Found in Translation

by Frank Wynne

  The man was a Kaluga landowner of small means who had lately come to Petersburg. He had once served in the Hussars, had lost money at cards, had resigned his commission and had settled in the country. The recent economic reforms had reduced his income and he had come to the capital to look out for a suitable berth. He had no qualifications and no connections, but he confidently relied on the friendship of an old comrade who had suddenly, for no visible reason, become a person of importance, 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 days after his arrival in town he received the post of superintendent of government warehouses, a profitable and even honourable position, which did not call for conspicuous abilities: the warehouses themselves had only a hypothetical existence and indeed it was not very precisely known with what they were to be filled—but they had been 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 that something supernatural has happened to you? I mean to say, something inconsistent 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 repeated angrily; 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 give his features an ironical expression, but without effect—or to speak more accurately, merely with the effect of suggesting that the dignified civil councillor had detected an unpleasant smell. “Might we trouble you, dear sir,” he went on, addressing the Kaluga landowner, “to give us the details of so interesting an incident?”

  “Certainly, why not?” answered the landowner and, moving in a free-and-easy way to the middle of the room, he spoke as follows:

  “I have, gentlemen, as you are probably aware, or perhaps are not aware, a small estate in the Kozelsky district. In old days I used to get something out of it, though now, of course, I have nothing to look forward to but unpleasantness. But enough of politics. Well, in that district I have a little place: the usual kitchen garden, a little pond with carp in it, farm buildings of a sort and a little lodge for my own sinful person … I am a bachelor. Well, one day—some six years ago—I came home rather late; I had had a game of cards at a neighbour’s and I was—I beg you to note—the least little bit elevated, as they say; I undressed, got into bed and put out the candle. And only fancy, gentlemen: as soon as I put out the candle there was something moving under my bed! I wondered whether it was a rat; no, it was not a rat: it moved about, scratched on the floor and scratched itself…. At last it flapped its ears!

  “There was no mistake about it; it was a dog. But where could a dog have 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 a candle.

  “‘How’s this,’ I said, ‘Filka, my lad? Is that how you look after things? A dog has got under my bed?’ ‘What dog?’ said he. ‘How do I know,’ said I, ‘that’s your business—to save your master from disturbance.’ My Filka bent down, and began moving the candle under the bed. ‘But there’s no dog here,’ said he. I bent down, too; there certainly was no dog there. What a queer thing!—I glanced at Filka and he was smiling. ‘You stupid,’ I said to him, ‘why are you grinning. When you opened the door the dog must have whisked out into the passage. And you, gaping idiot, saw nothing because you are always asleep. 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 I blew out the candle, he scratched himself and flapped his ears again. Again I called Filka; again he looked under the bed—again there was nothing! I sent him away, blew out the candle—and, damn it all, the dog was there again and it was a dog right enough: one could hear it breathing, biting its coat, looking for fleas…. It was so distinct —‘Filka,’ I said, ‘come here without the candle!’ He came in. ‘Well, now,’ I said, ‘do you hear?’ ‘Yes,’ he said. I could not see him, but I felt that the fellow was scared. ‘What do you make of it?’ said I. ‘What do you bid me make of it, Porfiry Kapitonitch? It’s sorcery!’ ‘You are a foolish fellow,’ I said, ‘hold your tongue with your sorcery….’ And our voices quavered like a bird’s and we were trembling in the dark as though we were in a fever. I lighted a candle, no dog, no sound, only us two, as white as chalk. So I kept a candle burning till morning and I assure you, gentlemen, you may believe me or you may not, but from that night for six weeks the same thing was repeated. In the end I actually got used to it and began putting out the candle, because I couldn’t get to sleep in the light. ‘Let him fidget,’ I thought, ‘he doesn’t do me any harm.’”

  “Well, I see you are not one of the chicken-hearted brigade,” Anton Stepanitch interrupted in a half-contemptuous, half-condescending tone! “One can see the Hussar at once!”

  “I shouldn’t be afraid of you in any case,” Porfiry Kapitonitch observed, and for an instant he really did look like a Hussar.

  “But listen to the rest. A neighbour came to see me, the very one with whom I used to play cards. He dined with me on what luck provided and dropped some fifty roubles for his visit; night came on, it was time for him to be off. But I had my own idea. ‘Stay the night with me,’ I said, ‘Vassily Vassilitch; tomorrow, please God, you will win it back.’ Vassily Vassilitch considered and stayed. I had a bed put up for him in my room…. Well, we went to bed, smoked, chatted—about the fair sex for the most part, as is only suitable in bachelor company—we laughed, of course; I saw Vassily Vassilitch put out his candle and turn his back towards me: as much as to say: ‘Good night.’ I waited a little, then I, too, put out my candle. And, only fancy, I had hardly time to wonder what sort of trick would be played this time, when the sweet creature was moving again. And moving was not all; it came out from under the bed, walked across the room, tapped on the floor with its paws, shook its ears and all of a sudden pushed against the very chair that was close by Vassily Vassilitch’s bed. ‘Porfiry Kapitonitch,’ said the latter, and in such an unconcerned voice, you know, ‘I did not know you had a dog. What sort is it, a setter?’ ‘I haven’t a dog,’ I said, ‘and never have had one!’ ‘You haven’t? Why, what’s this?’ ‘What’s this?’ said I, ‘why, light the candle and then you will see for yourself.’ ‘Isn’t it a dog?’ ‘No.’ Vassily Vassilitch turned over in bed. ‘But you are joking, dash it all.’ ‘No, I am not joking.’ I heard him go strike, strike, with a match, while the creature persisted in scratching its ribs. The light flared up … and, hey presto! not a trace remained! Vassily Vassilitch looked at me and I looked at him. ‘What trick is this?’ he said. ‘It’s a trick,’ I said, ‘that, if you were to set Socrates himself on one side and Frederick the Great on the other, even they could not make it out.’ And then I told him all about it. Didn’t my Vassily Vassilitch jump out of bed! As though he had been scalded! He couldn’t get into his boots. ‘Horses,’ he cried, ‘horses!’ I began trying to persuade him, but it was no use! He positively gasped! ‘I won’t stay,’ he said, ‘not a minute! You must be a man under a curse! Horses.’ However, I prevailed upon him. Only his bed was dragged into another room and nightlights were lighted everywhere. At our tea in the morning he had regained his equanimity; he began to give me advice. ‘You should try being away from home for a few days, Porfiry Kapitonitch,’ he said, ‘perhaps this abomination would leave you.’ And I must tell you: my neighbour was a man of immense intellect. He managed his mother-in-law wonderfully: he fastened an I. O. U. upon her; he must have chosen a sentimental moment! She became as soft as silk, she gave him an authorisation for the management of all her estate—what more would you have? You know it is something to get th
e better of one’s mother-in-law. Eh! You can judge for yourselves. However, he took leave of me in some displeasure; I’d stripped him of a hundred roubles again. He actually abused me. ‘You are ungrateful.’ he said, ‘you have no feeling’; but how was I to blame? Well, be that as it may, I considered his advice. That very day I drove off to the town and put up at an inn, kept by an old man I knew, a Dissenter. He was a worthy old fellow, though a little morose from living in solitude, all his family were dead. But he disliked tobacco and had the greatest loathing for dogs; I believe he would have been torn to pieces rather than consent to let a dog into his room. ‘For how can one?’ he would say, ‘the Queen of Heaven herself is graciously pleased to be on my wall there, and is an unclean dog to put his infidel nose there?’ Of course, it was lack of education! However, to my thinking, whatever wisdom a man has he had better stick to that.”

  “I see you are a great philosopher,” Anton Stepanitch interrupted a second time with the same sarcastic smile.

  This time Porfiry Kapitonitch actually frowned.

  “How much I know of philosophy I cannot tell,” he observed, tugging grimly at his moustache, “but I would be glad to give you a lesson in it.”

  We all simply stared at Anton Stepanitch. Every one of us expected a haughty reply, or at least a glance like a flash of lightning…. But the civil councillor turned his contemptuous smile into one of indifference, then yawned, swung his foot and—that was all!

  “Well, I stayed at that old fellow’s,” Porfiry Kapitonitch went on. “He gave me a little room, not one of the best, as we were old friends; his own was close by, the other side of the partition—and that was just what I wanted. The tortures I faced that night! A little room, a regular oven, stuffiness, flies, and such sticky ones; in the corner an extraordinarily big shrine with ancient ikons, with dingy setting in relief on them. It fairly reeked of oil and some other stuff, too; there were two featherbeds on the beds. If you moved the pillow a black beetle would run from under it…. I had drunk an incredible quantity of tea, feeling so dreary—it was simply dreadful! I got into bed; there was no possibility of sleeping—and, the other side of the partition, my host was sighing, clearing his throat, repeating his prayers. However, he subsided at last. I heard him begin to snore, but only faintly, in the old-fashioned polite way. I had put my candle out long ago, but the little lamp was burning before the ikons…. That prevented it, I suppose. So I got up softly with bare feet, climbed up to the lamp, and blew it out…. Nothing happened. ‘Oho!’ I thought, ‘so it doesn’t come off in other people’s houses.’

  “But I had no sooner got into bed than there was a commotion again. He was scraping on the floor and scratching himself and shaking his ears … the usual thing, in fact. Very good! I lay still and waited to see what would happen. I heard the old man wake up. ‘Sir,’ he said, ‘hey, sir.’ ‘What is it?’ ‘Did you put out the lamp?’ But without waiting for my answer, he burst out all at once. ‘What’s that? What’s that, a dog? A dog! Ah, you vile heretic!’ ‘Wait a bit, old man, before you scold,’ I said. ‘You had better come here yourself. Things are happening,’ I said, ‘that may well make you wonder.’ The old man stirred behind the partition and came in to me, with a candle, a very, very thin one, made of yellow wax; I was surprised when I looked at him! He looked bristling all over, with hairy ears and eyes as fierce as a weasel’s; he had on a white woollen night cap, a beard to his waist, white too, and a waistcoat with copper buttons on it over his shirt and fur boots on his feet and he smelt of juniper. In this attire he approached the ikons, crossed himself three times with his two fingers crossed, lighted the lamp, crossed himself again and, turning to me, just grunted: ‘Explain!’ And thereupon, without delay, I told him all that had happened. The old man listened to my account and did not drop one word, simply shook his head. Then he sat down on my bed and still said nothing. He scratched his chest, the back of his head and so on and said nothing. ‘Well,’ I said, ‘Fedul Ivanitch, what do you think? Is it some devil’s sorcery or what?’ The old man looked at me. ‘What an idea! Devil’s sorcery! A tobacco-smoker like you might well have that at home, but not here. Only think what holiness there is here! Sorcery, indeed!’ ‘And if it is not sorcery, what is it, then?’ The old man was silent again; again he scratched himself and said at last, but in a muffled voice, for his moustache was all over his mouth: ‘You go to the town of Belyov. There is no one who can help you but one man. And that man lives in Belyov. He is one of our people. If he is willing to help you, you are lucky; if he is not, nothing can be done.’ ‘And how am I to find this man?’ I said. ‘I can direct you about that,’ he answered; ‘but how can it be sorcery? It is an apparition, or rather an indication; but you cannot comprehend it, it is beyond your understanding. Lie down to sleep now with the blessing of our Lord Christ; I will burn incense and in the morning we will converse. Morning, you know, brings wisdom.’

  “Well, we did converse in the morning, only I was almost stifled by that incense. And this was the counsel the old man gave me: that when I reached Belyov I should go into the market place and ask in the second shop on the right for one Prohoritch, and when I had found Prohoritch, put into his hand a writing and the writing consisted of a scrap of paper, on which stood the following words: ‘In the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Amen. To Sergey Prohorovitch Pervushin. Trust this man. Feduly Ivanitch.’ And below, ‘Send the cabbages, for God’s sake.’

  “I thanked the old man and without further discussion ordered my carriage and drove to Belyov. For I reflected, that though I suffered no harm from my nocturnal visitor, yet it was uncanny and in fact not quite the thing for a nobleman and an officer—what do you think?”

  “And did you really go to Belyov?” murmured Finoplentov.

  “Straight to Belyov. I went into the market place and asked at the second shop on the right for Prohoritch. ‘Is there such a person?’ I asked. ‘Yes,’ they told me. ‘And where does he live?’ ‘By the Oka, beyond the market gardens.’ ‘In whose house?’ ‘In his own.’ I went to the Oka, found his house, though it was really not a house but simply a hovel. I saw a man wearing a blue patched coat and a ragged cap, well … he looked like a working-man, he was standing with his back to me, digging among his cabbages. I went up to him. ‘Are you so and so?’ I said. He turned round and, I tell you the truth, I have never seen such piercing eyes in my life. Yet the whole face was shrunk up like a little fist with a little wedge-shaped beard and sunken lips. He was an old man. ‘I am so and so,’ he said. ‘What are you needing?’ ‘Why, this is what I am needing,’ I said, and put the writing in his hand. He looked at me intently and said: ‘Come indoors, I can’t read without spectacles.’

  “Well, I went with him into his hut—and a hut it certainly was: poor, bare, crooked; only just holding together. On the wall there was an ikon of old workmanship as black as a coal; only the whites of the eyes gleamed in the faces. He took some round spectacles in iron frames out of a little table, put them on his nose, read the writing and looked at me again through the spectacles. ‘You have need of me?’ ‘I certainly have,’ I answered. ‘Well,’ said he, ‘if you have, tell it and we will listen.’ And, only fancy, he sat down and took a checked handkerchief out of his pocket, and spread it out on his knee, and the handkerchief was full of holes, and he looked at me with as much dignity as though he were a senator or a minister, and he did not ask me to sit down. And what was still stranger, I felt all at once awe-stricken, so awe-stricken … my soul sank into my heels. He pierced me through with his eyes and that’s the fact! I pulled myself together, however, and told him all my story. He was silent for a space, shrank into himself, chewed his lips and then questioned me just like a senator again, majestically, without haste. ‘What is your name?’ he asked. ‘Your age? What were your parents? Are you single or married?’ Then again he munched his lips, frowned, held up his finger and spoke: ‘Bow down to the holy ikon, to the honourable Saints Zossima and Savvaty of Solovki.’ I bow
ed down to the earth and did not get up in a hurry; I felt such awe for the man and such submission that I believe that whatever he had told me to do I should have done it on the spot! … I see you are grinning, gentlemen, but I was in no laughing mood then, I assure you. ‘Get up, sir,’ said he at last. ‘I can help you. This is not sent you as a chastisement, but as a warning; it is for your protection; someone is praying for your welfare. Go to the market now and buy a young dog and keep it by you day and night. Your visions will leave you and, moreover, that dog will be of use to you.’

  “I felt as though light dawned upon me, all at once; how those words delighted me. I bowed down to Prohoritch and would have gone away, when I bethought me that I could not go away without rewarding him. I got a three rouble note out of my pocket. But he thrust my hand away and said, ‘Give it to our chapel, or to the poor; the service I have done you is not to be paid for.’ I bowed down to him again almost to the ground, and set off straight for the market! And only fancy: as soon as I drew near the shops, lo and behold, a man in a frieze overcoat comes sauntering towards me carrying under his arm a two months’ old setter puppy with a reddish brown coat, white lips and white forepaws. ‘Stay,’ I said to the man in the overcoat, ‘what will you sell it for?’ ‘For two roubles.’ Take three!’ The man looked at me in amazement, thought the gentleman had gone out of his wits, but I flung the notes in his face, took the pup under my arm and made for my carriage! The coachman quickly had the horses harnessed and that evening I reached home. The puppy sat inside my coat all the way and did not stir; and I kept calling him, ‘Little Trésor! Little Trésor!’ I gave him food and drink at once. I had some straw brought in, settled him and whisked into bed! I blew out the candle: it was dark. ‘Well, now begin,’ said I. There was silence. ‘Begin,’ said I, ‘you so and so!’ … Not a sound, as though to mock me. Well, I began to feel so set up that I fell to calling it all sorts of names. But still there was not a sound! I could only hear the puppy panting! ‘Filka,’ I cried, ‘Filka! Come here, you stupid!’ He came in. ‘Do you hear the dog?’ ‘No, sir,’ said he, ‘I hear nothing,’ and he laughed. ‘And you won’t hear it ever again,’ said I. ‘Here’s half a rouble for vodka!’ ‘Let me kiss your hand,’ said the foolish fellow, and he stooped down to me in the darkness…. It was a great relief, I must tell you.”