Reflecting on this indifference on a special point, and on the numerous manifestations I had noticed of his sensibility, I came at last to the conclusion that he must be a man of tender heart, whose delicate sensibilities easily shrank from the horrible under every form; and no more permitted him to dwell unnecessarily upon painful facts, than they permit imaginative minds to dwell on the details of an operation.

I had not long settled this in my mind before an accident suddenly threw a lurid light upon many details noticed previously, and painfully revived that inexplicable repulsion with which I had at first regarded him.  A new suspicion filled my mind, or rather, let me say, a distinct shape was impressed upon many fluctuating suspicions.  It scarcely admitted of argument, and at times seemed preposterous, nevertheless it persisted.  The mind which in broad daylight assents to all that can be alleged against the absurdities of the belief in apparitions, will often acknowledge the dim terrors of darkness and loneliness—­terrors at possibilities of supernatural visitations.  In like manner, in the clear daylight of reason I could see the absurdity of my suspicion, but the vague stirrings of feeling remained unsilenced.  I was haunted by the dim horrors of a possibility.

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!”