1. Robert Durham
The Trial
Kuzma Yegorov is a shopkeeper. His hut is stuffy and hot. A crowd of cursed
mosquitoes and flies swarms around the eyes and ears of those inside, making a
nuisance of themselves… The clouds that fill the hut are of tobacco smoke, though
the smell is that of salted fish. A sense of longing and weariness hangs in the air,
etched in people’s faces, singing out in the whining of the mosquitoes.
There is a large table upon which there sits a saucer with some nutshells, a pair of
scissors, a small jar containing a green ointment, some cartridges, and some empty
shtof-bottles.1 Behind this table is sat a solemn group of men. The old man, Kuzma
Yegorov himself, is there as is Mr Ivanov, a surgeon’s assistant, Feofan Manafuilov, a
vicar, Mikhailo, a bass singer, Parfentii Ivanych, the godfather, and Mr Fortunatov, a
gendarme from the city who has come to visit his Aunt Anis’ya. Kuzma Yegorov’s
son, Serapion, is there too, keeping a respectful distance from the table. He works in a
hairdresser’s salon in the city and has come to visit his father for the holidays.
Serapion seems very uneasy and is fiddling with his little whiskery moustache with
trembling hands. Kuzma Yegorov’s hut has been turned into a temporary infirmary
and a number of sick and wounded people are currently waiting in the hallway. An
old peasant woman with a dodgy hip has been driven to the hut from somewhere or
other… She is lying down, moaning as she waits until finally the surgeon’s assistant
turns his benevolent attention to her. Outside, beneath the windows, a crowd is
gathering – they have come to see how Kuzma Yegorov is going to discipline his son.
“You are always calling me a thief,” says Serapion, “so I do not intend to speak with
you at length. Words, papa, do not mean anything in the nineteenth century because,
as you yourself are well aware, a theory cannot exist without evidence.”
“Be quiet!” Kuzma Yegorov’s reply is stern. “Stop mincing your words and tell us
plainly what you have done with my money.”
“Your money? Hmm…You’re such a clever man, you really ought to realise that I
have not touched your money. You do not put aside your cash for me…There is no
sin to be committed…
“You will be straight with us, Serapion Kosmich,” says the vicar. “Indeed, why else
are we interrogating you about this? We wish to admonish you and set you on the
path of righteousness…Your father is nothing to you but a means to an end…And so
he has sought our help…So we ask you to speak plainly with us…What man has not
sinned in his time? You took twenty-five roubles from your father’s bureau, isn’t that
right?”
Serapion spits onto the floor at his side and remains silent.
“Speak, I say!” cries Kuzma Yegorov, pounding the table with his fist. “Tell us, was it
you or wasn’t it?”
“As you wish…Say I did…”
1 An old Russian liquid measure, 1.23 litres.

2. Robert Durham
“Let us say,” the gendarme corrects.
“Let us say I did take it…Let’s say that! Shouting at me won’t achieve anything,
father, nor will banging your fists. Hard as you may try, the earth will not swallow up
that table. I have never taken money from you and if I ever have then it was out of
necessity…I am a human being, a living creature, and I need money, not pebbles!”
“Perhaps you should try earning a living, if you need money, instead of robbing me. I
have seven people to support, not just you!”
“I know, there is no need to lecture me. It’s just, I am of ill health, as well you know,
and so I can’t earn a living. So why must you remind me of how I leech off you?
You’ll be called to stand before the Almighty God to answer for that…”
“Of ill health! Your job is not hard, you just keep on shearing and shearing, and yet
even this work you shy away from.”
“What sort of job do I have then? Is that really my job? That is not my job, that is a
feeble description. And I do not have the training to be able to live off such a job.”
“Your argument does you a disservice, Serapion Kosmich,” says the vicar. “Yours is
an honourable, intellectual job. That is why you work in the provincial town shearing
and shaving the intellectual, the distinguished members of society. You even shave
the generals, and they certainly do not lack respect for your trade.”
“I could tell you a thing or two about the generals, if you so wished.”
The surgeon’s assistant, Ivanov, takes a small sip of his drink.
“In my medical opinion,” he says, “you are a limpet, nothing more.”
“I understand your science… But, who, may I ask, nearly dissected a drunk carpenter
instead of a corpse? Had he not awoken, you would have torn his stomach open. And
who mixes castor oil with hemp butter?”
“You can’t do anything in medicine without it.”
“And who brought Malan’ya into this world? You gave her a sedative, then a pick-
me-up, then another sedative, she could not take it. You must excuse me, but your job
is curing dogs, not people.”
“Rest in peace, Malan’ya,” says Kuzma Yegorov, “Rest in peace. She did not take the
money, and besides we are not talking about her… So tell us… Did you charge it to
Alena?
“Hmm… Alena! Shame on you for even mentioning that in front of the vicar and the
gendarme.”
“So tell us then. Did you take the money or not?”

3. Robert Durham
The old man slowly edges out from behind the table, lights a match on his knee and
dutifully raises it to the gendarme’s tobacco pipe.
“Pff…” the gendarme is beginning to get angry. “He’s clutching at straws!”
Having lit his pipe, the gendarme gets up from the table, approaches Serapion and,
glaring at him with such rage, their noses almost touching, lets out a raucous scream,
“Who are you? What is all this? Why are you being like this? Huh? What is the
meaning of this? Why are you not answering the questions? Is it defiance? Is that why
you take others’ money? Be quiet! Answer! Speak! Answer!”
“If…”
“Be quiet!”
“If… just hold your horses, you. If… I am not afraid! You understand a lot about
yourself but you… you are a fool and nothing more. If father wishes to throw me to
the wolves, then I am ready… Torment me! Beat me!”
“Be quiet! Stop ja-a-abbering on! I know your type. You’re a thief, right? What sort
of a person is a thief? Keep quiet! Who do you think you’re talking to? Don’t try to
reason with us!”
“He needs to be punished,” says the clerk, exhaling. “If you do not wish to unburden
him of his guilt with a confession, Kuzma Yegorich, then a good hiding is in order.
And this, I believe, is indeed in order!”
“Thump him!” says Mikhailo, the bass singer, in a voice so deep it frightens everyone
present.
“For the last time… Did you take the money or didn’t you?” asks Kuzma Yegorov.
“As you wish… Let’s get it over with… Torment me! I am ready…”
Kuzma Yegorov decides, “I’m going to give you a trouncing!” He goes blue in the
face as he slips out from behind the table.
A crowd is gathering at the window. The sick and wounded in the hall are crowding
around the door, lifting their heads. Even the old peasant woman with the broken ribs
is lifting her head to look…
“Lie down!” Kuzma Yegorov commands. Serapion slips off his jacket, crosses
himself and lies down on the bench, resigned to his fate.
“Torment me,” he says.
Kuzma Yegorov unbuckles his belt, stares for a while at the audience that has
gathered, as if waiting for someone to help. Then he begins…

4. Robert Durham
“One! Two! Three!” Mikhailo counts in his low bass voice. “Eight! Nine!”
The vicar is wedged in a corner of the room and, having lowered his eyes, begins to
leaf through his little book…
“Twenty! Twenty-one!”
“Enough!” says Kuzma Yegorov.
“Again, I say!” murmurs the gendarme, Fortunatov. “Again! Again! Have at him!”
“I think that will suffice,” says the vicar, tearing his gaze away from his book.
“If only he had squealed!” the audience stands in astonishment.
The crowd of sick and wounded parts as into the room comes Kuzma Yegorov’s wife,
her starch shirt creaking.
She addresses her husband, “Kuzma! What’s this money I found in your pocket?
Weren’t you looking for this a while back?”
“Indeed it is… Get up, Serapion! We’ve found the money! I put it in my pocket
yesterday and forgot all about it…”
Serapion gets up, puts his coat back on and sits on a stool. The silence continues. The
vicar appears ill at ease and blows his nose in a handkerchief.
“I’m sorry,” Kuzma Yegorov stumbles over his words, as he turns to his son. “You’re
not like that… I’ll be damned if I thought we’d ever find the money. I’m sorry…”
“Not at all. It’s certainly not the first time… Don’t worry about it. I’m always
prepared for any sort of agony that might come my way.”
“Here. Have a drink… It’s going bad…”
Serapion takes a drink, holds his now light-blue nose aloft and leaves the hut a hero.
And now the gendarme, Fortunatov, heads across the courtyard, red in the face, his
eyes bulging, and says, “Again! Again! Have at him!”