“You see, you see!” cried Pavel to Velchaninoff, the instant that the
young fellow’s back was turned.
“Yes; you are not going to succeed there,” said Velchaninoff. He would not
have been so abrupt and careless of Pavel’s feelings if it had not been
for the dreadful pain in his chest.
Pavel Pavlovitch shuddered as though from a sudden scald. “Well, sir, and
you—you were loth to give me back the bracelet, eh?”
“I hadn’t time.”
“Oh! you were sorry—you pitied me, as true friend pities friend!”
“Oh, well, I pitied you, then!” Velchaninoff was growing angrier every
moment. However, he informed Pavel Pavlovitch shortly as to how he had
received the bracelet, and how Nadia had almost forced it upon him.
“You must understand,” he added, “that otherwise I should never have
agreed to accept the commission; there are quite enough disagreeables
already.”
“You liked the job, and accepted it with pleasure,” giggled Pavel
Pavlovitch.
“That is foolish on your part; but I suppose you must be forgiven. You
must have seen from that boy’s behaviour that I play no part in this
matter. Others are the principal actors, not I!”
“At all events the job had attractions for you.” Pavel Pavlovitch sat down
and poured out a glass of wine.
“You think I shall knuckle under to that young gentleman? Pooh! I shall
drive him out to-morrow, sir, like dust. I’ll smoke this little gentleman
out of his nursery, sir; you see if I don’t.” He drank his wine off at a
gulp, and poured out some more. He seemed to grow freer as the moments
went by; he talked glibly now.
“Ha-ha! Sachinka and Nadienka!(2) darling little children. Ha-ha-ha!” He
was beside himself with fury.
At this moment, a terrific crash of thunder startled the silence, and was
followed by flashes of lightning and sheets of heavy rain. Pavel
Pavlovitch rose and shut the window.
“The fellow asked you if you were afraid of the thunder; do you remember?
Ha-ha-ha! Velchaninoff afraid of thunder! And all that about ‘fifty years
old’ wasn’t bad, eh? Ha-ha-ha!” Pavel Pavlovitch was in a spiteful mood.
“You seem to have settled yourself here,” said Velchaninoff, who could
hardly speak for agony. “Do as you like, I must lie down.”
“Come, you wouldn’t turn a _dog_ out to-night!” replied Pavel, glad of a
grievance.
“Of course, sit down; drink your wine—do anything you like,” murmured
Velchaninoff, as he laid himself flat on his divan, and groaned with pain.
“Am I to spend the night? Aren’t you afraid?”
“What of?” asked Velchaninoff, raising his head slightly.
“Oh, nothing. Only last time you seemed to be a little alarmed, that’s
all.”
“You are a fool!” said the other angrily, as he turned his face to the
wall.
“Very well, sir; all right,” said Pavel.
Velchaninoff fell asleep within a minute or so of lying down. The
unnatural strain of the day, and his sickly state of health together, had
suddenly undermined his strength, and he was as weak as a child. But
physical pain would have its own, and soon conquered weakness and sleep;
in an hour he was wide awake again, and rose from the divan in anguish.
Pavel Pavlovitch was asleep on the other sofa. He was dressed, and in his
boots; his hat lay on the floor, and his eye-glass hung by its cord almost
to the ground. Velchaninoff did not wake his guest. The room was full of
tobacco smoke, and the bottle was empty; he looked savagely at the
sleeping drunkard.
Having twisted himself painfully off his bed, Velchaninoff began to walk
about, groaning and thinking of his agony; he could lie no longer.
He was alarmed for this pain in his chest, and not without reason. He was
subject to these attacks, and had been so for many years; but they came
seldom, luckily—once a year or two years. On such occasions, his agony was
so dreadful for some ten hours or so that he invariably believed that he
must be actually dying.
This night, his anguish was terrible; it was too late to send for the
doctor, but it was far from morning yet. He staggered up and down the
room, and before long his groans became loud and frequent.
The noise awoke Pavel Pavlovitch. He sat up on his divan, and for some
time gazed in terror and perplexity upon Velchaninoff, as the latter
walked moaning up and down. At last he gathered his senses, and enquired
anxiously what was the matter.
Velchaninoff muttered something unintelligible.
“It’s your kidneys—I’m sure it is,” cried Pavel, very wide awake of a
sudden. “I remember Peter Kuzmich used to have the same sort of attacks.
The kidneys—why, one can die of it. Let me go and fetch Mavra.”
“No, no; I don’t want anything,” muttered Velchaninoff, waving him off
irritably.
But Pavel Pavlovitch—goodness knows why—was beside himself with anxiety;
he was as much exercised as though the matter at issue were the saving of
his own son’s life. He insisted on immediate compresses, and told
Velchaninoff he must drink two or three cups of very hot weak tea—boiling
hot. He ran for Mavra, lighted the fire in the kitchen, put the kettle on,
put the sick man back to bed, covered him up, and within twenty minutes
had the first hot application all ready, as well as the tea.
“Hot plates, sir, hot plates,” he cried, as he clapped the first, wrapped
in a napkin, on to Velchaninoff’s chest. “I have nothing else handy; but I
give you my word it’s as good as anything else. Drink this tea quick,
never mind if you scald your tongue—life is dearer. You can die of this
sort of thing, you know.” He sent sleepy Mavra out of her wits with
flurry; the plates were changed every couple of minutes. At the third
application, and after having taken two cups of scalding tea, Velchaninoff
suddenly felt decidedly better.
“Capital! thank God! if we can once get the better of the pain it’s a good
sign!” cried Pavel, delightedly, and away he ran for another plate and
some more tea.
“If only we can beat the pain down!” he kept muttering to himself every
minute.
In half an hour the agony was passed, but the sick man was so completely
knocked up that, in spite of Pavel’s repeated entreaties to be allowed to
apply “just one more plate,” he could bear no more. His eyes were drooping
from weakness.
“Sleep—sleep,” he muttered faintly.
“Very well,” consented Pavel, “go to sleep.”
“Are you spending the night here? What time is it?”
“Nearly two.”
“You must sleep here.”
“Yes, yes—all right. I will.”
A moment after the sick man called to Pavel again.
“You—you—” muttered the former faintly, as Pavel ran up and bent over him,
“you are better than I am. I understand all—all—thank you!”
“Go to sleep!” whispered Pavel Pavlovitch, as he crept back to his divan
on tip-toes.
Velchaninoff, dozing off, heard Pavel quietly make his bed, undress and
lie down, all very softly, and then put the light out.
Undoubtedly Velchaninoff fell asleep very quietly when the light was once
out; he remembered that much afterwards. Yet all the while he was asleep,
and until he awoke, he dreamed that he could not go to sleep in spite of
his weakness. At length he dreamed that he was delirious, and that he
could not for the life of him chase away the visions which crowded in upon
him, although he was conscious the whole while they _were_ but visions and
not reality. The apparition was familiar to him. He thought that his front
door was open, and that his room gradually filled with people pouring in.
At the table in the middle of the room, sat one man exactly as had been
the case a month before, during one of his dreams. As on the previous
occasion, this man leant on his elbow at the table and would not speak; he
was in a round hat with a crape band.
“How?” thought the dreamer. “Was it really Pavel Pavlovitch last time as
well?” However, when he looked at the man’s face, he was convinced that it
was quite another person.
“Why has he a crape band, then?” thought Velchaninoff in perplexity.
The noise and chattering of all these people was dreadful; they seemed
even more exasperated with Velchaninoff than on the former occasion. They
were all threatening him with something or other, shaking their fists at
him, and shouting something which he could not understand.
“It’s all a vision,” he dreamed, “I know quite well that I am up and
about, because I could not lie still for anguish!”
Yet the cries and noise at times seemed so real that he was now and again
half-convinced of their reality.
“Surely this _can’t_ be delirium!” he thought. “What on earth do all these
people want of me—my God!”
Yet if it were not a vision, surely all these cries would have roused
Pavel Pavlovitch? There he was, fast asleep in his divan!
Then something suddenly occurred as in the old dream. Another crowd of
people surged in, crushing those who were already collected inside. These
new arrivals carried something large and heavy; he could judge of the
weight by their footsteps labouring upstairs.
Those in the room cried, “They’re bringing it! they’re bringing it!”
Every eye flashed as it turned and glared at Velchaninoff; every hand
threatened him and then pointed to the stairs.
Undoubtedly it was reality, not delirium. Velchaninoff thought that he
stood up and raised himself on tip-toes, in order to see over the heads of
the crowd. He wanted to know what was being carried in.
His heart beat wildly, wildly, wildly; and suddenly, as in his former
dream, there came one—two—three loud rings at the bell.
And again, the sound of the bell was so distinct and clear that he felt it
_could_ not be a dream. He gave a cry, and awoke; but he did not rush to
the door as on the former occasion.
What sudden idea was it that guided his movements? Had he any idea at all,
or was it impulse that prompted him what to do? He sprang up in bed, with
arms outstretched, as though to ward off an attack, straight towards the
divan where Pavel Pavlovitch was sleeping.
His hands encountered other hands outstretched in his direction;
consequently some one must have been standing over him.
The curtains were drawn, but it was not absolutely dark, because a faint
light came from the next room, which had no curtains.
Suddenly something cut the palm of his left hand, some of his fingers
causing him sharp pain. He instantly realized that he had seized a knife
or a razor, and he closed his hand upon it with the rapidity of thought.
At that moment something fell to the ground with a hard metallic sound.
Velchaninoff was probably three times as strong as Pavel Pavlovitch, but
the struggle lasted for a long while—at least three minutes.
The former, however, forced his adversary to the earth, and bent his arms
back behind his head; then he paused, for he was most anxious to tie the
hands. Holding the assassin’s wrist with his wounded left hand, he felt
for the blind cord with his right. For a long while he could not find it;
at last he grasped it, and tore it down.
He was amazed afterwards at the unnatural strength which he must have
displayed during all this.
During the whole of the struggle neither man spoke a word; only their
heavy breathing was audible, and the inarticulate sounds emitted by both
as they fought.
At length, having secured his opponent’s hands, Velchaninoff left him on
the ground, rose, drew the curtains, and pulled up the blind.
The deserted street was light now. He opened the window, and stood
breathing in the fresh air for a few moments. It was a little past four
o’clock. He shut the window once more, fetched a towel and bound up his
cut hand as tightly as he could to stop the flow of blood.
At his feet he caught sight of the opened razor lying on the carpet; he
picked it up, wiped it, and put it by in its own case, which he now saw he
had left upon the little cupboard beside the divan which Pavel Pavlovitch
occupied. He locked the cupboard.
Having completed all these arrangements, he approached Pavel Pavlovitch
and looked at him. Meanwhile the latter had managed to raise himself from
the floor and reach a chair; he was now sitting in it—undressed to his
shirt, which was stained with marks of blood both back and
front—Velchaninoff’s blood, not his own.
Of course this was Pavel Pavlovitch; but it would have been only natural
for any one who had known him before, and saw him at this moment, to doubt
his identity. He sat upright in his chair—very stiffly, owing to the
uncomfortable position of his tightly bound hands behind his back; his
face looked yellow and crooked, and he shuddered every other moment. He
gazed intently, but with an expression of dazed perplexity, at
Velchaninoff.
Suddenly he smiled gravely, and nodding towards a carafe of water on the
table, muttered, “A little drop!” Velchaninoff poured some into a glass,
and held it for him to drink.
Pavel gulped a couple of mouthfuls greedily—then suddenly raised his head
and gazed intently at Velchaninoff standing over him; he said nothing,
however, but finished the water. He then sighed deeply.
Velchaninoff took his pillows and some of his clothing, and went into the
next room, locking Pavel Pavlovitch behind him.
His pain had quite disappeared, but he felt very weak after the strain of
his late exertion. Goodness knows whence came his strength for the trial;
he tried to think, but he could not collect his ideas, the shock had been
too great.
His eyes would droop now and again, sometimes for ten minutes at a time;
then he would shudder, wake up, remember all that had passed and raise the
blood-stained rag bound about his hand to prove the reality of his
thoughts; then he would relapse into eager, feverish thought. One thing
was quite certain, Pavel Pavlovitch had intended to cut his throat,
though, perhaps, a quarter of an hour before the fatal moment he had not
known that he would make the attempt. Perhaps he had seen the razor case
last evening, and thought nothing of it, only remembering the fact that it
was there. The razors were usually locked up, and only yesterday
Velchaninoff had taken one out in order to make himself neat for his visit
to the country, and had omitted to lock it up again.
“If he had premeditated murdering me, he would certainly have provided
himself with a knife or a pistol long ago; he could not have relied on my
razors, which he never saw until yesterday,” concluded Velchaninoff.
At last the clock struck six. Velchaninoff arose, dressed himself, and
went into Pavel Pavlovitch’s room. As he opened the door he wondered why
he had ever locked it, and why he had not allowed Pavel to go away at
once.
To his surprise the prisoner was dressed, he had doubtless found means to
get his hands loose. He was sitting in an arm-chair, but rose when
Velchaninoff entered. His hat was in his hand.
His anxious look seemed to say as plain as words:—
“Don’t talk to me! It’s no use talking—don’t talk to me!”
“Go!” said Velchaninoff. “Take your jewel-case!” he added.
Pavel Pavlovitch turned back and seized his bracelet-case, stuffing it
into his pocket, and went out.
Velchaninoff stood in the hall, waiting to shut the front door after him.
Their looks met for the last time. Pavel Pavlovitch stopped, and the two
men gazed into each others eyes for five seconds or so, as though in
indecision. At length Velchaninoff faintly waved him away with his hand.
“Go!” he said, only half aloud, as he closed the door and turned the key.