Thus it arose.We were both going to Munich, and Bourgonef had shortened his contemplated stay at Nuremberg that he might have the pleasure of accompanying me; adding also that he, too, should be glad to reach Munich, not only for its art, but for its greater command of papers and intelligence respecting what was then going on in France.On the night preceding the morning of our departure, I was seated in his room, smoking and discussing as usual, while Ivan, his servant, packed up his things in two large portmanteaus.
Ivan was a serf who spoke no word of any language but his own.
Although of a brutal, almost idiotic type, he was loudly eulogized by his master as the model of fidelity and usefulness.Bourgonef treated him with gentleness, though with a certain imperiousness;much as one might treat a savage mastiff which it was necessary to dominate without exasperating.He more than once spoke of Ivan as a living satire on physiognomists and phrenologists; and as I am a phrenologist, I listened with some incredulity.
"Look at him," he would say."Observe the low, retreating brow, the flat face, the surly mouth, the broad base of the head, and the huge bull-like neck.Would not anyone say Ivan was as destructive as a panther, as tenacious as a bull-dog, as brutal as a bull? Yet he is the gentlest of sluggish creatures, and as tender-hearted as a girl! That thick-set muscular frame shrouds a hare's heart.He is so faithful and so attached that I believe for me he would risk his life; but on no account could you get him to place himself in danger on his own account.Part of his love for me is gratitude for having rescued him from the conscription: the dangers incident to a military life had no charm for him!"Now, although Bourgonef, who was not a phrenologist, might be convinced of the absence of ferocious instincts in Ivan, to me, as a phrenologist, the statement was eminently incredible.All the appearances of his manner were such as to confirm his master's opinion.He was quiet, even tender in his attentions.But the tyrannous influence of ideas and physical impressions cannot be set aside; and no evidence would permanently have kept down my distrust of this man.When women shriek at the sight of a gun, it is in vain that you solemnly assure them that the gun is not loaded."Idon't know," they reply,--"at any rate, I don't like it." I was much in this attitude with regard to Ivan.He might be harmless.
I didn't know that; what I did know was--that I didn't like his looks.
On this night he was moving noiselessly about the room, employed in packing.Bourgonef's talk rambled over the old themes; and Ithought I had never before met with one of my own age whose society was so perfectly delightful.He was not so conspicuously my superior on all points that I felt the restraints inevitably imposed by superiority; yet he was in many respects sufficiently above me in knowledge and power to make me eager to have his assent to my views where we differed, and to have him enlighten me where Iknew myself to be weak.
In the very moment of my most cordial admiration came a shock.
Ivan, on passing from one part of the room to the other, caught his foot in the strap of the portmanteau and fell.The small wooden box, something of a glove-box, which he held in his hand at the time, fell on the floor, and falling over, discharged its contents close to Bourgonef's feet.The objects which caught my eyes were several pairs of gloves, a rouge-pot and hare's foot, and a black beard!
By what caprice of imagination was it that the sight of this false beard lying at Bourgonef's feet thrilled me with horror? In one lightning-flash I beheld the archway--the stranger with the startled eyes--this stranger no longer unknown to me, but too fatally recognized as Bourgonef--and at his feet the murdered girl!
Moved by what subtle springs of suggestion I know not, but there before me stood that dreadful vision, seen in a lurid light, but seen as clearly as if the actual presence of the objects were obtruding itself upon my eyes.In the inexpressible horror of this vision my heart seemed clutched with an icy hand.
Fortunately Bourgonef's attention was called away from me.He spoke angrily some short sentence, which of course was in Russian, and therefore unintelligible to me.He then stooped, and picking up the rouge-pot, held it towards me with his melancholy smile.He was very red in the face; but that may have been either anger or the effect of sudden stooping."I see you are surprised at these masquerading follies," he said in a tone which, though low, was perfectly calm."You must not suppose that I beautify my sallow cheeks on ordinary occasions."He then quietly handed the pot to Ivan, who replaced it with the gloves and the beard in the box; and after making an inquiry which sounded like a growl, to which Bourgonef answered negatively, he continued his packing.
Bourgonef resumed his cigar and his argument as if nothing had happened.
The vision had disappeared, but a confused mass of moving figures took its place.My heart throbbed so violently that it seemed to me as if its tumult must be heard by others.Yet my face must have been tolerably calm, since Bourgonef made no comment on it.
I answered his remarks in vague fragments, for, in truth, my thoughts were flying from conjecture to conjecture.I remembered that the stranger had a florid complexion; was this rouge? It is true that I fancied the stranger carried a walking-stick in his right hand; if so, this was enough to crush all suspicions of his identity with Bourgonef; but then I was rather hazy on this point, and probably did not observe a walking-stick.
After a while my inattention struck him, and looking at me with some concern, he inquired if there was anything the matter.Ipleaded a colic, which I attributed to the imprudence of having indulged in sauerkraut at dinner.He advised me to take a little brandy; but, affecting a fresh access of pain, I bade him good-night.He hoped I should be all right on the morrow--if not, he added, we can postpone our journey till the day after.
Once in my own room I bolted the door, and sat down on the edge of the bed in a tumult of excitement.
