Continually, a dozen times a day, blind to all caution, reckless of all consequences, I send telegrams to Prilukoff—the telegrams that afterwards were found, and led to our arrest—“Berta refuses.” (Prilukoff, I know not for what reason, had nicknamed Naumoff “Berta.”) Then again: “Berta will do it.” And again: “Berta irresolute. What am I to do?”
Then seized by sudden panic: “Wait! Do no harm to any one. Advise me. Help me. I am going mad.”
Prilukoff telegraphs back his usual set phrase: “Leave it to me.” And he forthwith proceeds to send me a number of telegrams, all of which contain a series of insults and taunts addressed both to Naumoff and to myself. He signs them “Paul Kamarowsky.” Naumoff reads them in amazement, then in anger; finally he, too, becomes possessed of the idea of crime, obsessed by the frenzy of murder.
How can I tell the terrible story further?... The gust of madness caught us in its whirlwind, dashing us round like leaves blown in a storm.
One evening—it was a pale, clear twilight at the close of August—I sprang suddenly to my feet, and winding a black veil round my hair, I ran from my rooms and down the wide shallow flights of the hotel staircase. There were large mirrors on every landing. As I descended I saw at every turn a woman coming to meet me, a tall, spectral creature with a black veil tied round a white, desolate face ... her light, wild eyes filled me with fear, and I hurried forward to reach the hall, where I heard voices and music.
Standing beside the piano in the vast lounge, two young girls were singing; they were English girls, and they sang, with shy, cool voices, a duet of Mendelssohn:
Fair Springtime bids the bluebells ring Sweet chimes o'er vale and lea
[[Listen]]