About five days after smith’s death, I moved into his lodgings. The whole of that day I was unbearably depressed. The weather was miserable, cold and sleety. It was only towards evening that the sun emerged and the odd ray, as though from curiosity, strayed into my room for a moment. I was beginning to regret having made the move. Admittedly the room was large, but the ceiling was low and the place was smoke-stained, stuffy and, apart from a few sticks of furniture, unpleasantly empty. I couldn’t help feeling that I was bound to ruin my health completely there. And that is just what happened.
All that morning I was busy with my papers, sorting them out and putting them in order. Not having a briefcase, I brought them over in a pillowcase, where they had ended up in a crumpled mess. Later I sat down to write. At that time I was still working on my long novel, but with my mind on other things I couldn’t make any headway…
I threw down my pen and settled by the window. It was getting dark, and my spirits were sinking. I was beset by all kinds of gloomy thoughts. I was convinced I would finally meet my end in St Petersburg. Spring was coming. What wouldn’t I have given to break out of this shell into the open air, to breathe the fresh smell of fields and forests which I hadn’t seen for so long?… I remember that it also occurred to me how good it would have been if by some magic or miracle I could have completely forgotten everything that had happened, everything that I had endured in recent years; forgotten the whole lot, turned over a new leaf and started afresh, my strength fully restored. At that time I was still given to daydreaming, hoping for a kind of rebirth. “Why not a spell in a lunatic asylum?” I thought at last. “Get them somehow to reset my brain in my head and make a new man of me!” So I still had a thirst for life and faith in it!… But as I remember, this made me burst out laughing. What would I do when I came out of the asylum? Surely not go back to writing novels?…
That evening I went on ruminating along these lines and feeling sorry for myself, and meanwhile time was passing. Night was approaching. I had agreed to meet Natasha that evening; in a note sent the day before she had urged me to come and see her. I jumped to my feet and began to get ready. I needed little excuse to escape outdoors, even if it was into the rain and sleet.
As darkness fell, my room appeared to become more and more spacious – as though it were expanding. I imagined that from then on, each night, I would see Smith in every corner, sitting and staring at me unblinkingly as he had stared at Adam Ivanovich in the coffee house, with Azorka lying at his feet. It was then that something astounding happened.
But let me be perfectly frank here. Whether it was because of my nervous disorder, or the impressions my new dwelling made on me, or my recent dejection, at the first approach of dusk I would gradually, almost imperceptibly, enter that spiritual state (so familiar to me now at night-time in my illness), which I call mystical terror. It is a most dreadful, agonizing fear of something I cannot define, something unfathomable and non-existent in the normal course of events, but which may at any given moment materialize and confront me as an unquestionable, terrible, ghastly and implacable reality, making a mockery of all evidence of reason. This fear, totally confounding all rationalization, normally increases inexorably, so that in the end the mind – which oddly enough on such occasions can function with particular lucidity – nevertheless loses all capacity to counteract the senses. It becomes unresponsive and impotent, and the resulting dichotomy only heightens the fearful agony of suspense. It seems to me that something similar must be experienced by those who suffer from necrophobia. But on the occasion in question the vagueness of the apprehension merely served to intensify my torment.
I remember I was standing with my back to the door, about to reach for my hat from the table, when I suddenly had the feeling that if I turned I would see Smith. First he would open the door slowly, hesitate on the threshold and glance around the room, then enter noiselessly with his head bowed, stand in front of me, fix his watery eyes on me and suddenly burst out laughing full in my face – a long, toothless, inaudible laugh which would set his whole body into prolonged agitation. This apparition was suddenly conjured up in my imagination with extraordinary clarity and precision; at the same time I was gripped by the absolute conviction that it would all inevitably happen, that it might indeed already be happening but that I hadn’t been aware of it for the simple reason that I was standing with my back to the door which at that very instant was perhaps already opening. I spun round. To my intense horror I saw that the door was in fact slowly, soundlessly opening, just as I had imagined a moment before. I let out a cry. For a long time no one was visible – as though the door had opened by itself; then suddenly a strange creature appeared on the threshold; a pair of eyes, so far as I could make out in the darkness, were watching me keenly and warily. A cold shudder ran through me. To my utter astonishment I saw that it was a child, a girl – and had it been Smith himself, I doubt if he would have frightened me as much as the strange and unexpected appearance of that child in my room at such an hour, in such circumstances.
I have already mentioned that she opened the door softly and slowly, as though afraid to enter. Having come into view, she stopped as if struck dumb and looked at me for a long time in consternation; at last she gingerly took a couple of silent steps forwards and stopped in front of me, still without uttering a word. I looked at her more closely. She was about twelve or thirteen, small, thin and pale as though just over a severe illness. This only intensified the brightness of her large dark eyes. With her left hand she was clutching the folds of a ragged old shawl to her shivering chest against the evening cold. Her clothes were completely in tatters; her thick, black hair was unkempt and dishevelled. We stood there for about two minutes, eyeing each other intently.
“Where’s Granddad?” she asked at last in a croaky, barely audible voice as though she had a sore throat or a pain in her chest.
All my mystical terror vanished in a trice at this question. Someone was asking after Smith – here suddenly was an unexpected clue.
“Your granddad? He’s dead!” I blurted out, quite unprepared for her question, and regretted my answer at once. She remained standing for about a minute without changing her position, then suddenly began to shake violently all over as though she were about to have some dangerous nervous fit. I reached out to steady her, and to stop her from falling. A few minutes later I could clearly see that she felt better and was making a superhuman effort to conceal her agitation.
“I’m sorry, I really am sorry, you poor little girl! I’m so sorry, my dear child!” I said, “I spoke without thinking… You poor thing!… Who are you looking for? The old gentleman who lived here?”
It was obviously a great effort for her to speak, but she whispered “yes”, looking at me apprehensively.
“The gentleman whose name was Smith? Is that right?”
“Y-yes!”
“It was him… well yes, he was the one who died… But don’t you worry, my pet. Why didn’t you come before? Where have you come from now? His funeral was yesterday. He died suddenly, unexpectedly… So you’re his granddaughter, are you?”
The girl did not reply to my hurried, disjointed questions. Without saying anything she turned her back on me and slowly started to leave. I was so taken aback that I made no attempt to stop her, or question her any further. She halted once more on the threshold and, half-turning towards me, asked:
“Is Azorka dead too?”
“Yes, Azorka’s dead too,” I replied – and her question struck me as odd. It was as if in her mind Azorka must have died at the same time as the old man. After I had finished, the girl left the room silently, shutting the door carefully behind her.
After about a minute I ran out after her, bitterly regretting that I had let her leave like that! She had gone out so quietly that I hadn’t heard her open the outer door to the landing. She wouldn’t have had time to reach the bottom of the stairs yet, I thought, and stopped to listen in the hallway. But all was silent, and there was no sound of footsteps. Only a door banged somewhere on the ground floor – after that all was quiet again.
I hurried down the stairs. From the doorway of my room on the fourth floor there was a spiral staircase to the third; from the third to the ground floor was a straight flight. It was a dirty, dismal, perpetually dark stairway with small apartments leading off it, typical of large rambling lodging houses. Feeling my way down to the third floor I stopped short, and suddenly I had the overwhelming feeling that there was someone there on the landing, hiding from me. I began to grope about; the girl was there all right. She was crouching in a corner with her face to the wall, sobbing softly, almost inaudibly.
“Listen, what are you afraid of?” I began. “I frightened you, didn’t I? I’m sorry. Your granddad spoke of you when he was dying. In fact, his last words were about you… I’ve got some books of his. They’re probably yours. What’s your name? Where do you live? He said it was on Sixth Lane…”
But I didn’t finish. She cried out, perhaps because she was afraid that I might know where she lived, pushed me aside with a thin, bony hand and rushed down the stairs. I dashed after her. I could still hear her footsteps resounding on the lower flight. Suddenly the sound ceased… By the time I ran out into the street, she had gone. And when I had run as far as Voznesensky Prospect, I realized that all my attempts to find her would be in vain. She had vanished. She had probably hidden herself from me somewhere as she ran down the stairs, I thought to myself.