III
Now you understand the significance of the terrible fit into which I had fallen one evening at the house of the Kurganoffs. That was my first experiment and successful beyond all expectation. It is as if they really knew beforehand what was going to happen—as if the sudden madness of a person in full health were altogether natural, and to be expected at any time. No one was astonished, and each tried to outdo the other in coloring my play with the play of his own fantasy. It is a rare gastriloquist who has such a fine troupe of naive, stupid, credulous people. Did they tell you how pale I was and how terrible? How cold—yes, precisely cold—sweat covered my entire body? How my eyes gleamed with an insane flame? When they told me later their impressions, I seemed morose and depressed, but in truth I trembled from head to foot with pride, happiness and derision.
Tatiana Nikolayevna and her husband were not there that evening—I do not know whether you made note of that. It was not an accident; I feared to frighten her; or, still worse, to arouse her suspicion. If there existed a person who could see through my play, it was she and none other.
Nothing that occurred that evening was accidental. On the contrary, every detail, the most petty, was planned with care. I timed my fit to occur after supper; I chose that moment because there was sure to be a gathering, and those present would be affected somewhat by wine. I sat at the edge of the table, a little distance from the candelabra with the lighted candles, as I did not want to cause a fire or to burn my nose. At my side sat Pavel Petrovich Pospeloff, that fat pig whom for a long time I desired to play a trick. He is especially disgusting when eating. When I first saw him at this occupation, the thought came into my head that eating is an immoral business. Everything occurred opportunely. Apparently no one noticed that the plate flying in fragments from the blow of my fist was covered with a napkin, so that I should not cut my hands.
The whole trick was astoundingly clumsy, even stupid, but I counted on that. They could not have comprehended a more subtle prank. I began by swinging my arms and talked “excitingly” with Pavel Petrovich, until that individual opened wide his eyes in amazement; I followed this by falling into “concentrated thought,” which called forth the question from the solicitous Irene Pavlovna:
“What is the matter with you, Anton Ignatyevich? Why are you so sad?”
When they all turned their faces upon me I smiled tragically.
“Are you ill?”
“Yes. Just a trifle. My head feels dizzy. But do not concern yourself, please. It will pass away shortly.”
That reassured the hostess, but the suspicious Pavel Petrovich looked disapprovingly askance. And when, a moment later, smiling with gratification, he lifted a glass of wine to his lips, I quickly struck the glass from under his nose—then my fist descended on the plate with a crash. The fragments flew, Pavel Petrovich sprawled and grunted, the women shrieked, and I, showing my teeth, pulled the table cover containing all—it was an exceedingly humorous picture.
Then I was surrounded and held; someone brought water, another led me to an armchair; and I roared like a lion confined in a “Zoo,” and glared with my eyes. It was all so absurd, and they all were so stupid that, believe me, the desire was born in me to smash a few of those jaws in earnest, taking advantage of the privileges of my condition. Naturally I restrained myself.
Gradually I grew calmer, while my breast heaved convulsively; and I rolled my eyes and gnashed my teeth and asked weakly such questions as:
“Where am I? What is the matter with me?”
Even that absurd French phrase “Where am I?” succeeded with this folk, and not less than three imbeciles made haste to say:
“At the Kurganoffs.” Then in a sweetened voice: “Do you know, dear doctor, who is Irene Pavlovna Kurganoff?”
Seriously, they were too petty for big play!
After a day—having given sufficient time for reports to reach the Saveloffs—I talked with Tatiana Nikolayevna and Alexis. The latter dismissed the matter with a single question:
“What was that rumpus you raised at the Kurganoffs?”
Saying this, he turned on his heels and entered his working chamber—from which I gathered that if I had become actually mad he wouldn’t have choked himself on account of it. To make up for it, his spouse proved especially loquacious, fervid and, of course, insincere, in the expression of her sympathy. And then … not that I regretted what I had begun, the question simply occurred to me: Is it worth while?
“Do you love your husband intensely?” I said to Tatiana Nikolayevna, whose gaze followed Alexis. She turned quickly.
“Yes. What of it?”
“Oh, nothing, only—” and after momentary silence, cautious and full of unuttered thoughts, I added: “Why have you no confidence in me?”
She quickly and directly looked into my eyes, without replying. During this minute I forgot that some time in the past she laughed, and my mind was free from malice against her, and that which I was doing seemed to me unnecessary and strange. It was my weariness, natural after a severe ordeal of the nerves, and it lingered but a single moment.
“And may one trust you?” asked Tatiana Nikolayevna after a prolonged silence.
“Of course not!” I replied in jesting tone, while within me flared up an extinguished flame. A force, a courage, a determination stopping before no obstacle—these I felt in me. Proud of the success thus far achieved, I resolved to go boldly to the end. In combat is the joy of life.
The second fit occurred a month after the first. There was less premeditation upon this occasion, and this was really unnecessary in view of the general plan. Indeed, I had no especial intention to arrange the matter for this evening, but when circumstances are favorable it is foolish not to make use of them. And I remember clearly how it all happened. We sat in the drawing-room, when I became very sad. With great mental vividness I realized—this was a rare occurrence—that I was a stranger to all these people and that I was alone in the world—I, forever confined within this head, within this prison. They all became disgusting to me. And in my rage I shot out my fist and shouted something coarse and saw with joy the fright in the paled countenances.
“Good-for-nothings!” cried I. “Miserable, contented good-for-nothings! Liars, hypocrites, vipers! I hate you!”
It is true that I wrestled with them, then with the lackeys and coachmen. I was conscious, however, that I wrestled, and knew that it was for a purpose. I felt pleasant in punishing them, telling them straight to their faces the truth about themselves, what sort they were. Is everyone who dares tell the truth mad? I assure you, gentlemen experts, that I was altogether conscious that, when striking, I felt the contact of my hand with a live body experiencing pain. Later at home, where I was alone, I laughed and thought what a wonderful, excellent actor I was. Then I went to bed and spent the night reading a book; I even can recall the author—it was Guy de Maupassant. I enjoyed him, as always, and afterward slept like an infant. Do madmen read books and enjoy them? Do they sleep like infants?
Madmen do not sleep. They suffer, and in their head everything revolves. Yes, revolves and falls … And they desire to howl, to scratch themselves with their nails. They desire to go down on all fours and crawl softly, softly, and then to spring up all at once and to shriek out:
“Aha!”
And to laugh. And to howl. To raise up one’s head and to howl long—long, protractedly—protractedly, piteously—piteously.
Yes. Yes.
And I slept like an infant. Do madmen sleep like infants?