ave 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)