He remembered his prayer and tried to repeat it. He began saying it to himself, but at once felt that it was useless. A single thought now engrossed him entirely: how to arrange a meeting with her so that the others should not notice it.
“If we finish this lot today, are we to start on a fresh stack or leave it till tomorrow?” asked the clerk.
“Yes, yes,” replied Eugene, involuntarily following her to the heap to which with the other women she was raking the corn.
“But can I really not master myself?” said he to himself. “Have I really perished? O God! But there is not God. There is only a devil. And it is she. She has possessed me. But I won’t, I won’t! A devil, yes, a devil.”
Again he went up to her, drew the revolver from his pocket and shot her, once, twice, thrice, in the back. She ran a few steps and fell on the heap of corn.
“My God, my God! What is that?” cried the women.
“No, it was not an accident. I killed her on purpose,” cried Eugene. “Send for the police-officer.”
He went home and went to his study and locked himself in, without speaking to his wife. “Do not come to me,” he cried to her through the door. “You will know all about it.” An hour later he rang, and bade the man-servant who answered the bell: “Go and find out whether Stepanida is alive.”
The servant already knew all about it, and told him she had died an hour ago.
“Well, all right. Now leave me alone. When the police officer or the magistrate comes, let me know.” The police officer and magistrate arrived next morning, and Eugene, having bidden his wife and baby farewell, was taken to prison. He was tried. It was during the early days of trial by jury, and the verdict was one of temporary insanity, and he was sentenced only to perform church penance.
He had been kept in prison for nine months and was then confined in a monastery for one month.
He had begun to drink while still in prison, continued to do so in the monastery, and returned home an enfeebled, irresponsible drunkard.
Varvara Alexeevna assured them that she had always predicted this. it was, she said, evident from the way he disputed. Neither Liza nor Mary Pavlovna could understand how the affair had happened, but for all that, they did not believe what the doctors said, namely, that he was mentally deranged — a psychopath. They could not accept that, for the knew that he was saner than hundreds of their acquaintances.
And indeed, if Eugene Iretnev was mentally deranged when he committed this crime, then everyone is similarly insane. The most mentally deranged people are certainly those who see in others indications of insanity they do not notice in themselves.
The End
