by craft! I

suspected nothing and I was awfully afraid of Luigi! He used to say to

me, ‘I’ll cut your throat, I’ll cut your throat like a chicken’s!’ And

he used to twitch his moustache so horribly as he said it! And they

dragged me into a bad company, too…. I am very much ashamed, Mr.

Lieutenant! And even now I shed bitter tears at these memories! … It

seems to me … ah! I was not born for such doings…. But there is no

help for it; and this is how it all happened! Afterwards I was

horribly frightened and could not help going away, for if the police

had found us, what would have happened to us then? That accursed Luigi

fled at once as soon as he heard that you were alive. But I soon

parted from them all and though now I am often without a crust of

bread, my heart is at peace! You will ask me perhaps why I came to

Nikolaev? But I can give you no answer! I have sworn! I will finish by

asking of you a favour, a very, very important one: whenever you

remember your little friend Emilie, do not think of her as a

black-hearted criminal! The eternal God sees my heart. I have a bad

morality (Ich habe eine schlechte moralität) and I am

feather-headed, but I am not a criminal. And I shall always love and

remember you, my incomparable Florestan, and shall always wish you

everything good on this earthly globe (auf diesem Erdenrund!).

I don’t know whether my letter will reach you, but if it does, write me

a few lines that I may see you have received it. Thereby you will make

very 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 my

feelings 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’t

know German … and in Russian, who would have translated it? And so I

did not write.»

And always as he finished his story, Kuzma Vassilyevitch sighed, shook

his head and said, «that’s what it is to be young!» And if among his

audience was some new person who was hearing the famous story for the

first time, he would take his hand, lay it on his skull and make him

feel the scar of the wound…. It really was a fearful wound and the

scar reached from one ear to the other.

1867.

THE DOG

«But if one admits the possibility of the supernatural, the

possibility of its participation in real life, then allow me to ask

what becomes of common sense?» Anton Stepanitch pronounced and he

folded his arms over his stomach.

Anton Stepanitch had the grade of a civil councillor, served in some

incomprehensible department and, speaking emphatically and stiffly in

a bass voice, enjoyed universal respect. He had not long before, in

the words of those who envied him, «had the Stanislav stuck on to

him.»

«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 has

happened to me myself,» said a bald, corpulent middle-aged gentleman

of medium height, who had till then sat silent behind the stove. The

eyes of all in the room turned to him with curiosity and surprise, and

there was a silence.

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