The convict is led out for punishment; Zherebyatnikov is the officer in command; the mere sight of the long ranks of men drawn up with thick sticks in their hands inspires him. He walks round the ranks complacently, and repeats emphatically that every man is to do his duty thoroughly, conscientiously, or else. … But the soldiers don’t need to be told what that “or else” means. Then the criminal is brought out and if he knows nothing of Zherebyatnikov, if he has not heard all about him, this would be the sort of trick the lieutenant would play on him—one of hundreds, of course; the lieutenant was inexhaustible in inventing them. At the moment when the convict is stripped and his hands are tied to the butt-ends of guns by which the sergeants afterwards drag him down the “Green Street,” it is the regular thing for him to beg in a plaintive, tearful voice, entreating the commanding officer to make his punishment easier and not to increase it by unnecessary severity. “Your honour,” cries the poor wretch, “have mercy on me, be a father to me; I’ll pray for your honour all my life; don’t destroy me, have pity on me!”
That was just what Zherebyatnikov wanted; he would pause, and would begin talking to the victim with a sentimental air.
“But what am I to do, my friend?” he would begin. “It’s not I am punishing you, it’s the law!”
“Your honour, it’s all in your hands, have pity on me!”
“Do you suppose I don’t feel for you? Do you suppose it’s a pleasure to me to see you beaten? I am a man too. Am I a man or not, do you suppose?”
“For sure, your honour, we all know you are our father, we are your children. Be a father to me!” cries the convict, beginning to hope.
“But judge for yourself, my friend—you’ve got sense; I know that as a fellow creature I ought to be merciful and indulgent even to a sinner like you.”
“It’s the holy truth you are speaking, your honour.”
“Yes, to be merciful however sinful you may be. But it’s not my doing, it’s the law! Think of that! I have my duty to God and to my country; I shall be taking a great sin upon myself if I soften the law, think of that!”
“Your honour!”
“But there! So be it, for your sake! I know I am doing wrong, but so be it … I will have mercy on you this time. I’ll let you off easy. But what if I am doing you harm? If I have mercy on you this once and let you off easily, and you’ll reckon on it being the same next time and commit a crime again, what then? It will be on my conscience.”
“Your honour! I’d not let friend or foe! As before the throne of the Heavenly Father …”
“All right, all right! But do you swear to behave yourself for the future?”
“Strike me dead, may I never in the world to come …”
“Don’t swear, it’s a sin. I’ll believe your word. Do you give me your word?”
“Your honour!!!”
“Well, I tell you, I’ll spare you simply for your orphan’s tears. You are an orphan, aren’t you?”
“Yes, your honour, alone in the world, neither father nor mother …”
“Well, for the sake of your orphan’s tears; but mind you, it’s the last time. … Take him,” he adds in such a softhearted way that the convict does not know how to pray devoutly enough for such a benefactor.
But the fearful procession begins; he is led along; the drum begins to boom; the sticks begin flying.
“Give it him!” Zherebyatnikov bawls at the top of his voice “Whack him! Flay him, flay him! Scorch him! Lay it on, lay it on! Hit him harder, the orphan, harder, the rascal! Touch him up, touch him up!”
And the soldiers hit as hard as they can, the poor wretch begins to scream and there are flashes before his eyes, while Zherebyatnikov runs after him along the line in peals of laughter, holding his sides, and hardly able to stand, so that one felt sorry for the dear man at last. He is delighted and amused and only from time to time there is a pause in his loud hearty roars of laughter, and one hears again:
“Flay him, flay him! Scorch him, the rascal, scorch him, the orphan! …”
Or he would invent another variation. The convict brought out to punishment begins to entreat him again. This time Zherebyatnikov does not grimace or play a part with him, but goes in for frankness:
“I tell you what, my good fellow,” he says, “I shall punish you properly, for you deserve it. But I tell you what I’ll do for you: I won’t tie you to the guns. You shall go alone, but in a new way. Run as fast as you can along the line! Every stick will hit you just the same, but it will sooner be over; what do you think? Would you like to try?”
The convict listens with perplexity and mistrust and hesitates. “Who knows,” he thinks to himself, “maybe it will be easier. I’ll run as hard as I can and the pain will not last a quarter so long and perhaps not all the sticks will hit me.”
“Very well, your honour, I agree.”
“Well, I agree too, then. Cut along! Mind now, look sharp!” he shouts
