She Lover of Death

I. From the Newspapers

There are More Things in Heaven and Earth . . .

Non-scientific musings concerning the epidemic of suicides in Moscow

Do you believe in science and progress?

And so do I, my reader. I believe with all my heart and I am proud of the achievements of the scientific geniuses who point out to us the way ahead into the twentieth century: electric light bulbs, the cinematograph and 1000-tonne battleships.

But do you believe in wizards, hexes and evil spirits?

Why, naturally, you do not, otherwise you would not be reading our enlightened newspaper, but the spiritualist Puzzle or A Glimpse into the Abyss. And if I, Lavr Zhemailo, were to tell you that the devil really does exist, you would think that your humble servant, who has been doggedly tracking one of the most dangerous secret societies of the century, has succumbed to the influence of mystical spells or lost his mind and any day now he will find himself a patient in the Bozheninka psychological clinic or, even worse, will soap up a rope and follow the example of the subjects of his own sombre articles.

There are rumours creeping round Moscow. Sinister, exciting, intoxicating, seductive rumours. In society drawing rooms, in artistic salons, where cultured individuals take tea, there is a great battle taking place between the materialists and mystics. People argue loudly, until their voices grow hoarse. Or, if there are children in the house, they argue in whispers, but no less furiously. The mystics would seem to be gaining the upper hand, and the mysterious word ‘Signs’ is now heard more and more often.

Even those who have never before taken an interest in poetry declaim the nebulous verse of suicides that speaks of emissaries in white cloaks, howling Beasts and Tsareviches who bring death.

This is frightening, very frightening. But it is even more interesting!

Has Death herself, in full regalia, complete with scythe and shroud, really taken to stalking the streets of our peaceful city, glancing into faces and marking her own with some secret sign? Or perhaps these are merely amusing pranks played by the Devil (whose name must not be mentioned after dark)?

I have amused you, you are smiling. And you are right to smile. The key to this box of tricks is far simpler than that.

The wasting disease of obscurantism has infected people’s minds and hearts. The brains of those who have contracted this terrible plague eagerly soak in the vapours of darkness and they gaze intently into the gloom, seeking for ‘Signs’, ready to accept anything strange or inexplicable as an invitation to throw themselves into the icy embrace of Her Majesty Death.

And then, glancing at the clouds at sunset, it is quite possible to see in them the silhouette of a gallows tree, as happened to sixteen-year-old F., who apparently had no connection with the ‘Lovers of Death’ (see the article ‘Death of a Schoolboy’ in our issue of 9 September); some listen with bated breath to the howling of the night wind in the chimney or shudder when they see a word that rhymes with death. Never before has the Old Capital known such an orgy of suicides as in recent days. Three yesterday, two the day before yesterday, four the day before that – and that does not include the ones who were saved, who probably number ten times more!

Five foolish young women have already poisoned themselves, following the example of Lorelei Rubinstein, who is unlikely to be lying easy in her grave as she is showered with curses by the unfortunate families of the girls who have died.

Yes, of course, in rational terms I understand very well that this is all a matter of the psychological malaise of modern society. But my God, how greatly I am tempted to repeat after the Prince of Denmark: ‘There are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy!’

Indeed there probably are. For death, gentlemen, is no chimera or magic trick, but a scientifically established fact. From the point of view of physics it is an inexplicable loss of energy which, as far as I can recall from my grammar-school studies, directly contradicts the law of its conservation. Where does the vital energy really disappear to at the moment of death? Can it not return in some changed or transformed guise? What if there is some natural anomaly involved here? What if there is some invisible but entirely real cloud of death-dealing energy hovering over Moscow?

Has this really never happened before? Have not entire cities perished for reasons unknown, as if they were deprived of the very source of life? Ancient Babylon, Athens and Rome suffered decline and desolation. Historians blame a barbarian invasion, economic decline or spiritual crisis. But what if there is a different explanation for everything? Any ancient and populous city, in which hundreds of thousands and millions of people have left this life over the long centuries, is veritably choking in the tight embrace of graves and burial grounds. Dead bones are everywhere; in the graveyards, on the beds of the rivers, under the foundations of the houses, under the feet of people in the streets. The air is thick and oppressive with the final breaths of those who have died and the bursts of vital energy released. Does not the country dweller feel this asphyxiation when he first finds himself in the ancient capital and breathes in its vapours?

If we take all the inhabitants of Moscow over seven centuries, there will be far more dead than alive. You and I are in the minority, ladies and gentlemen. So is it really surprising that some, indeed, many of us feel drawn to join the majority? The focus of energy is there, not here.

Scientists will say that I am talking nonsense. Very possibly. But a hundred or two hundred years ago, invisible magnetism and electricity seemed like witchcraft to the precursors of our all-wise academics, and the sight of an automobile would have absolutely terrified them, not to mention X-rays or moving pictures. Who can tell, respected doctors and masters of science, perhaps the twentieth century will discover other forms of energy that our sense organs and imperfect instruments are not capable of detecting?

It is for the future to answer.

As for the modest reporter Zhemailo, who can see the future no more clearly than you can, you may rest assured, respected Courier readers, that your humble servant will remain on the trail of the ‘Lovers of Death’, and henceforth you will be the first to learn of all my new observations and discoveries.

Lavr Zhemailo

Moscow Courier, 13 (26)

September 1900, p.2

II. From Columbine’s Diary

Unpredictable and capricious

I still do not know what he wants with me. He is certainly not trying to court me, and yet we spend quite a lot of time together. Supposedly I am helping him investigate the circumstances of poor Ophelia’s death and at the same time all the other mysterious events connected with our club.

But sometimes I have the feeling that he is simply taking care of me, like some simple-minded, stupid provincial girl who has suddenly found herself in the big city. Perhaps I am a provincial, but I am not stupid and certainly not simple-minded. I am no longer the person I used to be. I have come to understand perfectly well these ordinary, boring people with their ordinary, boring concerns, which means that I myself have ceased to be ordinary and boring.

And yet I am glad of his tutelage. I have nothing to busy myself with during the day, and the evening meetings do not last for very long: three or four volunteers try their luck at the roulette wheel, and that is the end of it. Since that first evening when Genji won, no one else has landed on the skull, although Caliban, for instance, never misses a single evening. I shall describe my own attempt of the day before yesterday. It took me a long time to prepare myself for it, and the six that I was granted was simply insulting, if you really think about it! Measured according to the values of a pack of cards, it means that for Death I am the lowest card of all. But the most monstrous thing (which I did not write about before) is that what I felt when I failed was not disappointment, but intense, keen, absolutely shameful relief. I am clearly not yet ready.

After the departure of the Lioness of Ecstasy, for a short while I was the only woman in the club. I have already described the two new female aspirants briefly, but it turns out that I was too indulgent towards them. They are absolute nonentities! And while Iphigenia is tolerable, because she understands her own limitations, the second one, Gorgon, is always acting like a queen, straining to be the centre of attention. She is often successful, but in a less flattering sense than she would wish.

Goat-hoofed Kriton, naturally, started paying his attentions to both of them immediately – I heard him pontificating to Iphigenia about the naturalness of nudity. But of course, it was Prospero who gathered the pollen from these young blossoms: three days ago he told Gorgon to stay, and yesterday the rosy-cheeked fool. What is really strange is that I did not feel even slightly jealous. I have come to the conclusion that matters of carnal sensuality are not really of interest to me. A further proof of this came the day before yesterday, when Prospero suddenly took me by the hand after the game and led me after him.

I went. Why not? Alas, the magic was not repeated. In general, the whole business turned out rather stupidly. He lay me down on the bearskin again, blindfolded me and spent a long time running a cold, wet brush over my body (it turned out later that he was drawing magical signs in Chinese ink – I barely managed to wash them off). It tickled, and several times I gave way and giggled. The physiological part of the ritual was completed very quickly.

In general, I feel more and more persuaded that the ‘raptures of sensuality’ which Russian writers mention in such vague terms and ‘les plaisirs de la chair’¹ which are described in much greater detail in modern French literature, are just one more piece of make-believe, invented by humanity to romanticise the onerous obligation to continue the race. It’s just like cognac. I recall, when I was little, I used to dream that when I grew up I would drink cognac too – Papa took such great pleasure in taking a glass before dinner in the evening. One day I plucked up my courage, moved a chair over to the sideboard, climbed up on it, picked up the carafe and took a sip out of it . . . I think that was the moment when I realised how much pretence there is in people. To this day I find the very sight of cognac revolting. How can anyone voluntarily drink that acrid muck? It would seem to be exactly the same with physiological love. I am sure that what gave Papa pleasure was not the cognac itself, but the ritual: Sunday, a grand dinner, the crystal carafe glinting, the anticipation of a leisurely, relaxed evening. The same applies to the act of love: everything that precedes it is so captivating that one can forgive the meaningless and shameful nature of the act itself, which fortunately does not last for long.

(I shall have to cross this paragraph out later – not because of the boldness of the ideas, that is really rather good – but it has turned out much too childish somehow. I shall dwell on the physiology in some other place, in greater detail and with less naivety.)

I think that Prospero noticed my disappointment – when we parted he had a thoughtful, perhaps even bewildered look. But his parting words were beautiful: ‘Go and dissolve into the night.’ I immediately felt like some creature of fantasy, a true phantom of the night. As I walked along the boulevard my steps were light and ethereal.

Even so, I am no longer a helpless puppet in his hands. Prospero’s power over me is no longer absolute, his enchantment has weakened.

But why am I trying to be cunning with myself ? It is not that the enchantment has weakened, it is just that Prospero no longer occupies my mind as much as he did before. It is not simply because I do not know how to keep myself occupied that I spend so much time with Genji. He intrigues me. Sometimes we say nothing for a long while, like yesterday in the coffee shop. But at other times we make conversation on the most surprising topics. Although he is taciturn, Genji is an engaging conversation partner. And a useful one, too, there are many things to be learned from him.

But what I really cannot stand about him is his vain male gallantry. Today I tried once again to make him accept the obvious: ‘How can you be so blind, with your stupid materialism and your attempts to find a rational explanation for everything? Our world is a little spot of light, surrounded on all sides by darkness. And a myriad eyes watch us keenly from out of that darkness. Mighty hands guide our actions, pulling on invisible strings. We will never manage to understand this mechanism. Your attempts to anatomise the Signs from the Beyond are simply laughable!’

Instead of replying, he said: ‘That is a very p-pretty dress, Mademoiselle Columbine, it suits you very well.’

The dress I was wearing really was rather good: light-blue silk with Brussels lace – at first glance entirely conventional, but with little bells sewn to the cuffs and bottom flounce, so that every movement is accompanied by a faint, gentle ringing sound – it is my own invention. However, this compliment paid so out of place made me angry.

‘Don’t you dare talk to me like some empty-headed idiot!’ I exclaimed. ‘What an appalling masculine manner!’

He smiled: ‘Those could be the words of a suffragette. But I thought you were giddy Columbine, a plaything in the hands of the wicked Harlequin.’

I blushed. I believe I did tell him something of the sort early in our acquaintance. How provincial! I would never utter such simpering banalities now. And yet only two weeks have gone by. Why have I changed so quickly?

Evidently the reason is that there is always someone dying close by, very close by. Death himself is circling round me smoothly and gracefully, and with every day the circles grow narrower. And Genji still talks about an investigation!

He is terribly secretive and tells me almost nothing. I don’t know his real name or what he does for a living. I think he’s an engineer – in any case he’s very interested in technical novelties and he becomes very lively when the subject of self-propelled carriages and motorbicycles comes up.

What do I really know about him? He has lived abroad for ten years, moving from one country to another. He makes only short visits to Russia – for some reason he is not on good terms with the Moscow authorities. He told me he had to change his flat because Masa spotted someone following them almost right in front of their very building. The Japanese dealt with the police agent rather roughly, because he cannot stand their kind ever since he was a bandit in his youth. They had to move out of Ascheulov Lane, which is only five minutes’ walk from Prospero’s house, to the Spassky Barracks on the other side of Sukharevka Street, where one of the officer’s flats happened to be free.

If I try to get any details out of him, he replies evasively, and I can never tell if he is talking seriously or making fun of me.

Columbine raised her eyes from her diary to look at the window and chewed thoughtfully on her pen. What would be the best way to describe today’s meeting in the café Rivoli?

She had arrived very late. That is, she had actually arrived before the agreed time and then strolled up and down on the opposite side of the street. She had seen Genji go into the café, and then spent another half-hour inspecting the shop windows. Arriving for an engagement on time was mauvais ton, a provincial habit that had to be extirpated. Just to be on the safe side, she had kept her eyes on the door. If he got bored of waiting and decided to leave, she would have to walk up and pretend that she had only just arrived.

I suppose I must look rather strange, thought Columbine: an extravagantly dressed young woman just standing here with nothing to do, like Lot’s wife transformed into a pillar of salt. She looked around and noticed that she was indeed being stared at by a youth wearing a check jacket and a ridiculous straw boater with a silk ribbon. He licked his lips impertinently (a gold tooth glinted in his mouth). At least he didn’t wink. He had obviously taken her for a cocotte. Well, let him. If not for the persistent attention of the young pup, she would have kept Genji languishing for longer.

He didn’t appear to be languishing, though. He was sitting there quite calmly, reading the newspapers. He didn’t utter a single word of reproach to Columbine for being late and he ordered her a cup of hot chocolate and cakes. He himself was drinking white wine.

‘What interesting things have you read?’ she asked in a perfunctory tone of voice. ‘I really don’t understand people who read the newspapers. All the really important things don’t happen to other people, they happen to you and inside you. They won’t write about that in any newspapers.’

He was dismayed by this judgement.

‘Oh c-come now! Lots of interesting things happen to other people.’

‘Oh yes?’ Columbine said with a derisive smile. ‘Well then, try to interest me in your news. What is going on in the world?’

‘By all means.’ He rustled the pages of his paper. ‘Right. News from the theatre of military operations in the Transvaal. That is not likely to interest you . . . Let us try the sports section.’ Genji turned the page. ‘ “Yesterday on Krestovsky Island in St Petersburg a match was held between the German and Petersburg f-football clubs. The Petersburg team was the attacking side and won a convincing victory over its opponents, putting the ball between the German posts for eighteen goals, while conceding only seven.” How about that?’

She winced eloquently.

‘What about the North Pole? A very curious article indeed. “Prince Ludwig d’Abruzzo has had to cut short his attempt to reach the North Pole using Siberian dogs and return to Spitsbergen. Three members of the expedition lost their lives amidst the hummocks of ice, while His Highness himself suffered severe frostbite and lost two fingers on his left hand. The failure of yet another attempt to reach the most northerly point on the planet has inspired Captain Johannesen to undertake a new project. The experienced arctic explorer intends to tame polar bears to replace the weak huskies. The captain claims that training young bears will take about three years, after which they will be ready to pull sleighs across the ice or a boat across the water with exceptional ease. Johannesen said that the preparations for his unusual expedition enjoy the p-patronage of Princess Xenia, wife of the heir to the throne, Prince Olaf.” ’

At that point Genji sighed for some reason and Columbine put her hand over her mouth as if she were yawning.

‘All right then,’ he conceded, realising that he would not succeed in interesting the lady in sport. ‘Let’s try the “Miscellaneous” section, there’s always something curious in there. Take this for instance. “Swindlers’ Original Trick. On 14 September the peasant Semyon Dutikov, newly arrived in Moscow, was walking along Sadovaya Street from the Kursk railway station and, not knowing how to get to Cherkassky Lane, he asked a man whom he did not know to show him the way. The man agreed and as they were walking along one of the more out-of-the-way lanes, the stranger pointed out a wallet lying in the middle of the pavement. It proved to contain seventy-five roubles. Dutikov agreed to split the money two ways, but just then a b-broad-shouldered gentleman came running out of a gateway, shouting that he had dropped the wallet, and there had been two hundred roubles in it . . .” Ah, the rogues! Poor peasant Dutikov!’

Taking the opportunity offered by Genji’s breaking off from reading, she said: ‘Why don’t you read out something from the “Art” section? Who cares about your swindlers anyway? It’s clear enough that your peasant was completely fleeced. Serves him right for hankering after someone else’s property.’

‘I hear and obey, Mademoiselle. “A New Play. The young writer Maxim Gorky has arrived in Moscow, bringing with him a new play that he has just written, which has not yet been submitted to the censor. He proposes to give the play the title Philistines. Gorky’s first attempt at d-drama attracted lively interest from the directors of the Accessible Arts Theatre.” ’

‘Phoo, phi-li-stines,’ Columbine drawled. ‘He might as well write a play about tramps or a flophouse. Our Russian writers are absolutely incorrigible. There’s little enough beauty in life already, without all this, but they just carry on scrabbling in the dirt. Read about something more glamorous.’

‘Here’s something glamorous. “Multi-Millionaires’ New Amusement. Newport, the most fashionable bathing resort of the American rich, has recently developed a genuine mania for automobile riding. The offspring of the most prominent American families can be seen hurtling along the highway and the seafront at dizzying speeds of up to thirty versts an hour. The police are recording a constant increase in the number of accidents caused by races between self-propelled carriages. The young Harold Vanderbilt was almost seriously injured recently when he crashed his Panhard-Levassor into a wagon of hay.” And thirty versts an hour is not the limit!’ Genji exclaimed enthusiastically. ‘And anyway, it’s not just a matter of speed! I’m certain that the automobile is m-more than just an amusement, you can t-travel immense distances in it. And I shall prove that I’m right just as soon as I have concluded my business in Moscow!’

Columbine had never seen the imperturbable Genji so excited. The late Lorelei had been right: men were absolute children.

But then the Japanese prince’s eye fell on the newspaper page again and his face darkened.

‘What is it?’ she asked cautiously.

‘Another article about the Khitrovka Blinder,’ he replied reluctantly, running his glance over the lines. ‘They just don’t seem able to catch him. It’s nothing new, just idle j-journalistic speculation.’

‘The Khitrovka Blinder?’ Columbine queried, wrinkling up her pretty nose. ‘Ah, that’s the criminal who gouges out his victim’s eyes? Yes, yes, I’ve heard about him. What a vulgar name for him! Why do crimes have to be so beastly boring? Where have the genuine artists of villainy gone? I would execute murderers, not because they kill, but because they make such a mediocre, vulgar job of their bloody deed!’ This thought had only just occurred to Columbine. She felt the sudden inspiration was quite brilliant and provocative, but her uninspired companion failed to respond and gloomily closed his newspaper.

After the café they went for a stroll along Kuznetsky Most Street and Theatre Passage, where they met a demonstration of shopkeepers from Hunter’s Row coming towards them, led by heralds from the municipal duma – they were marching in honour of another Russian military victory in China: General Rennenkampf had taken some place called Goujang and also Tsian-Gouan. They were carrying portraits of the tsar, icons and religious banners, and shouting in chorus: ‘Hoorah for Russia!’

The marchers were hot and sweaty, red in the face and happy, but at the same time angry, as if someone had offended them.

‘Look,’ said Columbine, ‘they are coarse, half-drunk and malicious, but they are patriots and they love their home-land. See how happy they all are, but what could Tsian-Gouan really mean to these shopkeepers? But you and I are educated, polite, dressed in clean clothes, and quite unconcerned about Russia.’

‘What kind of patriots are they?’ Genji said with a shrug. ‘Just loudmouths, nothing more. For them it’s just a legitimate excuse for b-bawling and shouting. True patriotism, like true love, never shouts itself out loud.’

She couldn’t immediately find anything to say to that, it set her thinking. Ah, but no! True love did shout itself out loud, most certainly it did. Imagine that she’d fallen in love with someone, and he’d been taken away from her, wouldn’t she shout out loud? She’d howl loud enough to deafen the entire world. But then, perhaps that’s a matter of temperament, Columbine thought with a sigh. The tight-buttoned Genji probably wouldn’t shout out even if you cut him to pieces – he’d consider it beneath his dignity.

She suddenly felt the urge to stir him into action, grab him by the shoulders and give him a really good shaking that would disturb that perfect parting in his hair.

‘Why are you always so calm?’ she asked.

Instead of shrugging the question off or changing the subject to something trivial in the way he usually did, he replied simply and seriously: ‘I was not always like this, Mademoiselle Columbine. In my young days any trivial n-nonsense was enough to excite me. However, life has tested my sensibilities so frequently and so cruelly that now it is very hard to get through my defences. And, in addition, Confucius wrote: “The reserved man commits fewer blunders”.’

She had no idea who Confucius was. Probably some ancient know-it-all, but she didn’t like the maxim.

‘Are you afraid of blunders?’ she laughed disdainfully. ‘Why, I want to build my whole life on blunders. I think nothing could be more beautiful.’

He shook his head: ‘Are you familiar with the Eastern doctrine of the reincarnation of souls? No? The Hindus, the Chinese and the Japanese believe that our soul lives not just once, but many times, repeatedly changing its corporeal integument. Depending on your actions, in the next life you may be promoted or, on the contrary, demoted to being a caterpillar or, say, a thistle. In this regard blunders are extremely dangerous, each one distances you further from a state of harmonious b-balance, thereby reducing your chances of being reborn as something more dignified.’

Columbine thought this final remark rather offensive, but she found this Eastern theory so astounding that she made no attempt to protest.

‘In the next life I would like to turn into a dragonfly with transparent wings. No, a swallow! Is it possible to decide in advance who you will be born as next time around?’

‘It is not possible to decide, but it is probably possible to guess – at least when life has almost been lived to the end. One of the Buddhist teachers asserts that with age the features of a man’s face change to suggest who or what he will be when he is reborn into the world again. Do you not find that our D-Doge, for instance, is remarkably like an eagle-owl? If, during your next birth, you are flitting above a dark forest on light swallow’s wings and you hear a hooting sound, then beware! It might well be the reincarnated Mr Prospero luring you into his snares again.’

She laughed. With his round, piercing eyes, hooked nose and disproportionately large cheeks, Prospero really did look like an eagle-owl.

All right, there was no need to write about the conversation with Genji, Columbine decided, but what she had to write about Prospero was important. She dipped her steel nib into the inkwell and carried on.

I have written here that, strangely enough, I am not at all jealous of the Doge’s relations with Iphigenia and Gorgon. But I think he is jealous of me! I can feel it, I know it for certain. Women are never mistaken about such things. He is annoyed that I no longer gaze at him with melancholy, sheepish eyes as I used to do. This evening he paid no attention to either of them, he looked only at me. Both of the little fools were absolutely furious, and I must confess I enjoyed that, but it did not set my heart beating any faster. He lauded my new poem to the heavens. Oh, what bliss that praise would have been for me only a short while ago! But today it brought no joy at all, because I know perfectly well that the poem is mediocre.

Playing roulette is beginning to pall. The main sign is the abundance of volunteers. Today, in addition to our perennial player, Caliban, whose howls of disappointment are simply comical, even Petya and Kriton found the courage to spin the wheel (the former deep-red in the face, the latter deadly pale; a curious psychological detail, that – following a safe outcome, Petya turned as white as a sheet and Kriton blushed). The industrious anatomist Horatio suppressed a yawn as he spun the ball – I saw it quite distinctly. Cyrano even indulged in a little amusing mischief: while the roulette wheel was spinning, he sang the chansonette ‘Spin, my darling girl’. The Doge observed this bravado in silence, with his forehead wrinkled into a frown. He must realise that the idea of the Wheel of Fortune has been a failure. Death clearly does not wish to abase herself by taking part in this cheap circus performance.

Only the German twins are still as diligent and serious as ever. Every time he throws the ball, Rosencrantz casts an expressive glance in my direction, but his attentions do not go any further than that. I notice that he and Guildenstern often exchange glances, as if they were talking to each other with their eyes. It seems to me that they understand each other perfectly well without words. I read somewhere that this happens with twins. One of them simply glances at the other, who hands him a cigarette case. And another thing: when the ball is skipping round the cells, the twin who has thrown it doesn’t look at the wheel, but only at his brother, trying to guess the result from the expression on the face that is so much like his own. Gdlevsky observes our games with ironical condescension. He is waiting for the great day – tomorrow is Friday. We all tease him, but he maintains a haughty silence and smiles with an air of confident superiority. It is easy to see that in his opinion all the other aspirants are nonentities and he is the only one worthy to become Death’s beloved. Caliban, infuriated by yet another failure on the wheel, called the schoolboy ‘an insolent pup’ and things almost went as far as a duel.

And at the end of the evening, Columbine played a trick that surprised even her. When the ‘lovers’ began going home, the Doge came over to her, his light-haired Bacchante, and took her chin between his thumb and forefinger.

‘Stay,’ he ordered her.

She responded with a long, intriguing glance. Then she gave his hand a glancing kiss with her pink lips and whispered: ‘Not today. I am going, dissolving into the night.’

She swung round lightly and walked away, and he was left standing there, perplexed, gazing beseechingly after the slim figure of the unpredictable and capricious enchantress.

And serve him right.

Friday is a special day

That Friday Columbine left her flat earlier than usual to go to the meeting of the club – it was that kind of evening; with a subtle, tremulous thrill, it held the promise of something either very good or, on the contrary, very terrible, or perhaps very good and very terrible at the same time.

She had already sensed the exciting savour of tragedy in the morning, when she saw the deceptively clear September sky covering the city like a semi-transparent porcelain chalice.

Before breakfast she performed her usual morning exercise to teach her soul not to be afraid of death. She went out on to the balcony, opened the cast-iron gate that led into emptiness and stood right on the very edge, listening to the rapid beating of her heart. The sounds coming up from the street had an eloquently hollow echo, the windows opposite her shimmered with tremulous patches of light, and below her the angel captured by Möbius and Sons stood with its wings spread wide.

Then came the day, empty and meaningless – a pause, a drawing-in of breath, the silence before the velvet curtains of the night parted. But in the early evening Columbine’s keen hearing caught the distant sounds of a mystical orchestra, discordant as yet, but already magical, and she simply could not stay at home any longer.

As she walked along the purple streets with her heels clattering, the sweetly alarming sounds of the overture came drifting towards her and with every step the thunderous melody became clearer and clearer.

Columbine was prepared for anything, and as a sign of her resolution she had dressed herself in the colours of mourning. The meek schoolgirl, seeking to comprehend the secrets of death, had put on a modest black dress with a narrow white collar and a lilac apron with a mourning border, she had woven her hair into two vestal plaits and drawn them together with a crimson ribbon.

She walked unhurriedly, thinking about beautiful things. About how Friday was a special day, forever soaked in the blood of the dreamy and starry-eyed Pierrot, whom the cruel Harlequins had nailed to planks of wood nineteen centuries before. Because the scarlet drops would not dry up, but kept oozing out and dribbling down the cross, shimmering and glittering in the sun, the fifth day of the week was filled with a deceptive, flickering gleam of calamity.

From the boulevard Columbine turned into a sidestreet, and there the overture came to an end, and she heard the first solo aria of this ominous opera – an aria so absurdly comical that the dreamer very nearly laughed out loud. For a moment she imagined that the night had played a joke on her by inviting her to a tragedy and instead staging a farce.

Standing there on the pavement under a streetlamp, about ten steps away from Prospero’s house, was a shabby old organ grinder wearing a red fez and spectacles with blue lenses. He was furiously turning the handle of his squeaky instrument and bawling out a stupid little song at the top of his tuneless voice – it must have been his own composition.

There were many couplets, but most of the song consisted of a repeated refrain, uncouth doggerel, like all the other verses. The tin-plated throat repeated it over and over again:

Columbine stood and listened for a minute or two, then burst into loud laughter, tossed the amusing old man a coin and thought: a pessimist like that – and a poet too – really ought to join us ‘lovers’.

‘Today we shall spin the Wheel of Death for the last time,’ the Doge announced to the assembled company. ‘And if a Chosen One is not named yet again, I shall invent a new ritual.’

First Caliban and then Rosencrantz threw the little gold ball, and both were rejected by Death.

‘I know what the trouble is,’ said Cyrano, wrinkling up his monumental nose. ‘The ambulance carriage that brought Prince Genji back to life is to blame for everything. It stole Death’s betrothed from under the very wedding wreath, so to speak. And now the Great Lady has taken offence at our roulette wheel. So help me, Genji, you ought to drink poison again. You’re the reason the roulette wheel is being stubborn.’

Someone laughed at this audacious joke. Genji smiled politely, but Prospero looked so unhappy that Columbine felt sorry for him.

‘No, no!’ she exclaimed. ‘Let me try my luck! If Death is offended with men, then perhaps a woman will be lucky? After all, the Tsarevich summoned the Lioness of Ecstasy!’

Once she said it, she felt frightened. What if she did land on the skull? Her presentiment, and her funeral garb both pointed to the same thing.

She strode up to the table very quickly, to give herself no time to imagine the possible consequences, grabbed the little ball and prepared to throw it.

At that very moment the last of the ‘lovers’, Gdlevsky, who was late, walked, or rather, came rushing into the room like a tornado. His ruddy face with the first timid fluff of a moustache was glowing with happiness and delight.

‘I have it!’ he shouted from the doorway. ‘I have the third Sign! And precisely on a Friday! The third Friday in a row! Do you hear, do you hear what he is singing?’ Gdlevksy pointed triumphantly at the window, through which only a minute earlier they could hear the wheezing of the barrel organ and the hoarse howling of the old man. ‘Did you hear what he was singing? “No amount of twirling will give me back my Beth”! And over and over again!’

But now, as if to spite him, the organ grinder had fallen silent. And apart from Columbine, none of the aspirants seemed to have bothered to listen to the refrain of the idiotic little song, so Gdlevsky’s announcement caused general bewilderment.

‘What Beth? What is she spinning?’ Kriton asked in amazement. ‘What are you talking about, young man?’

‘The barrel organ,’ Gdlevsky explained agitatedly. ‘But that’s not important at all. The important thing is the rhyme: Beth – death. It’s the Sign! No doubt about it! The third Sign! I’ve been chosen, chosen!’

‘Wait, wait!’ the Doge asked with a frown. ‘You’re imagining things! Where is this organ grinder?’

Everyone dashed to the window, but the street was deserted, with not a soul to be seen. The old man had dissolved into the thickening darkness.

Without saying a word, Genji turned and walked quickly out into the hallway.

Everyone turned to look at the schoolboy again. Rosencrantz, who did not understand Russian very well, asked his brother: ‘Was bedeutet twirling?’²

There was obvious envy in the glance that he cast at Gdlevsky.

‘Why him? Why this young pup?’ Caliban groaned. ‘What makes him any better than me? How can you call this fair! Doge, you promised!’

The Doge flung up one hand angrily.

‘Quiet everyone! Boy, Death does not tolerate cheating. You are not playing fair! Yes, there was a barrel organ here for a long time, but naturally I did not listen to the song. Perhaps he did sing a word that rhymes with “death”, but there are many words in a song, not just one. Why did you decide to pick out “Beth”. You’re as bad as Rosencrantz with his fruit drink.’

Rosencrantz flushed. A few days earlier he had also come running in beaming with pride and said he was now Death’s Chosen One, because he had been sent a clear and unmistakable Sign. When he was eating supper in Alyabev’s restaurant on Petrovka Street, just before he finished his meal, he had been given a carafe of something bloody red ‘on the house’. When he asked what it was, the waiter had ‘smiled mysteriously’ and said: ‘You know, it’s Mors.’³ Rosencrantz had darted out of the room without finishing his supper and run all the way to Prospero’s house.

The mention of the Mors was greeted with laughter, but Gdlevsky was not even slightly disconcerted.

‘No cheating. It’s a Friday again, gentlemen, the third in a row. I didn’t sleep all night, I knew it would happen! I didn’t go to my lessons. I’ve been walking the streets since this morning, waiting for the Sign. Listening to conversations that I came across by chance, reading posters and signboards. I have played entirely fair, been absolutely honest! On the Arbat I saw a signboard that said “Aron Speth, Hardware and Ironmongery”. I’ve walked past there a hundred times and never noticed that shop before. It simply took my breath away. That’s it, I thought! What sort of absurd name is that? Names like that don’t even exist. Speth – death, it’s so obvious! But I wanted to make certain, so that there couldn’t possibly be any doubt. If it had ended on Speth, that would have been it, but the last word was “ironmongery”. Iron-mongery – what on earth rhymes with that? So it was no good, and I walked on by. And I had such a desolate feeling. No, I thought, I’m not a Chosen One, I’m the same as all the rest. On my way here I was almost crying. Then suddenly I turn the corner and I hear “give me back my Beth, give me back my Beth, give me back my Beth”. Three times, gentlemen, three times on the third Friday. First I hit on the word “breath” by sheer chance, and then I opened a book at Macbeth, and now this name, “Beth”. What could possibly be any clearer? And even if it is a proper name, what does that matter! What are you all staring at?’ the schoolboy asked with a sardonic laugh. ‘Do you envy me? I’m the Chosen One, not you! It’s me, the very youngest! So what if I am young? I’m a genius, I could have been a new Lermontov. Death chooses the best, not the worst. First Lorelei, and then me. And anyway, I couldn’t give a damn for Lermontov! Or for the whole world, or for all of you! Spin your roulette wheel, titillate your wretched nerves. The only thing I have to say to you is “adieu”. The Princess has chosen me! Me, not you!’

He looked round defiantly at everyone with his inflamed eyes and walked out, still laughing triumphantly.

‘Stop! Come back immediately!’ Prospero shouted after him.

In vain.

‘What this Lermontov deserves is a good box on the ear,’ Horatio declared pensively, stroking his Van Dyke beard.

White with fury, Caliban brandished his clenched fist.

‘Impudent, cocky, puffed-up little polack! How dare he compare himself with Lermontov! The impostor!’

‘Lermontov was impudent and cocky too,’ Cyrano remarked. ‘It will be a pity if the boy does anything stupid. He really is exceptionally talented. Lermontov was killed by someone else, but this one wants to climb into the grave himself.’

They left feeling subdued, in fact almost crushed.

Columbine had an uneasy, wretched feeling now, not at all like the one she had had before the meeting as she walked slowly through the evening streets. The stupid, arrogant boy, she thought. Prospero is absolutely right. How can the ludicrous croakings of a hoarse tramp be taken for a Sign from the Eternal Bride? And he’s sure to kill himself, he won’t back down, if only out of pride. And what a loss that would be for Russian literature, which had already lost its most gifted poetess only a few days earlier!

Columbine stopped on the boulevard, feeling that she couldn’t simply walk home and go to bed as if nothing had happened

Gdlevsky had to be stopped. By any means, at any price!

But how? What could she do?

She knew his address. One day shortly after she became a member, Gdlevsky had told her that his parents lived in Kolomna, but he had transferred to a Moscow grammar school for the final year of study, and he rented a room in Kleinfeld’s apartments on Maslovka Street. The boy had been terribly proud of the fact that he lived on his own, like a grown-up.

Well what if she did go to his place, then what? Why would he listen to Columbine if Prospero himself had been unable to stop him? Now even the Doge carried no authority for him. Why, of course not, Gdlevsky was a ‘Chosen One’, a ‘genius’!

What should she do?

The answer came to mind quickly.

Among the ‘lovers’ there was only one man capable of stopping the crazed poet doing something foolhardy. Even by force, if necessary. Genji! Of course, he always knew what to do. How unfortunate that he had gone out and not heard the schoolboy’s monologue right to the end!

She had to go to see Genji immediately, without wasting a moment. She just hoped he would be at home. Gdlevsky would not kill himself until he had written his farewell poem, so she might be in time.

She knew the Japanese prince’s approximate address. Hadn’t Genji told her he had moved from Ascheulov Lane to the officers’ building at the Spassky Barracks?

The cabdriver delivered the agitated young lady to Spasskaya-Sadovaya Street and pointed to a long building painted official pale yellow. ‘That’s it, the officers’ block.’

But it proved difficult to find the right room, because she did not know the tenant’s name. Columbine described Genji in detail to the doorkeeper, not forgetting to mention the stammer and the grey temples. She said she’d put his card somewhere and couldn’t find it, that she had a terrible memory for names – she could remember addresses, but names eluded her. She needed to see the gentleman she had described on a matter of the utmost urgency. The black-bearded doorkeeper heard her out without saying a word and, of course, he didn’t believe her. He looked the agitated girl over from head to toe, chewed on his lips and declared.

‘How do we know, perhaps His Excellency will give us the rough side of his tongue for a visit like this. This is a barracks, young lady, strangers aren’t allowed.’

‘His Excellency!’ So there was no mistake, Genji hadn’t deceived her and he did live here. Columbine was so delighted that she wasn’t even offended by the insulting remark. Let Blackbeard think that she was some kind of impertinent admirer or demi-mondaine – what difference did that make?

Columbine had mastered very well the lesson in dealing with the tribe of yard keepers and doorkeepers that she had once learned from Genji.

‘No, he won’t,’ she said confidently. ‘He’ll reward you for it. And meanwhile, take this.’

And she handed the attendant a rouble.

Cerberus immediately stopped growling and started wagging his tail. He put the banknote away in his peaked cap and told her: ‘All sorts come to see His Excellency. Even Khitrovka bandit types – not up to Your Grace’s standard. His Excellency is staying in the apartment of his friend Lieutenant-Colonel Smolyaninov. On a temporary basis. His Honour Mr Lieutenant-Colonel is in China at present, but we have orders always to let his friend stay for as long as he likes. And his name is Mr Neimless. Erast Petrovich. That’s him.’

‘Erast Petrovich Neimless?’ Columbine repeated the strange name and then could not resist asking: ‘But why do you call him “His Excellency”?’

‘We have a well-practised eye for a real gentlemen, even if he calls himself Ragamuffinov. Only you’ve wasted your time in coming, young lady, Mr Neimless is out, he hasn’t come back home yet. His valet is home though.’

‘The Japanese?’ Columbine asked, to make sure. ‘Masa?’

‘Masail Mitsuevich,’ the attendant corrected her sternly. ‘A most particular gentleman. Would you like to see him?’

‘I would, Since Erast . . . e-e-er . . . Petrovich is not here.’

‘By all means. My wife will show you how to get there. Fenya! Fenya! Show this young lady the way!’ the doorman shouted, turning towards the open door of the porter’s lodge. There was no answer.

‘She must have gone out. And I didn’t even notice,’ Blackbeard said in surprise. ‘Well, never mind, you won’t go astray. Walk along the wall, and when you turn the corner, the steps and porch are right there.’

The porch was quickly found, but when she knocked no one answered. Eventually Columbine’s patience ran out – after all, every minute was vital – and she angrily smashed her open palm against the door, which opened with a creak; it hadn’t been locked after all. A moment later the visitor was already in the small, spartan hallway, where the coat stand was hung with military greatcoats and civilian coats, as well as various belts, whips, bridles and other assorted horse tackle.

‘Masa, where are you?’ Columbine called. ‘I’ve come on urgent business. Will Mr Neimless be back soon?’

She heard rustling sounds and whispering behind a door decorated with a poster of French cancan dancers. Angry now, Columbine moved resolutely towards the sound, jerked the door open and froze.

The Japanese was standing there in his shirt front and cuffs, but with no trousers, helping a lady of ample dimensions who was much taller than him squeeze into a calico skirt. The effect produced by the unexpected visitor’s appearance was dramatic. The well-endowed lady squealed and squatted down, covering her impressive breasts with her hands, but Mr Neimless’s amazing valet set his plump hands against his thighs and bowed in ceremonial fashion.

‘What business, Corumbine-san?’ he asked on straightening up. ‘Urgen’-urgen’ or simpry urgen’?’

‘Urgent-urgent,’ she replied, trying not to look at the fat woman with no clothes on or the hairless legs of the Japanese, although this was not the moment for conventional propriety. ‘We need to go and rescue someone immediately, or something dreadful will happen. Where is your master?’

Masa knitted his sparse eyebrows, thought for a moment and declared decisively: ‘Masta not here. And terephone not ring. I rescue zis someone.’ He bowed to his lady love, who had not yet recovered from her state of shock, and pushed her towards the door. ‘Vewy gratefuw, Fenya-san, prease remember us kindry.’

Fenya (evidently the same woman who had not responded to the doorman’s call) grabbed her shoes, blouse and stockings and shot out of the door. Columbine turned away so that the Oriental could finish getting dressed.

A minute later they were already hurrying towards the gates, with Masa working his short legs so briskly that his companion could hardly keep up with him.

They rode in a cab for a long time, then they had to search for the Kleinfeld apartments in the dark, until eventually they found the grey, three-storey house opposite the Petrovsky Park. As befitted a poet, Gdlevsky rented a room on the attic floor.

As they walked up the stairs (the Japanese leading and Columbine following) she kept repeating: ‘If only we’re in time, if only we’re in time.’

The door was locked and no one opened it when they knocked.

‘Shall I go down to get the yard keeper?’ Columbine asked in a trembling voice.

‘No need. Stand aside a rittur, Corumbine-san.’

She stepped back. The Japanese uttered a peculiar abdominal sound, leapt up in the air and struck the door a terrifyingly powerful blow with his foot, sending it flying off its hinges with a crash.

They dashed to the room, their shoulders colliding in the narrow corridor.

The first thing that Columbine noticed in the twilight was the rectangle of the wide-open window. And she caught a pungent, strangely familiar smell. It was the smell the butchers’ stalls had when she was still a child and the cook Frosya used to take her to the market to buy offal and intestines for the home-made sausage.

‘Yes, was very urgen’, absorutery urgen’,’ Masa sighed. He struck a match and lit a kerosene lamp.

Columbine cried out.

The poet was lying on his front, with his face in a large, gleaming puddle. She saw the light-brown hair on the back of his head, soaked in blood, the arms flung out impotently.

They were too late!

What a terrible hurry he was in, Columbine thought.

She turned away with a shudder and saw a sheet of paper on the table, beside the lamp. Walking across to it on leaden legs, she read the lines of regular, even writing, without a single slip of the pen.

‘Oh God,’ she groaned. ‘Why was he in such a great hurry?’

‘To get away quickry, before he noticed,’ Masa replied, with his face almost touching the dead man. Then he stuck his head out of the window. ‘He did job and wen back ou’.’

‘Who went?’ Columbine sobbed. ‘Where did he go? What are you talking about?’

Masa’s answer came as a shock.

‘Ze kirrer. Came in by fire radder, broke his skull and crimb back ou’.’

‘What killer? Gdlevsky killed himself! Ah yes, you don’t know anything about it!’

‘Himself ?’ Masa picked up the piece of iron pipe. ‘Rike zat?’ He took off his bowler hat and pretended to hit himself on the back of the head. ‘Rike zat very difficur’, Columbinesan. No, young man was sitting at tabur. Someone crimbed in window. Young man frightened, ran towards door. Kirrer catch him and hit him on back of head with pipe.’

He squatted down beside the body and poked about in the bloody mess with his fingers. Columbine grabbed hold of the edge of the table as the room suddenly swam before her eyes.

‘Skurr smashed to smi-the-reens,’ said the Japanese, clearly savouring the impressive word. ‘Very, very strong kirrer. No many so strong. That good. Wirr be easier for masta to find him.’

Columbine was still struggling to recover from this new shock. Gdlevsky hadn’t committed suicide? Someone had killed him? But who? What for? It was ludicrous, insane!

‘We have to send for the police!’ she muttered.

The only thing she wanted was to get out of that room with its fresh smell of slaughter as soon as possible.

‘I’ll do it. I’ll go down to the yard keeper!’

Masa shook his head.

‘No, Corumbine-san. First ze masta. Ret him rook. Porice rater. Wait here. I go rook for terephone.’

He was gone for about twenty minutes, and those were the worst twenty minutes of Columbine’s life. That was what she thought as she stood at the window, looking out at the lights shining beyond the black bulk of the Petrovsky Park. She was afraid to turn round.

When she heard a light rustling sound behind her, she squeezed her eyes shut and cringed, pulling her head down into her shoulders. She imagined Gdlevsky’s corpse getting up off the floor, turning its shattered head and walking towards the window with its hands reaching out. There is nothing worse than standing with your back to an unknown danger. Columbine squealed and swung round.

It would have been better if she hadn’t.

Gdlevsky had not got up off the floor, he was still lying there, face down, but his hair was moving in a strange manner. Columbine looked closer and saw two mice crawling about in the wound and sniffing at it.

Choking on her own scream, she dashed to the door, flew out on to the stairs and ran into Masa on his way back up.

‘I rang from night chemist’s,’ he reported. ‘Masta at home. He come now. He very gratefuw to you, Corumbine-san. You can go home. I must be here, cannot see you to cab. Zis is unforgivabur.’ And the Japanese bowed guiltily.

God, how she ran to get away from those cursed Kleinfeld apartments! She ran all the way to Triumphal Square before she found a night cab.

When she had caught her breath and gathered her thoughts a little, she started pondering on the meaning of what had happened. The meaning proved to be simple, clear and frightening.

Since Gdlevsky had not killed himself but been killed (Masa had proved that irrefutably), there was only one creature that could have done it – if, of course, you could call this force a creature. No one had climbed into the attic window from the fire ladder. It was not someone, but Something that had entered the room. That was the explanation for a blow of such monstrous, superhuman power.

‘Death is alive,’ Columbine repeated to herself, gazing with wide-open eyes at the cabdriver’s stooped back.

The creature that went by the name of Death could walk round the city, look into windows, strike blows of fearsome power. It could love and hate, it could feel insulted.

How Gdlevsky had insulted Death was clear. The arrogant boy had declared himself her Chosen One, when he had no right to that title, he had arbitrarily invented Signs that did not really exist. He was a genuine impostor, and for that he had suffered the fate of impostors.

The sheer grandeur of what had happened set her trembling.

Columbine meekly handed the driver the extortionate sum of two roubles, although the journey should have cost seventy-five kopecks at the most.

She didn’t remember walking upstairs to the fifth floor, but as she was taking off her lilac mourning apron, a small rectangle of thick white paper fell out of the pocket. She picked it up absentmindedly and read the single word written on it in beautiful Gothic letters: ‘Liebste’⁴.

At first she smiled, imagining that shy Rosencrantz had finally plucked up the courage to take decisive action. But then she remembered that the German had not come near her even once during the whole evening, so he couldn’t possibly have slipped the note into her pocket.

But who had written it? And why in German?

In German, Death was a male noun – der Tod.

‘So now my turn has come,’ Columbine said to her reflection in the mirror.

The reflection’s lips smiled, its eyes staring in wild fright.

Columbine opened her diary and tried to describe her feelings. With a trembling hand she traced out the words: ‘Have I really been chosen? How jolly and how frightening!’

III. From the ‘Agents’ Reports’ File

To His Honour Lieutenant-Colonel Besikov (Private and confidential)

Dear Lieutenant-Colonel,

I must confess that your note, delivered this morning by courier, came as a great shock to me. I already knew about the murder of Gdlevsky, because even before your messenger arrived I had a visit from one of the ‘lovers’ who was absolutely shattered by the incredible news. My initial response to your request to provide the detective police with every possible assistance was intense indignation. I decided that you had lost all sense of proportion and wished to reduce me to the status of a petty informer from Khitrovka.

However, after I had calmed down a little, I took a slightly different point of view of the matter. A genuine tragedy had occurred. A young man with an immense talent that promised great things – perhaps as great as Lermontov or Pushkin – had been killed at the age of eighteen, before he could make any substantial contribution to Russian literature. A few brilliant poems will find their way into anthologies and collections, but that will be the poor youth’s entire legacy. What a bitter, senseless loss! If Gdlevsky had laid hands on himself, as he was planning to do, that would have been a tragedy, but his murder is worse than tragic. It is a national disgrace. It is the duty of every patriot who holds dear the honour of Russia to do everything in his power to assist in clarifying this shameful affair. Yes, yes, I regard myself as a true Russian patriot, it is well known that the most sincere and passionate patriots are always drawn from the national minorities (to which you and I belong).

And so I have decided to do everything in my power to assist your colleagues from the police. Having analysed the information that you provided about the circumstances of the crime, I was struck by the following.

It is not clear why anyone would wish to murder a person who intended in any case to kill himself only a minute or an hour later.

And if someone did resort to murder for some purpose or other, then why did they not disguise the crime as a voluntary death? Nobody would ever have thought of suspecting foul play when the farewell poem had already been written.

The first explanation that comes to mind is coincidence – just as Gdlevsky was preparing to commit suicide (you wrote that he had a loaded pistol ready in the drawer of his desk), a robber who knew nothing about the young man’s fatal intentions climbed in through his window and hit him over the head with a length of metal pipe. A cruel joke played by fate. You write that the police regard this account of events as the most likely and ask my opinion.

I do not know what answer to give.

I think it might well interest you to know how the members of the club regard what has happened. Naturally, the story has made a very grave impression on everyone. The predominant feeling is fear, and fear of a mystical nature. Everyone is terribly frightened. No one mentions the idea of a robber who happened to climb in through the window. The general opinion is that Gdlevsky angered the Goddess with his boundless presumption, and she smashed his arrogant head to pieces. ‘No one should dare try to lure the Eternal Bride to the altar by deceit,’ is how our chairman expressed his own response.

As you know, I am a materialist and refuse to believe in the work of the Devil or evil spirits. I would sooner believe in the coincidental burglar. Only, if it was a burglar, why was he carrying a piece of metal pipe? And furthermore, you write that nothing was taken from the flat. Of course, it is possible to find an explanation for everything. We could assume that he took the weapon with him just in case, simply for use as a threat. And he didn’t steal anything because he took fright at what he had done and fled. Well, that is certainly possible.

In any case, I am well aware that you asked for my opinion largely out of politeness, remembering my rebuke about airs and graces, and what you actually require are observations, not hypotheses. Well then, by all means.

I observed the behaviour of all the aspirants very carefully today, looking for anything suspicious or strange. Let me say straight away that I saw nothing suspicious, but I did make one astonishing discovery, which you will no doubt find interesting.

We did not play roulette today. Nobody did anything but discuss Gdlevsky’s death and what it might mean. Naturally, the general mood was alarm and agitation, everyone tried to talk louder than everyone else, and our Doge was like a captain struggling at the helm of ship that is out of control. I also made a few comments for the sake of appearances, but most of the time I observed the others’ faces keenly. Suddenly I saw Cyrano (the one whom I have referred to in previous reports as Big Nose) casually walk over to the bookshelves and run his eye over them – he seemed to do it quite absentmindedly, and yet I had the impression that he was looking for something very specific. He glanced round to make sure that no one was watching (which immediately made me even more curious), took out one of the volumes and started leafing through the pages. For some reason he looked up at the light, licked his finger and ran it over the edges of the pages. And then he even touched them with his tongue. I do not know the significance of these manipulations, but I was intrigued.

What happened next was remarkable. Cyrano put the book back in its place and turned round. I was astounded by the expression on his face – it was completely red, and his eyes were gleaming. He strolled slowly round the room, pretending to be bored, and when he reached the door, he slipped out into the hallway.

I cautiously left the room after him, expecting that now he would go out into the street and I would follow him – he really was behaving very strangely. However, Cyrano walked down the dark corridor leading into the apartment and darted into the study. I went after him without making a sound and put my ear to the door. The study can be reached by a different route – from the sitting room through the dining room, but that could have attracted attention, which Cyrano clearly wished to avoid, and I soon realised why. The reason for the entire manoeuvre was the telephone in Prospero’s study.

Cyrano twirled the handle, gave a number in a low voice – I remembered it, in case it was important: 3845. Then he put his hand across the opening of the mouthpiece and said: ‘Romuald Semyonovich? It’s me, Lavr Zhemailo. Have you put the edition to bed? Excellent! Hold it. Leave a column on the first page. About sixty lines. No, better make it ninety. I assure you, this will be a bombshell. Wait for me, I’m leaving straight away.’ His voice was trembling with excitement.

So much for Cyrano! A fine aspirant he is! And our smart alecks kept wondering how the reporter from the Courier could be so well-informed about the internal life of the club. But what a newspaperman! He has known for ages where the future suicides gather, but he carries on duping the public, pretending that he is searching incessantly, and meanwhile he has made a name for himself and also, no doubt, earned himself a tidy sum. Who had ever heard of Lavr Zhemailo even a month ago? But now he is the star of Russian journalism.

The reporter darted back out of the study so quickly that I barely managed to press myself against the wall in time. He did not notice me, because he hurried off towards the front door. The door into the study was left slightly ajar. And then something else strange happened. The opposite door – the one leading into the dining room, was also slightly ajar, but it suddenly squeaked and closed of its own accord! I swear to you that I am not making this up. There was no draught. That ominous creaking sound made me feel quiet unwell. My knees started trembling, my heart started pounding so rapidly that I was even obliged to swallow two tablets of cordinium. When I finally pulled myself together and ran out into the street after the journalist, he had already disappeared.

But then what point would there have been in following him, when it was already clear that he was going to his newspaper’s office?

I wonder what ‘bombshell’ he had in store for his readers. Never mind, we shall find that out from the morning edition of the Moscow Courier.

With every assurance of my heartfelt respect,

ZZ

17 September 1900

1. Pleasures of the flesh

2. What does twirling mean?

3. A drink made from berries, but also ‘Death’ in Latin

4. Most beloved