared from the table. It follows that there was a third person nearby, watching you from the darkness. After Krasheninnikova described the snake to me in detail and I established that it was a harmless snake, it became clear: the clerk did not die from a bite. The poison was most likely contained in a flask that mysteriously evaporated. A certain guest, whom Samson Stepanovich received at his lodge, treated him to a poisoned drink, and then made two small cuts on the dead man’s neck, simulating a snake bite. This trick carried out the home-grown volost expert perfectly. Due to the fact that it was not just any snake, but an Amur snake, it was not difficult for me to find the real killer.
Fandorin no longer looked at Anisy, but at the chairman, who stood motionless, biting his white lips.
- Who besides you, Blinov, could have brought the Amur snake here? Last year you returned with Far East. We didn't get any tiger skins, but we did get a magnificent live trophy. Your goal was innocent and even laudable: to discourage peasant poachers from the Gnilovsky swamp, so that they would not destroy rare birds and not interfere with your hunting. The plan was ingenious and worked out perfectly. But besides the superstitious peasants, your snake also saw Krasheninnikov. In any case, he knew that Scarpea was not an invention of local cliques, but he did not tell the investigator about it. Obviously, he was afraid that he would be considered crazy. By the way, Tyulpanov, I did not hold Samson Stepanovich under suspicion from the very beginning. Do you know why? Because he was scattering poisoned snake bait along the edge of the pond.
- Why poisoned, boss? – Anisy was surprised. - Why do you think so?
Fandorin just sighed:
– And what about the clerk Seryogin’s cat? It is quite obvious that Krasheninnikov’s treat ruined her. No, Samson Stepanovich did not believe in the magical Scarpea, and you, Blinov, decided that it would be safer to send him to the next world. In addition, you had an idea to blame everything on Krasheninnikov, and you almost succeeded. You visited the clerk at the guardhouse, treated him to poisoned wine, and furnished the crime scene in the way you wanted. They stuffed a reed pipe into the dead man’s pocket, brought a bowl for milk, and poor Samson Stepanovich himself supplied a bag of mice and frogs - very useful for your exhibition. However, you forgot your flask on the table and had to go back for it. The still life with a snake you prepared frightened the eyewitnesses to the point of loss of consciousness, so you eliminated the evidence without any hindrance, but you were still uneasy in your soul. The girl didn’t bother you too much - she has no way back to Baskakovka, but Tyulpanov... What if he still reads the protocol to the police officers and pays attention to the disappearance of the flask? And so you came up with the idea of getting rid of the witness in a clever and completely safe way for you. They took Tyulpanov straight to the hole where the snake you tamed lived, and forced him...
- Wait, sir! - Anton Maximilianovich interrupted the prosecutor. – But you yourself just said: the snake is non-venomous. If I am such a villain as you paint me, your assistant did not risk anything by sticking his hand into the hole!
– Using Baskakova’s example, you had the opportunity to see that fear and self-hypnosis kill an impressionable person like a knife. Tulipov had no doubt that a snake bite was deadly poisonous, and firmly believed in paralysis of breathing. This would actually make him suffocate - everything was going that way.
The provincial secretary pressed his palm to his chest and took a deep, deep breath. Lord, what a joy it is to breathe, just breathe!
Nearby was another completely happy person - a feeble-minded peasant. He sat on the ground and lovingly stroked the bubbling matting that moved in waves. Having lost one friend, the Far Eastern reptile immediately acquired a new one, much more faithful.
- Chief, why did you have to ruin Baskakova? - Anisy asked, without doubting that Erast Petrovich, as always, was right. - What benefit does he have?
- Yes, the most direct one. In his position as chairman of the district zemstvo government, Blinov learned about the upcoming railway construction before anyone else and realized what a tasty morsel Baskakovka was becoming. This gentleman's situation is desperate. I learned from the governor’s office that the Pakhrinskaya government is suspected of serious theft of public money, and an audit is being prepared. The case smelled like court and prison. Mr. Blinov desperately needed money to cover the embezzlement. So he developed an excellently clever p-plan. The circumstances were very tempting, weren’t they, Anton Maximilianovich? Baskakova’s only son died, the landowner suffered heart disease from grief, and her mind became darkened. She herself must have started talking about Scarpea, who would certainly come for the last of the Baskakov family. After all, just shortly before that, Mr. Petrov unearthed this ancient legend... You knew that now the heiress of Baskakovka is Varvara Ilyinichna, your like-minded person in serving the public good... You are an eloquent person, without much difficulty you managed to persuade the young lady to draw up a will in favor of the zemstvo ...
– Note: zemstvo, not my own! – Anton Maximilianovich tried to repel the assault a second time.
“Even Tyulpanov realized what benefits the right to distribute plots of land for rent would provide to the manager of public real estate.
At the word “even,” Anisy stuck out his lip offendedly, and Erast Petrovich said to him:
– Here, Tulipov, there is a smell of a bribe not of five or ten thousand, as you suggested in the letter, but of much larger sums. Renting summer cottages promises developers a profit of two hundred thousand a year, so they wouldn’t skimp on the baksheesh. – The college adviser shook his head. – I’m afraid that the m-fashion for dachas will sooner or later completely corrupt the authorities near Moscow. The temptation of easy enrichment is too great.
Fandorin took out a handkerchief and began to carefully wipe his face, from which the wrinkles gradually disappeared, and the skin from sallow became whiter and whiter.
- Three murders, Blinov. This is the result of your hoax. To bring poor Baskakova to the grave, it was enough to show her the Far Eastern serpent. But with Varvara Ilyinichna you had to dirty your own hands. It is a towel twisted into a rope, Tulips. I believe that in this case you have reconstructed the crime picture correctly. It was a bold idea to make a Moscow investigator a witness. You, Blinov, let “Skarpea” crawl a little under the window, and the “magic” version received another confirmation... By the way, what is your friend’s name? – the college adviser nodded at the moving bag.
Anton Maximilianovich seemed to understand that it was pointless to lock himself away, and smiled wryly.
The boss turned away and said quietly:
- And this is as you wish.
That’s not what Tulipov was expecting – he thought he had heard wrong. The chairman swallowed and blinked his eyes. After a short pause he bowed briefly:
- Thank you…
He took the Berdanka by the belt and slowly walked away. As we walked, I picked a stunted marsh flower and smelled it. A few more steps, and tall grass, one and a half human height, closed in behind Blinov.
- Won't he run away? – Anisiy doubted.
- Where? Will he go around Mother Rus' with a bag and ask for alms? Wrong habits, sir. If they get caught, it means indefinite hard labor. Let's give Anton Maximilianovich five minutes and save the zemstvo idea from unnecessary compromise. Hunting accidents are, unfortunately, not uncommon. – Fandorin rubbed his cheek with disgust, covered in a scattering of pink bites. – Let’s hurry back to Moscow. I don't like this plein air. There are not mosquitoes here, but some kind of piranhas.
“Chief...” Anisiy hesitated.
- What else?
– I’m talking about Gelya, Krasheninnikov’s daughter... A most worthy girl. After all, what horror I went through, I was left alone. She will disappear here. It's a pity. Can't you do anything for her?
- Fine. Let's take the “most worthy girl” with us.
A shot rang out in the thickets, and a short, fussy echo darted across the swamp.
Anisiy shook his shoulders and crossed himself three times. But the crackling, rolling sound amused the fool. Without ceasing to stroke his beloved bag, he shouted:
- O-boo-boo!
And he laughed joyfully.
“What kind of hard labor there,” Fandorin consoled him. “Don’t you see that he is completely mad?” Lev Aristarkhovich is awaiting a prison hospital, a department for the violently insane.
Nebaba sat down to write a report to the bailiff about solving the murder and capturing the murderer. He puffed, creaked his pen furiously, constantly wiped his crimson forehead with a handkerchief - in general, he was busy with business. But the official on special assignments was pacing around the dull office without any apparent reason. He sighed, nervously clicked his fingers, peered through the window into the darkness, once even opened the door, as if intending to leave, but the police officer, raising his head from his writings, advised against it:
- The night is dark, not a demon is visible. Warm up. Your Asian will come and he won’t go anywhere.
Masa showed up only an hour later.
- Well? – Fandorin asked impatiently. - Why so long? Did you find everything?
“Twenty five,” the servant answered proudly. – One round one in a ruzhu upara.
His elbows and knees were indeed wet and dirty.
“Tomorrow you’ll string it on a d-double thread,” Erast Petrovich ordered. - And throw this rubbish, the reel of the Puzyrev partnership, to hell. No, that's it, give me the beads here. I'll string them myself.
Catching the police officer’s surprised gaze, Fandorin explained, not without embarrassment:
“It’s a coincidence that I was saved twice thanks to them.” About immortality, of course, is superstition and nonsense. As for the highest wisdom, it is also doubtful. However, I had the opportunity to make sure that under the sound of the rosary, thought definitely works better... And there’s no point in looking at me like that.
Scarpea Baskakovs
I
- Tulipov, are you afraid of snakes?
The chef’s question caught Anisy in the middle of his second cup of tea, at the best time, when all the day’s tasks have already been completed, and there is still a whole evening ahead, there is absolutely no hurry, and the mood is calm, philosophical.
The conversation at the table was about something completely different - about the tomorrow’s arrival of Her Imperial Majesty to the Mother See, but Anisy was not surprised by the sudden question, for he had long been accustomed to Fandorin’s manner of jumping from one thing to another.
I wasn’t surprised, but I didn’t answer at random. The question could have been asked just like that, in a metaphorical sense, or it could have been asked for a reason. For example, one day Erast Petrovich asked: “Would you like, Tyulpanov, to be dexterous and strong, so that you can playfully put any thug on both shoulder blades?” Anisy takes it and blurts out without thinking: “Of course, I would like to!” Since then, for the second year, he has been an apprentice to the chief valet, Masa, and has suffered unspeakable harassment from the evil Japanese: he runs in his underwear in the snow, breaks his hands on splintered boards, and stands upside down for half an hour, like an Australian antipode.
- What kind of snakes? – Anisiy inquired cautiously. - The ones that crawl or the paper ones that fly across the sky?
- Which crawl. Why are we afraid of paper?
The provincial secretary thought a little more and did not see a catch in the authorities’ question. Of course, everyone would be scared of a cobra or, say, an echidna, but where would they come from on Malaya Nikitskaya, echidnas?
- I'm not at all afraid.
Erast Petrovich nodded with satisfaction.
- That is great. So, tomorrow you will go to Pakhrinsky district. There they found some kind of unprecedented anaconda. The dean's father writes about the machinations of S-Satan and complains about the godlessness of the zemstvo authorities, and the chairman of the zemstvo government complains that the church incites passions and indulges superstition. Go there and figure it all out. I won’t go into details so as not to retell from other people’s words - this will only cloud the purity of perception. The story is so absurd and fantastic that, if not for the august visit, I would certainly have gone myself.
Before going home to get ready for the trip, Anisiy looked up an incomprehensible word in the encyclopedia. "Anaconda" turned out to be a huge snake from the Amazon swamps. What the chief meant was unclear. Just sparked curiosity, callous man.
All day long, Anisiy shook in a chaise along a bad road - first a provincial road, somehow paved, then a county dirt road, and the last eleven miles completely country road, full of puddles and potholes. I left at five o’clock, considered still dark, and only reached Pakhrinsk in the evening.
Still not knowing anything about the essence of the matter, Tyulpanov decided that in the conflict between the two Pakhrin parties he would take the side of progress, and sent a telegraph warning of his arrival to the zemstvo government. Therefore, even though the presence had already ended, the chairman himself was waiting for the Moscow guest.
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