1867.
* * * *
*
“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?”
