Short Fiction, Leonid Andreyev [good e books to read .TXT] 📗

that time I was yet a romanticist. Happy time, how distant it is! I remember, gentlemen experts, that returning from Katia I stepped before the corpse, crossed my arms on my chest like Napoleon, and with laughable pride gazed upon the corpse. Then I shuddered, frightened at seeing the shroud stir. Happy, distant time!

I fear to think upon it, but it is possible that I never have ceased to be a romanticist. And I came near being an idealist. I believed in human thought and its boundless force. The entire history of man seemed to me as one triumphant thought, and that was not so long ago. It is terrible for me to reflect that my entire life has been an illusion, that all life long I have been a fool like that crazy actor once confined in the next ward. He had gathered from everywhere strips of blue and red paper, and he had designated each strip a million roubles; he had begged them from visitors; had stolen and carried them from the closet, to the amusement of the keepers, whom it gave an opportunity to indulge in vulgar jests. He sincerely and deeply detested them, but me he liked, and upon parting handed me a million.

“It’s a trifle,” said he, “only a million, but you will forgive me, I have such expenses, such expenses.”

Taking me aside, he explained in a whisper:

“I am about to start to Italy. I want to banish the Pope and to introduce new moneys into the country⁠—these. Then, on Sunday, I will declare myself a Saint. The Italians will rejoice; they are always happy when given a new Saint.”

Have I not lived upon this million?

It is strange for me to reflect upon the fact that my books⁠—my companions and friends⁠—have remained in their cases and silently guard that which I considered the wisdom of the earth, its hope and happiness. I am aware, gentlemen experts, that whether or not I am insane, from your viewpoint I am a good-for-nothing and a scamp⁠—you should see this good-for-nothing when he enters his library!

Go, gentlemen experts, examine my house⁠—you will find it interesting. In the left-hand upper drawer of my writing-table you will discover a detailed catalogue of my books, pictures and trifles; there also you will find the keys to the cases. You are men of culture, and I am confident that you will conduct yourself toward my property with due respect and care. I also request you to see that the lamp doesn’t smoke. There is nothing worse than this smoke; it gathers everywhere, and it then takes the hardest kind of labor to get rid of its effects.

Remark.

The assistant doctor Petroff has refused me chloralamide in the dose which I demand. I am a physician and know what I am doing, and if it is refused me I will take decisive measures. I have not slept two nights, and do not in the least desire to become insane. I demand that chloralamide be given me. I demand it. It is infamous to make one insane.

V

After my second attack they were afraid of me. In many houses the doors were quickly closed at my approach. At accidental meetings acquaintances shrank from me, smiled meanly and inquired significantly:

“Well, golubchik, how is your health?”

The situation developed to such a degree that I could have committed the most unlawful act and would not have lost the respect of those present. I looked at people and thought: If I so wish it, I may kill this one and that one, and nothing will happen to me. That which I experienced at this thought was something new, pleasant and a bit terrifying. Man ceased to be something strongly defended, a something which we fear to touch; in a word, some sort of shell fell from him; he seemed naked, and to kill him seemed easy and even tempting.

Fear, like a dense wall, protected me from inquisitive eyes, so that the necessity for a third preliminary attack was avoided. Only in this instance did I depart from the formulated plan; for the strength of genius does not build itself a frame for its confinement, and, to conform with changing conditions, does not even hesitate to alter the entire course of battle. It yet remained for me to obtain official absolution from past sins and sanction for those of the future⁠—I refer to the necessity of securing scientifico-medical testimony of my illness.

At this time a happy concurrence of circumstances made it possible for me to turn to a psychiatrist, without it seeming more than by merest chance, or by obligation. This, perhaps, was an unnecessary but artistic touch in the interpretation of my role. It was Tatiana Nikolayevna and her husband who sent me to the psychiatrist.

“Do, please, go to the doctor, dear Anton Ignatyevich,” said Tatiana Nikolayevna. Never before did she call me “dear.” Apparently it was necessary to pass for mad to receive this meaningless caress.

“Very good, dear Tatiana Nikolayevna, I’ll go,” I replied submissively. We three⁠—Alexis also being present⁠—sat in the drawing-room, subsequently the scene of the murder.

“Yes, Anton, you must go without fail,” reiterated Alexis in a tone of authority, “or else you might do some mischief.”

“What sort of mischief could I do?” I timidly protested before my stern friend.

“Who knows? You may break someone’s head.”

I fondled in my hand a heavy, cast-iron paperweight. Looking now at that object, now at Alexis, I asked:

“Head? You say⁠—head?”

“Yes, head. Catch a thing like that on your head and you’re done for.”

It was becoming interesting. It was precisely the head, and precisely with that thing that I had planned to crush it, and now that same head was telling how it would all end. It was telling and smiling, as without care. And yet there: are people who believe in presentiments, and that death sends before it invisible heralds. What nonsense!

“One can’t do much with this thing,” said I. “It is altogether too light.”

“So you