Хармс Даниил. Selected stories

kneeling.
-- And you don't have to -- says the old woman. -- Now you must lie
down on your stomach and bury your face in the floor.
I carried out her bidding straight away . . .
I see before me accurately traced squares. Discomfort in my shoulder
and in my right hip forces me to change position. I had been lying face down
and now, with great difficulty, I get up on to my knees. All my limbs have
gone numb and will scarcely bend. I look round and see myself in my own
room, kneeling in the middle of the floor. My consciousness and memory are
slowly returning to me. I look round the room once more and see that it
looks as though someone is sitting in the armchair by the window. It's not
very light in the room, because it must be the white nights now. I peer
attentively. Good Lord! Is it really that old woman, still sitting in my
armchair? I crane my neck round and have a look. Yes, of course, it's the
old woman sitting there and her head's drooped on to her chest. She must
have fallen asleep.
I pick myself up and hobble over towards her. The old woman's head is
drooping down on to her chest; her arms are hanging down the sides of the
armchair. I feel like grabbing hold of this old woman and shoving her out of
the door.
-- Listen -- I say -- you are in my room. I need to work. I am asking
you to leave.
The old woman doesn't budge. I bend over and look the old woman in the
face. Her mouth is half open and from her mouth protrudes a displaced set of
dentures. And suddenly it all becomes clear to me: the old woman has died.
A terrible feeling of annoyance comes over me. What did she die in my
room for? I can't stand dead people. And now, having to mess about with this
carrion, having to go and talk to the caretaker and the house manager, to
explain to them why this old woman was found in my place. I looked at the
old woman with hatred. But perhaps she wasn't dead, after all? I feel her
forehead. Her forehead is cold. Her hand also. Now what am I supposed to do?
I light up my pipe and sit down on the couch. A mindless fury is rising
up in me.
-- What a swine! -- I say out loud.
The dead old woman is sitting in my armchair, like a sack. Her teeth
are sticking out of her mouth. She looks like a dead horse.
-- What a revolting spectacle -- I say, but I can't cover the old woman
with a newspaper, because anything might go on under the newspaper.
Movement could be heard through the wall: it's my neighbour getting up,
the engine driver. I've quite enough on my plate without him getting wind
that I've got a dead old woman in my room! I listen closely to my
neighbour's footsteps. Why is he so slow? It's half-past five already! It's
high time he went off. My God! He's making a cup of tea! I can hear the
noise of the primus through the wall. Oh, I wish that blasted engine driver
would hurry up and go!
I pull my legs up on to the couch and lie there. Eight minutes go by,
but my neighbour's tea is still not ready and the primus is making a noise.
I close my eyes and doze.
I dream that my neighbour has gone out and I, together with him, go out
on to the staircase and I slam the door behind me on its spring lock. I
haven't got the key and I can't get back into the flat. I shall have to
knock and wake up the rest of the tenants and that is not a good thing at
all. I am standing on the landing thinking what to do and suddenly I see
that I have no hands. I incline my head, so as to get a better look to see
whether I have any hands, and I see that on one side, instead of a hand, a
knife is sticking out and, on the other side, a fork.
-- So -- I am saying to Sakerdon Mikhailovich, who for some reason is
sitting there on a folding chair -- So, do you see -- I say to him -- the
sort of hands I have?
But Sakerdon Mikhailovich sits there in silence and I can see that this
is not the real Sakerdon Mikhailovich, but his clay semblance.
At this point I wake up and immediately realise that I am lying in my
room on the couch and that by the window, in the armchair, sits a dead old
woman.
I quickly turn my head in her direction. The old woman is not in the
armchair. I gaze at the empty armchair and I am filled with a wild joy. So,
that means all this was a dream. Except, where did it start? Did an old
woman come into my room yesterday? Perhaps that was a dream as well? I came
back yesterday because I had forgotten to turn off the electric oven. But
perhaps that was a dream as well? In any case, it's marvelous that I don't
have a dead old woman in my room and that means I won't have to go to the
house manager and bother about the corpse!
But still, how long had I been asleep? I looked at my watch: half-past
nine; it must be morning.
Good Lord! The things that can happen in dreams!
I lowered my legs from the couch, intending to stand up, and suddenly
caught sight of the dead old woman, lying on the floor behind the table,
beside the armchair. She was lying face up and her dentures, which had
jumped out of her mouth, had one tooth digging into the old woman's nostril.
Her arms were tucked under her torso and were not visible and from under her
disordered skirt protruded bony legs in white, dirty woollen stockings.
-- What a swine! -- I shouted and, running over to the old woman,
kicked her on the chin.
The set of dentures flew off into the corner. I wanted to kick the old
woman again, but was afraid that marks would remain on her body and that
subsequently it might be decided that it was I who had killed her.
I moved away from the old woman, sat down on the couch and lit my pipe.
Thus twenty minutes went by. Now it had become clear to me that, come what
may, the matter would be put in the hands of a criminal investigation and
that in the bungling which would follow I would be accused of murder. The
situation was turning out to be serious, and then there was that kick as
well.
I went over to the old woman again, leaned over and started to examine
her face. There was a small dark bruise on her chin. No, nothing much could
be made of that. What of it? Perhaps the old woman had bumped into something
when she was still alive? I calm down a little and begin pacing the room,
smoking my pipe and ruminating over my situation.
I pace up and down the room and start feeling a greater and greater
hunger. I even start shaking from hunger. Once more I rummage in the
cupboard where my provisions are kept, but I find nothing, except a lump of
sugar.
I pull out my wallet and count my money. Eleven roubles. That means I
can buy myself some ham sausage and bread and still have enough for tobacco.
I adjust my tie, which had got disarranged in the night, pick up my
watch, put on my jacket, go out into the corridor, painstakingly lock the
door of my room, put the key in my pocket and go out on to the street.
Before anything else I have to eat something; then my thoughts will be
clearer and then I'll do something about this carrion. On the way to the
shop, I keep on thinking: shouldn't I go and see Sakerdon Mikhailovich and
tell him all about it and perhaps together we could soon think out what to
do. But I turn this idea down on the spot, because there are some things
which one has to do alone, without witnesses.
There was no ham sausage in the shop and I bought myself half a kilo of
saveloys. There was no tobacco, either. From the shop I went to the bakery.
There were a lot of people in the bakery and there was a long queue
waiting at the cash desk. I immediately frowned but still joined the queue.
The queue moved very slowly and then stopped moving altogether, because some
sort of a row had broken out at the cash desk.
I pretended not to notice anything and stared at the back of a nice
young lady who was standing in the queue in front of me. The young lady was
obviously very inquisitive: she was craning her neck first to the right and
then to the left and she kept standing on tiptoe, so as to get a better view
of what was happening at the cash desk. Eventually she turned round to me
and said: -- You don't know what's going on there, do you?
-- I'm afraid I don't -- I answered as drily as possible.
The young lady twisted herself from side to side and finally again
addressed me:
-- You wouldn't like to go up there and find out what's happening,
would you?
-- I'm afraid it doesn't concern me in the slightest -- I said, even
more drily.
-- What do you mean, it doesn't concern you? -- exclaimed the young
lady -- you are being held up in the queue yourself because of it, aren't
you?
I made no reply and merely bowed slightly. The young lady looked at me
with great attention.
-- Of course, it's not a man's job to queue for bread -- she said. --
I'm sorry for you, having to stand here. You must be a bachelor?
-- Yes, I am a bachelor -- I replied, somewhat taken aback, but
automatically continuing to answer somewhat drily, with a slight bow at the
same time.
The young lady again looked me up and down and suddenly, touching me on
the sleeve, she said: -- Let me get you what you need and you can wait for
me outside.
This threw me completely.
-- Thank you -- I said. -- It's extremely kind of you but, really, I
could do it myself.
-- No, no -- said the young lady -- you go outside. What were you
intending to buy?
-- Well, then -- I said -- I was intending to buy half a kilo of black
bread, only of the round sort, the cheapest one. I prefer it.
-- Right, well that's fine -- said the young lady. -- So, go on, then.
I'll buy it and we can settle up afterwards.
And she even gave me a slight shove under the elbow.
I went out of the bakery and stood right by the door. The spring sun is
shining right in my eyes. I light up my pipe. What a delightful young lady!
It's so rare these days. I stand there, my eyes screwed up from the sun,
smoking my pipe and thinking about the delightful young lady. She has bright
brown eyes, too. She's simply irresistibly pretty!
-- Do you smoke a pipe? -- I hear a voice beside me. The delightful
young lady hands me the bread.
-- Oh, I'm forever grateful to you -- I say, taking the bread.
-- And you smoke a pipe! I really like that -- says the delightful
young lady.
And between us the following conversation takes place.
She: So, you buy bread yourself?
I: Not only bread; I buy everything for myself.
She: And where do you have lunch?
I: Usually I cook my own lunch. But sometimes I eat in the bar.
She: Do you like beer, then?
I: No, I prefer vodka.
She: I like vodka, too.
I: You like vodka? That's wonderful! I'd like to have a drink with you
sometime.
She: And I'd like to drink vodka with you, too.
I: Forgive me, but may I ask you something?
She: (blushing furiously) of course, just ask.
I: All right then, I will. Do you believe in God?
She: (surprised) In God? Yes, of course.
I: And what would you say to us buying some vodka now and going to my
place? I live very near here.
She: (perkily) Well, why not, it's fine by me!
I: Then let's go.
We go into a shop and I buy half a litre of vodka. I have no more money
left, except a bit of change. We talk about various things all the time and
suddenly I remember that in my room on the floor there is a dead old woman.
I look round at my new acquaintance: she's standing by the counter and
looking at jars of jam. I gingerly make off towards the door and slide out
of the shop. It just happens that a tram is stopping opposite the shop. I
jump on the tram, without even looking to see what number it is. I get off
at Mikhailovskaya Street and walk to Sakerdon Mikhailovich's. I am carrying
a bottle of vodka, saveloys and bread.
Sakerdon Mikhailovich opened the door to me himself. He was wearing his
dressing-gown, with nothing on underneath, his Russian boots with the tops
cut off and his fur hat with the earflaps, but the earflaps were turned up
and tied in a bow on top.
-- Jolly good -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich on seeing that it was me.
-- I'm not dragging you away from your work? -- I asked.
-- No, no -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- I wasn't doing anything, I
was just sitting on the floor.
-- Well, you see -- I said to Sakerdon Mikhailovich -- I've popped
round to you with vodka and a bite to eat. If you've no objection, let's
have a drink.
-- Fine -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- Come in.
We sent through to his room. I opened the bottle of vodka and Sakerdon
Mikhailovich put two glasses and a plate of boiled meat on the table.
-- I've got some saveloys here -- I said. -- So, how shall we eat them:
raw, or shall we boil them?
-- We'll put them on to boil -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich and while
they're cooking we'll drink vodka with the boiled meat. It's from a stew,
it's first-class boiled meat!
Sakerdon Mikhailovich put a saucepan on to heat, on his kerosene stove,
and we sat down to the vodka.
-- Drinking vodka's good for you -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, filling
the glasses. -- Mechnikov wrote that vodka's better than bread, and bread is
only straw which rots in our bellies.
-- Your health! -- said I, clinking glasses with Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
We drank, taking the cold meat as a snack.
-- It's good -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
But at that moment something in the room gave out a sharp crack.
-- What's that? -- I asked.
We sat in silence and listened. Suddenly there was another crack.
Sakerdon Mikhailovich jumped up from his chair and, running up to the
window, tore down the curtain.
-- What are you doing? -- I exclaimed.
But Sakerdon Mikhailovich didn't answer me; he rushed over to the
kerosene stove, grabbed hold or the saucepan with the curtain and placed it
on the floor.
-- Devil take it! -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- I forgot to put
water in the saucepan and the saucepan's an enamel one, and now the enamel's
come off.
-- Oh, I see -- I said, nodding.
We sat down again at the table.
-- Oh, to the devil with it -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich -- we'll eat
the saveloys raw.
-- I'm starving -- I said.
-- Help yourself -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, pushing the saveloys
over to me.
-- The last time I ate was yesterday, in the cellar bar with you, and
since then I haven't eaten a thing -- I said.
-- Yeh, yeh -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
-- I was writing all the time -- said I.
-- Bloody hell! -- exclaimed Sakerdon Mikhailovich in an exaggerated
tone. -- It's a great thing to see a genius before one.
-- I should think so! -- said I.
-- Did you get much done? -- asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
-- Yes -- said I. -- I got through a mass of paper.
-- To the genius of our day -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, lifting his
glass.
We drank. Sakerdon Mikhailovich ate boiled meat and I . . . the
saveloys. Having eaten four saveloys, I lit my pipe and said:
-- You know, I came to see you, to escape from persecution.
-- Who was persecuting you? -- asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
-- A lady -- I said.
But as Sakerdon Mikhailovich didn't ask me anything and only poured
vodka into his glass in silence, I went on: -- I met her in the bakery and
immediately fell in love.
-- Is she attractive? -- asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
-- Yes -- said I -- just my type.
We drank and I continued: -- She agreed to go to my place and drink
vodka. We went into a shop, but I had to make a run for it out of the shop,
on the quiet.
-- Didn't you have enough money? -- asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
-- No, I had just enough money -- I said -- but I remembered that I
couldn't let her into my room.
-- What, do you mean you had another woman in your room? -- asked
Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
-- Yes, if you like, there's another woman in my room -- I said, with a
smile. -- Now I can't let anyone into my room.
-- Get married. Then you can invite me to the reception -- said
Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
-- No -- I said, snorting with laughter. -- I'm not going to get
married to this woman.
-- Well then, marry that one from the bakery -- said Sakerdon
Mikhailovich.
-- Why are you so keen to marry me off? -- said I.
-- So, what then? -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, filling the glasses.
-- Here's to your conquests!
We drank. Clearly, the vodka was starting to have its effect on us.
Sakerdon Mikhailovich look off his fur hat with the earflaps and slung it on
to the bed. I got up and paced around the room, already experiencing a
certain amount of head-spinning.
-- How do you feel about the dead? -- I asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
-- Completely negatively -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- I'm afraid
of them.
-- Yes, I can't stand dead people either -- I said. -- Give me a dead
person and, assuming he's not a relative of mine, I would be bound to boot
him one.
-- You shouldn't kick corpses -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
-- I would give him a good booting, right in the chops -- said I. -- I
can't stand dead people or children.
-- Yes, children are vile -- agreed Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
-- But which do you think are worse: the dead or children? -- I asked.
-- Children are perhaps worse, they get in our way more often. The dead
at least don't burst into our lives -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
-- They do burst in! -- I shouted and immediately stopped speaking.
Sakerdon Mikhailovich looked at me attentively.
-- Do you want some more vodka? -- he asked.
-- No -- I said, but, recollecting myself, I added: -- No, thank you, I
don't want any more.
I came over and sat down again at the table. For a while we are silent.
-- I want to ask you -- I say finally. -- Do you believe in God?
A transverse wrinkle appears on Sakerdon Mikhailovich's brow and he
says: -- There is such a thing as bad form. It's bad form to ask someone to
lend you fifty roubles if you have noticed him just putting two hundred in
his pocket. It's his business to give you the money or to refuse; and the
most convenient and agreeable means of refusal is to lie, saying, that he
hasn't got the money. But you have seen that that person does have the money
and thereby you have deprived him of the possibility of simply and agreeably
refusing. You have deprived him of the right of choice and that is a dirty
trick. It's bad form and quite tactless and asking a person: 'Do you believe
in God?' -- that also is tactless and bad form.
-- Well -- said I -- I see nothing in common there.
-- Anal I am making no comparisons -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
-- Well, all right, then -- I said -- let's leave it. Just excuse me
for putting such an indecent and tactless question.
-- That's all right -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- I merely refused
to answer you.
-- I wouldn't have answered either -- said I -- except that it would've
been for a different reason.
-- And what would that be? -- asked Sakerdon Mikhailovich limply.
-- You see -- I said -- in my view there are no believers or
non-believers. There are only those who wish to believe and those who wish
not to believe.
-- So, those who wish not to believe already believe in something? --
said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- And those who wish to believe already, in
advance, don't believe in anything?
-- Perhaps that's the way it is -- I said. -- I don't know.
-- And in what do they believe or not believe? In God? -- asked
Sakerdon Mikhailovich.
-- No -- I said -- in immortality.
-- Then why did you ask me whether I believe in God?
-- Simply because asking: 'Do you believe in immortality?' sounds
rather stupid -- I said to Sakerdon Mikhailovich and stood up.
-- What, are you going? -- Sakerdon Mikhailovich asked me.
-- Yes -- I said -- it's time I was going.
-- And what about the vodka? -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich. -- There's
a glass each left, you know.
-- Well, let's drink it, then -- I said.
We drank down the vodka and finished off the remains of the boiled
meat.
-- And now I must go -- I said.
-- Goodbye -- said Sakerdon Mikhailovich, accompanying me across the
kitchen and out lo the stairway. -- Thanks for bringing the refreshments.
-- Thank you -- I said. -- Goodbye.
And I left.
Remaining on his own, Sakerdon Mikhailovich cleared the tables, shoved
the empty vodka bottle on top of the cupboard, put his fur cap with the
earflaps on again and sat down on the floor under the window. Sakerdon
Mikhailovich put his hands behind his back and they could not be seen. And
from his disordered dressing-gown protruded his bare, bony legs, shod in
Russian boots with the tops cut off.
I walked along Nevsky Prospect, weighed down by my own thoughts. I'll
now have to go to the house manager and tell him everything. And having
dealt with the old woman, I shall stand for entire days by the bakery, until
I encounter that delightful young lady. Indeed, I have remained in her debt
for the bread, to the tune of forty-eight kopecks. I have a fine pretext for
seeking her out. The vodka I had drunk was still continuing to have its
effect and it seemed as though everything was shaping up very nicely and
straightforwardly.
On Fontanka I went over to a stall and, on the strength of my remaining
change, I downed a big mug of kvass. The kvass was of poor quality and sour,
and I walked on with a revolting taste in my mouth.
On the corner of Liteinaya some drunk or other staggered up and pushed
me. It's a good thing I don't have a revolver: I would have killed him right
here on the spot.
I walked all the way home, no doubt with a face distorted with malice.
In any event, almost everyone I passed swung round to look at me.
I went into the house manager's office. At the table sat a short,
dirty, snub-nosed, one-eyed, tow-headed female and, looking into her make-up
mirror, she was daubing herself with lipstick.
-- And where's the house manager? -- I asked.
The girl remained silent, continuing to daub her lips.
-- Where's the house manager? -- I repeated in a sharp voice.
-- He'll be here tomorrow, not today -- replied the dirty, snub-nosed,
one-eyed and tow-haired female.
I went out on to the street. On the opposite side, an invalid was
walking along on an artificial leg and knocking loudly with his leg and his
stick. Six urchins were running behind the invalid, mimicking his gait.
I turned into my main entrance and began to go up the stairway. On the
first floor I stopped; a repulsive thought had entered my head: of course,
the old woman must have started to decompose. I had not shut the windows,
and they say that with an open window the dead decompose all the quicker.
What utter stupidity! And that devil of a house manager won't be there until
tomorrow! I stood in indecision for several minutes and then began to ascend
further.
I stopped again beside the door to my flat. Perhaps I should go to the
bakery and wait there for the delightful young lady? I could try imploring
her to let me in to her place for two or three nights. But at this point I
recollect that she has already bought her bread today and so she won't be
coming to the bakery. And in any case nothing would have come of it.
I unlocked the door and went into the corridor. At the end of the
corridor a light was on and Mar'ia Vasil'evna, holding some rag or other in
her hands, was rubbing it over with another rag. Upon seeing me, Mar'ia
Vasil'evna cried: -- Shome auld man was ashking for ye!
-- What old man? -- I asked.
-- I donch know -- replied Mar'ia Vasil'evna.
-- When was that? -- I asked.
-- Donch know zhat, eizher -- said Mar'ia Vasil'evna.
-- Did you talk to the old man? -- I asked Mar'ia Vasil'evna.
-- I did -- replied Mar'ia Vasil'evna.
-- So, how come you don't know when it was? -- said I.
-- Choo hourzh ago -- said Mar'ia Vasil'evna.
-- And what did this old man look like? -- I asked.
-- Donch know zhat, eizher -- said Mar'ia Vasil'evna and went off to
the kitchen.
I went over to my room.
-- Suppose -- I thought -- the old woman has disappeared. I shall go
into any room, and there's no old woman there. Oh my God! Do miracles really
not happen?
I unlocked the door and started to open it slowly. Perhaps it only
seemed that way, but the sickly smell of decomposition in progress hit me in
the face. I looked in through the half-open door and, for a instant, froze
on the spot. The old woman was on all fours, crawling slowly over to meet
me.
I slammed the door with a yelp, turned the key and leapt across to the
wall opposite.
Mar'ia Vasil'evna appeared in the corridor.
-- Were ye calling me? -- she asked.
I was so shaken that I couldn't reply and just shook my head
negatively. Mar'ia Vasil'evna came a bit nearer.
-- Ye were talking to shomeone -- she said.
I again shook my head.
-- Crazhy madman -- said Mar'ia Vasil'evna and she again went off to
the kitchen, looking round at me several times on the way.
-- I can't just stand here. I can't just stand here -- I repeated to
myself. This phrase had formed somewhere within me. I kept reiterating it
until it reached my consciousness.
-- No, I can't just stand here -- I said to myself, but carried on
standing there, as though paralysed. Something horrific had happened, but
there was now the prospect of dealing with something that perhaps was even
more horrific than what had already occurred. My thoughts were spinning in a
vortex and I could see only the malicious eyes of the dead old woman, slowly
crawling towards me on all fours.
Burst into the room and smash the old woman's skull in! That's what
needs to be done! I even gave the place the once-over and was relieved to
see a croquet mallet which, for some unknown reason, had been standing in
the corner of the corridor for nearly a year. Grab the mallet, burst into
the room and bang . . . !
My shivering had not passed off. I was standing with my shoulders
arched from an inner cold. My thoughts were jumping and jumbled,
backtracking to their point of departure and again jumping ahead and taking
over new spheres, and I stood, lending an ear to my own thoughts, and
remaining as though to one side of them, as though not their controller.
-- The dead -- my own thoughts explained to me -- are a category to be
reckoned with. A lot of use calling them dead; rather, they should be called
the undead. They need to be watched and watched. Ask any mortuary watchman.
What do you think he is put there for? Only for one thing: to keep watch, so
that the dead don't crawl all over the place. There can even occur what are,
in a certain sense, amusing incidents. One deceased crawled out of the
mortuary while the attendant, on management's orders, was taking his bath,
crawled into the disinfection room and ate up a heap of bed linen. The
disinfectors dished out a damned good thrashing to the deceased in question
but, as for the ruined linen, they had to settle up for that out of their
own pockets. And another deceased crawled as far as the maternity ward and
so frightened the inmates that one child-bearer produced a premature foetus
on the spot, while the deceased pounced smartly on the fruits of the
miscarriage and began to devour it, champing away vigourously. And, when a
brave nurse struck the deceased on the back with a stool, he bit the said
nurse on the leg and she soon died from infection by corpse poisoning. Yes,
indeed, the dead are a category to be reckoned with, and with them you
certainly have to be on the quick side.
-- Stop! -- said I to my own thoughts. -- You are talking nonsense. The
dead are immobile.
-- All right, then -- my own thoughts said to me. -- Just you enter
your room and you'll soon find what you call an immobile dead person.
An unexpected stubbornness within me began speaking.
-- All right, I will! -- I replied resolutely to my own thoughts.
-- Just you try! -- my own thoughts said to me derisively.
This derision definitively enraged me. I grabbed the croquet mallet and
rushed towards the door.
-- Hold on a moment! -- my own thoughts yelled at me. But I had already
turned the key and unlocked the door.
The old woman was lying in the doorway, her face pressed against the
floor.
Croquet mallet raised, I stood at the ready. The old woman wasn't
moving.
My trembling passed off and my thoughts were flowing clearly and
logically. I was in control.
-- First of all, shut the door! -- I commanded myself.
I pulled the key from the outer side of the door and put it into the
inner side. I did this with my left hand, while in my right hand I held the
croquet mallet and the whole time did not take my eyes off the old woman. I
turned the key in the door and, carefully stepping over the old woman,
stepped out into the middle of the room.
-- Now you and I will settle things -- said I. A plan had occurred to
me, one to which murderers in detective stories and reports in the
newspapers usually resort; I simply wanted to hide the old woman in a
suitcase, carry her off out of town and dump her in a bog. I knew one such
place.
I had a suitcase under the couch. I dragged it out and opened it. There
were a few assorted things in it: several books, an old felt hat and some
torn underwear. I unpacked all this on the couch.
At this moment the outside door slammed loudly and it seemed to me that
the old woman shuddered.
I immediately jumped up and grabbed the croquet mallet.
The old woman is lying there quietly. I am standing and listening
intently. It is the engine driver who has just come back; I can hear him
walking about in his room. That's him going along the corridor to the
kitchen. If Mar'ia Vasil'evna tells him all about my madness it will do no
good. It's a devilish nuisance. I'd better go along to the kitchen and
reassure them by my appearance.
I again strode over the old woman, placed the mallet right by the door,
so that on my return, without even entering the room, I could have the
mallet in my hands, and went out into the corridor. Voices came towards me
from the kitchen, but the words were not audible. I shut the door to my room
behind me and cautiously went off to the kitchen: I wanted to find out what
Mar'ia Vasil'evna and the engine driver were talking about. I passed down
the corridor quickly and slowed my steps near the kitchen. The engine driver
was speaking; evidently he was talking about something which had happened to
him at work.
I went in. The engine driver was standing with a towel in his hands and
speaking, while Mar'ia Vasil'evna was sitting on a stool listening. Upon
seeing me, the engine driver waved at me.
-- Hello there, hello there, Matvei Filippovich -- I said to him and
went on through to the bathroom. So far everything was safe enough. Mar'ia
Vasil'evna was used to my strange ways and may even have forgotten this
latest incident.
Suddenly it dawned upon me that I had not locked the door. What if the
old woman should crawl out of the room?
I rushed back but recollected myself in time and, so as not to alarm
the tenants, ambled through the kitchen at a leisurely step.
Mar'ia Vasil'evna was tapping her finger on the kitchen table and
saying to the engine driver:
-- Quaite raight. That's quaite raight! I wud have wustled too!
With my heart sinking, I went out into the corridor and immediately
breaking very nearly into a run I dashed down to my room. The old woman, as
before, was lying there quietly, her face pressed to the floor. The croquet
mallet was standing by the door in the same spot. I picked it up, went into
the room , and locked the door behind me with the key. Yes, there was
definitely a whiff of dead body in the room. I strode over the old woman,
went up to the window and sat down in the armchair. So long as I don't get
ill from this so far only weak, but still already unbearable, smell. I lit
up my pipe. I felt a touch of nausea and my stomach was aching a bit.
So, why am I just sitting here? I need to act quickly, before this old
woman rots completely. But, in any case, I need to be careful shoving her
into the suitcase because, while we're at it, she could take a nip at my
hand. And, as for dying from corpse poisoning -- no thank you!
-- Hey, thought -- I suddenly exclaimed. -- I'd like to see what you
would bite me with! Your teeth are over there, anyway!
I leaned over in the armchair and looked into the corner on the other
side of the window where, by my reckoning, the old woman's set of dentures
must be. But the false teeth were not there.
I thought for a bit: perhaps the dead old woman had been crawling about
my room looking for her teeth? Perhaps she had even found them and stuck
them back into her mouth?
I took the product mallet and poked around in the corner with it. No,
the dentures had gone. Then I pulled out of the cupboard a thick flannelette
sheet and went over to the old woman. The croquet mallet I held at the ready
in my right hand and in my left I held the flannelette sheet.
This dead old woman was arousing a squeamish feeling of fear. I raised
her head with the mallet: her mouth was open, the eyes rolled upwards and,
on the whole of her chin, where I had landed my kick, a big dark bruise was
spreading. I looked into the old woman's mouth. No, she had not found her
dentures. I released her head. The head dropped and knocked against the
floor.
Then I spread the flannelette sheet out on the floor and pulled it over
to the old woman herself. Then with my foot and the croquet mallet I turned
the old woman over by way of her left side on to her back. Now she was lying
on the sheet. The old woman's legs were bent at the knees and her fists
clasped to her shoulders. The old woman seemed to be lying on her back, like
a cat, ready to defend herself from a predatory eagle. Quickly, away with
this carrion!
I rolled the old woman up in the thick sheet and picked her up in my
arms. She turned out to be lighter than I had thought. I put her down into
the suitcase and tried to close it. I now expected all kinds of
difficulties, but the lid closed comparatively easily. I clicked down the
locks on the case and straightened up.
The suitcase is standing before me with a totally decorous air, as
though it contains clothes and books. I took hold of it by the handle and
tried to lift it. Yes, of course, it was heavy, but not excessively so. I
could certainly carry it to the tram.
I looked at my watch: twenty past five. That's fine. I sat down in the
armchair so as to have a breather and finish smoking my pipe.
Obviously the saveloys which I had eaten today had been a bit off,
since my stomach was aching more and more. But perhaps this was because I
had eaten them raw? But perhaps my stomach-ache was purely nervous.
I sit there, smoking. And minute after minute goes by.
The spring sun is shining in through the window and I screw up my eyes
against its rays. Now it is hiding behind a chimney of the building opposite
and the shadow of the chimney runs along the roof, flies across the street
and falls right on my face. I recall how yesterday at this same time I was
sitting writing my story. Here it is: the squared paper and on it the
inscription, in tiny handwriting: 'The miracle worker was on the tall side'.
I looked out of the window. An invalid was walking along the street on
an artificial leg, knocking loudly with his leg and with a stick. Two
workmen, and an old woman with them, were holding their sides, guffawing at
the invalid's ridiculous gait.
I got up. It was time! Time to be on my way! Time to take the old woman
off to the bog! I still needed to borrow some money from the engine driver.
I went out into the corridor and went up to his door.
-- Matvei Filippovich, are you in? -- I asked.
-- I'm in -- replied the engine driver.
-- Excuse me then, Matvei Filippovich, you don't happen to have plenty
of money on you, do you? I get paid the day after tomorrow. You couldn't
lend me thirty roubles, could you?
-- I could -- said the engine driver. And I could hear him jangling
keys as he unlocked some box or other. Then he opened the door and held out
a new, red thirty-rouble note. -- Thank you very much, Matvei Filippovich --
I said.
-- That's all right, that's all right -- said the engine driver.
I stuffed the money in my pocket and returned to my room. The suitcase
was calmly standing on the same spot.
-- Now then, on our way, without further ado -- I said to myself.
I took the suitcase and went out of the room.
Mar'ia Vasil'evna caught sight of me with the suitcase and shouted: --
Where are ye off to?
-- To see my aunt -- said I.
-- Will ye soon be back? -- asked Mar'ia Vasil'evna.
-- Yes -- I said. -- I just have to take some clothes over to my aunt.
I'll be back maybe even today.
I went out on to the street. I got safely to the tram, carrying the
suitcase first in my right hand, then in my left.
I got on to the tram from the front passenger space of the rear car and
began waving the conductress over, so that she should come and take the
money for my ticket and baggage. I didn't want to pass my single
thirty-rouble note down the whole car and couldn't bring myself to leave the
suitcase and myself walk through to the conductress. The conductress came
over to me on to the front platform and declared that she had no change. I
had to get off at the very first stop.
I stood there fuming as I was waiting for the next tram. I was
suffering from stomach-ache and a slight shiver in the legs.
And then suddenly I glimpsed my delightful young lady: she was crossing
the street and not looking in my direction.
I grabbed the suitcase and rushed after her. I didn't know her name and
couldn't call her. The suitcase was a serious hindrance: I was holding it in
front of me with both hands and pushing at it with my knees and stomach. The
delightful young lady was fairly fleet of foot and I felt that I had no hope
of catching her. I was soaked through with sweat and quite exhausted. The
delightful young lady turned into a side-street. When I got to the corner,
she was nowhere to be seen.
-- That blasted old woman! -- I spat, throwing the suitcase down. The
sleeves of my jacket were soaked through with sweat and they stuck to my
arms. I sat clown on the suitcase and, pulling out my handkerchief, I wiped
my neck and face with it. Two urchins stopped in front of me and began
looking at me. I put on a calm face and looked attentively at the nearest
gateway, as though waiting for someone. The urchins were whispering and
making rude gestures towards me. A wild fury smothered me. Oh, may they be
infected with tetanus!
And so, because of these obnoxious urchins, I stand up, lift the
suitcase, take it over to the gateway and peer into it. I affect a surprised
face, get out my watch and shrug my shoulders. The urchins are observing me
from algal. I once more shrug my shoulders and peer into the gateway.
-- That's strange -- I say aloud; I take the suitcase and drag it to
the tram stop.
I arrived at the station at five to seven. I take a return ticket to
Lis'ii Nos and get on to the train.
In the carriage, apart from me, there are two others: one evidently is
a workman; he is tired and is asleep, his cap pulled over his eyes. The
other is quite a young fellow, dressed like a village dandy: under his
jacket he is wearing a pink Russian shirt and from underneath his cap
protrudes a curly quiff. He is smoking a Russian cigarette, stuck into a
bright green plastic holder.
I place the suitcase between the seats and sit down. I have such spasms
in my stomach that I clench my fists, so as not to groan out loud from the
pain.
Two militiamen are leading some citizen or other along the platform
under arrest. He is walking with his hands behind his back and his head
drooping.
The train moves off. I look at my watch: ten past seven.
Oh, with what pleasure will I dump this old woman in the bog! It's a
pity only that I didn't bring a stick with me, as the old woman is bound to
need a few shoves.
The dandy in the pink shirt keeps looking at me impudently. I turn my
back on him and look out of the window.
Horrific seizures are raging in my belly; then I have to grit my teeth,
clench my fists and strain my legs.
We go through Lanskaya and Novaya Derevnya. Here there's a glitter from
the golden top of the Buddhist pagoda and over there a glimpse of the sea.
But at this point I jump up and, forgetting everything around me, run
off to the toilet with short steps. My consciousness is being buffeted and
twisted by a reckless wave . . .
The train slackens speed. We are arriving at Lakhta. I sit there,
afraid to move, lest I get thrown out of the toilet while at the station.
-- If only it would hurry up and get moving! Hurry up and get moving!
The train moves off and I close my eyes in ecstasy. Oh, these minutes
are just as sweet as any moments of love! All my powers are straining, but I
know that this will be followed by an awful collapse.
The train is stopping again. It's Ol'gino. That means the same torture
again!
But now it's a matter of phantom urges. A cold sweat comes out on my
brow and a slight coldness flutters around my heart. I raise myself up and
for a certain time stand with my head pressed to the wall. The train goes on
and the swaying of the carriage feels quite pleasant to me.
I gather all my strength and stagger out from the toilet.
There's no one in the carriage. The worker and the dandy in the pink
shirt obviously got out at Lakhta, or at Ol'gino. I walk slowly towards my
window.
And suddenly I stop in my tracks and peer dully in front of me. There,
where I had left it, there is no suitcase. I must have mistaken the window.
I jump over to the next window. No suitcase. I jump backwards and forwards,
run up and down the carriage on both sides, look under the seats, but the
suitcase is nowhere to be found.
Indeed, is there any reason to doubt it? Of course, while I was in the
toilet the suitcase was stolen. That could even have been predicted!
I am sitting on the seat goggle-eyed and for some reason I remember the
cracking sound of the enamel coming off the overheated saucepan at Sakerdon
Mikhailovich's.
-- So what's the outcome? -- I ask myself. -- Now who will believe that
I didn't kill the old woman? They'll catch me this very day, either right
here or in the city at the station, like that citizen who was walking along
with his head drooping.
I go out on to the outside space at the end of the carriage. The train
is coming in to Lis'ii Nos. The white posts which mark off the track are
flashing past. The train is stopping. The steps down from my carriage do not
reach the ground. I jump down and walk over to the station office. There is
still half an hour before the train back to town.
I walk over towards a little wood. There are juniper bushes there. No
one will see me behind them. I make for them.
A big, green caterpillar is crawling over the ground. I drop down on my
knees and touch it with my finger. Powerful and sinewy, it wriggles around a
few times from one side to the other.
I look round. No one can see me. A slight shiver runs down my back. I
incline my head and quietly say:
-- In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost, now
and for ever. Amen.

___

At this juncture I temporarily conclude my manuscript, considering that
it is already quite long drawn out enough as it is.

(End of May and first half of June, 1939)