always been the mostappalling thought to me! Oh, dear Mr. Lieutenant! Believe me, the daywhen I learnt that you were alive and well, was the happiest day of mylife! But I do not mean to justify myself altogether! I will not tella lie! I was the first to discover your habit of carrying your moneyround your waist! (Though indeed in our part of the world all thebutchers and meat salesmen do the same!) And I was so incautious as tolet drop a word about it! I even said in joke that it wouldn't be badto take a little of your money! But the old wretch (Mr. Florestan! shewas _not_ my aunt) plotted with that godless monster Luigi andhis accomplice! I swear by my mother's tomb, I don't know to this daywho those people were! I only know that his name was Luigi and thatthey both came from Bucharest and were certainly great criminals andwere hiding from the police and had money and precious things! Luigiwas a dreadful individual (_ein schroeckliches Subject_), to killa fellow-man (_einen Mitmenschen_) meant nothing at all to him!He spoke every language--and it was _he_ who that time got ourthings back from the cook! Don't ask how! He was capable of anything,he was an awful man! He assured the old woman that he would only drugyou a little and then take you out of town and put you down somewhereand would say that he knew nothing about it but that it was yourfault--that you had taken too much wine somewhere! But even then thewretch had it in his mind that it would be better to kill you so thatthere would be no one to tell the tale! He wrote you that letter,signed with my name and the old woman got me away by craft! Isuspected nothing and I was awfully afraid of Luigi! He used to say tome, 'I'll cut your throat, I'll cut your throat like a chicken's!' Andhe used to twitch his moustache so horribly as he said it! And theydragged me into a bad company, too.... I am very much ashamed, Mr.Lieutenant! And even now I shed bitter tears at these memories! ... Itseems to me ... ah! I was not born for such doings.... But there is nohelp for it; and this is how it all happened! Afterwards I washorribly frightened and could not help going away, for if the policehad found us, what would have happened to us then? That accursed Luigifled at once as soon as he heard that you were alive. But I soonparted from them all and though now I am often without a crust ofbread, my heart is at peace! You will ask me perhaps why I came toNikolaev? But I can give you no answer! I have sworn! I will finish byasking of you a favour, a very, very important one: whenever youremember your little friend Emilie, do not think of her as ablack-hearted criminal! The eternal God sees my heart. I havea bad morality (_Ich habe eine schlechte moralitaet_) and I amfeather-headed, but I am not a criminal. And I shall always love andremember you, my incomparable Florestan, and shall always wish youeverything good on this earthly globe (_auf diesem Erdenrund!_).I don't know whether my letter will reach you, but if it does, writeme a few lines that I may see you have received it. Thereby you will makevery happy your ever-devoted Emilie.
"P. S. Write to F. E. poste restante, Breslau, Silesia.
"P. S. S. I have written to you in German; I could not express myfeelings otherwise; but you write to me in Russian."
XXVIII
"Well, did you answer her?" we asked Kuzma Vassilyevitch.
"I meant to, I meant to many times. But how was I to write? I don'tknow German ... and in Russian, who would have translated it? And so Idid not write."
And always as he finished his story, Kuzma Vassilyevitch sighed, shookhis head and said, "that's what it is to be young!" And if among hisaudience was some new person who was hearing the famous story for thefirst time, he would take his hand, lay it on his skull and make himfeel the scar of the wound.... It really was a fearful wound and thescar reached from one ear to the other.
1867.
* * * * *
THE DOG
"But if one admits the possibility of the supernatural, thepossibility of its participation in real life, then allow me to askwhat becomes of common sense?" Anton Stepanitch pronounced and hefolded his arms over his stomach.
Anton Stepanitch had the grade of a civil councillor, served in someincomprehensible department and, speaking emphatically and stiffly ina bass voice, enjoyed universal respect. He had not long before, inthe words of those who envied him, "had the Stanislav stuck on tohim."
"That's perfectly true," observed Skvorevitch.
"No one will dispute that," added Kinarevitch.
"I am of the same opinion," the master of the house, Finoplentov,chimed in from the corner in falsetto.
"Well, I must confess, I cannot agree, for something supernatural hashappened to me myself," said a bald, corpulent middle-aged gentlemanof medium height, who had till then sat silent behind the stove. Theeyes of all in the room turned to him with curiosity and surprise, andthere was a silence.
The man was a Kaluga landowner of small means who had lately come toPetersburg. He had once served in the Hussars, had lost money atcards, had resigned his commission and had settled in the country. Therecent economic reforms had reduced his income and he had come to thecapital to look out for a suitable berth. He had no qualifications andno connections, but he confidently relied on the friendship of an oldcomrade who had suddenly, for no visible reason, become a person ofimportance, and whom he had once helped in thrashing a card sharper.Moreover, he reckoned on his luck--and it did not fail him: a few daysafter his arrival in town he received the post of superintendent ofgovernment warehouses, a profitable and even honourable position,which did not call for conspicuous abilities: the warehousesthemselves had only a hypothetical existence and indeed it was notvery precisely known with what they were to be filled--but they hadbeen invented with a view to government economy.
Anton Stepanitch was the first to break the silence.
"What, my dear sir," he began, "do you seriously maintain thatsomething supernatural has happened to you? I mean to say, somethinginconsistent with the laws of nature?"
"I do maintain it," replied the gentleman addressed as "My dear sir,"whose name was Porfiry Kapitonitch.
"Inconsistent with the laws of nature!" Anton Stepanitch repeatedangrily; apparently he liked the phrase.
"Just so ... yes; it was precisely what you say."
"That's amazing! What do you think of it,gentlemen?" Anton Stepanitch tried to givehis features an ironical expression, but withouteffect--or to speak more accurately, merelywith the effect of suggesting that the dignifiedcivil councillor had detected an unpleasantsmell. "Might we trouble you, dear sir," hewent on, addressing the Kaluga landowner, "togive us the details of so interesting an incident?"
"Certainly, why not?" answered the landowner and, moving in afree-and-easy way to the middle of the room, he spoke as follows:
"I have, gentlemen, as you are probably aware, or perhaps are notaware, a small estate in the Kozelsky district. In old days I used toget something out of it, though now, of course, I have nothing to lookforward to but unpleasantness. But enough of politics. Well, in thatdistrict I have a little place: the usual kitchen garden, a littlepond with carp in it, farm buildings of a sort and a little lodge formy own sinful person ... I am a bachelor. Well, one day--some sixyears ago--I came home rather late; I had had a game of cards at aneighbour's and I was--I beg you to note--the least little bitelevated, as they say; I undressed, got into bed and put out thecandle. And only fancy, gentlemen: as soon as I put out the candlethere was something moving under my bed! I wondered whether it was arat; no, it was not a rat: it moved about, scratched on the floor andscratched itself.... At last it flapped its ears!
"There was no mistake about it; it was a dog. But where could a doghave come from? I did not keep one; could some stray dog have run in,I wondered. I called my servant; Filka was his name. He came in with acandle.
"'How's this,' I said, 'Filka, my lad? Is that how you look afterthings? A dog has got under my bed?' 'What dog?' said he. 'How do Iknow,' said I, 'that's your business--to save your master fromdisturbance.' My Filka bent down, and began moving the candle underthe bed. 'But there's no dog here,' said he. I bent down, too; therecertainly was no dog there. What a queer thing!--I glanced at Filkaand he was smiling. 'Y
ou stupid,' I said to him, 'why are yougrinning. When you opened the door the dog must have whisked out intothe passage. And you, gaping idiot, saw nothing because you are alwaysasleep. You don't suppose I am drunk, do you?' He would have answered,but I sent him out, curled up and that night heard nothing more.
"But the next night--only fancy--the thing was repeated. As soon as Iblew out the candle, he scratched himself and flapped his ears again.Again I called Filka; again he looked under the bed--again there wasnothing! I sent him away, blew out the candle--and, damn it all, thedog was there again and it was a dog right enough: one could hear itbreathing, biting its coat, looking for fleas.... It was sodistinct--'Filka,'
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