Despair

  Having arrived at this point of my story, I stopped speaking, and, leaning back in my chair with folded arms, looked fixedly at Lydia. She seemed to flow down from the couch on to the carpet, crawled up to me on her knees, pressed her head against my thigh and, in a hushed voice started comforting me: "Oh, you poor, poor thing," she purred. "I'm so sorry for you, for your brother.... Heavens, what unhappy people there are in the world! He mustn't die, it is never impossible to save a person."

  "He can't be saved," said I, with what is called, I believe, a bitter smile. "He is determined to die on his birthday; the ninth of March--that is to say, the day after tomorrow; and the President of the State could not prevent it. Suicide is the worst form of self-indulgence. All one can do is to comply with the martyr's whim and brighten up things for him by granting him the knowledge that in dying he performs a good useful deed--of a crude material nature, perhaps, but anyhow, useful."

  Lydia hugged my leg and stared up at me.

  "His plan is as follows," I went on, in a bland voice: "My life, say, is insured for half a million. In a wood, somewhere, my corpse is found. My widow, that is you--"

  "Oh, stop saying such horrors," cried Lydia, scrambling up from the carpet. "I've just been reading a story like that. Oh, do please stop--"

  "... My widow, that is you, collects the money. Then she retires to a secluded place abroad. After a while, under an assumed name, I join her and maybe even marry her, if she is good. My real name, you see, will have died with my brother. We resemble each other, don't interrupt, like two drops of blood, and he'll be particularly like me when dead."

  "Do stop, do stop! I won't believe there's no way of saving him.... Oh, Hermann, how wicked! ... Where is he actually?--here in Berlin?"

  "No, in another part of the country. You keep repeating like a fool: save him, save him.... You forget that he is a murderer and a mystic. As to me, I haven't the right to refuse him a little thing that may lighten and adorn his death. You must understand that here we find ourselves entering a higher spiritual plane. It would be one thing if I said to you: 'Look here, old girl, my business is going badly, I'm faced with bankruptcy, also I'm sick of everything and yearn for a remote land, where I'll devote myself to contemplation and poultry breeding, so let us use this rare chance!' But I say nothing of the sort, although I am on the brink of ruin and for ages have been dreaming, as you know, of life in the lap of Nature. What I do say is something very different, namely: however hard, however terrible it may be, one cannot deny one's own brother the fulfillment of his dying request, one cannot prevent him from doing good--if only posthumous good."

  Lydia's eyelids fluttered--I had quite bespit her--but despite the spouting of my speech, she nestled against me, holding me tight. We were both now on the divan, and I continued:

  "A refusal of that kind would be a sin. I don't want it. I don't want to load my conscience with a sin of that weight. Do you think I didn't object and try to reason with him? Do you think I found it easy to accept his offer? Do you think I have slept all these nights? I may as well tell you, my dear, that since last year I have been suffering horribly--I would not have my best friend suffer so. Much do I care indeed for that insurance money! But how can I refuse, tell me, how can I deprive him of one last joy--hang it all, it's no good talking!"

  I pushed her aside, almost knocking her off the divan, and started marching to and fro. I gulped, I sobbed. Specters of red melodrama reeled.

  "You are a million times cleverer than me," half whispered Lydia, wringing her hands (yes, reader, dixi, wringing her hands), "but it's all so appalling, so unexpected, I thought it only happened in books.... Why, it means ... oh, everything will change--completely. Our whole life! Why ... F'rinstance, what about Ardalion?"

  "To hell, to hell with him! Here we are discussing the very greatest human tragedy and you plump in with--"

  "No, I just asked like that. You've sort of dazed me, my head feels quite funny. I suppose that--not exactly now, but later on--it will be possible to see him and explain matters.... Hermann, what d'you think?"

  "Drop worrying about trifles. The future will settle all that. Really, really, really" (my voice suddenly changed to a shrill scream), "what an idiot you are!"

  She melted into tears and was all at once a yielding creature quivering on my breast: "Please," she faltered, "please, forgive me. Oh, I'm a fool, you are right, do forgive me! This awful thing happening. Only this morning everything seemed so nice, so clear, so everydayish. Oh, my dear, I'm most terribly sorry for you. I'll do anything you want."

  "What I want now is coffee--I am dying for some coffee."

  "Come to the kitchen," she said, wiping her tears. "I'll do anything. But please, stay with me, I'm frightened."

  In the kitchen. Already appeased, though still sniffing a little, she poured the big brown coffee beans into the open bill of the mill, compressed it between her knees, and began turning the handle. It went stiffly at first, with many a creak and crackle, then there was a sudden easement.

  "Imagine, Lydia," said I, sitting on the table and dangling my legs, "imagine that all I'm telling you is fiction. Quite seriously, you know, I've been trying to make myself believe that it was purely an invention of mine or some story I had read somewhere; it was the only way not to go mad with horror. So, listen; the two characters are: an enterprising self-destroyer and his insured double. Now, as the insurance company is not obliged to pay in cases of suicide--"

  "I've made it very strong," said Lydia. "You'll like it. Yes, dear, I'm listening."

  "--the hero of this cheap mystery story demands the following measures: the thing should be staged in such a manner as to make it appear a plain murder. I do not want to enter into technical details, but here it is in a nutshell: the gun is fastened to a tree trunk, a string tied to the trigger, the suicide turns away, pulling that string, and gets the shot bang in the back. That's a rough outline of the business."

  "Oh, wait a bit," cried Lydia, "I've remembered something: he somehow fixed the revolver to the bridge ... No, that's wrong: he first tied a stone with a string ... let me see, how did it go? Oh, I've got it: he tied a big stone to one end and the revolver to the other, and then shot himself. And the stone fell in the water, and the string followed across the parapet, and the revolver came next--all splash into the water. Only I can't remember why it was necessary."

  "Smooth water, in brief; and a dead man left on the bridge. What a good thing coffee is! I had a splitting headache; now it's much better. So that's clear to you, more or less--I mean the way it all has to happen."

  I sipped the fiery coffee and meditated the while. Odd, she had no imagination whatever. In a couple of days life changes--topsy-turvy ... a regular earthquake ... and here she was, comfortably drinking coffee with me and recalling some Sherlock Holmes adventure.

  I was mistaken, however: Lydia started and said, slowly lowering her cup:

  "I'm just thinking, Hermann, that if it's all going to be so soon, then we ought to begin packing. And, oh, dear, there's all that linen in the wash. And your tuxedo is at the cleaner's."

  "First, my dear, I am not particularly anxious to be cremated in evening dress; secondly, pluck out of your head, quick and for good, the idea that you ought to act somehow, to prepare things and so on. There is nothing you ought to do, for the simple reason that you know nothing, nothing whatever--make a mental note of that, if you please. So, no mysterious allusions in front of your friends, no bustle, no shopping--let that sink in, my good woman--otherwise we'll all get into trouble. I repeat: you know nothing as yet. After tomorrow your husband goes for a drive in his car and fails to return. It is then, and only then, that your work begins. Very responsible work, though quite simple. Now I want you to listen with the utmost attention. On the morning of the tenth you'll phone to Orlovius telling him I've gone, not slept at home and not yet returned. You'll ask what to do about it. And act according to his advice. Let him, generally, take full possession of the case, doing everyth
ing, such as informing the police, et cetera. The body will turn up very soon. It is essential that you should make yourself believe I'm really dead. As things stand it won't be very far from the truth, as my brother is part of my soul."

  "I'd do anything," she said, "anything for his sake and yours. Only I'm dreadfully frightened, and it is all getting mixed up in my head."

  "Let it not get mixed up. The chief thing is naturalness of grief. It may not exactly bleach your hair but it must be natural. In order to make your task easier I've given Orlovius a hint to the effect that you've ceased loving me for years. So let it be the quiet reserved sort of sorrow. Sigh and be silent. Then when you see my corpse, that is, the corpse of a man undistinguishable from me, you're sure to get a real good shock."

  "Ugh! I can't, Hermann! I'll die of fright."

  "It would be worse if right in the mortuary you started powdering your nose. In any case, contain yourself. Don't scream, or else it'll be necessary after the screams, to raise the general level of your grief, and you know what a bad actress you are. Now let us proceed. The policy and my testament are in the middle drawer of my desk. After having had my body burnt, in agreement with my testament, after settling all formalities, after receiving, through Orlovius, your due, and doing with the money what he tells you to, you'll go abroad to Paris. Where will you stop in Paris?"

  "I don't know, Hermann."

  "Try and remember where it was we put up when we were in Paris together. Well?"

  "Yes, it's coming back to me now. Hotel."

  "But what hotel?"

  "I can't remember a thing, Hermann, when you keep looking at me like that. I tell you it's coming back. Hotel something."

  "I'll give you a tip: it has to do with grass. What is the French for grass?"

  "Wait a sec--herbe. Oh, got it; Malherbe."

  "To be quite safe, in case you forget again, you can always look at your black trunk. There's the hotel label on it still."

  "Look here, Hermann, I'm really not such a muff as all that. Though I think I'd better take that trunk. The black one."

  "So that's the place you stop at. Next there comes something extremely important. First, however, I'll trouble you to say it all over again."

  "I'll be sad. I'll try not to cry too much. Orlovius. Two black dresses and a veil."

  "Not so fast. What will you do when you see the body?"

  "Fall on my knees. Not scream."

  "That's right. You see how nicely it all shapes out. Well, what comes next?"

  "Next I'll have him buried."

  "In the first place not him, but me. Please, don't get that muddled. In the second: not burial, but cremation. Nobody wants to be disinhumed. Orlovius will inform the pastor of my merits; moral, civic, matrimonial. The pastor in the crematorium chapel will deliver a heartfelt speech. To the sound of organ music my coffin will slowly sink into Hades. That's all. What after that?"

  "After that--Paris. No, wait! First, all kinds of money formalities. I'm afraid, you know, Orlovius will bore me to death. Then, in Paris, I'll go to the hotel--now I knew it would happen, I just thought I'd forget and so I have. You sort of oppress me. Hotel ... Hotel ... Oh--Malherbe! For safety--the trunk."

  "Black. Now comes the important bit: as soon as you get to Paris, you let me know. What method should I adopt to make you memorize the address?"

  "Better write it down, Hermann. My brain simply refuses to work at present. I'm so horribly afraid I shall bungle it all."

  "No, my dear, I shan't write down anything. If only for the reason that you're bound to lose anything put down in writing. You'll have to memorize the address whether you like it or not. There is absolutely no other way. I forbid you once and for all to write it down. That clear?"

  "Yes, Hermann, but what if I can't remember?"

  "Nonsense. The address is quite simple. Post office, Pignan, France."

  "That's where Aunt Elisa used to live? Oh, yes, that's not hard to remember. But she lives near Nice now. Better go to Nice."

  "Good idea, but I shan't. Now comes the name. For the sake of simplicity I suggest you write thus: Monsieur Malherbe."

  "She is probably as fat and as lively as ever. D'you know, Ardalion wrote to her asking for money, but of course--"

  "Most interesting, I'm sure, but we were talking of business. What name will you write on the address?"

  "You haven't told me yet, Hermann!"

  "Yes, I have. I suggest Monsieur Malherbe."

  "But ... that's the hotel, Hermann, isn't it?"

  "Exactly. That's why. You'll find it easier to remember by association."

  "Oh, Lord, I'm sure to forget the association, Hermann. I'm hopeless. Please, let's not have any associations. Besides--it's getting awfully late, I'm exhausted."

  "Then think of a name yourself. Some name you're practically certain to remember. Would perhaps Ardalion do?"

  "Very well, Hermann."

  "So that's settled too. Monsieur Ardalion. Post office, Pignan. Now the contents. You'll begin: 'Dear friend, you have surely heard about my bereavement'--and so on in the same gist. A few lines in all. You'll post the letter yourself. You'll post the letter yourself. Got that?"

  "Very well, Hermann."

  "Now, will you please, repeat."

  "You know the strain is too much for me, I'm going to collapse. Good heavens, half-past one. Couldn't we leave it till tomorrow?"

  "Tomorrow you will have to repeat it all the same. Come, let's get it over. I'm listening...."

  "Hotel Malherbe. I arrive. I post that letter. Myself. Ardalion. Post office, Pignan, France. And after I've written, what next?"

  "No concern of yours. We'll see. Well, can I be certain you'll manage it properly?"

  "Yes, Hermann. Only don't make me say it all over again. I'm dead beat."

  Standing in the middle of the kitchen, she expanded her shoulders, threw back her head and shook it violently, and said several times, her hands worrying her hair: "Oh, how tired I am, oh, how--" that "how" opened into a yawn. We turned in at last. She undressed, scattering about the room frock, stockings, various feminine odds and ends; tumbled into bed and settled down at once to a comfortable nasal wheeze. I went to bed too and put out the light, but could not sleep. I remember she suddenly awoke and touched my shoulder.

  "What d'you want?" I inquired feigning drowsiness.

  "Hermann," she muttered: "Hermann, tell me, I wonder if ... don't you think it's ... a swindle?"

  "Go to sleep," I replied. "Your brains are not equal to the job. Deep tragedy ... and you with your nonsense ... go to sleep!"

  She sighed blissfully, turned on her side and was immediately snoring again.

  Curious, although I did not deceive myself in the least regarding my wife's capacities, well knowing how stupid, forgetful and clumsy she was, I had, somehow, no misgivings, so absolutely did I believe that her devotion would make her take, instinctively, the right course, preserving her from any slip, and, what mattered most, forcing her to keep my secret. In fancy I clearly saw the way Orlovius would glance at her bad imitation of sorrow and sadly wag his solemn head, and (who knows) ponder perhaps upon the likelihood of the poor husband's having been done in by the lady's paramour; but then that threatening letter from the nameless lunatic would come to him as a timely reminder.

  The whole of the next day we spent at home, and once more, meticulously and strenuously, I kept tutoring my wife, stuffing her with my will, just as a goose is crammed, by force, with maize to fatten its liver. By nightfall she was scarcely able to walk; I remained satisfied with her condition. It was time for me to get ready too. I remember how I racked my brains for hours, calculating what sum to take with me, what to leave Lydia; there was not much cash, not much at all ... it occurred to me that it would be wise to take some valuable thing, so I said to Lydia:

  "Look here, give me your Moscow brooch."

  "Ah, yes, the brooch," she said dully; slunk out of the room, but immediately came back, lay down on the divan an
d began to cry as she had never yet cried before.

  "What's the matter, you wretched woman?"

  For a long while she did not answer, and then, amid much silly sobbing, and with averted eyes, explained that the diamond brooch, an empress's gift to her great-grandmother, had been pawned to obtain the money for Ardalion's journey, as his friend had not repaid him.

  "All right, all right, don't howl," I said, pocketing the pawn ticket. "Deuced cunning of him. Thank God he's gone, scuttled away--that's the main thing."

  She instantly regained her composure and even achieved a dew-bright smile when she saw I was not cross. Then she tripped off to the bedroom, was long rummaging there, and finally brought me a cheap little ring, a pair of eardrops, an old-fashioned cigarette-case that had belonged to her mother.... None of these things did I take.

  "Listen," said I, wandering about the room and biting my thumb. "Listen, Lydia. When they ask you if I had enemies, when they examine you as to who might have killed me, reply: 'I don't know.' And there's something else: I'm taking a suitcase with me, but that's strictly confidential. It ought not to appear as though I was getting ready for a journey--that would be suspicious. As a matter of fact--"

  At that point I remember stopping suddenly. How queer it was that when all had been so beautifully devised and foreseen, there should come sticking out a minor detail, as when you are packing and notice all at once that you have forgotten to put in some small but cumbersome trifle--yes, there do exist such unscrupulous objects. It should be said, to my justification, that the question of the suitcase was really the only point which I decided to alter: all the rest went just as I had designed it long, long ago--maybe many months ago, maybe that very second when I saw a tramp asleep on the grass who exactly resembled my corpse. No, thought I, better not take the suitcase; there is always the risk of somebody seeing me leaving the house with it.