(1866)
“But if we can admit the possibility of the supernatural, the
possibility of its intervention in real life,--then allow me to inquire,
what rôle is sound judgment bound to play after this?”--shouted Antón
Stepánitch, crossing his arms on his stomach.
Antón Stepánitch had held the rank of State Councillor,[35] had served
in some wonderful department, and, as his speech was interlarded with
pauses and was slow and uttered in a bass voice, he enjoyed universal
respect. Not long before the date of our story, “the good-for-nothing
little Order of St. Stanislas had been stuck on him,” as those who
envied him expressed it.
“That is perfectly just,”--remarked Skvorévitch.
“No one will dispute that,”--added Kinarévitch.
“I assent also,”--chimed in, in falsetto, from a corner the master of
the house, Mr. Finopléntoff.
“But I, I must confess, cannot assent, because something supernatural
has happened to me,”--said a man of medium stature and middle age, with
a protruding abdomen and a bald spot, who had been sitting silent before
the stove up to that moment. The glances of all present in the room were
turned upon him with curiosity and surprise--and silence reigned.
This man was a landed proprietor of Kalúga, not wealthy, who had
recently come to Petersburg. He had once served in the hussars, had
gambled away his property, resigned from the service and settled down in
the country. The recent agricultural changes had cut off his revenues,
and he had betaken himself to the capital in search of a snug little
position. He possessed no abilities, and had no influential connections;
but he placed great reliance on the friendship of an old comrade in the
service, who had suddenly, without rhyme or reason, become a person of
importance, and whom he had once aided to administer a sound thrashing
to a card-sharper. Over and above that he counted upon his own luck--and
it had not betrayed him; several days later he obtained the post of
inspector of government storehouses, a profitable, even honourable
position which did not require extraordinary talents: the storehouses
themselves existed only in contemplation, and no one even knew with
certainty what they were to contain,--but they had been devised as a
measure of governmental economy.
Antón Stepánitch was the first to break the general silence.
“What, my dear sir?”--he began. “Do you seriously assert that something
supernatural--I mean to say, incompatible with the laws of nature--has
happened to you?”
“I do,”--returned “my dear sir,” whose real name was Porfíry
Kapítonitch.
“Incompatible with the laws of nature?”--energetically repeated Antón
Stepánitch, who evidently liked that phrase.
“Precisely ... yes; precisely the sort of thing you allude to.”
“This is astonishing! What think you, gentlemen?”--Antón Stepánitch
endeavoured to impart to his features an ironical expression, but
without result--or, to speak more accurately, the only result was to
produce the effect that Mr. State Councillor smelt a bad odour.--“Will
not you be so kind, my dear sir,”--he went on, addressing the landed
proprietor from Kalúga,--“as to communicate to us the particulars of
such a curious event?”
“Why not? Certainly!”--replied the landed proprietor, and moving forward
to the middle of the room in an easy manner he spoke as follows:
I have, gentlemen, as you are probably aware,--or as you may not be
aware,--a small estate in Kozyól County. I formerly derived some profit
from it--but now, of course, nothing but unpleasantness is to be
anticipated. However, let us put politics aside! Well, sir, on that same
estate I have a “wee little” manor: a vegetable garden, as is proper, a
tiny pond with little carp, and some sort of buildings--well, and a
small wing for my own sinful body.... I am a bachelor. So, sir, one
day--about six years ago--I had returned home rather late; I had been
playing cards at a neighbour’s house--but I beg you to observe, I was
not tipsy, as the expression goes. I undressed, got into bed, and blew
out the light. And just imagine, gentlemen; no sooner had I blown out
the light, than something began to rummage under my bed! Is it a rat? I
thought. No, it was not a rat: it clawed and fidgeted and scratched
itself.... At last it began to flap its ears!
It was a dog--that was clear. But where had the dog come from? I keep
none myself. “Can some stray animal have run in?” I thought. I called to
my servant; his name is Fílka. The man entered with a candle.
“What’s this,”--says I,--“my good Fílka? How lax thou art! A dog has
intruded himself under my bed.”
“What dog?”--says he.
“How should I know?”--says I;--“that’s thy affair--not to allow thy
master to be disturbed.”
My Fílka bent down, and began to pass the candle about under the bed.
“Why,”--says he,--“there’s no dog here.”
I bent down also; in fact there was no dog.... Here was a marvel! I
turned my eyes on Fílka: he was smiling.
“Fool,”--said I to him,--“what art thou grinning about? When thou didst
open the door the dog probably took and sneaked out into the anteroom.
But thou, gaper, didst notice nothing, because thou art eternally
asleep. Can it be that thou thinkest I am drunk?”
He attempted to reply, but I drove him out, curled myself up in a ring,
and heard nothing more that night.
But on the following night--just imagine!--the same thing was repeated.
No sooner had I blown out the light than it began to claw and flap its
ears. Again I summoned Fílka, again he looked under the bed--again
nothing! I sent him away, blew out the light--phew, damn it! there was
the dog still. And a dog it certainly was: I could hear it breathing and
rummaging in its hair with its teeth in search of fleas so plainly!
“Fílka!”--says I,--“come hither without a light!”... He entered....
“Well, now,”--says I, “dost thou hear?...”
“I do,”--said he. I could not see him, but I felt that the fellow was
quailing.
“What dost thou make of it?”--said I.
“What dost thou command me to make of it, Porfíry Kapítonitch?... ’Tis
an instigation of the Evil One!”
“Thou art a lewd fellow; hold thy tongue with thy instigation of the
Evil One.”... But the voices of both of us were like those of birds,
and we were shaking as though in a fever--in the darkness. I lighted a
candle: there was no dog, and no noise whatever--only Fílka and I as
white as clay. And I must inform you, gentlemen--you can believe me or
not--but from that night forth for the space of six weeks the same thing
went on. At last I even got accustomed to it and took to extinguishing
my light because I cannot sleep with a light. “Let him fidget!” I
thought. “It doesn’t harm me.”
“But--I see--that you do not belong to the cowardly squad,”--interrupted
Antón Stepánitch, with a half-scornful, half-condescending laugh. “The
hussar is immediately perceptible!”
“I should not be frightened at you, in any case,”--said Porfíry
Kapítonitch, and for a moment he really did look like a hussar.--“But
listen further.”
A neighbour came to me, the same one with whom I was in the habit of
playing cards. He dined with me on what God had sent, and lost fifty
rubles to me for his visit; night was drawing on--it was time for him to
go. But I had calculations of my own:--“Stop and spend the night with
me, Vasíly Vasílitch; to-morrow thou wilt win it back, God willing.”
My Vasíly Vasílitch pondered and pondered--and stayed. I ordered a bed
to be placed for him in my own chamber.... Well, sir, we went to bed,
smoked, chattered,--chiefly about the feminine sex, as is fitting in
bachelor society,--and laughed, as a matter of course. I look; Vasíly
Vasílitch has put out his candle and has turned his back on me; that
signifies: “_Schlafen Sie wohl._” I waited a little and extinguished my
candle also. And imagine: before I had time to think to myself, “What
sort of performance will there be now?” my dear little animal began to
make a row. And that was not all; he crawled out from under the bed,
walked across the room, clattering his claws on the floor, waggling his
ears, and suddenly collided with a chair which stood by the side of
Vasíly Vasílitch’s bed!
“Porfíry Kapítonitch,”--says Vasíly Vasílitch, and in such an
indifferent voice, you know,--“I didn’t know that thou hadst taken to
keeping a dog. What sort of an animal is it--a setter?”
“I have no dog,”--said I,--“and I never have had one.”
“Thou hast not indeed! But what’s this?”
“What is this?”--said I.--“See here now; light the candle and thou wilt
find out for thyself.”
“It isn’t a dog?”
“No.”
Vasíly Vasílitch turned over in bed.--“But thou art jesting, damn it?”
“No, I’m not jesting.”--I hear him go scratch, scratch with a match, and
that thing does not stop, but scratches its side. The flame flashed up
... and basta! There was not a trace of a dog! Vasíly Vasílitch stared
at me--and I stared at him.
“What sort of a trick is this?”--said he.
“Why,”--said I,--“this is such a trick that if thou wert to set Socrates
himself on one side and Frederick the Great on the other even they
couldn’t make head or tail of it.”--And thereupon I told him all in
detail. Up jumped my Vasíly Vasílitch as though he had been singed! He
couldn’t get into his boots.
“Horses!”--he yelled--“horses!”