“But why are we standing here?” I began.
“Let us go home.”
“Let us,” said Tyeglev. “But
how can we find the way in this fog?”
“There is a light in our windows, and we will
make for it. Come along.”
“You go ahead,” answered Tyeglev.
“I will follow you.” We set off.
We walked for five minutes and our beacon light still
did not appear; at last it gleamed before us in two
red points. Tyeglev stepped evenly behind me.
I was desperately anxious to get home as quickly as
possible and to learn from him all the details of his
unhappy expedition to Petersburg. Before we reached
the hut, impressed by what he had said, I confessed
to him in an access of remorse and a sort of superstitious
fear, that the mysterious knocking of the previous
evening had been my doing ... and what a tragic turn
my jest had taken!
Tyeglev confined himself to observing that I had nothing
to do with it—that something else had guided
my hand—and this only showed how little
I knew him. His voice, strangely calm and even,
sounded close to my ear. “But you do not
know me,” he added. “I saw you smile
yesterday when I spoke of the strength of my will.
You will come to know me—and you will remember
my words.”
The first hut of the village sprang out of the fog
before us like some dark monster ... then the second,
our hut, emerged—and my setter dog began
barking, probably scenting me.
I knocked at the window. “Semyon!”
I shouted to Tyeglev’s servant, “hey,
Semyon! Make haste and open the gate for us.”
The gate creaked and opened; Semyon crossed the threshold.
“Ilya Stepanitch, come in,” I said, and
I looked round. But no Ilya Stepanitch was with
me. Tyeglev had vanished as though he had sunk
into the earth.
I went into the hut feeling dazed.
Vexation with Tyeglev and with myself succeeded the
amazement with which I was overcome at first.
“Your master is mad!” I blurted out to
Semyon, “raving mad! He galloped off to
Petersburg, then came back and is running about all
over the place! I did get hold of him and brought
him right up to the gate—and here he has
given me the slip again! To go out of doors on
a night like this! He has chosen a nice time
for a walk!”
“And why did I let go of his hand?” I
reproached myself. Semyon looked at me in silence,
as though intending to say something—but
after the fashion of servants in those days he simply
shifted from one foot to the other and said nothing.
“What time did he set off for town?” I
asked sternly.
“At six o’clock in the morning.”
“And how was he—did he seem anxious,
depressed?” Semyon looked down. “Our
master is a deep one,” he began. “Who
can make him out? He told me to get out his new
uniform when he was going out to town—and
then he curled himself.”
“Curled himself?”
