Petersburg (77 page)

‘I understand, I understand … Sergei Sergeich, please calm yourself,’ the little lump squeaked, ‘and be quieter, quieter, I beseech you: my dear fellow, I beseech you …’

This little lump of body (Nikolai Apollonovich was backing away, bent unnaturally) – this little lump of body went mincing away on two crooked legs; and not towards the window, but away from the window (the window was cut off by the second lieutenant); at the same time the little lump saw in the window – (though it may seem strange, this was still Nikolai Apollonovich) – the funnel of a steamboat sticking up; on the other side of the canal he saw – the wet roof of a house; above the roof was an enormous, cold emptiness …

He backed away to the corner and – imagine: the leaden five-fingered paws fell on his shoulders (one hand, slipping across his neck, burned his neck with a forty-degree fever); so that he sank – squatting into the corner, bathed in a perspiration as cold as ice.

He was already preparing to screw up his eyes, to stop his ears, in order not to see the mad, crimson countenance and not to hear the crowings of the cockerel-like, voiceless voice:

‘Aaa … An affair … where any decent man, where … aaa … any decent man … What did I say?
Yes – decent … must get involved, without regard for propriety or social position …’

It was strange to listen to the incoherent alternation of none the less intelligent words accompanied by the absurdity of every feature, every movement; Nikolai Apollonovich thought:

‘Should I not shout, should I not summon?’

No, what would he shout; and whom would he summon; no – it was too late; he must close his eyes, his ears; a moment – and all would be ended; bang: a first struck the wall above Ableukhov’s head.

Here he opened his eyes for a moment.

Before him he saw: two legs were placed wide apart (he was squatting, after all); a dizzying thought – and: without debating the consequences, his mouth open in a cowardly grin that seemed like a laugh, with dishevelled, flaxen-white hair Nikolai Apollonovich swiftly crawled between the two legs that were set wide apart; leapt to his feet, – and without further thought, rushed straight towards the door (the pewter edge of the roof flickered in the window), but … the five-fingered paws, burning with contact, seized him shamefully by the tail of his frock-coat; tugged: and the expensive material began to tear.

A piece of the torn-off tail flew away to the side somewhere.

‘Wait … Wait … I … I … I … am not … going to kill you … Stop … You are not threatened with violence …’

And Nikolai Apollonovich was rudely thrown aside; his back struck the corner; he stood there in the corner, breathing heavily, almost weeping with the painful outrage of what had taken place; and it seemed that his hair was not hair, but some kind of bright radiance on the crimson background of the study’s soot-grimed wallpaper; and his eyes that were usually a dark cornflower blue now seemed black with enormous, cold fright, because he had realized: the person who was raving above him was not Likhutin, not the officer he had insulted, not even an enemy, choking with vengeful fury, but … a violent madman, with whom it was
impossible to talk; this violent madman, who was possessed of colossal muscular strength, was not at present throwing himself at him; but was probably about to do so.

And this violent madman, turning his back (now would have been the time to clap him one), moved on tiptoe to the door; and – the door clicked: on the other side of the door sounds were heard – something between a weeping and a shuffling of slippers.
And – all was quiet.
Retreat was cut off: there remained the window.

In the closed-up little room they both began to breathe in silence: the father-murderer and the lunatic.

The room with the collapsed plaster was empty; in front of the slammed door lay a soft broad-brimmed hat, while from the small couch hung the wing of a fantastic cape; but when the armchair was overturned with a hollow crash in the little study, the door on the opposite side, the door to Sofya Petrovna’s room, flew open with a creak; and from there Sofya Petrovna came pattering in her slippers in a cascade of black hair that fell behind her back; a transparent silk scarf that resembled a flowing radiance trailed after her; on Sofya Petrovna’s little forehead a frown was quite manifestly visible.

She crept up to the keyhole; she squatted down by the door; she looked and saw: only two pairs of shifting legs and two … trouser straps; the legs thudded into the corner; the feet could not be discerned anywhere, but from the corner, bubbling, burst quiet wheezings and a throat seemed to gurgle: a unique, cockerel-like, inhuman whisper.
And the legs thudded again; right next to Sonya Petrovna’s eye, on the other side of the door, the metallic sound of the lock being clicked shut was heard.

Sofya Petrovna began to weep, jumped away from the door and saw – an apron and a bonnet: behind her back Mavrushka was covering her face with a clean, snow-white apron; and – Mavrushka was weeping:

‘What is going on?
… My dear
barynya
?
…’

‘I don’t know … I don’t know anything … What is going on?
… What are they doing in there, Mavrushka?’

It is half past two in the afternoon.

In its lonely study the bald head, that had lain on a hard palm, raises itself above the stern oak desk; and – looks sullenly to where in the fireplace the cornflowers of coal gas flow in a playful flock above the red-hot pile of crackling coals, and where they escape, explode and burst – the red cockerels’ combs – pungent, light, flying swiftly up the chimney, in order to merge above the roofs with the fumes and the poisoned soot, and to hang there permanently in a suffocating, corroding gloom.

The bald head raises itself – the pale, Mephistophelean mouth smiles senilely at the flashes; the flashes turn its face crimson; and yet the eyes are still on fire; and yet the eyes are still made of stone: blue – and in green hollows!
From them peered a cold, enormous emptiness; it adhered to them, looked out of them, never tearing itself away from the dark things; like a dark thing this world spread itself before it.

A cold, astonished gaze; and – empty, empty: the seasons, the sun and the light have been kindled by dark things; from the ages history has run right up to the moment when –

– the bald head, that has lain on a hard palm, has raised itself above the stern oak desk; and – looks sullenly to where in the fireplace the cornflowers of coal gas flow in a playful flock above the red-hot pile of crackling coals. The circle has closed.

What was this?

Apollon Apollonovich remembered where he was, what had happened between two instants of thought; between two movements of his fingers with the little pencil that had turned in them; the acutely sharpened pencil – there it danced in his fingers.

‘It’s not important … It doesn’t matter …’

And the sharpened pencil falls on the paper with flocks of question marks.

Muttering God knows what, the madman still continued to lunge about; muttering God knows what, he continued to stamp: continued to stride in a diagonal through the small, airless study.
Nikolai Apollonovich, spread-eagled against the wall, in the shadowy corner
over there, continued to observe the movements of the poor madman, who was none the less capable of becoming a wild beast.

Every time a hand or an elbow lunged out with a sharp movement, he shuddered; and the madman – ceased to stamp, paused, lunged out of his fatal diagonal: two paces from Nikolai Apollonovich a dry and menacing palm began to sway again.
Here Nikolai Apollonovich threw himself back: the palm touched the corner – drummed on the corner wall.

But the second lieutenant who had gone mad (pathetically rather than fiercely) was no longer pursuing him; turning his back, he dug his elbows into his knees: this made his back bend, and his head withdrew into his shoulders; he sighed deeply; he reflected deeply.

What escaped was:

‘Lord!’

And again, the groan:

‘Save and have mercy!’

Nikolai Apollonovich cautiously took advantage of his lull in the raving.

Quietly he got up and, trying still not to make any sound, he – straightened up; the second lieutenant’s head did not turn, but then it did nothing but turn and turn, risking – yes, truly!
– becoming unscrewed from his neck; a furious paroxysm had evidently broken out; and – now it waned; then Nikolai Apollonovich, limping somewhat, hobbled soundlessly to the desk, trying not to let his shoes creak, trying not to let the floorboard creak – hobbled, cutting a rather ridiculous figure in his elegant uniform jacket … with its torn-off tail, in new rubber galoshes and the muffler he had not removed from his neck.

He crept forward: paused by the little desk, listening to the beating of his heart and the quiet, muttered prayers of the sick man who was now calming down: and with an inaudible movement, his hand stretched out to the paperweight; but there was the rub: a little stack of writing paper lay on top of the paperweight.

If only his sleeve did not get caught on the paper!

Unfortunately his sleeve did catch on the little stack; there was a tell-tale rustle, and the little stack of paper scattered on the desk; this swish of paper awoke the second lieutenant, who had withdrawn, to life again; the paroxysm that had broken out and was
now calming down broke out again with renewed vigour; the head turned and saw Nikolai Apollonovich standing with arm outstretched, armed with the paperweight; Nikolai Apollonovich’s heart sank: he leapt away from the desk, while the paperweight remained in his fist – for the sake of precaution.

In a leap and a bound, Sergei Sergeich Likhutin flew up to him, threw his hand on his shoulder and began to press it: in a word – he took up his old refrain:

‘I must ask forgiveness … Forgive me: I lost my temper …’

‘Calm down …’

‘All this is most unusual … Only, please – do me a favour and don’t be afraid … Well, why are you trembling?
… I seem to inspire you with fear?
I … I … I … tore off the tail of your coat: I … I … couldn’t help that, because you, Nikolai Apollonovich, manifested the intention of avoiding an explanation … But you must understand that it’s impossible for you to leave me without an explanation …’

‘But I’m not trying to avoid it,’ Nikolai Apollonovich implored at this point, still clutching the paperweight in his hand.
‘I myself began to tell you about the domino cape when we were down in the entrance porch: I myself seek an explanation; it is you, Sergei Sergeyevich, it is you who are delaying: you are not giving me a chance to give you an explanation.’

‘Mm … yes, yes …’

‘Would you believe it, the domino is explained by nervous exhaustion; and it is in no way the breaking of a promise: I did not stand in the entrance porch voluntarily …’

‘So forgive me for the coat-tail,’ Likhutin said, interrupting him again, and merely proving that he really was crazy (he was for the present leaving Ableukhov’s shoulder in peace) … ‘Yours shall be sewn back on; if you like, I myself … I have needles and thread …’

‘This is all that was needed,’ flickered through Ableukhov’s head: he was studying the second lieutenant with astonishment, trying to make sure by visual means that the paroxysm really had passed.

‘But that is not what it’s all about: not needles and thread …

‘Sergei Sergeyevich, in essence … That is nonsense …’

‘Yes, yes: nonsense …’

‘Nonsense with regard to the principal subject of our explanation: with regard to your standing in the entrance porch …’

‘But it’s got nothing to do with my standing in the entrance porch!’ the second lieutenant said, with a vexed wave of his hand, proceeding to stride in the same direction as before: in a diagonal through the small, airless study.

‘Well, is it about Sofya Petrovna, then …’ said Ableukhov, coming out of the corner, now noticeably bolder.

‘No … no … it’s not about Sofya Petrovna …’ the second lieutenant shouted at him: ‘you haven’t understood me at all!
…’

‘Then what is it about?’

‘This is all nonsense, sir!
… Or rather, not nonsense, but nonsense with regard to the subject of our conversation …’

‘But what is the subject?’

‘Look – the subject,’ said the second lieutenant and, coming to a standstill before him, brought his bloodshot eyes up to Ableukhov’s eyes that were wide with fright … ‘Look, the essence of it is all to do with the fact that you are locked in …’

‘But … Why am I locked in?’ And the paperweight was again clutched in his fist.

‘Why have I locked you in?
Why have I dragged you in here, so to speak, by semi-forcible means?
… Ha-ha-ha: this has absolutely nothing to do with either the domino cape or Sofya Petrovna …’

‘He really has gone mad: he has forgotten all the reasons, his brain is subject only to morbid associations: and me he is actually planning to …’ flashed through Nikolai Apollonovich’s head, but Sergei Sergeyevich, as though he knew what he was thinking, hurried to reassure him, something that seemed more like mockery and cruel taunting:

‘I repeat, you are safe here … There is only the coat-tail …’

‘You are taunting me,’ thought Nikolai Apollonovich, and through his brain shot a thought that was also, in its own way, mad: to whack the second lieutenant on the head with the paper-weight; having stunned him, to tie his hands, and by this violent act save his own life, which he needed even if only because … the bomb … in the desk … was ticking!
…

‘Look: you’re not going to leave here … And I … I am going to leave here with a letter dictated by me – with your signature …
I’ll go to your place, to your room, where I was this morning, but where no one noticed me … I shall turn all your things upside down; if my search proves completely fruitless, I shall warn your father …, because’ – he wiped his forehead – ‘it’s not a question of your father; it’s a question of you: yes, yes, yes, sir – of you alone, Nikolai Apollonovich!’

He rammed a hard finger into Nikolai Apollonovich’s chest, and now stood with raised eyebrow (only one eyebrow).

‘This will not happen, do you hear?
This will not happen, Nikolai Apollonovich – it will not happen, ever!’