It
was full of mistakes in spelling and exclamation marks; the postmark
on the envelope was Breslau. Here is the translation, as correct as
may be, of the letter:

"My precious, unforgettable and incomparable Florestan! Mr. Lieutenant
Yergenhof! "How often I felt impelled to write to you! And I have always
unfortunately put it off, though the thought that you may regard me as
having had a hand in that awful crime has always been the most
appalling thought to me! Oh, dear Mr. Lieutenant! Believe me, the day
when I learnt that you were alive and well, was the happiest day of my
life! But I do not mean to justify myself altogether! I will not tell
a lie! I was the first to discover your habit of carrying your money
round your waist! (Though indeed in our part of the world all the
butchers and meat salesmen do the same!) And I was so incautious as to
let drop a word about it! I even said in joke that it wouldn't be bad
to take a little of your money! But the old wretch (Mr. Florestan! she
was _not_ my aunt) plotted with that godless monster Luigi and
his accomplice! I swear by my mother's tomb, I don't know to this day
who those people were! I only know that his name was Luigi and that
they both came from Bucharest and were certainly great criminals and
were hiding from the police and had money and precious things! Luigi
was a dreadful individual (_ein schröckliches Subject_), to kill
a fellow-man (_einen Mitmenschen_) meant nothing at all to him! He spoke every language--and it was _he_ who that time got our
things back from the cook! Don't ask how! He was capable of anything,
he was an awful man! He assured the old woman that he would only drug
you a little and then take you out of town and put you down somewhere
and would say that he knew nothing about it but that it was your
fault--that you had taken too much wine somewhere! But even then the
wretch had it in his mind that it would be better to kill you so that
there would be no one to tell the tale! He wrote you that letter,
signed with my name and the old woman got me away by craft! I
suspected nothing and I was awfully afraid of Luigi! He used to say to
me, 'I'll cut your throat, I'll cut your throat like a chicken's!' And
he used to twitch his moustache so horribly as he said it! And they
dragged me into a bad company, too.... I am very much ashamed, Mr. Lieutenant! And even now I shed bitter tears at these memories! ... It
seems to me ... ah! I was not born for such doings.... But there is no
help for it; and this is how it all happened! Afterwards I was
horribly frightened and could not help going away, for if the police
had found us, what would have happened to us then? That accursed Luigi
fled at once as soon as he heard that you were alive. But I soon
parted from them all and though now I am often without a crust of
bread, my heart is at peace! You will ask me perhaps why I came to
Nikolaev? But I can give you no answer! I have sworn! I will finish by
asking of you a favour, a very, very important one: whenever you
remember your little friend Emilie, do not think of her as a
black-hearted criminal! The eternal God sees my heart. I have
a bad morality (_Ich habe eine schlechte moralität_) and I am
feather-headed, but I am not a criminal. And I shall always love and
remember you, my incomparable Florestan, and shall always wish you
everything good on this earthly globe (_auf diesem Erdenrund!_). I don't know whether my letter will reach you, but if it does, write
me a few lines that I may see you have received it. Thereby you will make
very happy your ever-devoted Emilie. "P. S. Write to F. E. poste restante, Breslau, Silesia. "P. S. S. I have written to you in German; I could not express my
feelings otherwise; but you write to me in Russian." XXVIII

"Well, did you answer her?" we asked Kuzma Vassilyevitch. "I meant to, I meant to many times. But how was I to write? I don't
know German ... and in Russian, who would have translated it? And so I
did not write." And always as he finished his story, Kuzma Vassilyevitch sighed, shook
his head and said, "that's what it is to be young!" And if among his
audience was some new person who was hearing the famous story for the
first time, he would take his hand, lay it on his skull and make him
feel the scar of the wound.... It really was a fearful wound and the
scar reached from one ear to the other. 1867. *       *       *       *       *

THE DOG

"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?"