Peredonov already began to consider himself a secret criminal. He imagined that even from his student days he had been under the surveillance of the police. For some reason he thought that they were watching him. This terrified and yet flattered him.
The wind stirred the wall-paper. It shook with a quiet, evil rustling. And soft half-shadows glided over their vividly coloured patterns. "There's a spy hiding behind the wall-paper," thought Peredonov sadly. "Evil people! No wonder they put the paper on the wall so unevenly and so poorly, for a skilful, patient, flat villain to creep in and hide behind. Such things have happened even before."
Confused recollections stirred in his mind. Someone had hidden behind the wall-paper; someone had been stabbed either with a poignard or an awl. Peredonov bought an awl. And when he returned home the wall-paper stirred unevenly and restlessly—a spy felt his danger and was perhaps trying to creep in farther. A shadow jumped to the ceiling and there threatened and grimaced.
Peredonov was infuriated. He struck the wall-paper impetuously with the awl. A shiver ran over the wall. Peredonov began to sing triumphantly and to dance, brandishing the awl. Varvara came in.
"Why are you dancing by yourself, Ardalyon Borisitch?" she asked, smiling stupidly and insolently as always.
"I've killed a beetle," explained Peredonov morosely.
His eyes gleamed in wild triumph. Only one thing annoyed him; the disagreeable odour. The murdered spy stank putridly behind the wall-paper. Horror and triumph shook Peredonov—he had killed an enemy! He had hardened his heart to the very end of the deed. It was not a real murder—but for Peredonov it was quite real. A mad horror had forged in him a readiness to commit the crime—and the deep, unconscious image of future murder, dormant in the lower strata of spiritual life, the tormenting itch to murder, a condition of primitive wrath, oppressed his diseased will. The ancient Cain—overlaid by many generations—found gratification in his breaking and damaging property, in his chopping with the axe, in his cutting with the knife, in his cutting down trees in the garden to prevent the spies from looking out behind them. And the ancient demon, the spirit of prehistoric confusion, of hoary chaos, rejoiced in the destruction of things, while the wild eyes of the madman reflected horror, like the horror of the death agonies of some monster.
And the same illusions tormented him again and again. Varvara, amusing herself at Peredonov's expense, sometimes hid herself behind the door of the room where he was sitting, and talked in assumed voices. He would get frightened, walk up quietly to catch the enemy—and find Varvara.
"Whom were you whispering to?" he asked sadly.
Varvara smiled and replied: