Chapter IV: Act IV

_The same scene. Night. ELIZABETH, CARL and FEKLUSHA are in the
room._

ELIZABETH

I should like to see the other rooms. Would it be right? I don’t know.

CARL

Why not? Look around, if it gives you pleasure. You needn’t pay any attention to Feklusha. We are friends now. But how fat I am getting, Liza—have you noticed it?

ELIZABETH

Yes.

CARL

It’s almost indecent. I gained another pound last week, in spite of my exercise and horseback riding. I’ll have to get a masseur. Mr. Feklusha, what do you do in order to be so thin? You will soon look like an Indian fakir.

FEKLUSHA

What? Yes. I have grown very thin.

CARL

How much do you weigh?

FEKLUSHA

What? I don’t know, I have never weighed myself.

CARL

Liza, don’t you think our friend Feklusha looks like a lunatic who has escaped from an asylum? But why don’t you look at the other rooms, Liza? Go. We will chat here. What are you looking at?

ELIZABETH

Carl, is it possible that eighteen months have passed since we were here? Look—the same music.

CARL

Yes, Henry is conservative. I suppose eighteen months have passed—I don’t know. But Liza, I don’t understand the charms of these heartrending recollections. In this respect I am a European. The Russians don’t live, they only remember something—and whatever they say or whatever they write, is always like a recollection.

ELIZABETH

And Henry?

CARL

Henry? I must say that I hardly know my brother Henry. Still, I am convinced that if he came in now, he would drive both of us out—notwithstanding the charms of your recollections. Make haste, my dear.

FEKLUSHA

He won’t be here so soon. I know his habits.

CARL

So much the better. I wouldn’t like to quarrel with Henry.

ELIZABETH

My husband is dead, and my child is dead, but here nothing has changed. There will be the head of Beethoven—when is it going to be there? Carl, I am going into the other rooms. I’ll be back soon.

CARL

Go. The switch is near the door, you’ll find it easily. Mr. Feklusha, sit down near me.

_Exit Elizabeth. Feklusha sits down near Carl._

CARL

Well, Mr. Feklusha? Why do you smell of sour beer? You always think up something new. You look either sick or drunk. Why do you stare at me this way? Well?

FEKLUSHA

It’s done.

CARL

What’s done?

FEKLUSHA

He’s insured. For a hundred thousand—as agreed.

CARL

_Rising._

Really? Where is the policy? Has he the policy?

FEKLUSHA

The policy will soon be here. They promised to have it in a few days. I am telling you the truth.

CARL

Yes?

_Walks._

CARL

No! No. You are lying, Mr. Feklusha, you are lying, I can see it! You are a perfectly unbearable fool—why do you lie to me? A queer man who doesn’t understand his own advantage—and lies into the bargain. Or are you sorry to lose the cognac you are drinking with Henry? But you have already drunk yourself sick—you need a hospital now—your eyes are like those of a mad dog. We, the Tiles, we can drink much. We come of strong stock, but I wouldn’t advise you to drink much more!

FEKLUSHA

I haven’t touched a drink in a month now. Enough!

CARL

That sounds pretty strong for Feklusha, but if that’s the case, why are your eyes so half-witted? And what is it you like so much about Henry? He treats you like a scamp. Or is it that you are sorry for him, that you have human feelings?

FEKLUSHA

Yes, I am sorry for him. Why shouldn’t I feel sorry for him?

CARL

Fie! Drop it! It’s disgusting to hear you talk! Besides, I’ll tell you frankly—I know something about medicine, and I tell you that in a year from now no insurance company will take a risk on Henry. There are certain symptoms, you understand, which I don’t like at all—I am afraid for him.

FEKLUSHA

In a week—or two—the policy will be here.

CARL

Do you want me to believe that?

FEKLUSHA

It will be here.

CARL

I want you to know that I am not particularly interested. I live quite well now, and soon—meanwhile it is a secret—I am going to marry Elizabeth. And do you know how much money she has? Well. I suppose you haven’t prepared that note either—it’s impossible to have any dealings with you.

FEKLUSHA

I have prepared it. Here it is.

CARL

_Reading_:

“I ask that no one be blamed for my death. I leave no will. Give my servant Ivan five hundred rubles. Henry Tile.” So. Was that your idea—the five hundred for Ivan?

FEKLUSHA

Yes.

CARL

You are a wonderful criminal, Feklusha. I take back everything unpleasant I have ever said to you. I know Henry’s handwriting. This is a masterpiece. Most remarkable! Is that his paper, too?

FEKLUSHA

Yes, from his desk. Give it back to me.

CARL

How old are you—forty? I must tell you that you have been forty years a blockhead! To bury such a talent in the ground! It’s inexcusably stupid! With such a genius for forging handwritings you could have made a fortune long ago. It’s stupid!

FEKLUSHA

Let me have the note.

CARL

_Putting the note away in his pocketbook._

Oh, no, you don’t get that! Show me the policy, then you’ll get your masterpiece—then it will be in safe hands. _Comprenez_, Mr. Feklusha?

FEKLUSHA

_Hesitating_:

Very well. You are a great criminal yourself, Carl.

CARL

_Indifferently_:

So-so. I must live somehow—money does not lie in the streets. Give me a million, then you may demand honesty of me. But to ride in a cab, while others are driving about in automobiles—thank you. But there is one thing of which you must beware—that’s greed! That’s what kills people like us. Here is Liza. Well, how is it, Lizette, have you shed tears there?

ELIZABETH

Carl, it is terrible.

CARL

What is it, Lizette? Ghosts?

ELIZABETH

Don’t laugh. One of the rooms is only partly covered with wall paper. Dust, lime, spiderwebs—what room is that? I forget what he told me that time—what is that terrible room?

CARL

I don’t know. Henry has so many absurd fantastic ideas. I think it’s the nursery.

_Laughs._

For your unborn children, Lizette!

FEKLUSHA

Yes, the nursery. In his excitement at that time, Henry ordered them not to touch the room—I suppose it has been neglected since then.

ELIZABETH

Go out, Carl, and ask Alexandrov to go out with you for awhile. I want to stay here alone. Do you mind?

CARL

Not at all. Let us go out, Feklusha, and chat. You are fascinating like a bride this evening—I am really fond of you. Call us, Liza.

_They go out. Elizabeth remains alone, holding an embroidered
handkerchief. She wears large diamond earrings._

ELIZABETH

How strange! Three years have passed. My husband and my child are dead and buried, and here everything is the same as it was—and the apartment is waiting for me. Who am I? Liza. I have come purposely from Moscow. I came here before—I came to Henry. He was not at home, and I waited. Then I could come in and wait. Henry, I am waiting for you!

_Pause._

Henry, I am waiting for you.

_Pause. Elizabeth weeps._

I love you, Henry! I am happy to kiss the table at which you sit, to kiss the floor on which you walk, to kiss the room in which I did not want to live. I? I don’t know. Who else if not I? I love you, Henry. I swear by the Almighty God, I love you, Henry, and I never loved anyone but you, and I never called anyone but you! You are strong, and you do not forgive. You drove me out when I knocked at your door. Go, you said. Go, unworthy Elizabeth—you said, and shut the door. And I went away. I love you, Henry.

_Weeps._

Why are you so sad, if you do not love me, Henry? Yesterday you were walking along the bank of the canal, you thought you were alone, but I was riding in a carriage and looking at you from the window. You were so sad! And I fell in love with you all over again, like a little girl—you thought you were alone—you walked sadly and saw no one. Perhaps you were even crying, Henry? Perhaps you were also thinking of the unborn children? Oh, what terrible words—unborn children! Who were not born? Who did not see the light? Who were expected here and who failed to come? Who were not born? Who failed to come? Henry! Henry!

_Pause._

God, make it so that my soul shall remain here, that it shall turn into the air that would embrace him! He will come home sad—and suddenly he will feel a certain warmth, he will smile and say: “Why is it so nice in this room? How nice! Who is kissing me? Is that you, Liza? Is that you, Liza?”

_Weeps._

Your mother, who died long ago and cannot curse me, because she died long ago—she taught you to play; you were then a little boy and she moved your little fingers—you had such tiny fingers then. Afterward, you played for me—I was sitting here, and you were playing, and you wanted me to laugh, but I suddenly felt sad and terrified. I suddenly commenced to hate you and your apartment. I commenced to hate your mother—I felt sad and terrified! I did not understand anything at the time, and I went to Moscow. But now I know. You were playing about the unborn children—your laughter was sad. Henry, why did you play for me? Who were not born? Who did not see the light? For whom were they waiting here—waiting—waiting—and who failed to come? Henry!

_Weeps._

I love you, Henry!

_Weeps. Kneels and lowers her head on the keys of the piano.
Then rises, adjusts her hair and wipes her forehead as though
driving something away. Calls_:

Carl!

_Enter FEKLUSHA and CARL._

CARL

Well, shall we go home? It’s time. The devil knows what it is, Liza. I have just been boasting to Feklusha about my health—and suddenly I feel a most annoying palpitation of the heart! Do you think it’s heart trouble?

ELIZABETH

I don’t think so. Let’s go. Good night, Alexandrov.

CARL

I don’t think it’s heart trouble, but it’s dreadfully disagreeable. Well, to the devil with everything, I must start my massage treatment to-morrow! Good-by, Feklusha, and please don’t disturb me the next few days. I am going to rest—come in to see me in about a week. Or rather I will write you when to come.

ELIZABETH

Come, let us go, Carl!

CARL

Wait a minute. I have waited for two hours at a time for you, so you may wait for me a minute. Remember, Alexandrov, I will write you when to come. But see that everything is ready, understand? It is high time for you to stop being such a fool—you have children. Well, let us go. I hope we won’t meet Henry now. The devil take your fancies, Liza!...

_They go out._

FEKLUSHA

_Says to Carl in the corridor_:

The door shuts itself.

CARL’S _Voice_

I know. Good-by.

FEKLUSHA

Good-by.

_Feklusha remains alone. He sits down at the table, takes out
of his pocket an envelope and a carefully folded sheet of
paper; reads_:

“I ask that no one be blamed for my death. I leave no will. Give my servant Ivan five hundred rubles. Henry Tile.” So. Very well. He thinks that I prepared one note, but I made two—the fool Karlusha. He is greedy, but foolish. And he didn’t see that his note didn’t have the date, while no one would write a note like that without dating it—foolish Carl! And the _r_ in the other note is different from Henry’s _r_—he didn’t notice that either in his greed. Such fools get caught.

_Goes over to the mirror, takes out a comb, combs his hair._

They’re coming out! I suppose it’s consumption—I feel cold and I perspire—but I’ll show you my consumption!

_He walks up and down the room, examining things with contempt._

I’ll show you!

_He tries to open the locked drawer in the table, looks over
papers, and pushes them aside with contempt._

Order! Scoundrels! I’ll show you order!

_Sits down at the table and shakes his hands._

It would be fine to put a bomb under the Nicholas Bridge and blow it to pieces—so that all would fly to hell. Yes. And I could put a bomb under the whole city, a bomb of tens of thousands of pounds—then I would also be blown to the devil. No, why should I? A wire could be stretched as far as Shuvalovo and a button placed somewhere on a tree, in the woods—I could press it once—and they would all be blown to hell! I think I’ll wind up in a lunatic asylum—I was turning round and round, and now I can’t disentangle myself. Oh, fiddlesticks!

_Thoughtfully_:

They’ll beat me there. They say they beat people there—they break their ribs—that’s unpleasant. And the food, they say, is poor there—the lunatics don’t understand, but as soon as one of them complains, they break his ribs. They say to him, don’t lie! The lunatic has no rights whatever, that is very unjust. Of course a lunatic may be quiet, then no one will touch him. The wardens like the quiet lunatics. I suppose they also suffer a great deal. Oh, yes! Of course—quietly.

_Rises and walks ever faster._

It’s easy for you to say, quietly. Yes. It’s easy for you to say it, but for me, it’s dreadful—very dreadful.

_He turns around the room senselessly; muttering indistinctly,
without noticing that Henry Tile has entered._

HENRY

Good evening, Feklusha.

FEKLUSHA

What? What?

HENRY

I say: good evening. Why are you running round like that?

FEKLUSHA

I? Nothing. Good evening, Henry.

HENRY

You were muttering. Are you ill?

FEKLUSHA

_Laughs._

Was I? There was no one to talk to, so I was talking to myself. I have found myself a comrade just as wise as I am.

HENRY

What were you talking about?

FEKLUSHA

My nonsense is of no interest to anybody. I was just talking about domestic affairs. Is it raining?

HENRY

Yes, it’s raining.

_Sits down, fatigued._

FEKLUSHA

Henry, Ivan has gone out. He said you sent him away for the evening.

HENRY

Yes, I sent him away. Sit down, please, and keep quiet.

_Silence._

FEKLUSHA

What is it, Henry? Why do you look so pale—are you ill? Perhaps you ought to see the doctor.

HENRY

No. I am well. I suppose I am tired—I had to talk a great deal at the conference to-day—I had to discuss business. I argued with the fools and I am tired. Are you going to stay long to-night?

FEKLUSHA

No. Just a minute. I am going soon.

_Pause._

HENRY

What a pity I have no fireplace. I thought of everything, but forgot about a fireplace. It’s true, we have steam heat. Well?

FEKLUSHA

Henry! There has been a change in your plans. Even if you swear to me!

HENRY

Yes? Wait. What’s this odor of perfume? Yes, I can smell it. Have you commenced to use perfume?

FEKLUSHA

You are inventing now! I can’t smell any perfume here.

HENRY

Yes, there is. But that isn’t important. What did you want to say to me? Tell me.

FEKLUSHA

I have told you. There has been a change in your plans. Tell me the truth, Henry, I will kneel before you. I haven’t been in church in five years, but I will go to church now and pray for you. Tell me the truth!

HENRY

You are fond of kneeling. What truth? I am tired to-night.

FEKLUSHA

Why, my dear fellow! We have been friends—remember, when we were small, when we were at school together. Tell me! Spare my life, I can’t endure it any longer!

_Weeps._

HENRY

You are also crying? Strange. For some reason I see so many tears to-day. I was at the station this afternoon.

FEKLUSHA

_Sighing, wiping his eyes with a soiled handkerchief_,

What were you doing at the station?

HENRY

I was watching the trains. No, I was sending off a letter. And there I saw an old woman in a shawl, walking on the platform—she was alone—and she was crying. Strange!

_Thoughtfully._

FEKLUSHA

People rarely cry in the street. Only when they are drunk or when they go to a relative’s funeral. Henry, listen to me—or I am going to cry again!

HENRY

Really? Don’t. No, there is no change in my plan. And beginning to-morrow you will have rest—I am leaving to-morrow.

FEKLUSHA

_Reddening_:

To-morrow? By what route?

HENRY

Tss! It is hard for me at this moment to talk to you, my old comrade, but come in to-morrow and you will know everything.

_Smiling_:

But don’t try to run after me—you’ll not overtake me!

FEKLUSHA

Why do you say that?

HENRY

Yes, yes, you are a sly little beast!

FEKLUSHA

A fool is not helped even by his slyness—he will only fool himself. Shall I come in early—before going to the office?

HENRY

You may come in early. Now go home and sleep peacefully, Feklusha, my old comrade. Are your children well?

FEKLUSHA

I suppose they are well. Why have you stopped drinking cognac? Henry, your face seems to have grown darker.

HENRY

I don’t feel like drinking. Go.

FEKLUSHA

To-day is just a month since we had our last drink of cognac. Remember? Well, I am going, I won’t disturb you.

_Quietly_:

Have you put the money away in a safe place?

HENRY

Ssh! Keep quiet. Good night, Feklusha, go. Have you rubbers on? It’s raining hard. Good-by, till to-morrow.

FEKLUSHA

If it’s till to-morrow, it’s not good-by, but _au revoir_. _Au revoir_, Henry. Good night. And I tell you, you are doing well to leave this apartment! I never said anything before, but now I may tell you: Leave it as soon as you can! If one should stay here alone for one hour, he’d lose his mind, by God!

HENRY

Yes, I am leaving it. Good-by.

FEKLUSHA

Good night. May I say another word? I understand everybody and I can tell people by their faces. I can tell their inclinations, but here I am looking at you. You are very stern!

_Softly_:

And if I didn’t know your thoughts——

HENRY

Ssh!

FEKLUSHA

_With sudden fury_:

Don’t hiss to me! There are no strangers here! What do you mean? I can hiss, too.

_Pause._

Excuse me, Henry!

_Goes._

HENRY

The door shuts itself.

FEKLUSHA

I know, Henry.

_Goes. Henry looks after him, suddenly stops._

HENRY

Wait. It’s raining hard. Here’s money for a cab. Take it.

FEKLUSHA

Thank you. Why so much? You embarrass me, really.

HENRY

Never mind. Go.

_Feklusha stops at the door, looks at his hand._

FEKLUSHA

Henry! I am looking at my hand and I wonder. You gave me twenty-five rubles, but why am I not rejoicing? Of course, it isn’t such a large sum, but if this happened before, I would have felt happy. And now, I feel—or does it seem so to me after my tears?—I feel as if I ought to get more for my tears. Or is it figured out right?

_Without raising his eyes_:

Excuse me.

_Exit. Door is heard closing. Henry is alone. He looks at the
watch._

HENRY

It’s eleven. I must take off my collar.

_He takes off his collar, his cuffs, his coat, and places them
carefully on the armchair. He walks up and down the room
heavily and slowly. He tries to wipe the window pane, behind
which the rain is heard._

Yes. It’s eleven o’clock now, and the sun rises at about seven. How many more hours of darkness? Many—never mind the exact number, Henry! Henry Tile, say simply, many! Many hours, much darkness! I have never given any thought to what people do when they end their life, when they kill themselves, and now I feel very strange, I don’t know what to do. Perhaps it is necessary to sit at the table, and I am walking? I must sit down.

_He sits down, but soon gets up and walks again._

No, nonsense! Suicides don’t think whether they should walk or sit. I suppose they walk around. But where does this odor of perfume come from? Such sweet, strange, sad perfume. Women who are young and who want love, use such perfume. But their hearts are sad—sad perfume! Sad women, and Elizabeth—now I don’t remember her, but there was a time when I loved her—there was something—there was sadness. My God! Why do I say My God? My God! I don’t know anything, I don’t remember anything, I don’t love anybody! A murderer? A thief who has stolen a million? Henry Tile who loved accuracy? I don’t know. There was everything—and there was nothing. Why did I strike the table with my fists, why did I cry? Why did Henry Tile write figures, columns of figures, an endless caravan in an endless desert? There was everything—and there was nothing. There was a strange man who tossed about, who shouted, who donned a red wig like a clown, who swallowed fire. And there was another strange man who worked in the bank, who dismissed clerks, who looked stern and who was known as Henry Tile. What nonsense—“Henry Tile!” And who will lie in a coffin—Henry Tile or the other one? And where shall I be? Here I have already thought about the coffin—white, with tassels. I am terrified. Is it possible that all is ended? I am terrified. Has _this_ really come? I have lived and lived—and suddenly this. _This!_ How horrible! Horrible! _This!_ No! No! I am not afraid. I am not afraid. Oh, beware of deception, beware of deception, beware of deception! And so, the coffin, white, with tassels, and some one is in it. Yes, of course. It is dreadful to Henry Tile with his figures, it is dreadful to that other one who wanted to steal, to kill some one, to violate, who put on the stupid red wig of a rogue. But where am I? My God, great wisdom and love, answer me: Where was I with my great, sad and lonely soul? I am no more. There is no one. There is nothing. There is only horror—and _this_.—_This._ Henry, Henry, my dear, be calm; you knew how to strike the table with your fist, now you must be calm. Yes. Good. Yes. I am cold. No, I am not cold, but it is cold here. Why did I take off my coat? I must put it on again. These are the kind of cuffs Henry Tile used to wear.

_Forgets to put on the coat._

But this is unbearable. These empty rooms have such a terrible effect on me—as though there was a murderer there. A murderer is hiding in every room and waiting. It would be well to turn on the lights there, but I am afraid to go in. But here I can do it. Oh, here I can do it.

_He turns on some more lights._

Now it is light. But what a queer strange room. And there is absolutely no one here. I smell the odor of perfume again—who has perfume here? Have the murderers perfume here? May the devil take the one who invented it. I must go into the bedroom.

_Opens the drawer of the table, takes out a revolver and
examines it in a businesslike manner, puts it on the table._

I must shoot myself where I sleep. I must cover myself over my head with the quilt, as though I were going to sleep; then I won’t notice it. Yes. I must do something else—what? I have forgotten everything. What? Oh, yes. I must write a note. Paper, ink, ink? No! I don’t need any notes. That’s nonsense. There was everything—and there was nothing, and _this_. _This._ I must go into the bedroom. What have I forgotten? My God, why do I say, My God? My God, what have I forgotten? What?

_He sits down at the piano._

Now I will play “The Waltz of the Dogs.” Listen, Henry Tile, I will play for you for the last time my favorite “Waltz of the Dogs.” My mother taught me to play it this way.

_He plays, at first loudly, then ever more softly. Towards the
end, he breaks off a musical phrase, his head falls on the
piano, and he sobs softly. Then he closes the piano silently
and carefully, takes the revolver and goes to the bedroom. He
stops, and says impatiently_:

What else? Oh, what else?

_He looks around the room perplexedly._

I must—I must—what must I? I must shut off the light, yes, I must do it. It will burn all night. Let it burn.

_He goes into the bedroom. A moment of silence. He soon comes
out of the bedroom, without a vest—he looks for something
silently, as if he has either forgotten something, or could not
find it. He is looking for something and not finding it, having
stopped thinking of what he was looking for, he goes to the
bedroom quickly._

_The room is empty for a while. A dull shot is heard._

_Curtain_