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Updated: June 12, 2025
BETWEEN nine and ten in the morning. Ivan Lyashkevsky, a lieutenant of Polish origin, who has at some time or other been wounded in the head, and now lives on his pension in a town in one of the southern provinces, is sitting in his lodgings at the open window talking to Franz Stepanitch Finks, the town architect, who has come in to see him for a minute.
"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.
Her husband, Osip Stepanitch Dymov, was a doctor, and only of the rank of a titular councillor. He was on the staff of two hospitals: in one a ward-surgeon and in the other a dissecting demonstrator. Every day from nine to twelve he saw patients and was busy in his ward, and after twelve o'clock he went by tram to the other hospital, where he dissected.
"She is the sort that the gentry like." "And you?" "She is not the right sort for us at all." "How so?" "Very thin in the body." "If she died," I began, "do you think Ilya Stepanitch would not survive her?" Semyon heaved a sigh again. "I can't venture to say that there's no knowing with gentlemen ... but our master is a deep one."
"I must have startled a thief," I added. "You heard a horse was stolen from our neighbour yesterday?" Tyeglev smiled frigidly and lighted his pipe. I sat down beside him. "And do you still believe, Ilya Stepanitch," I said, "that the voice we heard came from those unknown realms...." He stopped me with a peremptory gesture.
My brother lodged not at Krasnoe Selo itself but in one of the neighbouring villages; I stayed with him more than once and made the acquaintance of all his comrades. He was living in a fairly decent cottage, together with another officer of his battery, whose name was Ilya Stepanitch Tyeglev. I became particularly friendly with him.
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