in our students' discussions was mostly limited to the bright sympathy
of his glance and smile. To the fair sex Fustov was attractive,
undoubtedly, but on this subject, of such importance among young people,
he did not care to enlarge, and fully deserved the nickname given him by
his comrades, 'the discreet Don Juan.' I was not dazzled by Fustov;
there was nothing in him to dazzle, but I prized his affection, though
in reality it was only manifested by his never refusing to see me when I
called. To my mind Fustov was the happiest man in the world. His life
ran so very smoothly. His mother, brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles
all adored him, he was on exceptionally good terms with all of them, and
enjoyed the reputation of a paragon in his family.


IV


One day I went round to him rather early and did not find him in his
study. He called to me from the next room; sounds of panting and
splashing reached me from there. Every morning Fustov took a cold
shower-bath and afterwards for a quarter of an hour practised gymnastic
exercises, in which he had attained remarkable proficiency. Excessive
anxiety about one's physical health he did not approve of, but he did
not neglect necessary care. ('Don't neglect yourself, don't over-excite
yourself, work in moderation,' was his precept.) Fustov had not yet made
his appearance, when the outer door of the room where I was waiting flew
wide open, and there walked in a man about fifty, wearing a bluish
uniform. He was a stout, squarely-built man with milky-whitish eyes in a
dark-red face and a perfect cap of thick, grey, curly hair. This person
stopped short, looked at me, opened his mouth wide, and with a metallic
chuckle, he gave himself a smart slap on his haunch, kicking his leg up