Despair (15 page)

All this, I remember, sped through my mind, just at the time I was sitting with those letters in my lap, but then it was one thing, now another;
now
I would slightly amend the statement, adding to it that (as happens with wonderful works
of art which the mob refuses, for a long time, to understand, to acknowledge, and the spell of which it resists) the genius of a perfect crime is not admitted by people and does not make them dream and wonder; instead, they do their best to pick out something that can be pecked at and pulled to bits, something to prod the author with, so as to hurt him as much as possible. And when they think they have discovered the lapse they are after, hear their guffaws and jeers! But it is they who have erred, not the author; they lack his keensightedness and see nothing out of the common there, where the author perceived a marvel.

After having laughed my fill and then quietly and clearly thought out my next moves, I put the third and most vicious letter into my pocketbook and tore up the other two, throwing their fragments into the neighboring shrubbery (which at once attracted several sparrows who mistook them for crumbs). Then I sallied to my office where I typed a letter to Felix with detailed indications as to when and where he should come; enclosed twenty marks and went out again.

I have always found it difficult to loosen my grip of the letter suspended above the abysmal chink. It is like diving into icy water or jumping from a burning balcony into what looks like the heart of an artichoke, and now it was particularly hard to let go. I gulped, I felt a queer sinking in the pit of my stomach; and still holding the letter, I proceeded down the street and stopped at the next letter box, where the same thing happened all over again. I walked on, burdened by the letter and fairly bending under that huge white load, and again, beyond a block of houses, I came to a letter box. My indecision was becoming a nuisance, as it was quite causeless and senseless in view of the firmness of my intentions; perhaps it could be dismissed as a physical, mechanical
indecision, a muscular reluctance to relax; or, better still, it might be, as a Marxist observer would put it (Marxism getting the nearest to Absolute Truth, as I always say)—the indecision of an owner who is always loath (such being his very essence) to part with property; and it is noteworthy that in my case the idea of property was not confined merely to the money I was sending, but corresponded to that share of my soul which I had put into my letter. Be it as it might, I had already overcome my hesitation when I reached my fourth or fifth letter box. I knew as distinctly as I know that I am going to set down this sentence—I knew that nothing could prevent me from dropping now the letter into the slit, and I even foresaw the sort of little gesture I would make immediately afterwards—brushing one palm against the other, as if some specks of dust had been left on my gloves by the letter, which, being posted, was mine no more, and so its dust was not mine either. That’s done, that’s finished (such was the meaning of my imagined gesture).

Nevertheless, I did not drop the letter in, but stood there, bending under my burden as before, and looking from under my brows at two little girls playing near me on the pavement: they rolled by turns an iridescent marble, aiming at a pit in the soil near the curb.

I selected the younger of the two—she was a delicate little thing, dark-haired, dressed in a checkered frock (what a wonder she was not cold on that harsh February day) and, patting her on the head, I said: “Look here, my dear, my eyes are so weak that I’m afraid of missing the slit; do, please, drop this letter for me into the box over there.”

She glanced up at me, rose from her squatting position (she had a small face of translucid pallor and rare beauty), took the letter, gave me a divine smile accompanied by a
sweep of her long lashes, and ran to the letter box. I did not wait to see the rest, and crossed the street, slitting my eyes (that ought to be noted) as if I really did not see well: art for art’s sake, for there was no one about.

At the next corner I slipped into the glass booth of a public telephone and rang up Ardalion: it was necessary to do something about him as I had decided long ago that this meddlesome portrait-painter was the only person of whom I ought to beware. Let psychologists clear up the question whether it was the simulation of nearsightedness that by association prompted me to act at once toward Ardalion as I had long intended to act, or was it, on the contrary, my constantly reminding myself of his dangerous eyes that gave me the idea of feigning nearsightedness.

Oh, by the bye, lest I forget, she will grow up, that child, she will be very good-looking and probably happy, and she will never know in what an eerie business she had served as go-between.

Then, also, there is another likelihood: fate, not suffering such blind and naïve brokerage, envious fate with its vast experience, assortment of confidence tricks, and hatred of competition, may cruelly punish that little maiden for intruding, and make her wonder—“Whatever have I done to be so unfortunate?” and never, never, never will she understand. But
my
conscience is clear. Not I wrote to Felix, but he wrote to me; not I sent him the answer, but an unknown child.

When I reached my next destination, a pleasant café, in front of which, amid a small public garden, there used to play on summer evenings a fountain of changing colors, cleverly lit up from below by polychromatic projectors (but now the garden was bare and dreary, and no fountain twinkled, and the thick curtains of the café had won in their
class struggle with loafing draughts … how racily I write and, what is more, how cool I am, how perfectly self-possessed); when, as I say, I arrived, Ardalion was already sitting there, and upon seeing me, he raised his arm in the Roman fashion. I took off my gloves, my hat, my white silk muffler, sat down next to him, and threw out on the table a packet of expensive cigarettes.

“What are the good tidings?” asked Ardalion, who always spoke to me in a special fatuous manner.

I ordered coffee and began approximately thus:

“Well, yes—there
is
news for you. Of late I have been greatly worried, my friend, by the thought that you were going to the dogs. An artist cannot live without mistresses and cypresses, as Pushkin says somewhere or should have said. Owing to the hardships you undergo and to the general stuffiness of your way of living, your talent is dying, is pining away, so to speak; does not squirt in fact, just as that colored fountain in that garden over there does not squirt in winter.”

“Thank you for the comparison,” said Ardalion, looking hurt. “That horror … that illumination in the caramel style. I would rather, you know, not discuss my talent, because your conception of
ars pictoris
amounts to …” (an unprintable pun here).

“Lydia and I have often spoken,” I went on, ignoring his dog-latin and vulgarity—“spoken about your plight. I consider you ought to change your surroundings, refresh your mind, imbibe new impressions.”

Ardalion winced.

“What have surroundings to do with art?” he muttered.

“Anyway, your present ones are disastrous to you, so they do mean something, I suppose. Those roses and peaches with which you adorn your landlady’s dining room, those portraits
of respectable citizens at whose houses you contrive to sup—”

“Well, really … contrive!”

“…  It may all be admirable, even full of genius, but—excuse my frankness—doesn’t it strike you as rather monotonous and forced? You ought to dwell in some other clime with plenty of sunshine: sunshine is the friend of painters. I can see, though, that this topic doesn’t interest you. Let’s talk of something else. Tell me, for instance, how do matters stand with that allotment of yours?”

“Dashed if I know. They keep sending me letters in German; I’d ask you for a translation, but it bores me stiff.… And—well, I either lose the things or just tear them up as they come. I understand they demand additional payments. Next summer I’ll build a house there, that’s what I’ll do. Then they won’t pull out the land from under it, I fancy. But you were speaking, my dear chap, about a change of climate. Go on, I’m listening.”

“Oh, it’s not much use, you are not interested. I talk sense and that nettles you.”

“God bless you, why on earth should I be nettled? On the contrary—”

“No, it’s no use.”

“You mentioned Italy, my dear chap. Fire away. I like the subject.”

“I haven’t really mentioned it yet,” said I with a laugh. “But as
you
have pronounced that word … I say, isn’t it nice and cosy here? There are rumors that you have stopped …”—and by a succession of fillips under my jaw I produced the sound of a gurgling bottleneck.

“Yes. Cut out drink altogether. I’d not refuse one just now, though. The cracking-a-bottle-with-a-friend affair, if you see what I mean. Oh, all right, I was only joking.…”

“So much the better, because nothing would come of it: quite impossible to make me tight. So that’s that. Heigh-ho, how badly I have slept tonight! Heigh-ho … ah! Awful thing insomnia,” I went on, looking at him through my tears. “Ah.… Do pardon me for yawning like that.”

Ardalion, smiling wistfully, was toying with his spoon. His fat face, with its leonine nose-bridge, was inclined; his eyelids—reddish warts for lashes—half screened his revoltingly bright eyes. All of a sudden he flashed a glance at me and said:

“If I took a trip to Italy, I’d indeed paint some gorgeous stuff. What I’d get out of selling it, would at once go to settle my debt.”

“Your debt? Got debts?” I asked mockingly.

“Oh, drop it, Hermann Karlovich,” said he, using for the first time, I think, my name and patronymic. “You quite understand what I’m driving at. Lend me two hundred fifty marks, or make it dollars, and I’ll pray for your soul in all the Florentine churches.”

“For the moment take this to pay for your visa,” said I flinging open my wallet. “You have, I suppose, one of those Nansen-sical passports, not a solid German one, as all decent people have. Ask for the visa immediately, otherwise you’ll spend this advance on drink.”

“Shake hands, old man,” said Ardalion.

We both kept silent awhile, he, because he was brimming with feelings, which meant little to me, and I, because the matter was ended and there was nothing to say.

“Brilliant idea,” cried Ardalion suddenly. “My dear chap, why shouldn’t you let Lyddy come with me; it’s damn dull here; the little woman needs something to amuse her. Now if I go by myself … You see she’s of the jealous sort—she’ll
keep imagining me getting tight somewhere. Really, do let her come away with me for a month, eh?”

“Maybe she’ll come later on. Maybe we’ll both come. Long have I, weary slave, been planning my escape to the far land of art and the translucent grape. Good. I’m afraid I’ve got to go now. Two coffees; that’s all, isn’t it?”

Early next morning—it was not nine yet—I made my way to one of the central underground stations and there, at the top of the stairs, took up a strategical position. At even intervals there would come rushing out of the cavernous deep a batch of people with briefcases—up, up the stairs, shuffling and stamping, and every now and again somebody’s toe would hit, with a clank, the metallic advertisement sign which a certain firm finds it advisable to affix to the front part of the steps. On the second one from the top, with his back to the wall and his hat in his hand (who was the first mendicant genius who adapted a hat to the wants of his profession?), there stood, stooping his shoulders as humbly as possible, an elderly wretch. Higher still, there was an assembly of newspaper vendors with coxcomb caps and all hung about with posters. It was a dark, miserable day; in spite of my wearing spats, my feet were numb with cold. I wondered if perhaps they would freeze less if I did not give my black shoes such a smart shine: a passing and repassing thought. At last, punctually at five minutes to nine, just as I had reckoned, Orlovius’s figure appeared from the deep. I at once turned and walked slowly away; Orlovius outstrode me, glanced back and exposed his fine but false teeth. Our meeting had the exact color of chance I wanted.

“Yes, I’m coming your way,” said I in answer to his question. “I’ve got to visit my bank.”

“Dog’s weather,” said Orlovius floundering at my side. “How is your wife? Very well?”

“Thanks, she is all right.”

“And how are you going on? Not very well?” he continued to inquire courteously.

“No, not very. Nerves, insomnia. Trifles that would have amused me before now annoy me.”

“Consume lemons,” put in Orlovius.

“…. that would have amused me before now annoy me. Here, for instance—”

I gave a slight snort of laughter, and produced my pocketbook. “I got this idiotic blackmailing letter, and it somehow weighs upon my mind. Read it if you like, it’s a rum business.”

Orlovius stopped and scrutinized the letter closely. While he read, I examined the shop window near which we were standing: there, pompous and inane, a couple of bathtubs and various other lavatory accessories gleamed white; and next to it was a shop window with coffins and there, too, all looked pompous and silly.

“Tut-tut,” uttered Orlovius. “Do you know who has been writing this?”

I popped the letter back into my wallet and replied with a snigger:

“Of course I do. A rogue. He was at one time in the service of a distant relation of mine. An abnormal creature, if not frankly insane. Got it into his head my family had deprived him of some inheritance; you know how it is: a fixed conviction which nothing can shatter.”

Orlovius explained to me, with copious details, the danger
lunatics present to the community and then inquired whether I was going to inform the police.

I shrugged my shoulders: “Nonsense.… Not worth really discussing.… Tell me, what do you think of the Chancellor’s speech—read it?”

We continued to walk side by side, comfortably conversing about foreign and home politics. At the door of his office I started removing—as the rules of Russian politeness request—the glove from the hand I was going to proffer.