rushed away.

I remained for a fortnight under arrest. I was told that the widow of the luckless Girshel came to fetch away the clothes of the deceased. The general ordered a hundred roubles to be given to her. Sara I never saw again. I was wounded; I was taken to the hospital, and by the time I was well again, Dantzig had surrendered, and I joined my regiment on the banks of the Rhine.

AN UNHAPPY GIRL

Yes, yes, began Piotr Gavrilovitch; those were painful days… and I would rather not recall them…. But I have made you a promise; I shall have to tell you the whole story. Listen.

I

I was living at that time (the winter of 1835) in Moscow, in the house of my aunt, the sister of my dead mother. I was eighteen; I had only just passed from the second into the third course in the faculty ‘of Language’ (that was what it was called in those days) in the Moscow University. My aunt was a gentle, quiet woman—a widow. She lived in a big, wooden house in Ostozhonka, one of those warm, cosy houses such as, I fancy, one can find nowhere else but in Moscow. She saw hardly any one, sat from morning till night in the drawing-room with two companions, drank the choicest tea, played patience, and was continually requesting that the room should be fumigated. Thereupon her companions ran into the hall; a few minutes later an old servant in livery would bring in a copper pan with a bunch of mint on a hot brick, and stepping hurriedly upon the narrow strips of carpet, he would sprinkle the mint with vinegar. White fumes always puffed up about his wrinkled face, and he frowned and turned away, while the canaries in the dining-room chirped their hardest, exasperated by the hissing of the smouldering mint.

I was fatherless and motherless, and my aunt spoiled me. She placed the whole of the ground floor at my complete disposal. My rooms were furnished very elegantly, not at all like a student’s rooms in fact: there were pink curtains in the bedroom, and a muslin canopy, adorned with blue rosettes, towered over my bed. Those rosettes were, I’ll own, rather an annoyance to me; to my thinking, such ‘effeminacies’ were calculated to lower me in the eyes of my companions. As it was, they nicknamed me ‘the boarding-school miss.’ I could never succeed in forcing myself to smoke. I studied—why conceal my shortcomings?—very lazily, especially at the beginning of the course. I went out a great deal. My aunt had bestowed on me a wide sledge, fit for a general, with a pair of sleek horses. At the houses of ‘the gentry’ my visits were rare, but at the theatre I was quite at home, and I consumed masses of tarts at the restaurants. For all that, I permitted myself no breach of decorum, and behaved very discreetly, en jeune homme de bonne maison. I would not for anything in the world have pained my kind aunt; and besides I was naturally of a rather cool temperament.

II

From my earliest years I had been fond of chess; I had no idea of the science of the game, but I didn’t play badly. One day in a café, I was the spectator of a prolonged contest at chess, between two players, of whom one, a fair-haired young man of about five-and-twenty, struck me as playing well. The game ended in his favour; I offered to play a match with him. He agreed,… and in the course of an hour, beat me easily, three times running.

‘You have a natural gift for the game,’ he pronounced in a courteous tone, noticing probably that my vanity was suffering; ‘but you don’t know the openings. You ought to study a chess-book—Allgacir or Petrov.’

‘Do you think so? But where can I get such a book?’

‘Come to me; I will give you one.’

He gave me his name, and told me where he was living. Next day I went to see him, and a week later we were almost inseparable.

III

My new acquaintance was called Alexander Davidovitch Fustov. He lived with his mother, a rather wealthy woman, the widow of a privy councillor, but he occupied a little lodge apart and lived quite independently, just as I did at my aunt’s. He had a post in the department of Court affairs. I became genuinely attached to him. I had never in my life met a young man more ‘sympathetic.’ Everything about him was charming and attractive: his graceful figure, his bearing, his voice, and especially his small, delicate face with the golden-blue eyes, the elegant, as it were coquettishly moulded little nose, the unchanging amiable smile on the crimson lips, the light curls of soft hair over the rather narrow, snow-white brow. Fustov’s character was remarkable for exceptional serenity, and a sort of amiable, restrained affability; he was never pre-occupied, and was always satisfied with everything; but on the other hand he was never ecstatic over anything. Every excess, even in a good feeling, jarred upon him; ‘that’s savage, savage,’ he would say with a faint shrug, half closing his golden eyes. Marvellous were those eyes of Fustov’s! They invariably expressed sympathy, good-will, even devotion. It was only at a later period that I noticed that the expression of his eyes resulted solely from their setting, that it never changed, even when he was sipping his soup or smoking a cigar. His preciseness became a byword between us. His grandmother, indeed, had been a German. Nature had endowed him with all sorts of talents. He danced capitally, was a dashing horseman, and a first-rate swimmer; did carpentering, carving and joinery, bound books and cut out silhouettes, painted in watercolours nosegays of flowers or Napoleon in profile in a blue uniform; played the zither with feeling; knew a number of tricks, with cards and without; and had a fair knowledge of mechanics, physics, and chemistry; but everything only up to a certain point. Only for languages he had no great facility: even French he spoke rather badly. He spoke in general little, and his share in our students’ discussions was mostly limited to the bright sympathy of his glance and smile. To the fair sex Fustov was attractive, undoubtedly, but on this subject, of such importance among young people, he did not care to enlarge, and fully deserved the nickname given him by his comrades, ‘the discreet Don Juan.’ I was not dazzled by Fustov; there was nothing in him to dazzle, but I prized his affection, though in reality it was only manifested by his never refusing to see me when I called. To my mind Fustov was the happiest man in the world. His life ran so very smoothly. His mother, brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles all adored him, he was on exceptionally good terms with all of them, and enjoyed the reputation of a paragon in his family.

IV

One day I went round to him rather early and did not find him in his study. He called to me from the next room; sounds of panting and splashing reached me from there. Every morning Fustov took a cold shower-bath and afterwards for a quarter of an hour practised gymnastic exercises, in which he had attained remarkable proficiency. Excessive anxiety about one’s physical health he did not approve of, but he did not neglect necessary care. (‘Don’t neglect yourself, don’t over-excite yourself, work in moderation,’ was his precept.) Fustov had not yet made his appearance, when the outer door of the room where I was waiting flew wide open, and there walked in a man about fifty, wearing a bluish uniform. He was a stout, squarely-built man with milky-whitish eyes in a dark-red face and a perfect cap of thick, grey, curly hair. This person stopped short, looked at me, opened his mouth wide, and with a metallic chuckle, he gave himself a smart slap on his haunch, kicking his leg up in front as he did so.

‘Ivan Demianitch?’ my friend inquired through the door.

‘The same, at your service,’ the new comer responded. ‘What are you up to? At your toilette? That’s right! that’s right!’ (The voice of the man addressed as Ivan Demianitch had the same harsh, metallic note as his laugh.) ‘I’ve trudged all this way to give your little brother his lesson; and he’s got a cold, you know, and does nothing but sneeze. He can’t do his work. So I’ve looked in on you for a bit to warm myself.’

Ivan Demianitch laughed again the same strange guffaw, again dealt himself a sounding smack on the leg, and pulling a check handkerchief out of his pocket, blew his nose noisily, ferociously rolling his eyes, spat into the handkerchief, and ejaculated with the whole force of his lungs: ‘Tfoo-o-o!’

Fustov came into the room, and shaking hands with both of us, asked us if we were acquainted.

‘Not a bit of it!’ Ivan Demianitch boomed at once: ‘the veteran of the year twelve has not that honour!’

Fustov mentioned my name first, then, indicating the ‘veteran of the year twelve,’ he pronounced: ‘Ivan Demianitch Ratsch, professor of… various subjects.’

‘Precisely so, various they are, precisely,’ Mr. Ratsch chimed in. ‘Come to think of it, what is there I haven’t taught, and that I’m not teaching now, for that matter! Mathematics and geography and statistics and Italian book-keeping, ha-ha ha-ha! and music! You doubt it, my dear sir?’—he pounced suddenly upon me—’ask Alexander Daviditch if I’m not first-rate on the bassoon. I should be a poor sort of Bohemian—Czech, I should say—if