Rumours of the forged letters spread about the town. Conversations
about them preoccupied the townsmen and gave them great pleasure.
Nearly everyone took Varvara's part and was glad that Peredonov had
been made a fool of. And all those who had seen the letters asserted
as with one voice that they had guessed it at once. Especially great
was the rejoicing in Vershina's house: Marta, though she was going to
marry Mourin, had nevertheless been rejected by Peredonov; Vershina
wanted Mourin for herself but she had to yield him to Marta; Vladya
had his obvious reasons for hating Peredonov and for rejoicing at
his discomfiture. Though he felt vexed to think that Peredonov would
remain at the _gymnasia,_ still this vexation was outweighed by his
pleasure at the fact that Peredonov had been let down badly. And
besides this, during the last few days there was a persistent rumour
that the Head-Master had informed the Director of the National Schools
that Peredonov was out of his mind. And someone was going to be sent to
examine him, after which he would be taken away.
Whenever her acquaintances met Varvara they would refer more or less
openly to her stratagem, accompanying their words with coarse jokes and
impudent winks. She would smile insolently and would not admit it, but
she did not deny it.
Others hinted to Grushina that they knew of her share in the forgery.
She was frightened and came to Varvara, reproaching her for gossiping
too much. Varvara said to, her with a smile:
"Now, don't make such a fuss. I never had the least intention of
telling anyone."
"How did they find it out then?" asked Grushina hotly. "Of course I
shouldn't tell anyone, I'm not such a fool."
"And I haven't told anyone," asserted Varvara.
"I want the letter back," demanded Grushina, "or else he'll begin to
look at it closely and he'll recognise from the handwriting that it's a
forgery."
"Well, let him find out!" said Varvara. "Why should I stop to consider
a fool?"
Grushina's eyes gleamed and she shouted:
"It's all very well for you who've got all you wanted, but I might be
jailed on your account! No, I must have that letter, whatever you do.
Because they can unmarry you as well, you know."
"That's all nonsense," replied Varvara with her arms insolently akimbo.
"You might announce it in the market-place, but you couldn't undo the
marriage."
"Not nonsense at all," shouted Grushina. "There is no law that permits
you to marry through deception. If Ardalyon Borisitch should let the
authorities know about this affair and the affair went up to the Higher
Court they'd settle your hash for you."
Varvara got frightened and said:
"Now don't be angry--I'll get you the letter. There's nothing to be
afraid of--I'll not give you away. I'm not such a beast as all that.
I've got a soul too."
"What's a soul got to do with it?" said Grushina harshly. "A dog and
a man have the same breath, but there is no soul. You live while you
live."
Varvara decided to steal the letter, though this was difficult.
Grushina urged her to hurry. There was one hope--to take the letter
from Peredonov when he was drunk. And he drank a great deal now. He
had even not infrequently appeared at the _gymnasia_ in a rather tipsy
state and had made unpleasant remarks which had aroused repugnance in
even the worst of the boys.
* * * * *
Once Peredonov returned from the billiard saloon more drunk than usual:
they had baptised the new billiard balls. But he never let go of his
wallet. As he managed to undress somehow, he stuck it under his pillow.
He slept restlessly but profoundly, and during his sleep his mind
wandered and he babbled about something terrible and monstrous. And
these words inspired Varvara with a painful apprehension.
"Well, it's nothing," she encouraged herself. "So long as he doesn't
wake up."
She had tried to waken him. She nudged him--he only muttered something
and cursed violently, but did not awaken. Varvara lit a candle and
placed it so that the light should not fall into Peredonov's eyes. Numb
with terror, she rose in the bed and slipped her hand under Peredonov's
pillow. The wallet was quite close but for a long time it seemed to
elude her fingers. The candle burned dimly. Its light wavered. Timorous
shadows ran on the walls and on the bed--evil little devils flashed by.
The air was close and motionless. There was a smell of badly-distilled
vodka. Peredonov's snores and drunken ravings filled the bedroom. The
whole place was like the incarnation of a nightmare.
Varvara took the letter with trembling hands and replaced the wallet.
In the morning Peredonov looked for his letter, failed to find it, and
shouted in a fright:
"Where's the letter, Varya?"
Varvara felt very much afraid but concealed it and said:
"How should I know, Ardalyon Borisitch? You keep showing it to
everyone, you must have dropped it. Or else someone has stolen it from
you. You have a lot of friends and acquaintances that you get drunk
with at night."
Peredonov thought that the letter had been stolen by his enemies, most
likely by Volodin. The letter was now in Volodin's hands and later
he would get the other papers and the appointment into his clutches,
and he would go away to his inspectorship while Peredonov remained a
disappointed beggar.
* * * * *
Peredonov decided that he must defend himself. Every day he wrote
denunciations of his enemies: Vershina, the Routilovs, Volodin, his
colleagues, who, it seemed to him, had their eye on the same position.
In the evening he would take these denunciations to Roubovsky.
The Officer of the gendarmerie lived in a prominent place on the square
near the _gymnasia._ Many people observed from their windows how often
Peredonov entered the gates of the Officer of the gendarmerie.
But Peredonov thought that he was unobserved. He had good reason to
take these denunciations at night, by the back way through the kitchen.
He kept the papers under his coat. It was noticeable at once that he
was holding something. When it happened that he had to take his hand
out to shake hands with someone, he clutched the papers under his coat
with his left hand, and imagined that no one would guess that anything
was there. When his acquaintances asked him where he was going he lied
to them very clumsily, but was very satisfied himself with his awkward
inventions.
He explained to Roubovsky:
"They're all traitors. They pretend to be your friends so as to be more
certain of deceiving you. But none of them stop to think that I know
things about them that would send them all to Siberia."
Roubovsky listened to him in silence. The first denunciation, which was
patently absurd, he sent to the Head-Master, and he did the same thing
with several others. He kept certain others in case he should need
them. The Head-Master wrote to the Director of National Schools that
Peredonov was showing clear symptoms of mental disease.
At home Peredonov constantly heard ceaseless, exasperating and mocking
rustlings. He said to Varvara dejectedly:
"Someone's walking about on tip-toe. There are so many spies in the
house, jostling each other. Varya, you're not taking care of me."
Varvara did not understand the meaning of Peredonov's ravings. At one
time she taunted him, at another she felt afraid. She said to him
malignantly and yet with fear:
"You see all sorts of things when you're drunk."
The door to the hall seemed especially suspicious to Peredonov. It
did not close tightly. The crevice between the two halves hinted at
something that was hiding outside. Wasn't it the knave who was peeping
through it? Someone's evil, penetrating eye gleamed behind it.
The cat followed Peredonov everywhere with its wide, green eyes.
Sometimes it blinked its eyes, sometimes it mewed fearfully. It was
obvious that the animal wanted to catch Peredonov at something, but
it could not and was therefore angry. Peredonov exorcised the cat by
spitting, but the cat remained unmoved.
The nedotikomka ran under the chair and in the corners, and squealed.
It was dirty, evil-smelling, repulsive and terrifying. It was already
quite clear that it was hostile to Peredonov, and rolled in entirely
on his account, and that it had not existed anywhere before. It had
been created--and it had been bewitched. And this evil, many-eyed beast
lived here to his dread and to his perdition--followed him, deceived
him, laughed at him--now rolled upon the floor, now turned into a rag,
a ribbon, a twig, a flag, a small cloud, a little dog, a pillar of
dust in the street, and everywhere it crawled and ran after Peredonov.
It harassed him, it wearied him with its vacillating dance. If only
someone would deliver him from it, with a word or with a downright
blow. But he had no friends here, there was no one to come to save him.
He must use his own cunning or the malicious beast would ruin him.
* * * * *
Peredonov thought of a device. He smeared the entire floor with glue
so that the nedotikomka should get stuck. What did stick to the floor
was the soles of Varvara's shoes and the hems of her dress, but the
nedotikomka rolled on freely and laughed shrilly. Varvara abused him
loudly.
Persistent suspicions of being under constant persecution frightened
him. More and more he became immersed in a world of wild illusions.
This reflected itself in his face, which became a motionless mask of
terror.
In the evenings Peredonov no longer went to play billiards. After
dinner he shut himself in his bedroom, barricaded the room with various
objects--a chair upon a table--and very carefully surrounded himself
with crosses and exorcisms and sat down to write denunciations against
everyone he could think of. He wrote denunciations not only against
people but against playing-card queens. As soon as he had written one
he would take it immediately to the Officer of the gendarmerie. And in
this way he spent every evening.
Everywhere card-figures walked before Peredonov's eyes, as if they
were alive--kings, queens and knaves. Even the other cards walked
about. These consisted of people with silver buttons: schoolboys and
policemen. There was the ace of spades--stout, with a protruding
stomach, almost entirely stomach. Sometimes the cards became
transformed into his acquaintances. Living people were mixed up with
these strange phantasms.
Peredonov was convinced that a knave was standing behind the door and
that he had strength and power--something like a policeman's--and that
he could take you away somewhere to some terrible jail. Under the
table sat the nedotikomka. And Peredonov was afraid to glance either
under the table or behind the door.
The nimble eights of the pack, like little boys, mocked at
Peredonov--these were the phantasms of schoolboys. They lifted their
legs with strange, stiff movements, like the legs of a compass, but
their legs were shaggy and with hoofs. Instead of tails they had
whipping rods, which they swung with a swish, and at each flourish
they gave a squeak. The nedotikomka grunted from under the table, and
laughed at the play of these eights. Peredonov thought with rage that
the nedotikomka would not have dared to come to an official.
"They surely wouldn't let it in," he thought enviously. "The lackeys
would drive it out with their mops." At last Peredonov could no longer
stand its evil, insolently shrill laughter. He brought an axe from the
kitchen and he split the table under which the nedotikomka was hiding.
The nedotikomka squeaked piteously and furiously. It dashed out from
under the table and rolled away. Peredonov trembled. "It might bite,"
he thought, and screamed with terror and sat down, but the nedotikomka
hid itself peacefully. Not for long....
Sometimes Peredonov took the cards and with a ferocious expression on
his face cut the heads off the court cards. Especially those of the
queens. In cutting the kings, he glanced around him so as not to be
detected and not to be accused of a political crime. But even these
executions did not help for long. Visitors came, cards were brought and
evil spies again took possession of the cards.
Peredonov already began to consider himself a secret criminal. He
imagined that even from his student days he had been under the
surveillance of the police. For some reason he thought that they were
watching him. This terrified and yet flattered him.
The wind stirred the wall-paper. It shook with a quiet, evil rustling.
And soft half-shadows glided over their vividly coloured patterns.
"There's a spy hiding behind the wall-paper," thought Peredonov sadly.
"Evil people! No wonder they put the paper on the wall so unevenly and
so poorly, for a skilful, patient, flat villain to creep in and hide
behind. Such things have happened even before."
Confused recollections stirred in his mind. Someone had hidden behind
the wall-paper; someone had been stabbed either with a poignard or an
awl. Peredonov bought an awl. And when he returned home the wall-paper
stirred unevenly and restlessly--a spy felt his danger and was perhaps
trying to creep in farther. A shadow jumped to the ceiling and there
threatened and grimaced.
Peredonov was infuriated. He struck the wall-paper impetuously with the
awl. A shiver ran over the wall. Peredonov began to sing triumphantly
and to dance, brandishing the awl. Varvara came in.
"Why are you dancing by yourself, Ardalyon Borisitch?" she asked,
smiling stupidly and insolently as always.
"I've killed a beetle," explained Peredonov morosely.
His eyes gleamed in wild triumph. Only one thing annoyed him; the
disagreeable odour. The murdered spy stank putridly behind the
wall-paper. Horror and triumph shook Peredonov--he had killed an
enemy! He had hardened his heart to the very end of the deed. It was
not a real murder--but for Peredonov it was quite real. A mad horror
had forged in him a readiness to commit the crime--and the deep,
unconscious image of future murder, dormant in the lower strata of
spiritual life, the tormenting itch to murder, a condition of primitive
wrath, oppressed his diseased will. The ancient Cain--overlaid by many
generations--found gratification in his breaking and damaging property,
in his chopping with the axe, in his cutting with the knife, in his
cutting down trees in the garden to prevent the spies from looking
out behind them. And the ancient demon, the spirit of prehistoric
confusion, of hoary chaos, rejoiced in the destruction of things, while
the wild eyes of the madman reflected horror, like the horror of the
death agonies of some monster.
And the same illusions tormented him again and again. Varvara, amusing
herself at Peredonov's expense, sometimes hid herself behind the door
of the room where he was sitting, and talked in assumed voices. He
would get frightened, walk up quietly to catch the enemy--and find
Varvara.
"Whom were you whispering to?" he asked sadly.
Varvara smiled and replied:
"It only seemed to you, Ardalyon Borisitch."
"Surely everything doesn't merely seem to me," muttered Peredonov
sadly. "There must be also truth upon the earth."
Even Peredonov, in common with all conscious life, strove towards the
truth, and this striving tortured him. He was not conscious that he,
like all people, was striving towards the truth, and that was why he
suffered this confused restlessness. He could not find the truth he
sought, and he was caught in the toils and was perishing.
* * * * *
His acquaintances began to taunt him with being a dupe. With the usual
cruelty of our town towards the weak, they talked of this deception in
his presence. Prepolovenskaya asked with a derisive smile:
"How is it, Ardalyon Borisitch, that you haven't gone away to your
inspector's job yet?"
Varvara answered for him with suppressed anger:
"We shall get the paper soon, and we shall leave at once."
But these questions depressed him.
"How can I live, if the place isn't given to me?" he thought.
He kept devising new plans of defence against his enemies. He stole
the axe from the kitchen and hid it under the bed. He bought a Swedish
knife and always carried it about in his pocket. He frequently locked
himself in his room. At night he put traps around the house and in the
rooms and later he would examine them. These traps were, of course, so
constructed that they could not catch anyone. They gripped but could
not hold anyone, and it was easy to walk away with them. But Peredonov
had no technical knowledge and no common sense. When he saw each
morning that no one was caught Peredonov imagined that his enemies had
tampered with the traps. This again frightened him.
Peredonov watched Volodin with special attention. He frequently went
to Volodin when he knew that Volodin would not be at home and rummaged
among the papers to see if there were any stolen from himself.
* * * * *
Peredonov began to suspect what the Princess wanted--it was that he
should love her again. She was repugnant to him, a decrepit old woman.
"She's a hundred and fifty years old," he thought with vexation. "Yes,
she's old, but then how powerful she is!" And his repulsion became
mingled with an allurement. "She's an almost cold little old woman, she
smells slightly of a corpse," he imagined, and he felt faint with a
savage voluptuousness.
"Perhaps it would be possible to arrange a meeting, and her heart would
be touched. Oughtn't I to send her a letter?"
This time Peredonov, with slight hesitation, composed a letter to the
Princess. He wrote:
"I love you, because you are cold and remote. Varvara perspires, it is
hot to sleep with her, it is like the breath of an oven. I would like
to have a cold and remote love. Come here and respond to me."
He wrote it and posted it--and then repented.
"What will come of it?" he thought. "Perhaps I ought not to have
written. I should have waited until the Princess came here."
This letter was an accidental occurrence, like so much that Peredonov
did--he was like a corpse moved by external powers, and moved as if
these powers had no desire to busy themselves with him for long: one
would play with him and then cast him to another.
Soon the nedotikomka reappeared--for a long time it rolled around
Peredonov as if it were on the end of a lasso, and kept mocking him.
And it was now noiseless, and laughed only with a shaking of its body.
The evil, shameless beast flared up with dimly golden sparks--it
threatened and burned with an intolerable triumph. And the cat
threatened Peredonov; its eyes gleamed and it mewed arrogantly and
fiercely.
"Why are they so glad?" thought Peredonov dejectedly, and suddenly
understood that the end was approaching, that the Princess was already
here, close, quite close. Perhaps she was in this very pack of cards.
Yes, undoubtedly she was the queen of spades or the queen of hearts.
Perhaps she was hiding in another pack, or in other cards, but he did
not know what she looked like. The difficulty was that Peredonov had
never seen her. It would be useless to ask Varvara--she would tell lies.
At last Peredonov thought he would burn the whole pack. Let them all
burn! If they creep into the cards to his ruin, then it's their own
fault.
Peredonov chose a time when Varvara was not at home. The stove in the
parlour was alight--and he threw all the cards into the stove. With a
crackling the marvellous pale red flowers opened out--they burned but
were black at the edges. Peredonov looked in horror at these flaming
blossoms.
The cards contracted, bent over and moved as if they were trying to
escape from the stove.
Peredonov caught hold of the poker and began to beat the lighted cards
with it. There was a shower of tiny bright sparks on all sides--and
suddenly in a bright, wild riot of sparks the Princess rose out of the
fire, a little ash-grey woman, bestrewn with small dying sparks; she
wailed piercingly in her shrill voice and hissed and spit on the flames.
Peredonov fell backward. He cried out in horror. The darkness embraced
him, tickled him, and laughed with a thousand jarring little noises.