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 the

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