him once. (Janus didn't take to me; if I went near him he would fly into a rage, and mutter thickly, 'Stranger! keep off!') 'Eh, God bless me! isn't he a philosopher?' answered Alexey Sergeitch. 'Look ye, little sir, how wisely he holds his tongue!' 'But why is he double-faced?' 'Because, little sir, he has one face on the outside—and so you, surface-gazers, judge him. . . But the other, the real face he hides. And that face I know, and no one else—and I love him for it . . . because that face is good. You, for instance, look and see nothing . . . but I see without a word: he is blaming me for something; for he's a severe critic! And it's always with good reason. That, little sir, you can't understand; but you may believe an old man like me!' The real history of the two-faced Janus—where he came from, and how he came into Alexey Sergeitch's hands—no one knew; but the story of Prince L. was well known to every one. He went, a lad of twenty, of a wealthy and distinguished family, to Petersburg, to serve in a regiment of the Guards. At the first levee the Empress Catherine noticed him, stood still before him, and, pointing at him with her fan, she said aloud, addressing one of her courtiers, who happened to be near, 'Look, Adam Vassilievitch, what a pretty fellow! a perfect doll!' The poor boy's head was completely turned; when he got home he ordered his coach out,
177
