THE IDIOT
Translated by Eva Martin
PART I
I.
Towards the end of
November, during a thaw, at nine o'clock one morning, a
train on the Warsaw and Petersburg railway was approaching
the latter city at full speed. The morning was so damp and
misty that it was only with great difficulty that the day
succeeded in breaking; and it was impossible to distinguish
anything more than a few yards away from the carriage
windows.
Some of the passengers by
this particular train were returning from abroad; but the
third-class carriages were the best filled, chiefly with
insignificant persons of various occupations and degrees,
picked up at the different stations nearer town. All of them
seemed weary, and most of them had sleepy eyes and a
shivering expression, while their complexions generally
appeared to have taken on the colour of the fog outside.
When day dawned, two
passengers in one of the third-class carriages found
themselves opposite each other. Both were young fellows,
both were rather poorly dressed, both had remarkable faces,
and both were evidently anxious to start a conversation. If
they had but known why, at this particular moment, they were
both remarkable persons, they would undoubtedly have
wondered at the strange chance which had set them down
opposite to one another in a third-class carriage of the
Warsaw Railway Company.
One of them was a young
fellow of about twenty-seven, not tall, with black curling
hair, and small, grey, fiery eyes. His nose was broad and
flat, and he had high cheek bones; his thin lips were
constantly compressed into an impudent, ironical—it might
almost be called a malicious—smile; but his forehead was
high and well formed, and atoned for a good deal of the
ugliness of the lower part of his face. A special feature of
this physiognomy was its death-like pallor, which gave to
the whole man an indescribably emaciated appearance in spite
of his hard look, and at the same time a sort of passionate
and suffering expression which did not harmonize with his
impudent, sarcastic smile and keen, self-satisfied bearing.
He wore a large fur—or rather astrachan—overcoat, which had
kept him warm all night, while his neighbour had been
obliged to bear the full severity of a Russian November
night entirely unprepared. His wide sleeveless mantle with a
large cape to it—the sort of cloak one sees upon travellers
during the winter months in Switzerland or North Italy—was
by no means adapted to the long cold journey through Russia,
from Eydkuhnen to St. Petersburg.
The wearer of this cloak
was a young fellow, also of about twenty-six or twenty-seven
years of age, slightly above the middle height, very fair,
with a thin, pointed and very light coloured beard; his eyes
were large and blue, and had an intent look about them, yet
that heavy expression which some people affirm to be a
peculiarity as well as evidence, of an epileptic subject.
His face was decidedly a pleasant one for all that; refined,
but quite colourless, except for the circumstance that at
this moment it was blue with cold. He held a bundle made up
of an old faded silk handkerchief that apparently contained
all his travelling wardrobe, and wore thick shoes and
gaiters, his whole appearance being very un-Russian.
His black-haired neighbour
inspected these peculiarities, having nothing better to do,
and at length remarked, with that rude enjoyment of the
discomforts of others which the common classes so often
show:
"Cold?"
"Very," said his neighbour,
readily, "and this is a thaw, too. Fancy if it had been a
hard frost! I never thought it would be so cold in the old
country. I've grown quite out of the way of it."
"What, been abroad, I
suppose?"
"Yes, straight from
Switzerland."
"Wheugh! my goodness!" The
black-haired young fellow whistled, and then laughed.
The conversation proceeded.
The readiness of the fair-haired young man in the cloak to
answer all his opposite neighbour's questions was
surprising. He seemed to have no suspicion of any
impertinence or inappropriateness in the fact of such
questions being put to him. Replying to them, he made known
to the inquirer that he certainly had been long absent from
Russia, more than four years; that he had been sent abroad
for his health; that he had suffered from some strange
nervous malady—a kind of epilepsy, with convulsive spasms.
His interlocutor burst out laughing several times at his
answers; and more than ever, when to the question, "whether
he had been cured?" the patient replied:
"No, they did not cure me."
"Hey! that's it! You
stumped up your money for nothing, and we believe in those
fellows, here!" remarked the black-haired individual,
sarcastically.
"Gospel truth, sir, Gospel
truth!" exclaimed another passenger, a shabbily dressed man
of about forty, who looked like a clerk, and possessed a red
nose and a very blotchy face. "Gospel truth! All they do is
to get hold of our good Russian money free, gratis, and for
nothing."
"Oh, but you're quite wrong
in my particular instance," said the Swiss patient, quietly.
"Of course I can't argue the matter, because I know only my
own case; but my doctor gave me money—and he had very
little—to pay my journey back, besides having kept me at his
own expense, while there, for nearly two years."
"Why? Was there no one else
to pay for you?" asked the black-haired one.
"No—Mr. Pavlicheff, who had
been supporting me there, died a couple of years ago. I
wrote to Mrs. General Epanchin at the time (she is a distant
relative of mine), but she did not answer my letter. And so
eventually I came back."
"And where have you come
to?"
"That is—where am I going
to stay? I—I really don't quite know yet, I—"
Both the listeners laughed
again.
"I suppose your whole
set-up is in that bundle, then?" asked the first.
"I bet anything it is!"
exclaimed the red-nosed passenger, with extreme
satisfaction, "and that he has precious little in the
luggage van!—though of course poverty is no crime—we must
remember that!"
It appeared that it was
indeed as they had surmised. The young fellow hastened to
admit the fact with wonderful readiness.
"Your bundle has some
importance, however," continued the clerk, when they had
laughed their fill (it was observable that the subject of
their mirth joined in the laughter when he saw them
laughing); "for though I dare say it is not stuffed full of
friedrichs d'or and louis d'or—judge from your costume and
gaiters—still—if you can add to your possessions such a
valuable property as a relation like Mrs. General Epanchin,
then your bundle becomes a significant object at once. That
is, of course, if you really are a relative of Mrs.
Epanchin's, and have not made a little error through—well,
absence of mind, which is very common to human beings; or,
say—through a too luxuriant fancy?"
"Oh, you are right again,"
said the fair-haired traveller, "for I really am almost
wrong when I say she and I are related. She is hardly a
relation at all; so little, in fact, that I was not in the
least surprised to have no answer to my letter. I expected
as much."
"H'm! you spent your
postage for nothing, then. H'm! you are candid, however—and
that is commendable. H'm! Mrs. Epanchin—oh yes! a most
eminent person. I know her. As for Mr. Pavlicheff, who
supported you in Switzerland, I know him too—at least, if it
was Nicolai Andreevitch of that name? A fine fellow he
was—and had a property of four thousand souls in his day."
"Yes, Nicolai
Andreevitch—that was his name," and the young fellow looked
earnestly and with curiosity at the all-knowing gentleman
with the red nose.
This sort of character is
met with pretty frequently in a certain class. They are
people who know everyone—that is, they know where a man is
employed, what his salary is, whom he knows, whom he
married, what money his wife had, who are his cousins, and
second cousins, etc., etc. These men generally have about a
hundred pounds a year to live on, and they spend their whole
time and talents in the amassing of this style of knowledge,
which they reduce—or raise—to the standard of a science.
During the latter part of
the conversation the black-haired young man had become very
impatient. He stared out of the window, and fidgeted, and
evidently longed for the end of the journey. He was very
absent; he would appear to listen-and heard nothing; and he
would laugh of a sudden, evidently with no idea of what he
was laughing about.
"Excuse me," said the
red-nosed man to the young fellow with the bundle, rather
suddenly; "whom have I the honour to be talking to?"
"Prince Lef Nicolaievitch
Muishkin," replied the latter, with perfect readiness.
"Prince Muishkin? Lef
Nicolaievitch? H'm! I don't know, I'm sure! I may say I have
never heard of such a person," said the clerk, thoughtfully.
"At least, the name, I admit, is historical. Karamsin must
mention the family name, of course, in his history—but as an
individual—one never hears of any Prince Muishkin nowadays."
"Of course not," replied
the prince; "there are none, except myself. I believe I am
the last and only one. As to my forefathers, they have
always been a poor lot; my own father was a sublieutenant in
the army. I don't know how Mrs. Epanchin comes into the
Muishkin family, but she is descended from the Princess
Muishkin, and she, too, is the last of her line."
"And did you learn science
and all that, with your professor over there?" asked the
black-haired passenger.
"Oh yes—I did learn a
little, but—"
"I've never learned
anything whatever," said the other.
"Oh, but I learned very
little, you know!" added the prince, as though excusing
himself. "They could not teach me very much on account of my
illness."
"Do you know the Rogojins?"
asked his questioner, abruptly.
"No, I don't—not at all! I
hardly know anyone in Russia. Why, is that your name?"
"Yes, I am Rogojin, Parfen
Rogojin."
"Parfen Rogojin? dear
me—then don't you belong to those very Rogojins, perhaps—"
began the clerk, with a very perceptible increase of
civility in his tone.
"Yes—those very ones,"
interrupted Rogojin, impatiently, and with scant courtesy. I
may remark that he had not once taken any notice of the
blotchy-faced passenger, and had hitherto addressed all his
remarks direct to the prince.
"Dear me—is it possible?"
observed the clerk, while his face assumed an expression of
great deference and servility—if not of absolute alarm:
"what, a son of that very Semen Rogojin—hereditary
honourable citizen—who died a month or so ago and left two
million and a half of roubles?"
"And how do you know
that he left two million and a half of roubles?" asked
Rogojin, disdainfully, and no deigning so much as to look at
the other. "However, it's true enough that my father died a
month ago, and that here am I returning from Pskoff, a month
after, with hardly a boot to my foot. They've treated me
like a dog! I've been ill of fever at Pskoff the whole time,
and not a line, nor farthing of money, have I received from
my mother or my confounded brother!"
"And now you'll have a
million roubles, at least—goodness gracious me!" exclaimed
the clerk, rubbing his hands.
"Five weeks since, I was
just like yourself," continued Rogojin, addressing the
prince, "with nothing but a bundle and the clothes I wore. I
ran away from my father and came to Pskoff to my aunt's
house, where I caved in at once with fever, and he went and
died while I was away. All honour to my respected father's
memory—but he uncommonly nearly killed me, all the same.
Give you my word, prince, if I hadn't cut and run then, when
I did, he'd have murdered me like a dog."
"I suppose you angered him
somehow?" asked the prince, looking at the millionaire with
considerable curiosity But though there may have been
something remarkable in the fact that this man was heir to
millions of roubles there was something about him which
surprised and interested the prince more than that. Rogojin,
too, seemed to have taken up the conversation with unusual
alacrity it appeared that he was still in a considerable
state of excitement, if not absolutely feverish, and was in
real need of someone to talk to for the mere sake of
talking, as safety-valve to his agitation.
As for his red-nosed
neighbour, the latter—since the information as to the
identity of Rogojin—hung over him, seemed to be living on
the honey of his words and in the breath of his nostrils,
catching at every syllable as though it were a pearl of
great price.
"Oh, yes; I angered him—I
certainly did anger him," replied Rogojin. "But what puts me
out so is my brother. Of course my mother couldn't do
anything—she's too old—and whatever brother Senka says is
law for her! But why couldn't he let me know? He sent a
telegram, they say. What's the good of a telegram? It
frightened my aunt so that she sent it back to the office
unopened, and there it's been ever since! It's only thanks
to Konief that I heard at all; he wrote me all about it. He
says my brother cut off the gold tassels from my father's
coffin, at night because they're worth a lot of money!' says
he. Why, I can get him sent off to Siberia for that alone,
if I like; it's sacrilege. Here, you—scarecrow!" he added,
addressing the clerk at his side, "is it sacrilege or not,
by law?'
"Sacrilege,
certainly—certainly sacrilege," said the latter.
"And it's Siberia for
sacrilege, isn't it?"
"Undoubtedly so; Siberia,
of course!"
"They will think that I'm
still ill," continued Rogojin to the prince, "but I sloped
off quietly, seedy as I was, took the train and came away.
Aha, brother Senka, you'll have to open your gates and let
me in, my boy! I know he told tales about me to my father—I
know that well enough but I certainly did rile my father
about Nastasia Philipovna that's very sure, and that was my
own doing."
"Nastasia Philipovna?" said
the clerk, as though trying to think out something.
"Come, you know nothing
about her," said Rogojin, impatiently.
"And supposing I do know
something?" observed the other, triumphantly.
"Bosh! there are plenty of
Nastasia Philipovnas. And what an impertinent beast you
are!" he added angrily. "I thought some creature like you
would hang on to me as soon as I got hold of my money."
"Oh, but I do know, as it
happens," said the clerk in an aggravating manner. "Lebedeff
knows all about her. You are pleased to reproach me, your
excellency, but what if I prove that I am right after all?
Nastasia Phillpovna's family name is Barashkoff—I know, you
see-and she is a very well known lady, indeed, and comes of
a good family, too. She is connected with one Totski,
Afanasy Ivanovitch, a man of considerable property, a
director of companies, and so on, and a great friend of
General Epanchin, who is interested in the same matters as
he is."
"My eyes!" said Rogojin,
really surprised at last. "The devil take the fellow, how
does he know that?"
"Why, he knows
everything—Lebedeff knows everything! I was a month or two
with Lihachof after his father died, your excellency, and
while he was knocking about—he's in the debtor's prison
now—I was with him, and he couldn't do a thing without
Lebedeff; and I got to know Nastasia Philipovna and several
people at that time."
"Nastasia Philipovna? Why,
you don't mean to say that she and Lihachof—" cried Rogojin,
turning quite pale.
"No, no, no, no, no!
Nothing of the sort, I assure you!" said Lebedeff, hastily.
"Oh dear no, not for the world! Totski's the only man with
any chance there. Oh, no! He takes her to his box at the
opera at the French theatre of an evening, and the officers
and people all look at her and say, 'By Jove, there's the
famous Nastasia Philipovna!' but no one ever gets any
further than that, for there is nothing more to say."
"Yes, it's quite true,"
said Rogojin, frowning gloomily; "so Zaleshoff told me. I
was walking about the Nefsky one fine day, prince, in my
father's old coat, when she suddenly came out of a shop and
stepped into her carriage. I swear I was all of a blaze at
once. Then I met Zaleshoff—looking like a hair-dresser's
assistant, got up as fine as I don't know who, while I
looked like a tinker. 'Don't flatter yourself, my boy,' said
he; 'she's not for such as you; she's a princess, she is,
and her name is Nastasia Philipovna Barashkoff, and she
lives with Totski, who wishes to get rid of her because he's
growing rather old—fifty-five or so—and wants to marry a
certain beauty, the loveliest woman in all Petersburg.' And
then he told me that I could see Nastasia Philipovna at the
opera-house that evening, if I liked, and described which
was her box. Well, I'd like to see my father allowing any of
us to go to the theatre; he'd sooner have killed us, any
day. However, I went for an hour or so and saw Nastasia
Philipovna, and I never slept a wink all night after. Next
morning my father happened to give me two government loan
bonds to sell, worth nearly five thousand roubles each.
'Sell them,' said he, 'and then take seven thousand five
hundred roubles to the office, give them to the cashier, and
bring me back the rest of the ten thousand, without looking
in anywhere on the way; look sharp, I shall be waiting for
you.' Well, I sold the bonds, but I didn't take the seven
thousand roubles to the office; I went straight to the
English shop and chose a pair of earrings, with a diamond
the size of a nut in each. They cost four hundred roubles
more than I had, so I gave my name, and they trusted me.
With the earrings I went at once to Zaleshoff's. 'Come on!'
I said, 'come on to Nastasia Philipovna's,' and off we went
without more ado. I tell you I hadn't a notion of what was
about me or before me or below my feet all the way; I saw
nothing whatever. We went straight into her drawing-room,
and then she came out to us.
"I didn't say right out who
I was, but Zaleshoff said: 'From Parfen Rogojin, in memory
of his first meeting with you yesterday; be so kind as to
accept these!'
"She opened the parcel,
looked at the earrings, and laughed.
"'Thank your friend Mr.
Rogojin for his kind attention,' says she, and bowed and
went off. Why didn't I die there on the spot? The worst of
it all was, though, that the beast Zaleshoff got all the
credit of it! I was short and abominably dressed, and stood
and stared in her face and never said a word, because I was
shy, like an ass! And there was he all in the fashion,
pomaded and dressed out, with a smart tie on, bowing and
scraping; and I bet anything she took him for me all the
while!
"'Look here now,' I said,
when we came out, 'none of your interference here after
this-do you understand?' He laughed: 'And how are you going
to settle up with your father?' says he. I thought I might
as well jump into the Neva at once without going home first;
but it struck me that I wouldn't, after all, and I went home
feeling like one of the damned."
"My goodness!" shivered the
clerk. "And his father," he added, for the prince's
instruction, "and his father would have given a man a ticket
to the other world for ten roubles any day—not to speak of
ten thousand!"
The prince observed Rogojin
with great curiosity; he seemed paler than ever at this
moment.
"What do you know about
it?" cried the latter. "Well, my father learned the whole
story at once, and Zaleshoff blabbed it all over the town
besides. So he took me upstairs and locked me up, and swore
at me for an hour. 'This is only a foretaste,' says he;
'wait a bit till night comes, and I'll come back and talk to
you again.'
"Well, what do you think?
The old fellow went straight off to Nastasia Philipovna,
touched the floor with his forehead, and began blubbering
and beseeching her on his knees to give him back the
diamonds. So after awhile she brought the box and flew out
at him. 'There,' she says, 'take your earrings, you wretched
old miser; although they are ten times dearer than their
value to me now that I know what it must have cost Parfen to
get them! Give Parfen my compliments,' she says, 'and thank
him very much!' Well, I meanwhile had borrowed twenty-five
roubles from a friend, and off I went to Pskoff to my
aunt's. The old woman there lectured me so that I left the
house and went on a drinking tour round the public-houses of
the place. I was in a high fever when I got to Pskoff, and
by nightfall I was lying delirious in the streets somewhere
or other!"
"Oho! we'll make Nastasia
Philipovna sing another song now!" giggled Lebedeff, rubbing
his hands with glee. "Hey, my boy, we'll get her some proper
earrings now! We'll get her such earrings that—"
"Look here," cried Rogojin,
seizing him fiercely by the arm, "look here, if you so much
as name Nastasia Philipovna again, I'll tan your hide as
sure as you sit there!"
"Aha! do—by all means! if
you tan my hide you won't turn me away from your society.
You'll bind me to you, with your lash, for ever. Ha, ha!
here we are at the station, though."
Sure enough, the train was
just steaming in as he spoke.
Though Rogojin had declared
that he left Pskoff secretly, a large collection of friends
had assembled to greet him, and did so with profuse waving
of hats and shouting.
"Why, there's Zaleshoff
here, too!" he muttered, gazing at the scene with a sort of
triumphant but unpleasant smile. Then he suddenly turned to
the prince: "Prince, I don't know why I have taken a fancy
to you; perhaps because I met you just when I did. But no,
it can't be that, for I met this fellow" (nodding at
Lebedeff) "too, and I have not taken a fancy to him by any
means. Come to see me, prince; we'll take off those gaiters
of yours and dress you up in a smart fur coat, the best we
can buy. You shall have a dress coat, best quality, white
waistcoat, anything you like, and your pocket shall be full
of money. Come, and you shall go with me to Nastasia
Philipovna's. Now then will you come or no?"
"Accept, accept, Prince Lef
Nicolaievitch" said Lebedef solemnly; "don't let it slip!
Accept, quick!"
Prince Muishkin rose and
stretched out his hand courteously, while he replied with
some cordiality:
"I will come with the
greatest pleasure, and thank you very much for taking a
fancy to me. I dare say I may even come today if I have
time, for I tell you frankly that I like you very much too.
I liked you especially when you told us about the diamond
earrings; but I liked you before that as well, though you
have such a dark-clouded sort of face. Thanks very much for
the offer of clothes and a fur coat; I certainly shall
require both clothes and coat very soon. As for money, I
have hardly a copeck about me at this moment."
"You shall have lots of
money; by the evening I shall have plenty; so come along!"
"That's true enough, he'll
have lots before evening!" put in Lebedeff.
"But, look here, are you a
great hand with the ladies? Let's know that first?" asked
Rogojin.
"Oh no, oh no!" said the
prince; "I couldn't, you know—my illness—I hardly ever saw a
soul."
"H'm! well—here, you
fellow-you can come along with me now if you like!" cried
Rogojin to Lebedeff, and so they all left the carriage.
Lebedeff had his desire. He
went off with the noisy group of Rogojin's friends towards
the Voznesensky, while the prince's route lay towards the
Litaynaya. It was damp and wet. The prince asked his way of
passers-by, and finding that he was a couple of miles or so
from his destination, he determined to take a droshky.
II.
General Epanchin lived in
his own house near the Litaynaya. Besides this large
residence—five-sixths of which was let in flats and
lodgings-the general was owner of another enormous house in
the Sadovaya bringing in even more rent than the first.
Besides these houses he had a delightful little estate just
out of town, and some sort of factory in another part of the
city. General Epanchin, as everyone knew, had a good deal to
do with certain government monopolies; he was also a voice,
and an important one, in many rich public companies of
various descriptions; in fact, he enjoyed the reputation of
being a well-to-do man of busy habits, many ties, and
affluent means. He had made himself indispensable in several
quarters, amongst others in his department of the
government; and yet it was a known fact that Fedor
Ivanovitch Epanchin was a man of no education whatever, and
had absolutely risen from the ranks.
This last fact could, of
course, reflect nothing but credit upon the general; and
yet, though unquestionably a sagacious man, he had his own
little weaknesses-very excusable ones,—one of which was a
dislike to any allusion to the above circumstance. He was
undoubtedly clever. For instance, he made a point of never
asserting himself when he would gain more by keeping in the
background; and in consequence many exalted personages
valued him principally for his humility and simplicity, and
because "he knew his place." And yet if these good people
could only have had a peep into the mind of this excellent
fellow who "knew his place" so well! The fact is that, in
spite of his knowledge of the world and his really
remarkable abilities, he always liked to appear to be
carrying out other people's ideas rather than his own. And
also, his luck seldom failed him, even at cards, for which
he had a passion that he did not attempt to conceal. He
played for high stakes, and moved, altogether, in very
varied society.
As to age, General Epanchin
was in the very prime of life; that is, about fifty-five
years of age,—the flowering time of existence, when real
enjoyment of life begins. His healthy appearance, good
colour, sound, though discoloured teeth, sturdy figure,
preoccupied air during business hours, and jolly good humour
during his game at cards in the evening, all bore witness to
his success in life, and combined to make existence a bed of
roses to his excellency. The general was lord of a
flourishing family, consisting of his wife and three
grown-up daughters. He had married young, while still a
lieutenant, his wife being a girl of about his own age, who
possessed neither beauty nor education, and who brought him
no more than fifty souls of landed property, which little
estate served, however, as a nest-egg for far more important
accumulations. The general never regretted his early
marriage, or regarded it as a foolish youthful escapade; and
he so respected and feared his wife that he was very near
loving her. Mrs. Epanchin came of the princely stock of
Muishkin, which if not a brilliant, was, at all events, a
decidedly ancient family; and she was extremely proud of her
descent.
With a few exceptions, the
worthy couple had lived through their long union very
happily. While still young the wife had been able to make
important friends among the aristocracy, partly by virtue of
her family descent, and partly by her own exertions; while,
in after life, thanks to their wealth and to the position of
her husband in the service, she took her place among the
higher circles as by right.
During these last few years
all three of the general's daughters-Alexandra, Adelaida,
and Aglaya—had grown up and matured. Of course they were
only Epanchins, but their mother's family was noble; they
might expect considerable fortunes; their father had hopes
of attaining to very high rank indeed in his country's
service-all of which was satisfactory. All three of the
girls were decidedly pretty, even the eldest, Alexandra, who
was just twenty-five years old. The middle daughter was now
twenty-three, while the youngest, Aglaya, was twenty. This
youngest girl was absolutely a beauty, and had begun of late
to attract considerable attention in society. But this was
not all, for every one of the three was clever, well
educated, and accomplished.
It was a matter of general
knowledge that the three girls were very fond of one
another, and supported each other in every way; it was even
said that the two elder ones had made certain sacrifices for
the sake of the idol of the household, Aglaya. In society
they not only disliked asserting themselves, but were
actually retiring. Certainly no one could blame them for
being too arrogant or haughty, and yet everybody was well
aware that they were proud and quite understood their own
value. The eldest was musical, while the second was a clever
artist, which fact she had concealed until lately. In a
word, the world spoke well of the girls; but they were not
without their enemies, and occasionally people talked with
horror of the number of books they had read.
They were in no hurry to
marry. They liked good society, but were not too keen about
it. All this was the more remarkable, because everyone was
well aware of the hopes and aims of their parents.
It was about eleven o'clock
in the forenoon when the prince rang the bell at General
Epanchin's door. The general lived on the first floor or
flat of the house, as modest a lodging as his position
permitted. A liveried servant opened the door, and the
prince was obliged to enter into long explanations with this
gentleman, who, from the first glance, looked at him and his
bundle with grave suspicion. At last, however, on the
repeated positive assurance that he really was Prince
Muishkin, and must absolutely see the general on business,
the bewildered domestic showed him into a little
ante-chamber leading to a waiting-room that adjoined the
general's study, there handing him over to another servant,
whose duty it was to be in this ante-chamber all the
morning, and announce visitors to the general. This second
individual wore a dress coat, and was some forty years of
age; he was the general's special study servant, and well
aware of his own importance.
"Wait in the next room,
please; and leave your bundle here," said the door-keeper,
as he sat down comfortably in his own easy-chair in the
ante-chamber. He looked at the prince in severe surprise as
the latter settled himself in another chair alongside, with
his bundle on his knees.
"If you don't mind, I would
rather sit here with you," said the prince; "I should prefer
it to sitting in there."
"Oh, but you can't stay
here. You are a visitor—a guest, so to speak. Is it the
general himself you wish to see?"
The man evidently could not
take in the idea of such a shabby-looking visitor, and had
decided to ask once more.
"Yes—I have business—"
began the prince.
"I do not ask you what your
business may be, all I have to do is to announce you; and
unless the secretary comes in here I cannot do that."
The man's suspicions seemed
to increase more and more. The prince was too unlike the
usual run of daily visitors; and although the general
certainly did receive, on business, all sorts and conditions
of men, yet in spite of this fact the servant felt great
doubts on the subject of this particular visitor. The
presence of the secretary as an intermediary was, he judged,
essential in this case.
"Surely you—are from
abroad?" he inquired at last, in a confused sort of way. He
had begun his sentence intending to say, "Surely you are not
Prince Muishkin, are you?"
"Yes, straight from the
train! Did not you intend to say, 'Surely you are not Prince
Muishkin?' just now, but refrained out of politeness?"
"H'm!" grunted the
astonished servant.
"I assure you I am not
deceiving you; you shall not have to answer for me. As to my
being dressed like this, and carrying a bundle, there's
nothing surprising in that—the fact is, my circumstances are
not particularly rosy at this moment."
"H'm!—no, I'm not afraid of
that, you see; I have to announce you, that's all. The
secretary will be out directly-that is, unless you—yes,
that's the rub—unless you—come, you must allow me to ask
you—you've not come to beg, have you?"
"Oh dear no, you can be
perfectly easy on that score. I have quite another matter on
hand."
"You must excuse my asking,
you know. Your appearance led me to think—but just wait for
the secretary; the general is busy now, but the secretary is
sure to come out."
"Oh—well, look here, if I
have some time to wait, would you mind telling me, is there
any place about where I could have a smoke? I have my pipe
and tobacco with me."
"Smoke?" said the
man, in shocked but disdainful surprise, blinking his eyes
at the prince as though he could not believe his senses.
"No, sir, you cannot smoke here, and I wonder you are not
ashamed of the very suggestion. Ha, ha! a cool idea that, I
declare!"
"Oh, I didn't mean in this
room! I know I can't smoke here, of course. I'd adjourn to
some other room, wherever you like to show me to. You see,
I'm used to smoking a good deal, and now I haven't had a
puff for three hours; however, just as you like."
"Now how on earth am I to
announce a man like that?" muttered the servant. "In the
first place, you've no right in here at all; you ought to be
in the waiting-room, because you're a sort of visitor—a
guest, in fact—and I shall catch it for this. Look here, do
you intend to take up you abode with us?" he added, glancing
once more at the prince's bundle, which evidently gave him
no peace.
"No, I don't think so. I
don't think I should stay even if they were to invite me.
I've simply come to make their acquaintance, and nothing
more."
"Make their acquaintance?"
asked the man, in amazement, and with redoubled suspicion.
"Then why did you say you had business with the general?"
"Oh well, very little
business. There is one little matter—some advice I am going
to ask him for; but my principal object is simply to
introduce myself, because I am Prince Muishkin, and Madame
Epanchin is the last of her branch of the house, and besides
herself and me there are no other Muishkins left."
"What—you're a relation
then, are you?" asked the servant, so bewildered that he
began to feel quite alarmed.
"Well, hardly so. If you
stretch a point, we are relations, of course, but so distant
that one cannot really take cognizance of it. I once wrote
to your mistress from abroad, but she did not reply.
However, I have thought it right to make acquaintance with
her on my arrival. I am telling you all this in order to
ease your mind, for I see you are still far from comfortable
on my account. All you have to do is to announce me as
Prince Muishkin, and the object of my visit will be plain
enough. If I am received—very good; if not, well, very good
again. But they are sure to receive me, I should think;
Madame Epanchin will naturally be curious to see the only
remaining representative of her family. She values her
Muishkin descent very highly, if I am rightly informed."
The prince's conversation
was artless and confiding to a degree, and the servant could
not help feeling that as from visitor to common serving-man
this state of things was highly improper. His conclusion was
that one of two things must be the explanation—either that
this was a begging impostor, or that the prince, if prince
he were, was simply a fool, without the slightest ambition;
for a sensible prince with any ambition would certainly not
wait about in ante-rooms with servants, and talk of his own
private affairs like this. In either case, how was he to
announce this singular visitor?
"I really think I must
request you to step into the next room!" he said, with all
the insistence he could muster.
"Why? If I had been sitting
there now, I should not have had the opportunity of making
these personal explanations. I see you are still uneasy
about me and keep eyeing my cloak and bundle. Don't you
think you might go in yourself now, without waiting for the
secretary to come out?"
"No, no! I can't announce a
visitor like yourself without the secretary. Besides the
general said he was not to be disturbed—he is with the
Colonel C—. Gavrila Ardalionovitch goes in without
announcing."
"Who may that be? a clerk?"
"What? Gavrila
Ardalionovitch? Oh no; he belongs to one of the companies.
Look here, at all events put your bundle down, here."
"Yes, I will if I may;
and—can I take off my cloak"
"Of course; you can't go in
there with it on, anyhow."
The prince rose and took
off his mantle, revealing a neat enough morning costume—a
little worn, but well made. He wore a steel watch chain and
from this chain there hung a silver Geneva watch. Fool the
prince might be, still, the general's servant felt that it
was not correct for him to continue to converse thus with a
visitor, in spite of the fact that the prince pleased him
somehow.
"And what time of day does
the lady receive?" the latter asked, reseating himself in
his old place.
"Oh, that's not in my
province! I believe she receives at any time; it depends
upon the visitors. The dressmaker goes in at eleven. Gavrila
Ardalionovitch is allowed much earlier than other people,
too; he is even admitted to early lunch now and then."
"It is much warmer in the
rooms here than it is abroad at this season," observed the
prince; "but it is much warmer there out of doors. As for
the houses—a Russian can't live in them in the winter until
he gets accustomed to them."
"Don't they heat them at
all?"
"Well, they do heat them a
little; but the houses and stoves are so different to ours."
"H'm! were you long away?"
"Four years! and I was in
the same place nearly all the time,—in one village."
"You must have forgotten
Russia, hadn't you?"
"Yes, indeed I had—a good
deal; and, would you believe it, I often wonder at myself
for not having forgotten how to speak Russian? Even now, as
I talk to you, I keep saying to myself 'how well I am
speaking it.' Perhaps that is partly why I am so talkative
this morning. I assure you, ever since yesterday evening I
have had the strongest desire to go on and on talking
Russian."
"H'm! yes; did you live in
Petersburg in former years?"
This good flunkey, in spite
of his conscientious scruples, really could not resist
continuing such a very genteel and agreeable conversation.
"In Petersburg? Oh no!
hardly at all, and now they say so much is changed in the
place that even those who did know it well are obliged to
relearn what they knew. They talk a good deal about the new
law courts, and changes there, don't they?"
"H'm! yes, that's true
enough. Well now, how is the law over there, do they
administer it more justly than here?"
"Oh, I don't know about
that! I've heard much that is good about our legal
administration, too. There is no capital punishment here for
one thing."
"Is there over there?"
"Yes—I saw an execution in
France—at Lyons. Schneider took me over with him to see it."
"What, did they hang the
fellow?"
"No, they cut off people's
heads in France."
"What did the fellow
do?—yell?"
"Oh no—it's the work of an
instant. They put a man inside a frame and a sort of broad
knife falls by machinery—they call the thing a guillotine-it
falls with fearful force and weight-the head springs off so
quickly that you can't wink your eye in between. But all the
preparations are so dreadful. When they announce the
sentence, you know, and prepare the criminal and tie his
hands, and cart him off to the scaffold—that's the fearful
part of the business. The people all crowd round—even
women-though they don't at all approve of women looking on."
"No, it's not a thing for
women."
"Of course not—of course
not!—bah! The criminal was a fine intelligent fearless man;
Le Gros was his name; and I may tell you—believe it or not,
as you like—that when that man stepped upon the scaffold he
cried, he did indeed,—he was as white as a bit of
paper. Isn't it a dreadful idea that he should have
cried—cried! Whoever heard of a grown man crying from
fear—not a child, but a man who never had cried before—a
grown man of forty-five years. Imagine what must have been
going on in that man's mind at such a moment; what dreadful
convulsions his whole spirit must have endured; it is an
outrage on the soul that's what it is. Because it is said
'thou shalt not kill,' is he to be killed because he
murdered some one else? No, it is not right, it's an
impossible theory. I assure you, I saw the sight a month ago
and it's dancing before my eyes to this moment. I dream of
it, often."
The prince had grown
animated as he spoke, and a tinge of colour suffused his
pale face, though his way of talking was as quiet as ever.
The servant followed his words with sympathetic interest.
Clearly he was not at all anxious to bring the conversation
to an end. Who knows? Perhaps he too was a man of
imagination and with some capacity for thought.
"Well, at all events it is
a good thing that there's no pain when the poor fellow's
head flies off," he remarked.
"Do you know, though,"
cried the prince warmly, "you made that remark now, and
everyone says the same thing, and the machine is designed
with the purpose of avoiding pain, this guillotine I mean;
but a thought came into my head then: what if it be a bad
plan after all? You may laugh at my idea, perhaps—but I
could not help its occurring to me all the same. Now with
the rack and tortures and so on—you suffer terrible pain of
course; but then your torture is bodily pain only (although
no doubt you have plenty of that) until you die. But here
I should imagine the most terrible part of the whole
punishment is, not the bodily pain at all—but the certain
knowledge that in an hour,—then in ten minutes, then in half
a minute, then now—this very instant—your soul must
quit your body and that you will no longer be a man—and that
this is certain, certain! That's the point—the
certainty of it. Just that instant when you place your head
on the block and hear the iron grate over your
head—then—that quarter of a second is the most awful of all.
"This is not my own
fantastical opinion—many people have thought the same; but I
feel it so deeply that I'll tell you what I think. I believe
that to execute a man for murder is to punish him
immeasurably more dreadfully than is equivalent to his
crime. A murder by sentence is far more dreadful than a
murder committed by a criminal. The man who is attacked by
robbers at night, in a dark wood, or anywhere, undoubtedly
hopes and hopes that he may yet escape until the very moment
of his death. There are plenty of instances of a man running
away, or imploring for mercy—at all events hoping on in some
degree—even after his throat was cut. But in the case of an
execution, that last hope—having which it is so immeasurably
less dreadful to die,—is taken away from the wretch and
certainty substituted in its place! There is his
sentence, and with it that terrible certainty that he cannot
possibly escape death—which, I consider, must be the most
dreadful anguish in the world. You may place a soldier
before a cannon's mouth in battle, and fire upon him—and he
will still hope. But read to that same soldier his
death-sentence, and he will either go mad or burst into
tears. Who dares to say that any man can suffer this without
going mad? No, no! it is an abuse, a shame, it is
unnecessary—why should such a thing exist? Doubtless there
may be men who have been sentenced, who have suffered this
mental anguish for a while and then have been reprieved;
perhaps such men may have been able to relate their feelings
afterwards. Our Lord Christ spoke of this anguish and dread.
No! no! no! No man should be treated so, no man, no man!"
The servant, though of
course he could not have expressed all this as the prince
did, still clearly entered into it and was greatly
conciliated, as was evident from the increased amiability of
his expression. "If you are really very anxious for a
smoke," he remarked, "I think it might possibly be managed,
if you are very quick about it. You see they might come out
and inquire for you, and you wouldn't be on the spot. You
see that door there? Go in there and you'll find a little
room on the right; you can smoke there, only open the
window, because I ought not to allow it really, and—." But
there was no time, after all.
A young fellow entered the
ante-room at this moment, with a bundle of papers in his
hand. The footman hastened to help him take off his
overcoat. The new arrival glanced at the prince out of the
corners of his eyes.
"This gentleman declares,
Gavrila Ardalionovitch," began the man, confidentially and
almost familiarly, "that he is Prince Muishkin and a
relative of Madame Epanchin's. He has just arrived from
abroad, with nothing but a bundle by way of luggage—."
The prince did not hear the
rest, because at this point the servant continued his
communication in a whisper.
Gavrila Ardalionovitch
listened attentively, and gazed at the prince with great
curiosity. At last he motioned the man aside and stepped
hurriedly towards the prince.
"Are you Prince Muishkin?"
he asked, with the greatest courtesy and amiability.
He was a remarkably
handsome young fellow of some twenty-eight summers, fair and
of middle height; he wore a small beard, and his face was
most intelligent. Yet his smile, in spite of its sweetness,
was a little thin, if I may so call it, and showed his teeth
too evenly; his gaze though decidedly good-humoured and
ingenuous, was a trifle too inquisitive and intent to be
altogether agreeable.
"Probably when he is alone
he looks quite different, and hardly smiles at all!" thought
the prince.
He explained about himself
in a few words, very much the same as he had told the
footman and Rogojin beforehand.
Gavrila Ardalionovitch
meanwhile seemed to be trying to recall something.
"Was it not you, then, who
sent a letter a year or less ago—from Switzerland, I think
it was—to Elizabetha Prokofievna (Mrs. Epanchin)?"
"It was."
"Oh, then, of course they
will remember who you are. You wish to see the general? I'll
tell him at once—he will be free in a minute; but you—you
had better wait in the ante-chamber,—hadn't you? Why is he
here?" he added, severely, to the man.
"I tell you, sir, he wished
it himself!"
At this moment the study
door opened, and a military man, with a portfolio under his
arm, came out talking loudly, and after bidding good-bye to
someone inside, took his departure.
"You there, Gania?" cried a
voice from the study, "come in here, will you?"
Gavrila Ardalionovitch
nodded to the prince and entered the room hastily.
A couple of minutes later
the door opened again and the affable voice of Gania cried:
"Come in please, prince!"
III.
General Ivan Fedorovitch
Epanchin was standing In the middle of the room, and gazed
with great curiosity at the prince as he entered. He even
advanced a couple of steps to meet him.
The prince came forward and
introduced himself.
"Quite so," replied the
general, "and what can I do for you?"
"Oh, I have no special
business; my principal object was to make your acquaintance.
I should not like to disturb you. I do not know your times
and arrangements here, you see, but I have only just
arrived. I came straight from the station. I am come direct
from Switzerland."
The general very nearly
smiled, but thought better of it and kept his smile back.
Then he reflected, blinked his eyes, stared at his guest
once more from head to foot; then abruptly motioned him to a
chair, sat down himself, and waited with some impatience for
the prince to speak.
Gania stood at his table in
the far corner of the room, turning over papers.
"I have not much time for
making acquaintances, as a rule," said the general, "but as,
of course, you have your object in coming, I—"
"I felt sure you would
think I had some object in view when I resolved to pay you
this visit," the prince interrupted; "but I give you my
word, beyond the pleasure of making your acquaintance I had
no personal object whatever."
"The pleasure is, of
course, mutual; but life is not all pleasure, as you are
aware. There is such a thing as business, and I really do
not see what possible reason there can be, or what we have
in common to—"
"Oh, there is no reason, of
course, and I suppose there is nothing in common between us,
or very little; for if I am Prince Muishkin, and your wife
happens to be a member of my house, that can hardly be
called a 'reason.' I quite understand that. And yet that was
my whole motive for coming. You see I have not been in
Russia for four years, and knew very little about anything
when I left. I had been very ill for a long time, and I feel
now the need of a few good friends. In fact, I have a
certain question upon which I much need advice, and do not
know whom to go to for it. I thought of your family when I
was passing through Berlin. 'They are almost relations,' I
said to myself,' so I'll begin with them; perhaps we may get
on with each other, I with them and they with me, if they
are kind people;' and I have heard that you are very kind
people!"
"Oh, thank you, thank you,
I'm sure," replied the general, considerably taken aback.
"May I ask where you have taken up your quarters?"
"Nowhere, as yet."
"What, straight from the
station to my house? And how about your luggage?"
"I only had a small bundle,
containing linen, with me, nothing more. I can carry it in
my hand, easily. There will be plenty of time to take a room
in some hotel by the evening."
"Oh, then you do
intend to take a room?"
"Of course."
"To judge from your words,
you came straight to my house with the intention of staying
there."
"That could only have been
on your invitation. I confess, however, that I should not
have stayed here even if you had invited me, not for any
particular reason, but because it is—well, contrary to my
practice and nature, somehow."
"Oh, indeed! Then it is
perhaps as well that I neither did invite you, nor
do invite you now. Excuse me, prince, but we had better
make this matter clear, once for all. We have just agreed
that with regard to our relationship there is not much to be
said, though, of course, it would have been very delightful
to us to feel that such relationship did actually exist;
therefore, perhaps—"
"Therefore, perhaps I had
better get up and go away?" said the prince, laughing
merrily as he rose from his place; just as merrily as though
the circumstances were by no means strained or difficult.
"And I give you my word, general, that though I know nothing
whatever of manners and customs of society, and how people
live and all that, yet I felt quite sure that this visit of
mine would end exactly as it has ended now. Oh, well, I
suppose it's all right; especially as my letter was not
answered. Well, good-bye, and forgive me for having
disturbed you!"
The prince's expression was
so good-natured at this moment, and so entirely free from
even a suspicion of unpleasant feeling was the smile with
which he looked at the general as he spoke, that the latter
suddenly paused, and appeared to gaze at his guest from
quite a new point of view, all in an instant.
"Do you know, prince," he
said, in quite a different tone, "I do not know you at all,
yet, and after all, Elizabetha Prokofievna would very likely
be pleased to have a peep at a man of her own name. Wait a
little, if you don't mind, and if you have time to spare?"
"Oh, I assure you I've lots
of time, my time is entirely my own!" And the prince
immediately replaced his soft, round hat on the table. "I
confess, I thought Elizabetha Prokofievna would very likely
remember that I had written her a letter. Just now your
servant—outside there—was dreadfully suspicious that I had
come to beg of you. I noticed that! Probably he has very
strict instructions on that score; but I assure you I did
not come to beg. I came to make some friends. But I am
rather bothered at having disturbed you; that's all I care
about.—"
"Look here, prince," said
the general, with a cordial smile, "if you really are the
sort of man you appear to be, it may be a source of great
pleasure to us to make your better acquaintance; but, you
see, I am a very busy man, and have to be perpetually
sitting here and signing papers, or off to see his
excellency, or to my department, or somewhere; so that
though I should be glad to see more of people, nice
people—you see, I—however, I am sure you are so well brought
up that you will see at once, and—but how old are you,
prince?"
"Twenty-six."
"No? I thought you very
much younger."
"Yes, they say I have a
'young' face. As to disturbing you I shall soon learn to
avoid doing that, for I hate disturbing people. Besides, you
and I are so differently constituted, I should think, that
there must be very little in common between us. Not that I
will ever believe there is nothing in common between
any two people, as some declare is the case. I am sure
people make a great mistake in sorting each other into
groups, by appearances; but I am boring you, I see, you—"
"Just two words: have you
any means at all? Or perhaps you may be intending to
undertake some sort of employment? Excuse my questioning
you, but—"
"Oh, my dear sir, I esteem
and understand your kindness in putting the question. No; at
present I have no means whatever, and no employment either,
but I hope to find some. I was living on other people
abroad. Schneider, the professor who treated me and taught
me, too, in Switzerland, gave me just enough money for my
journey, so that now I have but a few copecks left. There
certainly is one question upon which I am anxious to have
advice, but—"
"Tell me, how do you intend
to live now, and what are your plans?" interrupted the
general.
"I wish to work, somehow or
other."
"Oh yes, but then, you see,
you are a philosopher. Have you any talents, or ability in
any direction—that is, any that would bring in money and
bread? Excuse me again—"
"Oh, don't apologize. No, I
don't think I have either talents or special abilities of
any kind; on the contrary. I have always been an invalid and
unable to learn much. As for bread, I should think—"
The general interrupted
once more with questions; while the prince again replied
with the narrative we have heard before. It appeared that
the general had known Pavlicheff; but why the latter had
taken an interest in the prince, that young gentleman could
not explain; probably by virtue of the old friendship with
his father, he thought.
The prince had been left an
orphan when quite a little child, and Pavlicheff had
entrusted him to an old lady, a relative of his own, living
in the country, the child needing the fresh air and exercise
of country life. He was educated, first by a governess, and
afterwards by a tutor, but could not remember much about
this time of his life. His fits were so frequent then, that
they made almost an idiot of him (the prince used the
expression "idiot" himself). Pavlicheff had met Professor
Schneider in Berlin, and the latter had persuaded him to
send the boy to Switzerland, to Schneider's establishment
there, for the cure of his epilepsy, and, five years before
this time, the prince was sent off. But Pavlicheff had died
two or three years since, and Schneider had himself
supported the young fellow, from that day to this, at his
own expense. Although he had not quite cured him, he had
greatly improved his condition; and now, at last, at the
prince's own desire, and because of a certain matter which
came to the ears of the latter, Schneider had despatched the
young man to Russia.
The general was much
astonished.
"Then you have no one,
absolutely no one in Russia?" he asked.
"No one, at present; but I
hope to make friends; and then I have a letter from—"
"At all events," put in the
general, not listening to the news about the letter, "at all
events, you must have learned something, and your
malady would not prevent your undertaking some easy work, in
one of the departments, for instance?
"Oh dear no, oh no! As for
a situation, I should much like to find one for I am anxious
to discover what I really am fit for. I have learned a good
deal in the last four years, and, besides, I read a great
many Russian books."
"Russian books, indeed?
Then, of course, you can read and write quite correctly?"
"Oh dear, yes!"
"Capital! And your
handwriting?"
"Ah, there I am really
talented! I may say I am a real caligraphist. Let me write
you something, just to show you," said the prince, with some
excitement.
"With pleasure! In fact, it
is very necessary. I like your readiness, prince; in fact, I
must say—I-I-like you very well, altogether," said the
general.
"What delightful writing
materials you have here, such a lot of pencils and things,
and what beautiful paper! It's a charming room altogether. I
know that picture, it's a Swiss view. I'm sure the artist
painted it from nature, and that I have seen the very
place—"
"Quite likely, though I
bought it here. Gania, give the prince some paper. Here are
pens and paper; now then, take this table. What's this?" the
general continued to Gania, who had that moment taken a
large photograph out of his portfolio, and shown it to his
senior. "Halloa! Nastasia Philipovna! Did she send it you
herself? Herself?" he inquired, with much curiosity and
great animation.
"She gave it me just now,
when I called in to congratulate her. I asked her for it
long ago. I don't know whether she meant it for a hint that
I had come empty-handed, without a present for her birthday,
or what," added Gania, with an unpleasant smile.
"Oh, nonsense, nonsense,"
said the general, with decision. "What extraordinary ideas
you have, Gania! As if she would hint; that's not her way at
all. Besides, what could you give her, without having
thousands at your disposal? You might have given her your
portrait, however. Has she ever asked you for it?"
"No, not yet. Very likely
she never will. I suppose you haven't forgotten about
tonight, have you, Ivan Fedorovitch? You were one of those
specially invited, you know."
"Oh no, I remember all
right, and I shall go, of course. I should think so! She's
twenty-five years old today! And, you know, Gania, you must
be ready for great things; she has promised both myself and
Afanasy Ivanovitch that she will give a decided answer
tonight, yes or no. So be prepared!"
Gania suddenly became so
ill at ease that his face grew paler than ever.
"Are you sure she said
that?" he asked, and his voice seemed to quiver as he spoke.
"Yes, she promised. We both
worried her so that she gave in; but she wished us to tell
you nothing about it until the day."
The general watched Gania's
confusion intently, and clearly did not like it.
"Remember, Ivan
Fedorovitch," said Gania, in great agitation, "that I was to
be free too, until her decision; and that even then I was to
have my 'yes or no' free."
"Why, don't you, aren't
you—" began the general, in alarm.
"Oh, don't misunderstand—"
"But, my dear fellow, what
are you doing, what do you mean?"
"Oh, I'm not rejecting her.
I may have expressed myself badly, but I didn't mean that."
"Reject her! I should think
not!" said the general with annoyance, and apparently not in
the least anxious to conceal it. "Why, my dear fellow, it's
not a question of your rejecting her, it is whether you are
prepared to receive her consent joyfully, and with proper
satisfaction. How are things going on at home?"
"At home? Oh, I can do as I
like there, of course; only my father will make a fool of
himself, as usual. He is rapidly becoming a general
nuisance. I don't ever talk to him now, but I hold him in
cheek, safe enough. I swear if it had not been for my
mother, I should have shown him the way out, long ago. My
mother is always crying, of course, and my sister sulks. I
had to tell them at last that I intended to be master of my
own destiny, and that I expect to be obeyed at home. At
least, I gave my sister to understand as much, and my mother
was present."
"Well, I must say, I cannot
understand it!" said the general, shrugging his shoulders
and dropping his hands. "You remember your mother, Nina
Alexandrovna, that day she came and sat here and groaned-and
when I asked her what was the matter, she says, 'Oh, it's
such a DISHONOUR to us!' dishonour! Stuff and nonsense! I
should like to know who can reproach Nastasia Philipovna, or
who can say a word of any kind against her. Did she mean
because Nastasia had been living with Totski? What nonsense
it is! You would not let her come near your daughters, says
Nina Alexandrovna. What next, I wonder? I don't see how she
can fail to—to understand—"
"Her own position?"
prompted Gania. "She does understand. Don't be annoyed with
her. I have warned her not to meddle in other people's
affairs. However, although there's comparative peace at home
at present, the storm will break if anything is finally
settled tonight."
The prince heard the whole
of the foregoing conversation, as he sat at the table,
writing. He finished at last, and brought the result of his
labour to the general's desk.
"So this is Nastasia
Philipovna," he said, looking attentively and curiously at
the portrait. "How wonderfully beautiful!" he immediately
added, with warmth. The picture was certainly that of an
unusually lovely woman. She was photographed in a black silk
dress of simple design, her hair was evidently dark and
plainly arranged, her eyes were deep and thoughtful, the
expression of her face passionate, but proud. She was rather
thin, perhaps, and a little pale. Both Gania and the general
gazed at the prince in amazement.
"How do you know it's
Nastasia Philipovna?" asked the general; "you surely don't
know her already, do you?"
"Yes, I do! I have only
been one day in Russia, but I have heard of the great
beauty!" And the prince proceeded to narrate his meeting
with Rogojin in the train and the whole of the latter's
story.
"There's news!" said the
general in some excitement, after listening to the story
with engrossed attention.
"Oh, of course it's nothing
but humbug!" cried Gania, a little disturbed, however. "It's
all humbug; the young merchant was pleased to indulge in a
little innocent recreation! I have heard something of
Rogojin!"
"Yes, so have I!" replied
the general. "Nastasia Philipovna told us all about the
earrings that very day. But now it is quite a different
matter. You see the fellow really has a million of roubles,
and he is passionately in love. The whole story smells of
passion, and we all know what this class of gentry is
capable of when infatuated. I am much afraid of some
disagreeable scandal, I am indeed!"
"You are afraid of the
million, I suppose," said Gania, grinning and showing his
teeth.
"And you are NOT, I
presume, eh?"
"How did he strike you,
prince?" asked Gania, suddenly. "Did he seem to be a serious
sort of a man, or just a common rowdy fellow? What was your
own opinion about the matter?"
While Gania put this
question, a new idea suddenly flashed into his brain, and
blazed out, impatiently, in his eyes. The general, who was
really agitated and disturbed, looked at the prince too, but
did not seem to expect much from his reply.
"I really don't quite know
how to tell you," replied the prince, "but it certainly did
seem to me that the man was full of passion, and not,
perhaps, quite healthy passion. He seemed to be still far
from well. Very likely he will be in bed again in a day or
two, especially if he lives fast."
"No! do you think so?" said
the general, catching at the idea.
"Yes, I do think so!"
"Yes, but the sort of
scandal I referred to may happen at any moment. It may be
this very evening," remarked Gania to the general, with a
smile.
"Of course; quite so. In
that case it all depends upon what is going on in her brain
at this moment."
"You know the kind of
person she is at times."
"How? What kind of person
is she?" cried the general, arrived at the limits of his
patience. "Look here, Gania, don't you go annoying her
tonight What you are to do is to be as agreeable towards her
as ever you can. Well, what are you smiling at? You must
understand, Gania, that I have no interest whatever in
speaking like this. Whichever way the question is settled,
it will be to my advantage. Nothing will move Totski from
his resolution, so I run no risk. If there is anything I
desire, you must know that it is your benefit only. Can't
you trust me? You are a sensible fellow, and I have been
counting on you; for, in this matter, that, that—"
"Yes, that's the chief
thing," said Gania, helping the general out of his
difficulties again, and curling his lips in an envenomed
smile, which he did not attempt to conceal. He gazed with
his fevered eyes straight into those of the general, as
though he were anxious that the latter might read his
thoughts.
The general grew purple
with anger.
"Yes, of course it is the
chief thing!" he cried, looking sharply at Gania. "What a
very curious man you are, Gania! You actually seem to be
GLAD to hear of this millionaire fellow's arrival—just as
though you wished for an excuse to get out of the whole
thing. This is an affair in which you ought to act honestly
with both sides, and give due warning, to avoid compromising
others. But, even now, there is still time. Do you
understand me? I wish to know whether you desire this
arrangement or whether you do not? If not, say so,—and-and
welcome! No one is trying to force you into the snare,
Gavrila Ardalionovitch, if you see a snare in the matter, at
least."
"I do desire it," murmured
Gania, softly but firmly, lowering his eyes; and he relapsed
into gloomy silence.
The general was satisfied.
He had excited himself, and was evidently now regretting
that he had gone so far. He turned to the prince, and
suddenly the disagreeable thought of the latter's presence
struck him, and the certainty that he must have heard every
word of the conversation. But he felt at ease in another
moment; it only needed one glance at the prince to see that
in that quarter there was nothing to fear.
"Oh!" cried the general,
catching sight of the prince's specimen of caligraphy, which
the latter had now handed him for inspection. "Why, this is
simply beautiful; look at that, Gania, there's real talent
there!"
On a sheet of thick
writing-paper the prince had written in medieval characters
the legend:
"The gentle Abbot Pafnute
signed this."
"There," explained the
prince, with great delight and animation, "there, that's the
abbot's real signature—from a manuscript of the fourteenth
century. All these old abbots and bishops used to write most
beautifully, with such taste and so much care and diligence.
Have you no copy of Pogodin, general? If you had one I could
show you another type. Stop a bit—here you have the large
round writing common in France during the eighteenth
century. Some of the letters are shaped quite differently
from those now in use. It was the writing current then, and
employed by public writers generally. I copied this from one
of them, and you can see how good it is. Look at the
well-rounded a and d. I have tried to translate the French
character into the Russian letters—a difficult thing to do,
but I think I have succeeded fairly. Here is a fine
sentence, written in a good, original hand—'Zeal triumphs
over all.' That is the script of the Russian War Office.
That is how official documents addressed to important
personages should be written. The letters are round, the
type black, and the style somewhat remarkable. A stylist
would not allow these ornaments, or attempts at
flourishes—just look at these unfinished tails!—but it has
distinction and really depicts the soul of the writer. He
would like to give play to his imagination, and follow the
inspiration of his genius, but a soldier is only at ease in
the guard-room, and the pen stops half-way, a slave to
discipline. How delightful! The first time I met an example
of this handwriting, I was positively astonished, and where
do you think I chanced to find it? In Switzerland, of all
places! Now that is an ordinary English hand. It can hardly
be improved, it is so refined and exquisite—almost
perfection. This is an example of another kind, a mixture of
styles. The copy was given me by a French commercial
traveller. It is founded on the English, but the downstrokes
are a little blacker, and more marked. Notice that the oval
has some slight modification—it is more rounded. This
writing allows for flourishes; now a flourish is a dangerous
thing! Its use requires such taste, but, if successful, what
a distinction it gives to the whole! It results in an
incomparable type—one to fall in love with!"
"Dear me! How you have gone
into all the refinements and details of the question! Why,
my dear fellow, you are not a caligraphist, you are an
artist! Eh, Gania?"
"Wonderful!" said Gania.
"And he knows it too," he added, with a sarcastic smile.
"You may smile,—but there's
a career in this," said the general. "You don't know what a
great personage I shall show this to, prince. Why, you can
command a situation at thirty-five roubles per month to
start with. However, it's half-past twelve," he concluded,
looking at his watch; "so to business, prince, for I must be
setting to work and shall not see you again today. Sit down
a minute. I have told you that I cannot receive you myself
very often, but I should like to be of some assistance to
you, some small assistance, of a kind that would give you
satisfaction. I shall find you a place in one of the State
departments, an easy place—but you will require to be
accurate. Now, as to your plans—in the house, or rather in
the family of Gania here—my young friend, whom I hope you
will know better—his mother and sister have prepared two or
three rooms for lodgers, and let them to highly recommended
young fellows, with board and attendance. I am sure Nina
Alexandrovna will take you in on my recommendation. There
you will be comfortable and well taken care of; for I do not
think, prince, that you are the sort of man to be left to
the mercy of Fate in a town like Petersburg. Nina
Alexandrovna, Gania's mother, and Varvara Alexandrovna, are
ladies for whom I have the highest possible esteem and
respect. Nina Alexandrovna is the wife of General Ardalion
Alexandrovitch, my old brother in arms, with whom, I regret
to say, on account of certain circumstances, I am no longer
acquainted. I give you all this information, prince, in
order to make it clear to you that I am personally
recommending you to this family, and that in so doing, I am
more or less taking upon myself to answer for you. The terms
are most reasonable, and I trust that your salary will very
shortly prove amply sufficient for your expenditure. Of
course pocket-money is a necessity, if only a little; do not
be angry, prince, if I strongly recommend you to avoid
carrying money in your pocket. But as your purse is quite
empty at the present moment, you must allow me to press
these twenty-five roubles upon your acceptance, as something
to begin with. Of course we will settle this little matter
another time, and if you are the upright, honest man you
look, I anticipate very little trouble between us on that
score. Taking so much interest in you as you may perceive I
do, I am not without my object, and you shall know it in
good time. You see, I am perfectly candid with you. I hope,
Gania, you have nothing to say against the prince's taking
up his abode in your house?"
"Oh, on the contrary! my
mother will be very glad," said Gania, courteously and
kindly.
"I think only one of your
rooms is engaged as yet, is it not? That fellow Ferd-Ferd—"
"Ferdishenko."
"Yes—I don't like that
Ferdishenko. I can't understand why Nastasia Philipovna
encourages him so. Is he really her cousin, as he says?"
"Oh dear no, it's all a
joke. No more cousin than I am."
"Well, what do you think of
the arrangement, prince?"
"Thank you, general; you
have behaved very kindly to me; all the more so since I did
not ask you to help me. I don't say that out of pride. I
certainly did not know where to lay my head tonight. Rogojin
asked me to come to his house, of course, but—"
"Rogojin? No, no, my good
fellow. I should strongly recommend you, paternally,—or, if
you prefer it, as a friend,—to forget all about Rogojin,
and, in fact, to stick to the family into which you are
about to enter."
"Thank you," began the
prince; "and since you are so very kind there is just one
matter which I—"
"You must really excuse
me," interrupted the general, "but I positively haven't
another moment now. I shall just tell Elizabetha Prokofievna
about you, and if she wishes to receive you at once—as I
shall advise her—I strongly recommend you to ingratiate
yourself with her at the first opportunity, for my wife may
be of the greatest service to you in many ways. If she
cannot receive you now, you must be content to wait till
another time. Meanwhile you, Gania, just look over these
accounts, will you? We mustn't forget to finish off that
matter—"
The general left the room,
and the prince never succeeded in broaching the business
which he had on hand, though he had endeavoured to do so
four times.
Gania lit a cigarette and
offered one to the prince. The latter accepted the offer,
but did not talk, being unwilling to disturb Gania's work.
He commenced to examine the study and its contents. But
Gania hardly so much as glanced at the papers lying before
him; he was absent and thoughtful, and his smile and general
appearance struck the prince still more disagreeably now
that the two were left alone together.
Suddenly Gania approached
our hero who was at the moment standing over Nastasia
Philipovna's portrait, gazing at it.
"Do you admire that sort of
woman, prince?" he asked, looking intently at him. He seemed
to have some special object in the question.
"It's a wonderful face,"
said the prince, "and I feel sure that her destiny is not by
any means an ordinary, uneventful one. Her face is smiling
enough, but she must have suffered terribly—hasn't she? Her
eyes show it—those two bones there, the little points under
her eyes, just where the cheek begins. It's a proud face
too, terribly proud! And I—I can't say whether she is good
and kind, or not. Oh, if she be but good! That would make
all well!"
"And would you marry a
woman like that, now?" continued Gania, never taking his
excited eyes off the prince's face.
"I cannot marry at all,"
said the latter. "I am an invalid."
"Would Rogojin marry her,
do you think?"
"Why not? Certainly he
would, I should think. He would marry her tomorrow!—marry
her tomorrow and murder her in a week!"
Hardly had the prince
uttered the last word when Gania gave such a fearful shudder
that the prince almost cried out.
"What's the matter?" said
he, seizing Gania's hand.
"Your highness! His
excellency begs your presence in her excellency's
apartments!" announced the footman, appearing at the door.
The prince immediately
followed the man out of the room.
IV.
ALL three of the Miss
Epanchins were fine, healthy girls, well-grown, with good
shoulders and busts, and strong—almost masculine—hands; and,
of course, with all the above attributes, they enjoyed
capital appetites, of which they were not in the least
ashamed.
Elizabetha Prokofievna
sometimes informed the girls that they were a little too
candid in this matter, but in spite of their outward
deference to their mother these three young women, in solemn
conclave, had long agreed to modify the unquestioning
obedience which they had been in the habit of according to
her; and Mrs. General Epanchin had judged it better to say
nothing about it, though, of course, she was well aware of
the fact.
It is true that her nature
sometimes rebelled against these dictates of reason, and
that she grew yearly more capricious and impatient; but
having a respectful and well-disciplined husband under her
thumb at all times, she found it possible, as a rule, to
empty any little accumulations of spleen upon his head, and
therefore the harmony of the family was kept duly balanced,
and things went as smoothly as family matters can.
Mrs. Epanchin had a fair
appetite herself, and generally took her share of the
capital mid-day lunch which was always served for the girls,
and which was nearly as good as a dinner. The young ladies
used to have a cup of coffee each before this meal, at ten
o'clock, while still in bed. This was a favourite and
unalterable arrangement with them. At half-past twelve, the
table was laid in the small dining-room, and occasionally
the general himself appeared at the family gathering, if he
had time.
Besides tea and coffee,
cheese, honey, butter, pan-cakes of various kinds (the lady
of the house loved these best), cutlets, and so on, there
was generally strong beef soup, and other substantial
delicacies.
On the particular morning
on which our story has opened, the family had assembled in
the dining-room, and were waiting the general's appearance,
the latter having promised to come this day. If he had been
one moment late, he would have been sent for at once; but he
turned up punctually.
As he came forward to wish
his wife good-morning and kiss her hands, as his custom was,
he observed something in her look which boded ill. He
thought he knew the reason, and had expected it, but still,
he was not altogether comfortable. His daughters advanced to
kiss him, too, and though they did not look exactly angry,
there was something strange in their expression as well.
The general was, owing to
certain circumstances, a little inclined to be too
suspicious at home, and needlessly nervous; but, as an
experienced father and husband, he judged it better to take
measures at once to protect himself from any dangers there
might be in the air.
However, I hope I shall not
interfere with the proper sequence of my narrative too much,
if I diverge for a moment at this point, in order to explain
the mutual relations between General Epanchin's family and
others acting a part in this history, at the time when we
take up the thread of their destiny. I have already stated
that the general, though he was a man of lowly origin, and
of poor education, was, for all that, an experienced and
talented husband and father. Among other things, he
considered it undesirable to hurry his daughters to the
matrimonial altar and to worry them too much with assurances
of his paternal wishes for their happiness, as is the custom
among parents of many grown-up daughters. He even succeeded
in ranging his wife on his side on this question, though he
found the feat very difficult to accomplish, because
unnatural; but the general's arguments were conclusive, and
founded upon obvious facts. The general considered that the
girls' taste and good sense should be allowed to develop and
mature deliberately, and that the parents' duty should
merely be to keep watch, in order that no strange or
undesirable choice be made; but that the selection once
effected, both father and mother were bound from that moment
to enter heart and soul into the cause, and to see that the
matter progressed without hindrance until the altar should
be happily reached.
Besides this, it was clear
that the Epanchins' position gained each year, with
geometrical accuracy, both as to financial solidity and
social weight; and, therefore, the longer the girls waited,
the better was their chance of making a brilliant match.
But again, amidst the
incontrovertible facts just recorded, one more, equally
significant, rose up to confront the family; and this was,
that the eldest daughter, Alexandra, had imperceptibly
arrived at her twenty-fifth birthday. Almost at the same
moment, Afanasy Ivanovitch Totski, a man of immense wealth,
high connections, and good standing, announced his intention
of marrying. Afanasy Ivanovitch was a gentleman of
fifty-five years of age, artistically gifted, and of most
refined tastes. He wished to marry well, and, moreover, he
was a keen admirer and judge of beauty.
Now, since Totski had, of
late, been upon terms of great cordiality with Epanchin,
which excellent relations were intensified by the fact that
they were, so to speak, partners in several financial
enterprises, it so happened that the former now put in a
friendly request to the general for counsel with regard to
the important step he meditated. Might he suggest, for
instance, such a thing as a marriage between himself and one
of the general's daughters?
Evidently the quiet,
pleasant current of the family life of the Epanchins was
about to undergo a change.
The undoubted beauty of the
family, par excellence, was the youngest, Aglaya, as
aforesaid. But Totski himself, though an egotist of the
extremest type, realized that he had no chance there; Aglaya
was clearly not for such as he.
Perhaps the sisterly love
and friendship of the three girls had more or less
exaggerated Aglaya's chances of happiness. In their opinion,
the latter's destiny was not merely to be very happy; she
was to live in a heaven on earth. Aglaya's husband was to be
a compendium of all the virtues, and of all success, not to
speak of fabulous wealth. The two elder sisters had agreed
that all was to be sacrificed by them, if need be, for
Aglaya's sake; her dowry was to be colossal and
unprecedented.
The general and his wife
were aware of this agreement, and, therefore, when Totski
suggested himself for one of the sisters, the parents made
no doubt that one of the two elder girls would probably
accept the offer, since Totski would certainly make no
difficulty as to dowry. The general valued the proposal very
highly. He knew life, and realized what such an offer was
worth.
The answer of the sisters
to the communication was, if not conclusive, at least
consoling and hopeful. It made known that the eldest,
Alexandra, would very likely be disposed to listen to a
proposal.
Alexandra was a
good-natured girl, though she had a will of her own. She was
intelligent and kind-hearted, and, if she were to marry
Totski, she would make him a good wife. She did not care for
a brilliant marriage; she was eminently a woman calculated
to soothe and sweeten the life of any man; decidedly pretty,
if not absolutely handsome. What better could Totski wish?
So the matter crept slowly
forward. The general and Totski had agreed to avoid any
hasty and irrevocable step. Alexandra's parents had not even
begun to talk to their daughters freely upon the subject,
when suddenly, as it were, a dissonant chord was struck amid
the harmony of the proceedings. Mrs. Epanchin began to show
signs of discontent, and that was a serious matter. A
certain circumstance had crept in, a disagreeable and
troublesome factor, which threatened to overturn the whole
business.
This circumstance had come
into existence eighteen years before. Close to an estate of
Totski's, in one of the central provinces of Russia, there
lived, at that time, a poor gentleman whose estate was of
the wretchedest description. This gentleman was noted in the
district for his persistent ill-fortune; his name was
Barashkoff, and, as regards family and descent, he was
vastly superior to Totski, but his estate was mortgaged to
the last acre. One day, when he had ridden over to the town
to see a creditor, the chief peasant of his village followed
him shortly after, with the news that his house had been
burnt down, and that his wife had perished with it, but his
children were safe.
Even Barashkoff, inured to
the storms of evil fortune as he was, could not stand this
last stroke. He went mad and died shortly after in the town
hospital. His estate was sold for the creditors; and the
little girls—two of them, of seven and eight years of age
respectively,—were adopted by Totski, who undertook their
maintenance and education in the kindness of his heart. They
were brought up together with the children of his German
bailiff. Very soon, however, there was only one of them
left-Nastasia Philipovna—for the other little one died of
whooping-cough. Totski, who was living abroad at this time,
very soon forgot all about the child; but five years after,
returning to Russia, it struck him that he would like to
look over his estate and see how matters were going there,
and, arrived at his bailiff's house, he was not long in
discovering that among the children of the latter there now
dwelt a most lovely little girl of twelve, sweet and
intelligent, and bright, and promising to develop beauty of
most unusual quality-as to which last Totski was an
undoubted authority.
He only stayed at his
country scat a few days on this occasion, but he had time to
make his arrangements. Great changes took place in the
child's education; a good governess was engaged, a Swiss
lady of experience and culture. For four years this lady
resided in the house with little Nastia, and then the
education was considered complete. The governess took her
departure, and another lady came down to fetch Nastia, by
Totski's instructions. The child was now transported to
another of Totski's estates in a distant part of the
country. Here she found a delightful little house, just
built, and prepared for her reception with great care and
taste; and here she took up her abode together with the lady
who had accompanied her from her old home. In the house
there were two experienced maids, musical instruments of all
sorts, a charming "young lady's library," pictures,
paint-boxes, a lap-dog, and everything to make life
agreeable. Within a fortnight Totski himself arrived, and
from that time he appeared to have taken a great fancy to
this part of the world and came down each summer, staying
two and three months at a time. So passed four years
peacefully and happily, in charming surroundings.
At the end of that time,
and about four months after Totski's last visit (he had
stayed but a fortnight on this occasion), a report reached
Nastasia Philipovna that he was about to be married in St.
Petersburg, to a rich, eminent, and lovely woman. The report
was only partially true, the marriage project being only in
an embryo condition; but a great change now came over
Nastasia Philipovna. She suddenly displayed unusual decision
of character; and without wasting time in thought, she left
her country home and came up to St. Petersburg, straight to
Totski's house, all alone.
The latter, amazed at her
conduct, began to express his displeasure; but he very soon
became aware that he must change his voice, style, and
everything else, with this young lady; the good old times
were gone. An entirely new and different woman sat before
him, between whom and the girl he had left in the country
last July there seemed nothing in common.
In the first place, this
new woman understood a good deal more than was usual for
young people of her age; so much indeed, that Totski could
not help wondering where she had picked up her knowledge.
Surely not from her "young lady's library"? It even embraced
legal matters, and the "world" in general, to a considerable
extent.
Her character was
absolutely changed. No more of the girlish alternations of
timidity and petulance, the adorable naivete, the reveries,
the tears, the playfulness... It was an entirely new and
hitherto unknown being who now sat and laughed at him, and
informed him to his face that she had never had the faintest
feeling for him of any kind, except loathing and
contempt—contempt which had followed closely upon her
sensations of surprise and bewilderment after her first
acquaintance with him.
This new woman gave him
further to understand that though it was absolutely the same
to her whom he married, yet she had decided to prevent this
marriage—for no particular reason, but that she chose to do
so, and because she wished to amuse herself at his expense
for that it was "quite her turn to laugh a little now!"
Such were her words—very
likely she did not give her real reason for this eccentric
conduct; but, at all events, that was all the explanation
she deigned to offer.
Meanwhile, Totski thought
the matter over as well as his scattered ideas would permit.
His meditations lasted a fortnight, however, and at the end
of that time his resolution was taken. The fact was, Totski
was at that time a man of fifty years of age; his position
was solid and respectable; his place in society had long
been firmly fixed upon safe foundations; he loved himself,
his personal comforts, and his position better than all the
world, as every respectable gentleman should!
At the same time his grasp
of things in general soon showed Totski that he now had to
deal with a being who was outside the pale of the ordinary
rules of traditional behaviour, and who would not only
threaten mischief but would undoubtedly carry it out, and
stop for no one.
There was evidently, he
concluded, something at work here; some storm of the mind,
some paroxysm of romantic anger, goodness knows against whom
or what, some insatiable contempt—in a word, something
altogether absurd and impossible, but at the same time most
dangerous to be met with by any respectable person with a
position in society to keep up.
For a man of Totski's
wealth and standing, it would, of course, have been the
simplest possible matter to take steps which would rid him
at once from all annoyance; while it was obviously
impossible for Nastasia Philipovna to harm him in any way,
either legally or by stirring up a scandal, for, in case of
the latter danger, he could so easily remove her to a sphere
of safety. However, these arguments would only hold good in
case of Nastasia acting as others might in such an
emergency. She was much more likely to overstep the bounds
of reasonable conduct by some extraordinary eccentricity.
Here the sound judgment of
Totski stood him in good stead. He realized that Nastasia
Philipovna must be well aware that she could do nothing by
legal means to injure him, and that her flashing eyes
betrayed some entirely different intention.
Nastasia Philipovna was
quite capable of ruining herself, and even of perpetrating
something which would send her to Siberia, for the mere
pleasure of injuring a man for whom she had developed so
inhuman a sense of loathing and contempt. He had sufficient
insight to understand that she valued nothing in the
world—herself least of all—and he made no attempt to conceal
the fact that he was a coward in some respects. For
instance, if he had been told that he would be stabbed at
the altar, or publicly insulted, he would undoubtedly have
been frightened; but not so much at the idea of being
murdered, or wounded, or insulted, as at the thought that if
such things were to happen he would be made to look
ridiculous in the eyes of society.
He knew well that Nastasia
thoroughly understood him and where to wound him and how,
and therefore, as the marriage was still only in embryo,
Totski decided to conciliate her by giving it up. His
decision was strengthened by the fact that Nastasia
Philipovna had curiously altered of late. It would be
difficult to conceive how different she was physically, at
the present time, to the girl of a few years ago. She was
pretty then... but now!... Totski laughed angrily when he
thought how short-sighted he had been. In days gone by he
remembered how he had looked at her beautiful eyes, how even
then he had marvelled at their dark mysterious depths, and
at their wondering gaze which seemed to seek an answer to
some unknown riddle. Her complexion also had altered. She
was now exceedingly pale, but, curiously, this change only
made her more beautiful. Like most men of the world, Totski
had rather despised such a cheaply-bought conquest, but of
late years he had begun to think differently about it. It
had struck him as long ago as last spring that he ought to
be finding a good match for Nastasia; for instance, some
respectable and reasonable young fellow serving in a
government office in another part of the country. How
maliciously Nastasia laughed at the idea of such a thing,
now!
However, it appeared to
Totski that he might make use of her in another way; and he
determined to establish her in St. Petersburg, surrounding
her with all the comforts and luxuries that his wealth could
command. In this way he might gain glory in certain circles.
Five years of this
Petersburg life went by, and, of course, during that time a
great deal happened. Totski's position was very
uncomfortable; having "funked" once, he could not totally
regain his ease. He was afraid, he did not know why, but he
was simply afraid of Nastasia Philipovna. For the first two
years or so he had suspected that she wished to marry him
herself, and that only her vanity prevented her telling him
so. He thought that she wanted him to approach her with a
humble proposal from his own side, But to his great, and not
entirely pleasurable amazement, he discovered that this was
by no means the case, and that were he to offer himself he
would be refused. He could not understand such a state of
things, and was obliged to conclude that it was pride, the
pride of an injured and imaginative woman, which had gone to
such lengths that it preferred to sit and nurse its contempt
and hatred in solitude rather than mount to heights of
hitherto unattainable splendour. To make matters worse, she
was quite impervious to mercenary considerations, and could
not be bribed in any way.
Finally, Totski took
cunning means to try to break his chains and be free. He
tried to tempt her in various ways to lose her heart; he
invited princes, hussars, secretaries of embassies, poets,
novelists, even Socialists, to see her; but not one of them
all made the faintest impression upon Nastasia. It was as
though she had a pebble in place of a heart, as though her
feelings and affections were dried up and withered for ever.
She lived almost entirely
alone; she read, she studied, she loved music. Her principal
acquaintances were poor women of various grades, a couple of
actresses, and the family of a poor schoolteacher. Among
these people she was much beloved.
She received four or five
friends sometimes, of an evening. Totski often came. Lately,
too, General Epanchin had been enabled with great difficulty
to introduce himself into her circle. Gania made her
acquaintance also, and others were Ferdishenko, an ill-bred,
and would-be witty, young clerk, and Ptitsin, a money-lender
of modest and polished manners, who had risen from poverty.
In fact, Nastasia Philipovna's beauty became a thing known
to all the town; but not a single man could boast of
anything more than his own admiration for her; and this
reputation of hers, and her wit and culture and grace, all
confirmed Totski in the plan he had now prepared.
And it was at this moment
that General Epanchin began to play so large and important a
part in the story.
When Totski had approached
the general with his request for friendly counsel as to a
marriage with one of his daughters, he had made a full and
candid confession. He had said that he intended to stop at
no means to obtain his freedom; even if Nastasia were to
promise to leave him entirely alone in future, he would not
(he said) believe and trust her; words were not enough for
him; he must have solid guarantees of some sort. So he and
the general determined to try what an attempt to appeal to
her heart would effect. Having arrived at Nastasia's house
one day, with Epanchin, Totski immediately began to speak of
the intolerable torment of his position. He admitted that he
was to blame for all, but candidly confessed that he could
not bring himself to feel any remorse for his original guilt
towards herself, because he was a man of sensual passions
which were inborn and ineradicable, and that he had no power
over himself in this respect; but that he wished, seriously,
to marry at last, and that the whole fate of the most
desirable social union which he contemplated, was in her
hands; in a word, he confided his all to her generosity of
heart.
General Epanchin took up
his part and spoke in the character of father of a family;
he spoke sensibly, and without wasting words over any
attempt at sentimentality, he merely recorded his full
admission of her right to be the arbiter of Totski's destiny
at this moment. He then pointed out that the fate of his
daughter, and very likely of both his other daughters, now
hung upon her reply.
To Nastasia's question as
to what they wished her to do, Totski confessed that he had
been so frightened by her, five years ago, that he could
never now be entirely comfortable until she herself married.
He immediately added that such a suggestion from him would,
of course, be absurd, unless accompanied by remarks of a
more pointed nature. He very well knew, he said, that a
certain young gentleman of good family, namely, Gavrila
Ardalionovitch Ivolgin, with whom she was acquainted, and
whom she received at her house, had long loved her
passionately, and would give his life for some response from
her. The young fellow had confessed this love of his to him
(Totski) and had also admitted it in the hearing of his
benefactor, General Epanchin. Lastly, he could not help
being of opinion that Nastasia must be aware of Gania's love
for her, and if he (Totski) mistook not, she had looked with
some favour upon it, being often lonely, and rather tired of
her present life. Having remarked how difficult it was for
him, of all people, to speak to her of these matters, Totski
concluded by saying that he trusted Nastasia Philipovna
would not look with contempt upon him if he now expressed
his sincere desire to guarantee her future by a gift of
seventy-five thousand roubles. He added that the sum would
have been left her all the same in his will, and that
therefore she must not consider the gift as in any way an
indemnification to her for anything, but that there was no
reason, after all, why a man should not be allowed to
entertain a natural desire to lighten his conscience, etc.,
etc.; in fact, all that would naturally be said under the
circumstances. Totski was very eloquent all through, and, in
conclusion, just touched on the fact that not a soul in the
world, not even General Epanchin, had ever heard a word
about the above seventy-five thousand roubles, and that this
was the first time he had ever given expression to his
intentions in respect to them.
Nastasia Philipovna's reply
to this long rigmarole astonished both the friends
considerably.
Not only was there no trace
of her former irony, of her old hatred and enmity, and of
that dreadful laughter, the very recollection of which sent
a cold chill down Totski's back to this very day; but she
seemed charmed and really glad to have the opportunity of
talking seriously with him for once in a way. She confessed
that she had long wished to have a frank and free
conversation and to ask for friendly advice, but that pride
had hitherto prevented her; now, however, that the ice was
broken, nothing could be more welcome to her than this
opportunity.
First, with a sad smile,
and then with a twinkle of merriment in her eyes, she
admitted that such a storm as that of five years ago was now
quite out of the question. She said that she had long since
changed her views of things, and recognized that facts must
be taken into consideration in spite of the feelings of the
heart. What was done was done and ended, and she could not
understand why Totski should still feel alarmed.
She next turned to General
Epanchin and observed, most courteously, that she had long
since known of his daughters, and that she had heard none
but good report; that she had learned to think of them with
deep and sincere respect. The idea alone that she could in
any way serve them, would be to her both a pride and a
source of real happiness.
It was true that she was
lonely in her present life; Totski had judged her thoughts
aright. She longed to rise, if not to love, at least to
family life and new hopes and objects, but as to Gavrila
Ardalionovitch, she could not as yet say much. She thought
it must be the case that he loved her; she felt that she too
might learn to love him, if she could be sure of the
firmness of his attachment to herself; but he was very
young, and it was a difficult question to decide. What she
specially liked about him was that he worked, and supported
his family by his toil.
She had heard that he was
proud and ambitious; she had heard much that was interesting
of his mother and sister, she had heard of them from Mr.
Ptitsin, and would much like to make their acquaintance,
but—another question!—would they like to receive her into
their house? At all events, though she did not reject the
idea of this marriage, she desired not to be hurried. As for
the seventy-five thousand roubles, Mr. Totski need not have
found any difficulty or awkwardness about the matter; she
quite understood the value of money, and would, of course,
accept the gift. She thanked him for his delicacy, however,
but saw no reason why Gavrila Ardalionovitch should not know
about it.
She would not marry the
latter, she said, until she felt persuaded that neither on
his part nor on the part of his family did there exist any
sort of concealed suspicions as to herself. She did not
intend to ask forgiveness for anything in the past, which
fact she desired to be known. She did not consider herself
to blame for anything that had happened in former years, and
she thought that Gavrila Ardalionovitch should be informed
as to the relations which had existed between herself and
Totski during the last five years. If she accepted this
money it was not to be considered as indemnification for her
misfortune as a young girl, which had not been in any degree
her own fault, but merely as compensation for her ruined
life.
She became so excited and
agitated during all these explanations and confessions that
General Epanchin was highly gratified, and considered the
matter satisfactorily arranged once for all. But the once
bitten Totski was twice shy, and looked for hidden snakes
among the flowers. However, the special point to which the
two friends particularly trusted to bring about their object
(namely, Gania's attractiveness for Nastasia Philipovna),
stood out more and more prominently; the pourparlers had
commenced, and gradually even Totski began to believe in the
possibility of success.
Before long Nastasia and
Gania had talked the matter over. Very little was said—her
modesty seemed to suffer under the infliction of discussing
such a question. But she recognized his love, on the
understanding that she bound herself to nothing whatever,
and that she reserved the right to say "no" up to the very
hour of the marriage ceremony. Gania was to have the same
right of refusal at the last moment.
It soon became clear to
Gania, after scenes of wrath and quarrellings at the
domestic hearth, that his family were seriously opposed to
the match, and that Nastasia was aware of this fact was
equally evident. She said nothing about it, though he daily
expected her to do so.
There were several rumours
afloat, before long, which upset Totski's equanimity a good
deal, but we will not now stop to describe them; merely
mentioning an instance or two. One was that Nastasia had
entered into close and secret relations with the Epanchin
girls—a most unlikely rumour; another was that Nastasia had
long satisfied herself of the fact that Gania was merely
marrying her for money, and that his nature was gloomy and
greedy, impatient and selfish, to an extraordinary degree;
and that although he had been keen enough in his desire to
achieve a conquest before, yet since the two friends had
agreed to exploit his passion for their own purposes, it was
clear enough that he had begun to consider the whole thing a
nuisance and a nightmare.
In his heart passion and
hate seemed to hold divided sway, and although he had at
last given his consent to marry the woman (as he said),
under the stress of circumstances, yet he promised himself
that he would "take it out of her," after marriage.
Nastasia seemed to Totski
to have divined all this, and to be preparing something on
her own account, which frightened him to such an extent that
he did not dare communicate his views even to the general.
But at times he would pluck up his courage and be full of
hope and good spirits again, acting, in fact, as weak men do
act in such circumstances.
However, both the friends
felt that the thing looked rosy indeed when one day Nastasia
informed them that she would give her final answer on the
evening of her birthday, which anniversary was due in a very
short time.
A strange rumour began to
circulate, meanwhile; no less than that the respectable and
highly respected General Epanchin was himself so fascinated
by Nastasia Philipovna that his feeling for her amounted
almost to passion. What he thought to gain by Gania's
marriage to the girl it was difficult to imagine. Possibly
he counted on Gania's complaisance; for Totski had long
suspected that there existed some secret understanding
between the general and his secretary. At all events the
fact was known that he had prepared a magnificent present of
pearls for Nastasia's birthday, and that he was looking
forward to the occasion when he should present his gift with
the greatest excitement and impatience. The day before her
birthday he was in a fever of agitation.
Mrs. Epanchin, long
accustomed to her husband's infidelities, had heard of the
pearls, and the rumour excited her liveliest curiosity and
interest. The general remarked her suspicions, and felt that
a grand explanation must shortly take place—which fact
alarmed him much.
This is the reason why he
was so unwilling to take lunch (on the morning upon which we
took up this narrative) with the rest of his family. Before
the prince's arrival he had made up his mind to plead
business, and "cut" the meal; which simply meant running
away.
He was particularly anxious
that this one day should be passed—especially the
evening—without unpleasantness between himself and his
family; and just at the right moment the prince turned
up—"as though Heaven had sent him on purpose," said the
general to himself, as he left the study to seek out the
wife of his bosom.
V.
Mrs. General Epanchin was a
proud woman by nature. What must her feelings have been when
she heard that Prince Muishkin, the last of his and her
line, had arrived in beggar's guise, a wretched idiot, a
recipient of charity—all of which details the general gave
out for greater effect! He was anxious to steal her interest
at the first swoop, so as to distract her thoughts from
other matters nearer home.
Mrs. Epanchin was in the
habit of holding herself very straight, and staring before
her, without speaking, in moments of excitement.
She was a fine woman of the
same age as her husband, with a slightly hooked nose, a
high, narrow forehead, thick hair turning a little grey, and
a sallow complexion. Her eyes were grey and wore a very
curious expression at times. She believed them to be most
effective—a belief that nothing could alter.
"What, receive him! Now, at
once?" asked Mrs. Epanchin, gazing vaguely at her husband as
he stood fidgeting before her.
"Oh, dear me, I assure you
there is no need to stand on ceremony with him," the general
explained hastily. "He is quite a child, not to say a
pathetic-looking creature. He has fits of some sort, and has
just arrived from Switzerland, straight from the station,
dressed like a German and without a farthing in his pocket.
I gave him twenty-five roubles to go on with, and am going
to find him some easy place in one of the government
offices. I should like you to ply him well with the
victuals, my dears, for I should think he must be very
hungry."
"You astonish me," said the
lady, gazing as before. "Fits, and hungry too! What sort of
fits?"
"Oh, they don't come on
frequently, besides, he's a regular child, though he seems
to be fairly educated. I should like you, if possible, my
dears," the general added, making slowly for the door, "to
put him through his paces a bit, and see what he is good
for. I think you should be kind to him; it is a good deed,
you know—however, just as you like, of course—but he is a
sort of relation, remember, and I thought it might interest
you to see the young fellow, seeing that this is so."
"Oh, of course, mamma, if
we needn't stand on ceremony with him, we must give the poor
fellow something to eat after his journey; especially as he
has not the least idea where to go to," said Alexandra, the
eldest of the girls.
"Besides, he's quite a
child; we can entertain him with a little hide-and-seek, in
case of need," said Adelaida.
"Hide-and-seek? What do you
mean?" inquired Mrs. Epanchin.
"Oh, do stop pretending,
mamma," cried Aglaya, in vexation. "Send him up, father;
mother allows."
The general rang the bell
and gave orders that the prince should be shown in.
"Only on condition that he
has a napkin under his chin at lunch, then," said Mrs.
Epanchin, "and let Fedor, or Mavra, stand behind him while
he eats. Is he quiet when he has these fits? He doesn't show
violence, does he?"
"On the contrary, he seems
to be very well brought up. His manners are excellent—but
here he is himself. Here you are, prince—let me introduce
you, the last of the Muishkins, a relative of your own, my
dear, or at least of the same name. Receive him kindly,
please. They'll bring in lunch directly, prince; you must
stop and have some, but you must excuse me. I'm in a hurry,
I must be off—"
"We all know where YOU must
be off to!" said Mrs. Epanchin, in a meaning voice.
"Yes, yes—I must hurry
away, I'm late! Look here, dears, let him write you
something in your albums; you've no idea what a wonderful
caligraphist he is, wonderful talent! He has just written
out 'Abbot Pafnute signed this' for me. Well, au revoir!"
"Stop a minute; where are
you off to? Who is this abbot?" cried Mrs. Epanchin to her
retreating husband in a tone of excited annoyance.
"Yes, my dear, it was an
old abbot of that name-I must be off to see the count, he's
waiting for me, I'm late—Good-bye! Au revoir, prince!"—and
the general bolted at full speed.
"Oh, yes—I know what count
you're going to see!" remarked his wife in a cutting manner,
as she turned her angry eyes on the prince. "Now then,
what's all this about?—What abbot—Who's Pafnute?" she added,
brusquely.
"Mamma!" said Alexandra,
shocked at her rudeness.
Aglaya stamped her foot.
"Nonsense! Let me alone!"
said the angry mother. "Now then, prince, sit down here, no,
nearer, come nearer the light! I want to have a good look at
you. So, now then, who is this abbot?"
"Abbot Pafnute," said our
friend, seriously and with deference.
"Pafnute, yes. And who was
he?"
Mrs. Epanchin put these
questions hastily and brusquely, and when the prince
answered she nodded her head sagely at each word he said.
"The Abbot Pafnute lived in
the fourteenth century," began the prince; "he was in charge
of one of the monasteries on the Volga, about where our
present Kostroma government lies. He went to Oreol and
helped in the great matters then going on in the religious
world; he signed an edict there, and I have seen a print of
his signature; it struck me, so I copied it. When the
general asked me, in his study, to write something for him,
to show my handwriting, I wrote 'The Abbot Pafnute signed
this,' in the exact handwriting of the abbot. The general
liked it very much, and that's why he recalled it just now."
"Aglaya, make a note of
'Pafnute,' or we shall forget him. H'm! and where is this
signature?"
"I think it was left on the
general's table."
"Let it be sent for at
once!"
"Oh, I'll write you a new
one in half a minute," said the prince, "if you like!"
"Of course, mamma!" said
Alexandra. "But let's have lunch now, we are all hungry!"
"Yes; come along, prince,"
said the mother, "are you very hungry?"
"Yes; I must say that I am
pretty hungry, thanks very much."
"H'm! I like to see that
you know your manners; and you are by no means such a person
as the general thought fit to describe you. Come along; you
sit here, opposite to me," she continued, "I wish to be able
to see your face. Alexandra, Adelaida, look after the
prince! He doesn't seem so very ill, does he? I don't think
he requires a napkin under his chin, after all; are you
accustomed to having one on, prince?"
"Formerly, when I was seven
years old or so. I believe I wore one; but now I usually
hold my napkin on my knee when I eat."
"Of course, of course! And
about your fits?"
"Fits?" asked the prince,
slightly surprised. "I very seldom have fits nowadays. I
don't know how it may be here, though; they say the climate
may be bad for me."
"He talks very well, you
know!" said Mrs. Epanchin, who still continued to nod at
each word the prince spoke. "I really did not expect it at
all; in fact, I suppose it was all stuff and nonsense on the
general's part, as usual. Eat away, prince, and tell me
where you were born, and where you were brought up. I wish
to know all about you, you interest me very much!"
The prince expressed his
thanks once more, and eating heartily the while, recommenced
the narrative of his life in Switzerland, all of which we
have heard before. Mrs. Epanchin became more and more
pleased with her guest; the girls, too, listened with
considerable attention. In talking over the question of
relationship it turned out that the prince was very well up
in the matter and knew his pedigree off by heart. It was
found that scarcely any connection existed between himself
and Mrs. Epanchin, but the talk, and the opportunity of
conversing about her family tree, gratified the latter
exceedingly, and she rose from the table in great good
humour.
"Let's all go to my
boudoir," she said, "and they shall bring some coffee in
there. That's the room where we all assemble and busy
ourselves as we like best," she explained. "Alexandra, my
eldest, here, plays the piano, or reads or sews; Adelaida
paints landscapes and portraits (but never finishes any);
and Aglaya sits and does nothing. I don't work too much,
either. Here we are, now; sit down, prince, near the fire
and talk to us. I want to hear you relate something. I wish
to make sure of you first and then tell my old friend,
Princess Bielokonski, about you. I wish you to know all the
good people and to interest them. Now then, begin!"
"Mamma, it's rather a
strange order, that!" said Adelaida, who was fussing among
her paints and paint-brushes at the easel. Aglaya and
Alexandra had settled themselves with folded hands on a
sofa, evidently meaning to be listeners. The prince felt
that the general attention was concentrated upon himself.
"I should refuse to say a
word if I were ordered to tell a story like that!" observed
Aglaya.
"Why? what's there strange
about it? He has a tongue. Why shouldn't he tell us
something? I want to judge whether he is a good
story-teller; anything you like, prince-how you liked
Switzerland, what was your first impression, anything.
You'll see, he'll begin directly and tell us all about it
beautifully."
"The impression was
forcible—" the prince began.
"There, you see, girls,"
said the impatient lady, "he has begun, you see."
"Well, then, LET him talk,
mamma," said Alexandra. "This prince is a great humbug and
by no means an idiot," she whispered to Aglaya.
"Oh, I saw that at once,"
replied the latter. "I don't think it at all nice of him to
play a part. What does he wish to gain by it, I wonder?"
"My first impression was a
very strong one," repeated the prince. "When they took me
away from Russia, I remember I passed through many German
towns and looked out of the windows, but did not trouble so
much as to ask questions about them. This was after a long
series of fits. I always used to fall into a sort of torpid
condition after such a series, and lost my memory almost
entirely; and though I was not altogether without reason at
such times, yet I had no logical power of thought. This
would continue for three or four days, and then I would
recover myself again. I remember my melancholy was
intolerable; I felt inclined to cry; I sat and wondered and
wondered uncomfortably; the consciousness that everything
was strange weighed terribly upon me; I could understand
that it was all foreign and strange. I recollect I awoke
from this state for the first time at Basle, one evening;
the bray of a donkey aroused me, a donkey in the town
market. I saw the donkey and was extremely pleased with it,
and from that moment my head seemed to clear."
"A donkey? How strange! Yet
it is not strange. Anyone of us might fall in love with a
donkey! It happened in mythological times," said Madame
Epanchin, looking wrathfully at her daughters, who had begun
to laugh. "Go on, prince."
"Since that evening I have
been specially fond of donkeys. I began to ask questions
about them, for I had never seen one before; and I at once
came to the conclusion that this must be one of the most
useful of animals—strong, willing, patient, cheap; and,
thanks to this donkey, I began to like the whole country I
was travelling through; and my melancholy passed away."
"All this is very strange
and interesting," said Mrs. Epanchin. "Now let's leave the
donkey and go on to other matters. What are you laughing at,
Aglaya? and you too, Adelaida? The prince told us his
experiences very cleverly; he saw the donkey himself, and
what have you ever seen? YOU have never been abroad."
"I have seen a donkey
though, mamma!" said Aglaya.
"And I've heard one!" said
Adelaida. All three of the girls laughed out loud, and the
prince laughed with them.
"Well, it's too bad of
you," said mamma. "You must forgive them, prince; they are
good girls. I am very fond of them, though I often have to
be scolding them; they are all as silly and mad as march
hares."
"Oh, why shouldn't they
laugh?" said the prince. "I shouldn't have let the chance go
by in their place, I know. But I stick up for the donkey,
all the same; he's a patient, good-natured fellow."
"Are you a patient man,
prince? I ask out of curiosity," said Mrs. Epanchin.
All laughed again.
"Oh, that wretched donkey
again, I see!" cried the lady. "I assure you, prince, I was
not guilty of the least—"
"Insinuation? Oh! I assure
you, I take your word for it." And the prince continued
laughing merrily.
"I must say it's very nice
of you to laugh. I see you really are a kind-hearted
fellow," said Mrs. Epanchin.
"I'm not always kind,
though."
"I am kind myself, and
ALWAYS kind too, if you please!" she retorted, unexpectedly;
"and that is my chief fault, for one ought not to be always
kind. I am often angry with these girls and their father;
but the worst of it is, I am always kindest when I am cross.
I was very angry just before you came, and Aglaya there read
me a lesson—thanks, Aglaya, dear—come and kiss
me—there—that's enough" she added, as Aglaya came forward
and kissed her lips and then her hand. "Now then, go on,
prince. Perhaps you can think of something more exciting
than about the donkey, eh?"
"I must say, again, I can't
understand how you can expect anyone to tell you stories
straight away, so," said Adelaida. "I know I never could!"
"Yes, but the prince can,
because he is clever—cleverer than you are by ten or twenty
times, if you like. There, that's so, prince; and seriously,
let's drop the donkey now—what else did you see abroad,
besides the donkey?"
"Yes, but the prince told
us about the donkey very cleverly, all the same," said
Alexandra. "I have always been most interested to hear how
people go mad and get well again, and that sort of thing.
Especially when it happens suddenly."
"Quite so, quite so!" cried
Mrs. Epanchin, delighted. "I see you CAN be sensible now and
then, Alexandra. You were speaking of Switzerland, prince?"
"Yes. We came to Lucerne,
and I was taken out in a boat. I felt how lovely it was, but
the loveliness weighed upon me somehow or other, and made me
feel melancholy."
"Why?" asked Alexandra.
"I don't know; I always
feel like that when I look at the beauties of nature for the
first time; but then, I was ill at that time, of course!"
"Oh, but I should like to
see it!" said Adelaida; "and I don't know WHEN we shall ever
go abroad. I've been two years looking out for a good
subject for a picture. I've done all I know. 'The North and
South I know by heart,' as our poet observes. Do help me to
a subject, prince."
"Oh, but I know nothing
about painting. It seems to me one only has to look, and
paint what one sees."
"But I don't know HOW to
see!"
"Nonsense, what rubbish you
talk!" the mother struck in. "Not know how to see! Open your
eyes and look! If you can't see here, you won't see abroad
either. Tell us what you saw yourself, prince!"
"Yes, that's better," said
Adelaida; "the prince learned to see abroad."
"Oh, I hardly know! You
see, I only went to restore my health. I don't know whether
I learned to see, exactly. I was very happy, however, nearly
all the time."
"Happy! you can be happy?"
cried Aglaya. "Then how can you say you did not learn to
see? I should think you could teach us to see!"
"Oh! DO teach us," laughed
Adelaida.
"Oh! I can't do that," said
the prince, laughing too. "I lived almost all the while in
one little Swiss village; what can I teach you? At first I
was only just not absolutely dull; then my health began to
improve—then every day became dearer and more precious to
me, and the longer I stayed, the dearer became the time to
me; so much so that I could not help observing it; but why
this was so, it would be difficult to say."
"So that you didn't care to
go away anywhere else?"
"Well, at first I did; I
was restless; I didn't know however I should manage to
support life—you know there are such moments, especially in
solitude. There was a waterfall near us, such a lovely thin
streak of water, like a thread but white and moving. It fell
from a great height, but it looked quite low, and it was
half a mile away, though it did not seem fifty paces. I
loved to listen to it at night, but it was then that I
became so restless. Sometimes I went and climbed the
mountain and stood there in the midst of the tall pines, all
alone in the terrible silence, with our little village in
the distance, and the sky so blue, and the sun so bright,
and an old ruined castle on the mountain-side, far away. I
used to watch the line where earth and sky met, and longed
to go and seek there the key of all mysteries, thinking that
I might find there a new life, perhaps some great city where
life should be grander and richer—and then it struck me that
life may be grand enough even in a prison."
"I read that last most
praiseworthy thought in my manual, when I was twelve years
old," said Aglaya.
"All this is pure
philosophy," said Adelaida. "You are a philosopher, prince,
and have come here to instruct us in your views."
"Perhaps you are right,"
said the prince, smiling. "I think I am a philosopher,
perhaps, and who knows, perhaps I do wish to teach my views
of things to those I meet with?"
"Your philosophy is rather
like that of an old woman we know, who is rich and yet does
nothing but try how little she can spend. She talks of
nothing but money all day. Your great philosophical idea of
a grand life in a prison and your four happy years in that
Swiss village are like this, rather," said Aglaya.
"As to life in a prison, of
course there may be two opinions," said the prince. "I once
heard the story of a man who lived twelve years in a
prison—I heard it from the man himself. He was one of the
persons under treatment with my professor; he had fits, and
attacks of melancholy, then he would weep, and once he tried
to commit suicide. HIS life in prison was sad enough; his
only acquaintances were spiders and a tree that grew outside
his grating-but I think I had better tell you of another man
I met last year. There was a very strange feature in this
case, strange because of its extremely rare occurrence. This
man had once been brought to the scaffold in company with
several others, and had had the sentence of death by
shooting passed upon him for some political crime. Twenty
minutes later he had been reprieved and some other
punishment substituted; but the interval between the two
sentences, twenty minutes, or at least a quarter of an hour,
had been passed in the certainty that within a few minutes
he must die. I was very anxious to hear him speak of his
impressions during that dreadful time, and I several times
inquired of him as to what he thought and felt. He
remembered everything with the most accurate and
extraordinary distinctness, and declared that he would never
forget a single iota of the experience.
"About twenty paces from
the scaffold, where he had stood to hear the sentence, were
three posts, fixed in the ground, to which to fasten the
criminals (of whom there were several). The first three
criminals were taken to the posts, dressed in long white
tunics, with white caps drawn over their faces, so that they
could not see the rifles pointed at them. Then a group of
soldiers took their stand opposite to each post. My friend
was the eighth on the list, and therefore he would have been
among the third lot to go up. A priest went about among them
with a cross: and there was about five minutes of time left
for him to live.
"He said that those five
minutes seemed to him to be a most interminable period, an
enormous wealth of time; he seemed to be living, in these
minutes, so many lives that there was no need as yet to
think of that last moment, so that he made several
arrangements, dividing up the time into portions—one for
saying farewell to his companions, two minutes for that;
then a couple more for thinking over his own life and career
and all about himself; and another minute for a last look
around. He remembered having divided his time like this
quite well. While saying good-bye to his friends he
recollected asking one of them some very usual everyday
question, and being much interested in the answer. Then
having bade farewell, he embarked upon those two minutes
which he had allotted to looking into himself; he knew
beforehand what he was going to think about. He wished to
put it to himself as quickly and clearly as possible, that
here was he, a living, thinking man, and that in three
minutes he would be nobody; or if somebody or something,
then what and where? He thought he would decide this
question once for all in these last three minutes. A little
way off there stood a church, and its gilded spire glittered
in the sun. He remembered staring stubbornly at this spire,
and at the rays of light sparkling from it. He could not
tear his eyes from these rays of light; he got the idea that
these rays were his new nature, and that in three minutes he
would become one of them, amalgamated somehow with them.
"The repugnance to what
must ensue almost immediately, and the uncertainty, were
dreadful, he said; but worst of all was the idea, 'What
should I do if I were not to die now? What if I were to
return to life again? What an eternity of days, and all
mine! How I should grudge and count up every minute of it,
so as to waste not a single instant!' He said that this
thought weighed so upon him and became such a terrible
burden upon his brain that he could not bear it, and wished
they would shoot him quickly and have done with it."
The prince paused and all
waited, expecting him to go on again and finish the story.
"Is that all?" asked
Aglaya.
"All? Yes," said the
prince, emerging from a momentary reverie.
"And why did you tell us
this?"
"Oh, I happened to recall
it, that's all! It fitted into the conversation—"
"You probably wish to
deduce, prince," said Alexandra, "that moments of time
cannot be reckoned by money value, and that sometimes five
minutes are worth priceless treasures. All this is very
praiseworthy; but may I ask about this friend of yours, who
told you the terrible experience of his life? He was
reprieved, you say; in other words, they did restore to him
that 'eternity of days.' What did he do with these riches of
time? Did he keep careful account of his minutes?"
"Oh no, he didn't! I asked
him myself. He said that he had not lived a bit as he had
intended, and had wasted many, and many a minute."
"Very well, then there's an
experiment, and the thing is proved; one cannot live and
count each moment; say what you like, but one CANNOT."
"That is true," said the
prince, "I have thought so myself. And yet, why shouldn't
one do it?"
"You think, then, that you
could live more wisely than other people?" said Aglaya.
"I have had that idea."
"And you have it still?"
"Yes—I have it still," the
prince replied.
He had contemplated Aglaya
until now, with a pleasant though rather timid smile, but as
the last words fell from his lips he began to laugh, and
looked at her merrily.
"You are not very modest!"
said she.
"But how brave you are!"
said he. "You are laughing, and I—that man's tale impressed
me so much, that I dreamt of it afterwards; yes, I dreamt of
those five minutes..."
He looked at his listeners
again with that same serious, searching expression.
"You are not angry with
me?" he asked suddenly, and with a kind of nervous hurry,
although he looked them straight in the face.
"Why should we be angry?"
they cried.
"Only because I seem to be
giving you a lecture, all the time!"
At this they laughed
heartily.
"Please don't be angry with
me," continued the prince. "I know very well that I have
seen less of life than other people, and have less knowledge
of it. I must appear to speak strangely sometimes..."
He said the last words
nervously.
"You say you have been
happy, and that proves you have lived, not less, but more
than other people. Why make all these excuses?" interrupted
Aglaya in a mocking tone of voice. "Besides, you need not
mind about lecturing us; you have nothing to boast of. With
your quietism, one could live happily for a hundred years at
least. One might show you the execution of a felon, or show
you one's little finger. You could draw a moral from either,
and be quite satisfied. That sort of existence is easy
enough."
"I can't understand why you
always fly into a temper," said Mrs. Epanchin, who had been
listening to the conversation and examining the faces of the
speakers in turn. "I do not understand what you mean. What
has your little finger to do with it? The prince talks well,
though he is not amusing. He began all right, but now he
seems sad."
"Never mind, mamma! Prince,
I wish you had seen an execution," said Aglaya. "I should
like to ask you a question about that, if you had."
"I have seen an execution,"
said the prince.
"You have!" cried Aglaya.
"I might have guessed it. That's a fitting crown to the rest
of the story. If you have seen an execution, how can you say
you lived happily all the while?"
"But is there capital
punishment where you were?" asked Adelaida.
"I saw it at Lyons.
Schneider took us there, and as soon as we arrived we came
in for that."
"Well, and did you like it
very much? Was it very edifying and instructive?" asked
Aglaya.
"No, I didn't like it at
all, and was ill after seeing it; but I confess I stared as
though my eyes were fixed to the sight. I could not tear
them away."
"I, too, should have been
unable to tear my eyes away," said Aglaya.
"They do not at all approve
of women going to see an execution there. The women who do
go are condemned for it afterwards in the newspapers."
"That is, by contending
that it is not a sight for women they admit that it is a
sight for men. I congratulate them on the deduction. I
suppose you quite agree with them, prince?"
"Tell us about the
execution," put in Adelaida.
"I would much rather not,
just now," said the prince, a little disturbed and frowning
slightly.
"You don't seem to want to
tell us," said Aglaya, with a mocking air.
"No,—the thing is, I was
telling all about the execution a little while ago, and—"
"Whom did you tell about
it?"
"The man-servant, while I
was waiting to see the general."
"Our man-servant?"
exclaimed several voices at once.
"Yes, the one who waits in
the entrance hall, a greyish, red-faced man—"
"The prince is clearly a
democrat," remarked Aglaya.
"Well, if you could tell
Aleksey about it, surely you can tell us too."
"I do so want to hear about
it," repeated Adelaida.
"Just now, I confess,"
began the prince, with more animation, "when you asked me
for a subject for a picture, I confess I had serious
thoughts of giving you one. I thought of asking you to draw
the face of a criminal, one minute before the fall of the
guillotine, while the wretched man is still standing on the
scaffold, preparatory to placing his neck on the block."
"What, his face? only his
face?" asked Adelaida. "That would be a strange subject
indeed. And what sort of a picture would that make?"
"Oh, why not?" the prince
insisted, with some warmth. "When I was in Basle I saw a
picture very much in that style—I should like to tell you
about it; I will some time or other; it struck me very
forcibly."
"Oh, you shall tell us
about the Basle picture another time; now we must have all
about the execution," said Adelaida. "Tell us about that
face as; it appeared to your imagination-how should it be
drawn?—just the face alone, do you mean?"
"It was just a minute
before the execution," began the prince, readily, carried
away by the recollection and evidently forgetting everything
else in a moment; "just at the instant when he stepped off
the ladder on to the scaffold. He happened to look in my
direction: I saw his eyes and understood all, at once—but
how am I to describe it? I do so wish you or somebody else
could draw it, you, if possible. I thought at the time what
a picture it would make. You must imagine all that went
before, of course, all—all. He had lived in the prison for
some time and had not expected that the execution would take
place for at least a week yet—he had counted on all the
formalities and so on taking time; but it so happened that
his papers had been got ready quickly. At five o'clock in
the morning he was asleep—it was October, and at five in the
morning it was cold and dark. The governor of the prison
comes in on tip-toe and touches the sleeping man's shoulder
gently. He starts up. 'What is it?' he says. 'The execution
is fixed for ten o'clock.' He was only just awake, and would
not believe at first, but began to argue that his papers
would not be out for a week, and so on. When he was wide
awake and realized the truth, he became very silent and
argued no more—so they say; but after a bit he said: 'It
comes very hard on one so suddenly' and then he was silent
again and said nothing.
"The three or four hours
went by, of course, in necessary preparations—the priest,
breakfast, (coffee, meat, and some wine they gave him;
doesn't it seem ridiculous?) And yet I believe these people
give them a good breakfast out of pure kindness of heart,
and believe that they are doing a good action. Then he is
dressed, and then begins the procession through the town to
the scaffold. I think he, too, must feel that he has an age
to live still while they cart him along. Probably he
thought, on the way, 'Oh, I have a long, long time yet.
Three streets of life yet! When we've passed this street
there'll be that other one; and then that one where the
baker's shop is on the right; and when shall we get there?
It's ages, ages!' Around him are crowds shouting,
yelling—ten thousand faces, twenty thousand eyes. All this
has to be endured, and especially the thought: 'Here are ten
thousand men, and not one of them is going to be executed,
and yet I am to die.' Well, all that is preparatory.
"At the scaffold there is a
ladder, and just there he burst into tears—and this was a
strong man, and a terribly wicked one, they say! There was a
priest with him the whole time, talking; even in the cart as
they drove along, he talked and talked. Probably the other
heard nothing; he would begin to listen now and then, and at
the third word or so he had forgotten all about it.
"At last he began to mount
the steps; his legs were tied, so that he had to take very
small steps. The priest, who seemed to be a wise man, had
stopped talking now, and only held the cross for the
wretched fellow to kiss. At the foot of the ladder he had
been pale enough; but when he set foot on the scaffold at
the top, his face suddenly became the colour of paper,
positively like white notepaper. His legs must have become
suddenly feeble and helpless, and he felt a choking in his
throat—you know the sudden feeling one has in moments of
terrible fear, when one does not lose one's wits, but is
absolutely powerless to move? If some dreadful thing were
suddenly to happen; if a house were just about to fall on
one;—don't you know how one would long to sit down and shut
one's eyes and wait, and wait? Well, when this terrible
feeling came over him, the priest quickly pressed the cross
to his lips, without a word—a little silver cross it was-and
he kept on pressing it to the man's lips every second. And
whenever the cross touched his lips, the eyes would open for
a moment, and the legs moved once, and he kissed the cross
greedily, hurriedly—just as though he were anxious to catch
hold of something in case of its being useful to him
afterwards, though he could hardly have had any connected
religious thoughts at the time. And so up to the very block.
"How strange that criminals
seldom swoon at such a moment! On the contrary, the brain is
especially active, and works incessantly—probably hard,
hard, hard—like an engine at full pressure. I imagine that
various thoughts must beat loud and fast through his
head—all unfinished ones, and strange, funny thoughts, very
likely!—like this, for instance: 'That man is looking at me,
and he has a wart on his forehead! and the executioner has
burst one of his buttons, and the lowest one is all rusty!'
And meanwhile he notices and remembers everything. There is
one point that cannot be forgotten, round which everything
else dances and turns about; and because of this point he
cannot faint, and this lasts until the very final quarter of
a second, when the wretched neck is on the block and the
victim listens and waits and KNOWS—that's the point, he
KNOWS that he is just NOW about to die, and listens for the
rasp of the iron over his head. If I lay there, I should
certainly listen for that grating sound, and hear it, too!
There would probably be but the tenth part of an instant
left to hear it in, but one would certainly hear it. And
imagine, some people declare that when the head flies off it
is CONSCIOUS of having flown off! Just imagine what a thing
to realize! Fancy if consciousness were to last for even
five seconds!
"Draw the scaffold so that
only the top step of the ladder comes in clearly. The
criminal must be just stepping on to it, his face as white
as note-paper. The priest is holding the cross to his blue
lips, and the criminal kisses it, and knows and sees and
understands everything. The cross and the head—there's your
picture; the priest and the executioner, with his two
assistants, and a few heads and eyes below. Those might come
in as subordinate accessories—a sort of mist. There's a
picture for you." The prince paused, and looked around.
"Certainly that isn't much
like quietism," murmured Alexandra, half to herself.
"Now tell us about your
love affairs," said Adelaida, after a moment's pause.
The prince gazed at her in
amazement.
"You know," Adelaida
continued, "you owe us a description of the Basle picture;
but first I wish to hear how you fell in love. Don't deny
the fact, for you did, of course. Besides, you stop
philosophizing when you are telling about anything."
"Why are you ashamed of
your stories the moment after you have told them?" asked
Aglaya, suddenly.
"How silly you are!" said
Mrs. Epanchin, looking indignantly towards the last speaker.
"Yes, that wasn't a clever
remark," said Alexandra.
"Don't listen to her,
prince," said Mrs. Epanchin; "she says that sort of thing
out of mischief. Don't think anything of their nonsense, it
means nothing. They love to chaff, but they like you. I can
see it in their faces—I know their faces."
"I know their faces, too,"
said the prince, with a peculiar stress on the words.
"How so?" asked Adelaida,
with curiosity.
"What do YOU know about our
faces?" exclaimed the other two, in chorus.
But the prince was silent
and serious. All awaited his reply.
"I'll tell you afterwards,"
he said quietly.
"Ah, you want to arouse our
curiosity!" said Aglaya. "And how terribly solemn you are
about it!"
"Very well," interrupted
Adelaida, "then if you can read faces so well, you must have
been in love. Come now; I've guessed—let's have the secret!"
"I have not been in love,"
said the prince, as quietly and seriously as before. "I have
been happy in another way."
"How, how?"
"Well, I'll tell you," said
the prince, apparently in a deep reverie.
VI.
"Here you all are," began
the prince, "settling yourselves down to listen to me with
so much curiosity, that if I do not satisfy you you will
probably be angry with me. No, no! I'm only joking!" he
added, hastily, with a smile.
"Well, then—they were all
children there, and I was always among children and only
with children. They were the children of the village in
which I lived, and they went to the school there—all of
them. I did not teach them, oh no; there was a master for
that, one Jules Thibaut. I may have taught them some things,
but I was among them just as an outsider, and I passed all
four years of my life there among them. I wished for nothing
better; I used to tell them everything and hid nothing from
them. Their fathers and relations were very angry with me,
because the children could do nothing without me at last,
and used to throng after me at all times. The schoolmaster
was my greatest enemy in the end! I had many enemies, and
all because of the children. Even Schneider reproached me.
What were they afraid of? One can tell a child everything,
anything. I have often been struck by the fact that parents
know their children so little. They should not conceal so
much from them. How well even little children understand
that their parents conceal things from them, because they
consider them too young to understand! Children are capable
of giving advice in the most important matters. How can one
deceive these dear little birds, when they look at one so
sweetly and confidingly? I call them birds because there is
nothing in the world better than birds!
"However, most of the
people were angry with me about one and the same thing; but
Thibaut simply was jealous of me. At first he had wagged his
head and wondered how it was that the children understood
what I told them so well, and could not learn from him; and
he laughed like anything when I replied that neither he nor
I could teach them very much, but that THEY might teach us a
good deal.
"How he could hate me and
tell scandalous stories about me, living among children as
he did, is what I cannot understand. Children soothe and
heal the wounded heart. I remember there was one poor fellow
at our professor's who was being treated for madness, and
you have no idea what those children did for him,
eventually. I don't think he was mad, but only terribly
unhappy. But I'll tell you all about him another day. Now I
must get on with this story.
"The children did not love
me at first; I was such a sickly, awkward kind of a fellow
then—and I know I am ugly. Besides, I was a foreigner. The
children used to laugh at me, at first; and they even went
so far as to throw stones at me, when they saw me kiss
Marie. I only kissed her once in my life—no, no, don't
laugh!" The prince hastened to suppress the smiles of his
audience at this point. "It was not a matter of LOVE at all!
If only you knew what a miserable creature she was, you
would have pitied her, just as I did. She belonged to our
village. Her mother was an old, old woman, and they used to
sell string and thread, and soap and tobacco, out of the
window of their little house, and lived on the pittance they
gained by this trade. The old woman was ill and very old,
and could hardly move. Marie was her daughter, a girl of
twenty, weak and thin and consumptive; but still she did
heavy work at the houses around, day by day. Well, one fine
day a commercial traveller betrayed her and carried her off;
and a week later he deserted her. She came home dirty,
draggled, and shoeless; she had walked for a whole week
without shoes; she had slept in the fields, and caught a
terrible cold; her feet were swollen and sore, and her hands
torn and scratched all over. She never had been pretty even
before; but her eyes were quiet, innocent, kind eyes.
"She was very quiet
always—and I remember once, when she had suddenly begun
singing at her work, everyone said, 'Marie tried to sing
today!' and she got so chaffed that she was silent for ever
after. She had been treated kindly in the place before; but
when she came back now—ill and shunned and miserable—not one
of them all had the slightest sympathy for her. Cruel
people! Oh, what hazy understandings they have on such
matters! Her mother was the first to show the way. She
received her wrathfully, unkindly, and with contempt. 'You
have disgraced me,' she said. She was the first to cast her
into ignominy; but when they all heard that Marie had
returned to the village, they ran out to see her and crowded
into the little cottage—old men, children, women, girls—such
a hurrying, stamping, greedy crowd. Marie was lying on the
floor at the old woman's feet, hungry, torn, draggled,
crying, miserable.
"When everyone crowded into
the room she hid her face in her dishevelled hair and lay
cowering on the floor. Everyone looked at her as though she
were a piece of dirt off the road. The old men scolded and
condemned, and the young ones laughed at her. The women
condemned her too, and looked at her contemptuously, just as
though she were some loathsome insect.
"Her mother allowed all
this to go on, and nodded her head and encouraged them. The
old woman was very ill at that time, and knew she was dying
(she really did die a couple of months later), and though
she felt the end approaching she never thought of forgiving
her daughter, to the very day of her death. She would not
even speak to her. She made her sleep on straw in a shed,
and hardly gave her food enough to support life.
"Marie was very gentle to
her mother, and nursed her, and did everything for her; but
the old woman accepted all her services without a word and
never showed her the slightest kindness. Marie bore all
this; and I could see when I got to know her that she
thought it quite right and fitting, considering herself the
lowest and meanest of creatures.
"When the old woman took to
her bed finally, the other old women in the village sat with
her by turns, as the custom is there; and then Marie was
quite driven out of the house. They gave her no food at all,
and she could not get any work in the village; none would
employ her. The men seemed to consider her no longer a
woman, they said such dreadful things to her. Sometimes on
Sundays, if they were drunk enough, they used to throw her a
penny or two, into the mud, and Marie would silently pick up
the money. She had began to spit blood at that time.
"At last her rags became so
tattered and torn that she was ashamed of appearing in the
village any longer. The children used to pelt her with mud;
so she begged to be taken on as assistant cowherd, but the
cowherd would not have her. Then she took to helping him
without leave; and he saw how valuable her assistance was to
him, and did not drive her away again; on the contrary, he
occasionally gave her the remnants of his dinner, bread and
cheese. He considered that he was being very kind. When the
mother died, the village parson was not ashamed to hold
Marie up to public derision and shame. Marie was standing at
the coffin's head, in all her rags, crying.
"A crowd of people had
collected to see how she would cry. The parson, a young
fellow ambitious of becoming a great preacher, began his
sermon and pointed to Marie. 'There,' he said, 'there is the
cause of the death of this venerable woman'—(which was a
lie, because she had been ill for at least two years)—'there
she stands before you, and dares not lift her eyes from the
ground, because she knows that the finger of God is upon
her. Look at her tatters and rags—the badge of those who
lose their virtue. Who is she? her daughter!' and so on to
the end.
"And just fancy, this
infamy pleased them, all of them, nearly. Only the children
had altered—for then they were all on my side and had
learned to love Marie.
"This is how it was: I had
wished to do something for Marie; I longed to give her some
money, but I never had a farthing while I was there. But I
had a little diamond pin, and this I sold to a travelling
pedlar; he gave me eight francs for it—it was worth at least
forty.
"I long sought to meet
Marie alone; and at last I did meet her, on the hillside
beyond the village. I gave her the eight francs and asked
her to take care of the money because I could get no more;
and then I kissed her and said that she was not to suppose I
kissed her with any evil motives or because I was in love
with her, for that I did so solely out of pity for her, and
because from the first I had not accounted her as guilty so
much as unfortunate. I longed to console and encourage her
somehow, and to assure her that she was not the low, base
thing which she and others strove to make out; but I don't
think she understood me. She stood before me, dreadfully
ashamed of herself, and with downcast eyes; and when I had
finished she kissed my hand. I would have kissed hers, but
she drew it away. Just at this moment the whole troop of
children saw us. (I found out afterwards that they had long
kept a watch upon me.) They all began whistling and clapping
their hands, and laughing at us. Marie ran away at once; and
when I tried to talk to them, they threw stones at me. All
the village heard of it the same day, and Marie's position
became worse than ever. The children would not let her pass
now in the streets, but annoyed her and threw dirt at her
more than before. They used to run after her—she racing away
with her poor feeble lungs panting and gasping, and they
pelting her and shouting abuse at her.
"Once I had to interfere by
force; and after that I took to speaking to them every day
and whenever I could. Occasionally they stopped and
listened; but they teased Marie all the same.
"I told them how unhappy
Marie was, and after a while they stopped their abuse of
her, and let her go by silently. Little by little we got
into the way of conversing together, the children and I. I
concealed nothing from them, I told them all. They listened
very attentively and soon began to be sorry for Marie. At
last some of them took to saying 'Good-morning' to her,
kindly, when they met her. It is the custom there to salute
anyone you meet with 'Good-morning' whether acquainted or
not. I can imagine how astonished Marie was at these first
greetings from the children.
"Once two little girls got
hold of some food and took it to her, and came back and told
me. They said she had burst into tears, and that they loved
her very much now. Very soon after that they all became fond
of Marie, and at the same time they began to develop the
greatest affection for myself. They often came to me and
begged me to tell them stories. I think I must have told
stories well, for they did so love to hear them. At last I
took to reading up interesting things on purpose to pass
them on to the little ones, and this went on for all the
rest of my time there, three years. Later, when
everyone—even Schneider—was angry with me for hiding nothing
from the children, I pointed out how foolish it was, for
they always knew things, only they learnt them in a way that
soiled their minds but not so from me. One has only to
remember one's own childhood to admit the truth of this. But
nobody was convinced... It was two weeks before her mother
died that I had kissed Marie; and when the clergyman
preached that sermon the children were all on my side.
"When I told them what a
shame it was of the parson to talk as he had done, and
explained my reason, they were so angry that some of them
went and broke his windows with stones. Of course I stopped
them, for that was not right, but all the village heard of
it, and how I caught it for spoiling the children! Everyone
discovered now that the little ones had taken to being fond
of Marie, and their parents were terribly alarmed; but Marie
was so happy. The children were forbidden to meet her; but
they used to run out of the village to the herd and take her
food and things; and sometimes just ran off there and kissed
her, and said, 'Je vous aime, Marie!' and then trotted back
again. They imagined that I was in love with Marie, and this
was the only point on which I did not undeceive them, for
they got such enjoyment out of it. And what delicacy and
tenderness they showed!
"In the evening I used to
walk to the waterfall. There was a spot there which was
quite closed in and hidden from view by large trees; and to
this spot the children used to come to me. They could not
bear that their dear Leon should love a poor girl without
shoes to her feet and dressed all in rags and tatters. So,
would you believe it, they actually clubbed together,
somehow, and bought her shoes and stockings, and some linen,
and even a dress! I can't understand how they managed it,
but they did it, all together. When I asked them about it
they only laughed and shouted, and the little girls clapped
their hands and kissed me. I sometimes went to see Marie
secretly, too. She had become very ill, and could hardly
walk. She still went with the herd, but could not help the
herdsman any longer. She used to sit on a stone near, and
wait there almost motionless all day, till the herd went
home. Her consumption was so advanced, and she was so weak,
that she used to sit with closed eyes, breathing heavily.
Her face was as thin as a skeleton's, and sweat used to
stand on her white brow in large drops. I always found her
sitting just like that. I used to come up quietly to look at
her; but Marie would hear me, open her eyes, and tremble
violently as she kissed my hands. I did not take my hand
away because it made her happy to have it, and so she would
sit and cry quietly. Sometimes she tried to speak; but it
was very difficult to understand her. She was almost like a
madwoman, with excitement and ecstasy, whenever I came.
Occasionally the children came with me; when they did so,
they would stand some way off and keep guard over us, so as
to tell me if anybody came near. This was a great pleasure
to them.
"When we left her, Marie
used to relapse at once into her old condition, and sit with
closed eyes and motionless limbs. One day she could not go
out at all, and remained at home all alone in the empty hut;
but the children very soon became aware of the fact, and
nearly all of them visited her that day as she lay alone and
helpless in her miserable bed.
"For two days the children
looked after her, and then, when the village people got to
know that Marie was really dying, some of the old women came
and took it in turns to sit by her and look after her a bit.
I think they began to be a little sorry for her in the
village at last; at all events they did not interfere with
the children any more, on her account.
"Marie lay in a state of
uncomfortable delirium the whole while; she coughed
dreadfully. The old women would not let the children stay in
the room; but they all collected outside the window each
morning, if only for a moment, and shouted 'Bon jour, notre
bonne Marie!' and Marie no sooner caught sight of, or heard
them, and she became quite animated at once, and, in spite
of the old women, would try to sit up and nod her head and
smile at them, and thank them. The little ones used to bring
her nice things and sweets to eat, but she could hardly
touch anything. Thanks to them, I assure you, the girl died
almost perfectly happy. She almost forgot her misery, and
seemed to accept their love as a sort of symbol of pardon
for her offence, though she never ceased to consider herself
a dreadful sinner. They used to flutter at her window just
like little birds, calling out: 'Nous t'aimons, Marie!'
"She died very soon; I had
thought she would live much longer. The day before her death
I went to see her for the last time, just before sunset. I
think she recognized me, for she pressed my hand.
"Next morning they came and
told me that Marie was dead. The children could not be
restrained now; they went and covered her coffin with
flowers, and put a wreath of lovely blossoms on her head.
The pastor did not throw any more shameful words at the poor
dead woman; but there were very few people at the funeral.
However, when it came to carrying the coffin, all the
children rushed up, to carry it themselves. Of course they
could not do it alone, but they insisted on helping, and
walked alongside and behind, crying.
"They have planted roses
all round her grave, and every year they look alter the
flowers and make Marie's resting-place as beautiful as they
can. I was in ill odour after all this with the parents of
the children, and especially with the parson and
schoolmaster. Schneider was obliged to promise that I should
not meet them and talk to them; but we conversed from a
distance by signs, and they used to write me sweet little
notes. Afterwards I came closer than ever to those little
souls, but even then it was very dear to me, to have them so
fond of me.
"Schneider said that I did
the children great harm by my pernicious 'system'; what
nonsense that was! And what did he mean by my system? He
said afterwards that he believed I was a child myself—just
before I came away. 'You have the form and face of an adult'
he said, 'but as regards soul, and character, and perhaps
even intelligence, you are a child in the completest sense
of the word, and always will be, if you live to be sixty.' I
laughed very much, for of course that is nonsense. But it is
a fact that I do not care to be among grown-up people and
much prefer the society of children. However kind people may
be to me, I never feel quite at home with them, and am
always glad to get back to my little companions. Now my
companions have always been children, not because I was a
child myself once, but because young things attract me. On
one of the first days of my stay in Switzerland, I was
strolling about alone and miserable, when I came upon the
children rushing noisily out of school, with their slates
and bags, and books, their games, their laughter and
shouts—and my soul went out to them. I stopped and laughed
happily as I watched their little feet moving so quickly.
Girls and boys, laughing and crying; for as they went home
many of them found time to fight and make peace, to weep and
play. I forgot my troubles in looking at them. And then, all
those three years, I tried to understand why men should be
for ever tormenting themselves. I lived the life of a child
there, and thought I should never leave the little village;
indeed, I was far from thinking that I should ever return to
Russia. But at last I recognized the fact that Schneider
could not keep me any longer. And then something so
important happened, that Schneider himself urged me to
depart. I am going to see now if can get good advice about
it. Perhaps my lot in life will be changed; but that is not
the principal thing. The principal thing is the entire
change that has already come over me. I left many things
behind me—too many. They have gone. On the journey I said to
myself, 'I am going into the world of men. I don't know
much, perhaps, but a new life has begun for me.' I made up
my mind to be honest, and steadfast in accomplishing my
task. Perhaps I shall meet with troubles and many
disappointments, but I have made up my mind to be polite and
sincere to everyone; more cannot be asked of me. People may
consider me a child if they like. I am often called an
idiot, and at one time I certainly was so ill that I was
nearly as bad as an idiot; but I am not an idiot now. How
can I possibly be so when I know myself that I am considered
one?
"When I received a letter
from those dear little souls, while passing through Berlin,
I only then realized how much I loved them. It was very,
very painful, getting that first little letter. How
melancholy they had been when they saw me off! For a month
before, they had been talking of my departure and sorrowing
over it; and at the waterfall, of an evening, when we parted
for the night, they would hug me so tight and kiss me so
warmly, far more so than before. And every now and then they
would turn up one by one when I was alone, just to give me a
kiss and a hug, to show their love for me. The whole flock
went with me to the station, which was about a mile from the
village, and every now and then one of them would stop to
throw his arms round me, and all the little girls had tears
in their voices, though they tried hard not to cry. As the
train steamed out of the station, I saw them all standing on
the platform waving to me and crying 'Hurrah!' till they
were lost in the distance.
"I assure you, when I came
in here just now and saw your kind faces (I can read faces
well) my heart felt light for the first time since that
moment of parting. I think I must be one of those who are
born to be in luck, for one does not often meet with people
whom one feels he can love from the first sight of their
faces; and yet, no sooner do I step out of the railway
carriage than I happen upon you!
"I know it is more or less
a shamefaced thing to speak of one's feelings before others;
and yet here am I talking like this to you, and am not a bit
ashamed or shy. I am an unsociable sort of fellow and shall
very likely not come to see you again for some time; but
don't think the worse of me for that. It is not that I do
not value your society; and you must never suppose that I
have taken offence at anything.
"You asked me about your
faces, and what I could read in them; I will tell you with
the greatest pleasure. You, Adelaida Ivanovna, have a very
happy face; it is the most sympathetic of the three. Not to
speak of your natural beauty, one can look at your face and
say to one's self, 'She has the face of a kind sister.' You
are simple and merry, but you can see into another's heart
very quickly. That's what I read in your face.
"You too, Alexandra
Ivanovna, have a very lovely face; but I think you may have
some secret sorrow. Your heart is undoubtedly a kind, good
one, but you are not merry. There is a certain suspicion of
'shadow' in your face, like in that of Holbein's Madonna in
Dresden. So much for your face. Have I guessed right?
"As for your face,
Lizabetha Prokofievna, I not only think, but am perfectly
SURE, that you are an absolute child—in all, in all, mind,
both good and bad-and in spite of your years. Don't be angry
with me for saying so; you know what my feelings for
children are. And do not suppose that I am so candid out of
pure simplicity of soul. Oh dear no, it is by no means the
case! Perhaps I have my own very profound object in view."
VII.
When the prince ceased
speaking all were gazing merrily at him—even Aglaya; but
Lizabetha Prokofievna looked the jolliest of all.
"Well!" she cried, "we HAVE
'put him through his paces,' with a vengeance! My dears, you
imagined, I believe, that you were about to patronize this
young gentleman, like some poor protege picked up somewhere,
and taken under your magnificent protection. What fools we
were, and what a specially big fool is your father! Well
done, prince! I assure you the general actually asked me to
put you through your paces, and examine you. As to what you
said about my face, you are absolutely correct in your
judgment. I am a child, and know it. I knew it long before
you said so; you have expressed my own thoughts. I think
your nature and mine must be extremely alike, and I am very
glad of it. We are like two drops of water, only you are a
man and I a woman, and I've not been to Switzerland, and
that is all the difference between us."
"Don't be in a hurry,
mother; the prince says that he has some motive behind his
simplicity," cried Aglaya.
"Yes, yes, so he does,"
laughed the others.
"Oh, don't you begin
bantering him," said mamma. "He is probably a good deal
cleverer than all three of you girls put together. We shall
see. Only you haven't told us anything about Aglaya yet,
prince; and Aglaya and I are both waiting to hear."
"I cannot say anything at
present. I'll tell you afterwards."
"Why? Her face is clear
enough, isn't it?"
"Oh yes, of course. You are
very beautiful, Aglaya Ivanovna, so beautiful that one is
afraid to look at you."
"Is that all? What about
her character?" persisted Mrs. Epanchin.
"It is difficult to judge
when such beauty is concerned. I have not prepared my
judgment. Beauty is a riddle."
"That means that you have
set Aglaya a riddle!" said Adelaida. "Guess it, Aglaya! But
she's pretty, prince, isn't she?"
"Most wonderfully so," said
the latter, warmly, gazing at Aglaya with admiration.
"Almost as lovely as Nastasia Philipovna, but quite a
different type."
All present exchanged looks
of surprise.
"As lovely as WHO?" said
Mrs. Epanchin. "As NASTASIA PHILIPOVNA? Where have you seen
Nastasia Philipovna? What Nastasia Philipovna?"
"Gavrila Ardalionovitch
showed the general her portrait just now."
"How so? Did he bring the
portrait for my husband?"
"Only to show it. Nastasia
Philipovna gave it to Gavrila Ardalionovitch today, and the
latter brought it here to show to the general."
"I must see it!" cried Mrs.
Epanchin. "Where is the portrait? If she gave it to him, he
must have it; and he is still in the study. He never leaves
before four o'clock on Wednesdays. Send for Gavrila
Ardalionovitch at once. No, I don't long to see HIM so much.
Look here, dear prince, BE so kind, will you? Just step to
the study and fetch this portrait! Say we want to look at
it. Please do this for me, will you?"
"He is a nice fellow, but a
little too simple," said Adelaida, as the prince left the
room.
"He is, indeed," said
Alexandra; "almost laughably so at times."
Neither one nor the other
seemed to give expression to her full thoughts.
"He got out of it very
neatly about our faces, though," said Aglaya. "He flattered
us all round, even mamma."
"Nonsense" cried the
latter. "He did not flatter me. It was I who found his
appreciation flattering. I think you are a great deal more
foolish than he is. He is simple, of course, but also very
knowing. Just like myself."
"How stupid of me to speak
of the portrait," thought the prince as he entered the
study, with a feeling of guilt at his heart, "and yet,
perhaps I was right after all." He had an idea, unformed as
yet, but a strange idea.
Gavrila Ardalionovitch was
still sitting in the study, buried in a mass of papers. He
looked as though he did not take his salary from the public
company, whose servant he was, for a sinecure.
He grew very wroth and
confused when the prince asked for the portrait, and
explained how it came about that he had spoken of it.
"Oh, curse it all," he
said; "what on earth must you go blabbing for? You know
nothing about the thing, and yet—idiot!" he added, muttering
the last word to himself in irrepressible rage.
"I am very sorry; I was not
thinking at the time. I merely said that Aglaya was almost
as beautiful as Nastasia Philipovna."
Gania asked for further
details; and the prince once more repeated the conversation.
Gania looked at him with ironical contempt the while.
"Nastasia Philipovna," he
began, and there paused; he was clearly much agitated and
annoyed. The prince reminded him of the portrait.
"Listen, prince," said
Gania, as though an idea had just struck him, "I wish to ask
you a great favour, and yet I really don't know—"
He paused again, he was
trying to make up his mind to something, and was turning the
matter over. The prince waited quietly. Once more Gania
fixed him with intent and questioning eyes.
"Prince," he began again,
"they are rather angry with me, in there, owing to a
circumstance which I need not explain, so that I do not care
to go in at present without an invitation. I particularly
wish to speak to Aglaya, but I have written a few words in
case I shall not have the chance of seeing her" (here the
prince observed a small note in his hand), "and I do not
know how to get my communication to her. Don't you think you
could undertake to give it to her at once, but only to her,
mind, and so that no one else should see you give it? It
isn't much of a secret, but still—Well, will you do it?"
"I don't quite like it,"
replied the prince.
"Oh, but it is absolutely
necessary for me," Gania entreated. "Believe me, if it were
not so, I would not ask you; how else am I to get it to her?
It is most important, dreadfully important!"
Gania was evidently much
alarmed at the idea that the prince would not consent to
take his note, and he looked at him now with an expression
of absolute entreaty.
"Well, I will take it
then."
"But mind, nobody is to
see!" cried the delighted Gania "And of course I may rely on
your word of honour, eh?"
"I won't show it to
anyone," said the prince.
"The letter is not sealed—"
continued Gania, and paused in confusion.
"Oh, I won't read it," said
the prince, quite simply.
He took up the portrait,
and went out of the room.
Gania, left alone, clutched
his head with his hands.
"One word from her," he
said, "one word from her, and I may yet be free."
He could not settle himself
to his papers again, for agitation and excitement, but began
walking up and down the room from corner to corner.
The prince walked along,
musing. He did not like his commission, and disliked the
idea of Gania sending a note to Aglaya at all; but when he
was two rooms distant from the drawing-room, where they all
were, he stopped a though recalling something; went to the
window, nearer the light, and began to examine the portrait
in his hand.
He longed to solve the
mystery of something in the face Nastasia Philipovna,
something which had struck him as he looked at the portrait
for the first time; the impression had not left him. It was
partly the fact of her marvellous beauty that struck him,
and partly something else. There was a suggestion of immense
pride and disdain in the face almost of hatred, and at the
same time something confiding and very full of simplicity.
The contrast aroused a deep sympathy in his heart as he
looked at the lovely face. The blinding loveliness of it was
almost intolerable, this pale thin face with its flaming
eyes; it was a strange beauty.
The prince gazed at it for
a minute or two, then glanced around him, and hurriedly
raised the portrait to his lips. When, a minute after, he
reached the drawing-room door, his face was quite composed.
But just as he reached the door he met Aglaya coming out
alone.
"Gavrila Ardalionovitch
begged me to give you this," he said, handing her the note.
Aglaya stopped, took the
letter, and gazed strangely into the prince's eyes. There
was no confusion in her face; a little surprise, perhaps,
but that was all. By her look she seemed merely to challenge
the prince to an explanation as to how he and Gania happened
to be connected in this matter. But her expression was
perfectly cool and quiet, and even condescending.
So they stood for a moment
or two, confronting one another. At length a faint smile
passed over her face, and she passed by him without a word.
Mrs. Epanchin examined the
portrait of Nastasia Philipovna for some little while,
holding it critically at arm's length.
"Yes, she is pretty," she
said at last, "even very pretty. I have seen her twice, but
only at a distance. So you admire this kind of beauty, do
you?" she asked the prince, suddenly.
"Yes, I do—this kind."
"Do you mean especially
this kind?"
"Yes, especially this
kind."
"Why?"
"There is much suffering in
this face," murmured the prince, more as though talking to
himself than answering the question.
"I think you are wandering
a little, prince," Mrs. Epanchin decided, after a lengthened
survey of his face; and she tossed the portrait on to the
table, haughtily.
Alexandra took it, and
Adelaida came up, and both the girls examined the
photograph. Just then Aglaya entered the room.
"What a power!" cried
Adelaida suddenly, as she earnestly examined the portrait
over her sister's shoulder.
"Whom? What power?" asked
her mother, crossly.
"Such beauty is real
power," said Adelaida. "With such beauty as that one might
overthrow the world." She returned to her easel
thoughtfully.
Aglaya merely glanced at
the portrait—frowned, and put out her underlip; then went
and sat down on the sofa with folded hands. Mrs. Epanchin
rang the bell.
"Ask Gavrila Ardalionovitch
to step this way," said she to the man who answered.
"Mamma!" cried Alexandra,
significantly.
"I shall just say two words
to him, that's all," said her mother, silencing all
objection by her manner; she was evidently seriously put
out. "You see, prince, it is all secrets with us, just
now—all secrets. It seems to be the etiquette of the house,
for some reason or, other. Stupid nonsense, and in a matter
which ought to be approached with all candour and
open-heartedness. There is a marriage being talked of, and I
don't like this marriage—"
"Mamma, what are you
saying?" said Alexandra again, hurriedly.
"Well, what, my dear girl?
As if you can possibly like it yourself? The heart is the
great thing, and the rest is all rubbish—though one must
have sense as well. Perhaps sense is really the great thing.
Don't smile like that, Aglaya. I don't contradict myself. A
fool with a heart and no brains is just as unhappy as a fool
with brains and no heart. I am one and you are the other,
and therefore both of us suffer, both of us are unhappy."
"Why are you so unhappy,
mother?" asked Adelaida, who alone of all the company seemed
to have preserved her good temper and spirits up to now.
"In the first place,
because of my carefully brought-up daughters," said Mrs.
Epanchin, cuttingly; "and as that is the best reason I can
give you we need not bother about any other at present.
Enough of words, now! We shall see how both of you (I don't
count Aglaya) will manage your business, and whether you,
most revered Alexandra Ivanovna, will be happy with your
fine mate."
"Ah!" she added, as Gania
suddenly entered the room, "here's another marrying subject.
How do you do?" she continued, in response to Gania's bow;
but she did not invite him to sit down. "You are going to be
married?"
"Married? how—what
marriage?" murmured Gania, overwhelmed with confusion.
"Are you about to take a
wife? I ask,—if you prefer that expression."
"No, no I-I—no!" said
Gania, bringing out his lie with a tell-tale blush of shame.
He glanced keenly at Aglaya, who was sitting some way off,
and dropped his eyes immediately.
Aglaya gazed coldly,
intently, and composedly at him, without taking her eyes off
his face, and watched his confusion.
"No? You say no, do you?"
continued the pitiless Mrs. General. "Very well, I shall
remember that you told me this Wednesday morning, in answer
to my question, that you are not going to be married. What
day is it, Wednesday, isn't it?"
"Yes, I think so!" said
Adelaida.
"You never know the day of
the week; what's the day of the month?"
"Twenty-seventh!" said
Gania.
"Twenty-seventh; very well.
Good-bye now; you have a good deal to do, I'm sure, and I
must dress and go out. Take your portrait. Give my respects
to your unfortunate mother, Nina Alexandrovna. Au revoir,
dear prince, come in and see us often, do; and I shall tell
old Princess Bielokonski about you. I shall go and see her
on purpose. And listen, my dear boy, I feel sure that God
has sent you to Petersburg from Switzerland on purpose for
me. Maybe you will have other things to do, besides, but you
are sent chiefly for my sake, I feel sure of it. God sent
you to me! Au revoir! Alexandra, come with me, my dear."
Mrs. Epanchin left the
room.
Gania—confused, annoyed,
furious—took up his portrait, and turned to the prince with
a nasty smile on his face.
"Prince," he said, "I am
just going home. If you have not changed your mind as to
living with us, perhaps you would like to come with me. You
don't know the address, I believe?"
"Wait a minute, prince,"
said Aglaya, suddenly rising from her seat, "do write
something in my album first, will you? Father says you are a
most talented caligraphist; I'll bring you my book in a
minute." She left the room.
"Well, au revoir, prince,"
said Adelaida, "I must be going too." She pressed the
prince's hand warmly, and gave him a friendly smile as she
left the room. She did not so much as look at Gania.
"This is your doing,
prince," said Gania, turning on the latter so soon as the
others were all out of the room. "This is your doing, sir!
YOU have been telling them that I am going to be married!"
He said this in a hurried whisper, his eyes flashing with
rage and his face ablaze. "You shameless tattler!"
"I assure you, you are
under a delusion," said the prince, calmly and politely. "I
did not even know that you were to be married."
"You heard me talking about
it, the general and me. You heard me say that everything was
to be settled today at Nastasia Philipovna's, and you went
and blurted it out here. You lie if you deny it. Who else
could have told them Devil take it, sir, who could have told
them except yourself? Didn't the old woman as good as hint
as much to me?"
"If she hinted to you who
told her you must know best, of course; but I never said a
word about it."
"Did you give my note? Is
there an answer?" interrupted Gania, impatiently.
But at this moment Aglaya
came back, and the prince had no time to reply.
"There, prince," said she,
"there's my album. Now choose a page and write me something,
will you? There's a pen, a new one; do you mind a steel one?
I have heard that you caligraphists don't like steel pens."
Conversing with the prince,
Aglaya did not even seem to notice that Gania was in the
room. But while the prince was getting his pen ready,
finding a page, and making his preparations to write, Gania
came up to the fireplace where Aglaya was standing, to the
right of the prince, and in trembling, broken accents said,
almost in her ear:
"One word, just one word
from you, and I'm saved."
The prince turned sharply
round and looked at both of them. Gania's face was full of
real despair; he seemed to have said the words almost
unconsciously and on the impulse of the moment.
Aglaya gazed at him for
some seconds with precisely the same composure and calm
astonishment as she had shown a little while before, when
the prince handed her the note, and it appeared that this
calm surprise and seemingly absolute incomprehension of what
was said to her, were more terribly overwhelming to Gania
than even the most plainly expressed disdain would have
been.
"What shall I write?" asked
the prince.
"I'll dictate to you," said
Aglaya, coming up to the table. "Now then, are you ready?
Write, 'I never condescend to bargain!' Now put your name
and the date. Let me see it."
The prince handed her the
album.
"Capital! How beautifully
you have written it! Thanks so much. Au revoir, prince. Wait
a minute,"; she added, "I want to give you something for a
keepsake. Come with me this way, will you?"
The prince followed her.
Arrived at the dining-room, she stopped.
"Read this," she said,
handing him Gania's note.
The prince took it from her
hand, but gazed at her in bewilderment.
"Oh! I KNOW you haven't
read it, and that you could never be that man's accomplice.
Read it, I wish you to read it."
The letter had evidently
been written in a hurry:
"My fate is to be decided
today" (it ran), "you know how. This day I must give my word
irrevocably. I have no right to ask your help, and I dare
not allow myself to indulge in any hopes; but once you said
just one word, and that word lighted up the night of my
life, and became the beacon of my days. Say one more such
word, and save me from utter ruin. Only tell me, 'break off
the whole thing!' and I will do so this very day. Oh! what
can it cost you to say just this one word? In doing so you
will but be giving me a sign of your sympathy for me, and of
your pity; only this, only this; nothing more, NOTHING. I
dare not indulge in any hope, because I am unworthy of it.
But if you say but this word, I will take up my cross again
with joy, and return once more to my battle with poverty. I
shall meet the storm and be glad of it; I shall rise up with
renewed strength.
"Send me back then this one
word of sympathy, only sympathy, I swear to you; and oh! do
not be angry with the audacity of despair, with the drowning
man who has dared to make this last effort to save himself
from perishing beneath the waters.
"G.L."
"This man assures me," said
Aglaya, scornfully, when the prince had finished reading the
letter, "that the words 'break off everything' do not commit
me to anything whatever; and himself gives me a written
guarantee to that effect, in this letter. Observe how
ingenuously he underlines certain words, and how crudely he
glosses over his hidden thoughts. He must know that if he
'broke off everything,' FIRST, by himself, and without
telling me a word about it or having the slightest hope on
my account, that in that case I should perhaps be able to
change my opinion of him, and even accept his—friendship. He
must know that, but his soul is such a wretched thing. He
knows it and cannot make up his mind; he knows it and yet
asks for guarantees. He cannot bring himself to TRUST, he
wants me to give him hopes of myself before he lets go of
his hundred thousand roubles. As to the 'former word' which
he declares 'lighted up the night of his life,' he is simply
an impudent liar; I merely pitied him once. But he is
audacious and shameless. He immediately began to hope, at
that very moment. I saw it. He has tried to catch me ever
since; he is still fishing for me. Well, enough of this.
Take the letter and give it back to him, as soon as you have
left our house; not before, of course."
"And what shall I tell him
by way of answer?"
"Nothing—of course! That's
the best answer. Is it the case that you are going to live
in his house?"
"Yes, your father kindly
recommended me to him."
"Then look out for him, I
warn you! He won't forgive you easily, for taking back the
letter."
Aglaya pressed the prince's
hand and left the room. Her face was serious and frowning;
she did not even smile as she nodded good-bye to him at the
door.
"I'll just get my parcel
and we'll go," said the prince to Gania, as he re-entered
the drawing-room. Gania stamped his foot with impatience.
His face looked dark and gloomy with rage.
At last they left the house
behind them, the prince carrying his bundle.
"The answer—quick—the
answer!" said Gania, the instant they were outside. "What
did she say? Did you give the letter?" The prince silently
held out the note. Gania was struck motionless with
amazement.
"How, what? my letter?" he
cried. "He never delivered it! I might have guessed it, oh!
curse him! Of course she did not understand what I meant,
naturally! Why-why-WHY didn't you give her the note, you—"
"Excuse me; I was able to
deliver it almost immediately after receiving your
commission, and I gave it, too, just as you asked me to. It
has come into my hands now because Aglaya Ivanovna has just
returned it to me."
"How? When?"
"As soon as I finished
writing in her album for her, and when she asked me to come
out of the room with her (you heard?), we went into the
dining-room, and she gave me your letter to read, and then
told me to return it."
"To READ?" cried Gania,
almost at the top of his voice; "to READ, and you read it?"
And again he stood like a
log in the middle of the pavement; so amazed that his mouth
remained open after the last word had left it.
"Yes, I have just read it."
"And she gave it you to
read herself—HERSELF?"
"Yes, herself; and you may
believe me when I tell you that I would not have read it for
anything without her permission."
Gania was silent for a
minute or two, as though thinking out some problem. Suddenly
he cried:
"It's impossible, she
cannot have given it to you to read! You are lying. You read
it yourself!"
"I am telling you the
truth," said the prince in his former composed tone of
voice; "and believe me, I am extremely sorry that the
circumstance should have made such an unpleasant impression
upon you!"
"But, you wretched man, at
least she must have said something? There must be SOME
answer from her!"
"Yes, of course, she did
say something!"
"Out with it then, damn it!
Out with it at once!" and Gania stamped his foot twice on
the pavement.
"As soon as I had finished
reading it, she told me that you were fishing for her; that
you wished to compromise her so far as to receive some hopes
from her, trusting to which hopes you might break with the
prospect of receiving a hundred thousand roubles. She said
that if you had done this without bargaining with her, if
you had broken with the money prospects without trying to
force a guarantee out of her first, she might have been your
friend. That's all, I think. Oh no, when I asked her what I
was to say, as I took the letter, she replied that 'no
answer is the best answer.' I think that was it. Forgive me
if I do not use her exact expressions. I tell you the sense
as I understood it myself."
Ungovernable rage and
madness took entire possession of Gania, and his fury burst
out without the least attempt at restraint.
"Oh! that's it, is it!" he
yelled. "She throws my letters out of the window, does she!
Oh! and she does not condescend to bargain, while I DO, eh?
We shall see, we shall see! I shall pay her out for this."
He twisted himself about
with rage, and grew paler and paler; he shook his fist. So
the pair walked along a few steps. Gania did not stand on
ceremony with the prince; he behaved just as though he were
alone in his room. He clearly counted the latter as a
nonentity. But suddenly he seemed to have an idea, and
recollected himself.
"But how was it?" he asked,
"how was it that you (idiot that you are)," he added to
himself, "were so very confidential a couple of hours after
your first meeting with these people? How was that, eh?"
Up to this moment jealousy
had not been one of his torments; now it suddenly gnawed at
his heart.
"That is a thing I cannot
undertake to explain," replied the prince. Gania looked at
him with angry contempt.
"Oh! I suppose the present
she wished to make to you, when she took you into the
dining-room, was her confidence, eh?"
"I suppose that was it; I
cannot explain it otherwise?"
"But why, WHY? Devil take
it, what did you do in there? Why did they fancy you? Look
here, can't you remember exactly what you said to them, from
the very beginning? Can't you remember?"
"Oh, we talked of a great
many things. When first I went in we began to speak of
Switzerland."
"Oh, the devil take
Switzerland!"
"Then about executions."
"Executions?"
"Yes—at least about one.
Then I told the whole three years' story of my life, and the
history of a poor peasant girl—"
"Oh, damn the peasant girl!
go on, go on!" said Gania, impatiently.
"Then how Schneider told me
about my childish nature, and—"
"Oh, CURSE Schneider and
his dirty opinions! Go on."
"Then I began to talk about
faces, at least about the EXPRESSIONS of faces, and said
that Aglaya Ivanovna was nearly as lovely as Nastasia
Philipovna. It was then I blurted out about the portrait—"
"But you didn't repeat what
you heard in the study? You didn't repeat that—eh?"
"No, I tell you I did NOT."
"Then how did they—look
here! Did Aglaya show my letter to the old lady?"
"Oh, there I can give you
my fullest assurance that she did NOT. I was there all the
while—she had no time to do it!"
"But perhaps you may not
have observed it, oh, you damned idiot, you!" he shouted,
quite beside himself with fury. "You can't even describe
what went on."
Gania having once descended
to abuse, and receiving no check, very soon knew no bounds
or limit to his licence, as is often the way in such cases.
His rage so blinded him that he had not even been able to
detect that this "idiot," whom he was abusing to such an
extent, was very far from being slow of comprehension, and
had a way of taking in an impression, and afterwards giving
it out again, which was very un-idiotic indeed. But
something a little unforeseen now occurred.
"I think I ought to tell
you, Gavrila Ardalionovitch," said the prince, suddenly,
"that though I once was so ill that I really was little
better than an idiot, yet now I am almost recovered, and
that, therefore, it is not altogether pleasant to be called
an idiot to my face. Of course your anger is excusable,
considering the treatment you have just experienced; but I
must remind you that you have twice abused me rather rudely.
I do not like this sort of thing, and especially so at the
first time of meeting a man, and, therefore, as we happen to
be at this moment standing at a crossroad, don't you think
we had better part, you to the left, homewards, and I to the
right, here? I have twenty-five roubles, and I shall easily
find a lodging."
Gania was much confused,
and blushed for shame "Do forgive me, prince!" he cried,
suddenly changing his abusive tone for one of great
courtesy. "For Heaven's sake, forgive me! You see what a
miserable plight I am in, but you hardly know anything of
the facts of the case as yet. If you did, I am sure you
would forgive me, at least partially. Of course it was
inexcusable of me, I know, but—"
"Oh, dear me, I really do
not require such profuse apologies," replied the prince,
hastily. "I quite understand how unpleasant your position
is, and that is what made you abuse me. So come along to
your house, after all. I shall be delighted—"
"I am not going to let him
go like this," thought Gania, glancing angrily at the prince
as they walked along. "The fellow has sucked everything out
of me, and now he takes off his mask—there's something more
than appears, here we shall see. It shall all be as clear as
water by tonight, everything!"
But by this time they had
reached Gania's house.
VIII.
The flat occupied by Gania
and his family was on the third floor of the house. It was
reached by a clean light staircase, and consisted of seven
rooms, a nice enough lodging, and one would have thought a
little too good for a clerk on two thousand roubles a year.
But it was designed to accommodate a few lodgers on board
terms, and had been taken a few months since, much to the
disgust of Gania, at the urgent request of his mother and
his sister, Varvara Ardalionovna, who longed to do something
to increase the family income a little, and fixed their
hopes upon letting lodgings. Gania frowned upon the idea. He
thought it infra dig, and did not quite like appearing in
society afterwards—that society in which he had been
accustomed to pose up to now as a young man of rather
brilliant prospects. All these concessions and rebuffs of
fortune, of late, had wounded his spirit severely, and his
temper had become extremely irritable, his wrath being
generally quite out of proportion to the cause. But if he
had made up his mind to put up with this sort of life for a
while, it was only on the plain understanding with his inner
self that he would very soon change it all, and have things
as he chose again. Yet the very means by which he hoped to
make this change threatened to involve him in even greater
difficulties than he had had before.
The flat was divided by a
passage which led straight out of the entrance-hall. Along
one side of this corridor lay the three rooms which were
designed for the accommodation of the "highly recommended"
lodgers. Besides these three rooms there was another small
one at the end of the passage, close to the kitchen, which
was allotted to General Ivolgin, the nominal master of the
house, who slept on a wide sofa, and was obliged to pass
into and out of his room through the kitchen, and up or down
the back stairs. Colia, Gania's young brother, a school-boy
of thirteen, shared this room with his father. He, too, had
to sleep on an old sofa, a narrow, uncomfortable thing with
a torn rug over it; his chief duty being to look after his
father, who needed to be watched more and more every day.
The prince was given the
middle room of the three, the first being occupied by one
Ferdishenko, while the third was empty.
But Gania first conducted
the prince to the family apartments. These consisted of a
"salon," which became the dining-room when required; a
drawing-room, which was only a drawing-room in the morning,
and became Gania's study in the evening, and his bedroom at
night; and lastly Nina Alexandrovna's and Varvara's bedroom,
a small, close chamber which they shared together.
In a word, the whole place
was confined, and a "tight fit" for the party. Gania used to
grind his teeth with rage over the state of affairs; though
he was anxious to be dutiful and polite to his mother.
However, it was very soon apparent to anyone coming into the
house, that Gania was the tyrant of the family.
Nina Alexandrovna and her
daughter were both seated in the drawing-room, engaged in
knitting, and talking to a visitor, Ivan Petrovitch Ptitsin.
The lady of the house
appeared to be a woman of about fifty years of age,
thin-faced, and with black lines under the eyes. She looked
ill and rather sad; but her face was a pleasant one for all
that; and from the first word that fell from her lips, any
stranger would at once conclude that she was of a serious
and particularly sincere nature. In spite of her sorrowful
expression, she gave the idea of possessing considerable
firmness and decision.
Her dress was modest and
simple to a degree, dark and elderly in style; but both her
face and appearance gave evidence that she had seen better
days.
Varvara was a girl of some
twenty-three summers, of middle height, thin, but possessing
a face which, without being actually beautiful, had the rare
quality of charm, and might fascinate even to the extent of
passionate regard.
She was very like her
mother: she even dressed like her, which proved that she had
no taste for smart clothes. The expression of her grey eyes
was merry and gentle, when it was not, as lately, too full
of thought and anxiety. The same decision and firmness was
to be observed in her face as in her mother's, but her
strength seemed to be more vigorous than that of Nina
Alexandrovna. She was subject to outbursts of temper, of
which even her brother was a little afraid.
The present visitor,
Ptitsin, was also afraid of her. This was a young fellow of
something under thirty, dressed plainly, but neatly. His
manners were good, but rather ponderously so. His dark beard
bore evidence to the fact that he was not in any government
employ. He could speak well, but preferred silence. On the
whole he made a decidedly agreeable impression. He was
clearly attracted by Varvara, and made no secret of his
feelings. She trusted him in a friendly way, but had not
shown him any decided encouragement as yet, which fact did
not quell his ardour in the least.
Nina Alexandrovna was very
fond of him, and had grown quite confidential with him of
late. Ptitsin, as was well known, was engaged in the
business of lending out money on good security, and at a
good rate of interest. He was a great friend of Gania's.
After a formal introduction
by Gania (who greeted his mother very shortly, took no
notice of his sister, and immediately marched Ptitsin out of
the room), Nina Alexandrovna addressed a few kind words to
the prince and forthwith requested Colia, who had just
appeared at the door, to show him to the "middle room."
Colia was a nice-looking
boy. His expression was simple and confiding, and his
manners were very polite and engaging.
"Where's your luggage?" he
asked, as he led the prince away to his room.
"I had a bundle; it's in
the entrance hall."
"I'll bring it you
directly. We only have a cook and one maid, so I have to
help as much as I can. Varia looks after things, generally,
and loses her temper over it. Gania says you have only just
arrived from Switzerland?"
"Yes."
"Is it jolly there?"
"Very."
"Mountains?"
"Yes."
"I'll go and get your
bundle."
Here Varvara joined them.
"The maid shall bring your
bed-linen directly. Have you a portmanteau?"
"No; a bundle—your brother
has just gone to the hall for it."
"There's nothing there
except this," said Colia, returning at this moment. "Where
did you put it?"
"Oh! but that's all I
have," said the prince, taking it.
"Ah! I thought perhaps
Ferdishenko had taken it."
"Don't talk nonsense," said
Varia, severely. She seemed put out, and was only just
polite with the prince.
"Oho!" laughed the boy,
"you can be nicer than that to ME, you know—I'm not
Ptitsin!"
"You ought to be whipped,
Colia, you silly boy. If you want anything" (to the prince)
"please apply to the servant. We dine at half-past four. You
can take your dinner with us, or have it in your room, just
as you please. Come along, Colia, don't disturb the prince."
At the door they met Gania
coming in.
"Is father in?" he asked.
Colia whispered something in his ear and went out.
"Just a couple of words,
prince, if you'll excuse me. Don't blab over THERE about
what you may see here, or in this house as to all that about
Aglaya and me, you know. Things are not altogether pleasant
in this establishment—devil take it all! You'll see. At all
events keep your tongue to yourself for TODAY."
"I assure you I 'blabbed' a
great deal less than you seem to suppose," said the prince,
with some annoyance. Clearly the relations between Gania and
himself were by no means improving.
"Oh I well; I caught it
quite hot enough today, thanks to you. However, I forgive
you."
"I think you might fairly
remember that I was not in any way bound, I had no reason to
be silent about that portrait. You never asked me not to
mention it."
"Pfu! what a wretched room
this is—dark, and the window looking into the yard. Your
coming to our house is, in no respect, opportune. However,
it's not MY affair. I don't keep the lodgings."
Ptitsin here looked in and
beckoned to Gania, who hastily left the room, in spite of
the fact that he had evidently wished to say something more
and had only made the remark about the room to gain time.
The prince had hardly had time to wash and tidy himself a
little when the door opened once more, and another figure
appeared.
This was a gentleman of
about thirty, tall, broadshouldered, and red-haired; his
face was red, too, and he possessed a pair of thick lips, a
wide nose, small eyes, rather bloodshot, and with an
ironical expression in them; as though he were perpetually
winking at someone. His whole appearance gave one the idea
of impudence; his dress was shabby.
He opened the door just
enough to let his head in. His head remained so placed for a
few seconds while he quietly scrutinized the room; the door
then opened enough to admit his body; but still he did not
enter. He stood on the threshold and examined the prince
carefully. At last he gave the door a final shove, entered,
approached the prince, took his hand and seated himself and
the owner of the room on two chairs side by side.
"Ferdishenko," he said,
gazing intently and inquiringly into the prince's eyes.
"Very well, what next?"
said the latter, almost laughing in his face.
"A lodger here," continued
the other, staring as before.
"Do you wish to make
acquaintance?" asked the prince.
"Ah!" said the visitor,
passing his fingers through his hair and sighing. He then
looked over to the other side of the room and around it.
"Got any money?" he asked, suddenly.
"Not much."
"How much?"
"Twenty-five roubles."
"Let's see it."
The prince took his
banknote out and showed it to Ferdishenko. The latter
unfolded it and looked at it; then he turned it round and
examined the other side; then he held it up to the light.
"How strange that it should
have browned so," he said, reflectively. "These twenty-five
rouble notes brown in a most extraordinary way, while other
notes often grow paler. Take it."
The prince took his note.
Ferdishenko rose.
"I came here to warn you,"
he said. "In the first place, don't lend me any money, for I
shall certainly ask you to."
"Very well."
"Shall you pay here?"
"Yes, I intend to."
"Oh! I DON'T intend to.
Thanks. I live here, next door to you; you noticed a room,
did you? Don't come to me very often; I shall see you here
quite often enough. Have you seen the general?"
"No."
"Nor heard him?"
"No; of course not."
"Well, you'll both hear and
see him soon; he even tries to borrow money from me. Avis au
lecteur. Good-bye; do you think a man can possibly live with
a name like Ferdishenko?"
"Why not?"
"Good-bye."
And so he departed. The
prince found out afterwards that this gentleman made it his
business to amaze people with his originality and wit, but
that it did not as a rule "come off." He even produced a bad
impression on some people, which grieved him sorely; but he
did not change his ways for all that.
As he went out of the
prince's room, he collided with yet another visitor coming
in. Ferdishenko took the opportunity of making several
warning gestures to the prince from behind the new arrival's
back, and left the room in conscious pride.
This next arrival was a
tall red-faced man of about fifty-five, with greyish hair
and whiskers, and large eyes which stood out of their
sockets. His appearance would have been distinguished had it
not been that he gave the idea of being rather dirty. He was
dressed in an old coat, and he smelled of vodka when he came
near. His walk was effective, and he clearly did his best to
appear dignified, and to impress people by his manner.
This gentleman now
approached the prince slowly, and with a most courteous
smile; silently took his hand and held it in his own, as he
examined the prince's features as though searching for
familiar traits therein.
"'Tis he, 'tis he!" he said
at last, quietly, but with much solemnity. "As though he
were alive once more. I heard the familiar name-the dear
familiar name—and, oh. I how it reminded me of the
irrevocable past—Prince Muishkin, I believe?"
"Exactly so."
"General Ivolgin—retired
and unfortunate. May I ask your Christian and generic
names?"
"Lef Nicolaievitch."
"So, so—the son of my old,
I may say my childhood's friend, Nicolai Petrovitch."
"My father's name was
Nicolai Lvovitch."
"Lvovitch," repeated the
general without the slightest haste, and with perfect
confidence, just as though he had not committed himself the
least in the world, but merely made a little slip of the
tongue. He sat down, and taking the prince's hand, drew him
to a seat next to himself.
"I carried you in my arms
as a baby," he observed.
"Really?" asked the prince.
"Why, it's twenty years since my father died."
"Yes, yes—twenty years and
three months. We were educated together; I went straight
into the army, and he—"
"My father went into the
army, too. He was a sub-lieutenant in the Vasiliefsky
regiment."
"No, sir—in the
Bielomirsky; he changed into the latter shortly before his
death. I was at his bedside when he died, and gave him my
blessing for eternity. Your mother—" The general paused, as
though overcome with emotion.
"She died a few months
later, from a cold," said the prince.
"Oh, not cold—believe an
old man—not from a cold, but from grief for her prince.
Oh—your mother, your mother! heigh-ho! Youth—youth! Your
father and I—old friends as we were—nearly murdered each
other for her sake."
The prince began to be a
little incredulous.
"I was passionately in love
with her when she was engaged—engaged to my friend. The
prince noticed the fact and was furious. He came and woke me
at seven o'clock one morning. I rise and dress in amazement;
silence on both sides. I understand it all. He takes a
couple of pistols out of his pocket—across a
handkerchief—without witnesses. Why invite witnesses when
both of us would be walking in eternity in a couple of
minutes? The pistols are loaded; we stretch the handkerchief
and stand opposite one another. We aim the pistols at each
other's hearts. Suddenly tears start to our eyes, our hands
shake; we weep, we embrace—the battle is one of
self-sacrifice now! The prince shouts, 'She is yours;' I
cry, 'She is yours—' in a word, in a word—You've come to
live with us, hey?"
"Yes—yes—for a while, I
think," stammered the prince.
"Prince, mother begs you to
come to her," said Colia, appearing at the door.
The prince rose to go, but
the general once more laid his hand in a friendly manner on
his shoulder, and dragged him down on to the sofa.
"As the true friend of your
father, I wish to say a few words to you," he began. "I have
suffered—there was a catastrophe. I suffered without a
trial; I had no trial. Nina Alexandrovna my wife, is an
excellent woman, so is my daughter Varvara. We have to let
lodgings because we are poor—a dreadful, unheard-of
come-down for us—for me, who should have been a
governor-general; but we are very glad to have YOU, at all
events. Meanwhile there is a tragedy in the house."
The prince looked
inquiringly at the other.
"Yes, a marriage is being
arranged—a marriage between a questionable woman and a young
fellow who might be a flunkey. They wish to bring this woman
into the house where my wife and daughter reside, but while
I live and breathe she shall never enter my doors. I shall
lie at the threshold, and she shall trample me underfoot if
she does. I hardly talk to Gania now, and avoid him as much
as I can. I warn you of this beforehand, but you cannot fail
to observe it. But you are the son of my old friend, and I
hope—"
"Prince, be so kind as to
come to me for a moment in the drawing-room," said Nina
Alexandrovna herself, appearing at the door.
"Imagine, my dear," cried
the general, "it turns out that I have nursed the prince on
my knee in the old days." His wife looked searchingly at
him, and glanced at the prince, but said nothing. The prince
rose and followed her; but hardly had they reached the
drawing-room, and Nina Alexandrovna had begun to talk
hurriedly, when in came the general. She immediately
relapsed into silence. The master of the house may have
observed this, but at all events he did not take any notice
of it; he was in high good humour.
"A son of my old friend,
dear," he cried; "surely you must remember Prince Nicolai
Lvovitch? You saw him at—at Tver."
"I don't remember any
Nicolai Lvovitch, Was that your father?" she inquired of the
prince.
"Yes, but he died at
Elizabethgrad, not at Tver," said the prince, rather
timidly. "So Pavlicheff told me."
"No, Tver," insisted the
general; "he removed just before his death. You were very
small and cannot remember; and Pavlicheff, though an
excellent fellow, may have made a mistake."
"You knew Pavlicheff then?"
"Oh, yes—a wonderful
fellow; but I was present myself. I gave him my blessing."
"My father was just about
to be tried when he died," said the prince, "although I
never knew of what he was accused. He died in hospital."
"Oh! it was the Kolpakoff
business, and of course he would have been acquitted."
"Yes? Do you know that for
a fact?" asked the prince, whose curiosity was aroused by
the general's words.
"I should think so indeed!"
cried the latter. "The court-martial came to no decision. It
was a mysterious, an impossible business, one might say!
Captain Larionoff, commander of the company, had died; his
command was handed over to the prince for the moment. Very
well. This soldier, Kolpakoff, stole some leather from one
of his comrades, intending to sell it, and spent the money
on drink. Well! The prince—you understand that what follows
took place in the presence of the sergeant-major, and a
corporal—the prince rated Kolpakoff soundly, and threatened
to have him flogged. Well, Kolpakoff went back to the
barracks, lay down on a camp bedstead, and in a quarter of
an hour was dead: you quite understand? It was, as I said, a
strange, almost impossible, affair. In due course Kolpakoff
was buried; the prince wrote his report, the deceased's name
was removed from the roll. All as it should be, is it not?
But exactly three months later at the inspection of the
brigade, the man Kolpakoff was found in the third company of
the second battalion of infantry, Novozemlianski division,
just as if nothing had happened!"
"What?" said the prince,
much astonished.
"It did not occur—it's a
mistake!" said Nina Alexandrovna quickly, looking, at the
prince rather anxiously. "Mon mari se trompe," she added,
speaking in French.
"My dear, 'se trompe' is
easily said. Do you remember any case at all like it?
Everybody was at their wits' end. I should be the first to
say 'qu'on se trompe,' but unfortunately I was an
eye-witness, and was also on the commission of inquiry.
Everything proved that it was really he, the very same
soldier Kolpakoff who had been given the usual military
funeral to the sound of the drum. It is of course a most
curious case—nearly an impossible one. I recognize that...
but—"
"Father, your dinner is
ready," said Varvara at this point, putting her head in at
the door.
"Very glad, I'm
particularly hungry. Yes, yes, a strange coincidence—almost
a psychological—"
"Your soup'll be cold; do
come."
"Coming, coming," said the
general. "Son of my old friend—" he was heard muttering as
he went down the passage.
"You will have to excuse
very much in my husband, if you stay with us," said Nina
Alexandrovna; "but he will not disturb you often. He dines
alone. Everyone has his little peculiarities, you know, and
some people perhaps have more than those who are most
pointed at and laughed at. One thing I must beg of you-if my
husband applies to you for payment for board and lodging,
tell him that you have already paid me. Of course anything
paid by you to the general would be as fully settled as if
paid to me, so far as you are concerned; but I wish it to be
so, if you please, for convenience' sake. What is it,
Varia?"
Varia had quietly entered
the room, and was holding out the portrait of Nastasia
Philipovna to her mother.
Nina Alexandrovna started,
and examined the photograph intently, gazing at it long and
sadly. At last she looked up inquiringly at Varia.
"It's a present from
herself to him," said Varia; "the question is to be finally
decided this evening."
"This evening!" repeated
her mother in a tone of despair, but softly, as though to
herself. "Then it's all settled, of course, and there's no
hope left to us. She has anticipated her answer by the
present of her portrait. Did he show it you himself?" she
added, in some surprise.
"You know we have hardly
spoken to each other for a whole month. Ptitsin told me all
about it; and the photo was lying under the table, and I
picked it up."
"Prince," asked Nina
Alexandrovna, "I wanted to inquire whether you have known my
son long? I think he said that you had only arrived today
from somewhere."
The prince gave a short
narrative of what we have heard before, leaving out the
greater part. The two ladies listened intently.
"I did not ask about Gania
out of curiosity," said the elder, at last. "I wish to know
how much you know about him, because he said just now that
we need not stand on ceremony with you. What, exactly, does
that mean?"
At this moment Gania and
Ptitsin entered the room together, and Nina Alexandrovna
immediately became silent again. The prince remained seated
next to her, but Varia moved to the other end of the room;
the portrait of Nastasia Philipovna remained lying as before
on the work-table. Gania observed it there, and with a frown
of annoyance snatched it up and threw it across to his
writing-table, which stood at the other end of the room.
"Is it today, Gania?" asked
Nina Alexandrovna, at last.
"Is what today?" cried the
former. Then suddenly recollecting himself, he turned
sharply on the prince. "Oh," he growled, "I see, you are
here, that explains it! Is it a disease, or what, that you
can't hold your tongue? Look here, understand once for all,
prince—"
"I am to blame in this,
Gania—no one else," said Ptitsin.
Gania glanced inquiringly
at the speaker.
"It's better so, you know,
Gania—especially as, from one point of view, the matter may
be considered as settled," said Ptitsin; and sitting down a
little way from the table he began to study a paper covered
with pencil writing.
Gania stood and frowned, he
expected a family scene. He never thought of apologizing to
the prince, however.
"If it's all settled,
Gania, then of course Mr. Ptitsin is right," said Nina
Alexandrovna. "Don't frown. You need not worry yourself,
Gania; I shall ask you no questions. You need not tell me
anything you don't like. I assure you I have quite submitted
to your will." She said all this, knitting away the while as
though perfectly calm and composed.
Gania was surprised, but
cautiously kept silence and looked at his mother, hoping
that she would express herself more clearly. Nina
Alexandrovna observed his cautiousness and added, with a
bitter smile:
"You are still suspicious,
I see, and do not believe me; but you may be quite at your
ease. There shall be no more tears, nor questions—not from
my side, at all events. All I wish is that you may be happy,
you know that. I have submitted to my fate; but my heart
will always be with you, whether we remain united, or
whether we part. Of course I only answer for myself—you can
hardly expect your sister—"
"My sister again," cried
Gania, looking at her with contempt and almost hate. "Look
here, mother, I have already given you my word that I shall
always respect you fully and absolutely, and so shall
everyone else in this house, be it who it may, who shall
cross this threshold."
Gania was so much relieved
that he gazed at his mother almost affectionately.
"I was not at all afraid
for myself, Gania, as you know well. It was not for my own
sake that I have been so anxious and worried all this time!
They say it is all to be settled to-day. What is to be
settled?"
"She has promised to tell
me tonight at her own house whether she consents or not,"
replied Gania.
"We have been silent on
this subject for three weeks," said his mother, "and it was
better so; and now I will only ask you one question. How can
she give her consent and make you a present of her portrait
when you do not love her? How can such a—such a—"
"Practised hand—eh?"
"I was not going to express
myself so. But how could you so blind her?"
Nina Alexandrovna's
question betrayed intense annoyance. Gania waited a moment
and then said, without taking the trouble to conceal the
irony of his tone:
"There you are, mother, you
are always like that. You begin by promising that there are
to be no reproaches or insinuations or questions, and here
you are beginning them at once. We had better drop the
subject—we had, really. I shall never leave you, mother; any
other man would cut and run from such a sister as this. See
how she is looking at me at this moment! Besides, how do you
know that I am blinding Nastasia Philipovna? As for Varia, I
don't care—she can do just as she pleases. There, that's
quite enough!"
Gania's irritation
increased with every word he uttered, as he walked up and
down the room. These conversations always touched the family
sores before long.
"I have said already that
the moment she comes in I go out, and I shall keep my word,"
remarked Varia.
"Out of obstinacy" shouted
Gania. "You haven't married, either, thanks to your
obstinacy. Oh, you needn't frown at me, Varvara! You can go
at once for all I care; I am sick enough of your company.
What, you are going to leave us are you, too?" he cried,
turning to the prince, who was rising from his chair.
Gania's voice was full of
the most uncontrolled and uncontrollable irritation.
The prince turned at the
door to say something, but perceiving in Gania's expression
that there was but that one drop wanting to make the cup
overflow, he changed his mind and left the room without a
word. A few minutes later he was aware from the noisy voices
in the drawing room, that the conversation had become more
quarrelsome than ever after his departure.
He crossed the salon and
the entrance-hall, so as to pass down the corridor into his
own room. As he came near the front door he heard someone
outside vainly endeavouring to ring the bell, which was
evidently broken, and only shook a little, without emitting
any sound.
The prince took down the
chain and opened the door. He started back in amazement—for
there stood Nastasia Philipovna. He knew her at once from
her photograph. Her eyes blazed with anger as she looked at
him. She quickly pushed by him into the hall, shouldering
him out of her way, and said, furiously, as she threw off
her fur cloak:
"If you are too lazy to
mend your bell, you should at least wait in the hall to let
people in when they rattle the bell handle. There, now,
you've dropped my fur cloak—dummy!"
Sure enough the cloak was
lying on the ground. Nastasia had thrown it off her towards
the prince, expecting him to catch it, but the prince had
missed it.
"Now then—announce me,
quick!"
The prince wanted to say
something, but was so confused and astonished that he could
not. However, he moved off towards the drawing-room with the
cloak over his arm.
"Now then, where are you
taking my cloak to? Ha, ha, ha! Are you mad?"
The prince turned and came
back, more confused than ever. When she burst out laughing,
he smiled, but his tongue could not form a word as yet. At
first, when he had opened the door and saw her standing
before him, he had become as pale as death; but now the red
blood had rushed back to his cheeks in a torrent.
"Why, what an idiot it is!"
cried Nastasia, stamping her foot with irritation. "Go on,
do! Whom are you going to announce?"
"Nastasia Philipovna,"
murmured the prince.
"And how do you know that?"
she asked him, sharply.
"I have never seen you
before!"
"Go on, announce me—what's
that noise?"
"They are quarrelling,"
said the prince, and entered the drawing-room, just as
matters in there had almost reached a crisis. Nina
Alexandrovna had forgotten that she had "submitted to
everything!" She was defending Varia. Ptitsin was taking her
part, too. Not that Varia was afraid of standing up for
herself. She was by no means that sort of a girl; but her
brother was becoming ruder and more intolerable every
moment. Her usual practice in such cases as the present was
to say nothing, but stare at him, without taking her eyes
off his face for an instant. This manoeuvre, as she well
knew, could drive Gania distracted.
Just at this moment the
door opened and the prince entered, announcing:
"Nastasia Philipovna!"
IX.
Silence immediately fell on
the room; all looked at the prince as though they neither
understood, nor hoped to understand. Gania was motionless
with horror.
Nastasia's arrival was a
most unexpected and overwhelming event to all parties. In
the first place, she had never been before. Up to now she
had been so haughty that she had never even asked Gania to
introduce her to his parents. Of late she had not so much as
mentioned them. Gania was partly glad of this; but still he
had put it to her debit in the account to be settled after
marriage.
He would have borne
anything from her rather than this visit. But one thing
seemed to him quite clear-her visit now, and the present of
her portrait on this particular day, pointed out plainly
enough which way she intended to make her decision!
The incredulous amazement
with which all regarded the prince did not last long, for
Nastasia herself appeared at the door and passed in, pushing
by the prince again.
"At last I've stormed the
citadel! Why do you tie up your bell?" she said, merrily, as
she pressed Gania's hand, the latter having rushed up to her
as soon as she made her appearance. "What are you looking so
upset about? Introduce me, please!"
The bewildered Gania
introduced her first to Varia, and both women, before
shaking hands, exchanged looks of strange import. Nastasia,
however, smiled amiably; but Varia did not try to look
amiable, and kept her gloomy expression. She did not even
vouchsafe the usual courteous smile of etiquette. Gania
darted a terrible glance of wrath at her for this, but Nina
Alexandrovna, mended matters a little when Gania introduced
her at last. Hardly, however, had the old lady begun about
her "highly gratified feelings," and so on, when Nastasia
left her, and flounced into a chair by Gania's side in the
corner by the window, and cried: "Where's your study? and
where are the—the lodgers? You do take in lodgers, don't
you?"
Gania looked dreadfully put
out, and tried to say something in reply, but Nastasia
interrupted him:
"Why, where are you going
to squeeze lodgers in here? Don't you use a study? Does this
sort of thing pay?" she added, turning to Nina Alexandrovna.
"Well, it is troublesome,
rather," said the latter; "but I suppose it will 'pay'
pretty well. We have only just begun, however—"
Again Nastasia Philipovna
did not hear the sentence out. She glanced at Gania, and
cried, laughing, "What a face! My goodness, what a face you
have on at this moment!"
Indeed, Gania did not look
in the least like himself. His bewilderment and his alarmed
perplexity passed off, however, and his lips now twitched
with rage as he continued to stare evilly at his laughing
guest, while his countenance became absolutely livid.
There was another witness,
who, though standing at the door motionless and bewildered
himself, still managed to remark Gania's death-like pallor,
and the dreadful change that had come over his face. This
witness was the prince, who now advanced in alarm and
muttered to Gania:
"Drink some water, and
don't look like that!"
It was clear that he came
out with these words quite spontaneously, on the spur of the
moment. But his speech was productive of much—for it
appeared that all. Gania's rage now overflowed upon the
prince. He seized him by the shoulder and gazed with an
intensity of loathing and revenge at him, but said
nothing—as though his feelings were too strong to permit of
words.
General agitation
prevailed. Nina Alexandrovna gave a little cry of anxiety;
Ptitsin took a step forward in alarm; Colia and Ferdishenko
stood stock still at the door in amazement;—only Varia
remained coolly watching the scene from under her eyelashes.
She did not sit down, but stood by her mother with folded
hands. However, Gania recollected himself almost
immediately. He let go of the prince and burst out laughing.
"Why, are you a doctor,
prince, or what?" he asked, as naturally as possible. "I
declare you quite frightened me! Nastasia Philipovna, let me
introduce this interesting character to you—though I have
only known him myself since the morning."
Nastasia gazed at the
prince in bewilderment. "Prince? He a Prince? Why, I took
him for the footman, just now, and sent him in to announce
me! Ha, ha, ha, isn't that good!"
"Not bad that, not bad at
all!" put in Ferdishenko, "se non e vero—"
"I rather think I pitched
into you, too, didn't I? Forgive me—do! Who is he, did you
say? What prince? Muishkin?" she added, addressing Gania.
"He is a lodger of ours,"
explained the latter.
"An idiot!"—the prince
distinctly heard the word half whispered from behind him.
This was Ferdishenko's voluntary information for Nastasia's
benefit.
"Tell me, why didn't you
put me right when I made such a dreadful mistake just now?"
continued the latter, examining the prince from head to foot
without the slightest ceremony. She awaited the answer as
though convinced that it would be so foolish that she must
inevitably fail to restrain her laughter over it.
"I was astonished, seeing
you so suddenly—" murmured the prince.
"How did you know who I
was? Where had you seen me before? And why were you so
struck dumb at the sight of me? What was there so
overwhelming about me?"
"Oho! ho, ho, ho!" cried
Ferdishenko. "NOW then, prince! My word, what things I would
say if I had such a chance as that! My goodness, prince—go
on!"
"So should I, in your
place, I've no doubt!" laughed the prince to Ferdishenko;
then continued, addressing Nastasia: "Your portrait struck
me very forcibly this morning; then I was talking about you
to the Epanchins; and then, in the train, before I reached
Petersburg, Parfen Rogojin told me a good deal about you;
and at the very moment that I opened the door to you I
happened to be thinking of you, when—there you stood before
me!"
"And how did you recognize
me?"
"From the portrait!"
"What else?"
"I seemed to imagine you
exactly as you are—I seemed to have seen you somewhere."
"Where—where?"
"I seem to have seen your
eyes somewhere; but it cannot be! I have not seen you—I
never was here before. I may have dreamed of you, I don't
know."
The prince said all this
with manifest effort—in broken sentences, and with many
drawings of breath. He was evidently much agitated. Nastasia
Philipovna looked at him inquisitively, but did not laugh.
"Bravo, prince!" cried
Ferdishenko, delighted.
At this moment a loud voice
from behind the group which hedged in the prince and
Nastasia Philipovna, divided the crowd, as it were, and
before them stood the head of the family, General Ivolgin.
He was dressed in evening clothes; his moustache was dyed.
This apparition was too
much for Gania. Vain and ambitious almost to morbidness, he
had had much to put up with in the last two months, and was
seeking feverishly for some means of enabling himself to
lead a more presentable kind of existence. At home, he now
adopted an attitude of absolute cynicism, but he could not
keep this up before Nastasia Philipovna, although he had
sworn to make her pay after marriage for all he suffered
now. He was experiencing a last humiliation, the bitterest
of all, at this moment—the humiliation of blushing for his
own kindred in his own house. A question flashed through his
mind as to whether the game was really worth the candle.
For that had happened at
this moment, which for two months had been his nightmare;
which had filled his soul with dread and shame—the meeting
between his father and Nastasia Philipovna. He had often
tried to imagine such an event, but had found the picture
too mortifying and exasperating, and had quietly dropped it.
Very likely he anticipated far worse things than was at all
necessary; it is often so with vain persons. He had long
since determined, therefore, to get his father out of the
way, anywhere, before his marriage, in order to avoid such a
meeting; but when Nastasia entered the room just now, he had
been so overwhelmed with astonishment, that he had not
thought of his father, and had made no arrangements to keep
him out of the way. And now it was too late—there he was,
and got up, too, in a dress coat and white tie, and Nastasia
in the very humour to heap ridicule on him and his family
circle; of this last fact, he felt quite persuaded. What
else had she come for? There were his mother and his sister
sitting before her, and she seemed to have forgotten their
very existence already; and if she behaved like that, he
thought, she must have some object in view.
Ferdishenko led the general
up to Nastasia Philipovna.
"Ardalion Alexandrovitch
Ivolgin," said the smiling general, with a low bow of great
dignity, "an old soldier, unfortunate, and the father of
this family; but happy in the hope of including in that
family so exquisite—"
He did not finish his
sentence, for at this moment Ferdishenko pushed a chair up
from behind, and the general, not very firm on his legs, at
this post-prandial hour, flopped into it backwards. It was
always a difficult thing to put this warrior to confusion,
and his sudden descent left him as composed as before. He
had sat down just opposite to Nastasia, whose fingers he now
took, and raised to his lips with great elegance, and much
courtesy. The general had once belonged to a very select
circle of society, but he had been turned out of it two or
three years since on account of certain weaknesses, in which
he now indulged with all the less restraint; but his good
manners remained with him to this day, in spite of all.
Nastasia Philipovna seemed
delighted at the appearance of this latest arrival, of whom
she had of course heard a good deal by report.
"I have heard that my son—"
began Ardalion Alexandrovitch.
"Your son, indeed! A nice
papa you are! YOU might have come to see me anyhow, without
compromising anyone. Do you hide yourself, or does your son
hide you?"
"The children of the
nineteenth century, and their parents—" began the general,
again.
"Nastasia Philipovna, will
you excuse the general for a moment? Someone is inquiring
for him," said Nina Alexandrovna in a loud voice,
interrupting the conversation.
"Excuse him? Oh no, I have
wished to see him too long for that. Why, what business can
he have? He has retired, hasn't he? You won't leave me,
general, will you?"
"I give you my word that he
shall come and see you—but he—he needs rest just now."
"General, they say you
require rest," said Nastasia Philipovna, with the melancholy
face of a child whose toy is taken away.
Ardalion Alexandrovitch
immediately did his best to make his foolish position a
great deal worse.
"My dear, my dear!" he
said, solemnly and reproachfully, looking at his wife, with
one hand on his heart.
"Won't you leave the room,
mamma?" asked Varia, aloud.
"No, Varia, I shall sit it
out to the end."
Nastasia must have
overheard both question and reply, but her vivacity was not
in the least damped. On the contrary, it seemed to increase.
She immediately overwhelmed the general once more with
questions, and within five minutes that gentleman was as
happy as a king, and holding forth at the top of his voice,
amid the laughter of almost all who heard him.
Colia jogged the prince's
arm.
"Can't YOU get him out of
the room, somehow? DO, please," and tears of annoyance stood
in the boy's eyes. "Curse that Gania!" he muttered, between
his teeth.
"Oh yes, I knew General
Epanchin well," General Ivolgin was saying at this moment;
"he and Prince Nicolai Ivanovitch Muishkin—whose son I have
this day embraced after an absence of twenty years—and I,
were three inseparables. Alas one is in the grave, torn to
pieces by calumnies and bullets; another is now before you,
still battling with calumnies and bullets—"
"Bullets?" cried Nastasia.
"Yes, here in my chest. I
received them at the siege of Kars, and I feel them in bad
weather now. And as to the third of our trio, Epanchin, of
course after that little affair with the poodle in the
railway carriage, it was all UP between us."
"Poodle? What was that? And
in a railway carriage? Dear me," said Nastasia,
thoughtfully, as though trying to recall something to mind.
"Oh, just a silly, little
occurrence, really not worth telling, about Princess
Bielokonski's governess, Miss Smith, and—oh, it is really
not worth telling!"
"No, no, we must have it!"
cried Nastasia merrily.
"Yes, of course," said
Ferdishenko. "C'est du nouveau."
"Ardalion," said Nina
Alexandrovitch, entreatingly.
"Papa, you are wanted!"
cried Colia.
"Well, it is a silly little
story, in a few words," began the delighted general. "A
couple of years ago, soon after the new railway was opened,
I had to go somewhere or other on business. Well, I took a
first-class ticket, sat down, and began to smoke, or rather
CONTINUED to smoke, for I had lighted up before. I was alone
in the carriage. Smoking is not allowed, but is not
prohibited either; it is half allowed—so to speak, winked
at. I had the window open."
"Suddenly, just before the
whistle, in came two ladies with a little poodle, and sat
down opposite to me; not bad-looking women; one was in light
blue, the other in black silk. The poodle, a beauty with a
silver collar, lay on light blue's knee. They looked
haughtily about, and talked English together. I took no
notice, just went on smoking. I observed that the ladies
were getting angry—over my cigar, doubtless. One looked at
me through her tortoise-shell eyeglass.
"I took no notice, because
they never said a word. If they didn't like the cigar, why
couldn't they say so? Not a word, not a hint! Suddenly, and
without the very slightest suspicion of warning, 'light
blue' seizes my cigar from between my fingers, and, wheugh!
out of the window with it! Well, on flew the train, and I
sat bewildered, and the young woman, tall and fair, and
rather red in the face, too red, glared at me with flashing
eyes.
"I didn't say a word, but
with extreme courtesy, I may say with most refined courtesy,
I reached my finger and thumb over towards the poodle, took
it up delicately by the nape of the neck, and chucked it out
of the window, after the cigar. The train went flying on,
and the poodle's yells were lost in the distance."
"Oh, you naughty man!"
cried Nastasia, laughing and clapping her hands like a
child.
"Bravo!" said Ferdishenko.
Ptitsin laughed too, though he had been very sorry to see
the general appear. Even Colia laughed and said, "Bravo!"
"And I was right, truly
right," cried the general, with warmth and solemnity, "for
if cigars are forbidden in railway carriages, poodles are
much more so."
"Well, and what did the
lady do?" asked Nastasia, impatiently.
"She—ah, that's where all
the mischief of it lies!" replied Ivolgin, frowning.
"Without a word, as it were, of warning, she slapped me on
the cheek! An extraordinary woman!"
"And you?"
The general dropped his
eyes, and elevated his brows; shrugged his shoulders,
tightened his lips, spread his hands, and remained silent.
At last he blurted out:
"I lost my head!"
"Did you hit her?"
"No, oh no!—there was a
great flare-up, but I didn't hit her! I had to struggle a
little, purely to defend myself; but the very devil was in
the business. It turned out that 'light blue' was an
Englishwoman, governess or something, at Princess
Bielokonski's, and the other woman was one of the old-maid
princesses Bielokonski. Well, everybody knows what great
friends the princess and Mrs. Epanchin are, so there was a
pretty kettle of fish. All the Bielokonskis went into
mourning for the poodle. Six princesses in tears, and the
Englishwoman shrieking!
"Of course I wrote an
apology, and called, but they would not receive either me or
my apology, and the Epanchins cut me, too!"
"But wait," said Nastasia.
"How is it that, five or six days since, I read exactly the
same story in the paper, as happening between a Frenchman
and an English girl? The cigar was snatched away exactly as
you describe, and the poodle was chucked out of the window
after it. The slapping came off, too, as in your case; and
the girl's dress was light blue!"
The general blushed
dreadfully; Colia blushed too; and Ptitsin turned hastily
away. Ferdishenko was the only one who laughed as gaily as
before. As to Gania, I need not say that he was miserable;
he stood dumb and wretched and took no notice of anybody.
"I assure you," said the
general, "that exactly the same thing happened to myself!"
"I remembered there was
some quarrel between father and Miss Smith, the
Bielokonski's governess," said Colia.
"How very curious, point
for point the same anecdote, and happening at different ends
of Europe! Even the light blue dress the same," continued
the pitiless Nastasia. "I must really send you the paper."
"You must observe,"
insisted the general, "that my experience was two years
earlier."
"Ah! that's it, no doubt!"
Nastasia Philipovna laughed
hysterically.
"Father, will you hear a
word from me outside!" said Gania, his voice shaking with
agitation, as he seized his father by the shoulder. His eyes
shone with a blaze of hatred.
At this moment there was a
terrific bang at the front door, almost enough to break it
down. Some most unusual visitor must have arrived. Colia ran
to open.
X.
THE entrance-hall suddenly
became full of noise and people. To judge from the sounds
which penetrated to the drawing-room, a number of people had
already come in, and the stampede continued. Several voices
were talking and shouting at once; others were talking and
shouting on the stairs outside; it was evidently a most
extraordinary visit that was about to take place.
Everyone exchanged startled
glances. Gania rushed out towards the dining-room, but a
number of men had already made their way in, and met him.
"Ah! here he is, the
Judas!" cried a voice which the prince recognized at once.
"How d'ye do, Gania, you old blackguard?"
"Yes, that's the man!" said
another voice.
There was no room for doubt
in the prince's mind: one of the voices was Rogojin's, and
the other Lebedeff's.
Gania stood at the door
like a block and looked on in silence, putting no obstacle
in the way of their entrance, and ten or a dozen men marched
in behind Parfen Rogojin. They were a decidedly
mixed-looking collection, and some of them came in in their
furs and caps. None of them were quite drunk, but all
appeared to De considerably excited.
They seemed to need each
other's support, morally, before they dared come in; not one
of them would have entered alone but with the rest each one
was brave enough. Even Rogojin entered rather cautiously at
the head of his troop; but he was evidently preoccupied. He
appeared to be gloomy and morose, and had clearly come with
some end in view. All the rest were merely chorus, brought
in to support the chief character. Besides Lebedeff there
was the dandy Zalesheff, who came in without his coat and
hat, two or three others followed his example; the rest were
more uncouth. They included a couple of young merchants, a
man in a great-coat, a medical student, a little Pole, a
small fat man who laughed continuously, and an enormously
tall stout one who apparently put great faith in the
strength of his fists. A couple of "ladies" of some sort put
their heads in at the front door, but did not dare come any
farther. Colia promptly banged the door in their faces and
locked it.
"Hallo, Gania, you
blackguard! You didn't expect Rogojin, eh?" said the latter,
entering the drawing-room, and stopping before Gania.
But at this moment he saw,
seated before him, Nastasia Philipovna. He had not dreamed
of meeting her here, evidently, for her appearance produced
a marvellous effect upon him. He grew pale, and his lips
became actually blue.
"I suppose it is true,
then!" he muttered to himself, and his face took on an
expression of despair. "So that's the end of it! Now you,
sir, will you answer me or not?" he went on suddenly, gazing
at Gania with ineffable malice. "Now then, you—"
He panted, and could hardly
speak for agitation. He advanced into the room mechanically;
but perceiving Nina Alexandrovna and Varia he became more or
less embarrassed, in spite of his excitement. His followers
entered after him, and all paused a moment at sight of the
ladies. Of course their modesty was not fated to be
long-lived, but for a moment they were abashed. Once let
them begin to shout, however, and nothing on earth should
disconcert them.
"What, you here too,
prince?" said Rogojin, absently, but a little surprised all
the same "Still in your gaiters, eh?" He sighed, and forgot
the prince next moment, and his wild eyes wandered over to
Nastasia again, as though attracted in that direction by
some magnetic force.
Nastasia looked at the new
arrivals with great curiosity. Gania recollected himself at
last.
"Excuse me, sirs," he said,
loudly, "but what does all this mean?" He glared at the
advancing crowd generally, but addressed his remarks
especially to their captain, Rogojin. "You are not in a
stable, gentlemen, though you may think it—my mother and
sister are present."
"Yes, I see your mother and
sister," muttered Rogojin, through his teeth; and Lebedeff
seemed to feel himself called upon to second the statement.
"At all events, I must
request you to step into the salon," said Gania, his rage
rising quite out of proportion to his words, "and then I
shall inquire—"
"What, he doesn't know me!"
said Rogojin, showing his teeth disagreeably. "He doesn't
recognize Rogojin!" He did not move an inch, however.
"I have met you somewhere,
I believe, but—"
"Met me somewhere, pfu!
Why, it's only three months since I lost two hundred roubles
of my father's money to you, at cards. The old fellow died
before he found out. Ptitsin knows all about it. Why, I've
only to pull out a three-rouble note and show it to you, and
you'd crawl on your hands and knees to the other end of the
town for it; that's the sort of man you are. Why, I've come
now, at this moment, to buy you up! Oh, you needn't think
that because I wear these boots I have no money. I have lots
of money, my beauty,—enough to buy up you and all yours
together. So I shall, if I like to! I'll buy you up! I
will!" he yelled, apparently growing more and more
intoxicated and excited. "Oh, Nastasia Philipovna! don't
turn me out! Say one word, do! Are you going to marry this
man, or not?"
Rogojin asked his question
like a lost soul appealing to some divinity, with the
reckless daring of one appointed to die, who has nothing to
lose.
He awaited the reply in
deadly anxiety.
Nastasia Philipovna gazed
at him with a haughty, ironical expression of face; but when
she glanced at Nina Alexandrovna and Varia, and from them to
Gania, she changed her tone, all of a sudden.
"Certainly not; what are
you thinking of? What could have induced you to ask such a
question?" she replied, quietly and seriously, and even,
apparently, with some astonishment.
"No? No?" shouted Rogojin,
almost out of his mind with joy. "You are not going to,
after all? And they told me—oh, Nastasia Philipovna—they
said you had promised to marry him, HIM! As if you COULD do
it!—him—pooh! I don't mind saying it to everyone—I'd buy him
off for a hundred roubles, any day pfu! Give him a thousand,
or three if he likes, poor devil' and he'd cut and run the
day before his wedding, and leave his bride to me! Wouldn't
you, Gania, you blackguard? You'd take three thousand,
wouldn't you? Here's the money! Look, I've come on purpose
to pay you off and get your receipt, formally. I said I'd
buy you up, and so I will."
"Get out of this, you
drunken beast!" cried Gania, who was red and white by turns.
Rogojin's troop, who were
only waiting for an excuse, set up a howl at this. Lebedeff
stepped forward and whispered something in Parfen's ear.
"You're right, clerk," said
the latter, "you're right, tipsy spirit—you're
right!—Nastasia Philipovna," he added, looking at her like
some lunatic, harmless generally, but suddenly wound up to a
pitch of audacity, "here are eighteen thousand roubles,
and—and you shall have more—." Here he threw a packet of
bank-notes tied up in white paper, on the table before her,
not daring to say all he wished to say.
"No-no-no!" muttered
Lebedeff, clutching at his arm. He was clearly aghast at the
largeness of the sum, and thought a far smaller amount
should have been tried first.
"No, you fool—you don't
know whom you are dealing with—and it appears I am a fool,
too!" said Parfen, trembling beneath the flashing glance of
Nastasia. "Oh, curse it all! What a fool I was to listen to
you!" he added, with profound melancholy.
Nastasia Philipovna,
observing his woe-begone expression, suddenly burst out
laughing.
"Eighteen thousand roubles,
for me? Why, you declare yourself a fool at once," she said,
with impudent familiarity, as she rose from the sofa and
prepared to go. Gania watched the whole scene with a sinking
of the heart.
"Forty thousand, then—forty
thousand roubles instead of eighteen! Ptitsin and another
have promised to find me forty thousand roubles by seven
o'clock tonight. Forty thousand roubles—paid down on the
nail!"
The scene was growing more
and more disgraceful; but Nastasia Philipovna continued to
laugh and did not go away. Nina Alexandrovna and Varia had
both risen from their places and were waiting, in silent
horror, to see what would happen. Varia's eyes were all
ablaze with anger; but the scene had a different effect on
Nina Alexandrovna. She paled and trembled, and looked more
and more like fainting every moment.
"Very well then, a HUNDRED
thousand! a hundred thousand! paid this very day. Ptitsin!
find it for me. A good share shall stick to your
fingers—come!"
"You are mad!" said
Ptitsin, coming up quickly and seizing him by the hand.
"You're drunk—the police will be sent for if you don't look
out. Think where you are."
"Yes, he's boasting like a
drunkard," added Nastasia, as though with the sole intention
of goading him.
"I do NOT boast! You shall
have a hundred thousand, this very day. Ptitsin, get the
money, you gay usurer! Take what you like for it, but get it
by the evening! I'll show that I'm in earnest!" cried
Rogojin, working himself up into a frenzy of excitement.
"Come, come; what's all
this?" cried General Ivolgin, suddenly and angrily, coming
close up to Rogojin. The unexpectedness of this sally on the
part of the hitherto silent old man caused some laughter
among the intruders.
"Halloa! what's this now?"
laughed Rogojin. "You come along with me, old fellow! You
shall have as much to drink as you like."
"Oh, it's too horrible!"
cried poor Colia, sobbing with shame and annoyance.
"Surely there must be
someone among all of you here who will turn this shameless
creature out of the room?" cried Varia, suddenly. She was
shaking and trembling with rage.
"That's me, I suppose. I'm
the shameless creature!" cried Nastasia Philipovna, with
amused indifference. "Dear me, and I came—like a fool, as I
am—to invite them over to my house for the evening! Look how
your sister treats me, Gavrila Ardalionovitch."
For some moments Gania
stood as if stunned or struck by lightning, after his
sister's speech. But seeing that Nastasia Philipovna was
really about to leave the room this time, he sprang at Varia
and seized her by the arm like a madman.
"What have you done?" he
hissed, glaring at her as though he would like to annihilate
her on the spot. He was quite beside himself, and could
hardly articulate his words for rage.
"What have I done? Where
are you dragging me to?"
"Do you wish me to beg
pardon of this creature because she has come here to insult
our mother and disgrace the whole household, you low, base
wretch?" cried Varia, looking back at her brother with proud
defiance.
A few moments passed as
they stood there face to face, Gania still holding her wrist
tightly. Varia struggled once—twice—to get free; then could
restrain herself no longer, and spat in his face.
"There's a girl for you!"
cried Nastasia Philipovna. "Mr. Ptitsin, I congratulate you
on your choice."
Gania lost his head.
Forgetful of everything he aimed a blow at Varia, which
would inevitably have laid her low, but suddenly another
hand caught his. Between him and Varia stood the prince.
"Enough—enough!" said the
latter, with insistence, but all of a tremble with
excitement.
"Are you going to cross my
path for ever, damn you!" cried Gania; and, loosening his
hold on Varia, he slapped the prince's face with all his
force.
Exclamations of horror
arose on all sides. The prince grew pale as death; he gazed
into Gania's eyes with a strange, wild, reproachful look;
his lips trembled and vainly endeavoured to form some words;
then his mouth twisted into an incongruous smile.
"Very well—never mind about
me; but I shall not allow you to strike her!" he said, at
last, quietly. Then, suddenly, he could bear it no longer,
and covering his face with his hands, turned to the wall,
and murmured in broken accents:
"Oh! how ashamed you will
be of this afterwards!"
Gania certainly did look
dreadfully abashed. Colia rushed up to comfort the prince,
and after him crowded Varia, Rogojin and all, even the
general.
"It's nothing, it's
nothing!" said the prince, and again he wore the smile which
was so inconsistent with the circumstances.
"Yes, he will be ashamed!"
cried Rogojin. "You will be properly ashamed of yourself for
having injured such a—such a sheep" (he could not find a
better word). "Prince, my dear fellow, leave this and come
away with me. I'll show you how Rogojin shows his affection
for his friends."
Nastasia Philipovna was
also much impressed, both with Gania's action and with the
prince's reply.
Her usually thoughtful,
pale face, which all this while had been so little in
harmony with the jests and laughter which she had seemed to
put on for the occasion, was now evidently agitated by new
feelings, though she tried to conceal the fact and to look
as though she were as ready as ever for jesting and irony.
"I really think I must have
seen him somewhere!" she murmured seriously enough.
"Oh, aren't you ashamed of
yourself—aren't you ashamed? Are you really the sort of
woman you are trying to represent yourself to be? Is it
possible?" The prince was now addressing Nastasia, in a tone
of reproach, which evidently came from his very heart.
Nastasia Philipovna looked
surprised, and smiled, but evidently concealed something
beneath her smile and with some confusion and a glance at
Gania she left the room.
However, she had not
reached the outer hall when she turned round, walked quickly
up to Nina Alexandrovna, seized her hand and lifted it to
her lips.
"He guessed quite right. I
am not that sort of woman," she whispered hurriedly,
flushing red all over. Then she turned again and left the
room so quickly that no one could imagine what she had come
back for. All they saw was that she said something to Nina
Alexandrovna in a hurried whisper, and seemed to kiss her
hand. Varia, however, both saw and heard all, and watched
Nastasia out of the room with an expression of wonder.
Gania recollected himself
in time to rush after her in order to show her out, but she
had gone. He followed her to the stairs.
"Don't come with me," she
cried, "Au revoir, till the evening—do you hear? Au revoir!"
He returned thoughtful and
confused; the riddle lay heavier than ever on his soul. He
was troubled about the prince, too, and so bewildered that
he did not even observe Rogojin's rowdy band crowd past him
and step on his toes, at the door as they went out. They
were all talking at once. Rogojin went ahead of the others,
talking to Ptitsin, and apparently insisting vehemently upon
something very important.
"You've lost the game,
Gania" he cried, as he passed the latter.
Gania gazed after him
uneasily, but said nothing.
XI.
THE prince now left the
room and shut himself up in his own chamber. Colia followed
him almost at once, anxious to do what he could to console
him. The poor boy seemed to be already so attached to him
that he could hardly leave him.
"You were quite right to go
away!" he said. "The row will rage there worse than ever
now; and it's like this every day with us—and all through
that Nastasia Philipovna."
"You have so many sources
of trouble here, Colia," said the prince.
"Yes, indeed, and it is all
our own fault. But I have a great friend who is much worse
off even than we are. Would you like to know him?"
"Yes, very much. Is he one
of your school-fellows?"
"Well, not exactly. I will
tell you all about him some day.... What do you think of
Nastasia Philipovna? She is beautiful, isn't she? I had
never seen her before, though I had a great wish to do so.
She fascinated me. I could forgive Gania if he were to marry
her for love, but for money! Oh dear! that is horrible!"
"Yes, your brother does not
attract me much."
"I am not surprised at
that. After what you... But I do hate that way of looking at
things! Because some fool, or a rogue pretending to be a
fool, strikes a man, that man is to be dishonoured for his
whole life, unless he wipes out the disgrace with blood, or
makes his assailant beg forgiveness on his knees! I think
that so very absurd and tyrannical. Lermontoff's Bal Masque
is based on that idea—a stupid and unnatural one, in my
opinion; but he was hardly more than a child when he wrote
it."
"I like your sister very
much."
"Did you see how she spat
in Gania's face! Varia is afraid of no one. But you did not
follow her example, and yet I am sure it was not through
cowardice. Here she comes! Speak of a wolf and you see his
tail! I felt sure that she would come. She is very generous,
though of course she has her faults."
Varia pounced upon her
brother.
"This is not the place for
you," said she. "Go to father. Is he plaguing you, prince?"
"Not in the least; on the
contrary, he interests me."
"Scolding as usual, Varia!
It is the worst thing about her. After all, I believe father
may have started off with Rogojin. No doubt he is sorry now.
Perhaps I had better go and see what he is doing," added
Colia, running off.
"Thank God, I have got
mother away, and put her to bed without another scene! Gania
is worried—and ashamed—not without reason! What a spectacle!
I have come to thank you once more, prince, and to ask you
if you knew Nastasia Philipovna before?"
"No, I have never known
her."
"Then what did you mean,
when you said straight out to her that she was not really
'like that'? You guessed right, I fancy. It is quite
possible she was not herself at the moment, though I cannot
fathom her meaning. Evidently she meant to hurt and insult
us. I have heard curious tales about her before now, but if
she came to invite us to her house, why did she behave so to
my mother? Ptitsin knows her very well; he says he could not
understand her today. With Rogojin, too! No one with a spark
of self-respect could have talked like that in the house of
her... Mother is extremely vexed on your account, too...
"That is nothing!" said the
prince, waving his hand.
"But how meek she was when
you spoke to her!"
"Meek! What do you mean?"
"You told her it was a
shame for her to behave so, and her manner changed at once;
she was like another person. You have some influence over
her, prince," added Varia, smiling a little.
The door opened at this
point, and in came Gania most unexpectedly.
He was not in the least
disconcerted to see Varia there, but he stood a moment at
the door, and then approached the prince quietly.
"Prince," he said, with
feeling, "I was a blackguard. Forgive me!" His face gave
evidence of suffering. The prince was considerably amazed,
and did not reply at once. "Oh, come, forgive me, forgive
me!" Gania insisted, rather impatiently. "If you like, I'll
kiss your hand. There!"
The prince was touched; he
took Gania's hands, and embraced him heartily, while each
kissed the other.
"I never, never thought you
were like that," said Muishkin, drawing a deep breath. "I
thought you—you weren't capable of—"
"Of what? Apologizing, eh?
And where on earth did I get the idea that you were an
idiot? You always observe what other people pass by
unnoticed; one could talk sense to you, but—"
"Here is another to whom
you should apologize," said the prince, pointing to Varia.
"No, no! they are all
enemies! I've tried them often enough, believe me," and
Gania turned his back on Varia with these words.
"But if I beg you to make
it up?" said Varia.
"And you'll go to Nastasia
Philipovna's this evening—"
"If you insist: but, judge
for yourself, can I go, ought I to go?"
"But she is not that sort
of woman, I tell you!" said Gania, angrily. "She was only
acting."
"I know that—I know that;
but what a part to play! And think what she must take YOU
for, Gania! I know she kissed mother's hand, and all that,
but she laughed at you, all the same. All this is not good
enough for seventy-five thousand roubles, my dear boy. You
are capable of honourable feelings still, and that's why I
am talking to you so. Oh! DO take care what you are doing!
Don't you know yourself that it will end badly, Gania?"
So saying, and in a state
of violent agitation, Varia left the room.
"There, they are all like
that," said Gania, laughing, "just as if I do not know all
about it much better than they do."
He sat down with these
words, evidently intending to prolong his visit.
"If you know it so well,"
said the prince a little timidly, "why do you choose all
this worry for the sake of the seventy-five thousand, which,
you confess, does not cover it?"
"I didn't mean that," said
Gania; "but while we are upon the subject, let me hear your
opinion. Is all this worry worth seventy-five thousand or
not?
"Certainly not."
"Of course! And it would be
a disgrace to marry so, eh?"
"A great disgrace."
"Oh, well, then you may
know that I shall certainly do it, now. I shall certainly
marry her. I was not quite sure of myself before, but now I
am. Don't say a word: I know what you want to tell me—"
"No. I was only going to
say that what surprises me most of all is your extraordinary
confidence."
"How so? What in?"
"That Nastasia Philipovna
will accept you, and that the question is as good as
settled; and secondly, that even if she did, you would be
able to pocket the money. Of course, I know very little
about it, but that's my view. When a man marries for money
it often happens that the wife keeps the money in her own
hands."
"Of course, you don't know
all; but, I assure you, you needn't be afraid, it won't be
like that in our case. There are circumstances," said Gania,
rather excitedly. "And as to her answer to me, there's no
doubt about that. Why should you suppose she will refuse
me?"
"Oh, I only judge by what I
see. Varvara Ardalionovna said just now—"
"Oh she—they don't know
anything about it! Nastasia was only chaffing Rogojin. I was
alarmed at first, but I have thought better of it now; she
was simply laughing at him. She looks on me as a fool
because I show that I meant her money, and doesn't realize
that there are other men who would deceive her in far worse
fashion. I'm not going to pretend anything, and you'll see
she'll marry me, all right. If she likes to live quietly, so
she shall; but if she gives me any of her nonsense, I shall
leave her at once, but I shall keep the money. I'm not going
to look a fool; that's the first thing, not to look a fool."
"But Nastasia Philipovna
seems to me to be such a SENSIBLE woman, and, as such, why
should she run blindly into this business? That's what
puzzles me so," said the prince.
"You don't know all, you
see; I tell you there are things—and besides, I'm sure that
she is persuaded that I love her to distraction, and I give
you my word I have a strong suspicion that she loves me,
too—in her own way, of course. She thinks she will be able
to make a sort of slave of me all my life; but I shall
prepare a little surprise for her. I don't know whether I
ought to be confidential with you, prince; but, I assure
you, you are the only decent fellow I have come across. I
have not spoken so sincerely as I am doing at this moment
for years. There are uncommonly few honest people about,
prince; there isn't one honester than Ptitsin, he's the best
of the lot. Are you laughing? You don't know, perhaps, that
blackguards like honest people, and being one myself I like
you. WHY am I a blackguard? Tell me honestly, now. They all
call me a blackguard because of her, and I have got into the
way of thinking myself one. That's what is so bad about the
business."
"I for one shall never
think you a blackguard again," said the prince. "I confess I
had a poor opinion of you at first, but I have been so
joyfully surprised about you just now; it's a good lesson
for me. I shall never judge again without a thorough trial.
I see now that you are riot only not a blackguard, but are
not even quite spoiled. I see that you are quite an ordinary
man, not original in the least degree, but rather weak."
Gania laughed
sarcastically, but said nothing. The prince, seeing that he
did not quite like the last remark, blushed, and was silent
too.
"Has my father asked you
for money?" asked Gania, suddenly.
"No."
"Don't give it to him if he
does. Fancy, he was a decent, respectable man once! He was
received in the best society; he was not always the liar he
is now. Of course, wine is at the bottom of it all; but he
is a good deal worse than an innocent liar now. Do you know
that he keeps a mistress? I can't understand how mother is
so long-suffering. Did he tell you the story of the siege of
Kars? Or perhaps the one about his grey horse that talked?
He loves, to enlarge on these absurd histories." And Gania
burst into a fit of laughter. Suddenly he turned to the
prince and asked: "Why are you looking at me like that?"
"I am surprised to see you
laugh in that way, like a child. You came to make friends
with me again just now, and you said, 'I will kiss your
hand, if you like,' just as a child would have said it. And
then, all at once you are talking of this mad project—of
these seventy-five thousand roubles! It all seems so absurd
and impossible."
"Well, what conclusion have
you reached?"
"That you are rushing madly
into the undertaking, and that you would do well to think it
over again. It is more than possible that Varvara
Ardalionovna is right."
"Ah! now you begin to
moralize! I know that I am only a child, very well," replied
Gania impatiently. "That is proved by my having this
conversation with you. It is not for money only, prince,
that I am rushing into this affair," he continued, hardly
master of his words, so closely had his vanity been touched.
"If I reckoned on that I should certainly be deceived, for I
am still too weak in mind and character. I am obeying a
passion, an impulse perhaps, because I have but one aim, one
that overmasters all else. You imagine that once I am in
possession of these seventy-five thousand roubles, I shall
rush to buy a carriage... No, I shall go on wearing the old
overcoat I have worn for three years, and I shall give up my
club. I shall follow the example of men who have made their
fortunes. When Ptitsin was seventeen he slept in the street,
he sold pen-knives, and began with a copeck; now he has
sixty thousand roubles, but to get them, what has he not
done? Well, I shall be spared such a hard beginning, and
shall start with a little capital. In fifteen years people
will say, 'Look, that's Ivolgin, the king of the Jews!' You
say that I have no originality. Now mark this, prince—there
is nothing so offensive to a man of our time and race than
to be told that he is wanting in originality, that he is
weak in character, has no particular talent, and is, in
short, an ordinary person. You have not even done me the
honour of looking upon me as a rogue. Do you know, I could
have knocked you down for that just now! You wounded me more
cruelly than Epanchin, who thinks me capable of selling him
my wife! Observe, it was a perfectly gratuitous idea on his
part, seeing there has never been any discussion of it
between us! This has exasperated me, and I am determined to
make a fortune! I will do it! Once I am rich, I shall be a
genius, an extremely original man. One of the vilest and
most hateful things connected with money is that it can buy
even talent; and will do so as long as the world lasts. You
will say that this is childish—or romantic. Well, that will
be all the better for me, but the thing shall be done. I
will carry it through. He laughs most, who laughs last. Why
does Epanchin insult me? Simply because, socially, I am a
nobody. However, enough for the present. Colia has put his
nose in to tell us dinner is ready, twice. I'm dining out. I
shall come and talk to you now and then; you shall be
comfortable enough with us. They are sure to make you one of
the family. I think you and I will either be great friends
or enemies. Look here now, supposing I had kissed your hand
just now, as I offered to do in all sincerity, should I have
hated you for it afterwards?"
"Certainly, but not always.
You would not have been able to keep it up, and would have
ended by forgiving me," said the prince, after a pause for
reflection, and with a pleasant smile.
"Oho, how careful one has
to be with you, prince! Haven't you put a drop of poison in
that remark now, eh? By the way—ha, ha, ha!—I forgot to ask,
was I right in believing that you were a good deal struck
yourself with Nastasia Philipovna."
"Ye-yes."
"Are you in love with her?"
"N-no."
"And yet you flush up as
red as a rosebud! Come—it's all right. I'm not going to
laugh at you. Do you know she is a very virtuous woman?
Believe it or not, as you like. You think she and Totski—not
a bit of it, not a bit of it! Not for ever so long! Au
revoir!"
Gania left the room in
great good humour. The prince stayed behind, and meditated
alone for a few minutes. At length, Colia popped his head in
once more.
"I don't want any dinner,
thanks, Colia. I had too good a lunch at General
Epanchin's."
Colia came into the room
and gave the prince a note; it was from the general and was
carefully sealed up. It was clear from Colia's face how
painful it was to him to deliver the missive. The prince
read it, rose, and took his hat.
"It's only a couple of
yards," said Colia, blushing.
"He's sitting there over
his bottle—and how they can give him credit, I cannot
understand. Don't tell mother I brought you the note,
prince; I have sworn not to do it a thousand times, but I'm
always so sorry for him. Don't stand on ceremony, give him
some trifle, and let that end it."
"Come along, Colia, I want
to see your father. I have an idea," said the prince.
XII.
Colia took the prince to a
public-house in the Litaynaya, not far off. In one of the
side rooms there sat at a table—looking like one of the
regular guests of the establishment—Ardalion Alexandrovitch,
with a bottle before him, and a newspaper on his knee. He
was waiting for the prince, and no sooner did the latter
appear than he began a long harangue about something or
other; but so far gone was he that the prince could hardly
understand a word.
"I have not got a
ten-rouble note," said the prince; "but here is a
twenty-five. Change it and give me back the fifteen, or I
shall be left without a farthing myself."
"Oh, of course, of course;
and you quite understand that I—"
"Yes; and I have another
request to make, general. Have you ever been at Nastasia
Philipovna's?"
"I? I? Do you mean me?
Often, my friend, often! I only pretended I had not in order
to avoid a painful subject. You saw today, you were a
witness, that I did all that a kind, an indulgent father
could do. Now a father of altogether another type shall step
into the scene. You shall see; the old soldier shall lay
bare this intrigue, or a shameless woman will force her way
into a respectable and noble family."
"Yes, quite so. I wished to
ask you whether you could show me the way to Nastasia
Philipovna's tonight. I must go; I have business with her; I
was not invited but I was introduced. Anyhow I am ready to
trespass the laws of propriety if only I can get in somehow
or other."
"My dear young friend, you
have hit on my very idea. It was not for this rubbish I
asked you to come over here" (he pocketed the money,
however, at this point), "it was to invite your alliance in
the campaign against Nastasia Philipovna tonight. How well
it sounds, 'General Ivolgin and Prince Muishkin.' That'll
fetch her, I think, eh? Capital! We'll go at nine; there's
time yet."
"Where does she live?"
"Oh, a long way off, near
the Great Theatre, just in the square there—It won't be a
large party."
The general sat on and on.
He had ordered a fresh bottle when the prince arrived; this
took him an hour to drink, and then he had another, and
another, during the consumption of which he told pretty
nearly the whole story of his life. The prince was in
despair. He felt that though he had but applied to this
miserable old drunkard because he saw no other way of
getting to Nastasia Philipovna's, yet he had been very wrong
to put the slightest confidence in such a man.
At last he rose and
declared that he would wait no longer. The general rose too,
drank the last drops that he could squeeze out of the
bottle, and staggered into the street.
Muishkin began to despair.
He could not imagine how he had been so foolish as to trust
this man. He only wanted one thing, and that was to get to
Nastasia Philipovna's, even at the cost of a certain amount
of impropriety. But now the scandal threatened to be more
than he had bargained for. By this time Ardalion
Alexandrovitch was quite intoxicated, and he kept his
companion listening while he discoursed eloquently and
pathetically on subjects of all kinds, interspersed with
torrents of recrimination against the members of his family.
He insisted that all his troubles were caused by their bad
conduct, and time alone would put an end to them.
At last they reached the
Litaynaya. The thaw increased steadily, a warm, unhealthy
wind blew through the streets, vehicles splashed through the
mud, and the iron shoes of horses and mules rang on the
paving stones. Crowds of melancholy people plodded wearily
along the footpaths, with here and there a drunken man among
them.
"Do you see those
brightly-lighted windows?" said the general. "Many of my old
comrades-in-arms live about here, and I, who served longer,
and suffered more than any of them, am walking on foot to
the house of a woman of rather questionable reputation! A
man, look you, who has thirteen bullets on his breast!...
You don't believe it? Well, I can assure you it was entirely
on my account that Pirogoff telegraphed to Paris, and left
Sebastopol at the greatest risk during the siege. Nelaton,
the Tuileries surgeon, demanded a safe conduct, in the name
of science, into the besieged city in order to attend my
wounds. The government knows all about it. 'That's the
Ivolgin with thirteen bullets in him!' That's how they speak
of me.... Do you see that house, prince? One of my old
friends lives on the first floor, with his large family. In
this and five other houses, three overlooking Nevsky, two in
the Morskaya, are all that remain of my personal friends.
Nina Alexandrovna gave them up long ago, but I keep in touch
with them still... I may say I find refreshment in this
little coterie, in thus meeting my old acquaintances and
subordinates, who worship me still, in spite of all. General
Sokolovitch (by the way, I have not called on him lately, or
seen Anna Fedorovna)... You know, my dear prince, when a
person does not receive company himself, he gives up going
to other people's houses involuntarily. And yet... well...
you look as if you didn't believe me.... Well now, why
should I not present the son of my old friend and companion
to this delightful family—General Ivolgin and Prince
Muishkin? You will see a lovely girl—what am I saying—a
lovely girl? No, indeed, two, three! Ornaments of this city
and of society: beauty, education, culture—the woman
question—poetry—everything! Added to which is the fact that
each one will have a dot of at least eighty thousand
roubles. No bad thing, eh?... In a word I absolutely must
introduce you to them: it is a duty, an obligation. General
Ivolgin and Prince Muishkin. Tableau!"
"At once? Now? You must
have forgotten..." began the prince.
"No, I have forgotten
nothing. Come! This is the house—up this magnificent
staircase. I am surprised not to see the porter, but .... it
is a holiday... and the man has gone off... Drunken fool!
Why have they not got rid of him? Sokolovitch owes all the
happiness he has had in the service and in his private life
to me, and me alone, but... here we are."
The prince followed
quietly, making no further objection for fear of irritating
the old man. At the same time he fervently hoped that
General Sokolovitch and his family would fade away like a
mirage in the desert, so that the visitors could escape, by
merely returning downstairs. But to his horror he saw that
General Ivolgin was quite familiar with the house, and
really seemed to have friends there. At every step he named
some topographical or biographical detail that left nothing
to be desired on the score of accuracy. When they arrived at
last, on the first floor, and the general turned to ring the
bell to the right, the prince decided to run away, but a
curious incident stopped him momentarily.
"You have made a mistake,
general," said he. "The name on the door is Koulakoff, and
you were going to see General Sokolovitch."
"Koulakoff... Koulakoff
means nothing. This is Sokolovitch's flat, and I am ringing
at his door.... What do I care for Koulakoff?... Here comes
someone to open."
In fact, the door opened
directly, and the footman in formed the visitors that the
family were all away.
"What a pity! What a pity!
It's just my luck!" repeated Ardalion Alexandrovitch over
and over again, in regretful tones. "When your master and
mistress return, my man, tell them that General Ivolgin and
Prince Muishkin desired to present themselves, and that they
were extremely sorry, excessively grieved..."
Just then another person
belonging to the household was seen at the back of the hall.
It was a woman of some forty years, dressed in sombre
colours, probably a housekeeper or a governess. Hearing the
names she came forward with a look of suspicion on her face.
"Marie Alexandrovna is not
at home," said she, staring hard at the general. "She has
gone to her mother's, with Alexandra Michailovna."
"Alexandra Michailovna out,
too! How disappointing! Would you believe it, I am always so
unfortunate! May I most respectfully ask you to present my
compliments to Alexandra Michailovna, and remind her... tell
her, that with my whole heart I wish for her what she wished
for herself on Thursday evening, while she was listening to
Chopin's Ballade. She will remember. I wish it with all
sincerity. General Ivolgin and Prince Muishkin!"
The woman's face changed;
she lost her suspicious expression.
"I will not fail to deliver
your message," she replied, and bowed them out.
As they went downstairs the
general regretted repeatedly that he had failed to introduce
the prince to his friends.
"You know I am a bit of a
poet," said he. "Have you noticed it? The poetic soul, you
know." Then he added suddenly—"But after all... after all I
believe we made a mistake this time! I remember that the
Sokolovitch's live in another house, and what is more, they
are just now in Moscow. Yes, I certainly was at fault.
However, it is of no consequence."
"Just tell me," said the
prince in reply, "may I count still on your assistance? Or
shall I go on alone to see Nastasia Philipovna?"
"Count on my assistance? Go
alone? How can you ask me that question, when it is a matter
on which the fate of my family so largely depends? You don't
know Ivolgin, my friend. To trust Ivolgin is to trust a
rock; that's how the first squadron I commanded spoke of me.
'Depend upon Ivolgin,' said they all, 'he is as steady as a
rock.' But, excuse me, I must just call at a house on our
way, a house where I have found consolation and help in all
my trials for years."
"You are going home?"
"No... I wish... to visit
Madame Terentieff, the widow of Captain Terentieff, my old
subordinate and friend. She helps me to keep up my courage,
and to bear the trials of my domestic life, and as I have an
extra burden on my mind today..."
"It seems to me,"
interrupted the prince, "that I was foolish to trouble you
just now. However, at present you... Good-bye!"
"Indeed, you must not go
away like that, young man, you must not!" cried the general.
"My friend here is a widow, the mother of a family; her
words come straight from her heart, and find an echo in
mine. A visit to her is merely an affair of a few minutes; I
am quite at home in her house. I will have a wash, and
dress, and then we can drive to the Grand Theatre. Make up
your mind to spend the evening with me.... We are just
there—that's the house... Why, Colia! you here! Well, is
Marfa Borisovna at home or have you only just come?"
"Oh no! I have been here a
long while," replied Colia, who was at the front door when
the general met him. "I am keeping Hippolyte company. He is
worse, and has been in bed all day. I came down to buy some
cards. Marfa Borisovna expects you. But what a state you are
in, father!" added the boy, noticing his father's unsteady
gait. "Well, let us go in."
On meeting Colia the prince
determined to accompany the general, though he made up his
mind to stay as short a time as possible. He wanted Colia,
but firmly resolved to leave the general behind. He could
not forgive himself for being so simple as to imagine that
Ivolgin would be of any use. The three climbed up the long
staircase until they reached the fourth floor where Madame
Terentieff lived.
"You intend to introduce
the prince?" asked Colia, as they went up.
"Yes, my boy. I wish to
present him: General Ivolgin and Prince Muishkin! But what's
the matter?... what?... How is Marfa Borisovna?"
"You know, father, you
would have done much better not to come at all! She is ready
to eat you up! You have not shown yourself since the day
before yesterday and she is expecting the money. Why did you
promise her any? You are always the same! Well, now you will
have to get out of it as best you can."
They stopped before a
somewhat low doorway on the fourth floor. Ardalion
Alexandrovitch, evidently much out of countenance, pushed
Muishkin in front.
"I will wait here," he
stammered. "I should like to surprise her. ...."
Colia entered first, and as
the door stood open, the mistress of the house peeped out.
The surprise of the general's imagination fell very flat,
for she at once began to address him in terms of reproach.
Marfa Borisovna was about
forty years of age. She wore a dressing-jacket, her feet
were in slippers, her face painted, and her hair was in
dozens of small plaits. No sooner did she catch sight of
Ardalion Alexandrovitch than she screamed:
"There he is, that wicked,
mean wretch! I knew it was he! My heart misgave me!"
The old man tried to put a
good face on the affair.
"Come, let us go in—it's
all right," he whispered in the prince's ear.
But it was more serious
than he wished to think. As soon as the visitors had crossed
the low dark hall, and entered the narrow reception-room,
furnished with half a dozen cane chairs, and two small
card-tables, Madame Terentieff, in the shrill tones habitual
to her, continued her stream of invectives.
"Are you not ashamed? Are
you not ashamed? You barbarian! You tyrant! You have robbed
me of all I possessed—you have sucked my bones to the
marrow. How long shall I be your victim? Shameless,
dishonourable man!"
"Marfa Borisovna! Marfa
Borisovna! Here is... the Prince Muishkin! General Ivolgin
and Prince Muishkin," stammered the disconcerted old man.
"Would you believe," said
the mistress of the house, suddenly addressing the prince,
"would you believe that that man has not even spared my
orphan children? He has stolen everything I possessed, sold
everything, pawned everything; he has left me
nothing—nothing! What am I to do with your IOU's, you
cunning, unscrupulous rogue? Answer, devourer I answer,
heart of stone! How shall I feed my orphans? with what shall
I nourish them? And now he has come, he is drunk! He can
scarcely stand. How, oh how, have I offended the Almighty,
that He should bring this curse upon me! Answer, you
worthless villain, answer!"
But this was too much for
the general.
"Here are twenty-five
roubles, Marfa Borisovna... it is all that I can give... and
I owe even these to the prince's generosity—my noble friend.
I have been cruelly deceived. Such is... life... Now...
Excuse me, I am very weak," he continued, standing in the
centre of the room, and bowing to all sides. "I am faint;
excuse me! Lenotchka... a cushion... my dear!"
Lenotchka, a little girl of
eight, ran to fetch the cushion at once, and placed it on
the rickety old sofa. The general meant to have said much
more, but as soon as he had stretched himself out, he turned
his face to the wall, and slept the sleep of the just.
With a grave and
ceremonious air, Marfa Borisovna motioned the prince to a
chair at one of the card-tables. She seated herself
opposite, leaned her right cheek on her hand, and sat in
silence, her eyes fixed on Muishkin, now and again sighing
deeply. The three children, two little girls and a boy,
Lenotchka being the eldest, came and leant on the table and
also stared steadily at him. Presently Colia appeared from
the adjoining room.
"I am very glad indeed to
have met you here, Colia," said the prince. "Can you do
something for me? I must see Nastasia Philipovna, and I
asked Ardalion Alexandrovitch just now to take me to her
house, but he has gone to sleep, as you see. Will you show
me the way, for I do not know the street? I have the
address, though; it is close to the Grand Theatre."
"Nastasia Philipovna? She
does not live there, and to tell you the truth my father has
never been to her house! It is strange that you should have
depended on him! She lives near Wladimir Street, at the Five
Corners, and it is quite close by. Will you go directly? It
is just half-past nine. I will show you the way with
pleasure."
Colia and the prince went
off together. Alas! the latter had no money to pay for a
cab, so they were obliged to walk.
"I should have liked to
have taken you to see Hippolyte," said Colia. "He is the
eldest son of the lady you met just now, and was in the next
room. He is ill, and has been in bed all day. But he is
rather strange, and extremely sensitive, and I thought he
might be upset considering the circumstances in which you
came... Somehow it touches me less, as it concerns my
father, while it is HIS mother. That, of course, makes a
great difference. What is a terrible disgrace to a woman,
does not disgrace a man, at least not in the same way.
Perhaps public opinion is wrong in condemning one sex, and
excusing the other. Hippolyte is an extremely clever boy,
but so prejudiced. He is really a slave to his opinions."
"Do you say he is
consumptive?"
"Yes. It really would be
happier for him to die young. If I were in his place I
should certainly long for death. He is unhappy about his
brother and sisters, the children you saw. If it were
possible, if we only had a little money, we should leave our
respective families, and live together in a little apartment
of our own. It is our dream. But, do you know, when I was
talking over your affair with him, he was angry, and said
that anyone who did not call out a man who had given him a
blow was a coward. He is very irritable to-day, and I left
off arguing the matter with him. So Nastasia Philipovna has
invited you to go and see her?"
"To tell the truth, she has
not."
"Then how do you come to be
going there?" cried Colia, so much astonished that he
stopped short in the middle of the pavement. "And... and are
you going to her At Home in that costume?"
"I don't know, really,
whether I shall be allowed in at all. If she will receive
me, so much the better. If not, the matter is ended. As to
my clothes—what can I do?"
"Are you going there for
some particular reason, or only as a way of getting into her
society, and that of her friends?"
"No, I have really an
object in going... That is, I am going on business it is
difficult to explain, but..."
"Well, whether you go on
business or not is your affair, I do not want to know. The
only important thing, in my eyes, is that you should not be
going there simply for the pleasure of spending your evening
in such company—cocottes, generals, usurers! If that were
the case I should despise and laugh at you. There are
terribly few honest people here, and hardly any whom one can
respect, although people put on airs—Varia especially! Have
you noticed, prince, how many adventurers there are
nowadays? Especially here, in our dear Russia. How it has
happened I never can understand. There used to be a certain
amount of solidity in all things, but now what happens?
Everything is exposed to the public gaze, veils are thrown
back, every wound is probed by careless fingers. We are for
ever present at an orgy of scandalous revelations. Parents
blush when they remember their old-fashioned morality. At
Moscow lately a father was heard urging his son to stop at
nothing—at nothing, mind you!—to get money! The press seized
upon the story, of course, and now it is public property.
Look at my father, the general! See what he is, and yet, I
assure you, he is an honest man! Only... he drinks too much,
and his morals are not all we could desire. Yes, that's
true! I pity him, to tell the truth, but I dare not say so,
because everybody would laugh at me—but I do pity him! And
who are the really clever men, after all? Money-grubbers,
every one of them, from the first to the last. Hippolyte
finds excuses for money-lending, and says it is a necessity.
He talks about the economic movement, and the ebb and flow
of capital; the devil knows what he means. It makes me angry
to hear him talk so, but he is soured by his troubles. Just
imagine-the general keeps his mother-but she lends him
money! She lends it for a week or ten days at very high
interest! Isn't it disgusting? And then, you would hardly
believe it, but my mother—Nina Alexandrovna—helps Hippolyte
in all sorts of ways, sends him money and clothes. She even
goes as far as helping the children, through Hippolyte,
because their mother cares nothing about them, and Varia
does the same."
"Well, just now you said
there were no honest nor good people about, that there were
only money-grubbers—and here they are quite close at hand,
these honest and good people, your mother and Varia! I think
there is a good deal of moral strength in helping people in
such circumstances."
"Varia does it from pride,
and likes showing off, and giving herself airs. As to my
mother, I really do admire her—yes, and honour her.
Hippolyte, hardened as he is, feels it. He laughed at first,
and thought it vulgar of her—but now, he is sometimes quite
touched and overcome by her kindness. H'm! You call that
being strong and good? I will remember that! Gania knows
nothing about it. He would say that it was encouraging
vice."
"Ah, Gania knows nothing
about it? It seems there are many things that Gania does not
know," exclaimed the prince, as he considered Colia's last
words.
"Do you know, I like you
very much indeed, prince? I shall never forget about this
afternoon."
"I like you too, Colia."
"Listen to me! You are
going to live here, are you not?" said Colia. "I mean to get
something to do directly, and earn money. Then shall we
three live together? You, and I, and Hippolyte? We will hire
a flat, and let the general come and visit us. What do you
say?"
"It would be very
pleasant," returned the prince. "But we must see. I am
really rather worried just now. What! are we there already?
Is that the house? What a long flight of steps! And there's
a porter! Well, Colia I don't know what will come of it
all."
The prince seemed quite
distracted for the moment.
"You must tell me all about
it tomorrow! Don't be afraid. I wish you success; we agree
so entirely I that can do so, although I do not understand
why you are here. Good-bye!" cried Colia excitedly. "Now I
will rush back and tell Hippolyte all about our plans and
proposals! But as to your getting in—don't be in the least
afraid. You will see her. She is so original about
everything. It's the first floor. The porter will show you."
XIII.
THE prince was very nervous
as he reached the outer door; but he did his best to
encourage himself with the reflection that the worst thing
that could happen to him would be that he would not be
received, or, perhaps, received, then laughed at for coming.
But there was another
question, which terrified him considerably, and that was:
what was he going to do when he DID get in? And to this
question he could fashion no satisfactory reply.
If only he could find an
opportunity of coming close up to Nastasia Philipovna and
saying to her: "Don't ruin yourself by marrying this man. He
does not love you, he only loves your money. He told me so
himself, and so did Aglaya Ivanovna, and I have come on
purpose to warn you"—but even that did not seem quite a
legitimate or practicable thing to do. Then, again, there
was another delicate question, to which he could not find an
answer; dared not, in fact, think of it; but at the very
idea of which he trembled and blushed. However, in spite of
all his fears and heart-quakings he went in, and asked for
Nastasia Philipovna.
Nastasia occupied a
medium-sized, but distinctly tasteful, flat, beautifully
furnished and arranged. At one period of these five years of
Petersburg life, Totski had certainly not spared his
expenditure upon her. He had calculated upon her eventual
love, and tried to tempt her with a lavish outlay upon
comforts and luxuries, knowing too well how easily the heart
accustoms itself to comforts, and how difficult it is to
tear one's self away from luxuries which have become
habitual and, little by little, indispensable.
Nastasia did not reject all
this, she even loved her comforts and luxuries, but,
strangely enough, never became, in the least degree,
dependent upon them, and always gave the impression that she
could do just as well without them. In fact, she went so far
as to inform Totski on several occasions that such was the
case, which the latter gentleman considered a very
unpleasant communication indeed.
But, of late, Totski had
observed many strange and original features and
characteristics in Nastasia, which he had neither known nor
reckoned upon in former times, and some of these fascinated
him, even now, in spite of the fact that all his old
calculations with regard to her were long ago cast to the
winds.
A maid opened the door for
the prince (Nastasia's servants were all females) and, to
his surprise, received his request to announce him to her
mistress without any astonishment. Neither his dirty boots,
nor his wide-brimmed hat, nor his sleeveless cloak, nor his
evident confusion of manner, produced the least impression
upon her. She helped him off with his cloak, and begged him
to wait a moment in the ante-room while she announced him.
The company assembled at
Nastasia Philipovna's consisted of none but her most
intimate friends, and formed a very small party in
comparison with her usual gatherings on this anniversary.
In the first place there
were present Totski, and General Epanchin. They were both
highly amiable, but both appeared to be labouring under a
half-hidden feeling of anxiety as to the result of
Nastasia's deliberations with regard to Gania, which result
was to be made public this evening.
Then, of course, there was
Gania who was by no means so amiable as his elders, but
stood apart, gloomy, and miserable, and silent. He had
determined not to bring Varia with him; but Nastasia had not
even asked after her, though no sooner had he arrived than
she had reminded him of the episode between himself and the
prince. The general, who had heard nothing of it before,
began to listen with some interest, while Gania, drily, but
with perfect candour, went through the whole history,
including the fact of his apology to the prince. He finished
by declaring that the prince was a most extraordinary man,
and goodness knows why he had been considered an idiot
hitherto, for he was very far from being one.
Nastasia listened to all
this with great interest; but the conversation soon turned
to Rogojin and his visit, and this theme proved of the
greatest attraction to both Totski and the general.
Ptitsin was able to afford
some particulars as to Rogojin's conduct since the
afternoon. He declared that he had been busy finding money
for the latter ever since, and up to nine o'clock, Rogojin
having declared that he must absolutely have a hundred
thousand roubles by the evening. He added that Rogojin was
drunk, of course; but that he thought the money would be
forthcoming, for the excited and intoxicated rapture of the
fellow impelled him to give any interest or premium that was
asked of him, and there were several others engaged in
beating up the money, also.
All this news was received
by the company with somewhat gloomy interest. Nastasia was
silent, and would not say what she thought about it. Gania
was equally uncommunicative. The general seemed the most
anxious of all, and decidedly uneasy. The present of pearls
which he had prepared with so much joy in the morning had
been accepted but coldly, and Nastasia had smiled rather
disagreeably as she took it from him. Ferdishenko was the
only person present in good spirits.
Totski himself, who had the
reputation of being a capital talker, and was usually the
life and soul of these entertainments, was as silent as any
on this occasion, and sat in a state of, for him, most
uncommon perturbation.
The rest of the guests (an
old tutor or schoolmaster, goodness knows why invited; a
young man, very timid, and shy and silent; a rather loud
woman of about forty, apparently an actress; and a very
pretty, well-dressed German lady who hardly said a word all
the evening) not only had no gift for enlivening the
proceedings, but hardly knew what to say for themselves when
addressed. Under these circumstances the arrival of the
prince came almost as a godsend.
The announcement of his
name gave rise to some surprise and to some smiles,
especially when it became evident, from Nastasia's
astonished look, that she had not thought of inviting him.
But her astonishment once over, Nastasia showed such
satisfaction that all prepared to greet the prince with
cordial smiles of welcome.
"Of course," remarked
General Epanchin, "he does this out of pure innocence. It's
a little dangerous, perhaps, to encourage this sort of
freedom; but it is rather a good thing that he has arrived
just at this moment. He may enliven us a little with his
originalities."
"Especially as he asked
himself," said Ferdishenko.
"What's that got to do with
it?" asked the general, who loathed Ferdishenko.
"Why, he must pay toll for
his entrance," explained the latter.
"H'm! Prince Muishkin is
not Ferdishenko," said the general, impatiently. This worthy
gentleman could never quite reconcile himself to the idea of
meeting Ferdishenko in society, and on an equal footing.
"Oh general, spare
Ferdishenko!" replied the other, smiling. "I have special
privileges."
"What do you mean by
special privileges?"
"Once before I had the
honour of stating them to the company. I will repeat the
explanation to-day for your excellency's benefit. You see,
excellency, all the world is witty and clever except myself.
I am neither. As a kind of compensation I am allowed to tell
the truth, for it is a well-known fact that only stupid
people tell 'the truth. Added to this, I am a spiteful man,
just because I am not clever. If I am offended or injured I
bear it quite patiently until the man injuring me meets with
some misfortune. Then I remember, and take my revenge. I
return the injury sevenfold, as Ivan Petrovitch Ptitsin
says. (Of course he never does so himself.) Excellency, no
doubt you recollect Kryloff's fable, 'The Lion and the Ass'?
Well now, that's you and I. That fable was written precisely
for us."
"You seem to be talking
nonsense again, Ferdishenko," growled the general.
"What is the matter,
excellency? I know how to keep my place. When I said just
now that we, you and I, were the lion and the ass of
Kryloff's fable, of course it is understood that I take the
role of the ass. Your excellency is the lion of which the
fable remarks:
'A mighty lion, terror of
the woods, Was shorn of his great prowess by old age.'
And I, your excellency, am
the ass."
"I am of your opinion on
that last point," said Ivan Fedorovitch, with ill-concealed
irritation.
All this was no doubt
extremely coarse, and moreover it was premeditated, but
after all Ferdishenko had persuaded everyone to accept him
as a buffoon.
"If I am admitted and
tolerated here," he had said one day, "it is simply because
I talk in this way. How can anyone possibly receive such a
man as I am? I quite understand. Now, could I, a
Ferdishenko, be allowed to sit shoulder to shoulder with a
clever man like Afanasy Ivanovitch? There is one
explanation, only one. I am given the position because it is
so entirely inconceivable!"
But these vulgarities
seemed to please Nastasia Philipovna, although too often
they were both rude and offensive. Those who wished to go to
her house were forced to put up with Ferdishenko. Possibly
the latter was not mistaken in imagining that he was
received simply in order to annoy Totski, who disliked him
extremely. Gania also was often made the butt of the
jester's sarcasms, who used this method of keeping in
Nastasia Philipovna's good graces.
"The prince will begin by
singing us a fashionable ditty," remarked Ferdishenko, and
looked at the mistress of the house, to see what she would
say.
"I don't think so,
Ferdishenko; please be quiet," answered Nastasia Philipovna
dryly.
"A-ah! if he is to be under
special patronage, I withdraw my claws."
But Nastasia Philipovna had
now risen and advanced to meet the prince.
"I was so sorry to have
forgotten to ask you to come, when I saw you," she said,
"and I am delighted to be able to thank you personally now,
and to express my pleasure at your resolution."
So saying she gazed into
his eyes, longing to see whether she could make any guess as
to the explanation of his motive in coming to her house. The
prince would very likely have made some reply to her kind
words, but he was so dazzled by her appearance that he could
not speak.
Nastasia noticed this with
satisfaction. She was in full dress this evening; and her
appearance was certainly calculated to impress all
beholders. She took his hand and led him towards her other
guests. But just before they reached the drawing-room door,
the prince stopped her, and hurriedly and in great agitation
whispered to her:
"You are altogether
perfection; even your pallor and thinness are perfect; one
could not wish you otherwise. I did so wish to come and see
you. I—forgive me, please—"
"Don't apologize," said
Nastasia, laughing; "you spoil the whole originality of the
thing. I think what they say about you must be true, that
you are so original.—So you think me perfection, do you?"
"Yes."
"H'm! Well, you may be a
good reader of riddles but you are wrong THERE, at all
events. I'll remind you of this, tonight."
Nastasia introduced the
prince to her guests, to most of whom he was already known.
Totski immediately made
some amiable remark. Al seemed to brighten up at once, and
the conversation became general. Nastasia made the prince
sit down next to herself.
"Dear me, there's nothing
so very curious about the prince dropping in, after all,"
remarked Ferdishenko.
"It's quite a clear case,"
said the hitherto silent Gania. "I have watched the prince
almost all day, ever since the moment when he first saw
Nastasia Philipovna's portrait, at General Epanchin's. I
remember thinking at the time what I am now pretty sure of;
and what, I may say in passing, the prince confessed to
myself."
Gania said all this
perfectly seriously, and without the slightest appearance of
joking; indeed, he seemed strangely gloomy.
"I did not confess anything
to you," said the prince, blushing. "I only answered your
question."
"Bravo! That's frank, at
any rate!" shouted Ferdishenko, and there was general
laughter.
"Oh prince, prince! I never
should have thought it of you;" said General Epanchin. "And
I imagined you a philosopher! Oh, you silent fellows!"
"Judging from the fact that
the prince blushed at this innocent joke, like a young girl,
I should think that he must, as an honourable man, harbour
the noblest intentions," said the old toothless
schoolmaster, most unexpectedly; he had not so much as
opened his mouth before. This remark provoked general mirth,
and the old fellow himself laughed loudest of the lot, but
ended with a stupendous fit of coughing.
Nastasia Philipovna, who
loved originality and drollery of all kinds, was apparently
very fond of this old man, and rang the bell for more tea to
stop his coughing. It was now half-past ten o'clock.
"Gentlemen, wouldn't you
like a little champagne now?" she asked. "I have it all
ready; it will cheer us up—do now—no ceremony!"
This invitation to drink,
couched, as it was, in such informal terms, came very
strangely from Nastasia Philipovna. Her usual entertainments
were not quite like this; there was more style about them.
However, the wine was not refused; each guest took a glass
excepting Gania, who drank nothing.
It was extremely difficult
to account for Nastasia's strange condition of mind, which
became more evident each moment, and which none could avoid
noticing.
She took her glass, and
vowed she would empty it three times that evening. She was
hysterical, and laughed aloud every other minute with no
apparent reason—the next moment relapsing into gloom and
thoughtfulness.
Some of her guests
suspected that she must be ill; but concluded at last that
she was expecting something, for she continued to look at
her watch impatiently and unceasingly; she was most absent
and strange.
"You seem to be a little
feverish tonight," said the actress.
"Yes; I feel quite ill. I
have been obliged to put on this shawl—I feel so cold,"
replied Nastasia. She certainly had grown very pale, and
every now and then she tried to suppress a trembling in her
limbs.
"Had we not better allow
our hostess to retire?" asked Totski of the general.
"Not at all, gentlemen, not
at all! Your presence is absolutely necessary to me
tonight," said Nastasia, significantly.
As most of those present
were aware that this evening a certain very important
decision was to be taken, these words of Nastasia
Philipovna's appeared to be fraught with much hidden
interest. The general and Totski exchanged looks; Gania
fidgeted convulsively in his chair.
"Let's play at some game!"
suggested the actress.
"I know a new and most
delightful game, added Ferdishenko.
"What is it?" asked the
actress.
"Well, when we tried it we
were a party of people, like this, for instance; and
somebody proposed that each of us, without leaving his place
at the table, should relate something about himself. It had
to be something that he really and honestly considered the
very worst action he had ever committed in his life. But he
was to be honest—that was the chief point! He wasn't to be
allowed to lie."
"What an extraordinary
idea!" said the general.
"That's the beauty of it,
general!"
"It's a funny notion," said
Totski, "and yet quite natural—it's only a new way of
boasting."
"Perhaps that is just what
was so fascinating about it."
"Why, it would be a game to
cry over—not to laugh at!" said the actress.
"Did it succeed?" asked
Nastasia Philipovna. "Come, let's try it, let's try it; we
really are not quite so jolly as we might be—let's try it!
We may like it; it's original, at all events!"
"Yes," said Ferdishenko;
"it's a good idea—come along—the men begin. Of course no one
need tell a story if he prefers to be disobliging. We must
draw lots! Throw your slips of paper, gentlemen, into this
hat, and the prince shall draw for turns. It's a very simple
game; all you have to do is to tell the story of the worst
action of your life. It's as simple as anything. I'll prompt
anyone who forgets the rules!"
No one liked the idea much.
Some smiled, some frowned some objected, but faintly, not
wishing to oppose Nastasia's wishes; for this new idea
seemed to be rather well received by her. She was still in
an excited, hysterical state, laughing convulsively at
nothing and everything. Her eyes were blazing, and her
cheeks showed two bright red spots against the white. The
melancholy appearance of some of her guests seemed to add to
her sarcastic humour, and perhaps the very cynicism and
cruelty of the game proposed by Ferdishenko pleased her. At
all events she was attracted by the idea, and gradually her
guests came round to her side; the thing was original, at
least, and might turn out to be amusing. "And supposing it's
something that one—one can't speak about before ladies?"
asked the timid and silent young man.
"Why, then of course, you
won't say anything about it. As if there are not plenty of
sins to your score without the need of those!" said
Ferdishenko.
"But I really don't know
which of my actions is the worst," said the lively actress.
"Ladies are exempted if
they like."
"And how are you to know
that one isn't lying? And if one lies the whole point of the
game is lost," said Gania.
"Oh, but think how
delightful to hear how one's friends lie! Besides you
needn't be afraid, Gania; everybody knows what your worst
action is without the need of any lying on your part. Only
think, gentlemen,"—and Ferdishenko here grew quite
enthusiastic, "only think with what eyes we shall observe
one another tomorrow, after our tales have been told!"
"But surely this is a joke,
Nastasia Philipovna?" asked Totski. "You don't really mean
us to play this game."
"Whoever is afraid of
wolves had better not go into the wood," said Nastasia,
smiling.
"But, pardon me, Mr.
Ferdishenko, is it possible to make a game out of this kind
of thing?" persisted Totski, growing more and more uneasy.
"I assure you it can't be a success."
"And why not? Why, the last
time I simply told straight off about how I stole three
roubles."
"Perhaps so; but it is
hardly possible that you told it so that it seemed like
truth, or so that you were believed. And, as Gavrila
Ardalionovitch has said, the least suggestion of a falsehood
takes all point out of the game. It seems to me that
sincerity, on the other hand, is only possible if combined
with a kind of bad taste that would be utterly out of place
here."
"How subtle you are,
Afanasy Ivanovitch! You astonish me," cried Ferdishenko.
"You will remark, gentleman, that in saying that I could not
recount the story of my theft so as to be believed, Afanasy
Ivanovitch has very ingeniously implied that I am not
capable of thieving—(it would have been bad taste to say so
openly); and all the time he is probably firmly convinced,
in his own mind, that I am very well capable of it! But now,
gentlemen, to business! Put in your slips, ladies and
gentlemen—is yours in, Mr. Totski? So—then we are all ready;
now prince, draw, please." The prince silently put his hand
into the hat, and drew the names. Ferdishenko was first,
then Ptitsin, then the general, Totski next, his own fifth,
then Gania, and so on; the ladies did not draw.
"Oh, dear! oh, dear!" cried
Ferdishenko. "I did so hope the prince would come out first,
and then the general. Well, gentlemen, I suppose I must set
a good example! What vexes me much is that I am such an
insignificant creature that it matters nothing to anybody
whether I have done bad actions or not! Besides, which am I
to choose? It's an embarras de richesse. Shall I tell how I
became a thief on one occasion only, to convince Afanasy
Ivanovitch that it is possible to steal without being a
thief?"
"Do go on, Ferdishenko, and
don't make unnecessary preface, or you'll never finish,"
said Nastasia Philipovna. All observed how irritable and
cross she had become since her last burst of laughter; but
none the less obstinately did she stick to her absurd whim
about this new game. Totski sat looking miserable enough.
The general lingered over his champagne, and seemed to be
thinking of some story for the time when his turn should
come.
XIV.
"I have no wit, Nastasia
Philipovna," began Ferdishenko, "and therefore I talk too
much, perhaps. Were I as witty, now, as Mr. Totski or the
general, I should probably have sat silent all the evening,
as they have. Now, prince, what do you think?—are there not
far more thieves than honest men in this world? Don't you
think we may say there does not exist a single person so
honest that he has never stolen anything whatever in his
life?"
"What a silly idea," said
the actress. "Of course it is not the case. I have never
stolen anything, for one."
"H'm! very well, Daria
Alexeyevna; you have not stolen anything—agreed. But how
about the prince, now—look how he is blushing!"
"I think you are partially
right, but you exaggerate," said the prince, who had
certainly blushed up, of a sudden, for some reason or other.
"Ferdishenko—either tell us
your story, or be quiet, and mind your own business. You
exhaust all patience," cuttingly and irritably remarked
Nastasia Philipovna.
"Immediately, immediately!
As for my story, gentlemen, it is too stupid and absurd to
tell you.
"I assure you I am not a
thief, and yet I have stolen; I cannot explain why. It was
at Semeon Ivanovitch Ishenka's country house, one Sunday. He
had a dinner party. After dinner the men stayed at the table
over their wine. It struck me to ask the daughter of the
house to play something on the piano; so I passed through
the corner room to join the ladies. In that room, on Maria
Ivanovna's writing-table, I observed a three-rouble note.
She must have taken it out for some purpose, and left it
lying there. There was no one about. I took up the note and
put it in my pocket; why, I can't say. I don't know what
possessed me to do it, but it was done, and I went quickly
back to the dining-room and reseated myself at the
dinner-table. I sat and waited there in a great state of
excitement. I talked hard, and told lots of stories, and
laughed like mad; then I joined the ladies.
"In half an hour or so the
loss was discovered, and the servants were being put under
examination. Daria, the housemaid was suspected. I exhibited
the greatest interest and sympathy, and I remember that poor
Daria quite lost her head, and that I began assuring her,
before everyone, that I would guarantee her forgiveness on
the part of her mistress, if she would confess her guilt.
They all stared at the girl, and I remember a wonderful
attraction in the reflection that here was I sermonizing
away, with the money in my own pocket all the while. I went
and spent the three roubles that very evening at a
restaurant. I went in and asked for a bottle of Lafite, and
drank it up; I wanted to be rid of the money.
"I did not feel much
remorse either then or afterwards; but I would not repeat
the performance—believe it or not as you please.
There—that's all."
"Only, of course that's not
nearly your worst action," said the actress, with evident
dislike in her face.
"That was a psychological
phenomenon, not an action," remarked Totski.
"And what about the maid?"
asked Nastasia Philipovna, with undisguised contempt.
"Oh, she was turned out
next day, of course. It's a very strict household, there!"
"And you allowed it?"
"I should think so, rather!
I was not going to return and confess next day," laughed
Ferdishenko, who seemed a little surprised at the
disagreeable impression which his story had made on all
parties.
"How mean you were!" said
Nastasia.
"Bah! you wish to hear a
man tell of his worst actions, and you expect the story to
come out goody-goody! One's worst actions always are mean.
We shall see what the general has to say for himself now.
All is not gold that glitters, you know; and because a man
keeps his carriage he need not be specially virtuous, I
assure you, all sorts of people keep carriages. And by what
means?"
In a word, Ferdishenko was
very angry and rapidly forgetting himself; his whole face
was drawn with passion. Strange as it may appear, he had
expected much better success for his story. These little
errors of taste on Ferdishenko's part occurred very
frequently. Nastasia trembled with rage, and looked fixedly
at him, whereupon he relapsed into alarmed silence. He
realized that he had gone a little too far.
"Had we not better end this
game?" asked Totski.
"It's my turn, but I plead
exemption," said Ptitsin.
"You don't care to oblige
us?" asked Nastasia.
"I cannot, I assure you. I
confess I do not understand how anyone can play this game."
"Then, general, it's your
turn," continued Nastasia Philipovna, "and if you refuse,
the whole game will fall through, which will disappoint me
very much, for I was looking forward to relating a certain
'page of my own life.' I am only waiting for you and Afanasy
Ivanovitch to have your turns, for I require the support of
your example," she added, smiling.
"Oh, if you put it in that
way," cried the general, excitedly, "I'm ready to tell the
whole story of my life, but I must confess that I prepared a
little story in anticipation of my turn."
Nastasia smiled amiably at
him; but evidently her depression and irritability were
increasing with every moment. Totski was dreadfully alarmed
to hear her promise a revelation out of her own life.
"I, like everyone else,"
began the general, "have committed certain not altogether
graceful actions, so to speak, during the course of my life.
But the strangest thing of all in my case is, that I should
consider the little anecdote which I am now about to give
you as a confession of the worst of my 'bad actions.' It is
thirty-five years since it all happened, and yet I cannot to
this very day recall the circumstances without, as it were,
a sudden pang at the heart.
"It was a silly affair—I
was an ensign at the time. You know ensigns—their blood is
boiling water, their circumstances generally penurious.
Well, I had a servant Nikifor who used to do everything for
me in my quarters, economized and managed for me, and even
laid hands on anything he could find (belonging to other
people), in order to augment our household goods; but a
faithful, honest fellow all the same.
"I was strict, but just by
nature. At that time we were stationed in a small town. I
was quartered at an old widow's house, a lieutenant's widow
of eighty years of age. She lived in a wretched little
wooden house, and had not even a servant, so poor was she.
"Her relations had all died
off—her husband was dead and buried forty years since; and a
niece, who had lived with her and bullied her up to three
years ago, was dead too; so that she was quite alone.
"Well, I was precious dull
with her, especially as she was so childish that there was
nothing to be got out of her. Eventually, she stole a fowl
of mine; the business is a mystery to this day; but it could
have been no one but herself. I requested to be quartered
somewhere else, and was shifted to the other end of the
town, to the house of a merchant with a large family, and a
long beard, as I remember him. Nikifor and I were delighted
to go; but the old lady was not pleased at our departure.
"Well, a day or two
afterwards, when I returned from drill, Nikifor says to me:
'We oughtn't to have left our tureen with the old lady, I've
nothing to serve the soup in.'
"I asked how it came about
that the tureen had been left. Nikifor explained that the
old lady refused to give it up, because, she said, we had
broken her bowl, and she must have our tureen in place of
it; she had declared that I had so arranged the matter with
herself.
"This baseness on her part
of course aroused my young blood to fever heat; I jumped up,
and away I flew.
"I arrived at the old
woman's house beside myself. She was sitting in a corner all
alone, leaning her face on her hand. I fell on her like a
clap of thunder. 'You old wretch!' I yelled and all that
sort of thing, in real Russian style. Well, when I began
cursing at her, a strange thing happened. I looked at her,
and she stared back with her eyes starting out of her head,
but she did not say a word. She seemed to sway about as she
sat, and looked and looked at me in the strangest way. Well,
I soon stopped swearing and looked closer at her, asked her
questions, but not a word could I get out of her. The flies
were buzzing about the room and only this sound broke the
silence; the sun was setting outside; I didn't know what to
make of it, so I went away.
"Before I reached home I
was met and summoned to the major's, so that it was some
while before I actually got there. When I came in, Nikifor
met me. 'Have you heard, sir, that our old lady is dead?'
'DEAD, when?' 'Oh, an hour and a half ago.' That meant
nothing more nor less than that she was dying at the moment
when I pounced on her and began abusing her.
"This produced a great
effect upon me. I used to dream of the poor old woman at
nights. I really am not superstitious, but two days after, I
went to her funeral, and as time went on I thought more and
more about her. I said to myself, 'This woman, this human
being, lived to a great age. She had children, a husband and
family, friends and relations; her household was busy and
cheerful; she was surrounded by smiling faces; and then
suddenly they are gone, and she is left alone like a
solitary fly... like a fly, cursed with the burden of her
age. At last, God calls her to Himself. At sunset, on a
lovely summer's evening, my little old woman passes away—a
thought, you will notice, which offers much food for
reflection—and behold! instead of tears and prayers to start
her on her last journey, she has insults and jeers from a
young ensign, who stands before her with his hands in his
pockets, making a terrible row about a soup tureen!' Of
course I was to blame, and even now that I have time to look
back at it calmly, I pity the poor old thing no less. I
repeat that I wonder at myself, for after all I was not
really responsible. Why did she take it into her head to die
at that moment? But the more I thought of it, the more I
felt the weight of it upon my mind; and I never got quite
rid of the impression until I put a couple of old women into
an almshouse and kept them there at my own expense. There,
that's all. I repeat I dare say I have committed many a
grievous sin in my day; but I cannot help always looking
back upon this as the worst action I have ever perpetrated."
"H'm! and instead of a bad
action, your excellency has detailed one of your noblest
deeds," said Ferdishenko. "Ferdishenko is 'done.'"
"Dear me, general," said
Nastasia Philipovna, absently, "I really never imagined you
had such a good heart."
The general laughed with
great satisfaction, and applied himself once more to the
champagne.
It was now Totski's turn,
and his story was awaited with great curiosity—while all
eyes turned on Nastasia Philipovna, as though anticipating
that his revelation must be connected somehow with her.
Nastasia, during the whole of his story, pulled at the lace
trimming of her sleeve, and never once glanced at the
speaker. Totski was a handsome man, rather stout, with a
very polite and dignified manner. He was always well
dressed, and his linen was exquisite. He had plump white
hands, and wore a magnificent diamond ring on one finger.
"What simplifies the duty
before me considerably, in my opinion," he began, "is that I
am bound to recall and relate the very worst action of my
life. In such circumstances there can, of course, be no
doubt. One's conscience very soon informs one what is the
proper narrative to tell. I admit, that among the many silly
and thoughtless actions of my life, the memory of one comes
prominently forward and reminds me that it lay long like a
stone on my heart. Some twenty years since, I paid a visit
to Platon Ordintzeff at his country-house. He had just been
elected marshal of the nobility, and had come there with his
young wife for the winter holidays. Anfisa Alexeyevna's
birthday came off just then, too, and there were two balls
arranged. At that time Dumas-fils' beautiful work, La Dame
aux Camelias—a novel which I consider imperishable—had just
come into fashion. In the provinces all the ladies were in
raptures over it, those who had read it, at least. Camellias
were all the fashion. Everyone inquired for them, everybody
wanted them; and a grand lot of camellias are to be got in a
country town—as you all know—and two balls to provide for!
"Poor Peter Volhofskoi was
desperately in love with Anfisa Alexeyevna. I don't know
whether there was anything—I mean I don't know whether he
could possibly have indulged in any hope. The poor fellow
was beside himself to get her a bouquet of camellias.
Countess Sotski and Sophia Bespalova, as everyone knew, were
coming with white camellia bouquets. Anfisa wished for red
ones, for effect. Well, her husband Platon was driven
desperate to find some. And the day before the ball,
Anfisa's rival snapped up the only red camellias to be had
in the place, from under Platon's nose, and Platon—wretched
man—was done for. Now if Peter had only been able to step in
at this moment with a red bouquet, his little hopes might
have made gigantic strides. A woman's gratitude under such
circumstances would have been boundless—but it was
practically an impossibility.
"The night before the ball
I met Peter, looking radiant. 'What is it?' I ask. 'I've
found them, Eureka!" 'No! where, where?' 'At Ekshaisk (a
little town fifteen miles off) there's a rich old merchant,
who keeps a lot of canaries, has no children, and he and his
wife are devoted to flowers. He's got some camellias.' 'And
what if he won't let you have them?' 'I'll go on my knees
and implore till I get them. I won't go away.' 'When shall
you start?' 'Tomorrow morning at five o'clock.' 'Go on,' I
said, 'and good luck to you.'
"I was glad for the poor
fellow, and went home. But an idea got hold of me somehow. I
don't know how. It was nearly two in the morning. I rang the
bell and ordered the coachman to be waked up and sent to me.
He came. I gave him a tip of fifteen roubles, and told him
to get the carriage ready at once. In half an hour it was at
the door. I got in and off we went.
"By five I drew up at the
Ekshaisky inn. I waited there till dawn, and soon after six
I was off, and at the old merchant Trepalaf's.
"'Camellias!' I said,
'father, save me, save me, let me have some camellias!' He
was a tall, grey old man—a terrible-looking old gentleman.
'Not a bit of it,' he says. 'I won't.' Down I went on my
knees. 'Don't say so, don't—think what you're doing!' I
cried; 'it's a matter of life and death!' 'If that's the
case, take them,' says he. So up I get, and cut such a
bouquet of red camellias! He had a whole greenhouse full of
them—lovely ones. The old fellow sighs. I pull out a hundred
roubles. 'No, no!' says he, 'don't insult me that way.' 'Oh,
if that's the case, give it to the village hospital,' I say.
'Ah,' he says, 'that's quite a different matter; that's good
of you and generous. I'll pay it in there for you with
pleasure.' I liked that old fellow, Russian to the core, de
la vraie souche. I went home in raptures, but took another
road in order to avoid Peter. Immediately on arriving I sent
up the bouquet for Anfisa to see when she awoke.
"You may imagine her
ecstasy, her gratitude. The wretched Platon, who had almost
died since yesterday of the reproaches showered upon him,
wept on my shoulder. Of course poor Peter had no chance
after this.
"I thought he would cut my
throat at first, and went about armed ready to meet him. But
he took it differently; he fainted, and had brain fever and
convulsions. A month after, when he had hardly recovered, he
went off to the Crimea, and there he was shot.
"I assure you this business
left me no peace for many a long year. Why did I do it? I
was not in love with her myself; I'm afraid it was simply
mischief—pure 'cussedness' on my part.
"If I hadn't seized that
bouquet from under his nose he might have been alive now,
and a happy man. He might have been successful in life, and
never have gone to fight the Turks."
Totski ended his tale with
the same dignity that had characterized its commencement.
Nastasia Philipovna's eyes
were flashing in a most unmistakable way, now; and her lips
were all a-quiver by the time Totski finished his story.
All present watched both of
them with curiosity.
"You were right, Totski,"
said Nastasia, "it is a dull game and a stupid one. I'll
just tell my story, as I promised, and then we'll play
cards."
"Yes, but let's have the
story first!" cried the general.
"Prince," said Nastasia
Philipovna, unexpectedly turning to Muishkin, "here are my
old friends, Totski and General Epanchin, who wish to marry
me off. Tell me what you think. Shall I marry or not? As you
decide, so shall it be."
Totski grew white as a
sheet. The general was struck dumb. All present started and
listened intently. Gania sat rooted to his chair.
"Marry whom?" asked the
prince, faintly.
"Gavrila Ardalionovitch
Ivolgin," said Nastasia, firmly and evenly.
There were a few seconds of
dead silence.
The prince tried to speak,
but could not form his words; a great weight seemed to lie
upon his breast and suffocate him.
"N-no! don't marry him!" he
whispered at last, drawing his breath with an effort.
"So be it, then. Gavrila
Ardalionovitch," she spoke solemnly and forcibly, "you hear
the prince's decision? Take it as my decision; and let that
be the end of the matter for good and all."
"Nastasia Philipovna!"
cried Totski, in a quaking voice.
"Nastasia Philipovna!" said
the general, in persuasive but agitated tones.
Everyone in the room
fidgeted in their places, and waited to see what was coming
next.
"Well, gentlemen!" she
continued, gazing around in apparent astonishment; "what do
you all look so alarmed about? Why are you so upset?"
"But—recollect, Nastasia
Philipovna." stammered Totski, "you gave a promise, quite a
free one, and—and you might have spared us this. I am
confused and bewildered, I know; but, in a word, at such a
moment, and before company, and all so-so-irregular,
finishing off a game with a serious matter like this, a
matter of honour, and of heart, and—"
"I don't follow you,
Afanasy Ivanovitch; you are losing your head. In the first
place, what do you mean by 'before company'? Isn't the
company good enough for you? And what's all that about 'a
game'? I wished to tell my little story, and I told it!
Don't you like it? You heard what I said to the prince? 'As
you decide, so it shall be!' If he had said 'yes,' I should
have given my consent! But he said 'no,' so I refused. Here
was my whole life hanging on his one word! Surely I was
serious enough?"
"The prince! What on earth
has the prince got to do with it? Who the deuce is the
prince?" cried the general, who could conceal his wrath no
longer.
"The prince has this to do
with it—that I see in him for the first time in all my life,
a man endowed with real truthfulness of spirit, and I trust
him. He trusted me at first sight, and I trust him!"
"It only remains for me,
then, to thank Nastasia Philipovna for the great delicacy
with which she has treated me," said Gania, as pale as
death, and with quivering lips. "That is my plain duty, of
course; but the prince—what has he to do in the matter?"
"I see what you are driving
at," said Nastasia Philipovna. "You imply that the prince is
after the seventy-five thousand roubles—I quite understand
you. Mr. Totski, I forgot to say, 'Take your seventy-five
thousand roubles'—I don't want them. I let you go free for
nothing take your freedom! You must need it. Nine years and
three months' captivity is enough for anybody. Tomorrow I
shall start afresh—today I am a free agent for the first
time in my life.
"General, you must take
your pearls back, too—give them to your wife—here they are!
Tomorrow I shall leave this flat altogether, and then
there'll be no more of these pleasant little social
gatherings, ladies and gentlemen."
So saying, she scornfully
rose from her seat as though to depart.
"Nastasia Philipovna!
Nastasia Philipovna!"
The words burst
involuntarily from every mouth. All present started up in
bewildered excitement; all surrounded her; all had listened
uneasily to her wild, disconnected sentences. All felt that
something had happened, something had gone very far wrong
indeed, but no one could make head or tail of the matter.
At this moment there was a
furious ring at the bell, and a great knock at the
door—exactly similar to the one which had startled the
company at Gania's house in the afternoon.
"Ah, ah! here's the climax
at last, at half-past twelve!" cried Nastasia Philipovna.
"Sit down, gentlemen, I beg you. Something is about to
happen."
So saying, she reseated
herself; a strange smile played on her lips. She sat quite
still, but watched the door in a fever of impatience.
"Rogojin and his hundred
thousand roubles, no doubt of it," muttered Ptitsin to
himself.
XV.
Katia, the maid-servant,
made her appearance, terribly frightened.
"Goodness knows what it
means, ma'am," she said. "There is a whole collection of men
come—all tipsy—and want to see you. They say that 'it's
Rogojin, and she knows all about it.'"
"It's all right, Katia, let
them all in at once."
"Surely not ALL, ma'am?
They seem so disorderly—it's dreadful to see them."
"Yes ALL, Katia, all—every
one of them. Let them in, or they'll come in whether you
like or no. Listen! what a noise they are making! Perhaps
you are offended, gentlemen, that I should receive such
guests in your presence? I am very sorry, and ask your
forgiveness, but it cannot be helped—and I should be very
grateful if you could all stay and witness this climax.
However, just as you please, of course."
The guests exchanged
glances; they were annoyed and bewildered by the episode;
but it was clear enough that all this had been pre-arranged
and expected by Nastasia Philipovna, and that there was no
use in trying to stop her now—for she was little short of
insane.
Besides, they were
naturally inquisitive to see what was to happen. There was
nobody who would be likely to feel much alarm. There were
but two ladies present; one of whom was the lively actress,
who was not easily frightened, and the other the silent
German beauty who, it turned out, did not understand a word
of Russian, and seemed to be as stupid as she was lovely.
Her acquaintances invited
her to their "At Homes" because she was so decorative. She
was exhibited to their guests like a valuable picture, or
vase, or statue, or firescreen. As for the men, Ptitsin was
one of Rogojin's friends; Ferdishenko was as much at home as
a fish in the sea, Gania, not yet recovered from his
amazement, appeared to be chained to a pillory. The old
professor did not in the least understand what was
happening; but when he noticed how extremely agitated the
mistress of the house, and her friends, seemed, he nearly
wept, and trembled with fright: but he would rather have
died than leave Nastasia Philipovna at such a crisis, for he
loved her as if she were his own granddaughter. Afanasy
Ivanovitch greatly disliked having anything to do with the
affair, but he was too much interested to leave, in spite of
the mad turn things had taken; and a few words that had
dropped from the lips of Nastasia puzzled him so much, that
he felt he could not go without an explanation. He resolved
therefore, to see it out, and to adopt the attitude of
silent spectator, as most suited to his dignity. Genera
Epanchin alone determined to depart. He was annoyed at the
manner in which his gift had been returned, an though he had
condescended, under the influence of passion, to place
himself on a level with Ptitsin and Ferdishenko, his
self-respect and sense of duty now returned together with a
consciousness of what was due to his social rank and
official importance. In short, he plainly showed his
conviction that a man in his position could have nothing to
do with Rogojin and his companions. But Nastasia interrupted
him at his first words.
"Ah, general!" she cried,
"I was forgetting! If I had only foreseen this
unpleasantness! I won't insist on keeping you against your
will, although I should have liked you to be beside me now.
In any case, I am most grateful to you for your visit, and
flattering attention... but if you are afraid..."
"Excuse me, Nastasia
Philipovna," interrupted the general, with chivalric
generosity. "To whom are you speaking? I have remained until
now simply because of my devotion to you, and as for danger,
I am only afraid that the carpets may be ruined, and the
furniture smashed!... You should shut the door on the lot,
in my opinion. But I confess that I am extremely curious to
see how it ends."
"Rogojin!" announced
Ferdishenko.
"What do you think about
it?" said the general in a low voice to Totski. "Is she mad?
I mean mad in the medical sense of the word .... eh?"
"I've always said she was
predisposed to it," whispered Afanasy Ivanovitch slyly.
"Perhaps it is a fever!"
Since their visit to
Gania's home, Rogojin's followers had been increased by two
new recruits—a dissolute old man, the hero of some ancient
scandal, and a retired sub-lieutenant. A laughable story was
told of the former. He possessed, it was said, a set of
false teeth, and one day when he wanted money for a drinking
orgy, he pawned them, and was never able to reclaim them!
The officer appeared to be a rival of the gentleman who was
so proud of his fists. He was known to none of Rogojin's
followers, but as they passed by the Nevsky, where he stood
begging, he had joined their ranks. His claim for the
charity he desired seemed based on the fact that in the days
of his prosperity he had given away as much as fifteen
roubles at a time. The rivals seemed more than a little
jealous of one another. The athlete appeared injured at the
admission of the "beggar" into the company. By nature
taciturn, he now merely growled occasionally like a bear,
and glared contemptuously upon the "beggar," who, being
somewhat of a man of the world, and a diplomatist, tried to
insinuate himself into the bear's good graces. He was a much
smaller man than the athlete, and doubtless was conscious
that he must tread warily. Gently and without argument he
alluded to the advantages of the English style in boxing,
and showed himself a firm believer in Western institutions.
The athlete's lips curled disdainfully, and without
honouring his adversary with a formal denial, he exhibited,
as if by accident, that peculiarly Russian object—an
enormous fist, clenched, muscular, and covered with red
hairs! The sight of this pre-eminently national attribute
was enough to convince anybody, without words, that it was a
serious matter for those who should happen to come into
contact with it.
None of the band were very
drunk, for the leader had kept his intended visit to
Nastasia in view all day, and had done his best to prevent
his followers from drinking too much. He was sober himself,
but the excitement of this chaotic day—the strangest day of
his life—had affected him so that he was in a dazed, wild
condition, which almost resembled drunkenness.
He had kept but one idea
before him all day, and for that he had worked in an agony
of anxiety and a fever of suspense. His lieutenants had
worked so hard from five o'clock until eleven, that they
actually had collected a hundred thousand roubles for him,
but at such terrific expense, that the rate of interest was
only mentioned among them in whispers and with bated breath.
As before, Rogojin walked
in advance of his troop, who followed him with mingled
self-assertion and timidity. They were specially frightened
of Nastasia Philipovna herself, for some reason.
Many of them expected to be
thrown downstairs at once, without further ceremony, the
elegant and irresistible Zaleshoff among them. But the party
led by the athlete, without openly showing their hostile
intentions, silently nursed contempt and even hatred for
Nastasia Philipovna, and marched into her house as they
would have marched into an enemy's fortress. Arrived there,
the luxury of the rooms seemed to inspire them with a kind
of respect, not unmixed with alarm. So many things were
entirely new to their experience—the choice furniture, the
pictures, the great statue of Venus. They followed their
chief into the salon, however, with a kind of impudent
curiosity. There, the sight of General Epanchin among the
guests, caused many of them to beat a hasty retreat into the
adjoining room, the "boxer" and "beggar" being among the
first to go. A few only, of whom Lebedeff made one, stood
their ground; he had contrived to walk side by side with
Rogojin, for he quite understood the importance of a man who
had a fortune of a million odd roubles, and who at this
moment carried a hundred thousand in his hand. It may be
added that the whole company, not excepting Lebedeff, had
the vaguest idea of the extent of their powers, and of how
far they could safely go. At some moments Lebedeff was sure
that right was on their side; at others he tried uneasily to
remember various cheering and reassuring articles of the
Civil Code.
Rogojin, when he stepped
into the room, and his eyes fell upon Nastasia, stopped
short, grew white as a sheet, and stood staring; it was
clear that his heart was beating painfully. So he stood,
gazing intently, but timidly, for a few seconds. Suddenly,
as though bereft of his senses, he moved forward, staggering
helplessly, towards the table. On his way he collided
against Ptitsin's chair, and put his dirty foot on the lace
skirt of the silent lady's dress; but he neither apologized
for this, nor even noticed it.
On reaching the table, he
placed upon it a strange-looking object, which he had
carried with him into the drawing-room. This was a paper
packet, some six or seven inches thick, and eight or nine in
length, wrapped in an old newspaper, and tied round three or
four times with string.
Having placed this before
her, he stood with drooped arms and head, as though awaiting
his sentence.
His costume was the same as
it had been in the morning, except for a new silk
handkerchief round his neck, bright green and red, fastened
with a huge diamond pin, and an enormous diamond ring on his
dirty forefinger.
Lebedeff stood two or three
paces behind his chief; and the rest of the band waited
about near the door.
The two maid-servants were
both peeping in, frightened and amazed at this unusual and
disorderly scene.
"What is that?" asked
Nastasia Philipovna, gazing intently at Rogojin, and
indicating the paper packet.
"A hundred thousand,"
replied the latter, almost in a whisper.
"Oh! so he kept his
word—there's a man for you! Well, sit down, please—take that
chair. I shall have something to say to you presently. Who
are all these with you? The same party? Let them come in and
sit down. There's room on that sofa, there are some chairs
and there's another sofa! Well, why don't they sit down?"
Sure enough, some of the
brave fellows entirely lost their heads at this point, and
retreated into the next room. Others, however, took the hint
and sat down, as far as they could from the table, however;
feeling braver in proportion to their distance from
Nastasia.
Rogojin took the chair
offered him, but he did not sit long; he soon stood up
again, and did not reseat himself. Little by little he began
to look around him and discern the other guests. Seeing
Gania, he smiled venomously and muttered to himself, "Look
at that!"
He gazed at Totski and the
general with no apparent confusion, and with very little
curiosity. But when he observed that the prince was seated
beside Nastasia Philipovna, he could not take his eyes off
him for a long while, and was clearly amazed. He could not
account for the prince's presence there. It was not in the
least surprising that Rogojin should be, at this time, in a
more or less delirious condition; for not to speak of the
excitements of the day, he had spent the night before in the
train, and had not slept more than a wink for forty-eight
hours.
"This, gentlemen, is a
hundred thousand roubles," said Nastasia Philipovna,
addressing the company in general, "here, in this dirty
parcel. This afternoon Rogojin yelled, like a madman, that
he would bring me a hundred thousand in the evening, and I
have been waiting for him all the while. He was bargaining
for me, you know; first he offered me eighteen thousand;
then he rose to forty, and then to a hundred thousand. And
he has kept his word, see! My goodness, how white he is! All
this happened this afternoon, at Gania's. I had gone to pay
his mother a visit—my future family, you know! And his
sister said to my very face, surely somebody will turn this
shameless creature out. After which she spat in her brother
Gania's face—a girl of character, that!"
"Nastasia Philipovna!"
began the general, reproachfully. He was beginning to put
his own interpretation on the affair.
"Well, what, general? Not
quite good form, eh? Oh, nonsense! Here have I been sitting
in my box at the French theatre for the last five years like
a statue of inaccessible virtue, and kept out of the way of
all admirers, like a silly little idiot! Now, there's this
man, who comes and pays down his hundred thousand on the
table, before you all, in spite of my five years of
innocence and proud virtue, and I dare be sworn he has his
sledge outside waiting to carry me off. He values me at a
hundred thousand! I see you are still angry with me, Gania!
Why, surely you never really wished to take ME into your
family? ME, Rogojin's mistress! What did the prince say just
now?"
"I never said you were
Rogojin's mistress—you are NOT!" said the prince, in
trembling accents.
"Nastasia Philipovna, dear
soul!" cried the actress, impatiently, "do be calm, dear! If
it annoys you so—all this—do go away and rest! Of course you
would never go with this wretched fellow, in spite of his
hundred thousand roubles! Take his money and kick him out of
the house; that's the way to treat him and the likes of him!
Upon my word, if it were my business, I'd soon clear them
all out!"
The actress was a
kind-hearted woman, and highly impressionable. She was very
angry now.
"Don't be cross, Daria
Alexeyevna!" laughed Nastasia. "I was not angry when I
spoke; I wasn't reproaching Gania. I don't know how it was
that I ever could have indulged the whim of entering an
honest family like his. I saw his mother—and kissed her
hand, too. I came and stirred up all that fuss, Gania, this
afternoon, on purpose to see how much you could swallow—you
surprised me, my friend—you did, indeed. Surely you could
not marry a woman who accepts pearls like those you knew the
general was going to give me, on the very eve of her
marriage? And Rogojin! Why, in your own house and before
your own brother and sister, he bargained with me! Yet you
could come here and expect to be betrothed to me before you
left the house! You almost brought your sister, too. Surely
what Rogojin said about you is not really true: that you
would crawl all the way to the other end of the town, on
hands and knees, for three roubles?"
"Yes, he would!" said
Rogojin, quietly, but with an air of absolute conviction.
"H'm! and he receives a
good salary, I'm told. Well, what should you get but
disgrace and misery if you took a wife you hated into your
family (for I know very well that you do hate me)? No, no! I
believe now that a man like you would murder anyone for
money—sharpen a razor and come up behind his best friend and
cut his throat like a sheep—I've read of such people.
Everyone seems money-mad nowadays. No, no! I may be
shameless, but you are far worse. I don't say a word about
that other—"
"Nastasia Philipovna, is
this really you? You, once so refined and delicate of
speech. Oh, what a tongue! What dreadful things you are
saying," cried the general, wringing his hands in real
grief.
"I am intoxicated, general.
I am having a day out, you know—it's my birthday! I have
long looked forward to this happy occasion. Daria
Alexeyevna, you see that nosegay-man, that Monsieur aux
Camelias, sitting there laughing at us?"
"I am not laughing,
Nastasia Philipovna; I am only listening with all my
attention," said Totski, with dignity.
"Well, why have I worried
him, for five years, and never let him go free? Is he worth
it? He is only just what he ought to be—nothing particular.
He thinks I am to blame, too. He gave me my education, kept
me like a countess. Money—my word! What a lot of money he
spent over me! And he tried to find me an honest husband
first, and then this Gania, here. And what do you think? All
these five years I did not live with him, and yet I took his
money, and considered I was quite justified.
"You say, take the hundred
thousand and kick that man out. It is true, it is an
abominable business, as you say. I might have married long
ago, not Gania—Oh, no!—but that would have been abominable
too.
"Would you believe it, I
had some thoughts of marrying Totski, four years ago! I
meant mischief, I confess—but I could have had him, I give
you my word; he asked me himself. But I thought, no! it's
not worthwhile to take such advantage of him. No! I had
better go on to the streets, or accept Rogojin, or become a
washerwoman or something—for I have nothing of my own, you
know. I shall go away and leave everything behind, to the
last rag—he shall have it all back. And who would take me
without anything? Ask Gania, there, whether he would. Why,
even Ferdishenko wouldn't have me!"
"No, Ferdishenko would not;
he is a candid fellow, Nastasia Philipovna," said that
worthy. "But the prince would. You sit here making
complaints, but just look at the prince. I've been observing
him for a long while."
Nastasia Philipovna looked
keenly round at the prince.
"Is that true?" she asked.
"Quite true," whispered the
prince.
"You'll take me as I am,
with nothing?"
"I will, Nastasia
Philipovna."
"Here's a pretty business!"
cried the general. "However, it might have been expected of
him."
The prince continued to
regard Nastasia with a sorrowful, but intent and piercing,
gaze.
"Here's another alternative
for me," said Nastasia, turning once more to the actress;
"and he does it out of pure kindness of heart. I know him.
I've found a benefactor. Perhaps, though, what they say
about him may be true—that he's an—we know what. And what
shall you live on, if you are really so madly in love with
Rogojin's mistress, that you are ready to marry her—eh?"
"I take you as a good,
honest woman, Nastasia Philipovna—not as Rogojin's
mistress."
"Who? I?—good and honest?"
"Yes, you."
"Oh, you get those ideas
out of novels, you know. Times are changed now, dear prince;
the world sees things as they really are. That's all
nonsense. Besides, how can you marry? You need a nurse, not
a wife."
The prince rose and began
to speak in a trembling, timid tone, but with the air of a
man absolutely sure of the truth of his words.
"I know nothing, Nastasia
Philipovna. I have seen nothing. You are right so far; but I
consider that you would be honouring me, and not I you. I am
a nobody. You have suffered, you have passed through hell
and emerged pure, and that is very much. Why do you shame
yourself by desiring to go with Rogojin? You are delirious.
You have returned to Mr. Totski his seventy-five thousand
roubles, and declared that you will leave this house and all
that is in it, which is a line of conduct that not one
person here would imitate. Nastasia Philipovna, I love you!
I would die for you. I shall never let any man say one word
against you, Nastasia Philipovna! and if we are poor, I can
work for both."
As the prince spoke these
last words a titter was heard from Ferdishenko; Lebedeff
laughed too. The general grunted with irritation; Ptitsin
and Totski barely restrained their smiles. The rest all sat
listening, open-mouthed with wonder.
"But perhaps we shall not
be poor; we may be very rich, Nastasia Philipovna."
continued the prince, in the same timid, quivering tones. "I
don't know for certain, and I'm sorry to say I haven't had
an opportunity of finding out all day; but I received a
letter from Moscow, while I was in Switzerland, from a Mr.
Salaskin, and he acquaints me with the fact that I am
entitled to a very large inheritance. This letter—"
The prince pulled a letter
out of his pocket.
"Is he raving?" said the
general. "Are we really in a mad-house?"
There was silence for a
moment. Then Ptitsin spoke.
"I think you said, prince,
that your letter was from Salaskin? Salaskin is a very
eminent man, indeed, in his own world; he is a wonderfully
clever solicitor, and if he really tells you this, I think
you may be pretty sure that he is right. It so happens,
luckily, that I know his handwriting, for I have lately had
business with him. If you would allow me to see it, I should
perhaps be able to tell you."
The prince held out the
letter silently, but with a shaking hand.
"What, what?" said the
general, much agitated.
"What's all this? Is he
really heir to anything?"
All present concentrated
their attention upon Ptitsin, reading the prince's letter.
The general curiosity had received a new fillip. Ferdishenko
could not sit still. Rogojin fixed his eyes first on the
prince, and then on Ptitsin, and then back again; he was
extremely agitated. Lebedeff could not stand it. He crept up
and read over Ptitsin's shoulder, with the air of a naughty
boy who expects a box on the ear every moment for his
indiscretion.
XVI.
"It's good business," said
Ptitsin, at last, folding the letter and handing it back to
the prince. "You will receive, without the slightest
trouble, by the last will and testament of your aunt, a very
large sum of money indeed."
"Impossible!" cried the
general, starting up as if he had been shot.
Ptitsin explained, for the
benefit of the company, that the prince's aunt had died five
months since. He had never known her, but she was his
mother's own sister, the daughter of a Moscow merchant, one
Paparchin, who had died a bankrupt. But the elder brother of
this same Paparchin, had been an eminent and very rich
merchant. A year since it had so happened that his only two
sons had both died within the same month. This sad event had
so affected the old man that he, too, had died very shortly
after. He was a widower, and had no relations left,
excepting the prince's aunt, a poor woman living on charity,
who was herself at the point of death from dropsy; but who
had time, before she died, to set Salaskin to work to find
her nephew, and to make her will bequeathing her
newly-acquired fortune to him.
It appeared that neither
the prince, nor the doctor with whom he lived in
Switzerland, had thought of waiting for further
communications; but the prince had started straight away
with Salaskin's letter in his pocket.
"One thing I may tell you,
for certain," concluded Ptitsin, addressing the prince,
"that there is no question about the authenticity of this
matter. Anything that Salaskin writes you as regards your
unquestionable right to this inheritance, you may look upon
as so much money in your pocket. I congratulate you, prince;
you may receive a million and a half of roubles, perhaps
more; I don't know. All I DO know is that Paparchin was a
very rich merchant indeed."
"Hurrah!" cried Lebedeff,
in a drunken voice. "Hurrah for the last of the Muishkins!"
"My goodness me! and I gave
him twenty-five roubles this morning as though he were a
beggar," blurted out the general, half senseless with
amazement. "Well, I congratulate you, I congratulate you!"
And the general rose from his seat and solemnly embraced the
prince. All came forward with congratulations; even those of
Rogojin's party who had retreated into the next room, now
crept softly back to look on. For the moment even Nastasia
Philipovna was forgotten.
But gradually the
consciousness crept back into the minds of each one present
that the prince had just made her an offer of marriage. The
situation had, therefore, become three times as fantastic as
before.
Totski sat and shrugged his
shoulders, bewildered. He was the only guest left sitting at
this time; the others had thronged round the table in
disorder, and were all talking at once.
It was generally agreed,
afterwards, in recalling that evening, that from this moment
Nastasia Philipovna seemed entirely to lose her senses. She
continued to sit still in her place, looking around at her
guests with a strange, bewildered expression, as though she
were trying to collect her thoughts, and could not. Then she
suddenly turned to the prince, and glared at him with
frowning brows; but this only lasted one moment. Perhaps it
suddenly struck her that all this was a jest, but his face
seemed to reassure her. She reflected, and smiled again,
vaguely.
"So I am really a
princess," she whispered to herself, ironically, and
glancing accidentally at Daria Alexeyevna's face, she burst
out laughing.
"Ha, ha, ha!" she cried,
"this is an unexpected climax, after all. I didn't expect
this. What are you all standing up for, gentlemen? Sit down;
congratulate me and the prince! Ferdishenko, just step out
and order some more champagne, will you? Katia, Pasha," she
added suddenly, seeing the servants at the door, "come here!
I'm going to be married, did you hear? To the prince. He has
a million and a half of roubles; he is Prince Muishkin, and
has asked me to marry him. Here, prince, come and sit by me;
and here comes the wine. Now then, ladies and gentlemen,
where are your congratulations?"
"Hurrah!" cried a number of
voices. A rush was made for the wine by Rogojin's followers,
though, even among them, there seemed some sort of
realization that the situation had changed. Rogojin stood
and looked on, with an incredulous smile, screwing up one
side of his mouth.
"Prince, my dear fellow, do
remember what you are about," said the general, approaching
Muishkin, and pulling him by the coat sleeve.
Nastasia Philipovna
overheard the remark, and burst out laughing.
"No, no, general!" she
cried. "You had better look out! I am the princess now, you
know. The prince won't let you insult me. Afanasy
Ivanovitch, why don't you congratulate me? I shall be able
to sit at table with your new wife, now. Aha! you see what I
gain by marrying a prince! A million and a half, and a
prince, and an idiot into the bargain, they say. What better
could I wish for? Life is only just about to commence for me
in earnest. Rogojin, you are a little too late. Away with
your paper parcel! I'm going to marry the prince; I'm richer
than you are now."
But Rogojin understood how
things were tending, at last. An inexpressibly painful
expression came over his face. He wrung his hands; a groan
made its way up from the depths of his soul.
"Surrender her, for God's
sake!" he said to the prince.
All around burst out
laughing.
"What? Surrender her to
YOU?" cried Daria Alexeyevna. "To a fellow who comes and
bargains for a wife like a moujik! The prince wishes to
marry her, and you—"
"So do I, so do I! This
moment, if I could! I'd give every farthing I have to do
it."
"You drunken moujik," said
Daria Alexeyevna, once more. "You ought to be kicked out of
the place."
The laughter became louder
than ever.
"Do you hear, prince?" said
Nastasia Philipovna. "Do you hear how this moujik of a
fellow goes on bargaining for your bride?"
"He is drunk," said the
prince, quietly, "and he loves you very much."
"Won't you be ashamed,
afterwards, to reflect that your wife very nearly ran away
with Rogojin?"
"Oh, you were raving, you
were in a fever; you are still half delirious."
"And won't you be ashamed
when they tell you, afterwards, that your wife lived at
Totski's expense so many years?"
"No; I shall not be ashamed
of that. You did not so live by your own will."
"And you'll never reproach
me with it?"
"Never."
"Take care, don't commit
yourself for a whole lifetime."
"Nastasia Philipovna." said
the prince, quietly, and with deep emotion, "I said before
that I shall esteem your consent to be my wife as a great
honour to myself, and shall consider that it is you who will
honour me, not I you, by our marriage. You laughed at these
words, and others around us laughed as well; I heard them.
Very likely I expressed myself funnily, and I may have
looked funny, but, for all that, I believe I understand
where honour lies, and what I said was but the literal
truth. You were about to ruin yourself just now,
irrevocably; you would never have forgiven yourself for so
doing afterwards; and yet, you are absolutely blameless. It
is impossible that your life should be altogether ruined at
your age. What matter that Rogojin came bargaining here, and
that Gavrila Ardalionovitch would have deceived you if he
could? Why do you continually remind us of these facts? I
assure you once more that very few could find it in them to
act as you have acted this day. As for your wish to go with
Rogojin, that was simply the idea of a delirious and
suffering brain. You are still quite feverish; you ought to
be in bed, not here. You know quite well that if you had
gone with Rogojin, you would have become a washer-woman next
day, rather than stay with him. You are proud, Nastasia
Philipovna, and perhaps you have really suffered so much
that you imagine yourself to be a desperately guilty woman.
You require a great deal of petting and looking after,
Nastasia Philipovna, and I will do this. I saw your portrait
this morning, and it seemed quite a familiar face to me; it
seemed to me that the portrait-face was calling to me for
help. I-I shall respect you all my life, Nastasia
Philipovna," concluded the prince, as though suddenly
recollecting himself, and blushing to think of the sort of
company before whom he had said all this.
Ptitsin bowed his head and
looked at the ground, overcome by a mixture of feelings.
Totski muttered to himself: "He may be an idiot, but he
knows that flattery is the best road to success here."
The prince observed Gania's
eyes flashing at him, as though they would gladly annihilate
him then and there.
"That's a kind-hearted man,
if you like," said Daria Alexeyevna, whose wrath was quickly
evaporating.
"A refined man, but—lost,"
murmured the general.
Totski took his hat and
rose to go. He and the general exchanged glances, making a
private arrangement, thereby, to leave the house together.
"Thank you, prince; no one
has ever spoken to me like that before," began Nastasia
Philipovna. "Men have always bargained for me, before this;
and not a single respectable man has ever proposed to marry
me. Do you hear, Afanasy Ivanovitch? What do YOU think of
what the prince has just been saying? It was almost
immodest, wasn't it? You, Rogojin, wait a moment, don't go
yet! I see you don't intend to move however. Perhaps I may
go with you yet. Where did you mean to take me to?"
"To Ekaterinhof," replied
Lebedeff. Rogojin simply stood staring, with trembling lips,
not daring to believe his ears. He was stunned, as though
from a blow on the head.
"What are you thinking of,
my dear Nastasia?" said Daria Alexeyevna in alarm. "What are
you saying?" "You are not going mad, are you?"
Nastasia Philipovna burst
out laughing and jumped up from the sofa.
"You thought I should
accept this good child's invitation to ruin him, did you?"
she cried. "That's Totski's way, not mine. He's fond of
children. Come along, Rogojin, get your money ready! We
won't talk about marrying just at this moment, but let's see
the money at all events. Come! I may not marry you, either.
I don't know. I suppose you thought you'd keep the money, if
I did! Ha, ha, ha! nonsense! I have no sense of shame left.
I tell you I have been Totski's concubine. Prince, you must
marry Aglaya Ivanovna, not Nastasia Philipovna, or this
fellow Ferdishenko will always be pointing the finger of
scorn at you. You aren't afraid, I know; but I should always
be afraid that I had ruined you, and that you would reproach
me for it. As for what you say about my doing you honour by
marrying you-well, Totski can tell you all about that. You
had your eye on Aglaya, Gania, you know you had; and you
might have married her if you had not come bargaining. You
are all like this. You should choose, once for all, between
disreputable women, and respectable ones, or you are sure to
get mixed. Look at the general, how he's staring at me!"
"This is too horrible,"
said the general, starting to his feet. All were standing up
now. Nastasia was absolutely beside herself.
"I am very proud, in spite
of what I am," she continued. "You called me 'perfection'
just now, prince. A nice sort of perfection to throw up a
prince and a million and a half of roubles in order to be
able to boast of the fact afterwards! What sort of a wife
should I make for you, after all I have said? Afanasy
Ivanovitch, do you observe I have really and truly thrown
away a million of roubles? And you thought that I should
consider your wretched seventy-five thousand, with Gania
thrown in for a husband, a paradise of bliss! Take your
seventy-five thousand back, sir; you did not reach the
hundred thousand. Rogojin cut a better dash than you did.
I'll console Gania myself; I have an idea about that. But
now I must be off! I've been in prison for ten years. I'm
free at last! Well, Rogojin, what are you waiting for? Let's
get ready and go."
"Come along!" shouted
Rogojin, beside himself with joy. "Hey! all of you fellows!
Wine! Round with it! Fill the glasses!"
"Get away!" he shouted
frantically, observing that Daria Alexeyevna was approaching
to protest against Nastasia's conduct. "Get away, she's
mine, everything's mine! She's a queen, get away!"
He was panting with
ecstasy. He walked round and round Nastasia Philipovna and
told everybody to "keep their distance."
All the Rogojin company
were now collected in the drawing-room; some were drinking,
some laughed and talked: all were in the highest and wildest
spirits. Ferdishenko was doing his best to unite himself to
them; the general and Totski again made an attempt to go.
Gania, too stood hat in hand ready to go; but seemed to be
unable to tear his eyes away from the scene before him.
"Get out, keep your
distance!" shouted Rogojin.
"What are you shouting
about there!" cried Nastasia "I'm not yours yet. I may kick
you out for all you know I haven't taken your money yet;
there it all is on the table Here, give me over that packet!
Is there a hundred thousand roubles in that one packet? Pfu!
what abominable stuff it looks! Oh! nonsense, Daria
Alexeyevna; you surely did not expect me to ruin HIM?"
(indicating the prince). "Fancy him nursing me! Why, he
needs a nurse himself! The general, there, will be his nurse
now, you'll see. Here, prince, look here! Your bride is
accepting money. What a disreputable woman she must be! And
you wished to marry her! What are you crying about? Is it a
bitter dose? Never mind, you shall laugh yet. Trust to
time." (In spite of these words there were two large tears
rolling down Nastasia's own cheeks.) "It's far better to
think twice of it now than afterwards. Oh! you mustn't cry
like that! There's Katia crying, too. What is it, Katia,
dear? I shall leave you and Pasha a lot of things, I've laid
them out for you already; but good-bye, now. I made an
honest girl like you serve a low woman like myself. It's
better so, prince, it is indeed. You'd begin to despise me
afterwards—we should never be happy. Oh! you needn't swear,
prince, I shan't believe you, you know. How foolish it would
be, too! No, no; we'd better say good-bye and part friends.
I am a bit of a dreamer myself, and I used to dream of you
once. Very often during those five years down at his estate
I used to dream and think, and I always imagined just such a
good, honest, foolish fellow as you, one who should come and
say to me: 'You are an innocent woman, Nastasia Philipovna,
and I adore you.' I dreamt of you often. I used to think so
much down there that I nearly went mad; and then this fellow
here would come down. He would stay a couple of months out
of the twelve, and disgrace and insult and deprave me, and
then go; so that I longed to drown myself in the pond a
thousand times over; but I did not dare do it. I hadn't the
heart, and now—well, are you ready, Rogojin?"
"Ready—keep your distance,
all of you!"
"We're all ready," said
several of his friends. "The troikas [Sledges drawn by three
horses abreast.] are at the door, bells and all."
Nastasia Philipovna seized
the packet of bank-notes.
"Gania, I have an idea. I
wish to recompense you—why should you lose all? Rogojin,
would he crawl for three roubles as far as the
Vassiliostrof?
"Oh, wouldn't he just!"
"Well, look here, Gania. I
wish to look into your heart once more, for the last time.
You've worried me for the last three months—now it's my
turn. Do you see this packet? It contains a hundred thousand
roubles. Now, I'm going to throw it into the fire,
here—before all these witnesses. As soon as the fire catches
hold of it, you put your hands into the fire and pick it
out—without gloves, you know. You must have bare hands, and
you must turn your sleeves up. Pull it out, I say, and it's
all yours. You may burn your fingers a little, of course;
but then it's a hundred thousand roubles, remember—it won't
take you long to lay hold of it and snatch it out. I shall
so much admire you if you put your hands into the fire for
my money. All here present may be witnesses that the whole
packet of money is yours if you get it out. If you don't get
it out, it shall burn. I will let no one else come; away—get
away, all of you—it's my money! Rogojin has bought me with
it. Is it my money, Rogojin?"
"Yes, my queen; it's your
own money, my joy."
"Get away then, all of you.
I shall do as I like with my own—don't meddle! Ferdishenko,
make up the fire, quick!"
"Nastasia Philipovna, I
can't; my hands won't obey me," said Ferdishenko, astounded
and helpless with bewilderment.
"Nonsense," cried Nastasia
Philipovna, seizing the poker and raking a couple of logs
together. No sooner did a tongue of flame burst out than she
threw the packet of notes upon it.
Everyone gasped; some even
crossed themselves.
"She's mad—she's mad!" was
the cry.
"Oughtn't-oughtn't we to
secure her?" asked the general of Ptitsin, in a whisper; "or
shall we send for the authorities? Why, she's mad, isn't
she—isn't she, eh?"
"N-no, I hardly think she
is actually mad," whispered Ptitsin, who was as white as his
handkerchief, and trembling like a leaf. He could not take
his eyes off the smouldering packet.
"She's mad surely, isn't
she?" the general appealed to Totski.
"I told you she wasn't an
ordinary woman," replied the latter, who was as pale as
anyone.
"Oh, but, positively, you
know—a hundred thousand roubles!"
"Goodness gracious! good
heavens!" came from all quarters of the room.
All now crowded round the
fire and thronged to see what was going on; everyone
lamented and gave vent to exclamations of horror and woe.
Some jumped up on chairs in order to get a better view.
Daria Alexeyevna ran into the next room and whispered
excitedly to Katia and Pasha. The beautiful German
disappeared altogether.
"My lady! my sovereign!"
lamented Lebedeff, falling on his knees before Nastasia
Philipovna, and stretching out his hands towards the fire;
"it's a hundred thousand roubles, it is indeed, I packed it
up myself, I saw the money! My queen, let me get into the
fire after it—say the word-I'll put my whole grey head into
the fire for it! I have a poor lame wife and thirteen
children. My father died of starvation last week. Nastasia
Philipovna, Nastasia Philipovna!" The wretched little man
wept, and groaned, and crawled towards the fire.
"Away, out of the way!"
cried Nastasia. "Make room, all of you! Gania, what are you
standing there for? Don't stand on ceremony. Put in your
hand! There's your whole happiness smouldering away, look!
Quick!"
But Gania had borne too
much that day, and especially this evening, and he was not
prepared for this last, quite unexpected trial.
The crowd parted on each
side of him and he was left face to face with Nastasia
Philipovna, three paces from her. She stood by the fire and
waited, with her intent gaze fixed upon him.
Gania stood before her, in
his evening clothes, holding his white gloves and hat in his
hand, speechless and motionless, with arms folded and eyes
fixed on the fire.
A silly, meaningless smile
played on his white, death-like lips. He could not take his
eyes off the smouldering packet; but it appeared that
something new had come to birth in his soul—as though he
were vowing to himself that he would bear this trial. He did
not move from his place. In a few seconds it became evident
to all that he did not intend to rescue the money.
"Hey! look at it, it'll
burn in another minute or two!" cried Nastasia Philipovna.
"You'll hang yourself afterwards, you know, if it does! I'm
not joking."
The fire, choked between a
couple of smouldering pieces of wood, had died down for the
first few moments after the packet was thrown upon it. But a
little tongue of fire now began to lick the paper from
below, and soon, gathering courage, mounted the sides of the
parcel, and crept around it. In another moment, the whole of
it burst into flames, and the exclamations of woe and horror
were redoubled.
"Nastasia Philipovna!"
lamented Lebedeff again, straining towards the fireplace;
but Rogojin dragged him away, and pushed him to the rear
once more.
The whole of Regojin's
being was concentrated in one rapturous gaze of ecstasy. He
could not take his eyes off Nastasia. He stood drinking her
in, as it were. He was in the seventh heaven of delight.
"Oh, what a queen she is!"
he ejaculated, every other minute, throwing out the remark
for anyone who liked to catch it. "That's the sort of woman
for me! Which of you would think of doing a thing like that,
you blackguards, eh?" he yelled. He was hopelessly and
wildly beside himself with ecstasy.
The prince watched the
whole scene, silent and dejected.
"I'll pull it out with my
teeth for one thousand," said Ferdishenko.
"So would I," said another,
from behind, "with pleasure. Devil take the thing!" he
added, in a tempest of despair, "it will all be burnt up in
a minute—It's burning, it's burning!"
"It's burning, it's
burning!" cried all, thronging nearer and nearer to the fire
in their excitement.
"Gania, don't be a fool! I
tell you for the last time."
"Get on, quick!" shrieked
Ferdishenko, rushing wildly up to Gania, and trying to drag
him to the fire by the sleeve of his coat. "Get it, you
dummy, it's burning away fast! Oh—DAMN the thing!"
Gania hurled Ferdishenko
from him; then he turned sharp round and made for the door.
But he had not gone a couple of steps when he tottered and
fell to the ground.
"He's fainted!" the cry
went round.
"And the money's burning
still," Lebedeff lamented.
"Burning for nothing,"
shouted others.
"Katia-Pasha! Bring him
some water!" cried Nastasia Philipovna. Then she took the
tongs and fished out the packet.
Nearly the whole of the
outer covering was burned away, but it was soon evident that
the contents were hardly touched. The packet had been
wrapped in a threefold covering of newspaper, and the notes
were safe. All breathed more freely.
"Some dirty little thousand
or so may be touched," said Lebedeff, immensely relieved,
"but there's very little harm done, after all."
"It's all his—the whole
packet is for him, do you hear—all of you?" cried Nastasia
Philipovna, placing the packet by the side of Gania. "He
restrained himself, and didn't go after it; so his
self-respect is greater than his thirst for money. All
right—he'll come to directly—he must have the packet or
he'll cut his throat afterwards. There! He's coming to
himself. General, Totski, all of you, did you hear me? The
money is all Gania's. I give it to him, fully conscious of
my action, as recompense for—well, for anything he thinks
best. Tell him so. Let it lie here beside him. Off we go,
Rogojin! Goodbye, prince. I have seen a man for the first
time in my life. Goodbye, Afanasy Ivanovitch—and thanks!"
The Rogojin gang followed
their leader and Nastasia Philipovna to the entrance-hall,
laughing and shouting and whistling.
In the hall the servants
were waiting, and handed her her fur cloak. Martha, the
cook, ran in from the kitchen. Nastasia kissed them all
round.
"Are you really throwing us
all over, little mother? Where, where are you going to? And
on your birthday, too!" cried the four girls, crying over
her and kissing her hands.
"I am going out into the
world, Katia; perhaps I shall be a laundress. I don't know.
No more of Afanasy Ivanovitch, anyhow. Give him my respects.
Don't think badly of me, girls."
The prince hurried down to
the front gate where the party were settling into the
troikas, all the bells tinkling a merry accompaniment the
while. The general caught him up on the stairs:
"Prince, prince!" he cried,
seizing hold of his arm, "recollect yourself! Drop her,
prince! You see what sort of a woman she is. I am speaking
to you like a father."
The prince glanced at him,
but said nothing. He shook himself free, and rushed on
downstairs.
The general was just in
time to see the prince take the first sledge he could get,
and, giving the order to Ekaterinhof, start off in pursuit
of the troikas. Then the general's fine grey horse dragged
that worthy home, with some new thoughts, and some new hopes
and calculations developing in his brain, and with the
pearls in his pocket, for he had not forgotten to bring them
along with him, being a man of business. Amid his new
thoughts and ideas there came, once or twice, the image of
Nastasia Philipovna. The general sighed.
"I'm sorry, really sorry,"
he muttered. "She's a ruined woman. Mad! mad! However, the
prince is not for Nastasia Philipovna now,—perhaps it's as
well."
Two more of Nastasia's
guests, who walked a short distance together, indulged in
high moral sentiments of a similar nature.
"Do you know, Totski, this
is all very like what they say goes on among the Japanese?"
said Ptitsin. "The offended party there, they say, marches
off to his insulter and says to him, 'You insulted me, so I
have come to rip myself open before your eyes;' and with
these words he does actually rip his stomach open before his
enemy, and considers, doubtless, that he is having all
possible and necessary satisfaction and revenge. There are
strange characters in the world, sir!"
"H'm! and you think there
was something of this sort here, do you? Dear me—a very
remarkable comparison, you know! But you must have observed,
my dear Ptitsin, that I did all I possibly could. I could do
no more than I did. And you must admit that there are some
rare qualities in this woman. I felt I could not speak in
that Bedlam, or I should have been tempted to cry out, when
she reproached me, that she herself was my best
justification. Such a woman could make anyone forget all
reason—everything! Even that moujik, Rogojin, you saw,
brought her a hundred thousand roubles! Of course, all that
happened tonight was ephemeral, fantastic, unseemly—yet it
lacked neither colour nor originality. My God! What might
not have been made of such a character combined with such
beauty! Yet in spite of all efforts—in spite of all
education, even—all those gifts are wasted! She is an uncut
diamond.... I have often said so."
And Afanasy Ivanovitch
heaved a deep sigh.
PART II
I.
Two days after the strange
conclusion to Nastasia Philipovna's birthday party, with the
record of which we concluded the first part of this story,
Prince Muishkin hurriedly left St. Petersburg for Moscow, in
order to see after some business connected with the receipt
of his unexpected fortune.
It was said that there were
other reasons for his hurried departure; but as to this, and
as to his movements in Moscow, and as to his prolonged
absence from St. Petersburg, we are able to give very little
information.
The prince was away for six
months, and even those who were most interested in his
destiny were able to pick up very little news about him all
that while. True, certain rumours did reach his friends, but
these were both strange and rare, and each one contradicted
the last.
Of course the Epanchin
family was much interested in his movements, though he had
not had time to bid them farewell before his departure. The
general, however, had had an opportunity of seeing him once
or twice since the eventful evening, and had spoken very
seriously with him; but though he had seen the prince, as I
say, he told his family nothing about the circumstance. In
fact, for a month or so after his departure it was
considered not the thing to mention the prince's name in the
Epanchin household. Only Mrs. Epanchin, at the commencement
of this period, had announced that she had been "cruelly
mistaken in the prince!" and a day or two after, she had
added, evidently alluding to him, but not mentioning his
name, that it was an unalterable characteristic of hers to
be mistaken in people. Then once more, ten days later, after
some passage of arms with one of her daughters, she had
remarked sententiously. "We have had enough of mistakes. I
shall be more careful in future!" However, it was impossible
to avoid remarking that there was some sense of oppression
in the household—something unspoken, but felt; something
strained. All the members of the family wore frowning looks.
The general was unusually busy; his family hardly ever saw
him.
As to the girls, nothing
was said openly, at all events; and probably very little in
private. They were proud damsels, and were not always
perfectly confidential even among themselves. But they
understood each other thoroughly at the first word on all
occasions; very often at the first glance, so that there was
no need of much talking as a rule.
One fact, at least, would
have been perfectly plain to an outsider, had any such
person been on the spot; and that was, that the prince had
made a very considerable impression upon the family, in
spite of the fact that he had but once been inside the
house, and then only for a short time. Of course, if
analyzed, this impression might have proved to be nothing
more than a feeling of curiosity; but be it what it might,
there it undoubtedly was.
Little by little, the
rumours spread about town became lost in a maze of
uncertainty. It was said that some foolish young prince,
name unknown, had suddenly come into possession of a
gigantic fortune, and had married a French ballet dancer.
This was contradicted, and the rumour circulated that it was
a young merchant who had come into the enormous fortune and
married the great ballet dancer, and that at the wedding the
drunken young fool had burned seventy thousand roubles at a
candle out of pure bravado.
However, all these rumours
soon died down, to which circumstance certain facts largely
contributed. For instance, the whole of the Rogojin troop
had departed, with him at their head, for Moscow. This was
exactly a week after a dreadful orgy at the Ekaterinhof
gardens, where Nastasia Philipovna had been present. It
became known that after this orgy Nastasia Philipovna had
entirely disappeared, and that she had since been traced to
Moscow; so that the exodus of the Rogojin band was found
consistent with this report.
There were rumours current
as to Gania, too; but circumstances soon contradicted these.
He had fallen seriously ill, and his illness precluded his
appearance in society, and even at business, for over a
month. As soon as he had recovered, however, he threw up his
situation in the public company under General Epanchin's
direction, for some unknown reason, and the post was given
to another. He never went near the Epanchins' house at all,
and was exceedingly irritable and depressed.
Varvara Ardalionovna
married Ptitsin this winter, and it was said that the fact
of Gania's retirement from business was the ultimate cause
of the marriage, since Gania was now not only unable to
support his family, but even required help himself.
We may mention that Gania
was no longer mentioned in the Epanchin household any more
than the prince was; but that a certain circumstance in
connection with the fatal evening at Nastasia's house became
known to the general, and, in fact, to all the family the
very next day. This fact was that Gania had come home that
night, but had refused to go to bed. He had awaited the
prince's return from Ekaterinhof with feverish impatience.
On the latter's arrival, at
six in the morning, Gania had gone to him in his room,
bringing with him the singed packet of money, which he had
insisted that the prince should return to Nastasia
Philipovna without delay. It was said that when Gania
entered the prince's room, he came with anything but
friendly feelings, and in a condition of despair and misery;
but that after a short conversation, he had stayed on for a
couple of hours with him, sobbing continuously and bitterly
the whole time. They had parted upon terms of cordial
friendship.
The Epanchins heard about
this, as well as about the episode at Nastasia Philipovna's.
It was strange, perhaps, that the facts should become so
quickly, and fairly accurately, known. As far as Gania was
concerned, it might have been supposed that the news had
come through Varvara Ardalionovna, who had suddenly become a
frequent visitor of the Epanchin girls, greatly to their
mother's surprise. But though Varvara had seen fit, for some
reason, to make friends with them, it was not likely that
she would have talked to them about her brother. She had
plenty of pride, in spite of the fact that in thus acting
she was seeking intimacy with people who had practically
shown her brother the door. She and the Epanchin girls had
been acquainted in childhood, although of late they had met
but rarely. Even now Varvara hardly ever appeared in the
drawing-room, but would slip in by a back way. Lizabetha
Prokofievna, who disliked Varvara, although she had a great
respect for her mother, was much annoyed by this sudden
intimacy, and put it down to the general "contrariness" of
her daughters, who were "always on the lookout for some new
way of opposing her." Nevertheless, Varvara continued her
visits.
A month after Muishkin's
departure, Mrs. Epanchin received a letter from her old
friend Princess Bielokonski (who had lately left for
Moscow), which letter put her into the greatest good humour.
She did not divulge its contents either to her daughters or
the general, but her conduct towards the former became
affectionate in the extreme. She even made some sort of
confession to them, but they were unable to understand what
it was about. She actually relaxed towards the general a
little—he had been long disgraced—and though she managed to
quarrel with them all the next day, yet she soon came round,
and from her general behaviour it was to be concluded that
she had bad good news of some sort, which she would like,
but could not make up her mind, to disclose.
However, a week later she
received another letter from the same source, and at last
resolved to speak.
She solemnly announced that
she had heard from old Princess Bielokonski, who had given
her most comforting news about "that queer young prince."
Her friend had hunted him up, and found that all was going
well with him. He had since called in person upon her,
making an extremely favourable impression, for the princess
had received him each day since, and had introduced him into
several good houses.
The girls could see that
their mother concealed a great deal from them, and left out
large pieces of the letter in reading it to them.
However, the ice was
broken, and it suddenly became possible to mention the
prince's name again. And again it became evident how very
strong was the impression the young man had made in the
household by his one visit there. Mrs. Epanchin was
surprised at the effect which the news from Moscow had upon
the girls, and they were no less surprised that after
solemnly remarking that her most striking characteristic was
"being mistaken in people" she should have troubled to
obtain for the prince the favour and protection of so
powerful an old lady as the Princess Bielokonski. As soon as
the ice was thus broken, the general lost no time in showing
that he, too, took the greatest interest in the subject. He
admitted that he was interested, but said that it was merely
in the business side of the question. It appeared that, in
the interests of the prince, he had made arrangements in
Moscow for a careful watch to be kept upon the prince's
business affairs, and especially upon Salaskin. All that had
been said as to the prince being an undoubted heir to a
fortune turned out to be perfectly true; but the fortune
proved to be much smaller than was at first reported. The
estate was considerably encumbered with debts; creditors
turned up on all sides, and the prince, in spite of all
advice and entreaty, insisted upon managing all matters of
claim himself—which, of course, meant satisfying everybody
all round, although half the claims were absolutely
fraudulent.
Mrs. Epanchin confirmed all
this. She said the princess had written to much the same
effect, and added that there was no curing a fool. But it
was plain, from her expression of face, how strongly she
approved of this particular young fool's doings. In
conclusion, the general observed that his wife took as great
an interest in the prince as though he were her own son; and
that she had commenced to be especially affectionate towards
Aglaya was a self-evident fact.
All this caused the general
to look grave and important. But, alas! this agreeable state
of affairs very soon changed once more.
A couple of weeks went by,
and suddenly the general and his wife were once more gloomy
and silent, and the ice was as firm as ever. The fact was,
the general, who had heard first, how Nastasia Philipovna
had fled to Moscow and had been discovered there by Rogojin;
that she had then disappeared once more, and been found
again by Rogojin, and how after that she had almost promised
to marry him, now received news that she had once more
disappeared, almost on the very day fixed for her wedding,
flying somewhere into the interior of Russia this time, and
that Prince Muishkin had left all his affairs in the hands
of Salaskin and disappeared also—but whether he was with
Nastasia, or had only set off in search of her, was unknown.
Lizabetha Prokofievna
received confirmatory news from the princess—and alas, two
months after the prince's first departure from St.
Petersburg, darkness and mystery once more enveloped his
whereabouts and actions, and in the Epanchin family the ice
of silence once more formed over the subject. Varia,
however, informed the girls of what had happened, she having
received the news from Ptitsin, who generally knew more than
most people.
To make an end, we may say
that there were many changes in the Epanchin household in
the spring, so that it was not difficult to forget the
prince, who sent no news of himself.
The Epanchin family had at
last made up their minds to spend the summer abroad, all
except the general, who could not waste time in "travelling
for enjoyment," of course. This arrangement was brought
about by the persistence of the girls, who insisted that
they were never allowed to go abroad because their parents
were too anxious to marry them off. Perhaps their parents
had at last come to the conclusion that husbands might be
found abroad, and that a summer's travel might bear fruit.
The marriage between Alexandra and Totski had been broken
off. Since the prince's departure from St. Petersburg no
more had been said about it; the subject had been dropped
without ceremony, much to the joy of Mrs. General, who,
announced that she was "ready to cross herself with both
hands" in gratitude for the escape. The general, however,
regretted Totski for a long while. "Such a fortune!" he
sighed, "and such a good, easy-going fellow!"
After a time it became
known that Totski had married a French marquise, and was to
be carried off by her to Paris, and then to Brittany.
"Oh, well," thought the
general, "he's lost to us for good, now."
So the Epanchins prepared
to depart for the summer.
But now another
circumstance occurred, which changed all the plans once
more, and again the intended journey was put off, much to
the delight of the general and his spouse.
A certain Prince S——
arrived in St. Petersburg from Moscow, an eminent and
honourable young man. He was one of those active persons who
always find some good work with which to employ themselves.
Without forcing himself upon the public notice, modest and
unobtrusive, this young prince was concerned with much that
happened in the world in general.
He had served, at first, in
one of the civil departments, had then attended to matters
connected with the local government of provincial towns, and
had of late been a corresponding member of several important
scientific societies. He was a man of excellent family and
solid means, about thirty-five years of age.
Prince S—— made the
acquaintance of the general's family, and Adelaida, the
second girl, made a great impression upon him. Towards the
spring he proposed to her, and she accepted him. The general
and his wife were delighted. The journey abroad was put off,
and the wedding was fixed for a day not very distant.
The trip abroad might have
been enjoyed later on by Mrs. Epanchin and her two remaining
daughters, but for another circumstance.
It so happened that Prince
S—— introduced a distant relation of his own into the
Epanchin family—one Evgenie Pavlovitch, a young officer of
about twenty-eight years of age, whose conquests among the
ladies in Moscow had been proverbial. This young gentleman
no sooner set eyes on Aglaya than he became a frequent
visitor at the house. He was witty, well-educated, and
extremely wealthy, as the general very soon discovered. His
past reputation was the only thing against him.
Nothing was said; there
were not even any hints dropped; but still, it seemed better
to the parents to say nothing more about going abroad this
season, at all events. Aglaya herself perhaps was of a
different opinion.
All this happened just
before the second appearance of our hero upon the scene.
By this time, to judge from
appearances, poor Prince Muishkin had been quite forgotten
in St. Petersburg. If he had appeared suddenly among his
acquaintances, he would have been received as one from the
skies; but we must just glance at one more fact before we
conclude this preface.
Colia Ivolgin, for some
time after the prince's departure, continued his old life.
That is, he went to school, looked after his father, helped
Varia in the house, and ran her errands, and went frequently
to see his friend, Hippolyte.
The lodgers had disappeared
very quickly—Ferdishenko soon after the events at Nastasia
Philipovna's, while the prince went to Moscow, as we know.
Gania and his mother went to live with Varia and Ptitsin
immediately after the latter's wedding, while the general
was housed in a debtor's prison by reason of certain IOU's
given to the captain's widow under the impression that they
would never be formally used against him. This unkind action
much surprised poor Ardalion Alexandrovitch, the victim, as
he called himself, of an "unbounded trust in the nobility of
the human heart."
When he signed those notes
of hand he never dreamt that they would be a source of
future trouble. The event showed that he was mistaken.
"Trust in anyone after this! Have the least confidence in
man or woman!" he cried in bitter tones, as he sat with his
new friends in prison, and recounted to them his favourite
stories of the siege of Kars, and the resuscitated soldier.
On the whole, he accommodated himself very well to his new
position. Ptitsin and Varia declared that he was in the
right place, and Gania was of the same opinion. The only
person who deplored his fate was poor Nina Alexandrovna, who
wept bitter tears over him, to the great surprise of her
household, and, though always in feeble health, made a point
of going to see him as often as possible.
Since the general's
"mishap," as Colia called it, and the marriage of his
sister, the boy had quietly possessed himself of far more
freedom. His relations saw little of him, for he rarely
slept at home. He made many new friends; and was moreover, a
frequent visitor at the debtor's prison, to which he
invariably accompanied his mother. Varia, who used to be
always correcting him, never spoke to him now on the subject
of his frequent absences, and the whole household was
surprised to see Gania, in spite of his depression, on quite
friendly terms with his brother. This was something new, for
Gania had been wont to look upon Colia as a kind of
errand-boy, treating him with contempt, threatening to "pull
his ears," and in general driving him almost wild with
irritation. It seemed now that Gania really needed his
brother, and the latter, for his part, felt as if he could
forgive Gania much since he had returned the hundred
thousand roubles offered to him by Nastasia Philipovna.
Three months after the departure of the prince, the Ivolgin
family discovered that Colia had made acquaintance with the
Epanchins, and was on very friendly terms with the
daughters. Varia heard of it first, though Colia had not
asked her to introduce him. Little by little the family grew
quite fond of him. Madame Epanchin at first looked on him
with disdain, and received him coldly, but in a short time
he grew to please her, because, as she said, he "was candid
and no flatterer"——a very true description. From the first
he put himself on an equality with his new friends, and
though he sometimes read newspapers and books to the
mistress of the house, it was simply because he liked to be
useful.
One day, however, he and
Lizabetha Prokofievna quarrelled seriously about the "woman
question," in the course of a lively discussion on that
burning subject. He told her that she was a tyrant, and that
he would never set foot in her house again. It may seem
incredible, but a day or two after, Madame Epanchin sent a
servant with a note begging him to return, and Colia,
without standing on his dignity, did so at once.
Aglaya was the only one of
the family whose good graces he could not gain, and who
always spoke to him haughtily, but it so happened that the
boy one day succeeded in giving the proud maiden a surprise.
It was about Easter, when,
taking advantage of a momentary tete-a-tete Colia handed
Aglaya a letter, remarking that he "had orders to deliver it
to her privately." She stared at him in amazement, but he
did not wait to hear what she had to say, and went out.
Aglaya broke the seal, and read as follows:
"Once you did me the honour
of giving me your confidence. Perhaps you have quite
forgotten me now! How is it that I am writing to you? I do
not know; but I am conscious of an irresistible desire to
remind you of my existence, especially you. How many times I
have needed all three of you; but only you have dwelt always
in my mind's eye. I need you—I need you very much. I will
not write about myself. I have nothing to tell you. But I
long for you to be happy. ARE you happy? That is all I
wished to say to you—Your brother,
"PR. L. MUISHKIN."
On reading this short and
disconnected note, Aglaya suddenly blushed all over, and
became very thoughtful.
It would be difficult to
describe her thoughts at that moment. One of them was,
"Shall I show it to anyone?" But she was ashamed to show it.
So she ended by hiding it in her table drawer, with a very
strange, ironical smile upon her lips.
Next day, she took it out,
and put it into a large book, as she usually did with papers
which she wanted to be able to find easily. She laughed
when, about a week later, she happened to notice the name of
the book, and saw that it was Don Quixote, but it would be
difficult to say exactly why.
I cannot say, either,
whether she showed the letter to her sisters.
But when she had read it
herself once more, it suddenly struck her that surely that
conceited boy, Colia, had not been the one chosen
correspondent of the prince all this while. She determined
to ask him, and did so with an exaggerated show of
carelessness. He informed her haughtily that though he had
given the prince his permanent address when the latter left
town, and had offered his services, the prince had never
before given him any commission to perform, nor had he
written until the following lines arrived, with Aglaya's
letter. Aglaya took the note, and read it.
"DEAR COLIA,—Please be so
kind as to give the enclosed sealed letter to Aglaya
Ivanovna. Keep well—Ever your loving,
"PR. L. MUISHKIN."
"It seems absurd to trust a
little pepper-box like you," said Aglaya, as she returned
the note, and walked past the "pepper-box" with an
expression of great contempt.
This was more than Colia
could bear. He had actually borrowed Gania's new green tie
for the occasion, without saying why he wanted it, in order
to impress her. He was very deeply mortified.
IT was the beginning of
June, and for a whole week the weather in St. Petersburg had
been magnificent. The Epanchins had a luxurious
country-house at Pavlofsk, [One of the fashionable summer
resorts near St. Petersburg.] and to this spot Mrs. Epanchin
determined to proceed without further delay. In a couple of
days all was ready, and the family had left town. A day or
two after this removal to Pavlofsk, Prince Muishkin arrived
in St. Petersburg by the morning train from Moscow. No one
met him; but, as he stepped out of the carriage, he suddenly
became aware of two strangely glowing eyes fixed upon him
from among the crowd that met the train. On endeavouring to
re-discover the eyes, and see to whom they belonged, he
could find nothing to guide him. It must have been a
hallucination. But the disagreeable impression remained, and
without this, the prince was sad and thoughtful already, and
seemed to be much preoccupied.
His cab took him to a small
and bad hotel near the Litaynaya. Here he engaged a couple
of rooms, dark and badly furnished. He washed and changed,
and hurriedly left the hotel again, as though anxious to
waste no time. Anyone who now saw him for the first time
since he left Petersburg would judge that he had improved
vastly so far as his exterior was concerned. His clothes
certainly were very different; they were more fashionable,
perhaps even too much so, and anyone inclined to mockery
might have found something to smile at in his appearance.
But what is there that people will not smile at?
The prince took a cab and
drove to a street near the Nativity, where he soon
discovered the house he was seeking. It was a small wooden
villa, and he was struck by its attractive and clean
appearance; it stood in a pleasant little garden, full of
flowers. The windows looking on the street were open, and
the sound of a voice, reading aloud or making a speech, came
through them. It rose at times to a shout, and was
interrupted occasionally by bursts of laughter.
Prince Muishkin entered the
court-yard, and ascended the steps. A cook with her sleeves
turned up to the elbows opened the door. The visitor asked
if Mr. Lebedeff were at home.
"He is in there," said she,
pointing to the salon.
The room had a blue
wall-paper, and was well, almost pretentiously, furnished,
with its round table, its divan, and its bronze clock under
a glass shade. There was a narrow pier-glass against the
wall, and a chandelier adorned with lustres hung by a bronze
chain from the ceiling.
When the prince entered,
Lebedeff was standing in the middle of the room, his back to
the door. He was in his shirt-sleeves, on account of the
extreme heat, and he seemed to have just reached the
peroration of his speech, and was impressively beating his
breast.
His audience consisted of a
youth of about fifteen years of age with a clever face, who
had a book in his hand, though he was not reading; a young
lady of twenty, in deep mourning, stood near him with an
infant in her arms; another girl of thirteen, also in black,
was laughing loudly, her mouth wide open; and on the sofa
lay a handsome young man, with black hair and eyes, and a
suspicion of beard and whiskers. He frequently interrupted
the speaker and argued with him, to the great delight of the
others.
"Lukian Timofeyovitch!
Lukian Timofeyovitch! Here's someone to see you! Look
here!... a gentleman to speak to you!... Well, it's not my
fault!" and the cook turned and went away red with anger.
Lebedeff started, and at
sight of the prince stood like a statue for a moment. Then
he moved up to him with an ingratiating smile, but stopped
short again.
"Prince! ex-ex-excellency!"
he stammered. Then suddenly he ran towards the girl with the
infant, a movement so unexpected by her that she staggered
and fell back, but next moment he was threatening the other
child, who was standing, still laughing, in the doorway. She
screamed, and ran towards the kitchen. Lebedeff stamped his
foot angrily; then, seeing the prince regarding him with
amazement, he murmured apologetically—"Pardon to show
respect!... he-he!"
"You are quite wrong..."
began the prince.
"At once... at once... in
one moment!"
He rushed like a whirlwind
from the room, and Muishkin looked inquiringly at the
others.
They were all laughing, and
the guest joined in the chorus.
"He has gone to get his
coat," said the boy.
"How annoying!" exclaimed
the prince. "I thought... Tell me, is he..."
"You think he is drunk?"
cried the young man on the sofa. "Not in the least. He's
only had three or four small glasses, perhaps five; but what
is that? The usual thing!"
As the prince opened his
mouth to answer, he was interrupted by the girl, whose sweet
face wore an expression of absolute frankness.
"He never drinks much in
the morning; if you have come to talk business with him, do
it now. It is the best time. He sometimes comes back drunk
in the evening; but just now he passes the greater part of
the evening in tears, and reads passages of Holy Scripture
aloud, because our mother died five weeks ago."
"No doubt he ran off
because he did not know what to say to you," said the youth
on the divan. "I bet he is trying to cheat you, and is
thinking how best to do it."
Just then Lebedeff
returned, having put on his coat.
"Five weeks!" said he,
wiping his eyes. "Only five weeks! Poor orphans!"
"But why wear a coat in
holes," asked the girl, "when your new one is hanging behind
the door? Did you not see it?"
"Hold your tongue,
dragon-fly!" he scolded. "What a plague you are!" He stamped
his foot irritably, but she only laughed, and answered:
"Are you trying to frighten
me? I am not Tania, you know, and I don't intend to run
away. Look, you are waking Lubotchka, and she will have
convulsions again. Why do you shout like that?"
"Well, well! I won't
again," said the master of the house his anxiety getting the
better of his temper. He went up to his daughter, and looked
at the child in her arms, anxiously making the sign of the
cross over her three times. "God bless her! God bless her!"
he cried with emotion. "This little creature is my daughter
Luboff," addressing the prince. "My wife, Helena, died—at
her birth; and this is my big daughter Vera, in mourning, as
you see; and this, this, oh, this pointing to the young man
on the divan...
"Well, go on! never mind
me!" mocked the other. "Don't be afraid!"
"Excellency! Have you read
that account of the murder of the Zemarin family, in the
newspaper?" cried Lebedeff, all of a sudden.
"Yes," said Muishkin, with
some surprise.
"Well, that is the
murderer! It is he—in fact—"
"What do you mean?" asked
the visitor.
"I am speaking
allegorically, of course; but he will be the murderer of a
Zemarin family in the future. He is getting ready. ..."
They all laughed, and the
thought crossed the prince's mind that perhaps Lebedeff was
really trifling in this way because he foresaw inconvenient
questions, and wanted to gain time.
"He is a traitor! a
conspirator!" shouted Lebedeff, who seemed to have lost all
control over himself. "A monster! a slanderer! Ought I to
treat him as a nephew, the son of my sister Anisia?"
"Oh! do be quiet! You must
be drunk! He has taken it into his head to play the lawyer,
prince, and he practices speechifying, and is always
repeating his eloquent pleadings to his children. And who do
you think was his last client? An old woman who had been
robbed of five hundred roubles, her all, by some rogue of a
usurer, besought him to take up her case, instead of which
he defended the usurer himself, a Jew named Zeidler, because
this Jew promised to give him fifty roubles...."
"It was to be fifty if I
won the case, only five if I lost," interrupted Lebedeff,
speaking in a low tone, a great contrast to his earlier
manner.
"Well! naturally he came to
grief: the law is not administered as it used to be, and he
only got laughed at for his pains. But he was much pleased
with himself in spite of that. 'Most learned judge!' said
he, 'picture this unhappy man, crippled by age and
infirmities, who gains his living by honourable toil—picture
him, I repeat, robbed of his all, of his last mouthful;
remember, I entreat you, the words of that learned
legislator, "Let mercy and justice alike rule the courts of
law."' Now, would you believe it, excellency, every morning
he recites this speech to us from beginning to end, exactly
as he spoke it before the magistrate. To-day we have heard
it for the fifth time. He was just starting again when you
arrived, so much does he admire it. He is now preparing to
undertake another case. I think, by the way, that you are
Prince Muishkin? Colia tells me you are the cleverest man he
has ever known...."
"The cleverest in the
world," interrupted his uncle hastily.
"I do not pay much
attention to that opinion," continued the young man calmly.
"Colia is very fond of you, but he," pointing to Lebedeff,
"is flattering you. I can assure you I have no intention of
flattering you, or anyone else, but at least you have some
common-sense. Well, will you judge between us? Shall we ask
the prince to act as arbitrator?" he went on, addressing his
uncle.
"I am so glad you chanced
to come here, prince."
"I agree," said Lebedeff,
firmly, looking round involuntarily at his daughter, who had
come nearer, and was listening attentively to the
conversation.
"What is it all about?"
asked the prince, frowning. His head ached, and he felt sure
that Lebedeff was trying to cheat him in some way, and only
talking to put off the explanation that he had come for.
"I will tell you all the
story. I am his nephew; he did speak the truth there,
although he is generally telling lies. I am at the
University, and have not yet finished my course. I mean to
do so, and I shall, for I have a determined character. I
must, however, find something to do for the present, and
therefore I have got employment on the railway at
twenty-four roubles a month. I admit that my uncle has
helped me once or twice before. Well, I had twenty roubles
in my pocket, and I gambled them away. Can you believe that
I should be so low, so base, as to lose money in that way?"
"And the man who won it is
a rogue, a rogue whom you ought not to have paid!" cried
Lebedeff.
"Yes, he is a rogue, but I
was obliged to pay him," said the young man. "As to his
being a rogue, he is assuredly that, and I am not saying it
because he beat you. He is an ex-lieutenant, prince,
dismissed from the service, a teacher of boxing, and one of
Rogojin's followers. They are all lounging about the
pavements now that Rogojin has turned them off. Of course,
the worst of it is that, knowing he was a rascal, and a
card-sharper, I none the less played palki with him, and
risked my last rouble. To tell the truth, I thought to
myself, 'If I lose, I will go to my uncle, and I am sure he
will not refuse to help me.' Now that was base-cowardly and
base!"
"That is so," observed
Lebedeff quietly; "cowardly and base."
"Well, wait a bit, before
you begin to triumph," said the nephew viciously; for the
words seemed to irritate him. "He is delighted! I came to
him here and told him everything: I acted honourably, for I
did not excuse myself. I spoke most severely of my conduct,
as everyone here can witness. But I must smarten myself up
before I take up my new post, for I am really like a tramp.
Just look at my boots! I cannot possibly appear like this,
and if I am not at the bureau at the time appointed, the job
will be given to someone else; and I shall have to try for
another. Now I only beg for fifteen roubles, and I give my
word that I will never ask him for anything again. I am also
ready to promise to repay my debt in three months' time, and
I will keep my word, even if I have to live on bread and
water. My salary will amount to seventy-five roubles in
three months. The sum I now ask, added to what I have
borrowed already, will make a total of about thirty-five
roubles, so you see I shall have enough to pay him and
confound him! if he wants interest, he shall have that, too!
Haven't I always paid back the money he lent me before? Why
should he be so mean now? He grudges my having paid that
lieutenant; there can be no other reason! That's the kind he
is—a dog in the manger!"
"And he won't go away!"
cried Lebedeff. "He has installed himself here, and here he
remains!"
"I have told you already,
that I will not go away until I have got what I ask. Why are
you smiling, prince? You look as if you disapproved of me."
"I am not smiling, but I
really think you are in the wrong, somewhat," replied
Muishkin, reluctantly.
"Don't shuffle! Say plainly
that you think that I am quite wrong, without any
'somewhat'! Why 'somewhat'?"
"I will say you are quite
wrong, if you wish."
"If I wish! That's good, I
must say! Do you think I am deceived as to the flagrant
impropriety of my conduct? I am quite aware that his money
is his own, and that my action—As much like an attempt at
extortion. But you-you don't know what life is! If people
don't learn by experience, they never understand. They must
be taught. My intentions are perfectly honest; on my
conscience he will lose nothing, and I will pay back the
money with interest. Added to which he has had the moral
satisfaction of seeing me disgraced. What does he want more?
and what is he good for if he never helps anyone? Look what
he does himself! just ask him about his dealings with
others, how he deceives people! How did he manage to buy
this house? You may cut off my head if he has not let you in
for something-and if he is not trying to cheat you again.
You are smiling. You don't believe me?"
"It seems to me that all
this has nothing to do with your affairs," remarked the
prince.
"I have lain here now for
three days," cried the young man without noticing, "and I
have seen a lot! Fancy! he suspects his daughter, that
angel, that orphan, my cousin—he suspects her, and every
evening he searches her room, to see if she has a lover
hidden in it! He comes here too on tiptoe, creeping
softly—oh, so softly—and looks under the sofa—my bed, you
know. He is mad with suspicion, and sees a thief in every
corner. He runs about all night long; he was up at least
seven times last night, to satisfy himself that the windows
and doors were barred, and to peep into the oven. That man
who appears in court for scoundrels, rushes in here in the
night and prays, lying prostrate, banging his head on the
ground by the half-hour—and for whom do you think he prays?
Who are the sinners figuring in his drunken petitions? I
have heard him with my own ears praying for the repose of
the soul of the Countess du Barry! Colia heard it too. He is
as mad as a March hare!"
"You hear how he slanders
me, prince," said Lebedeff, almost beside himself with rage.
"I may be a drunkard, an evil-doer, a thief, but at least I
can say one thing for myself. He does not know—how should
he, mocker that he is?—that when he came into the world it
was I who washed him, and dressed him in his swathing-bands,
for my sister Anisia had lost her husband, and was in great
poverty. I was very little better off than she, but I sat up
night after night with her, and nursed both mother and
child; I used to go downstairs and steal wood for them from
the house-porter. How often did I sing him to sleep when I
was half dead with hunger! In short, I was more than a
father to him, and now—now he jeers at me! Even if I did
cross myself, and pray for the repose of the soul of the
Comtesse du Barry, what does it matter? Three days ago, for
the first time in my life, I read her biography in an
historical dictionary. Do you know who she was? You there!"
addressing his nephew. "Speak! do you know?"
"Of course no one knows
anything about her but you," muttered the young man in a
would-be jeering tone.
"She was a Countess who
rose from shame to reign like a Queen. An Empress wrote to
her, with her own hand, as 'Ma chere cousine.' At a
lever-du-roi one morning (do you know what a lever-du-roi
was?)—a Cardinal, a Papal legate, offered to put on her
stockings; a high and holy person like that looked on it as
an honour! Did you know this? I see by your expression that
you did not! Well, how did she die? Answer!"
"Oh! do stop—you are too
absurd!"
"This is how she died.
After all this honour and glory, after having been almost a
Queen, she was guillotined by that butcher, Samson. She was
quite innocent, but it had to be done, for the satisfaction
of the fishwives of Paris. She was so terrified, that she
did not understand what was happening. But when Samson
seized her head, and pushed her under the knife with his
foot, she cried out: 'Wait a moment! wait a moment,
monsieur!' Well, because of that moment of bitter suffering,
perhaps the Saviour will pardon her other faults, for one
cannot imagine a greater agony. As I read the story my heart
bled for her. And what does it matter to you, little worm,
if I implored the Divine mercy for her, great sinner as she
was, as I said my evening prayer? I might have done it
because I doubted if anyone had ever crossed himself for her
sake before. It may be that in the other world she will
rejoice to think that a sinner like herself has cried to
heaven for the salvation of her soul. Why are you laughing?
You believe nothing, atheist! And your story was not even
correct! If you had listened to what I was saying, you would
have heard that I did not only pray for the Comtesse du
Barry. I said, 'Oh Lord! give rest to the soul of that great
sinner, the Comtesse du Barry, and to all unhappy ones like
her.' You see that is quite a different thing, for how many
sinners there are, how many women, who have passed through
the trials of this life, are now suffering and groaning in
purgatory! I prayed for you, too, in spite of your insolence
and impudence, also for your fellows, as it seems that you
claim to know how I pray..."
"Oh! that's enough in all
conscience! Pray for whom you choose, and the devil take
them and you! We have a scholar here; you did not know that,
prince?" he continued, with a sneer. "He reads all sorts of
books and memoirs now."
"At any rate, your uncle
has a kind heart," remarked the prince, who really had to
force himself to speak to the nephew, so much did he dislike
him.
"Oh, now you are going to
praise him! He will be set up! He puts his hand on his
heart, and he is delighted! I never said he was a man
without heart, but he is a rascal—that's the pity of it. And
then, he is addicted to drink, and his mind is unhinged,
like that of most people who have taken more than is good
for them for years. He loves his children—oh, I know that
well enough! He respected my aunt, his late wife... and he
even has a sort of affection for me. He has remembered me in
his will."
"I shall leave you
nothing!" exclaimed his uncle angrily.
"Listen to me, Lebedeff,"
said the prince in a decided voice, turning his back on the
young man. "I know by experience that when you choose, you
can be business-like.. I. I have very little time to spare,
and if you... By the way—excuse me—what is your Christian
name? I have forgotten it."
"Ti-Ti-Timofey."
"And?"
"Lukianovitch."
Everyone in the room began
to laugh.
"He is telling lies!" cried
the nephew. "Even now he cannot speak the truth. He is not
called Timofey Lukianovitch, prince, but Lukian
Timofeyovitch. Now do tell us why you must needs lie about
it? Lukian or Timofey, it is all the same to you, and what
difference can it make to the prince? He tells lies without
the least necessity, simply by force of habit, I assure
you."
"Is that true?" said the
prince impatiently.
"My name really is Lukian
Timofeyovitch," acknowledged Lebedeff, lowering his eyes,
and putting his hand on his heart.
"Well, for God's sake, what
made you say the other?"
"To humble myself,"
murmured Lebedeff.
"What on earth do you mean?
Oh I if only I knew where Colia was at this moment!" cried
the prince, standing up, as if to go.
"I can tell you all about
Colia," said the young man
"Oh! no, no!" said
Lebedeff, hurriedly.
"Colia spent the night
here, and this morning went after his father, whom you let
out of prison by paying his debts—Heaven only knows why!
Yesterday the general promised to come and lodge here, but
he did not appear. Most probably he slept at the hotel close
by. No doubt Colia is there, unless he has gone to Pavlofsk
to see the Epanchins. He had a little money, and was
intending to go there yesterday. He must be either at the
hotel or at Pavlofsk."
"At Pavlofsk! He is at
Pavlofsk, undoubtedly!" interrupted Lebedeff.... "But
come—let us go into the garden—we will have coffee
there...." And Lebedeff seized the prince's arm, and led him
from the room. They went across the yard, and found
themselves in a delightful little garden with the trees
already in their summer dress of green, thanks to the
unusually fine weather. Lebedeff invited his guest to sit
down on a green seat before a table of the same colour fixed
in the earth, and took a seat facing him. In a few minutes
the coffee appeared, and the prince did not refuse it. The
host kept his eyes fixed on Muishkin, with an expression of
passionate servility.
"I knew nothing about your
home before," said the prince absently, as if he were
thinking of something else.
"Poor orphans," began
Lebedeff, his face assuming a mournful air, but he stopped
short, for the other looked at him inattentively, as if he
had already forgotten his own remark. They waited a few
minutes in silence, while Lebedeff sat with his eyes fixed
mournfully on the young man's face.
"Well!" said the latter, at
last rousing himself. "Ah! yes! You know why I came,
Lebedeff. Your letter brought me. Speak! Tell me all about
it."
The clerk, rather confused,
tried to say something, hesitated, began to speak, and again
stopped. The prince looked at him gravely.
"I think I understand,
Lukian Timofeyovitch: you were not sure that I should come.
You did not think I should start at the first word from you,
and you merely wrote to relieve your conscience. However,
you see now that I have come, and I have had enough of
trickery. Give up serving, or trying to serve, two masters.
Rogojin has been here these three weeks. Have you managed to
sell her to him as you did before? Tell me the truth."
"He discovered everything,
the monster... himself......"
"Don't abuse him; though I
dare say you have something to complain of...."
"He beat me, he thrashed me
unmercifully!" replied Lebedeff vehemently. "He set a dog on
me in Moscow, a bloodhound, a terrible beast that chased me
all down the street."
"You seem to take me for a
child, Lebedeff. Tell me, is it a fact that she left him
while they were in Moscow?"
"Yes, it is a fact, and
this time, let me tell you, on the very eve of their
marriage! It was a question of minutes when she slipped off
to Petersburg. She came to me directly she arrived—'Save me,
Lukian! find me some refuge, and say nothing to the prince!'
She is afraid of you, even more than she is of him, and in
that she shows her wisdom!" And Lebedeff slily put his
finger to his brow as he said the last words.
"And now it is you who have
brought them together again?"
"Excellency, how could I,
how could I prevent it?"
"That will do. I can find
out for myself. Only tell me, where is she now? At his
house? With him?"
"Oh no! Certainly not! 'I
am free,' she says; you know how she insists on that point.
'I am entirely free.' She repeats it over and over again.
She is living in Petersburgskaia, with my sister-in-law, as
I told you in my letter."
"She is there at this
moment?"
"Yes, unless she has gone
to Pavlofsk: the fine weather may have tempted her, perhaps,
into the country, with Daria Alexeyevna. 'I am quite free,'
she says. Only yesterday she boasted of her freedom to
Nicolai Ardalionovitch—a bad sign," added Lebedeff, smiling.
"Colia goes to see her
often, does he not?"
"He is a strange boy,
thoughtless, and inclined to be indiscreet."
"Is it long since you saw
her?"
"I go to see her every day,
every day."
"Then you were there
yesterday?"
"N-no: I have not been
these three last days."
"It is a pity you have
taken too much wine, Lebedeff I want to ask you something...
but..."
"All right! all right! I am
not drunk," replied the clerk, preparing to listen.
"Tell me, how was she when
you left her?"
"She is a woman who is
seeking..."
"Seeking?"
"She seems always to be
searching about, as if she had lost something. The mere idea
of her coming marriage disgusts her; she looks on it as an
insult. She cares as much for HIM as for a piece of
orange-peel—not more. Yet I am much mistaken if she does not
look on him with fear and trembling. She forbids his name to
be mentioned before her, and they only meet when
unavoidable. He understands, well enough! But it must be
gone through She is restless, mocking, deceitful,
violent...."
"Deceitful and violent?"
"Yes, violent. I can give
you a proof of it. A few days ago she tried to pull my hair
because I said something that annoyed her. I tried to soothe
her by reading the Apocalypse aloud."
"What?" exclaimed the
prince, thinking he had not heard aright.
"By reading the Apocalypse.
The lady has a restless imagination, he-he! She has a liking
for conversation on serious subjects, of any kind; in fact
they please her so much, that it flatters her to discuss
them. Now for fifteen years at least I have studied the
Apocalypse, and she agrees with me in thinking that the
present is the epoch represented by the third horse, the
black one whose rider holds a measure in his hand. It seems
to me that everything is ruled by measure in our century;
all men are clamouring for their rights; 'a measure of wheat
for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny.' But,
added to this, men desire freedom of mind and body, a pure
heart, a healthy life, and all God's good gifts. Now by
pleading their rights alone, they will never attain all
this, so the white horse, with his rider Death, comes next,
and is followed by Hell. We talked about this matter when we
met, and it impressed her very much."
"Do you believe all this?"
asked Muishkin, looking curiously at his companion.
"I both believe it and
explain it. I am but a poor creature, a beggar, an atom in
the scale of humanity. Who has the least respect for
Lebedeff? He is a target for all the world, the butt of any
fool who chooses to kick him. But in interpreting revelation
I am the equal of anyone, great as he may be! Such is the
power of the mind and the spirit. I have made a lordly
personage tremble, as he sat in his armchair... only by
talking to him of things concerning the spirit. Two years
ago, on Easter Eve, His Excellency Nil Alexeyovitch, whose
subordinate I was then, wished to hear what I had to say,
and sent a message by Peter Zakkaritch to ask me to go to
his private room. 'They tell me you expound the prophecies
relating to Antichrist,' said he, when we were alone. 'Is
that so?' 'Yes,' I answered unhesitatingly, and I began to
give some comments on the Apostle's allegorical vision. At
first he smiled, but when we reached the numerical
computations and correspondences, he trembled, and turned
pale. Then he begged me to close the book, and sent me away,
promising to put my name on the reward list. That took place
as I said on the eve of Easter, and eight days later his
soul returned to God."
"What?"
"It is the truth. One
evening after dinner he stumbled as he stepped out of his
carriage. He fell, and struck his head on the curb, and died
immediately. He was seventy-three years of age, and had a
red face, and white hair; he deluged himself with scent, and
was always smiling like a child. Peter Zakkaritch recalled
my interview with him, and said, 'YOU FORETOLD HIS DEATH.'"
The prince rose from his
seat, and Lebedeff, surprised to see his guest preparing to
go so soon, remarked: "You are not interested?" in a
respectful tone.
"I am not very well, and my
head aches. Doubtless the effect of the journey," replied
the prince, frowning.
"You should go into the
country," said Lebedeff timidly.
The prince seemed to be
considering the suggestion.
"You see, I am going into
the country myself in three days, with my children and
belongings. The little one is delicate; she needs change of
air; and during our absence this house will be done up. I am
going to Pavlofsk."
"You are going to Pavlofsk
too?" asked the prince sharply. "Everybody seems to be going
there. Have you a house in that neighbourhood?"
"I don't know of many
people going to Pavlofsk, and as for the house, Ivan Ptitsin
has let me one of his villas rather cheaply. It is a
pleasant place, lying on a hill surrounded by trees, and one
can live there for a mere song. There is good music to be
heard, so no wonder it is popular. I shall stay in the
lodge. As to the villa itself..."
"Have you let it?"
"N-no—not exactly."
"Let it to me," said the
prince.
Now this was precisely what
Lebedeff had made up his mind to do in the last three
minutes. Not that he had any difficulty in finding a tenant;
in fact the house was occupied at present by a chance
visitor, who had told Lebedeff that he would perhaps take it
for the summer months. The clerk knew very well that this
"PERHAPS" meant "CERTAINLY," but as he thought he could make
more out of a tenant like the prince, he felt justified in
speaking vaguely about the present inhabitant's intentions.
"This is quite a coincidence," thought he, and when the
subject of price was mentioned, he made a gesture with his
hand, as if to waive away a question of so little
importance.
"Oh well, as you like!"
said Muishkin. "I will think it over. You shall lose
nothing!"
They were walking slowly
across the garden.
"But if you... I could..."
stammered Lebedeff, "if... if you please, prince, tell you
something on the subject which would interest you, I am
sure." He spoke in wheedling tones, and wriggled as he
walked along.
Muishkin stopped short.
"Daria Alexeyevna also has
a villa at Pavlofsk."
"Well?"
"A certain person is very
friendly with her, and intends to visit her pretty often."
"Well?"
"Aglaya Ivanovna..."
"Oh stop, Lebedeff!"
interposed Muishkin, feeling as if he had been touched on an
open wound. "That... that has nothing to do with me. I
should like to know when you are going to start. The sooner
the better as far as I am concerned, for I am at an hotel."
They had left the garden
now, and were crossing the yard on their way to the gate.
"Well, leave your hotel at
once and come here; then we can all go together to Pavlofsk
the day after tomorrow."
"I will think about it,"
said the prince dreamily, and went off.
The clerk stood looking
after his guest, struck by his sudden absent-mindedness. He
had not even remembered to say goodbye, and Lebedeff was the
more surprised at the omission, as he knew by experience how
courteous the prince usually was.
III
It was now close on twelve
o'clock.
The prince knew that if he
called at the Epanchins' now he would only find the general,
and that the latter might probably carry him straight off to
Pavlofsk with him; whereas there was one visit he was most
anxious to make without delay.
So at the risk of missing
General Epanchin altogether, and thus postponing his visit
to Pavlofsk for a day, at least, the prince decided to go
and look for the house he desired to find.
The visit he was about to
pay was, in some respects, a risky one. He was in two minds
about it, but knowing that the house was in the Gorohovaya,
not far from the Sadovaya, he determined to go in that
direction, and to try to make up his mind on the way.
Arrived at the point where
the Gorohovaya crosses the Sadovaya, he was surprised to
find how excessively agitated he was. He had no idea that
his heart could beat so painfully.
One house in the Gorohovaya
began to attract his attention long before he reached it,
and the prince remembered afterwards that he had said to
himself: "That is the house, I'm sure of it." He came up to
it quite curious to discover whether he had guessed right,
and felt that he would be disagreeably impressed to find
that he had actually done so. The house was a large
gloomy-looking structure, without the slightest claim to
architectural beauty, in colour a dirty green. There are a
few of these old houses, built towards the end of the last
century, still standing in that part of St. Petersburg, and
showing little change from their original form and colour.
They are solidly built, and are remarkable for the thickness
of their walls, and for the fewness of their windows, many
of which are covered by gratings. On the ground-floor there
is usually a money-changer's shop, and the owner lives over
it. Without as well as within, the houses seem inhospitable
and mysterious—an impression which is difficult to explain,
unless it has something to do with the actual architectural
style. These houses are almost exclusively inhabited by the
merchant class.
Arrived at the gate, the
prince looked up at the legend over it, which ran:
"House of Rogojin,
hereditary and honourable citizen."
He hesitated no longer; but
opened the glazed door at the bottom of the outer stairs and
made his way up to the second storey. The place was dark and
gloomy-looking; the walls of the stone staircase were
painted a dull red. Rogojin and his mother and brother
occupied the whole of the second floor. The servant who
opened the door to Muishkin led him, without taking his
name, through several rooms and up and down many steps until
they arrived at a door, where he knocked.
Parfen Rogojin opened the
door himself.
On seeing the prince he
became deadly white, and apparently fixed to the ground, so
that he was more like a marble statue than a human being.
The prince had expected some surprise, but Rogojin evidently
considered his visit an impossible and miraculous event. He
stared with an expression almost of terror, and his lips
twisted into a bewildered smile.
"Parfen! perhaps my visit
is ill-timed. I-I can go away again if you like," said
Muishkin at last, rather embarrassed.
"No, no; it's all right,
come in," said Parfen, recollecting himself.
They were evidently on
quite familiar terms. In Moscow they had had many occasions
of meeting; indeed, some few of those meetings were but too
vividly impressed upon their memories. They had not met now,
however, for three months.
The deathlike pallor, and a
sort of slight convulsion about the lips, had not left
Rogojin's face. Though he welcomed his guest, he was still
obviously much disturbed. As he invited the prince to sit
down near the table, the latter happened to turn towards
him, and was startled by the strange expression on his face.
A painful recollection flashed into his mind. He stood for a
time, looking straight at Rogojin, whose eyes seemed to
blaze like fire. At last Rogojin smiled, though he still
looked agitated and shaken.
"What are you staring at me
like that for?" he muttered. "Sit down."
The prince took a chair.
"Parfen," he said, "tell me
honestly, did you know that I was coming to Petersburg or
no?"
"Oh, I supposed you were
coming," the other replied, smiling sarcastically, "and I
was right in my supposition, you see; but how was I to know
that you would come TODAY?"
A certain strangeness and
impatience in his manner impressed the prince very forcibly.
"And if you had known that
I was coming today, why be so irritated about it?" he asked,
in quiet surprise.
"Why did you ask me?"
"Because when I jumped out
of the train this morning, two eyes glared at me just as
yours did a moment since."
"Ha! and whose eyes may
they have been?" said Rogojin, suspiciously. It seemed to
the prince that he was trembling.
"I don't know; I thought it
was a hallucination. I often have hallucinations nowadays. I
feel just as I did five years ago when my fits were about to
come on."
"Well, perhaps it was a
hallucination, I don't know," said Parfen.
He tried to give the prince
an affectionate smile, and it seemed to the latter as though
in this smile of his something had broken, and that he could
not mend it, try as he would.
"Shall you go abroad again
then?" he asked, and suddenly added, "Do you remember how we
came up in the train from Pskoff together? You and your
cloak and leggings, eh?"
And Rogojin burst out
laughing, this time with unconcealed malice, as though he
were glad that he had been able to find an opportunity for
giving vent to it.
"Have you quite taken up
your quarters here?" asked the prince
"Yes, I'm at home. Where
else should I go to?"
"We haven't met for some
time. Meanwhile I have heard things about you which I should
not have believed to be possible."
"What of that? People will
say anything," said Rogojin drily.
"At all events, you've
disbanded your troop—and you are living in your own house
instead of being fast and loose about the place; that's all
very good. Is this house all yours, or joint property?"
"It is my mother's. You get
to her apartments by that passage."
"Where's your brother?"
"In the other wing."
"Is he married?"
"Widower. Why do you want
to know all this?"
The prince looked at him,
but said nothing. He had suddenly relapsed into musing, and
had probably not heard the question at all. Rogojin did not
insist upon an answer, and there was silence for a few
moments.
"I guessed which was your
house from a hundred yards off," said the prince at last.
"Why so?"
"I don't quite know. Your
house has the aspect of yourself and all your family; it
bears the stamp of the Rogojin life; but ask me why I think
so, and I can tell you nothing. It is nonsense, of course. I
am nervous about this kind of thing troubling me so much. I
had never before imagined what sort of a house you would
live in, and yet no sooner did I set eyes on this one than I
said to myself that it must be yours."
"Really!" said Rogojin
vaguely, not taking in what the prince meant by his rather
obscure remarks.
The room they were now
sitting in was a large one, lofty but dark, well furnished,
principally with writing-tables and desks covered with
papers and books. A wide sofa covered with red morocco
evidently served Rogojin for a bed. On the table beside
which the prince had been invited to seat himself lay some
books; one containing a marker where the reader had left
off, was a volume of Solovieff's History. Some oil-paintings
in worn gilded frames hung on the walls, but it was
impossible to make out what subjects they represented, so
blackened were they by smoke and age. One, a life-sized
portrait, attracted the prince's attention. It showed a man
of about fifty, wearing a long riding-coat of German cut. He
had two medals on his breast; his beard was white, short and
thin; his face yellow and wrinkled, with a sly, suspicious
expression in the eyes.
"That is your father, is it
not?" asked the prince.
"Yes, it is," replied
Rogojin with an unpleasant smile, as if he had expected his
guest to ask the question, and then to make some
disagreeable remark.
"Was he one of the Old
Believers?"
"No, he went to church, but
to tell the truth he really preferred the old religion. This
was his study and is now mine. Why did you ask if he were an
Old Believer?"
"Are you going to be
married here?"
"Ye-yes!" replied Rogojin,
starting at the unexpected question.
"Soon?"
"You know yourself it does
not depend on me."
"Parfen, I am not your
enemy, and I do not intend to oppose your intentions in any
way. I repeat this to you now just as I said it to you once
before on a very similar occasion. When you were arranging
for your projected marriage in Moscow, I did not interfere
with you—you know I did not. That first time she fled to me
from you, from the very altar almost, and begged me to 'save
her from you.' Afterwards she ran away from me again, and
you found her and arranged your marriage with her once more;
and now, I hear, she has run away from you and come to
Petersburg. Is it true? Lebedeff wrote me to this effect,
and that's why I came here. That you had once more arranged
matters with Nastasia Philipovna I only learned last night
in the train from a friend of yours, Zaleshoff—if you wish
to know.
"I confess I came here with
an object. I wished to persuade Nastasia to go abroad for
her health; she requires it. Both mind and body need a
change badly. I did not intend to take her abroad myself. I
was going to arrange for her to go without me. Now I tell
you honestly, Parfen, if it is true that all is made up
between you, I will not so much as set eyes upon her, and I
will never even come to see you again.
"You know quite well that I
am telling the truth, because I have always been frank with
you. I have never concealed my own opinion from you. I have
always told you that I consider a marriage between you and
her would be ruin to her. You would also be ruined, and
perhaps even more hopelessly. If this marriage were to be
broken off again, I admit I should be greatly pleased; but
at the same time I have not the slightest intention of
trying to part you. You may be quite easy in your mind, and
you need not suspect me. You know yourself whether I was
ever really your rival or not, even when she ran away and
came to me.
"There, you are laughing at
me—I know why you laugh. It is perfectly true that we lived
apart from one another all the time, in different towns. I
told you before that I did not love her with love, but with
pity! You said then that you understood me; did you really
understand me or not? What hatred there is in your eyes at
this moment! I came to relieve your mind, because you are
dear to me also. I love you very much, Parfen; and now I
shall go away and never come back again. Goodbye."
The prince rose.
"Stay a little," said
Parfen, not leaving his chair and resting his head on his
right hand. "I haven't seen you for a long time."
The prince sat down again.
Both were silent for a few moments.
"When you are not with me I
hate you, Lef Nicolaievitch. I have loathed you every day of
these three months since I last saw you. By heaven I have!"
said Rogojin. "I could have poisoned you at any minute. Now,
you have been with me but a quarter of an hour, and all my
malice seems to have melted away, and you are as dear to me
as ever. Stay here a little longer."
"When I am with you you
trust me; but as soon as my back is turned you suspect me,"
said the prince, smiling, and trying to hide his emotion.
"I trust your voice, when I
hear you speak. I quite understand that you and I cannot be
put on a level, of course."
"Why did you add
that?—There! Now you are cross again," said the prince,
wondering.
"We were not asked, you
see. We were made different, with different tastes and
feelings, without being consulted. You say you love her with
pity. I have no pity for her. She hates me—that's the plain
truth of the matter. I dream of her every night, and always
that she is laughing at me with another man. And so she does
laugh at me. She thinks no more of marrying me than if she
were changing her shoe. Would you believe it, I haven't seen
her for five days, and I daren't go near her. She asks me
what I come for, as if she were not content with having
disgraced me—"
"Disgraced you! How?"
"Just as though you didn't
know! Why, she ran away from me, and went to you. You
admitted it yourself, just now."
"But surely you do not
believe that she..."
"That she did not disgrace
me at Moscow with that officer. Zemtuznikoff? I know for
certain she did, after having fixed our marriage-day
herself!"
"Impossible!" cried the
prince.
"I know it for a fact,"
replied Rogojin, with conviction.
"It is not like her, you
say? My friend, that's absurd. Perhaps such an act would
horrify her, if she were with you, but it is quite different
where I am concerned. She looks on me as vermin. Her affair
with Keller was simply to make a laughing-stock of me. You
don't know what a fool she made of me in Moscow; and the
money I spent over her! The money! the money!"
"And you can marry her now,
Parfen! What will come of it all?" said the prince, with
dread in his voice.
Rogojin gazed back
gloomily, and with a terrible expression in his eyes, but
said nothing.
"I haven't been to see her
for five days," he repeated, after a slight pause. "I'm
afraid of being turned out. She says she's still her own
mistress, and may turn me off altogether, and go abroad. She
told me this herself," he said, with a peculiar glance at
Muishkin. "I think she often does it merely to frighten me.
She is always laughing at me, for some reason or other; but
at other times she's angry, and won't say a word, and that's
what I'm afraid of. I took her a shawl one day, the like of
which she might never have seen, although she did live in
luxury and she gave it away to her maid, Katia. Sometimes
when I can keep away no longer, I steal past the house on
the sly, and once I watched at the gate till dawn—I thought
something was going on—and she saw me from the window. She
asked me what I should do if I found she had deceived me. I
said, 'You know well enough.'"
"What did she know?" cried
the prince.
"How was I to tell?"
replied Rogojin, with an angry laugh. "I did my best to
catch her tripping in Moscow, but did not succeed. However,
I caught hold of her one day, and said: 'You are engaged to
be married into a respectable family, and do you know what
sort of a woman you are? THAT'S the sort of woman you are,'
I said."
"You told her that?"
"Yes."
"Well, go on."
"She said, 'I wouldn't even
have you for a footman now, much less for a husband.' 'I
shan't leave the house,' I said, 'so it doesn't matter.'
'Then I shall call somebody and have you kicked out,' she
cried. So then I rushed at her, and beat her till she was
bruised all over."
"Impossible!" cried the
prince, aghast.
"I tell you it's true,"
said Rogojin quietly, but with eyes ablaze with passion.
"Then for a day and a half
I neither slept, nor ate, nor drank, and would not leave
her. I knelt at her feet: 'I shall die here,' I said, 'if
you don't forgive me; and if you have me turned out, I shall
drown myself; because, what should I be without you now?'
She was like a madwoman all that day; now she would cry; now
she would threaten me with a knife; now she would abuse me.
She called in Zaleshoff and Keller, and showed me to them,
shamed me in their presence. 'Let's all go to the theatre,'
she says, 'and leave him here if he won't go—it's not my
business. They'll give you some tea, Parfen Semeonovitch,
while I am away, for you must be hungry.' She came back from
the theatre alone. 'Those cowards wouldn't come,' she said.
'They are afraid of you, and tried to frighten me, too. "He
won't go away as he came," they said, "he'll cut your
throat—see if he doesn't." Now, I shall go to my bedroom,
and I shall not even lock my door, just to show you how much
I am afraid of you. You must be shown that once for all. Did
you have tea?' 'No,' I said, 'and I don't intend to.' 'Ha,
ha! you are playing off your pride against your stomach!
That sort of heroism doesn't sit well on you,' she said.
"With that she did as she
had said she would; she went to bed, and did not lock her
door. In the morning she came out. 'Are you quite mad?' she
said, sharply. 'Why, you'll die of hunger like this.'
'Forgive me,' I said. 'No, I won't, and I won't marry you.
I've said it. Surely you haven't sat in this chair all night
without sleeping?' 'I didn't sleep,' I said. 'H'm! how
sensible of you. And are you going to have no breakfast or
dinner today?' 'I told you I wouldn't. Forgive me!' 'You've
no idea how unbecoming this sort of thing is to you,' she
said, 'it's like putting a saddle on a cow's back. Do you
think you are frightening me? My word, what a dreadful thing
that you should sit here and eat no food! How terribly
frightened I am!' She wasn't angry long, and didn't seem to
remember my offence at all. I was surprised, for she is a
vindictive, resentful woman—but then I thought that perhaps
she despised me too much to feel any resentment against me.
And that's the truth.
"She came up to me and
said, 'Do you know who the Pope of Rome is?' 'I've heard of
him,' I said. 'I suppose you've read the Universal History,
Parfen Semeonovitch, haven't you?' she asked. 'I've learned
nothing at all,' I said. 'Then I'll lend it to you to read.
You must know there was a Roman Pope once, and he was very
angry with a certain Emperor; so the Emperor came and
neither ate nor drank, but knelt before the Pope's palace
till he should be forgiven. And what sort of vows do you
think that Emperor was making during all those days on his
knees? Stop, I'll read it to you!' Then she read me a lot of
verses, where it said that the Emperor spent all the time
vowing vengeance against the Pope. 'You don't mean to say
you don't approve of the poem, Parfen Semeonovitch,' she
says. 'All you have read out is perfectly true,' say I.
'Aha!' says she, 'you admit it's true, do you? And you are
making vows to yourself that if I marry you, you will remind
me of all this, and take it out of me.' 'I don't know,' I
say, 'perhaps I was thinking like that, and perhaps I was
not. I'm not thinking of anything just now.' 'What are your
thoughts, then?' 'I'm thinking that when you rise from your
chair and go past me, I watch you, and follow you with my
eyes; if your dress does but rustle, my heart sinks; if you
leave the room, I remember every little word and action, and
what your voice sounded like, and what you said. I thought
of nothing all last night, but sat here listening to your
sleeping breath, and heard you move a little, twice.' 'And
as for your attack upon me,' she says, 'I suppose you never
once thought of THAT?' 'Perhaps I did think of it, and
perhaps not,' I say. And what if I don't either forgive you
or marry, you' 'I tell you I shall go and drown myself.'
'H'm!' she said, and then relapsed into silence. Then she
got angry, and went out. 'I suppose you'd murder me before
you drowned yourself, though!' she cried as she left the
room.
"An hour later, she came to
me again, looking melancholy. 'I will marry you, Parfen
Semeonovitch,' she says, not because I'm frightened of you,
but because it's all the same to me how I ruin myself. And
how can I do it better? Sit down; they'll bring you some
dinner directly. And if I do marry you, I'll be a faithful
wife to you—you need not doubt that.' Then she thought a
bit, and said, 'At all events, you are not a flunkey; at
first, I thought you were no better than a flunkey.' And she
arranged the wedding and fixed the day straight away on the
spot.
"Then, in another week, she
had run away again, and came here to Lebedeff's; and when I
found her here, she said to me, 'I'm not going to renounce
you altogether, but I wish to put off the wedding a bit
longer yet—just as long as I like—for I am still my own
mistress; so you may wait, if you like.' That's how the
matter stands between us now. What do you think of all this,
Lef Nicolaievitch?"
"'What do you think of it
yourself?" replied the prince, looking sadly at Rogojin.
"As if I can think anything
about it! I—" He was about to say more, but stopped in
despair.
The prince rose again, as
if he would leave.
"At all events, I shall not
interfere with you!" he murmured, as though making answer to
some secret thought of his own.
"I'll tell you what!" cried
Rogojin, and his eyes flashed fire. "I can't understand your
yielding her to me like this; I don't understand it. Have
you given up loving her altogether? At first you suffered
badly—I know it—I saw it. Besides, why did you come
post-haste after us? Out of pity, eh? He, he, he!" His mouth
curved in a mocking smile.
"Do you think I am
deceiving you?" asked the prince.
"No! I trust you—but I
can't understand. It seems to me that your pity is greater
than my love." A hungry longing to speak his mind out seemed
to flash in the man's eyes, combined with an intense anger.
"Your love is mingled with
hatred, and therefore, when your love passes, there will be
the greater misery," said the prince. "I tell you this,
Parfen—"
"What! that I'll cut her
throat, you mean?"
The prince shuddered.
"You'll hate her afterwards
for all your present love, and for all the torment you are
suffering on her account now. What seems to me the most
extraordinary thing is, that she can again consent to marry
you, after all that has passed between you. When I heard the
news yesterday, I could hardly bring myself to believe it.
Why, she has run twice from you, from the very altar rails,
as it were. She must have some presentiment of evil. What
can she want with you now? Your money? Nonsense! Besides, I
should think you must have made a fairly large hole in your
fortune already. Surely it is not because she is so very
anxious to find a husband? She could find many a one besides
yourself. Anyone would be better than you, because you will
murder her, and I feel sure she must know that but too well
by now. Is it because you love her so passionately? Indeed,
that may be it. I have heard that there are women who want
just that kind of love... but still..." The prince paused,
reflectively.
"What are you grinning at
my father's portrait again for?" asked Rogojin, suddenly. He
was carefully observing every change in the expression of
the prince's face.
"I smiled because the idea
came into my head that if it were not for this unhappy
passion of yours you might have, and would have, become just
such a man as your father, and that very quickly, too. You'd
have settled down in this house of yours with some silent
and obedient wife. You would have spoken rarely, trusted no
one, heeded no one, and thought of nothing but making
money."
"Laugh away! She said
exactly the same, almost word for word, when she saw my
father's portrait. It's remarkable how entirely you and she
are at one now-a-days."
"What, has she been here?"
asked the prince with curiosity.
"Yes! She looked long at
the portrait and asked all about my father. 'You'd be just
such another,' she said at last, and laughed. 'You have such
strong passions, Parfen,' she said, 'that they'd have taken
you to Siberia in no time if you had not, luckily,
intelligence as well. For you have a good deal of
intelligence.' (She said this—believe it or not. The first
time I ever heard anything of that sort from her.) 'You'd
soon have thrown up all this rowdyism that you indulge in
now, and you'd have settled down to quiet, steady
money-making, because you have little education; and here
you'd have stayed just like your father before you. And
you'd have loved your money so that you'd amass not two
million, like him, but ten million; and you'd have died of
hunger on your money bags to finish up with, for you carry
everything to extremes.' There, that's exactly word for word
as she said it to me. She never talked to me like that
before. She always talks nonsense and laughs when she's with
me. We went all over this old house together. 'I shall
change all this,' I said, 'or else I'll buy a new house for
the wedding.' 'No, no!' she said, 'don't touch anything;
leave it all as it is; I shall live with your mother when I
marry you.'
"I took her to see my
mother, and she was as respectful and kind as though she
were her own daughter. Mother has been almost demented ever
since father died—she's an old woman. She sits and bows from
her chair to everyone she sees. If you left her alone and
didn't feed her for three days, I don't believe she would
notice it. Well, I took her hand, and I said, 'Give your
blessing to this lady, mother, she's going to be my wife.'
So Nastasia kissed mother's hand with great feeling. 'She
must have suffered terribly, hasn't she?' she said. She saw
this book here lying before me. 'What! have you begun to
read Russian history?' she asked. She told me once in
Moscow, you know, that I had better get Solovieff's Russian
History and read it, because I knew nothing. 'That's good,'
she said, 'you go on like that, reading books. I'll make you
a list myself of the books you ought to read first—shall I?'
She had never once spoken to me like this before; it was the
first time I felt I could breathe before her like a living
creature."
"I'm very, very glad to
hear of this, Parfen," said the prince, with real feeling.
"Who knows? Maybe God will yet bring you near to one
another."
"Never, never!" cried
Rogojin, excitedly.
"Look here, Parfen; if you
love her so much, surely you must be anxious to earn her
respect? And if you do so wish, surely you may hope to? I
said just now that I considered it extraordinary that she
could still be ready to marry you. Well, though I cannot yet
understand it, I feel sure she must have some good reason,
or she wouldn't do it. She is sure of your love; but besides
that, she must attribute SOMETHING else to you—some good
qualities, otherwise the thing would not be. What you have
just said confirms my words. You say yourself that she found
it possible to speak to you quite differently from her usual
manner. You are suspicious, you know, and jealous, therefore
when anything annoying happens to you, you exaggerate its
significance. Of course, of course, she does not think so
ill of you as you say. Why, if she did, she would simply be
walking to death by drowning or by the knife, with her eyes
wide open, when she married you. It is impossible! As if
anybody would go to their death deliberately!"
Rogojin listened to the
prince's excited words with a bitter smile. His conviction
was, apparently, unalterable.
"How dreadfully you look at
me, Parfen!" said the prince, with a feeling of dread.
"Water or the knife?" said
the latter, at last. "Ha, ha—that's exactly why she is going
to marry me, because she knows for certain that the knife
awaits her. Prince, can it be that you don't even yet see
what's at the root of it all?"
"I don't understand you."
"Perhaps he really doesn't
understand me! They do say that you are a—you know what! She
loves another—there, you can understand that much! Just as I
love her, exactly so she loves another man. And that other
man is—do you know who? It's you. There—you didn't know
that, eh?"
"I?"
"You, you! She has loved
you ever since that day, her birthday! Only she thinks she
cannot marry you, because it would be the ruin of you.
'Everybody knows what sort of a woman I am,' she says. She
told me all this herself, to my very face! She's afraid of
disgracing and ruining you, she says, but it doesn't matter
about me. She can marry me all right! Notice how much
consideration she shows for me!"
"But why did she run away
to me, and then again from me to—"
"From you to me? Ha, ha!
that's nothing! Why, she always acts as though she were in a
delirium now-a-days! Either she says, 'Come on, I'll marry
you! Let's have the wedding quickly!' and fixes the day, and
seems in a hurry for it, and when it begins to come near she
feels frightened; or else some other idea gets into her
head—goodness knows! you've seen her—you know how she goes
on—laughing and crying and raving! There's nothing
extraordinary about her having run away from you! She ran
away because she found out how dearly she loved you. She
could not bear to be near you. You said just now that I had
found her at Moscow, when she ran away from you. I didn't do
anything of the sort; she came to me herself, straight from
you. 'Name the day—I'm ready!' she said. 'Let's have some
champagne, and go and hear the gipsies sing!' I tell you
she'd have thrown herself into the water long ago if it were
not for me! She doesn't do it because I am, perhaps, even
more dreadful to her than the water! She's marrying me out
of spite; if she marries me, I tell you, it will be for
spite!"
"But how do you, how can
you—" began the prince, gazing with dread and horror at
Rogojin.
"Why don't you finish your
sentence? Shall I tell you what you were thinking to
yourself just then? You were thinking, 'How can she marry
him after this? How can it possibly be permitted?' Oh, I
know what you were thinking about!"
"I didn't come here for
that purpose, Parfen. That was not in my mind—"
"That may be! Perhaps you
didn't COME with the idea, but the idea is certainly there
NOW! Ha, ha! well, that's enough! What are you upset about?
Didn't you really know it all before? You astonish me!"
"All this is mere
jealousy—it is some malady of yours, Parfen! You exaggerate
everything," said the prince, excessively agitated. "What
are you doing?"
"Let go of it!" said
Parfen, seizing from the prince's hand a knife which the
latter had at that moment taken up from the table, where it
lay beside the history. Parfen replaced it where it had
been.
"I seemed to know it—I felt
it, when I was coming back to Petersburg," continued the
prince, "I did not want to come, I wished to forget all
this, to uproot it from my memory altogether! Well,
good-bye—what is the matter?"
He had absently taken up
the knife a second time, and again Rogojin snatched it from
his hand, and threw it down on the table. It was a plain
looking knife, with a bone handle, a blade about eight
inches long, and broad in proportion, it did not clasp.
Seeing that the prince was
considerably struck by the fact that he had twice seized
this knife out of his hand, Rogojin caught it up with some
irritation, put it inside the book, and threw the latter
across to another table.
"Do you cut your pages with
it, or what?" asked Muishkin, still rather absently, as
though unable to throw off a deep preoccupation into which
the conversation had thrown him.
"Yes."
"It's a garden knife, isn't
it?"
"Yes. Can't one cut pages
with a garden knife?"
"It's quite new."
"Well, what of that? Can't
I buy a new knife if I like?" shouted Rogojin furiously, his
irritation growing with every word.
The prince shuddered, and
gazed fixedly at Parfen. Suddenly he burst out laughing.
"Why, what an idea!" he
said. "I didn't mean to ask you any of these questions; I
was thinking of something quite different! But my head is
heavy, and I seem so absent-minded nowadays! Well,
good-bye—I can't remember what I wanted to say—good-bye!"
"Not that way," said
Rogojin.
"There, I've forgotten that
too!"
"This way—come along—I'll
show you."
IV.
THEY passed through the
same rooms which the prince had traversed on his arrival. In
the largest there were pictures on the walls, portraits and
landscapes of little interest. Over the door, however, there
was one of strange and rather striking shape; it was six or
seven feet in length, and not more than a foot in height. It
represented the Saviour just taken from the cross.
The prince glanced at it,
but took no further notice. He moved on hastily, as though
anxious to get out of the house. But Rogojin suddenly
stopped underneath the picture.
"My father picked up all
these pictures very cheap at auctions, and so on," he said;
"they are all rubbish, except the one over the door, and
that is valuable. A man offered five hundred roubles for it
last week."
"Yes—that's a copy of a
Holbein," said the prince, looking at it again, "and a good
copy, too, so far as I am able to judge. I saw the picture
abroad, and could not forget it—what's the matter?"
Rogojin had dropped the
subject of the picture and walked on. Of course his strange
frame of mind was sufficient to account for his conduct;
but, still, it seemed queer to the prince that he should so
abruptly drop a conversation commenced by himself. Rogojin
did not take any notice of his question.
"Lef Nicolaievitch," said
Rogojin, after a pause, during which the two walked along a
little further, "I have long wished to ask you, do you
believe in God?"
"How strangely you speak,
and how odd you look!" said the other, involuntarily.
"I like looking at that
picture," muttered Rogojin, not noticing, apparently, that
the prince had not answered his question.
"That picture! That
picture!" cried Muishkin, struck by a sudden idea. "Why, a
man's faith might be ruined by looking at that picture!"
"So it is!" said Rogojin,
unexpectedly. They had now reached the front door.
The prince stopped.
"How?" he said. "What do
you mean? I was half joking, and you took me up quite
seriously! Why do you ask me whether I believe in God?"
"Oh, no particular reason.
I meant to ask you before—many people are unbelievers
nowadays, especially Russians, I have been told. You ought
to know—you've lived abroad."
Rogojin laughed bitterly as
he said these words, and opening the door, held it for the
prince to pass out. Muishkin looked surprised, but went out.
The other followed him as far as the landing of the outer
stairs, and shut the door behind him. They both now stood
facing one another, as though oblivious of where they were,
or what they had to do next.
"Well, good-bye!" said the
prince, holding out his hand.
"Good-bye," said Rogojin,
pressing it hard, but quite mechanically.
The prince made one step
forward, and then turned round.
"As to faith," he said,
smiling, and evidently unwilling to leave Rogojin in this
state—"as to faith, I had four curious conversations in two
days, a week or so ago. One morning I met a man in the
train, and made acquaintance with him at once. I had often
heard of him as a very learned man, but an atheist; and I
was very glad of the opportunity of conversing with so
eminent and clever a person. He doesn't believe in God, and
he talked a good deal about it, but all the while it
appeared to me that he was speaking OUTSIDE THE SUBJECT. And
it has always struck me, both in speaking to such men and in
reading their books, that they do not seem really to be
touching on that at all, though on the surface they may
appear to do so. I told him this, but I dare say I did not
clearly express what I meant, for he could not understand
me.
"That same evening I
stopped at a small provincial hotel, and it so happened that
a dreadful murder had been committed there the night before,
and everybody was talking about it. Two peasants—elderly men
and old friends—had had tea together there the night before,
and were to occupy the same bedroom. They were not drunk but
one of them had noticed for the first time that his friend
possessed a silver watch which he was wearing on a chain. He
was by no means a thief, and was, as peasants go, a rich
man; but this watch so fascinated him that he could not
restrain himself. He took a knife, and when his friend
turned his back, he came up softly behind, raised his eyes
to heaven, crossed himself, and saying earnestly—'God
forgive me, for Christ's sake!' he cut his friend's throat
like a sheep, and took the watch."
Rogojin roared with
laughter. He laughed as though he were in a sort of fit. It
was strange to see him laughing so after the sombre mood he
had been in just before.
"Oh, I like that! That
beats anything!" he cried convulsively, panting for breath.
"One is an absolute unbeliever; the other is such a
thorough—going believer that he murders his friend to the
tune of a prayer! Oh, prince, prince, that's too good for
anything! You can't have invented it. It's the best thing
I've heard!"
"Next morning I went out
for a stroll through the town," continued the prince, so
soon as Rogojin was a little quieter, though his laughter
still burst out at intervals, "and soon observed a
drunken-looking soldier staggering about the pavement. He
came up to me and said, 'Buy my silver cross, sir! You shall
have it for fourpence—it's real silver.' I looked, and there
he held a cross, just taken off his own neck, evidently, a
large tin one, made after the Byzantine pattern. I fished
out fourpence, and put his cross on my own neck, and I could
see by his face that he was as pleased as he could be at the
thought that he had succeeded in cheating a foolish
gentleman, and away he went to drink the value of his cross.
At that time everything that I saw made a tremendous
impression upon me. I had understood nothing about Russia
before, and had only vague and fantastic memories of it. So
I thought, 'I will wait awhile before I condemn this Judas.
Only God knows what may be hidden in the hearts of
drunkards.'
"Well, I went homewards,
and near the hotel I came across a poor woman, carrying a
child—a baby of some six weeks old. The mother was quite a
girl herself. The baby was smiling up at her, for the first
time in its life, just at that moment; and while I watched
the woman she suddenly crossed herself, oh, so devoutly!
'What is it, my good woman I asked her. (I was never but
asking questions then!) Exactly as is a mother's joy when
her baby smiles for the first time into her eyes, so is
God's joy when one of His children turns and prays to Him
for the first time, with all his heart!' This is what that
poor woman said to me, almost word for word; and such a
deep, refined, truly religious thought it was—a thought in
which the whole essence of Christianity was expressed in one
flash—that is, the recognition of God as our Father, and of
God's joy in men as His own children, which is the chief
idea of Christ. She was a simple country-woman—a mother,
it's true—and perhaps, who knows, she may have been the wife
of the drunken soldier!
"Listen, Parfen; you put a
question to me just now. This is my reply. The essence of
religious feeling has nothing to do with reason, or atheism,
or crime, or acts of any kind—it has nothing to do with
these things—and never had. There is something besides all
this, something which the arguments of the atheists can
never touch. But the principal thing, and the conclusion of
my argument, is that this is most clearly seen in the heart
of a Russian. This is a conviction which I have gained while
I have been in this Russia of ours. Yes, Parfen! there is
work to be done; there is work to be done in this Russian
world! Remember what talks we used to have in Moscow! And I
never wished to come here at all; and I never thought to
meet you like this, Parfen! Well, well—good-bye—good-bye!
God be with you!"
He turned and went
downstairs.
"Lef Nicolaievitch!" cried
Parfen, before he had reached the next landing. "Have you
got that cross you bought from the soldier with you?"
"Yes, I have," and the
prince stopped again.
"Show it me, will you?"
A new fancy! The prince
reflected, and then mounted the stairs once more. He pulled
out the cross without taking it off his neck.
"Give it to me," said
Parfen.
"Why? do you—"
The prince would rather
have kept this particular cross.
"I'll wear it; and you
shall have mine. I'll take it off at once."
"You wish to exchange
crosses? Very well, Parfen, if that's the case, I'm glad
enough—that makes us brothers, you know."
The prince took off his tin
cross, Parfen his gold one, and the exchange was made.
Parfen was silent. With sad
surprise the prince observed that the look of distrust, the
bitter, ironical smile, had still not altogether left his
newly-adopted brother's face. At moments, at all events, it
showed itself but too plainly,
At last Rogojin took the
prince's hand, and stood so for some moments, as though he
could not make up his mind. Then he drew him along,
murmuring almost inaudibly,
"Come!"
They stopped on the
landing, and rang the bell at a door opposite to Parfen's
own lodging.
An old woman opened to them
and bowed low to Parfen, who asked her some questions
hurriedly, but did not wait to hear her answer. He led the
prince on through several dark, cold-looking rooms,
spotlessly clean, with white covers over all the furniture.
Without the ceremony of
knocking, Parfen entered a small apartment, furnished like a
drawing-room, but with a polished mahogany partition
dividing one half of it from what was probably a bedroom. In
one corner of this room sat an old woman in an arm-chair,
close to the stove. She did not look very old, and her face
was a pleasant, round one; but she was white-haired and, as
one could detect at the first glance, quite in her second
childhood. She wore a black woollen dress, with a black
handkerchief round her neck and shoulders, and a white cap
with black ribbons. Her feet were raised on a footstool.
Beside her sat another old woman, also dressed in mourning,
and silently knitting a stocking; this was evidently a
companion. They both looked as though they never broke the
silence. The first old woman, so soon as she saw Rogojin and
the prince, smiled and bowed courteously several times, in
token of her gratification at their visit.
"Mother," said Rogojin,
kissing her hand, "here is my great friend, Prince Muishkin;
we have exchanged crosses; he was like a real brother to me
at Moscow at one time, and did a great deal for me. Bless
him, mother, as you would bless your own son. Wait a moment,
let me arrange your hands for you."
But the old lady, before
Parfen had time to touch her, raised her right hand, and,
with three fingers held up, devoutly made the sign of the
cross three times over the prince. She then nodded her head
kindly at him once more.
"There, come along, Lef
Nicolaievitch; that's all I brought you here for," said
Rogojin.
When they reached the
stairs again he added:
"She understood nothing of
what I said to her, and did not know what I wanted her to
do, and yet she blessed you; that shows she wished to do so
herself. Well, goodbye; it's time you went, and I must go
too."
He opened his own door.
"Well, let me at least
embrace you and say goodbye, you strange fellow!" cried the
prince, looking with gentle reproach at Rogojin, and
advancing towards him. But the latter had hardly raised his
arms when he dropped them again. He could not make up his
mind to it; he turned away from the prince in order to avoid
looking at him. He could not embrace him.
"Don't be afraid," he
muttered, indistinctly, "though I have taken your cross, I
shall not murder you for your watch." So saying, he laughed
suddenly, and strangely. Then in a moment his face became
transfigured; he grew deadly white, his lips trembled, his
eyes burned like fire. He stretched out his arms and held
the prince tightly to him, and said in a strangled voice:
"Well, take her! It's Fate!
She's yours. I surrender her.... Remember Rogojin!" And
pushing the prince from him, without looking back at him, he
hurriedly entered his own flat, and banged the door.
V.
IT was late now, nearly
half-past two, and the prince did not find General Epanchin
at home. He left a card, and determined to look up Colia,
who had a room at a small hotel near. Colia was not in, but
he was informed that he might be back shortly, and had left
word that if he were not in by half-past three it was to be
understood that he had gone to Pavlofsk to General
Epanchin's, and would dine there. The prince decided to wait
till half-past three, and ordered some dinner. At half-past
three there was no sign of Colia. The prince waited until
four o'clock, and then strolled off mechanically wherever
his feet should carry him.
In early summer there are
often magnificent days in St. Petersburg—bright, hot and
still. This happened to be such a day.
For some time the prince
wandered about without aim or object. He did not know the
town well. He stopped to look about him on bridges, at
street corners. He entered a confectioner's shop to rest,
once. He was in a state of nervous excitement and
perturbation; he noticed nothing and no one; and he felt a
craving for solitude, to be alone with his thoughts and his
emotions, and to give himself up to them passively. He
loathed the idea of trying to answer the questions that
would rise up in his heart and mind. "I am not to blame for
all this," he thought to himself, half unconsciously.
Towards six o'clock he
found himself at the station of the Tsarsko-Selski railway.
He was tired of solitude
now; a new rush of feeling took hold of him, and a flood of
light chased away the gloom, for a moment, from his soul. He
took a ticket to Pavlofsk, and determined to get there as
fast as he could, but something stopped him; a reality, and
not a fantasy, as he was inclined to think it. He was about
to take his place in a carriage, when he suddenly threw away
his ticket and came out again, disturbed and thoughtful. A
few moments later, in the street, he recalled something that
had bothered him all the afternoon. He caught himself
engaged in a strange occupation which he now recollected he
had taken up at odd moments for the last few hours—it was
looking about all around him for something, he did not know
what. He had forgotten it for a while, half an hour or so,
and now, suddenly, the uneasy search had recommenced.
But he had hardly become
conscious of this curious phenomenon, when another
recollection suddenly swam through his brain, interesting
him for the moment, exceedingly. He remembered that the last
time he had been engaged in looking around him for the
unknown something, he was standing before a cutler's shop,
in the window of which were exposed certain goods for sale.
He was extremely anxious now to discover whether this shop
and these goods really existed, or whether the whole thing
had been a hallucination.
He felt in a very curious
condition today, a condition similar to that which had
preceded his fits in bygone years.
He remembered that at such
times he had been particularly absentminded, and could not
discriminate between objects and persons unless he
concentrated special attention upon them.
He remembered seeing
something in the window marked at sixty copecks. Therefore,
if the shop existed and if this object were really in the
window, it would prove that he had been able to concentrate
his attention on this article at a moment when, as a general
rule, his absence of mind would have been too great to admit
of any such concentration; in fact, very shortly after he
had left the railway station in such a state of agitation.
So he walked back looking
about him for the shop, and his heart beat with intolerable
impatience. Ah! here was the very shop, and there was the
article marked "60 cop." "Of course, it's sixty copecks," he
thought, and certainly worth no more." This idea amused him
and he laughed.
But it was a hysterical
laugh; he was feeling terribly oppressed. He remembered
clearly that just here, standing before this window, he had
suddenly turned round, just as earlier in the day he had
turned and found the dreadful eyes of Rogojin fixed upon
him. Convinced, therefore, that in this respect at all
events he had been under no delusion, he left the shop and
went on.
This must be thought out;
it was clear that there had been no hallucination at the
station then, either; something had actually happened to
him, on both occasions; there was no doubt of it. But again
a loathing for all mental exertion overmastered him; he
would not think it out now, he would put it off and think of
something else. He remembered that during his epileptic
fits, or rather immediately preceding them, he had always
experienced a moment or two when his whole heart, and mind,
and body seemed to wake up to vigour and light; when he
became filled with joy and hope, and all his anxieties
seemed to be swept away for ever; these moments were but
presentiments, as it were, of the one final second (it was
never more than a second) in which the fit came upon him.
That second, of course, was inexpressible. When his attack
was over, and the prince reflected on his symptoms, he used
to say to himself: "These moments, short as they are, when I
feel such extreme consciousness of myself, and consequently
more of life than at other times, are due only to the
disease—to the sudden rupture of normal conditions.
Therefore they are not really a higher kind of life, but a
lower." This reasoning, however, seemed to end in a paradox,
and lead to the further consideration:—"What matter though
it be only disease, an abnormal tension of the brain, if
when I recall and analyze the moment, it seems to have been
one of harmony and beauty in the highest degree—an instant
of deepest sensation, overflowing with unbounded joy and
rapture, ecstatic devotion, and completest life?" Vague
though this sounds, it was perfectly comprehensible to
Muishkin, though he knew that it was but a feeble expression
of his sensations.
That there was, indeed,
beauty and harmony in those abnormal moments, that they
really contained the highest synthesis of life, he could not
doubt, nor even admit the possibility of doubt. He felt that
they were not analogous to the fantastic and unreal dreams
due to intoxication by hashish, opium or wine. Of that he
could judge, when the attack was over. These instants were
characterized—to define it in a word—by an intense
quickening of the sense of personality. Since, in the last
conscious moment preceding the attack, he could say to
himself, with full understanding of his words: "I would give
my whole life for this one instant," then doubtless to him
it really was worth a lifetime. For the rest, he thought the
dialectical part of his argument of little worth; he saw
only too clearly that the result of these ecstatic moments
was stupefaction, mental darkness, idiocy. No argument was
possible on that point. His conclusion, his estimate of the
"moment," doubtless contained some error, yet the reality of
the sensation troubled him. What's more unanswerable than a
fact? And this fact had occurred. The prince had confessed
unreservedly to himself that the feeling of intense
beatitude in that crowded moment made the moment worth a
lifetime. "I feel then," he said one day to Rogojin in
Moscow, "I feel then as if I understood those amazing
words—'There shall be no more time.'" And he added with a
smile: "No doubt the epileptic Mahomet refers to that same
moment when he says that he visited all the dwellings of
Allah, in less time than was needed to empty his pitcher of
water." Yes, he had often met Rogojin in Moscow, and many
were the subjects they discussed. "He told me I had been a
brother to him," thought the prince. "He said so today, for
the first time."
He was sitting in the
Summer Garden on a seat under a tree, and his mind dwelt on
the matter. It was about seven o'clock, and the place was
empty. The stifling atmosphere foretold a storm, and the
prince felt a certain charm in the contemplative mood which
possessed him. He found pleasure, too, in gazing at the
exterior objects around him. All the time he was trying to
forget some thing, to escape from some idea that haunted
him; but melancholy thoughts came back, though he would so
willingly have escaped from them. He remembered suddenly how
he had been talking to the waiter, while he dined, about a
recently committed murder which the whole town was
discussing, and as he thought of it something strange came
over him. He was seized all at once by a violent desire,
almost a temptation, against which he strove in vain.
He jumped up and walked off
as fast as he could towards the "Petersburg Side." [One of
the quarters of St. Petersburg.] He had asked someone, a
little while before, to show him which was the Petersburg
Side, on the banks of the Neva. He had not gone there,
however; and he knew very well that it was of no use to go
now, for he would certainly not find Lebedeff's relation at
home. He had the address, but she must certainly have gone
to Pavlofsk, or Colia would have let him know. If he were to
go now, it would merely be out of curiosity, but a sudden,
new idea had come into his head.
However, it was something
to move on and know where he was going. A minute later he
was still moving on, but without knowing anything. He could
no longer think out his new idea. He tried to take an
interest in all he saw; in the sky, in the Neva. He spoke to
some children he met. He felt his epileptic condition
becoming more and more developed. The evening was very
close; thunder was heard some way off.
The prince was haunted all
that day by the face of Lebedeff's nephew whom he had seen
for the first time that morning, just as one is haunted at
times by some persistent musical refrain. By a curious
association of ideas, the young man always appeared as the
murderer of whom Lebedeff had spoken when introducing him to
Muishkin. Yes, he had read something about the murder, and
that quite recently. Since he came to Russia, he had heard
many stories of this kind, and was interested in them. His
conversation with the waiter, an hour ago, chanced to be on
the subject of this murder of the Zemarins, and the latter
had agreed with him about it. He thought of the waiter
again, and decided that he was no fool, but a steady,
intelligent man: though, said he to himself, "God knows what
he may really be; in a country with which one is unfamiliar
it is difficult to understand the people one meets." He was
beginning to have a passionate faith in the Russian soul,
however, and what discoveries he had made in the last six
months, what unexpected discoveries! But every soul is a
mystery, and depths of mystery lie in the soul of a Russian.
He had been intimate with Rogojin, for example, and a
brotherly friendship had sprung up between them—yet did he
really know him? What chaos and ugliness fills the world at
times! What a self-satisfied rascal is that nephew of
Lebedeff's! "But what am I thinking," continued the prince
to himself. "Can he really have committed that crime? Did he
kill those six persons? I seem to be confusing things... how
strange it all is.... My head goes round... And Lebedeff's
daughter—how sympathetic and charming her face was as she
held the child in her arms! What an innocent look and
child-like laugh she had! It is curious that I had forgotten
her until now. I expect Lebedeff adores her—and I really
believe, when I think of it, that as sure as two and two
make four, he is fond of that nephew, too!"
Well, why should he judge
them so hastily! Could he really say what they were, after
one short visit? Even Lebedeff seemed an enigma today. Did
he expect to find him so? He had never seen him like that
before. Lebedeff and the Comtesse du Barry! Good Heavens! If
Rogojin should really kill someone, it would not, at any
rate, be such a senseless, chaotic affair. A knife made to a
special pattern, and six people killed in a kind of
delirium. But Rogojin also had a knife made to a special
pattern. Can it be that Rogojin wishes to murder anyone? The
prince began to tremble violently. "It is a crime on my part
to imagine anything so base, with such cynical frankness."
His face reddened with shame at the thought; and then there
came across him as in a flash the memory of the incidents at
the Pavlofsk station, and at the other station in the
morning; and the question asked him by Rogojin about THE
EYES and Rogojin's cross, that he was even now wearing; and
the benediction of Rogojin's mother; and his embrace on the
darkened staircase—that last supreme renunciation—and now,
to find himself full of this new "idea," staring into
shop-windows, and looking round for things—how base he was!
Despair overmastered his
soul; he would not go on, he would go back to his hotel; he
even turned and went the other way; but a moment after he
changed his mind again and went on in the old direction.
Why, here he was on the
Petersburg Side already, quite close to the house! Where was
his "idea"? He was marching along without it now. Yes, his
malady was coming back, it was clear enough; all this gloom
and heaviness, all these "ideas," were nothing more nor less
than a fit coming on; perhaps he would have a fit this very
day.
But just now all the gloom
and darkness had fled, his heart felt full of joy and hope,
there was no such thing as doubt. And yes, he hadn't seen
her for so long; he really must see her. He wished he could
meet Rogojin; he would take his hand, and they would go to
her together. His heart was pure, he was no rival of
Parfen's. Tomorrow, he would go and tell him that he had
seen her. Why, he had only come for the sole purpose of
seeing her, all the way from Moscow! Perhaps she might be
here still, who knows? She might not have gone away to
Pavlofsk yet.
Yes, all this must be put
straight and above-board, there must be no more passionate
renouncements, such as Rogojin's. It must all be clear as
day. Cannot Rogojin's soul bear the light? He said he did
not love her with sympathy and pity; true, he added that
"your pity is greater than my love," but he was not quite
fair on himself there. Kin! Rogojin reading a book—wasn't
that sympathy beginning? Did it not show that he
comprehended his relations with her? And his story of
waiting day and night for her forgiveness? That didn't look
quite like passion alone.
And as to her face, could
it inspire nothing but passion? Could her face inspire
passion at all now? Oh, it inspired suffering, grief,
overwhelming grief of the soul! A poignant, agonizing memory
swept over the prince's heart.
Yes, agonizing. He
remembered how he had suffered that first day when he
thought he observed in her the symptoms of madness. He had
almost fallen into despair. How could he have lost his hold
upon her when she ran away from him to Rogojin? He ought to
have run after her himself, rather than wait for news as he
had done. Can Rogojin have failed to observe, up to now,
that she is mad? Rogojin attributes her strangeness to other
causes, to passion! What insane jealousy! What was it he had
hinted at in that suggestion of his? The prince suddenly
blushed, and shuddered to his very heart.
But why recall all this?
There was insanity on both sides. For him, the prince, to
love this woman with passion, was unthinkable. It would be
cruel and inhuman. Yes. Rogojin is not fair to himself; he
has a large heart; he has aptitude for sympathy. When he
learns the truth, and finds what a pitiable being is this
injured, broken, half-insane creature, he will forgive her
all the torment she has caused him. He will become her
slave, her brother, her friend. Compassion will teach even
Rogojin, it will show him how to reason. Compassion is the
chief law of human existence. Oh, how guilty he felt towards
Rogojin! And, for a few warm, hasty words spoken in Moscow,
Parfen had called him "brother," while he—but no, this was
delirium! It would all come right! That gloomy Parfen had
implied that his faith was waning; he must suffer
dreadfully. He said he liked to look at that picture; it was
not that he liked it, but he felt the need of looking at it.
Rogojin was not merely a passionate soul; he was a fighter.
He was fighting for the restoration of his dying faith. He
must have something to hold on to and believe, and someone
to believe in. What a strange picture that of Holbein's is!
Why, this is the street, and here's the house, No. 16.
The prince rang the bell,
and asked for Nastasia Philipovna. The lady of the house
came out, and stated that Nastasia had gone to stay with
Daria Alexeyevna at Pavlofsk, and might be there some days.
Madame Filisoff was a
little woman of forty, with a cunning face, and crafty,
piercing eyes. When, with an air of mystery, she asked her
visitor's name, he refused at first to answer, but in a
moment he changed his mind, and left strict instructions
that it should be given to Nastasia Philipovna. The urgency
of his request seemed to impress Madame Filisoff, and she
put on a knowing expression, as if to say, "You need not be
afraid, I quite understand." The prince's name evidently was
a great surprise to her. He stood and looked absently at her
for a moment, then turned, and took the road back to his
hotel. But he went away not as he came. A great change had
suddenly come over him. He went blindly forward; his knees
shook under him; he was tormented by "ideas"; his lips were
blue, and trembled with a feeble, meaningless smile. His
demon was upon him once more.
What had happened to him?
Why was his brow clammy with drops of moisture, his knees
shaking beneath him, and his soul oppressed with a cold
gloom? Was it because he had just seen these dreadful eyes
again? Why, he had left the Summer Garden on purpose to see
them; that had been his "idea." He had wished to assure
himself that he would see them once more at that house. Then
why was he so overwhelmed now, having seen them as he
expected? just as though he had not expected to see them!
Yes, they were the very same eyes; and no doubt about it.
The same that he had seen in the crowd that morning at the
station, the same that he had surprised in Rogojin's rooms
some hours later, when the latter had replied to his inquiry
with a sneering laugh, "Well, whose eyes were they?" Then
for the third time they had appeared just as he was getting
into the train on his way to see Aglaya. He had had a strong
impulse to rush up to Rogojin, and repeat his words of the
morning "Whose eyes are they?" Instead he had fled from the
station, and knew nothing more, until he found himself
gazing into the window of a cutler's shop, and wondering if
a knife with a staghorn handle would cost more than sixty
copecks. And as the prince sat dreaming in the Summer Garden
under a lime-tree, a wicked demon had come and whispered in
his car: "Rogojin has been spying upon you and watching you
all the morning in a frenzy of desperation. When he finds
you have not gone to Pavlofsk—a terrible discovery for
him—he will surely go at once to that house in Petersburg
Side, and watch for you there, although only this morning
you gave your word of honour not to see HER, and swore that
you had not come to Petersburg for that purpose." And
thereupon the prince had hastened off to that house, and
what was there in the fact that he had met Rogojin there? He
had only seen a wretched, suffering creature, whose state of
mind was gloomy and miserable, but most comprehensible. In
the morning Rogojin had seemed to be trying to keep out of
the way; but at the station this afternoon he had stood out,
he had concealed himself, indeed, less than the prince
himself; at the house, now, he had stood fifty yards off on
the other side of the road, with folded hands, watching,
plainly in view and apparently desirous of being seen. He
had stood there like an accuser, like a judge, not like a—a
what?
And why had not the prince
approached him and spoken to him, instead of turning away
and pretending he had seen nothing, although their eyes met?
(Yes, their eyes had met, and they had looked at each
other.) Why, he had himself wished to take Rogojin by the
hand and go in together, he had himself determined to go to
him on the morrow and tell him that he had seen her, he had
repudiated the demon as he walked to the house, and his
heart had been full of joy.
Was there something in the
whole aspect of the man, today, sufficient to justify the
prince's terror, and the awful suspicions of his demon?
Something seen, but indescribable, which filled him with
dreadful presentiments? Yes, he was convinced of
it—convinced of what? (Oh, how mean and hideous of him to
feel this conviction, this presentiment! How he blamed
himself for it!) "Speak if you dare, and tell me, what is
the presentiment?" he repeated to himself, over and over
again. "Put it into words, speak out clearly and distinctly.
Oh, miserable coward that I am!" The prince flushed with
shame for his own baseness. "How shall I ever look this man
in the face again? My God, what a day! And what a nightmare,
what a nightmare!"
There was a moment, during
this long, wretched walk back from the Petersburg Side, when
the prince felt an irresistible desire to go straight to
Rogojin's, wait for him, embrace him with tears of shame and
contrition, and tell him of his distrust, and finish with
it—once for all.
But here he was back at his
hotel.
How often during the day he
had thought of this hotel with loathing—its corridor, its
rooms, its stairs. How he had dreaded coming back to it, for
some reason.
"What a regular old woman I
am today," he had said to himself each time, with annoyance.
"I believe in every foolish presentiment that comes into my
head."
He stopped for a moment at
the door; a great flush of shame came over him. "I am a
coward, a wretched coward," he said, and moved forward
again; but once more he paused.
Among all the incidents of
the day, one recurred to his mind to the exclusion of the
rest; although now that his self-control was regained, and
he was no longer under the influence of a nightmare, he was
able to think of it calmly. It concerned the knife on
Rogojin's table. "Why should not Rogojin have as many knives
on his table as he chooses?" thought the prince, wondering
at his suspicions, as he had done when he found himself
looking into the cutler's window. "What could it have to do
with me?" he said to himself again, and stopped as if rooted
to the ground by a kind of paralysis of limb such as attacks
people under the stress of some humiliating recollection.
The doorway was dark and
gloomy at any time; but just at this moment it was rendered
doubly so by the fact that the thunder-storm had just
broken, and the rain was coming down in torrents.
And in the semi-darkness
the prince distinguished a man standing close to the stairs,
apparently waiting.
There was nothing
particularly significant in the fact that a man was standing
back in the doorway, waiting to come out or go upstairs; but
the prince felt an irresistible conviction that he knew this
man, and that it was Rogojin. The man moved on up the
stairs; a moment later the prince passed up them, too. His
heart froze within him. "In a minute or two I shall know
all," he thought.
The staircase led to the
first and second corridors of the hotel, along which lay the
guests' bedrooms. As is often the case in Petersburg houses,
it was narrow and very dark, and turned around a massive
stone column.
On the first landing, which
was as small as the necessary turn of the stairs allowed,
there was a niche in the column, about half a yard wide, and
in this niche the prince felt convinced that a man stood
concealed. He thought he could distinguish a figure standing
there. He would pass by quickly and not look. He took a step
forward, but could bear the uncertainty no longer and turned
his head.
The eyes—the same two
eyes—met his! The man concealed in the niche had also taken
a step forward. For one second they stood face to face.
Suddenly the prince caught
the man by the shoulder and twisted him round towards the
light, so that he might see his face more clearly.
Rogojin's eyes flashed, and
a smile of insanity distorted his countenance. His right
hand was raised, and something glittered in it. The prince
did not think of trying to stop it. All he could remember
afterwards was that he seemed to have called out:
"Parfen! I won't believe
it."
Next moment something
appeared to burst open before him: a wonderful inner light
illuminated his soul. This lasted perhaps half a second, yet
he distinctly remembered hearing the beginning of the wail,
the strange, dreadful wail, which burst from his lips of its
own accord, and which no effort of will on his part could
suppress.
Next moment he was
absolutely unconscious; black darkness blotted out
everything.
He had fallen in an
epileptic fit.
As is well known, these
fits occur instantaneously. The face, especially the eyes,
become terribly disfigured, convulsions seize the limbs, a
terrible cry breaks from the sufferer, a wail from which
everything human seems to be blotted out, so that it is
impossible to believe that the man who has just fallen is
the same who emitted the dreadful cry. It seems more as
though some other being, inside the stricken one, had cried.
Many people have borne witness to this impression; and many
cannot behold an epileptic fit without a feeling of
mysterious terror and dread.
Such a feeling, we must
suppose, overtook Rogojin at this moment, and saved the
prince's life. Not knowing that it was a fit, and seeing his
victim disappear head foremost into the darkness, hearing
his head strike the stone steps below with a crash, Rogojin
rushed downstairs, skirting the body, and flung himself
headlong out of the hotel, like a raving madman.
The prince's body slipped
convulsively down the steps till it rested at the bottom.
Very soon, in five minutes or so, he was discovered, and a
crowd collected around him.
A pool of blood on the
steps near his head gave rise to grave fears. Was it a case
of accident, or had there been a crime? It was, however,
soon recognized as a case of epilepsy, and identification
and proper measures for restoration followed one another,
owing to a fortunate circumstance. Colia Ivolgin had come
back to his hotel about seven o'clock, owing to a sudden
impulse which made him refuse to dine at the Epanchins',
and, finding a note from the prince awaiting him, had sped
away to the latter's address. Arrived there, he ordered a
cup of tea and sat sipping it in the coffee-room. While
there he heard excited whispers of someone just found at the
bottom of the stairs in a fit; upon which he had hurried to
the spot, with a presentiment of evil, and at once
recognized the prince.
The sufferer was
immediately taken to his room, and though he partially
regained consciousness, he lay long in a semi-dazed
condition.
The doctor stated that
there was no danger to be apprehended from the wound on the
head, and as soon as the prince could understand what was
going on around him, Colia hired a carriage and took him
away to Lebedeff's. There he was received with much
cordiality, and the departure to the country was hastened on
his account. Three days later they were all at Pavlofsk.
VI.
LEBEDEFF'S country-house
was not large, but it was pretty and convenient, especially
the part which was let to the prince.
A row of orange and lemon
trees and jasmines, planted in green tubs, stood on the
fairly wide terrace. According to Lebedeff, these trees gave
the house a most delightful aspect. Some were there when he
bought it, and he was so charmed with the effect that he
promptly added to their number. When the tubs containing
these plants arrived at the villa and were set in their
places, Lebedeff kept running into the street to enjoy the
view of the house, and every time he did so the rent to be
demanded from the future tenant went up with a bound.
This country villa pleased
the prince very much in his state of physical and mental
exhaustion. On the day that they left for Pavlofsk, that is
the day after his attack, he appeared almost well, though in
reality he felt very far from it. The faces of those around
him for the last three days had made a pleasant impression.
He was pleased to see, not only Colia, who had become his
inseparable companion, but Lebedeff himself and all the
family, except the nephew, who had left the house. He was
also glad to receive a visit from General Ivolgin, before
leaving St. Petersburg.
It was getting late when
the party arrived at Pavlofsk, but several people called to
see the prince, and assembled in the verandah. Gania was the
first to arrive. He had grown so pale and thin that the
prince could hardly recognize him. Then came Varia and
Ptitsin, who were rusticating in the neighbourhood. As to
General Ivolgin, he scarcely budged from Lebedeff's house,
and seemed to have moved to Pavlofsk with him. Lebedeff did
his best to keep Ardalion Alexandrovitch by him, and to
prevent him from invading the prince's quarters. He chatted
with him confidentially, so that they might have been taken
for old friends. During those three days the prince had
noticed that they frequently held long conversations; he
often heard their voices raised in argument on deep and
learned subjects, which evidently pleased Lebedeff. He
seemed as if he could not do without the general. But it was
not only Ardalion Alexandrovitch whom Lebedeff kept out of
the prince's way. Since they had come to the villa, he
treated his own family the same. Upon the pretext that his
tenant needed quiet, he kept him almost in isolation, and
Muishkin protested in vain against this excess of zeal.
Lebedeff stamped his feet at his daughters and drove them
away if they attempted to join the prince on the terrace;
not even Vera was excepted.
"They will lose all respect
if they are allowed to be so free and easy; besides it is
not proper for them," he declared at last, in answer to a
direct question from the prince.
"Why on earth not?" asked
the latter. "Really, you know, you are making yourself a
nuisance, by keeping guard over me like this. I get bored
all by myself; I have told you so over and over again, and
you get on my nerves more than ever by waving your hands and
creeping in and out in the mysterious way you do."
It was a fact that
Lebedeff, though he was so anxious to keep everyone else
from disturbing the patient, was continually in and out of
the prince's room himself. He invariably began by opening
the door a crack and peering in to see if the prince was
there, or if he had escaped; then he would creep softly up
to the arm-chair, sometimes making Muishkin jump by his
sudden appearance. He always asked if the patient wanted
anything, and when the latter replied that he only wanted to
be left in peace, he would turn away obediently and make for
the door on tip-toe, with deprecatory gestures to imply that
he had only just looked in, that he would not speak a word,
and would go away and not intrude again; which did not
prevent him from reappearing in ten minutes or a quarter of
an hour. Colia had free access to the prince, at which
Lebedeff was quite disgusted and indignant. He would listen
at the door for half an hour at a time while the two were
talking. Colia found this out, and naturally told the prince
of his discovery.
"Do you think yourself my
master, that you try to keep me under lock and key like
this?" said the prince to Lebedeff. "In the country, at
least, I intend to be free, and you may make up your mind
that I mean to see whom I like, and go where I please."
"Why, of course," replied
the clerk, gesticulating with his hands.
The prince looked him
sternly up and down.
"Well, Lukian
Timofeyovitch, have you brought the little cupboard that you
had at the head of your bed with you here?"
"No, I left it where it
was."
"Impossible!"
"It cannot be moved; you
would have to pull the wall down, it is so firmly fixed."
"Perhaps you have one like
it here?"
"I have one that is even
better, much better; that is really why I bought this
house."
"Ah! What visitor did you
turn away from my door, about an hour ago?"
"The-the general. I would
not let him in; there is no need for him to visit you,
prince... I have the deepest esteem for him, he is a—a great
man. You don't believe it? Well, you will see, and yet, most
excellent prince, you had much better not receive him."
"May I ask why? and also
why you walk about on tiptoe and always seem as if you were
going to whisper a secret in my ear whenever you come near
me?"
"I am vile, vile; I know
it!" cried Lebedeff, beating his breast with a contrite air.
"But will not the general be too hospitable for you?"
"Too hospitable?"
"Yes. First, he proposes to
come and live in my house. Well and good; but he sticks at
nothing; he immediately makes himself one of the family. We
have talked over our respective relations several times, and
discovered that we are connected by marriage. It seems also
that you are a sort of nephew on his mother's side; he was
explaining it to me again only yesterday. If you are his
nephew, it follows that I must also be a relation of yours,
most excellent prince. Never mind about that, it is only a
foible; but just now he assured me that all his life, from
the day he was made an ensign to the 11th of last June, he
has entertained at least two hundred guests at his table
every day. Finally, he went so far as to say that they never
rose from the table; they dined, supped, and had tea, for
fifteen hours at a stretch. This went on for thirty years
without a break; there was barely time to change the
table-cloth; directly one person left, another took his
place. On feast-days he entertained as many as three hundred
guests, and they numbered seven hundred on the thousandth
anniversary of the foundation of the Russian Empire. It
amounts to a passion with him; it makes one uneasy to hear
of it. It is terrible to have to entertain people who do
things on such a scale. That is why I wonder whether such a
man is not too hospitable for you and me."
"But you seem to be on the
best of terms with him?"
"Quite fraternal—I look
upon it as a joke. Let us be brothers-in-law, it is all the
same to me,—rather an honour than not. But in spite of the
two hundred guests and the thousandth anniversary of the
Russian Empire, I can see that he is a very remarkable man.
I am quite sincere. You said just now that I always looked
as if I was going to tell you a secret; you are right. I
have a secret to tell you: a certain person has just let me
know that she is very anxious for a secret interview with
you."
"Why should it be secret?
Not at all; I will call on her myself tomorrow."
"No, oh no!" cried
Lebedeff, waving his arms; "if she is afraid, it is not for
the reason you think. By the way, do you know that the
monster comes every day to inquire after your health?"
"You call him a monster so
often that it makes me suspicious."
"You must have no
suspicions, none whatever," said Lebedeff quickly. "I only
want you to know that the person in question is not afraid
of him, but of something quite, quite different."
"What on earth is she
afraid of, then? Tell me plainly, without any more beating
about the bush," said the prince, exasperated by the other's
mysterious grimaces.
"Ah that is the secret,"
said Lebedeff, with a smile.
"Whose secret?"
"Yours. You forbade me
yourself to mention it before you, most excellent prince,"
murmured Lebedeff. Then, satisfied that he had worked up
Muishkin's curiosity to the highest pitch, he added
abruptly: "She is afraid of Aglaya Ivanovna."
The prince frowned for a
moment in silence, and then said suddenly:
"Really, Lebedeff, I must
leave your house. Where are Gavrila Ardalionovitch and the
Ptitsins? Are they here? Have you chased them away, too?"
"They are coming, they are
coming; and the general as well. I will open all the doors;
I will call all my daughters, all of them, this very
minute," said Lebedeff in a low voice, thoroughly
frightened, and waving his hands as he ran from door to
door.
At that moment Colia
appeared on the terrace; he announced that Lizabetha
Prokofievna and her three daughters were close behind him.
Moved by this news,
Lebedeff hurried up to the prince.
"Shall I call the Ptitsins,
and Gavrila Ardalionovitch? Shall I let the general in?" he
asked.
"Why not? Let in anyone who
wants to see me. I assure you, Lebedeff, you have
misunderstood my position from the very first; you have been
wrong all along. I have not the slightest reason to hide
myself from anyone," replied the prince gaily.
Seeing him laugh, Lebedeff
thought fit to laugh also, and though much agitated his
satisfaction was quite visible.
Colia was right; the
Epanchin ladies were only a few steps behind him. As they
approached the terrace other visitors appeared from
Lebedeff's side of the house-the Ptitsins, Gania, and
Ardalion Alexandrovitch.
The Epanchins had only just
heard of the prince's illness and of his presence in
Pavlofsk, from Colia; and up to this time had been in a
state of considerable bewilderment about him. The general
brought the prince's card down from town, and Mrs. Epanchin
had felt convinced that he himself would follow his card at
once; she was much excited.
In vain the girls assured
her that a man who had not written for six months would not
be in such a dreadful hurry, and that probably he had enough
to do in town without needing to bustle down to Pavlofsk to
see them. Their mother was quite angry at the very idea of
such a thing, and announced her absolute conviction that he
would turn up the next day at latest.
So next day the prince was
expected all the morning, and at dinner, tea, and supper;
and when he did not appear in the evening, Mrs. Epanchin
quarrelled with everyone in the house, finding plenty of
pretexts without so much as mentioning the prince's name.
On the third day there was
no talk of him at all, until Aglaya remarked at dinner:
"Mamma is cross because the prince hasn't turned up," to
which the general replied that it was not his fault.
Mrs. Epanchin misunderstood
the observation, and rising from her place she left the room
in majestic wrath. In the evening, however, Colia came with
the story of the prince's adventures, so far as he knew
them. Mrs. Epanchin was triumphant; although Colia had to
listen to a long lecture. "He idles about here the whole day
long, one can't get rid of him; and then when he is wanted
he does not come. He might have sent a line if he did not
wish to inconvenience himself."
At the words "one can't get
rid of him," Colia was very angry, and nearly flew into a
rage; but he resolved to be quiet for the time and show his
resentment later. If the words had been less offensive he
might have forgiven them, so pleased was he to see Lizabetha
Prokofievna worried and anxious about the prince's illness.
She would have insisted on
sending to Petersburg at once, for a certain great medical
celebrity; but her daughters dissuaded her, though they were
not willing to stay behind when she at once prepared to go
and visit the invalid. Aglaya, however, suggested that it
was a little unceremonious to go en masse to see him.
"Very well then, stay at
home," said Mrs. Epanchin, "and a good thing too, for
Evgenie Pavlovitch is coming down and there will be no one
at home to receive him."
Of course, after this,
Aglaya went with the rest. In fact, she had never had the
slightest intention of doing otherwise.
Prince S., who was in the
house, was requested to escort the ladies. He had been much
interested when he first heard of the prince from the
Epanchins. It appeared that they had known one another
before, and had spent some time together in a little
provincial town three months ago. Prince S. had greatly
taken to him, and was delighted with the opportunity of
meeting him again.
The general had not come
down from town as yet, nor had Evgenie Pavlovitch arrived.
It was not more than two or
three hundred yards from the Epanchins' house to Lebedeff's.
The first disagreeable impression experienced by Mrs.
Epanchin was to find the prince surrounded by a whole
assembly of other guests—not to mention the fact that some
of those present were particularly detestable in her eyes.
The next annoying circumstance was when an apparently strong
and healthy young fellow, well dressed, and smiling, came
forward to meet her on the terrace, instead of the
half-dying unfortunate whom she had expected to see.
She was astonished and
vexed, and her disappointment pleased Colia immensely. Of
course he could have undeceived her before she started, but
the mischievous boy had been careful not to do that,
foreseeing the probably laughable disgust that she would
experience when she found her dear friend, the prince, in
good health. Colia was indelicate enough to voice the
delight he felt at his success in managing to annoy
Lizabetha Prokofievna, with whom, in spite of their really
amicable relations, he was constantly sparring.
"Just wait a while, my
boy!" said she; "don't be too certain of your triumph." And
she sat down heavily, in the arm-chair pushed forward by the
prince.
Lebedeff, Ptitsin, and
General Ivolgin hastened to find chairs for the young
ladies. Varia greeted them joyfully, and they exchanged
confidences in ecstatic whispers.
"I must admit, prince, I
was a little put out to see you up and about like this—I
expected to find you in bed; but I give you my word, I was
only annoyed for an instant, before I collected my thoughts
properly. I am always wiser on second thoughts, and I dare
say you are the same. I assure you I am as glad to see you
well as though you were my own son,—yes, and more; and if
you don't believe me the more shame to you, and it's not my
fault. But that spiteful boy delights in playing all sorts
of tricks. You are his patron, it seems. Well, I warn you
that one fine morning I shall deprive myself of the pleasure
of his further acquaintance."
"What have I done wrong
now?" cried Colia. "What was the good of telling you that
the prince was nearly well again? You would not have
believed me; it was so much more interesting to picture him
on his death-bed."
"How long do you remain
here, prince?" asked Madame Epanchin.
"All the summer, and
perhaps longer."
"You are alone, aren't
you,—not married?"
"No, I'm not married!"
replied the prince, smiling at the ingenuousness of this
little feeler.
"Oh, you needn't laugh!
These things do happen, you know! Now then—why didn't you
come to us? We have a wing quite empty. But just as you
like, of course. Do you lease it from HIM?—this fellow, I
mean," she added, nodding towards Lebedeff. "And why does he
always wriggle so?"
At that moment Vera,
carrying the baby in her arms as usual, came out of the
house, on to the terrace. Lebedeff kept fidgeting among the
chairs, and did not seem to know what to do with himself,
though he had no intention of going away. He no sooner
caught sight of his daughter, than he rushed in her
direction, waving his arms to keep her away; he even forgot
himself so far as to stamp his foot.
"Is he mad?" asked Madame
Epanchin suddenly.
"No, he..."
"Perhaps he is drunk? Your
company is rather peculiar," she added, with a glance at the
other guests....
"But what a pretty girl!
Who is she?"
"That is Lebedeff's
daughter—Vera Lukianovna."
"Indeed? She looks very
sweet. I should like to make her acquaintance."
The words were hardly out
of her mouth, when Lebedeff dragged Vera forward, in order
to present her.
"Orphans, poor orphans!" he
began in a pathetic voice.
"The child she carries is
an orphan, too. She is Vera's sister, my daughter Luboff.
The day this babe was born, six weeks ago, my wife died, by
the will of God Almighty.... Yes... Vera takes her mother's
place, though she is but her sister... nothing more...
nothing more..."
"And you! You are nothing
more than a fool, if you'll excuse me! Well! well! you know
that yourself, I expect," said the lady indignantly.
Lebedeff bowed low. "It is
the truth," he replied, with extreme respect.
"Oh, Mr. Lebedeff, I am
told you lecture on the Apocalypse. Is it true?" asked
Aglaya.
"Yes, that is so... for the
last fifteen years."
"I have heard of you, and I
think read of you in the newspapers."
"No, that was another
commentator, whom the papers named. He is dead, however, and
I have taken his place," said the other, much delighted.
"We are neighbours, so will
you be so kind as to come over one day and explain the
Apocalypse to me?" said Aglaya. "I do not understand it in
the least."
"Allow me to warn you,"
interposed General Ivolgin, "that he is the greatest
charlatan on earth." He had taken the chair next to the
girl, and was impatient to begin talking. "No doubt there
are pleasures and amusements peculiar to the country," he
continued, "and to listen to a pretended student holding
forth on the book of the Revelations may be as good as any
other. It may even be original. But... you seem to be
looking at me with some surprise—may I introduce
myself—General Ivolgin—I carried you in my arms as a baby—"
"Delighted, I'm sure," said
Aglaya; "I am acquainted with Varvara Ardalionovna and Nina
Alexandrovna." She was trying hard to restrain herself from
laughing.
Mrs. Epanchin flushed up;
some accumulation of spleen in her suddenly needed an
outlet. She could not bear this General Ivolgin whom she had
once known, long ago—in society.
"You are deviating from the
truth, sir, as usual!" she remarked, boiling over with
indignation; "you never carried her in your life!"
"You have forgotten,
mother," said Aglaya, suddenly. "He really did carry me
about,—in Tver, you know. I was six years old, I remember.
He made me a bow and arrow, and I shot a pigeon. Don't you
remember shooting a pigeon, you and I, one day?"
"Yes, and he made me a
cardboard helmet, and a little wooden sword—I remember!"
said Adelaida.
"Yes, I remember too!" said
Alexandra. "You quarrelled about the wounded pigeon, and
Adelaida was put in the corner, and stood there with her
helmet and sword and all."
The poor general had merely
made the remark about having carried Aglaya in his arms
because he always did so begin a conversation with young
people. But it happened that this time he had really hit
upon the truth, though he had himself entirely forgotten the
fact. But when Adelaida and Aglaya recalled the episode of
the pigeon, his mind became filled with memories, and it is
impossible to describe how this poor old man, usually half
drunk, was moved by the recollection.
"I remember—I remember it
all!" he cried. "I was captain then. You were such a lovely
little thing—Nina Alexandrovna!—Gania, listen! I was
received then by General Epanchin."
"Yes, and look what you
have come to now!" interrupted Mrs. Epanchin. "However, I
see you have not quite drunk your better feelings away. But
you've broken your wife's heart, sir—and instead of looking
after your children, you have spent your time in
public-houses and debtors' prisons! Go away, my friend,
stand in some corner and weep, and bemoan your fallen
dignity, and perhaps God will forgive you yet! Go, go! I'm
serious! There's nothing so favourable for repentance as to
think of the past with feelings of remorse!"
There was no need to repeat
that she was serious. The general, like all drunkards, was
extremely emotional and easily touched by recollections of
his better days. He rose and walked quietly to the door, so
meekly that Mrs. Epanchin was instantly sorry for him.
"Ardalion Alexandrovitch,"
she cried after him, "wait a moment, we are all sinners!
When you feel that your conscience reproaches you a little
less, come over to me and we'll have a talk about the past!
I dare say I am fifty times more of a sinner than you are!
And now go, go, good-bye, you had better not stay here!" she
added, in alarm, as he turned as though to come back.
"Don't go after him just
now, Colia, or he'll be vexed, and the benefit of this
moment will be lost!" said the prince, as the boy was
hurrying out of the room.
"Quite true! Much better to
go in half an hour or so said Mrs. Epanchin.
"That's what comes of
telling the truth for once in one's life!" said Lebedeff.
"It reduced him to tears."
"Come, come! the less YOU
say about it the better—to judge from all I have heard about
you!" replied Mrs. Epanchin.
The prince took the first
opportunity of informing the Epanchin ladies that he had
intended to pay them a visit that day, if they had not
themselves come this afternoon, and Lizabetha Prokofievna
replied that she hoped he would still do so.
By this time some of the
visitors had disappeared.
Ptitsin had tactfully
retreated to Lebedeff's wing; and Gania soon followed him.
The latter had behaved
modestly, but with dignity, on this occasion of his first
meeting with the Epanchins since the rupture. Twice Mrs.
Epanchin had deliberately examined him from head to foot;
but he had stood fire without flinching. He was certainly
much changed, as anyone could see who had not met him for
some time; and this fact seemed to afford Aglaya a good deal
of satisfaction.
"That was Gavrila
Ardalionovitch, who just went out, wasn't it?" she asked
suddenly, interrupting somebody else's conversation to make
the remark.
"Yes, it was," said the
prince.
"I hardly knew him; he is
much changed, and for the better!"
"I am very glad," said the
prince.
"He has been very ill,"
added Varia.
"How has he changed for the
better?" asked Mrs. Epanchin. "I don't see any change for
the better! What's better in him? Where did you get THAT
idea from? WHAT'S better?"
"There's nothing better
than the 'poor knight'!" said Colia, who was standing near
the last speaker's chair.
"I quite agree with you
there!" said Prince S., laughing.
"So do I," said Adelaida,
solemnly.
"WHAT poor knight?" asked
Mrs. Epanchin, looking round at the face of each of the
speakers in turn. Seeing, however, that Aglaya was blushing,
she added, angrily:
"What nonsense you are all
talking! What do you mean by poor knight?"
"It's not the first time
this urchin, your favourite, has shown his impudence by
twisting other people's words," said Aglaya, haughtily.
Every time that Aglaya
showed temper (and this was very often), there was so much
childish pouting, such "school-girlishness," as it were, in
her apparent wrath, that it was impossible to avoid smiling
at her, to her own unutterable indignation. On these
occasions she would say, "How can they, how DARE they laugh
at me?"
This time everyone laughed
at her, her sisters, Prince S., Prince Muishkin (though he
himself had flushed for some reason), and Colia. Aglaya was
dreadfully indignant, and looked twice as pretty in her
wrath.
"He's always twisting round
what one says," she cried.
"I am only repeating your
own exclamation!" said Colia. "A month ago you were turning
over the pages of your Don Quixote, and suddenly called out
'there is nothing better than the poor knight.' I don't know
whom you were referring to, of course, whether to Don
Quixote, or Evgenie Pavlovitch, or someone else, but you
certainly said these words, and afterwards there was a long
conversation..."
"You are inclined to go a
little too far, my good boy, with your guesses," said Mrs.
Epanchin, with some show of annoyance.
"But it's not I alone,"
cried Colia. "They all talked about it, and they do still.
Why, just now Prince S. and Adelaida Ivanovna declared that
they upheld 'the poor knight'; so evidently there does exist
a 'poor knight'; and if it were not for Adelaida Ivanovna,
we should have known long ago who the 'poor knight' was."
"Why, how am I to blame?"
asked Adelaida, smiling.
"You wouldn't draw his
portrait for us, that's why you are to blame! Aglaya
Ivanovna asked you to draw his portrait, and gave you the
whole subject of the picture. She invented it herself; and
you wouldn't."
"What was I to draw?
According to the lines she quoted:
"'From his face he never
lifted That eternal mask of steel.'"
"What sort of a face was I
to draw? I couldn't draw a mask."
"I don't know what you are
driving at; what mask do you mean?" said Mrs. Epanchin,
irritably. She began to see pretty clearly though what it
meant, and whom they referred to by the generally accepted
title of "poor knight." But what specially annoyed her was
that the prince was looking so uncomfortable, and blushing
like a ten-year-old child.
"Well, have you finished
your silly joke?" she added, "and am I to be told what this
'poor knight' means, or is it a solemn secret which cannot
be approached lightly?"
But they all laughed on.
"It's simply that there is
a Russian poem," began Prince S., evidently anxious to
change the conversation, "a strange thing, without beginning
or end, and all about a 'poor knight.' A month or so ago, we
were all talking and laughing, and looking up a subject for
one of Adelaida's pictures—you know it is the principal
business of this family to find subjects for Adelaida's
pictures. Well, we happened upon this 'poor knight.' I don't
remember who thought of it first—"
"Oh! Aglaya Ivanovna did,"
said Colia.
"Very likely—I don't
recollect," continued Prince S.
"Some of us laughed at the
subject; some liked it; but she declared that, in order to
make a picture of the gentleman, she must first see his
face. We then began to think over all our friends' faces to
see if any of them would do, and none suited us, and so the
matter stood; that's all. I don't know why Nicolai
Ardalionovitch has brought up the joke now. What was
appropriate and funny then, has quite lost all interest by
this time."
"Probably there's some new
silliness about it," said Mrs. Epanchin, sarcastically.
"There is no silliness
about it at all—only the profoundest respect," said Aglaya,
very seriously. She had quite recovered her temper; in fact,
from certain signs, it was fair to conclude that she was
delighted to see this joke going so far; and a careful
observer might have remarked that her satisfaction dated
from the moment when the fact of the prince's confusion
became apparent to all.
"'Profoundest respect!'
What nonsense! First, insane giggling, and then, all of a
sudden, a display of 'profoundest respect.' Why respect?
Tell me at once, why have you suddenly developed this
'profound respect,' eh?"
"Because," replied Aglaya
gravely, "in the poem the knight is described as a man
capable of living up to an ideal all his life. That sort of
thing is not to be found every day among the men of our
times. In the poem it is not stated exactly what the ideal
was, but it was evidently some vision, some revelation of
pure Beauty, and the knight wore round his neck, instead of
a scarf, a rosary. A device—A. N. B.—the meaning of which is
not explained, was inscribed on his shield—"
"No, A. N. D.," corrected
Colia.
"I say A. N. B., and so it
shall be!" cried Aglaya, irritably. "Anyway, the 'poor
knight' did not care what his lady was, or what she did. He
had chosen his ideal, and he was bound to serve her, and
break lances for her, and acknowledge her as the ideal of
pure Beauty, whatever she might say or do afterwards. If she
had taken to stealing, he would have championed her just the
same. I think the poet desired to embody in this one picture
the whole spirit of medieval chivalry and the platonic love
of a pure and high-souled knight. Of course it's all an
ideal, and in the 'poor knight' that spirit reached the
utmost limit of asceticism. He is a Don Quixote, only
serious and not comical. I used not to understand him, and
laughed at him, but now I love the 'poor knight,' and
respect his actions."
So ended Aglaya; and, to
look at her, it was difficult, indeed, to judge whether she
was joking or in earnest.
"Pooh! he was a fool, and
his actions were the actions of a fool," said Mrs. Epanchin;
"and as for you, young woman, you ought to know better. At
all events, you are not to talk like that again. What poem
is it? Recite it! I want to hear this poem! I have hated
poetry all my life. Prince, you must excuse this nonsense.
We neither of us like this sort of thing! Be patient!"
They certainly were put
out, both of them.
The prince tried to say
something, but he was too confused, and could not get his
words out. Aglaya, who had taken such liberties in her
little speech, was the only person present, perhaps, who was
not in the least embarrassed. She seemed, in fact, quite
pleased.
She now rose solemnly from
her seat, walked to the centre of the terrace, and stood in
front of the prince's chair. All looked on with some
surprise, and Prince S. and her sisters with feelings of
decided alarm, to see what new frolic she was up to; it had
gone quite far enough already, they thought. But Aglaya
evidently thoroughly enjoyed the affectation and ceremony
with which she was introducing her recitation of the poem.
Mrs. Epanchin was just
wondering whether she would not forbid the performance after
all, when, at the very moment that Aglaya commenced her
declamation, two new guests, both talking loudly, entered
from the street. The new arrivals were General Epanchin and
a young man.
Their entrance caused some
slight commotion.
VII.
THE young fellow
accompanying the general was about twenty-eight, tall, and
well built, with a handsome and clever face, and bright
black eyes, full of fun and intelligence.
Aglaya did not so much as
glance at the new arrivals, but went on with her recitation,
gazing at the prince the while in an affected manner, and at
him alone. It was clear to him that she was doing all this
with some special object.
But the new guests at least
somewhat eased his strained and uncomfortable position.
Seeing them approaching, he rose from his chair, and nodding
amicably to the general, signed to him not to interrupt the
recitation. He then got behind his chair, and stood there
with his left hand resting on the back of it. Thanks to this
change of position, he was able to listen to the ballad with
far less embarrassment than before. Mrs. Epanchin had also
twice motioned to the new arrivals to be quiet, and stay
where they were.
The prince was much
interested in the young man who had just entered. He easily
concluded that this was Evgenie Pavlovitch Radomski, of whom
he had already heard mention several times. He was puzzled,
however, by the young man's plain clothes, for he had always
heard of Evgenie Pavlovitch as a military man. An ironical
smile played on Evgenie's lips all the while the recitation
was proceeding, which showed that he, too, was probably in
the secret of the 'poor knight' joke. But it had become
quite a different matter with Aglaya. All the affectation of
manner which she had displayed at the beginning disappeared
as the ballad proceeded. She spoke the lines in so serious
and exalted a manner, and with so much taste, that she even
seemed to justify the exaggerated solemnity with which she
had stepped forward. It was impossible to discern in her now
anything but a deep feeling for the spirit of the poem which
she had undertaken to interpret.
Her eyes were aglow with
inspiration, and a slight tremor of rapture passed over her
lovely features once or twice. She continued to recite:
"Once there came a vision
glorious, Mystic, dreadful, wondrous fair; Burned itself
into his spirit, And abode for ever there!
"Never more—from that sweet
moment—Gazed he on womankind; He was dumb to love and wooing
And to all their graces blind.
"Full of love for that
sweet vision, Brave and pure he took the field; With his
blood he stained the letters N. P. B. upon his shield.
"'Lumen caeli, sancta
Rosa!' Shouting on the foe he fell, And like thunder rang
his war-cry O'er the cowering infidel.
"Then within his distant
castle, Home returned, he dreamed his days-Silent, sad,—and
when death took him He was mad, the legend says."
When recalling all this
afterwards the prince could not for the life of him
understand how to reconcile the beautiful, sincere, pure
nature of the girl with the irony of this jest. That it was
a jest there was no doubt whatever; he knew that well
enough, and had good reason, too, for his conviction; for
during her recitation of the ballad Aglaya had deliberately
changed the letters A. N. B. into N. P. B. He was quite sure
she had not done this by accident, and that his ears had not
deceived him. At all events her performance—which was a
joke, of course, if rather a crude one,—was premeditated.
They had evidently talked (and laughed) over the 'poor
knight' for more than a month.
Yet Aglaya had brought out
these letters N. P. B. not only without the slightest
appearance of irony, or even any particular accentuation,
but with so even and unbroken an appearance of seriousness
that assuredly anyone might have supposed that these
initials were the original ones written in the ballad. The
thing made an uncomfortable impression upon the prince. Of
course Mrs. Epanchin saw nothing either in the change of
initials or in the insinuation embodied therein. General
Epanchin only knew that there was a recitation of verses
going on, and took no further interest in the matter. Of the
rest of the audience, many had understood the allusion and
wondered both at the daring of the lady and at the motive
underlying it, but tried to show no sign of their feelings.
But Evgenie Pavlovitch (as the prince was ready to wager)
both comprehended and tried his best to show that he
comprehended; his smile was too mocking to leave any doubt
on that point.
"How beautiful that is!"
cried Mrs. Epanchin, with sincere admiration. "Whose is it?"
"Pushkin's, mama, of
course! Don't disgrace us all by showing your ignorance,"
said Adelaida.
"As soon as we reach home
give it to me to read."
"I don't think we have a
copy of Pushkin in the house."
"There are a couple of torn
volumes somewhere; they have been lying about from time
immemorial," added Alexandra.
"Send Feodor or Alexey up
by the very first train to buy a copy, then.—Aglaya, come
here—kiss me, dear, you recited beautifully! but," she added
in a whisper, "if you were sincere I am sorry for you. If it
was a joke, I do not approve of the feelings which prompted
you to do it, and in any case you would have done far better
not to recite it at all. Do you understand?—Now come along,
young woman; we've sat here too long. I'll speak to you
about this another time."
Meanwhile the prince took
the opportunity of greeting General Epanchin, and the
general introduced Evgenie Pavlovitch to him.
"I caught him up on the way
to your house," explained the general. "He had heard that we
were all here."
"Yes, and I heard that you
were here, too," added Evgenie Pavlovitch; "and since I had
long promised myself the pleasure of seeking not only your
acquaintance but your friendship, I did not wish to waste
time, but came straight on. I am sorry to hear that you are
unwell."
"Oh, but I'm quite well
now, thank you, and very glad to make your acquaintance.
Prince S. has often spoken to me about you," said Muishkin,
and for an instant the two men looked intently into one
another's eyes.
The prince remarked that
Evgenie Pavlovitch's plain clothes had evidently made a
great impression upon the company present, so much so that
all other interests seemed to be effaced before this
surprising fact.
His change of dress was
evidently a matter of some importance. Adelaida and
Alexandra poured out a stream of questions; Prince S., a
relative of the young man, appeared annoyed; and Ivan
Fedorovitch quite excited. Aglaya alone was not interested.
She merely looked closely at Evgenie for a minute, curious
perhaps as to whether civil or military clothes became him
best, then turned away and paid no more attention to him or
his costume. Lizabetha Prokofievna asked no questions, but
it was clear that she was uneasy, and the prince fancied
that Evgenie was not in her good graces.
"He has astonished me,"
said Ivan Fedorovitch. "I nearly fell down with surprise. I
could hardly believe my eyes when I met him in Petersburg
just now. Why this haste? That's what I want to know. He has
always said himself that there is no need to break windows."
Evgenie Pavlovitch remarked
here that he had spoken of his intention of leaving the
service long ago. He had, however, always made more or less
of a joke about it, so no one had taken him seriously. For
that matter he joked about everything, and his friends never
knew what to believe, especially if he did not wish them to
understand him.
"I have only retired for a
time," said he, laughing. "For a few months; at most for a
year."
"But there is no necessity
for you to retire at all," complained the general, "as far
as I know."
"I want to go and look
after my country estates. You advised me to do that
yourself," was the reply. "And then I wish to go abroad."
After a few more
expostulations, the conversation drifted into other
channels, but the prince, who had been an attentive
listener, thought all this excitement about so small a
matter very curious. "There must be more in it than
appears," he said to himself.
"I see the 'poor knight'
has come on the scene again," said Evgenie Pavlovitch,
stepping to Aglaya's side.
To the amazement of the
prince, who overheard the remark, Aglaya looked haughtily
and inquiringly at the questioner, as though she would give
him to know, once for all, that there could be no talk
between them about the 'poor knight,' and that she did not
understand his question.
"But not now! It is too
late to send to town for a Pushkin now. It is much too late,
I say!" Colia was exclaiming in a loud voice. "I have told
you so at least a hundred times."
"Yes, it is really much too
late to send to town now," said Evgenie Pavlovitch, who had
escaped from Aglaya as rapidly as possible. "I am sure the
shops are shut in Petersburg; it is past eight o'clock," he
added, looking at his watch.
"We have done without him
so far," interrupted Adelaida in her turn. "Surely we can
wait until to-morrow."
"Besides," said Colia, "it
is quite unusual, almost improper, for people in our
position to take any interest in literature. Ask Evgenie
Pavlovitch if I am not right. It is much more fashionable to
drive a waggonette with red wheels."
"You got that from some
magazine, Colia," remarked Adelaida.
"He gets most of his
conversation in that way," laughed Evgenie Pavlovitch. "He
borrows whole phrases from the reviews. I have long had the
pleasure of knowing both Nicholai Ardalionovitch and his
conversational methods, but this time he was not repeating
something he had read; he was alluding, no doubt, to my
yellow waggonette, which has, or had, red wheels. But I have
exchanged it, so you are rather behind the times, Colia."
The prince had been
listening attentively to Radomski's words, and thought his
manner very pleasant. When Colia chaffed him about his
waggonette he had replied with perfect equality and in a
friendly fashion. This pleased Muishkin.
At this moment Vera came up
to Lizabetha Prokofievna, carrying several large and
beautifully bound books, apparently quite new.
"What is it?" demanded the
lady.
"This is Pushkin," replied
the girl. "Papa told me to offer it to you."
"What? Impossible!"
exclaimed Mrs. Epanchin.
"Not as a present, not as a
present! I should not have taken the liberty," said
Lebedeff, appearing suddenly from behind his daughter. "It
is our own Pushkin, our family copy, Annenkoff's edition; it
could not be bought now. I beg to suggest, with great
respect, that your excellency should buy it, and thus quench
the noble literary thirst which is consuming you at this
moment," he concluded grandiloquently.
"Oh! if you will sell it,
very good—and thank you. You shall not be a loser! But for
goodness' sake, don't twist about like that, sir! I have
heard of you; they tell me you are a very learned person. We
must have a talk one of these days. You will bring me the
books yourself?"
"With the greatest
respect... and... and veneration," replied Lebedeff, making
extraordinary grimaces.
"Well, bring them, with or
without respect, provided always you do not drop them on the
way; but on the condition," went on the lady, looking full
at him, "that you do not cross my threshold. I do not intend
to receive you today. You may send your daughter Vera at
once, if you like. I am much pleased with her."
"Why don't you tell him
about them?" said Vera impatiently to her father. "They will
come in, whether you announce them or not, and they are
beginning to make a row. Lef Nicolaievitch,"—she addressed
herself to the prince—"four men are here asking for you.
They have waited some time, and are beginning to make a
fuss, and papa will not bring them in."
"Who are these people?"
said the prince.
"They say that they have
come on business, and they are the kind of men, who, if you
do not see them here, will follow you about the street. It
would be better to receive them, and then you will get rid
of them. Gavrila Ardalionovitch and Ptitsin are both there,
trying to make them hear reason."
"Pavlicheff's son! It is
not worth while!" cried Lebedeff. "There is no necessity to
see them, and it would be most unpleasant for your
excellency. They do not deserve..."
"What? Pavlicheff's son!"
cried the prince, much perturbed. "I know... I know—but I
entrusted this matter to Gavrila Ardalionovitch. He told
me..."
At that moment Gania,
accompanied by Ptitsin, came out to the terrace. From an
adjoining room came a noise of angry voices, and General
Ivolgin, in loud tones, seemed to be trying to shout them
down. Colia rushed off at once to investigate the cause of
the uproar.
"This is most interesting!"
observed Evgenie Pavlovitch.
"I expect he knows all
about it!" thought the prince.
"What, the son of
Pavlicheff? And who may this son of Pavlicheff be?" asked
General Epanchin with surprise; and looking curiously around
him, he discovered that he alone had no clue to the mystery.
Expectation and suspense were on every face, with the
exception of that of the prince, who stood gravely wondering
how an affair so entirely personal could have awakened such
lively and widespread interest in so short a time.
Aglaya went up to him with
a peculiarly serious look
"It will be well," she
said, "if you put an end to this affair yourself AT ONCE:
but you must allow us to be your witnesses. They want to
throw mud at you, prince, and you must be triumphantly
vindicated. I give you joy beforehand!"
"And I also wish for
justice to be done, once for all," cried Madame Epanchin,
"about this impudent claim. Deal with them promptly, prince,
and don't spare them! I am sick of hearing about the affair,
and many a quarrel I have had in your cause. But I confess I
am anxious to see what happens, so do make them come out
here, and we will remain. You have heard people talking
about it, no doubt?" she added, turning to Prince S.
"Of course," said he. "I
have heard it spoken about at your house, and I am anxious
to see these young men!"
"They are Nihilists, are
they not?"
"No, they are not
Nihilists," explained Lebedeff, who seemed much excited.
"This is another lot—a special group. According to my nephew
they are more advanced even than the Nihilists. You are
quite wrong, excellency, if you think that your presence
will intimidate them; nothing intimidates them. Educated
men, learned men even, are to be found among Nihilists;
these go further, in that they are men of action. The
movement is, properly speaking, a derivative from
Nihilism—though they are only known indirectly, and by
hearsay, for they never advertise their doings in the
papers. They go straight to the point. For them, it is not a
question of showing that Pushkin is stupid, or that Russia
must be torn in pieces. No; but if they have a great desire
for anything, they believe they have a right to get it even
at the cost of the lives, say, of eight persons. They are
checked by no obstacles. In fact, prince, I should not
advise you..."
But Muishkin had risen, and
was on his way to open the door for his visitors.
"You are slandering them,
Lebedeff," said he, smiling.
"You are always thinking
about your nephew's conduct. Don't believe him, Lizabetha
Prokofievna. I can assure you Gorsky and Daniloff are
exceptions—and that these are only... mistaken. However, I
do not care about receiving them here, in public. Excuse me,
Lizabetha Prokofievna. They are coming, and you can see
them, and then I will take them away. Please come in,
gentlemen!"
Another thought tormented
him: He wondered was this an arranged business—arranged to
happen when he had guests in his house, and in anticipation
of his humiliation rather than of his triumph? But he
reproached himself bitterly for such a thought, and felt as
if he should die of shame if it were discovered. When his
new visitors appeared, he was quite ready to believe himself
infinitely less to be respected than any of them.
Four persons entered, led
by General Ivolgin, in a state of great excitement, and
talking eloquently.
"He is for me,
undoubtedly!" thought the prince, with a smile. Colia also
had joined the party, and was talking with animation to
Hippolyte, who listened with a jeering smile on his lips.
The prince begged the
visitors to sit down. They were all so young that it made
the proceedings seem even more extraordinary. Ivan
Fedorovitch, who really understood nothing of what was going
on, felt indignant at the sight of these youths, and would
have interfered in some way had it not been for the extreme
interest shown by his wife in the affair. He therefore
remained, partly through curiosity, partly through
good-nature, hoping that his presence might be of some use.
But the bow with which General Ivolgin greeted him irritated
him anew; he frowned, and decided to be absolutely silent.
As to the rest, one was a
man of thirty, the retired officer, now a boxer, who had
been with Rogojin, and in his happier days had given fifteen
roubles at a time to beggars. Evidently he had joined the
others as a comrade to give them moral, and if necessary
material, support. The man who had been spoken of as
"Pavlicheff's son," although he gave the name of Antip
Burdovsky, was about twenty-two years of age, fair, thin and
rather tall. He was remarkable for the poverty, not to say
uncleanliness, of his personal appearance: the sleeves of
his overcoat were greasy; his dirty waistcoat, buttoned up
to his neck, showed not a trace of linen; a filthy black
silk scarf, twisted till it resembled a cord, was round his
neck, and his hands were unwashed. He looked round with an
air of insolent effrontery. His face, covered with pimples,
was neither thoughtful nor even contemptuous; it wore an
expression of complacent satisfaction in demanding his
rights and in being an aggrieved party. His voice trembled,
and he spoke so fast, and with such stammerings, that he
might have been taken for a foreigner, though the purest
Russian blood ran in his veins. Lebedeff's nephew, whom the
reader has seen already, accompanied him, and also the youth
named Hippolyte Terentieff. The latter was only seventeen or
eighteen. He had an intelligent face, though it was usually
irritated and fretful in expression. His skeleton-like
figure, his ghastly complexion, the brightness of his eyes,
and the red spots of colour on his cheeks, betrayed the
victim of consumption to the most casual glance. He coughed
persistently, and panted for breath; it looked as though he
had but a few weeks more to live. He was nearly dead with
fatigue, and fell, rather than sat, into a chair. The rest
bowed as they came in; and being more or less abashed, put
on an air of extreme self-assurance. In short, their
attitude was not that which one would have expected in men
who professed to despise all trivialities, all foolish
mundane conventions, and indeed everything, except their own
personal interests.
"Antip Burdovsky,"
stuttered the son of Pavlicheff.
"Vladimir Doktorenko," said
Lebedeff's nephew briskly, and with a certain pride, as if
he boasted of his name.
"Keller," murmured the
retired officer.
"Hippolyte Terentieff,"
cried the last-named, in a shrill voice.
They sat now in a row
facing the prince, and frowned, and played with their caps.
All appeared ready to speak, and yet all were silent; the
defiant expression on their faces seemed to say, "No, sir,
you don't take us in!" It could be felt that the first word
spoken by anyone present would bring a torrent of speech
from the whole deputation.
VIII.
"I did not expect
you, gentlemen," began the prince. "I have been ill until
to-day. A month ago," he continued, addressing himself to
Antip Burdovsky, "I put your business into Gavrila
Ardalionovitch Ivolgin's hands, as I told you then. I do not
in the least object to having a personal interview... but
you will agree with me that this is hardly the time... I
propose that we go into another room, if you will not keep
me long... As you see, I have friends here, and believe
me..."
"Friends as many as you
please, but allow me," interrupted the harsh voice of
Lebedeff's nephew—"allow me to tell you that you might have
treated us rather more politely, and not have kept us
waiting at least two hours...
"No doubt... and I... is
that acting like a prince? And you... you may be a general!
But I... I am not your valet! And I... I..." stammered Antip
Burdovsky.
He was extremely excited;
his lips trembled, and the resentment of an embittered soul
was in his voice. But he spoke so indistinctly that hardly a
dozen words could be gathered.
"It was a princely action!"
sneered Hippolyte.
"If anyone had treated me
so," grumbled the boxer.
"I mean to say that if I
had been in Burdovsky's place...I..."
"Gentlemen, I did not know
you were there; I have only just been informed, I assure
you," repeated Muishkin.
"We are not afraid of your
friends, prince," remarked Lebedeff's nephew, "for we are
within our rights."
The shrill tones of
Hippolyte interrupted him. "What right have you... by what
right do you demand us to submit this matter, about
Burdovsky... to the judgment of your friends? We know only
too well what the judgment of your friends will be!..."
This beginning gave promise
of a stormy discussion. The prince was much discouraged, but
at last he managed to make himself heard amid the
vociferations of his excited visitors.
"If you," he said,
addressing Burdovsky—"if you prefer not to speak here, I
offer again to go into another room with you... and as to
your waiting to see me, I repeat that I only this instant
heard..."
"Well, you have no right,
you have no right, no right at all!... Your friends
indeed!"... gabbled Burdovsky, defiantly examining the faces
round him, and becoming more and more excited. "You have no
right!..." As he ended thus abruptly, he leant forward,
staring at the prince with his short-sighted, bloodshot
eyes. The latter was so astonished, that he did not reply,
but looked steadily at him in return.
"Lef Nicolaievitch!"
interposed Madame Epanchin, suddenly, "read this at once,
this very moment! It is about this business."
She held out a weekly comic
paper, pointing to an article on one of its pages. Just as
the visitors were coming in, Lebedeff, wishing to ingratiate
himself with the great lady, had pulled this paper from his
pocket, and presented it to her, indicating a few columns
marked in pencil. Lizabetha Prokofievna had had time to read
some of it, and was greatly upset.
"Would it not be better to
peruse it alone..." later asked the prince, nervously.
"No, no, read it—read it at
once directly, and aloud, aloud!" cried she, calling Colia
to her and giving him the journal.—"Read it aloud, so that
everyone may hear it!"
An impetuous woman,
Lizabetha Prokofievna sometimes weighed her anchors and put
out to sea quite regardless of the possible storms she might
encounter. Ivan Fedorovitch felt a sudden pang of alarm, but
the others were merely curious, and somewhat surprised.
Colia unfolded the paper, and began to read, in his clear,
high-pitched voice, the following article:
"Proletarians and scions of
nobility! An episode of the brigandage of today and every
day! Progress! Reform! Justice!"
"Strange things are going
on in our so-called Holy Russia in this age of reform and
great enterprises; this age of patriotism in which hundreds
of millions are yearly sent abroad; in which industry is
encouraged, and the hands of Labour paralyzed, etc.; there
is no end to this, gentlemen, so let us come to the point. A
strange thing has happened to a scion of our defunct
aristocracy. (DE PROFUNDIS!) The grandfathers of these
scions ruined themselves at the gaming-tables; their fathers
were forced to serve as officers or subalterns; some have
died just as they were about to be tried for innocent
thoughtlessness in the handling of public funds. Their
children are sometimes congenital idiots, like the hero of
our story; sometimes they are found in the dock at the
Assizes, where they are generally acquitted by the jury for
edifying motives; sometimes they distinguish themselves by
one of those burning scandals that amaze the public and add
another blot to the stained record of our age. Six months
ago—that is, last winter—this particular scion returned to
Russia, wearing gaiters like a foreigner, and shivering with
cold in an old scantily-lined cloak. He had come from
Switzerland, where he had just undergone a successful course
of treatment for idiocy (SIC!). Certainly Fortune favoured
him, for, apart from the interesting malady of which he was
cured in Switzerland (can there be a cure for idiocy?) his
story proves the truth of the Russian proverb that
'happiness is the right of certain classes!' Judge for
yourselves. Our subject was an infant in arms when he lost
his father, an officer who died just as he was about to be
court-martialled for gambling away the funds of his company,
and perhaps also for flogging a subordinate to excess
(remember the good old days, gentlemen). The orphan was
brought up by the charity of a very rich Russian landowner.
In the good old days, this man, whom we will call P—, owned
four thousand souls as serfs (souls as serfs!—can you
understand such an expression, gentlemen? I cannot; it must
be looked up in a dictionary before one can understand it;
these things of a bygone day are already unintelligible to
us). He appears to have been one of those Russian parasites
who lead an idle existence abroad, spending the summer at
some spa, and the winter in Paris, to the greater profit of
the organizers of public balls. It may safely be said that
the manager of the Chateau des Fleurs (lucky man!) pocketed
at least a third of the money paid by Russian peasants to
their lords in the days of serfdom. However this may be, the
gay P—brought up the orphan like a prince, provided him with
tutors and governesses (pretty, of course!) whom he chose
himself in Paris. But the little aristocrat, the last of his
noble race, was an idiot. The governesses, recruited at the
Chateau des Fleurs, laboured in vain; at twenty years of age
their pupil could not speak in any language, not even
Russian. But ignorance of the latter was still excusable. At
last P—— was seized with a strange notion; he imagined that
in Switzerland they could change an idiot into a mail of
sense. After all, the idea was quite logical; a parasite and
landowner naturally supposed that intelligence was a
marketable commodity like everything else, and that in
Switzerland especially it could be bought for money. The
case was entrusted to a celebrated Swiss professor, and cost
thousands of roubles; the treatment lasted five years.
Needless to say, the idiot did not become intelligent, but
it is alleged that he grew into something more or less
resembling a man. At this stage P—— died suddenly, and, as
usual, he had made no will and left his affairs in disorder.
A crowd of eager claimants arose, who cared nothing about
any last scion of a noble race undergoing treatment in
Switzerland, at the expense of the deceased, as a congenital
idiot. Idiot though he was, the noble scion tried to cheat
his professor, and they say he succeeded in getting him to
continue the treatment gratis for two years, by concealing
the death of his benefactor. But the professor himself was a
charlatan. Getting anxious at last when no money was
forthcoming, and alarmed above all by his patient's
appetite, he presented him with a pair of old gaiters and a
shabby cloak and packed him off to Russia, third class. It
would seem that Fortune had turned her back upon our hero.
Not at all; Fortune, who lets whole populations die of
hunger, showered all her gifts at once upon the little
aristocrat, like Kryloff's Cloud which passes over an arid
plain and empties itself into the sea. He had scarcely
arrived in St. Petersburg, when a relation of his mother's
(who was of bourgeois origin, of course), died at Moscow. He
was a merchant, an Old Believer, and he had no children. He
left a fortune of several millions in good current coin, and
everything came to our noble scion, our gaitered baron,
formerly treated for idiocy in a Swiss lunatic asylum.
Instantly the scene changed, crowds of friends gathered
round our baron, who meanwhile had lost his head over a
celebrated demi-mondaine; he even discovered some relations;
moreover a number of young girls of high birth burned to be
united to him in lawful matrimony. Could anyone possibly
imagine a better match? Aristocrat, millionaire, and idiot,
he has every advantage! One might hunt in vain for his
equal, even with the lantern of Diogenes; his like is not to
be had even by getting it made to order!"
"Oh, I don't know what this
means" cried Ivan Fedorovitch, transported with indignation.
"Leave off, Colia," begged
the prince. Exclamations arose on all sides.
"Let him go on reading at
all costs!" ordered Lizabetha Prokofievna, evidently
preserving her composure by a desperate effort. "Prince, if
the reading is stopped, you and I will quarrel."
Colia had no choice but to
obey. With crimson cheeks he read on unsteadily:
"But while our young
millionaire dwelt as it were in the Empyrean, something new
occurred. One fine morning a man called upon him, calm and
severe of aspect, distinguished, but plainly dressed.
Politely, but in dignified terms, as befitted his errand, he
briefly explained the motive for his visit. He was a lawyer
of enlightened views; his client was a young man who had
consulted him in confidence. This young man was no other
than the son of P—, though he bears another name. In his
youth P—, the sensualist, had seduced a young girl, poor but
respectable. She was a serf, but had received a European
education. Finding that a child was expected, he hastened
her marriage with a man of noble character who had loved her
for a long time. He helped the young couple for a time, but
he was soon obliged to give up, for the high-minded husband
refused to accept anything from him. Soon the careless
nobleman forgot all about his former mistress and the child
she had borne him; then, as we know, he died intestate. P—'s
son, born after his mother's marriage, found a true father
in the generous man whose name he bore. But when he also
died, the orphan was left to provide for himself, his mother
now being an invalid who had lost the use of her limbs.
Leaving her in a distant province, he came to the capital in
search of pupils. By dint of daily toil he earned enough to
enable him to follow the college courses, and at last to
enter the university. But what can one earn by teaching the
children of Russian merchants at ten copecks a lesson,
especially with an invalid mother to keep? Even her death
did not much diminish the hardships of the young man's
struggle for existence. Now this is the question: how, in
the name of justice, should our scion have argued the case?
Our readers will think, no doubt, that he would say to
himself: 'P—showered benefits upon me all my life; he spent
tens of thousands of roubles to educate me, to provide me
with governesses, and to keep me under treatment in
Switzerland. Now I am a millionaire, and P——'s son, a noble
young man who is not responsible for the faults of his
careless and forgetful father, is wearing himself out giving
ill-paid lessons. According to justice, all that was done
for me ought to have been done for him. The enormous sums
spent upon me were not really mine; they came to me by an
error of blind Fortune, when they ought to have gone to
P——'s son. They should have gone to benefit him, not me, in
whom P—— interested himself by a mere caprice, instead of
doing his duty as a father. If I wished to behave nobly,
justly, and with delicacy, I ought to bestow half my fortune
upon the son of my benefactor; but as economy is my
favourite virtue, and I know this is not a case in which the
law can intervene, I will not give up half my millions. But
it would be too openly vile, too flagrantly infamous, if I
did not at least restore to P——'s son the tens of thousands
of roubles spent in curing my idiocy. This is simply a case
of conscience and of strict justice. Whatever would have
become of me if P—— had not looked after my education, and
had taken care of his own son instead of me?'
"No, gentlemen, our scions
of the nobility do not reason thus. The lawyer, who had
taken up the matter purely out of friendship to the young
man, and almost against his will, invoked every
consideration of justice, delicacy, honour, and even plain
figures; in vain, the ex-patient of the Swiss lunatic asylum
was inflexible. All this might pass, but the sequel is
absolutely unpardonable, and not to be excused by any
interesting malady. This millionaire, having but just
discarded the old gaiters of his professor, could not even
understand that the noble young man slaving away at his
lessons was not asking for charitable help, but for his
rightful due, though the debt was not a legal one; that,
correctly speaking, he was not asking for anything, but it
was merely his friends who had thought fit to bestir
themselves on his behalf. With the cool insolence of a
bloated capitalist, secure in his millions, he majestically
drew a banknote for fifty roubles from his pocket-book and
sent it to the noble young man as a humiliating piece of
charity. You can hardly believe it, gentlemen! You are
scandalized and disgusted; you cry out in indignation! But
that is what he did! Needless to say, the money was
returned, or rather flung back in his face. The case is not
within the province of the law, it must be referred to the
tribunal of public opinion; this is what we now do,
guaranteeing the truth of all the details which we have
related."
When Colia had finished
reading, he handed the paper to the prince, and retired
silently to a corner of the room, hiding his face in his
hands. He was overcome by a feeling of inexpressible shame;
his boyish sensitiveness was wounded beyond endurance. It
seemed to him that something extraordinary, some sudden
catastrophe had occurred, and that he was almost the cause
of it, because he had read the article aloud.
Yet all the others were
similarly affected. The girls were uncomfortable and
ashamed. Lizabetha Prokofievna restrained her violent anger
by a great effort; perhaps she bitterly regretted her
interference in the matter; for the present she kept
silence. The prince felt as very shy people often do in such
a case; he was so ashamed of the conduct of other people, so
humiliated for his guests, that he dared not look them in
the face. Ptitsin, Varia, Gania, and Lebedeff himself, all
looked rather confused. Stranger still, Hippolyte and the
"son of Pavlicheff" also seemed slightly surprised, and
Lebedeff's nephew was obviously far from pleased. The boxer
alone was perfectly calm; he twisted his moustaches with
affected dignity, and if his eyes were cast down it was
certainly not in confusion, but rather in noble modesty, as
if he did not wish to be insolent in his triumph. It was
evident that he was delighted with the article.
"The devil knows what it
means," growled Ivan Fedorovitch, under his breath; "it must
have taken the united wits of fifty footmen to write it."
"May I ask your reason for
such an insulting supposition, sir?" said Hippolyte,
trembling with rage.
"You will admit yourself,
general, that for an honourable man, if the author is an
honourable man, that is an—an insult," growled the boxer
suddenly, with convulsive jerkings of his shoulders.
"In the first place, it is
not for you to address me as 'sir,' and, in the second
place, I refuse to give you any explanation," said Ivan
Fedorovitch vehemently; and he rose without another word,
and went and stood on the first step of the flight that led
from the verandah to the street, turning his back on the
company. He was indignant with Lizabetha Prokofievna, who
did not think of moving even now.
"Gentlemen, gentlemen, let
me speak at last," cried the prince, anxious and agitated.
"Please let us understand one another. I say nothing about
the article, gentlemen, except that every word is false; I
say this because you know it as well as I do. It is
shameful. I should be surprised if any one of you could have
written it."
"I did not know of its
existence till this moment," declared Hippolyte. "I do not
approve of it."
"I knew it had been
written, but I would not have advised its publication," said
Lebedeff's nephew, "because it is premature."
"I knew it, but I have a
right. I... I..." stammered the "son of Pavlicheff."
"What! Did you write all
that yourself? Is it possible?" asked the prince, regarding
Burdovsky with curiosity.
"One might dispute your
right to ask such questions," observed Lebedeff's nephew.
"I was only surprised that
Mr. Burdovsky should have—however, this is what I have to
say. Since you had already given the matter publicity, why
did you object just now, when I began to speak of it to my
friends?"
"At last!" murmured
Lizabetha Prokofievna indignantly.
Lebedeff could restrain
himself no longer; he made his way through the row of
chairs.
"Prince," he cried, "you
are forgetting that if you consented to receive and hear
them, it was only because of your kind heart which has no
equal, for they had not the least right to demand it,
especially as you had placed the matter in the hands of
Gavrila Ardalionovitch, which was also extremely kind of
you. You are also forgetting, most excellent prince, that
you are with friends, a select company; you cannot sacrifice
them to these gentlemen, and it is only for you to have them
turned out this instant. As the master of the house I shall
have great pleasure ...."
"Quite right!" agreed
General Ivolgin in a loud voice.
"That will do, Lebedeff,
that will do—" began the prince, when an indignant outcry
drowned his words.
"Excuse me, prince, excuse
me, but now that will not do," shouted Lebedeff's nephew,
his voice dominating all the others. "The matter must be
clearly stated, for it is obviously not properly understood.
They are calling in some legal chicanery, and upon that
ground they are threatening to turn us out of the house!
Really, prince, do you think we are such fools as not to be
aware that this matter does not come within the law, and
that legally we cannot claim a rouble from you? But we are
also aware that if actual law is not on our side, human law
is for us, natural law, the law of common-sense and
conscience, which is no less binding upon every noble and
honest man—that is, every man of sane judgment—because it is
not to be found in miserable legal codes. If we come here
without fear of being turned out (as was threatened just
now) because of the imperative tone of our demand, and the
unseemliness of such a visit at this late hour (though it
was not late when we arrived, we were kept waiting in your
anteroom), if, I say, we came in without fear, it is just
because we expected to find you a man of sense; I mean, a
man of honour and conscience. It is quite true that we did
not present ourselves humbly, like your flatterers and
parasites, but holding up our heads as befits independent
men. We present no petition, but a proud and free demand
(note it well, we do not beseech, we demand!). We ask you
fairly and squarely in a dignified manner. Do you believe
that in this affair of Burdovsky you have right on your
side? Do you admit that Pavlicheff overwhelmed you with
benefits, and perhaps saved your life? If you admit it
(which we take for granted), do you intend, now that you are
a millionaire, and do you not think it in conformity with
justice, to indemnify Burdovsky? Yes or no? If it is yes,
or, in other words, if you possess what you call honour and
conscience, and we more justly call common-sense, then
accede to our demand, and the matter is at an end. Give us
satisfaction, without entreaties or thanks from us; do not
expect thanks from us, for what you do will be done not for
our sake, but for the sake of justice. If you refuse to
satisfy us, that is, if your answer is no, we will go away
at once, and there will be an end of the matter. But we will
tell you to your face before the present company that you
are a man of vulgar and undeveloped mind; we will openly
deny you the right to speak in future of your honour and
conscience, for you have not paid the fair price of such a
right. I have no more to say—I have put the question before
you. Now turn us out if you dare. You can do it; force is on
your side. But remember that we do not beseech, we demand!
We do not beseech, we demand!"
With these last excited
words, Lebedeff's nephew was silent.
"We demand, we demand, we
demand, we do not beseech," spluttered Burdovsky, red as a
lobster.
The speech of Lebedeff's
nephew caused a certain stir among the company; murmurs
arose, though with the exception of Lebedeff, who was still
very much excited, everyone was careful not to interfere in
the matter. Strangely enough, Lebedeff, although on the
prince's side, seemed quite proud of his nephew's eloquence.
Gratified vanity was visible in the glances he cast upon the
assembled company.
"In my opinion, Mr.
Doktorenko," said the prince, in rather a low voice, "you
are quite right in at least half of what you say. I would go
further and say that you are altogether right, and that I
quite agree with you, if there were not something lacking in
your speech. I cannot undertake to say precisely what it is,
but you have certainly omitted something, and you cannot be
quite just while there is something lacking. But let us put
that aside and return to the point. Tell me what induced you
to publish this article. Every word of it is a calumny, and
I think, gentlemen, that you have been guilty of a mean
action."
"Allow me—"
"Sir—"
"What? What? What?" cried
all the visitors at once, in violent agitation.
"As to the article," said
Hippolyte in his croaking voice, "I have told you already
that we none of us approve of it! There is the writer," he
added, pointing to the boxer, who sat beside him. "I quite
admit that he has written it in his old regimental manner,
with an equal disregard for style and decency. I know he is
a cross between a fool and an adventurer; I make no bones
about telling him so to his face every day. But after all he
is half justified; publicity is the lawful right of every
man; consequently, Burdovsky is not excepted. Let him answer
for his own blunders. As to the objection which I made just
now in the name of all, to the presence of your friends, I
think I ought to explain, gentlemen, that I only did so to
assert our rights, though we really wished to have
witnesses; we had agreed unanimously upon the point before
we came in. We do not care who your witnesses may be, or
whether they are your friends or not. As they cannot fail to
recognize Burdovsky's right (seeing that it is
mathematically demonstrable), it is just as well that the
witnesses should be your friends. The truth will only be
more plainly evident."
"It is quite true; we had
agreed upon that point," said Lebedeff's nephew, in
confirmation.
"If that is the case, why
did you begin by making such a fuss about it?" asked the
astonished prince.
The boxer was dying to get
in a few words; owing, no doubt, to the presence of the
ladies, he was becoming quite jovial.
"As to the article,
prince," he said, "I admit that I wrote it, in spite of the
severe criticism of my poor friend, in whom I always
overlook many things because of his unfortunate state of
health. But I wrote and published it in the form of a
letter, in the paper of a friend. I showed it to no one but
Burdovsky, and I did not read it all through, even to him.
He immediately gave me permission to publish it, but you
will admit that I might have done so without his consent.
Publicity is a noble, beneficent, and universal right. I
hope, prince, that you are too progressive to deny this?"
"I deny nothing, but you
must confess that your article—"
"Is a bit thick, you mean?
Well, in a way that is in the public interest; you will
admit that yourself, and after all one cannot overlook a
blatant fact. So much the worse for the guilty parties, but
the public welfare must come before everything. As to
certain inaccuracies and figures of speech, so to speak, you
will also admit that the motive, aim, and intention, are the
chief thing. It is a question, above all, of making a
wholesome example; the individual case can be examined
afterwards; and as to the style—well, the thing was meant to
be humorous, so to speak, and, after all, everybody writes
like that; you must admit it yourself! Ha, ha!"
"But, gentlemen, I assure
you that you are quite astray," exclaimed the prince. "You
have published this article upon the supposition that I
would never consent to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky. Acting on that
conviction, you have tried to intimidate me by this
publication and to be revenged for my supposed refusal. But
what did you know of my intentions? It may be that I have
resolved to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky's claim. I now declare
openly, in the presence of these witnesses, that I will do
so."
"The noble and intelligent
word of an intelligent and most noble man, at last!"
exclaimed the boxer.
"Good God!" exclaimed
Lizabetha Prokofievna involuntarily.
"This is intolerable,"
growled the general.
"Allow me, gentlemen, allow
me," urged the prince.
"I will explain matters to
you. Five weeks ago I received a visit from Tchebaroff, your
agent, Mr. Burdovsky. You have given a very flattering
description of him in your article, Mr. Keller," he
continued, turning to the boxer with a smile, "but he did
not please me at all. I saw at once that Tchebaroff was the
moving spirit in the matter, and, to speak frankly, I
thought he might have induced you, Mr. Burdovsky, to make
this claim, by taking advantage of your simplicity."
"You have no right.... I am
not simple," stammered Burdovsky, much agitated.
"You have no sort of right
to suppose such things," said Lebedeff's nephew in a tone of
authority.
"It is most offensive!"
shrieked Hippolyte; "it is an insulting suggestion, false,
and most ill-timed."
"I beg your pardon,
gentlemen; please excuse me," said the prince. "I thought
absolute frankness on both sides would be best, but have it
your own way. I told Tchebaroff that, as I was not in
Petersburg, I would commission a friend to look into the
matter without delay, and that I would let you know, Mr.
Burdovsky. Gentlemen, I have no hesitation in telling you
that it was the fact of Tchebaroff's intervention that made
me suspect a fraud. Oh! do not take offence at my words,
gentlemen, for Heaven's sake do not be so touchy!" cried the
prince, seeing that Burdovsky was getting excited again, and
that the rest were preparing to protest. "If I say I
suspected a fraud, there is nothing personal in that. I had
never seen any of you then; I did not even know your names;
I only judged by Tchebaroff; I am speaking quite
generally—if you only knew how I have been 'done' since I
came into my fortune!"
"You are shockingly naive,
prince," said Lebedeff's nephew in mocking tones.
"Besides, though you are a
prince and a millionaire, and even though you may really be
simple and good-hearted, you can hardly be outside the
general law," Hippolyte declared loudly.
"Perhaps not; it is very
possible," the prince agreed hastily, "though I do not know
what general law you allude to. I will go on—only please do
not take offence without good cause. I assure you I do not
mean to offend you in the least. Really, it is impossible to
speak three words sincerely without your flying into a rage!
At first I was amazed when Tchebaroff told me that
Pavlicheff had a son, and that he was in such a miserable
position. Pavlicheff was my benefactor, and my father's
friend. Oh, Mr. Keller, why does your article impute things
to my father without the slightest foundation? He never
squandered the funds of his company nor ill-treated his
subordinates, I am absolutely certain of it; I cannot
imagine how you could bring yourself to write such a
calumny! But your assertions concerning Pavlicheff are
absolutely intolerable! You do not scruple to make a
libertine of that noble man; you call him a sensualist as
coolly as if you were speaking the truth, and yet it would
not be possible to find a chaster man. He was even a scholar
of note, and in correspondence with several celebrated
scientists, and spent large sums in the interests of
science. As to his kind heart and his good actions, you were
right indeed when you said that I was almost an idiot at
that time, and could hardly understand anything—(I could
speak and understand Russian, though),—but now I can
appreciate what I remember—"
"Excuse me," interrupted
Hippolyte, "is not this rather sentimental? You said you
wished to come to the point; please remember that it is
after nine o'clock."
"Very well, gentlemen—very
well," replied the prince. "At first I received the news
with mistrust, then I said to myself that I might be
mistaken, and that Pavlicheff might possibly have had a son.
But I was absolutely amazed at the readiness with which the
son had revealed the secret of his birth at the expense of
his mother's honour. For Tchebaroff had already menaced me
with publicity in our interview...."
"What nonsense!" Lebedeff's
nephew interrupted violently.
"You have no right—you have
no right!" cried Burdovsky.
"The son is not responsible
for the misdeeds of his father; and the mother is not to
blame," added Hippolyte, with warmth.
"That seems to me all the
more reason for sparing her," said the prince timidly.
"Prince, you are not only
simple, but your simplicity is almost past the limit," said
Lebedeff's nephew, with a sarcastic smile.
"But what right had you?"
said Hippolyte in a very strange tone.
"None—none whatever,"
agreed the prince hastily. "I admit you are right there, but
it was involuntary, and I immediately said to myself that my
personal feelings had nothing to do with it,—that if I
thought it right to satisfy the demands of Mr. Burdovsky,
out of respect for the memory of Pavlicheff, I ought to do
so in any case, whether I esteemed Mr. Burdovsky or not. I
only mentioned this, gentlemen, because it seemed so
unnatural to me for a son to betray his mother's secret in
such a way. In short, that is what convinced me that
Tchebaroff must be a rogue, and that he had induced Mr.
Burdovsky to attempt this fraud."
"But this is intolerable!"
cried the visitors, some of them starting to their feet.
"Gentlemen, I supposed from
this that poor Mr. Burdovsky must be a simple-minded man,
quite defenceless, and an easy tool in the hands of rogues.
That is why I thought it my duty to try and help him as
'Pavlicheff's son'; in the first place by rescuing him from
the influence of Tchebaroff, and secondly by making myself
his friend. I have resolved to give him ten thousand
roubles; that is about the sum which I calculate that
Pavlicheff must have spent on me."
"What, only ten thousand!"
cried Hippolyte.
"Well, prince, your
arithmetic is not up to much, or else you are mighty clever
at it, though you affect the air of a simpleton," said
Lebedeff's nephew.
"I will not accept ten
thousand roubles," said Burdovsky.
"Accept, Antip," whispered
the boxer eagerly, leaning past the back of Hippolyte's
chair to give his friend this piece of advice. "Take it for
the present; we can see about more later on."
"Look here, Mr. Muishkin,"
shouted Hippolyte, "please understand that we are not fools,
nor idiots, as your guests seem to imagine; these ladies who
look upon us with such scorn, and especially this fine
gentleman" (pointing to Evgenie Pavlovitch) "whom I have not
the honour of knowing, though I think I have heard some talk
about him—"
"Really, really,
gentlemen," cried the prince in great agitation, "you are
misunderstanding me again. In the first place, Mr. Keller,
you have greatly overestimated my fortune in your article. I
am far from being a millionaire. I have barely a tenth of
what you suppose. Secondly, my treatment in Switzerland was
very far from costing tens of thousands of roubles.
Schneider received six hundred roubles a year, and he was
only paid for the first three years. As to the pretty
governesses whom Pavlicheff is supposed to have brought from
Paris, they only exist in Mr. Keller's imagination; it is
another calumny. According to my calculations, the sum spent
on me was very considerably under ten thousand roubles, but
I decided on that sum, and you must admit that in paying a
debt I could not offer Mr. Burdovsky more, however kindly
disposed I might be towards him; delicacy forbids it; I
should seem to be offering him charity instead of rightful
payment. I don't know how you cannot see that, gentlemen!
Besides, I had no intention of leaving the matter there. I
meant to intervene amicably later on and help to improve
poor Mr. Burdovsky's position. It is clear that he has been
deceived, or he would never have agreed to anything so vile
as the scandalous revelations about his mother in Mr.
Keller's article. But, gentlemen, why are you getting angry
again? Are we never to come to an understanding? Well, the
event has proved me right! I have just seen with my own eyes
the proof that my conjecture was correct!" he added, with
increasing eagerness.
He meant to calm his
hearers, and did not perceive that his words had only
increased their irritation.
"What do you mean? What are
you convinced of?" they demanded angrily.
"In the first place, I have
had the opportunity of getting a correct idea of Mr.
Burdovsky. I see what he is for myself. He is an innocent
man, deceived by everyone! A defenceless victim, who
deserves indulgence! Secondly, Gavrila Ardalionovitch, in
whose hands I had placed the matter, had his first interview
with me barely an hour ago. I had not heard from him for
some time, as I was away, and have been ill for three days
since my return to St. Petersburg. He tells me that he has
exposed the designs of Tchebaroff and has proof that
justifies my opinion of him. I know, gentlemen, that many
people think me an idiot. Counting upon my reputation as a
man whose purse-strings are easily loosened, Tchebaroff
thought it would be a simple matter to fleece me, especially
by trading on my gratitude to Pavlicheff. But the main point
is—listen, gentlemen, let me finish!—the main point is that
Mr. Burdovsky is not Pavlicheff's son at all. Gavrila
Ardalionovitch has just told me of his discovery, and
assures me that he has positive proofs. Well, what do you
think of that? It is scarcely credible, even after all the
tricks that have been played upon me. Please note that we
have positive proofs! I can hardly believe it myself, I
assure you; I do not yet believe it; I am still doubtful,
because Gavrila Ardalionovitch has not had time to go into
details; but there can be no further doubt that Tchebaroff
is a rogue! He has deceived poor Mr. Burdovsky, and all of
you, gentlemen, who have come forward so nobly to support
your friend—(he evidently needs support, I quite see that!).
He has abused your credulity and involved you all in an
attempted fraud, for when all is said and done this claim is
nothing else!"
"What! a fraud? What, he is
not Pavlicheff's son? Impossible!"
These exclamations but
feebly expressed the profound bewilderment into which the
prince's words had plunged Burdovsky's companions.
"Certainly it is a fraud!
Since Mr. Burdovsky is not Pavlicheff's son, his claim is
neither more nor less than attempted fraud (supposing, of
course, that he had known the truth), but the fact is that
he has been deceived. I insist on this point in order to
justify him; I repeat that his simple-mindedness makes him
worthy of pity, and that he cannot stand alone; otherwise he
would have behaved like a scoundrel in this matter. But I
feel certain that he does not understand it! I was just the
same myself before I went to Switzerland; I stammered
incoherently; one tries to express oneself and cannot. I
understand that. I am all the better able to pity Mr.
Burdovsky, because I know from experience what it is to be
like that, and so I have a right to speak. Well, though
there is no such person as 'Pavlicheff's son,' and it is all
nothing but a humbug, yet I will keep to my decision, and I
am prepared to give up ten thousand roubles in memory of
Pavlicheff. Before Mr. Burdovsky made this claim, I proposed
to found a school with this money, in memory of my
benefactor, but I shall honour his memory quite as well by
giving the ten thousand roubles to Mr. Burdovsky, because,
though he was not Pavlicheff's son, he was treated almost as
though he were. That is what gave a rogue the opportunity of
deceiving him; he really did think himself Pavlicheff's son.
Listen, gentlemen; this matter must be settled; keep calm;
do not get angry; and sit down! Gavrila Ardalionovitch will
explain everything to you at once, and I confess that I am
very anxious to hear all the details myself. He says that he
has even been to Pskoff to see your mother, Mr. Burdovsky;
she is not dead, as the article which was just read to us
makes out. Sit down, gentlemen, sit down!"
The prince sat down, and at
length prevailed upon Burdovsky's company to do likewise.
During the last ten or twenty minutes, exasperated by
continual interruptions, he had raised his voice, and spoken
with great vehemence. Now, no doubt, he bitterly regretted
several words and expressions which had escaped him in his
excitement. If he had not been driven beyond the limits of
endurance, he would not have ventured to express certain
conjectures so openly. He had no sooner sat down than his
heart was torn by sharp remorse. Besides insulting Burdovsky
with the supposition, made in the presence of witnesses,
that he was suffering from the complaint for which he had
himself been treated in Switzerland, he reproached himself
with the grossest indelicacy in having offered him the ten
thousand roubles before everyone. "I ought to have waited
till to-morrow and offered him the money when we were
alone," thought Muishkin. "Now it is too late, the mischief
is done! Yes, I am an idiot, an absolute idiot!" he said to
himself, overcome with shame and regret.
Till then Gavrila
Ardalionovitch had sat apart in silence. When the prince
called upon him, he came and stood by his side, and in a
calm, clear voice began to render an account of the mission
confided to him. All conversation ceased instantly.
Everyone, especially the Burdovsky party, listened with the
utmost curiosity.
IX.
"You will not deny, I am
sure," said Gavrila Ardalionovitch, turning to Burdovsky,
who sat looking at him with wide-open eyes, perplexed and
astonished. You will not deny, seriously, that you were born
just two years after your mother's legal marriage to Mr.
Burdovsky, your father. Nothing would be easier than to
prove the date of your birth from well-known facts; we can
only look on Mr. Keller's version as a work of imagination,
and one, moreover, extremely offensive both to you and your
mother. Of course he distorted the truth in order to
strengthen your claim, and to serve your interests. Mr.
Keller said that he previously consulted you about his
article in the paper, but did not read it to you as a whole.
Certainly he could not have read that passage. ....
"As a matter of fact, I did
not read it," interrupted the boxer, "but its contents had
been given me on unimpeachable authority, and I..."
"Excuse me, Mr. Keller,"
interposed Gavrila Ardalionovitch. "Allow me to speak. I
assure you your article shall be mentioned in its proper
place, and you can then explain everything, but for the
moment I would rather not anticipate. Quite accidentally,
with the help of my sister, Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsin, I
obtained from one of her intimate friends, Madame Zoubkoff,
a letter written to her twenty-five years ago, by Nicolai
Andreevitch Pavlicheff, then abroad. After getting into
communication with this lady, I went by her advice to
Timofei Fedorovitch Viazovkin, a retired colonel, and one of
Pavlicheff's oldest friends. He gave me two more letters
written by the latter when he was still in foreign parts.
These three documents, their dates, and the facts mentioned
in them, prove in the most undeniable manner, that eighteen
months before your birth, Nicolai Andreevitch went abroad,
where he remained for three consecutive years. Your mother,
as you are well aware, has never been out of Russia.... It
is too late to read the letters now; I am content to state
the fact. But if you desire it, come to me tomorrow morning,
bring witnesses and writing experts with you, and I will
prove the absolute truth of my story. From that moment the
question will be decided."
These words caused a
sensation among the listeners, and there was a general
movement of relief. Burdovsky got up abruptly.
"If that is true," said he,
"I have been deceived, grossly deceived, but not by
Tchebaroff: and for a long time past, a long time. I do not
wish for experts, not I, nor to go to see you. I believe
you. I give it up.... But I refuse the ten thousand roubles.
Good-bye."
"Wait five minutes more,
Mr. Burdovsky," said Gavrila Ardalionovitch pleasantly. "I
have more to say. Some rather curious and important facts
have come to light, and it is absolutely necessary, in my
opinion, that you should hear them. You will not regret, I
fancy, to have the whole matter thoroughly cleared up."
Burdovsky silently resumed
his seat, and bent his head as though in profound thought.
His friend, Lebedeff's nephew, who had risen to accompany
him, also sat down again. He seemed much disappointed,
though as self-confident as ever. Hippolyte looked dejected
and sulky, as well as surprised. He had just been attacked
by a violent fit of coughing, so that his handkerchief was
stained with blood. The boxer looked thoroughly frightened.
"Oh, Antip!" cried he in a
miserable voice, "I did say to you the other day—the day
before yesterday—that perhaps you were not really
Pavlicheff's son!"
There were sounds of
half-smothered laughter at this.
"Now, that is a valuable
piece of information, Mr. Keller," replied Gania. "However
that may be, I have private information which convinces me
that Mr. Burdovsky, though doubtless aware of the date of
his birth, knew nothing at all about Pavlicheff's sojourn
abroad. Indeed, he passed the greater part of his life out
of Russia, returning at intervals for short visits. The
journey in question is in itself too unimportant for his
friends to recollect it after more than twenty years; and of
course Mr. Burdovsky could have known nothing about it, for
he was not born. As the event has proved, it was not
impossible to find evidence of his absence, though I must
confess that chance has helped me in a quest which might
very well have come to nothing. It was really almost
impossible for Burdovsky or Tchebaroff to discover these
facts, even if it had entered their heads to try. Naturally
they never dreamt..."
Here the voice of Hippolyte
suddenly intervened.
"Allow me, Mr. Ivolgin," he
said irritably. "What is the good of all this rigmarole?
Pardon me. All is now clear, and we acknowledge the truth of
your main point. Why go into these tedious details? You wish
perhaps to boast of the cleverness of your investigation, to
cry up your talents as detective? Or perhaps your intention
is to excuse Burdovsky, by roving that he took up the matter
in ignorance? Well, I consider that extremely impudent on
your part! You ought to know that Burdovsky has no need of
being excused or justified by you or anyone else! It is an
insult! The affair is quite painful enough for him without
that. Will nothing make you understand?"
"Enough! enough! Mr.
Terentieff," interrupted Gania.
"Don't excite yourself; you
seem very ill, and I am sorry for that. I am almost done,
but there are a few facts to which I must briefly refer, as
I am convinced that they ought to be clearly explained once
for all...." A movement of impatience was noticed in his
audience as he resumed: "I merely wish to state, for the
information of all concerned, that the reason for Mr.
Pavlicheff's interest in your mother, Mr. Burdovsky, was
simply that she was the sister of a serf-girl with whom he
was deeply in love in his youth, and whom most certainly he
would have married but for her sudden death. I have proofs
that this circumstance is almost, if not quite, forgotten. I
may add that when your mother was about ten years old,
Pavlicheff took her under his care, gave her a good
education, and later, a considerable dowry. His relations
were alarmed, and feared he might go so far as to marry her,
but she gave her hand to a young land-surveyor named
Burdovsky when she reached the age of twenty. I can even say
definitely that it was a marriage of affection. After his
wedding your father gave up his occupation as land-surveyor,
and with his wife's dowry of fifteen thousand roubles went
in for commercial speculations. As he had had no experience,
he was cheated on all sides, and took to drink in order to
forget his troubles. He shortened his life by his excesses,
and eight years after his marriage he died. Your mother says
herself that she was left in the direst poverty, and would
have died of starvation had it not been for Pavlicheff, who
generously allowed her a yearly pension of six hundred
roubles. Many people recall his extreme fondness for you as
a little boy. Your mother confirms this, and agrees with
others in thinking that he loved you the more because you
were a sickly child, stammering in your speech, and almost
deformed—for it is known that all his life Nicolai
Andreevitch had a partiality for unfortunates of every kind,
especially children. In my opinion this is most important. I
may add that I discovered yet another fact, the last on
which I employed my detective powers. Seeing how fond
Pavlicheff was of you,—it was thanks to him you went to
school, and also had the advantage of special teachers—his
relations and servants grew to believe that you were his
son, and that your father had been betrayed by his wife. I
may point out that this idea was only accredited generally
during the last years of Pavlicheff's life, when his
next-of-kin were trembling about the succession, when the
earlier story was quite forgotten, and when all opportunity
for discovering the truth had seemingly passed away. No
doubt you, Mr. Burdovsky, heard this conjecture, and did not
hesitate to accept it as true. I have had the honour of
making your mother's acquaintance, and I find that she knows
all about these reports. What she does not know is that you,
her son, should have listened to them so complaisantly. I
found your respected mother at Pskoff, ill and in deep
poverty, as she has been ever since the death of your
benefactor. She told me with tears of gratitude how you had
supported her; she expects much of you, and believes
fervently in your future success..."
"Oh, this is unbearable!"
said Lebedeff's nephew impatiently. "What is the good of all
this romancing?"
"It is revolting and
unseemly!" cried Hippolyte, jumping up in a fury.
Burdovsky alone sat silent
and motionless.
"What is the good of it?"
repeated Gavrila Ardalionovitch, with pretended surprise.
"Well, firstly, because now perhaps Mr. Burdovsky is quite
convinced that Mr. Pavlicheff's love for him came simply
from generosity of soul, and not from paternal duty. It was
most necessary to impress this fact upon his mind,
considering that he approved of the article written by Mr.
Keller. I speak thus because I look on you, Mr. Burdovsky,
as an honourable man. Secondly, it appears that there was no
intention of cheating in this case, even on the part of
Tchebaroff. I wish to say this quite plainly, because the
prince hinted a while ago that I too thought it an attempt
at robbery and extortion. On the contrary, everyone has been
quite sincere in the matter, and although Tchebaroff may be
somewhat of a rogue, in this business he has acted simply as
any sharp lawyer would do under the circumstances. He looked
at it as a case that might bring him in a lot of money, and
he did not calculate badly; because on the one hand he
speculated on the generosity of the prince, and his
gratitude to the late Mr. Pavlicheff, and on the other to
his chivalrous ideas as to the obligations of honour and
conscience. As to Mr. Burdovsky, allowing for his
principles, we may acknowledge that he engaged in the
business with very little personal aim in view. At the
instigation of Tchebaroff and his other friends, he decided
to make the attempt in the service of truth, progress, and
humanity. In short, the conclusion may be drawn that, in
spite of all appearances, Mr. Burdovsky is a man of
irreproachable character, and thus the prince can all the
more readily offer him his friendship, and the assistance of
which he spoke just now..."
"Hush! hush! Gavrila
Ardalionovitch!" cried Muishkin in dismay, but it was too
late.
"I said, and I have
repeated it over and over again," shouted Burdovsky
furiously, "that I did not want the money. I will not take
it... why...I will not... I am going away!"
He was rushing hurriedly
from the terrace, when Lebedeff's nephew seized his arms,
and said something to him in a low voice. Burdovsky turned
quickly, and drawing an addressed but unsealed envelope from
his pocket, he threw it down on a little table beside the
prince.
"There's the money!... How
dare you?... The money!"
"Those are the two hundred
and fifty roubles you dared to send him as a charity, by the
hands of Tchebaroff," explained Doktorenko.
"The article in the
newspaper put it at fifty!" cried Colia.
"I beg your pardon," said
the prince, going up to Burdovsky. "I have done you a great
wrong, but I did not send you that money as a charity,
believe me. And now I am again to blame. I offended you just
now." (The prince was much distressed; he seemed worn out
with fatigue, and spoke almost incoherently.) "I spoke of
swindling... but I did not apply that to you. I was deceived
.... I said you were... afflicted... like me... But you are
not like me... you give lessons... you support your mother.
I said you had dishonoured your mother, but you love her.
She says so herself... I did not know... Gavrila
Ardalionovitch did not tell me that... Forgive me! I dared
to offer you ten thousand roubles, but I was wrong. I ought
to have done it differently, and now... there is no way of
doing it, for you despise me..."
"I declare, this is a
lunatic asylum!" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna.
"Of course it is a lunatic
asylum!" repeated Aglaya sharply, but her words were
overpowered by other voices. Everybody was talking loudly,
making remarks and comments; some discussed the affair
gravely, others laughed. Ivan Fedorovitch Epanchin was
extremely indignant. He stood waiting for his wife with an
air of offended dignity. Lebedeff's nephew took up the word
again.
"Well, prince, to do you
justice, you certainly know how to make the most of your—let
us call it infirmity, for the sake of politeness; you have
set about offering your money and friendship in such a way
that no self-respecting man could possibly accept them. This
is an excess of ingenuousness or of malice—you ought to know
better than anyone which word best fits the case."
"Allow me, gentlemen," said
Gavrila Ardalionovitch, who had just examined the contents
of the envelope, "there are only a hundred roubles here, not
two hundred and fifty. I point this out, prince, to prevent
misunderstanding."
"Never mind, never mind,"
said the prince, signing to him to keep quiet.
"But we do mind," said
Lebedeff's nephew vehemently. "Prince, your 'never mind' is
an insult to us. We have nothing to hide; our actions can
bear daylight. It is true that there are only a hundred
roubles instead of two hundred and fifty, but it is all the
same."
"Why, no, it is hardly the
same," remarked Gavrila Ardalionovitch, with an air of
ingenuous surprise.
"Don't interrupt, we are
not such fools as you think, Mr. Lawyer," cried Lebedeff's
nephew angrily. "Of course there is a difference between a
hundred roubles and two hundred and fifty, but in this case
the principle is the main point, and that a hundred and
fifty roubles are missing is only a side issue. The point to
be emphasized is that Burdovsky will not accept your
highness's charity; he flings it back in your face, and it
scarcely matters if there are a hundred roubles or two
hundred and fifty. Burdovsky has refused ten thousand
roubles; you heard him. He would not have returned even a
hundred roubles if he was dishonest! The hundred and fifty
roubles were paid to Tchebaroff for his travelling expenses.
You may jeer at our stupidity and at our inexperience in
business matters; you have done all you could already to
make us look ridiculous; but do not dare to call us
dishonest. The four of us will club together every day to
repay the hundred and fifty roubles to the prince, if we
have to pay it in instalments of a rouble at a time, but we
will repay it, with interest. Burdovsky is poor, he has no
millions. After his journey to see the prince Tchebaroff
sent in his bill. We counted on winning... Who would not
have done the same in such a case?"
"Who indeed?" exclaimed
Prince S.
"I shall certainly go mad,
if I stay here!" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna.
"It reminds me," said
Evgenie Pavlovitch, laughing, "of the famous plea of a
certain lawyer who lately defended a man for murdering six
people in order to rob them. He excused his client on the
score of poverty. 'It is quite natural,' he said in
conclusion, 'considering the state of misery he was in, that
he should have thought of murdering these six people; which
of you, gentlemen, would not have done the same in his
place?'"
"Enough," cried Lizabetha
Prokofievna abruptly, trembling with anger, "we have had
enough of this balderdash!"
In a state of terrible
excitement she threw back her head, with flaming eyes,
casting looks of contempt and defiance upon the whole
company, in which she could no longer distinguish friend
from foe. She had restrained herself so long that she felt
forced to vent her rage on somebody. Those who knew
Lizabetha Prokofievna saw at once how it was with her. "She
flies into these rages sometimes," said Ivan Fedorovitch to
Prince S. the next day, "but she is not often so violent as
she was yesterday; it does not happen more than once in
three years."
"Be quiet, Ivan
Fedorovitch! Leave me alone!" cried Mrs. Epanchin. "Why do
you offer me your arm now? You had not sense enough to take
me away before. You are my husband, you are a father, it was
your duty to drag me away by force, if in my folly I refused
to obey you and go quietly. You might at least have thought
of your daughters. We can find our way out now without your
help. Here is shame enough for a year! Wait a moment 'till I
thank the prince! Thank you, prince, for the entertainment
you have given us! It was most amusing to hear these young
men... It is vile, vile! A chaos, a scandal, worse than a
nightmare! Is it possible that there can be many such people
on earth? Be quiet, Aglaya! Be quiet, Alexandra! It is none
of your business! Don't fuss round me like that, Evgenie
Pavlovitch; you exasperate me! So, my dear," she cried,
addressing the prince, "you go so far as to beg their
pardon! He says, 'Forgive me for offering you a fortune.'
And you, you mountebank, what are you laughing at?" she
cried, turning suddenly on Lebedeff's nephew. "'We refuse
ten thousand roubles; we do not beseech, we demand!' As if
he did not know that this idiot will call on them tomorrow
to renew his offers of money and friendship. You will, won't
you? You will? Come, will you, or won't you?"
"I shall," said the prince,
with gentle humility.
"You hear him! You count
upon it, too," she continued, turning upon Doktorenko. "You
are as sure of him now as if you had the money in your
pocket. And there you are playing the swaggerer to throw
dust in our eyes! No, my dear sir, you may take other people
in! I can see through all your airs and graces, I see your
game!"
"Lizabetha Prokofievna!"
exclaimed the prince.
"Come, Lizabetha
Prokofievna, it is quite time for us to be going, we will
take the prince with us," said Prince S. with a smile, in
the coolest possible way.
The girls stood apart,
almost frightened; their father was positively horrified.
Mrs. Epanchin's language astonished everybody. Some who
stood a little way off smiled furtively, and talked in
whispers. Lebedeff wore an expression of utmost ecstasy.
"Chaos and scandal are to
be found everywhere, madame," remarked Doktorenko, who was
considerably put out of countenance.
"Not like this! Nothing
like the spectacle you have just given us, sir," answered
Lizabetha Prokofievna, with a sort of hysterical rage.
"Leave me alone, will you?" she cried violently to those
around her, who were trying to keep her quiet. "No, Evgenie
Pavlovitch, if, as you said yourself just now, a lawyer said
in open court that he found it quite natural that a man
should murder six people because he was in misery, the world
must be coming to an end. I had not heard of it before. Now
I understand everything. And this stutterer, won't he turn
out a murderer?" she cried, pointing to Burdovsky, who was
staring at her with stupefaction. "I bet he will! He will
have none of your money, possibly, he will refuse it because
his conscience will not allow him to accept it, but he will
go murdering you by night and walking off with your cashbox,
with a clear conscience! He does not call it a dishonest
action but 'the impulse of a noble despair'; 'a negation';
or the devil knows what! Bah! everything is upside down,
everyone walks head downwards. A young girl, brought up at
home, suddenly jumps into a cab in the middle of the street,
saying: 'Good-bye, mother, I married Karlitch, or Ivanitch,
the other day!' And you think it quite right? You call such
conduct estimable and natural? The 'woman question'? Look
here," she continued, pointing to Colia, "the other day that
whippersnapper told me that this was the whole meaning of
the 'woman question.' But even supposing that your mother is
a fool, you are none the less, bound to treat her with
humanity. Why did you come here tonight so insolently? 'Give
us our rights, but don't dare to speak in our presence. Show
us every mark of deepest respect, while we treat you like
the scum of the earth.' The miscreants have written a tissue
of calumny in their article, and these are the men who seek
for truth, and do battle for the right! 'We do not beseech,
we demand, you will get no thanks from us, because you will
be acting to satisfy your own conscience!' What morality!
But, good heavens! if you declare that the prince's
generosity will, excite no gratitude in you, he might answer
that he is not, bound to be grateful to Pavlicheff, who also
was only satisfying his own conscience. But you counted on
the prince's, gratitude towards Pavlicheff; you never lent
him any money; he owes you nothing; then what were you
counting upon if not on his gratitude? And if you appeal to
that sentiment in others, why should you expect to be
exempted from it? They are mad! They say society is savage
and inhuman because it despises a young girl who has been
seduced. But if you call society inhuman you imply that the
young girl is made to suffer by its censure. How then, can
you hold her up to the scorn of society in the newspapers
without realizing that you are making her suffering, still
greater? Madmen! Vain fools! They don't believe in God, they
don't believe in Christ! But you are so eaten up by pride
and vanity, that you will end by devouring each other—that
is my prophecy! Is not this absurd? Is it not monstrous
chaos? And after all this, that shameless creature will go
and beg their pardon! Are there many people like you? What
are you smiling at? Because I am not ashamed to disgrace
myself before you?—Yes, I am disgraced—it can't be helped
now! But don't you jeer at me, you scum!" (this was aimed at
Hippolyte). "He is almost at his last gasp, yet he corrupts
others. You, have got hold of this lad "—(she pointed to
Colia); "you, have turned his head, you have taught him to
be an atheist, you don't believe in God, and you are not too
old to be whipped, sir! A plague upon you! And so, Prince
Lef Nicolaievitch, you will call on them tomorrow, will
you?" she asked the prince breathlessly, for the second
time.
"Yes."
"Then I will never speak to
you again." She made a sudden movement to go, and then
turned quickly back. "And you will call on that atheist?"
she continued, pointing to Hippolyte. "How dare you grin at
me like that?" she shouted furiously, rushing at the
invalid, whose mocking smile drove her to distraction.
Exclamations arose on all
sides.
"Lizabetha Prokofievna!
Lizabetha Prokofievna! Lizabetha Prokofievna!"
"Mother, this is
disgraceful!" cried Aglaya.
Mrs. Epanchin had
approached Hippolyte and seized him firmly by the arm, while
her eyes, blazing with fury, were fixed upon his face.
"Do not distress yourself,
Aglaya Ivanovitch," he answered calmly; "your mother knows
that one cannot strike a dying man. I am ready to explain
why I was laughing. I shall be delighted if you will let
me—"
A violent fit of coughing,
which lasted a full minute, prevented him from finishing his
sentence.
"He is dying, yet he will
not stop holding forth!" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna. She
loosed her hold on his arm, almost terrified, as she saw him
wiping the blood from his lips. "Why do you talk? You ought
to go home to bed."
"So I will," he whispered
hoarsely. "As soon as I get home I will go to bed at once;
and I know I shall be dead in a fortnight; Botkine told me
so himself last week. That is why I should like to say a few
farewell words, if you will let me."
"But you must be mad! It is
ridiculous! You should take care of yourself; what is the
use of holding a conversation now? Go home to bed, do!"
cried Mrs. Epanchin in horror.
"When I do go to bed I
shall never get up again," said Hippolyte, with a smile. "I
meant to take to my bed yesterday and stay there till I
died, but as my legs can still carry me, I put it off for
two days, so as to come here with them to-day—but I am very
tired."
"Oh, sit down, sit down,
why are you standing?"
Lizabetha Prokofievna
placed a chair for him with her own hands.
"Thank you," he said
gently. "Sit opposite to me, and let us talk. We must have a
talk now, Lizabetha Prokofievna; I am very anxious for it."
He smiled at her once more. "Remember that today, for the
last time, I am out in the air, and in the company of my
fellow-men, and that in a fortnight I shall I certainly be
no longer in this world. So, in a way, this is my farewell
to nature and to men. I am not very sentimental, but do you
know, I am quite glad that all this has happened at
Pavlofsk, where at least one can see a green tree."
"But why talk now?" replied
Lizabetha Prokofievna, more and more alarmed; "are quite
feverish. Just now you would not stop shouting, and now you
can hardly breathe. You are gasping."
"I shall have time to rest.
Why will you not grant my last wish? Do you know, Lizabetha
Prokofievna, that I have dreamed of meeting you for a long
while? I had often heard of you from Colia; he is almost the
only person who still comes to see me. You are an original
and eccentric woman; I have seen that for myself—Do you
know, I have even been rather fond of you?"
"Good heavens! And I very
nearly struck him!"
"You were prevented by
Aglaya Ivanovna. I think I am not mistaken? That is your
daughter, Aglaya Ivanovna? She is so beautiful that I
recognized her directly, although I had never seen her
before. Let me, at least, look on beauty for the last time
in my life," he said with a wry smile. "You are here with
the prince, and your husband, and a large company. Why
should you refuse to gratify my last wish?"
"Give me a chair!" cried
Lizabetha Prokofievna, but she seized one for herself and
sat down opposite to Hippolyte. "Colia, you must go home
with him," she commanded, "and tomorrow I will come my
self."
"Will you let me ask the
prince for a cup of tea?... I am exhausted. Do you know what
you might do, Lizabetha Prokofievna? I think you wanted to
take the prince home with you for tea. Stay here, and let us
spend the evening together. I am sure the prince will give
us all some tea. Forgive me for being so free and easy—but I
know you are kind, and the prince is kind, too. In fact, we
are all good-natured people—it is really quite comical."
The prince bestirred
himself to give orders. Lebedeff hurried out, followed by
Vera.
"It is quite true," said
Mrs. Epanchin decisively. "Talk, but not too loud, and don't
excite yourself. You have made me sorry for you. Prince, you
don't deserve that I should stay and have tea with you, yet
I will, all the same, but I won't apologize. I apologize to
nobody! Nobody! It is absurd! However, forgive me, prince,
if I blew you up—that is, if you like, of course. But please
don't let me keep anyone," she added suddenly to her husband
and daughters, in a tone of resentment, as though they had
grievously offended her. "I can come home alone quite well."
But they did not let her
finish, and gathered round her eagerly. The prince
immediately invited everyone to stay for tea, and apologized
for not having thought of it before. The general murmured a
few polite words, and asked Lizabetha Prokofievna if she did
not feel cold on the terrace. He very nearly asked Hippolyte
how long he had been at the University, but stopped himself
in time. Evgenie Pavlovitch and Prince S. suddenly grew
extremely gay and amiable. Adelaida and Alexandra had not
recovered from their surprise, but it was now mingled with
satisfaction; in short, everyone seemed very much relieved
that Lizabetha Prokofievna had got over her paroxysm. Aglaya
alone still frowned, and sat apart in silence. All the other
guests stayed on as well; no one wanted to go, not even
General Ivolgin, but Lebedeff said something to him in
passing which did not seem to please him, for he immediately
went and sulked in a corner. The prince took care to offer
tea to Burdovsky and his friends as well as the rest. The
invitation made them rather uncomfortable. They muttered
that they would wait for Hippolyte, and went and sat by
themselves in a distant corner of the verandah. Tea was
served at once; Lebedeff had no doubt ordered it for himself
and his family before the others arrived. It was striking
eleven.
X.
AFTER moistening his lips
with the tea which Vera Lebedeff brought him, Hippolyte set
the cup down on the table, and glanced round. He seemed
confused and almost at a loss.
"Just look, Lizabetha
Prokofievna," he began, with a kind of feverish haste;
"these china cups are supposed to be extremely valuable.
Lebedeff always keeps them locked up in his china-cupboard;
they were part of his wife's dowry. Yet he has brought them
out tonight—in your honour, of course! He is so pleased—" He
was about to add something else, but could not find the
words.
"There, he is feeling
embarrassed; I expected as much," whispered Evgenie
Pavlovitch suddenly in the prince's ear. "It is a bad sign;
what do you think? Now, out of spite, he will come out with
something so outrageous that even Lizabetha Prokofievna will
not be able to stand it."
Muishkin looked at him
inquiringly.
"You do not care if he
does?" added Evgenie Pavlovitch. "Neither do I; in fact, I
should be glad, merely as a proper punishment for our dear
Lizabetha Prokofievna. I am very anxious that she should get
it, without delay, and I shall stay till she does. You seem
feverish."
"Never mind; by-and-by;
yes, I am not feeling well," said the prince impatiently,
hardly listening. He had just heard Hippolyte mention his
own name.
"You don't believe it?"
said the invalid, with a nervous laugh. "I don't wonder, but
the prince will have no difficulty in believing it; he will
not be at all surprised."
"Do you hear, prince—do you
hear that?" said Lizabetha Prokofievna, turning towards him.
There was laughter in the
group around her, and Lebedeff stood before her
gesticulating wildly.
"He declares that your
humbug of a landlord revised this gentleman's article—the
article that was read aloud just now—in which you got such a
charming dressing-down."
The prince regarded
Lebedeff with astonishment.
"Why don't you say
something?" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, stamping her foot.
"Well," murmured the
prince, with his eyes still fixed on Lebedeff, "I can see
now that he did."
"Is it true?" she asked
eagerly.
"Absolutely, your
excellency," said Lebedeff, without the least hesitation.
Mrs. Epanchin almost sprang
up in amazement at his answer, and at the assurance of his
tone.
"He actually seems to boast
of it!" she cried.
"I am base—base!" muttered
Lebedeff, beating his breast, and hanging his head.
"What do I care if you are
base or not? He thinks he has only to say, 'I am base,' and
there is an end of it. As to you, prince, are you not
ashamed?—I repeat, are you not ashamed, to mix with such
riff-raff? I will never forgive you!"
"The prince will forgive
me!" said Lebedeff with emotional conviction.
Keller suddenly left his
seat, and approached Lizabetha. Prokofievna.
"It was only out of
generosity, madame," he said in a resonant voice, "and
because I would not betray a friend in an awkward position,
that I did not mention this revision before; though you
heard him yourself threatening to kick us down the steps. To
clear the matter up, I declare now that I did have recourse
to his assistance, and that I paid him six roubles for it.
But I did not ask him to correct my style; I simply went to
him for information concerning the facts, of which I was
ignorant to a great extent, and which he was competent to
give. The story of the gaiters, the appetite in the Swiss
professor's house, the substitution of fifty roubles for two
hundred and fifty—all such details, in fact, were got from
him. I paid him six roubles for them; but he did not correct
the style."
"I must state that I only
revised the first part of the article," interposed Lebedeff
with feverish impatience, while laughter rose from all
around him; "but we fell out in the middle over one idea, so
I never corrected the second part. Therefore I cannot be
held responsible for the numerous grammatical blunders in
it."
"That is all he thinks of!"
cried Lizabetha Prokofievna.
"May I ask when this
article was revised?" said Evgenie Pavlovitch to Keller.
"Yesterday morning," he
replied, "we had an interview which we all gave our word of
honour to keep secret."
"The very time when he was
cringing before you and making protestations of devotion!
Oh, the mean wretches! I will have nothing to do with your
Pushkin, and your daughter shall not set foot in my house!"
Lizabetha Prokofievna was
about to rise, when she saw Hippolyte laughing, and turned
upon him with irritation.
"Well, sir, I suppose you
wanted to make me look ridiculous?"
"Heaven forbid!" he
answered, with a forced smile. "But I am more than ever
struck by your eccentricity, Lizabetha Prokofievna. I admit
that I told you of Lebedeff's duplicity, on purpose. I knew
the effect it would have on you,—on you alone, for the
prince will forgive him. He has probably forgiven him
already, and is racking his brains to find some excuse for
him—is not that the truth, prince?"
He gasped as he spoke, and
his strange agitation seemed to increase.
"Well?" said Mrs. Epanchin
angrily, surprised at his tone; "well, what more?"
"I have heard many things
of the kind about you...they delighted me... I have learned
to hold you in the highest esteem," continued Hippolyte.
His words seemed tinged
with a kind of sarcastic mockery, yet he was extremely
agitated, casting suspicious glances around him, growing
confused, and constantly losing the thread of his ideas. All
this, together with his consumptive appearance, and the
frenzied expression of his blazing eyes, naturally attracted
the attention of everyone present.
"I might have been
surprised (though I admit I know nothing of the world), not
only that you should have stayed on just now in the company
of such people as myself and my friends, who are not of your
class, but that you should let these... young ladies listen
to such a scandalous affair, though no doubt novel-reading
has taught them all there is to know. I may be mistaken; I
hardly know what I am saying; but surely no one but you
would have stayed to please a whippersnapper (yes, a
whippersnapper; I admit it) to spend the evening and take
part in everything—only to be ashamed of it tomorrow. (I
know I express myself badly.) I admire and appreciate it all
extremely, though the expression on the face of his
excellency, your husband, shows that he thinks it very
improper. He-he!" He burst out laughing, and was seized with
a fit of coughing which lasted for two minutes and prevented
him from speaking.
"He has lost his breath
now!" said Lizabetha Prokofievna coldly, looking at him with
more curiosity than pity: "Come, my dear boy, that is quite
enough—let us make an end of this."
Ivan Fedorovitch, now quite
out of patience, interrupted suddenly. "Let me remark in my
turn, sir," he said in tones of deep annoyance, "that my
wife is here as the guest of Prince Lef Nicolaievitch, our
friend and neighbour, and that in any case, young man, it is
not for you to pass judgment on the conduct of Lizabetha
Prokofievna, or to make remarks aloud in my presence
concerning what feelings you think may be read in my face.
Yes, my wife stayed here," continued the general, with
increasing irritation, "more out of amazement than anything
else. Everyone can understand that a collection of such
strange young men would attract the attention of a person
interested in contemporary life. I stayed myself, just as I
sometimes stop to look on in the street when I see something
that may be regarded as-as-as-"
"As a curiosity," suggested
Evgenie Pavlovitch, seeing his excellency involved in a
comparison which he could not complete.
"That is exactly the word I
wanted," said the general with satisfaction—"a curiosity.
However, the most astonishing and, if I may so express
myself, the most painful, thing in this matter, is that you
cannot even understand, young man, that Lizabetha
Prokofievna, only stayed with you because you are ill,—if
you really are dying—moved by the pity awakened by your
plaintive appeal, and that her name, character, and social
position place her above all risk of contamination.
Lizabetha Prokofievna!" he continued, now crimson with rage,
"if you are coming, we will say goodnight to the prince,
and—"
"Thank you for the lesson,
general," said Hippolyte, with unexpected gravity, regarding
him thoughtfully.
"Two minutes more, if you
please, dear Ivan Fedorovitch," said Lizabetha Prokofievna
to her husband; "it seems to me that he is in a fever and
delirious; you can see by his eyes what a state he is in; it
is impossible to let him go back to Petersburg tonight. Can
you put him up, Lef Nicolaievitch? I hope you are not bored,
dear prince," she added suddenly to Prince S. "Alexandra, my
dear, come here! Your hair is coming down."
She arranged her daughter's
hair, which was not in the least disordered, and gave her a
kiss. This was all that she had called her for.
"I thought you were capable
of development," said Hippolyte, coming out of his fit of
abstraction. "Yes, that is what I meant to say," he added,
with the satisfaction of one who suddenly remembers
something he had forgotten. "Here is Burdovsky, sincerely
anxious to protect his mother; is not that so? And he
himself is the cause of her disgrace. The prince is anxious
to help Burdovsky and offers him friendship and a large sum
of money, in the sincerity of his heart. And here they stand
like two sworn enemies—ha, ha, ha! You all hate Burdovsky
because his behaviour with regard to his mother is shocking
and repugnant to you; do you not? Is not that true? Is it
not true? You all have a passion for beauty and distinction
in outward forms; that is all you care for, isn't it? I have
suspected for a long time that you cared for nothing else!
Well, let me tell you that perhaps there is not one of you
who loved your mother as Burdovsky loved his. As to you,
prince, I know that you have sent money secretly to
Burdovsky's mother through Gania. Well, I bet now," he
continued with an hysterical laugh, "that Burdovsky will
accuse you of indelicacy, and reproach you with a want of
respect for his mother! Yes, that is quite certain! Ha, ha,
ha!"
He caught his breath, and
began to cough once more.
"Come, that is enough! That
is all now; you have no more to say? Now go to bed; you are
burning with fever," said Lizabetha Prokofievna impatiently.
Her anxious eyes had never left the invalid. "Good heavens,
he is going to begin again!"
"You are laughing, I think?
Why do you keep laughing at me?" said Hippolyte irritably to
Evgenie Pavlovitch, who certainly was laughing.
"I only want to know, Mr.
Hippolyte—excuse me, I forget your surname."
"Mr. Terentieff," said the
prince.
"Oh yes, Mr. Terentieff.
Thank you prince. I heard it just now, but had forgotten it.
I want to know, Mr. Terentieff, if what I have heard about
you is true. It seems you are convinced that if you could
speak to the people from a window for a quarter of an hour,
you could make them all adopt your views and follow you?"
"I may have said so,"
answered Hippolyte, as if trying to remember. "Yes, I
certainly said so," he continued with sudden animation,
fixing an unflinching glance on his questioner. "What of
it?"
"Nothing. I was only
seeking further information, to put the finishing touch."
Evgenie Pavlovitch was silent, but Hippolyte kept his eyes
fixed upon him, waiting impatiently for more.
"Well, have you finished?"
said Lizabetha Prokofievna to Evgenie. "Make haste, sir; it
is time he went to bed. Have you more to say?" She was very
angry.
"Yes, I have a little
more," said Evgenie Pavlovitch, with a smile. "It seems to
me that all you and your friends have said, Mr. Terentieff,
and all you have just put forward with such undeniable
talent, may be summed up in the triumph of right above all,
independent of everything else, to the exclusion of
everything else; perhaps even before having discovered what
constitutes the right. I may be mistaken?"
"You are certainly
mistaken; I do not even understand you. What else?"
Murmurs arose in the
neighbourhood of Burdovsky and his companions; Lebedeff's
nephew protested under his breath.
"I have nearly finished,"
replied Evgenie Pavlovitch.
"I will only remark that
from these premises one could conclude that might is right—I
mean the right of the clenched fist, and of personal
inclination. Indeed, the world has often come to that
conclusion. Prudhon upheld that might is right. In the
American War some of the most advanced Liberals took sides
with the planters on the score that the blacks were an
inferior race to the whites, and that might was the right of
the white race."
"Well?"
"You mean, no doubt, that
you do not deny that might is right?"
"What then?"
"You are at least logical.
I would only point out that from the right of might, to the
right of tigers and crocodiles, or even Daniloff and Gorsky,
is but a step."
"I know nothing about that;
what else?"
Hippolyte was scarcely
listening. He kept saying "well?" and "what else?"
mechanically, without the least curiosity, and by mere force
of habit.
"Why, nothing else; that is
all."
"However, I bear you no
grudge," said Hippolyte suddenly, and, hardly conscious of
what he was doing, he held out his hand with a smile. The
gesture took Evgenie Pavlovitch by surprise, but with the
utmost gravity he touched the hand that was offered him in
token of forgiveness.
"I can but thank you," he
said, in a tone too respectful to be sincere, "for your
kindness in letting me speak, for I have often noticed that
our Liberals never allow other people to have an opinion of
their own, and immediately answer their opponents with
abuse, if they do not have recourse to arguments of a still
more unpleasant nature."
"What you say is quite
true," observed General Epanchin; then, clasping his hands
behind his back, he returned to his place on the terrace
steps, where he yawned with an air of boredom.
"Come, sir, that will do;
you weary me," said Lizabetha Prokofievna suddenly to
Evgenie Pavlovitch.
Hippolyte rose all at once,
looking troubled and almost frightened.
"It is time for me to go,"
he said, glancing round in perplexity. "I have detained
you... I wanted to tell you everything... I thought you
all... for the last time... it was a whim..."
He evidently had sudden
fits of returning animation, when he awoke from his
semi-delirium; then, recovering full self-possession for a
few moments, he would speak, in disconnected phrases which
had perhaps haunted him for a long while on his bed of
suffering, during weary, sleepless nights.
"Well, good-bye," he said
abruptly. "You think it is easy for me to say good-bye to
you? Ha, ha!"
Feeling that his question
was somewhat gauche, he smiled angrily. Then as if vexed
that he could not ever express what he really meant, he said
irritably, in a loud voice:
"Excellency, I have the
honour of inviting you to my funeral; that is, if you will
deign to honour it with your presence. I invite you all,
gentlemen, as well as the general."
He burst out laughing
again, but it was the laughter of a madman. Lizabetha
Prokofievna approached him anxiously and seized his arm. He
stared at her for a moment, still laughing, but soon his
face grew serious.
"Do you know that I came
here to see those trees?" pointing to the trees in the park.
"It is not ridiculous, is it? Say that it is not
ridiculous!" he demanded urgently of Lizabetha Prokofievna.
Then he seemed to be plunged in thought. A moment later he
raised his head, and his eyes sought for someone. He was
looking for Evgenie Pavlovitch, who was close by on his
right as before, but he had forgotten this, and his eyes
ranged over the assembled company. "Ah! you have not gone!"
he said, when he caught sight of him at last. "You kept on
laughing just now, because I thought of speaking to the
people from the window for a quarter of an hour. But I am
not eighteen, you know; lying on that bed, and looking out
of that window, I have thought of all sorts of things for
such a long time that... a dead man has no age, you know. I
was saying that to myself only last week, when I was awake
in the night. Do you know what you fear most? You fear our
sincerity more than anything, although you despise us! The
idea crossed my mind that night... You thought I was making
fun of you just now, Lizabetha Prokofievna? No, the idea of
mockery was far from me; I only meant to praise you. Colia
told me the prince called you a child—very well—but let me
see, I had something else to say..." He covered his face
with his hands and tried to collect his thoughts.
"Ah, yes—you were going
away just now, and I thought to myself: 'I shall never see
these people again-never again! This is the last time I
shall see the trees, too. I shall see nothing after this but
the red brick wall of Meyer's house opposite my window. Tell
them about it—try to tell them,' I thought. 'Here is a
beautiful young girl—you are a dead man; make them
understand that. Tell them that a dead man may say
anything—and Mrs. Grundy will not be angry—ha-ha! You are
not laughing?" He looked anxiously around. "But you know I
get so many queer ideas, lying there in bed. I have grown
convinced that nature is full of mockery—you called me an
atheist just now, but you know this nature... why are you
laughing again? You are very cruel!" he added suddenly,
regarding them all with mournful reproach. "I have not
corrupted Colia," he concluded in a different and very
serious tone, as if remembering something again.
"Nobody here is laughing at
you. Calm yourself," said Lizabetha Prokofievna, much moved.
"You shall see a new doctor tomorrow; the other was
mistaken; but sit down, do not stand like that! You are
delirious—" Oh, what shall we do with him she cried in
anguish, as she made him sit down again in the arm-chair.
A tear glistened on her
cheek. At the sight of it Hippolyte seemed amazed. He lifted
his hand timidly and, touched the tear with his finger,
smiling like a child.
"I... you," he began
joyfully. "You cannot tell how I... he always spoke so
enthusiastically of you, Colia here; I liked his enthusiasm.
I was not corrupting him! But I must leave him, too—I wanted
to leave them all—there was not one of them—not one! I
wanted to be a man of action—I had a right to be. Oh! what a
lot of things I wanted! Now I want nothing; I renounce all
my wants; I swore to myself that I would want nothing; let
them seek the truth without me! Yes, nature is full of
mockery! Why"—he continued with sudden warmth—"does she
create the choicest beings only to mock at them? The only
human being who is recognized as perfect, when nature showed
him to mankind, was given the mission to say things which
have caused the shedding of so much blood that it would have
drowned mankind if it had all been shed at once! Oh! it is
better for me to die! I should tell some dreadful lie too;
nature would so contrive it! I have corrupted nobody. I
wanted to live for the happiness of all men, to find and
spread the truth. I used to look out of my window at the
wall of Meyer's house, and say to myself that if I could
speak for a quarter of an hour I would convince the whole
world, and now for once in my life I have come into contact
with... you—if not with the others! And what is the result?
Nothing! The sole result is that you despise me! Therefore I
must be a fool, I am useless, it is time I disappeared! And
I shall leave not even a memory! Not a sound, not a trace,
not a single deed! I have not spread a single truth!... Do
not laugh at the fool! Forget him! Forget him forever! I
beseech you, do not be so cruel as to remember! Do you know
that if I were not consumptive, I would kill myself?"
Though he seemed to wish to
say much more, he became silent. He fell back into his
chair, and, covering his face with his hands, began to sob
like a little child.
"Oh! what on earth are we
to do with him?" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna. She hastened
to him and pressed his head against her bosom, while he
sobbed convulsively.
"Come, come, come! There,
you must not cry, that will do. You are a good child! God
will forgive you, because you knew no better. Come now, be a
man! You know presently you will be ashamed."
Hippolyte raised his head
with an effort, saying:
"I have little brothers and
sisters, over there, poor avid innocent. She will corrupt
them! You are a saint! You are a child yourself—save them!
Snatch them from that... she is... it is shameful! Oh! help
them! God will repay you a hundredfold. For the love of God,
for the love of Christ!"
"Speak, Ivan Fedorovitch!
What are we to do?" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, irritably.
"Please break your majestic silence! I tell you, if you
cannot come to some decision, I will stay here all night
myself. You have tyrannized over me enough, you autocrat!"
She spoke angrily, and in
great excitement, and expected an immediate reply. But in
such a case, no matter how many are present, all prefer to
keep silence: no one will take the initiative, but all
reserve their comments till afterwards. There were some
present—Varvara Ardalionovna, for instance—who would have
willingly sat there till morning without saying a word.
Varvara had sat apart all the evening without opening her
lips, but she listened to everything with the closest
attention; perhaps she had her reasons for so doing.
"My dear," said the
general, "it seems to me that a sick-nurse would be of more
use here than an excitable person like you. Perhaps it would
be as well to get some sober, reliable man for the night. In
any case we must consult the prince, and leave the patient
to rest at once. Tomorrow we can see what can be done for
him."
"It is nearly midnight; we
are going. Will he come with us, or is he to stay here?"
Doktorenko asked crossly of the prince.
"You can stay with him if
you like," said Muishkin.
"There is plenty of room
here."
Suddenly, to the
astonishment of all, Keller went quickly up to the general.
"Excellency," he said,
impulsively, "if you want a reliable man for the night, I am
ready to sacrifice myself for my friend—such a soul as he
has! I have long thought him a great man, excellency! My
article showed my lack of education, but when he criticizes
he scatters pearls!"
Ivan Fedorovitch turned
from the boxer with a gesture of despair.
"I shall be delighted if he
will stay; it would certainly be difficult for him to get
back to Petersburg," said the prince, in answer to the eager
questions of Lizabetha Prokofievna.
"But you are half asleep,
are you not? If you don't want him, I will take him back to
my house! Why, good gracious! He can hardly stand up
himself! What is it? Are you ill?"
Not finding the prince on
his death-bed, Lizabetha Prokofievna had been misled by his
appearance to think him much better than he was. But his
recent illness, the painful memories attached to it, the
fatigue of this evening, the incident with "Pavlicheff's
son," and now this scene with Hippolyte, had all so worked
on his oversensitive nature that he was now almost in a
fever. Moreover, anew trouble, almost a fear, showed itself
in his eyes; he watched Hippolyte anxiously as if expecting
something further.
Suddenly Hippolyte arose.
His face, shockingly pale, was that of a man overwhelmed
with shame and despair. This was shown chiefly in the look
of fear and hatred which he cast upon the assembled company,
and in the wild smile upon his trembling lips. Then he cast
down his eyes, and with the same smile, staggered towards
Burdovsky and Doktorenko, who stood at the entrance to the
verandah. He had decided to go with them.
"There! that is what I
feared!" cried the prince. "It was inevitable!"
Hippolyte turned upon him,
a prey to maniacal rage, which set all the muscles of his
face quivering.
"Ah! that is what you
feared! It was inevitable, you say! Well, let me tell you
that if I hate anyone here—I hate you all," he cried, in a
hoarse, strained voice—"but you, you, with your jesuitical
soul, your soul of sickly sweetness, idiot, beneficent
millionaire—I hate you worse than anything or anyone on
earth! I saw through you and hated you long ago; from the
day I first heard of you. I hated you with my whole heart.
You have contrived all this! You have driven me into this
state! You have made a dying man disgrace himself. You, you,
you are the cause of my abject cowardice! I would kill you
if I remained alive! I do not want your benefits; I will
accept none from anyone; do you hear? Not from any one! I
want nothing! I was delirious, do not dare to triumph! I
curse every one of you, once for all!"
Breath failed him here, and
he was obliged to stop.
"He is ashamed of his
tears!" whispered Lebedeff to Lizabetha Prokofievna. "It was
inevitable. Ah! what a wonderful man the prince is! He read
his very soul."
But Mrs. Epanchin would not
deign to look at Lebedeff. Drawn up haughtily, with her head
held high, she gazed at the "riff-raff," with scornful
curiosity. When Hippolyte had finished, Ivan Fedorovitch
shrugged his shoulders, and his wife looked him angrily up
and down, as if to demand the meaning of his movement. Then
she turned to the prince.
"Thanks, prince, many
thanks, eccentric friend of the family, for the pleasant
evening you have provided for us. I am sure you are quite
pleased that you have managed to mix us up with your
extraordinary affairs. It is quite enough, dear family
friend; thank you for giving us an opportunity of getting to
know you so well."
She arranged her cloak with
hands that trembled with anger as she waited for the
"riff-raff" to go. The cab which Lebedeff's son had gone to
fetch a quarter of an hour ago, by Doktorenko's order,
arrived at that moment. The general thought fit to put in a
word after his wife.
"Really, prince, I hardly
expected after—after all our friendly intercourse—and you
see, Lizabetha Prokofievna—"
"Papa, how can you?" cried
Adelaida, walking quickly up to the prince and holding out
her hand.
He smiled absently at her;
then suddenly he felt a burning sensation in his ear as an
angry voice whispered:
"If you do not turn those
dreadful people out of the house this very instant, I shall
hate you all my life—all my life!" It was Aglaya. She seemed
almost in a frenzy, but she turned away before the prince
could look at her. However, there was no one left to turn
out of the house, for they had managed meanwhile to get
Hippolyte into the cab, and it had driven off.
"Well, how much longer is
this going to last, Ivan Fedorovitch? What do you think?
Shall I soon be delivered from these odious youths?"
"My dear, I am quite ready;
naturally... the prince."
Ivan Fedorovitch held out
his hand to Muishkin, but ran after his wife, who was
leaving with every sign of violent indignation, before he
had time to shake it. Adelaida, her fiance, and Alexandra,
said good-bye to their host with sincere friendliness.
Evgenie Pavlovitch did the same, and he alone seemed in good
spirits.
"What I expected has
happened! But I am sorry, you poor fellow, that you should
have had to suffer for it," he murmured, with a most
charming smile.
Aglaya left without saying
good-bye. But the evening was not to end without a last
adventure. An unexpected meeting was yet in store for
Lizabetha Prokofievna.
She had scarcely descended
the terrace steps leading to the high road that skirts the
park at Pavlofsk, when suddenly there dashed by a smart open
carriage, drawn by a pair of beautiful white horses. Having
passed some ten yards beyond the house, the carriage
suddenly drew up, and one of the two ladies seated in it
turned sharp round as though she had just caught sight of
some acquaintance whom she particularly wished to see.
"Evgenie Pavlovitch! Is
that you?" cried a clear, sweet voice, which caused the
prince, and perhaps someone else, to tremble. "Well, I AM
glad I've found you at last! I've sent to town for you twice
today myself! My messengers have been searching for you
everywhere!"
Evgenie Pavlovitch stood on
the steps like one struck by lightning. Mrs. Epanchin stood
still too, but not with the petrified expression of Evgenie.
She gazed haughtily at the audacious person who had
addressed her companion, and then turned a look of
astonishment upon Evgenie himself.
"There's news!" continued
the clear voice. "You need not be anxious about Kupferof's
IOU's—Rogojin has bought them up. I persuaded him to!—I dare
say we shall settle Biscup too, so it's all right, you see!
Au revoir, tomorrow! And don't worry!" The carriage moved
on, and disappeared.
"The woman's mad!" cried
Evgenie, at last, crimson with anger, and looking confusedly
around. "I don't know what she's talking about! What IOU's?
Who is she?" Mrs. Epanchin continued to watch his face for a
couple of seconds; then she marched briskly and haughtily
away towards her own house, the rest following her.
A minute afterwards,
Evgenie Pavlovitch reappeared on the terrace, in great
agitation.
"Prince," he said, "tell me
the truth; do you know what all this means?"
"I know nothing whatever
about it!" replied the latter, who was, himself, in a state
of nervous excitement.
"No?"
"No?
"Well, nor do I!" said
Evgenie Pavlovitch, laughing suddenly. "I haven't the
slightest knowledge of any such IOU's as she mentioned, I
swear I haven't—What's the matter, are you fainting?"
"Oh, no-no-I'm all right, I
assure you!"
XI.
THE anger of the Epanchin
family was unappeased for three days. As usual the prince
reproached himself, and had expected punishment, but he was
inwardly convinced that Lizabetha Prokofievna could not be
seriously angry with him, and that she probably was more
angry with herself. He was painfully surprised, therefore,
when three days passed with no word from her. Other things
also troubled and perplexed him, and one of these grew more
important in his eyes as the days went by. He had begun to
blame himself for two opposite tendencies—on the one hand to
extreme, almost "senseless," confidence in his fellows, on
the other to a "vile, gloomy suspiciousness."
By the end of the third day
the incident of the eccentric lady and Evgenie Pavlovitch
had attained enormous and mysterious proportions in his
mind. He sorrowfully asked himself whether he had been the
cause of this new "monstrosity," or was it... but he
refrained from saying who else might be in fault. As for the
letters N.P.B., he looked on that as a harmless joke, a mere
childish piece of mischief—so childish that he felt it would
be shameful, almost dishonourable, to attach any importance
to it.
The day after these
scandalous events, however, the prince had the honour of
receiving a visit from Adelaida and her fiance, Prince S.
They came, ostensibly, to inquire after his health. They had
wandered out for a walk, and called in "by accident," and
talked for almost the whole of the time they were with him
about a certain most lovely tree in the park, which Adelaida
had set her heart upon for a picture. This, and a little
amiable conversation on Prince S.'s part, occupied the time,
and not a word was said about last evening's episodes. At
length Adelaida burst out laughing, apologized, and
explained that they had come incognito; from which, and from
the circumstance that they said nothing about the prince's
either walking back with them or coming to see them later
on, the latter inferred that he was in Mrs. Epanchin's black
books. Adelaida mentioned a watercolour that she would much
like to show him, and explained that she would either send
it by Colia, or bring it herself the next day—which to the
prince seemed very suggestive.
At length, however, just as
the visitors were on the point of departing, Prince S.
seemed suddenly to recollect himself. "Oh yes, by-the-by,"
he said, "do you happen to know, my dear Lef Nicolaievitch,
who that lady was who called out to Evgenie Pavlovitch last
night, from the carriage?"
"It was Nastasia
Philipovna," said the prince; "didn't you know that? I
cannot tell you who her companion was."
"But what on earth did she
mean? I assure you it is a real riddle to me—to me, and to
others, too!" Prince S. seemed to be under the influence of
sincere astonishment.
"She spoke of some bills of
Evgenie Pavlovitch's," said the prince, simply, "which
Rogojin had bought up from someone; and implied that Rogojin
would not press him."
"Oh, I heard that much, my
dear fellow! But the thing is so impossibly absurd! A man of
property like Evgenie to give IOU's to a money-lender, and
to be worried about them! It is ridiculous. Besides, he
cannot possibly be on such intimate terms with Nastasia
Philipovna as she gave us to understand; that's the
principal part of the mystery! He has given me his word that
he knows nothing whatever about the matter, and of course I
believe him. Well, the question is, my dear prince, do you
know anything about it? Has any sort of suspicion of the
meaning of it come across you?"
"No, I know nothing
whatever about it. I assure you I had nothing at all to do
with it."
"Oh, prince, how strange
you have become! I assure you, I hardly know you for your
old self. How can you suppose that I ever suggested you
could have had a finger in such a business? But you are not
quite yourself today, I can see." He embraced the prince,
and kissed him.
"What do you mean, though,"
asked Muishkin, "'by such a business'? I don't see any
particular 'business' about it at all!"
"Oh, undoubtedly, this
person wished somehow, and for some reason, to do Evgenie
Pavlovitch a bad turn, by attributing to him—before
witnesses—qualities which he neither has nor can have,"
replied Prince S. drily enough.
Muiskhin looked disturbed,
but continued to gaze intently and questioningly into Prince
S.'s face. The latter, however, remained silent.
"Then it was not simply a
matter of bills?" Muishkin said at last, with some
impatience. "It was not as she said?"
"But I ask you, my dear
sir, how can there be anything in common between Evgenie
Pavlovitch, and—her, and again Rogojin? I tell you he is a
man of immense wealth—as I know for a fact; and he has
further expectations from his uncle. Simply Nastasia
Philipovna—"
Prince S. paused, as though
unwilling to continue talking about Nastasia Philipovna.
"Then at all events he
knows her!" remarked the prince, after a moment's silence.
"Oh, that may be. He may
have known her some time ago—two or three years, at least.
He used to know Totski. But it is impossible that there
should be any intimacy between them. She has not even been
in the place—many people don't even know that she has
returned from Moscow! I have only observed her carriage
about for the last three days or so."
"It's a lovely carriage,"
said Adelaida.
"Yes, it was a beautiful
turn-out, certainly!"
The visitors left the
house, however, on no less friendly terms than before. But
the visit was of the greatest importance to the prince, from
his own point of view. Admitting that he had his suspicions,
from the moment of the occurrence of last night, perhaps
even before, that Nastasia had some mysterious end in view,
yet this visit confirmed his suspicions and justified his
fears. It was all clear to him; Prince S. was wrong,
perhaps, in his view of the matter, but he was somewhere
near the truth, and was right in so far as that he
understood there to be an intrigue of some sort going on.
Perhaps Prince S. saw it all more clearly than he had
allowed his hearers to understand. At all events, nothing
could be plainer than that he and Adelaida had come for the
express purpose of obtaining explanations, and that they
suspected him of being concerned in the affair. And if all
this were so, then SHE must have some terrible object in
view! What was it? There was no stopping HER, as Muishkin
knew from experience, in the performance of anything she had
set her mind on! "Oh, she is mad, mad!" thought the poor
prince.
But there were many other
puzzling occurrences that day, which required immediate
explanation, and the prince felt very sad. A visit from Vera
Lebedeff distracted him a little. She brought the infant
Lubotchka with her as usual, and talked cheerfully for some
time. Then came her younger sister, and later the brother,
who attended a school close by. He informed Muishkin that
his father had lately found a new interpretation of the star
called "wormwood," which fell upon the water-springs, as
described in the Apocalypse. He had decided that it meant
the network of railroads spread over the face of Europe at
the present time. The prince refused to believe that
Lebedeff could have given such an interpretation, and they
decided to ask him about it at the earliest opportunity.
Vera related how Keller had taken up his abode with them on
the previous evening. She thought he would remain for some
time, as he was greatly pleased with the society of General
Ivolgin and of the whole family. But he declared that he had
only come to them in order to complete his education! The
prince always enjoyed the company of Lebedeff's children,
and today it was especially welcome, for Colia did not
appear all day. Early that morning he had started for
Petersburg. Lebedeff also was away on business. But Gavrila
Ardalionovitch had promised to visit Muishkin, who eagerly
awaited his coming.
About seven in the evening,
soon after dinner, he arrived. At the first glance it struck
the prince that he, at any rate, must know all the details
of last night's affair. Indeed, it would have been
impossible for him to remain in ignorance considering the
intimate relationship between him, Varvara Ardalionovna, and
Ptitsin. But although he and the prince were intimate, in a
sense, and although the latter had placed the Burdovsky
affair in his hands-and this was not the only mark of
confidence he had received—it seemed curious how many
matters there were that were tacitly avoided in their
conversations. Muishkin thought that Gania at times appeared
to desire more cordiality and frankness. It was apparent
now, when he entered, that he, was convinced that the moment
for breaking the ice between them had come at last.
But all the same Gania was
in haste, for his sister was waiting at Lebedeff's to
consult him on an urgent matter of business. If he had
anticipated impatient questions, or impulsive confidences,
he was soon undeceived. The prince was thoughtful, reserved,
even a little absent-minded, and asked none of the
questions—one in particular—that Gania had expected. So he
imitated the prince's demeanour, and talked fast and
brilliantly upon all subjects but the one on which their
thoughts were engaged. Among other things Gania told his
host that Nastasia Philipovna had been only four days in
Pavlofsk, and that everyone was talking about her already.
She was staying with Daria Alexeyevna, in an ugly little
house in Mattrossky Street, but drove about in the smartest
carriage in the place. A crowd of followers had pursued her
from the first, young and old. Some escorted her on
horse-back when she took the air in her carriage.
She was as capricious as
ever in the choice of her acquaintances, and admitted few
into her narrow circle. Yet she already had a numerous
following and many champions on whom she could depend in
time of need. One gentleman on his holiday had broken off
his engagement on her account, and an old general had
quarrelled with his only son for the same reason.
She was accompanied
sometimes in her carriage by a girl of sixteen, a distant
relative of her hostess. This young lady sang very well; in
fact, her music had given a kind of notoriety to their
little house. Nastasia, however, was behaving with great
discretion on the whole. She dressed quietly, though with
such taste as to drive all the ladies in Pavlofsk mad with
envy, of that, as well as of her beauty and her carriage and
horses.
"As for yesterday's
episode," continued Gania, "of course it was pre-arranged."
Here he paused, as though expecting to be asked how he knew
that. But the prince did not inquire. Concerning Evgenie
Pavlovitch, Gania stated, without being asked, that he
believed the former had not known Nastasia Philipovna in
past years, but that he had probably been introduced to her
by somebody in the park during these four days. As to the
question of the IOU's she had spoken of, there might easily
be something in that; for though Evgenie was undoubtedly a
man of wealth, yet certain of his affairs were equally
undoubtedly in disorder. Arrived at this interesting point,
Gania suddenly broke off, and said no more about Nastasia's
prank of the previous evening.
At last Varvara
Ardalionovna came in search of her brother, and remained for
a few minutes. Without Muishkin's asking her, she informed
him that Evgenie Pavlovitch was spending the day in
Petersburg, and perhaps would remain there over tomorrow;
and that her husband had also gone to town, probably in
connection with Evgenie Pavlovitch's affairs.
"Lizabetha Prokofievna is
in a really fiendish temper today," she added, as she went
out, "but the most curious thing is that Aglaya has
quarrelled with her whole family; not only with her father
and mother, but with her sisters also. It is not a good
sign." She said all this quite casually, though it was
extremely important in the eyes of the prince, and went off
with her brother. Regarding the episode of "Pavlicheff's
son," Gania had been absolutely silent, partly from a kind
of false modesty, partly, perhaps, to "spare the prince's
feelings." The latter, however, thanked him again for the
trouble he had taken in the affair.
Muishkin was glad enough to
be left alone. He went out of the garden, crossed the road,
and entered the park. He wished to reflect, and to make up
his mind as to a certain "step." This step was one of those
things, however, which are not thought out, as a rule, but
decided for or against hastily, and without much reflection.
The fact is, he felt a longing to leave all this and go
away—go anywhere, if only it were far enough, and at once,
without bidding farewell to anyone. He felt a presentiment
that if he remained but a few days more in this place, and
among these people, he would be fixed there irrevocably and
permanently. However, in a very few minutes he decided that
to run away was impossible; that it would be cowardly; that
great problems lay before him, and that he had no right to
leave them unsolved, or at least to refuse to give all his
energy and strength to the attempt to solve them. Having
come to this determination, he turned and went home, his
walk having lasted less than a quarter of an hour. At that
moment he was thoroughly unhappy.
Lebedeff had not returned,
so towards evening Keller managed to penetrate into the
prince's apartments. He was not drunk, but in a confidential
and talkative mood. He announced that he had come to tell
the story of his life to Muishkin, and had only remained at
Pavlofsk for that purpose. There was no means of turning him
out; nothing short of an earthquake would have removed him.
In the manner of one with
long hours before him, he began his history; but after a few
incoherent words he jumped to the conclusion, which was that
"having ceased to believe in God Almighty, he had lost every
vestige of morality, and had gone so far as to commit a
theft." "Could you imagine such a thing?" said he.
"Listen to me, Keller,"
returned the prince. "If I were in your place, I should not
acknowledge that unless it were absolutely necessary for
some reason. But perhaps you are making yourself out to be
worse than you are, purposely?"
"I should tell it to no one
but yourself, prince, and I only name it now as a help to my
soul's evolution. When I die, that secret will die with me!
But, excellency, if you knew, if you only had the least
idea, how difficult it is to get money nowadays! Where to
find it is the question. Ask for a loan, the answer is
always the same: 'Give us gold, jewels, or diamonds, and it
will be quite easy.' Exactly what one has not got! Can you
picture that to yourself? I got angry at last, and said, 'I
suppose you would accept emeralds?' 'Certainly, we accept
emeralds with pleasure. Yes!' 'Well, that's all right,' said
I. 'Go to the devil, you den of thieves!' And with that I
seized my hat, and walked out."
"Had you any emeralds?"
asked the prince.
"What? I have emeralds? Oh,
prince! with what simplicity, with what almost pastoral
simplicity, you look upon life!"
Could not something be made
of this man under good influences? asked the prince of
himself, for he began to feel a kind of pity for his
visitor. He thought little of the value of his own personal
influence, not from a sense of humility, but from his
peculiar way of looking at things in general. Imperceptibly
the conversation grew more animated and more interesting, so
that neither of the two felt anxious to bring it to a close.
Keller confessed, with apparent sincerity, to having been
guilty of many acts of such a nature that it astonished the
prince that he could mention them, even to him. At every
fresh avowal he professed the deepest repentance, and
described himself as being "bathed in tears"; but this did
not prevent him from putting on a boastful air at times, and
some of his stories were so absurdly comical that both he
and the prince laughed like madmen.
"One point in your favour
is that you seem to have a child-like mind, and extreme
truthfulness," said the prince at last. "Do you know that
that atones for much?"
"I am assuredly
noble-minded, and chivalrous to a degree!" said Keller, much
softened. "But, do you know, this nobility of mind exists in
a dream, if one may put it so? It never appears in practice
or deed. Now, why is that? I can never understand."
"Do not despair. I think we
may say without fear of deceiving ourselves, that you have
now given a fairly exact account of your life. I, at least,
think it would be impossible to add much to what you have
just told me."
"Impossible?" cried Keller,
almost pityingly. "Oh prince, how little you really seem to
understand human nature!"
"Is there really much more
to be added?" asked the prince, with mild surprise. "Well,
what is it you really want of me? Speak out; tell me why you
came to make your confession to me?"
"What did I want? Well, to
begin with, it is good to meet a man like you. It is a
pleasure to talk over my faults with you. I know you for one
of the best of men... and then... then..."
He hesitated, and appeared
so much embarrassed that the prince helped him out.
"Then you wanted me to lend
you money?"
The words were spoken in a
grave tone, and even somewhat shyly.
Keller started, gave an
astonished look at the speaker, and thumped the table with
his fist.
"Well, prince, that's
enough to knock me down! It astounds me! Here you are, as
simple and innocent as a knight of the golden age, and
yet... yet... you read a man's soul like a psychologist!
Now, do explain it to me, prince, because I... I really do
not understand!... Of course, my aim was to borrow money all
along, and you... you asked the question as if there was
nothing blameable in it—as if you thought it quite natural."
"Yes... from you it is
quite natural."
"And you are not offended?"
"Why should I be offended?"
"Well, just listen, prince.
I remained here last evening, partly because I have a great
admiration for the French archbishop Bourdaloue. I enjoyed a
discussion over him till three o'clock in the morning, with
Lebedeff; and then... then—I swear by all I hold sacred that
I am telling you the truth—then I wished to develop my soul
in this frank and heartfelt confession to you. This was my
thought as I was sobbing myself to sleep at dawn. Just as I
was losing consciousness, tears in my soul, tears on my face
(I remember how I lay there sobbing), an idea from hell
struck me. 'Why not, after confessing, borrow money from
him?' You see, this confession was a kind of masterstroke; I
intended to use it as a means to your good grace and
favour—and then—then I meant to walk off with a hundred and
fifty roubles. Now, do you not call that base?"
"It is hardly an exact
statement of the case," said the prince in reply. "You have
confused your motives and ideas, as I need scarcely say too
often happens to myself. I can assure you, Keller, I
reproach myself bitterly for it sometimes. When you were
talking just now I seemed to be listening to something about
myself. At times I have imagined that all men were the
same," he continued earnestly, for he appeared to be much
interested in the conversation, "and that consoled me in a
certain degree, for a DOUBLE motive is a thing most
difficult to fight against. I have tried, and I know. God
knows whence they arise, these ideas that you speak of as
base. I fear these double motives more than ever just now,
but I am not your judge, and in my opinion it is going too
far to give the name of baseness to it—what do you think?
You were going to employ your tears as a ruse in order to
borrow money, but you also say—in fact, you have sworn to
the fact—that independently of this your confession was made
with an honourable motive. As for the money, you want it for
drink, do you not? After your confession, that is weakness,
of course; but, after all, how can anyone give up a bad
habit at a moment's notice? It is impossible. What can we
do? It is best, I think, to leave the matter to your own
conscience. How does it seem to you?" As he concluded the
prince looked curiously at Keller; evidently this problem of
double motives had often been considered by him before.
"Well, how anybody can call
you an idiot after that, is more than I can understand!"
cried the boxer.
The prince reddened
slightly.
"Bourdaloue, the
archbishop, would not have spared a man like me," Keller
continued, "but you, you have judged me with humanity. To
show how grateful I am, and as a punishment, I will not
accept a hundred and fifty roubles. Give me twenty-five—that
will be enough; it is all I really need, for a fortnight at
least. I will not ask you for more for a fortnight. I should
like to have given Agatha a present, but she does not really
deserve it. Oh, my dear prince, God bless you!"
At this moment Lebedeff
appeared, having just arrived from Petersburg. He frowned
when he saw the twenty-five rouble note in Keller's hand,
but the latter, having got the money, went away at once.
Lebedeff began to abuse him.
"You are unjust; I found
him sincerely repentant," observed the prince, after
listening for a time.
"What is the good of
repentance like that? It is the same exactly as mine
yesterday, when I said, 'I am base, I am base,'—words, and
nothing more!"
"Then they were only words
on your part? I thought, on the contrary..."
"Well, I don't mind telling
you the truth—you only! Because you see through a man
somehow. Words and actions, truth and falsehood, are all
jumbled up together in me, and yet I am perfectly sincere. I
feel the deepest repentance, believe it or not, as you
choose; but words and lies come out in the infernal craving
to get the better of other people. It is always there—the
notion of cheating people, and of using my repentant tears
to my own advantage! I assure you this is the truth, prince!
I would not tell any other man for the world! He would laugh
and jeer at me—but you, you judge a man humanely."
"Why, Keller said the same
thing to me nearly word for word a few minutes ago!" cried
Muishkin. "And you both seem inclined to boast about it! You
astonish me, but I think he is more sincere than you, for
you make a regular trade of it. Oh, don't put on that
pathetic expression, and don't put your hand on your heart!
Have you anything to say to me? You have not come for
nothing..."
Lebedeff grinned and
wriggled.
"I have been waiting all
day for you, because I want to ask you a question; and, for
once in your life, please tell me the truth at once. Had you
anything to do with that affair of the carriage yesterday?"
Lebedeff began to grin
again, rubbed his hands, sneezed, but spoke not a word in
reply.
"I see you had something to
do with it."
"Indirectly, quite
indirectly! I am speaking the truth—I am indeed! I merely
told a certain person that I had people in my house, and
that such and such personages might be found among them."
"I am aware that you sent
your son to that house—he told me so himself just now, but
what is this intrigue?" said the prince, impatiently.
"It is not my intrigue!"
cried Lebedeff, waving his hand.
"It was engineered by other
people, and is, properly speaking, rather a fantasy than an
intrigue!"
"But what is it all about?
Tell me, for Heaven's sake! Cannot you understand how nearly
it touches me? Why are they blackening Evgenie Pavlovitch's
reputation?"
Lebedeff grimaced and
wriggled again.
"Prince!" said he.
"Excellency! You won't let me tell you the whole truth; I
have tried to explain; more than once I have begun, but you
have not allowed me to go on..."
The prince gave no answer,
and sat deep in thought. Evidently he was struggling to
decide.
"Very well! Tell me the
truth," he said, dejectedly.
"Aglaya Ivanovna..." began
Lebedeff, promptly.
"Be silent! At once!"
interrupted the prince, red with indignation, and perhaps
with shame, too. "It is impossible and absurd! All that has
been invented by you, or fools like you! Let me never hear
you say a word again on that subject!"
Late in the evening Colia
came in with a whole budget of Petersburg and Pavlofsk news.
He did not dwell much on the Petersburg part of it, which
consisted chiefly of intelligence about his friend
Hippolyte, but passed quickly to the Pavlofsk tidings. He
had gone straight to the Epanchins' from the station.
"There's the deuce and all
going on there!" he said. "First of all about the row last
night, and I think there must be something new as well,
though I didn't like to ask. Not a word about YOU, prince,
the whole time! The most interesting fact was that Aglaya
had been quarrelling with her people about Gania. Colia did
not know any details, except that it had been a terrible
quarrel! Also Evgenie Pavlovitch had called, and met with an
excellent reception all round. And another curious thing:
Mrs. Epanchin was so angry that she called Varia to
her—Varia was talking to the girls—and turned her out of the
house 'once for all' she said. I heard it from Varia
herself—Mrs. Epanchin was quite polite, but firm; and when
Varia said good-bye to the girls, she told them nothing
about it, and they didn't know they were saying goodbye for
the last time. I'm sorry for Varia, and for Gania too; he
isn't half a bad fellow, in spite of his faults, and I shall
never forgive myself for not liking him before! I don't know
whether I ought to continue to go to the Epanchins' now,"
concluded Colia—"I like to be quite independent of others,
and of other people's quarrels if I can; but I must think
over it."
"I don't think you need
break your heart over Gania," said the prince; "for if what
you say is true, he must be considered dangerous in the
Epanchin household, and if so, certain hopes of his must
have been encouraged."
"What? What hopes?" cried
Colia; "you surely don't mean Aglaya?—oh, no!—"
"You're a dreadful sceptic,
prince," he continued, after a moment's silence. "I have
observed of late that you have grown sceptical about
everything. You don't seem to believe in people as you did,
and are always attributing motives and so on—am I using the
word 'sceptic' in its proper sense?"
"I believe so; but I'm not
sure."
"Well, I'll change it,
right or wrong; I'll say that you are not sceptical, but
JEALOUS. There! you are deadly jealous of Gania, over a
certain proud damsel! Come!" Colia jumped up, with these
words, and burst out laughing. He laughed as he had perhaps
never laughed before, and still more when he saw the prince
flushing up to his temples. He was delighted that the prince
should be jealous about Aglaya. However, he stopped
immediately on seeing that the other was really hurt, and
the conversation continued, very earnestly, for an hour or
more.
Next day the prince had to
go to town, on business. Returning in the afternoon, he
happened upon General Epanchin at the station. The latter
seized his hand, glancing around nervously, as if he were
afraid of being caught in wrong-doing, and dragged him into
a first-class compartment. He was burning to speak about
something of importance.
"In the first place, my
dear prince, don't be angry with me. I would have come to
see you yesterday, but I didn't know how Lizabetha
Prokofievna would take it. My dear fellow, my house is
simply a hell just now, a sort of sphinx has taken up its
abode there. We live in an atmosphere of riddles; I can't
make head or tail of anything. As for you, I feel sure you
are the least to blame of any of us, though you certainly
have been the cause of a good deal of trouble. You see, it's
all very pleasant to be a philanthropist; but it can be
carried too far. Of course I admire kind-heartedness, and I
esteem my wife, but—"
The general wandered on in
this disconnected way for a long time; it was clear that he
was much disturbed by some circumstance which he could make
nothing of.
"It is plain to me, that
YOU are not in it at all," he continued, at last, a little
less vaguely, "but perhaps you had better not come to our
house for a little while. I ask you in the friendliest
manner, mind; just till the wind changes again. As for
Evgenie Pavlovitch," he continued with some excitement, "the
whole thing is a calumny, a dirty calumny. It is simply a
plot, an intrigue, to upset our plans and to stir up a
quarrel. You see, prince, I'll tell you privately, Evgenie
and ourselves have not said a word yet, we have no formal
understanding, we are in no way bound on either side, but
the word may be said very soon, don't you see, VERY soon,
and all this is most injurious, and is meant to be so. Why?
I'm sure I can't tell you. She's an extraordinary woman, you
see, an eccentric woman; I tell you I am so frightened of
that woman that I can't sleep. What a carriage that was, and
where did it come from, eh? I declare, I was base enough to
suspect Evgenie at first; but it seems certain that that
cannot be the case, and if so, why is she interfering here?
That's the riddle, what does she want? Is it to keep Evgenie
to herself? But, my dear fellow, I swear to you, I swear he
doesn't even KNOW her, and as for those bills, why, the
whole thing is an invention! And the familiarity of the
woman! It's quite clear we must treat the impudent
creature's attempt with disdain, and redouble our courtesy
towards Evgenie. I told my wife so.
"Now I'll tell you my
secret conviction. I'm certain that she's doing this to
revenge herself on me, on account of the past, though I
assure you that all the time I was blameless. I blush at the
very idea. And now she turns up again like this, when I
thought she had finally disappeared! Where's Rogojin all
this time? I thought she was Mrs. Rogojin, long ago."
The old man was in a state
of great mental perturbation. The whole of the journey,
which occupied nearly an hour, he continued in this strain,
putting questions and answering them himself, shrugging his
shoulders, pressing the prince's hand, and assuring the
latter that, at all events, he had no suspicion whatever of
HIM. This last assurance was satisfactory, at all events.
The general finished by informing him that Evgenie's uncle
was head of one of the civil service departments, and rich,
very rich, and a gourmand. "And, well, Heaven preserve him,
of course—but Evgenie gets his money, don't you see? But,
for all this, I'm uncomfortable, I don't know why. There's
something in the air, I feel there's something nasty in the
air, like a bat, and I'm by no means comfortable."
And it was not until the
third day that the formal reconciliation between the prince
and the Epanchins took place, as said before.
XII.
IT was seven in the
evening, and the prince was just preparing to go out for a
walk in the park, when suddenly Mrs. Epanchin appeared on
the terrace.
"In the first place, don't
dare to suppose," she began, "that I am going to apologize.
Nonsense! You were entirely to blame."
The prince remained silent.
"Were you to blame, or
not?"
"No, certainly not, no more
than yourself, though at first I thought I was."
"Oh, very well, let's sit
down, at all events, for I don't intend to stand up all day.
And remember, if you say, one word about 'mischievous
urchins,' I shall go away and break with you altogether. Now
then, did you, or did you not, send a letter to Aglaya, a
couple of months or so ago, about Easter-tide?"
"Yes!"
"What for? What was your
object? Show me the letter." Mrs. Epanchin's eyes flashed;
she was almost trembling with impatience.
"I have not got the
letter," said the prince, timidly, extremely surprised at
the turn the conversation had taken. "If anyone has it, if
it still exists, Aglaya Ivanovna must have it."
"No finessing, please. What
did you write about?"
"I am not finessing, and I
am not in the least afraid of telling you; but I don't see
the slightest reason why I should not have written."
"Be quiet, you can talk
afterwards! What was the letter about? Why are you
blushing?"
The prince was silent. At
last he spoke.
"I don't understand your
thoughts, Lizabetha Prokofievna; but I can see that the fact
of my having written is for some reason repugnant to you.
You must admit that I have a perfect right to refuse to
answer your questions; but, in order to show you that I am
neither ashamed of the letter, nor sorry that I wrote it,
and that I am not in the least inclined to blush about it"
(here the prince's blushes redoubled), "I will repeat the
substance of my letter, for I think I know it almost by
heart."
So saying, the prince
repeated the letter almost word for word, as he had written
it.
"My goodness, what utter
twaddle, and what may all this nonsense have signified,
pray? If it had any meaning at all!" said Mrs. Epanchin,
cuttingly, after having listened with great attention.
"I really don't absolutely
know myself; I know my feeling was very sincere. I had
moments at that time full of life and hope."
"What sort of hope?"
"It is difficult to
explain, but certainly not the hopes you have in your mind.
Hopes—well, in a word, hopes for the future, and a feeling
of joy that THERE, at all events, I was not entirely a
stranger and a foreigner. I felt an ecstasy in being in my
native land once more; and one sunny morning I took up a pen
and wrote her that letter, but why to HER, I don't quite
know. Sometimes one longs to have a friend near, and I
evidently felt the need of one then," added the prince, and
paused.
"Are you in love with her?"
"N-no! I wrote to her as to
a sister; I signed myself her brother."
"Oh yes, of course, on
purpose! I quite understand."
"It is very painful to me
to answer these questions, Lizabetha Prokofievna."
"I dare say it is; but
that's no affair of mine. Now then, assure me truly as
before Heaven, are you lying to me or not?"
"No, I am not lying."
"Are you telling the truth
when you say you are not in love?"
"I believe it is the
absolute truth."
"'I believe,' indeed! Did
that mischievous urchin give it to her?"
"I asked Nicolai
Ardalionovitch..."
"The urchin! the urchin!"
interrupted Lizabetha Prokofievna in an angry voice. "I do
not want to know if it were Nicolai Ardalionovitch! The
urchin!"
"Nicolai Ardalionovitch..."
"The urchin, I tell you!"
"No, it was not the urchin:
it was Nicolai Ardalionovitch," said the prince very firmly,
but without raising his voice.
"Well, all right! All
right, my dear! I shall put that down to your account."
She was silent a moment to
get breath, and to recover her composure.
"Well!—and what's the
meaning of the 'poor knight,' eh?"
"I don't know in the least;
I wasn't present when the joke was made. It IS a joke. I
suppose, and that's all."
"Well, that's a comfort, at
all events. You don't suppose she could take any interest in
you, do you? Why, she called you an 'idiot' herself."
"I think you might have
spared me that," murmured the prince reproachfully, almost
in a whisper.
"Don't be angry; she is a
wilful, mad, spoilt girl. If she likes a person she will
pitch into him, and chaff him. I used to be just such
another. But for all that you needn't flatter yourself, my
boy; she is not for you. I don't believe it, and it is not
to be. I tell you so at once, so that you may take proper
precautions. Now, I want to hear you swear that you are not
married to that woman?"
"Lizabetha Prokofievna,
what are you thinking of?" cried the prince, almost leaping
to his feet in amazement.
"Why? You very nearly were,
anyhow."
"Yes—I nearly was,"
whispered the prince, hanging his head.
"Well then, have you come
here for HER? Are you in love with HER? With THAT creature?"
"I did not come to marry at
all," replied the prince.
"Is there anything you hold
sacred?"
"There is."
"Then swear by it that you
did not come here to marry HER!"
"I'll swear it by whatever
you please."
"I believe you. You may
kiss me; I breathe freely at last. But you must know, my
dear friend, Aglaya does not love you, and she shall never
be your wife while I am out of my grave. So be warned in
time. Do you hear me?"
"Yes, I hear."
The prince flushed up so
much that he could not look her in the face.
"I have waited for you with
the greatest impatience (not that you were worth it). Every
night I have drenched my pillow with tears, not for you, my
friend, not for you, don't flatter yourself! I have my own
grief, always the same, always the same. But I'll tell you
why I have been awaiting you so impatiently, because I
believe that Providence itself sent you to be a friend and a
brother to me. I haven't a friend in the world except
Princess Bielokonski, and she is growing as stupid as a
sheep from old age. Now then, tell me, yes or no? Do you
know why she called out from her carriage the other night?"
"I give you my word of
honour that I had nothing to do with the matter and know
nothing about it."
"Very well, I believe you.
I have my own ideas about it. Up to yesterday morning I
thought it was really Evgenie Pavlovitch who was to blame;
now I cannot help agreeing with the others. But why he was
made such a fool of I cannot understand. However, he is not
going to marry Aglaya, I can tell you that. He may be a very
excellent fellow, but—so it shall be. I was not at all sure
of accepting him before, but now I have quite made up my
mind that I won't have him. 'Put me in my coffin first and
then into my grave, and then you may marry my daughter to
whomsoever you please,' so I said to the general this very
morning. You see how I trust you, my boy."
"Yes, I see and
understand."
Mrs. Epanchin gazed keenly
into the prince's eyes. She was anxious to see what
impression the news as to Evgenie Pavlovitch had made upon
him.
"Do you know anything about
Gavrila Ardalionovitch?" she asked at last.
"Oh yes, I know a good
deal."
"Did you know he had
communications with Aglaya?"
"No, I didn't," said the
prince, trembling a little, and in great agitation. "You say
Gavrila Ardalionovitch has private communications with
Aglaya?—Impossible!"
"Only quite lately. His
sister has been working like a rat to clear the way for him
all the winter."
"I don't believe it!" said
the prince abruptly, after a short pause. "Had it been so I
should have known long ago."
"Oh, of course, yes; he
would have come and wept out his secret on your bosom. Oh,
you simpleton—you simpleton! Anyone can deceive you and take
you in like a—like a,—aren't you ashamed to trust him? Can't
you see that he humbugs you just as much as ever he
pleases?"
"I know very well that he
does deceive me occasionally, and he knows that I know it,
but—" The prince did not finish his sentence.
"And that's why you trust
him, eh? So I should have supposed. Good Lord, was there
ever such a man as you? Tfu! and are you aware, sir, that
this Gania, or his sister Varia, have brought her into
correspondence with Nastasia Philipovna?"
"Brought whom?" cried
Muishkin.
"Aglaya."
"I don't believe it! It's
impossible! What object could they have?" He jumped up from
his chair in his excitement.
"Nor do I believe it, in
spite of the proofs. The girl is self-willed and fantastic,
and insane! She's wicked, wicked! I'll repeat it for a
thousand years that she's wicked; they ALL are, just now,
all my daughters, even that 'wet hen' Alexandra. And yet I
don't believe it. Because I don't choose to believe it,
perhaps; but I don't. Why haven't you been?" she turned on
the prince suddenly. "Why didn't you come near us all these
three days, eh?"
The prince began to give
his reasons, but she interrupted him again.
"Everybody takes you in and
deceives you; you went to town yesterday. I dare swear you
went down on your knees to that rogue, and begged him to
accept your ten thousand roubles!"
"I never thought of doing
any such thing. I have not seen him, and he is not a rogue,
in my opinion. I have had a letter from him."
"Show it me!"
The prince took a paper
from his pocket-book, and handed it to Lizabetha
Prokofievna. It ran as follows:
"SIR,
"In the eyes of the world I
am sure that I have no cause for pride or self-esteem. I am
much too insignificant for that. But what may be so to other
men's eyes is not so to yours. I am convinced that you are
better than other people. Doktorenko disagrees with me, but
I am content to differ from him on this point. I will never
accept one single copeck from you, but you have helped my
mother, and I am bound to be grateful to you for that,
however weak it may seem. At any rate, I have changed my
opinion about you, and I think right to inform you of the
fact; but I also suppose that there can be no further inter
course between us.
"ANTIP BURDOVSKY.
"P.S.—The two hundred
roubles I owe you shall certainly be repaid in time."
"How extremely stupid!"
cried Mrs. Epanchin, giving back the letter abruptly. "It
was not worth the trouble of reading. Why are you smiling?"
"Confess that you are
pleased to have read it."
"What! Pleased with all
that nonsense! Why, cannot you see that they are all
infatuated with pride and vanity?"
"He has acknowledged
himself to be in the wrong. Don't you see that the greater
his vanity, the more difficult this admission must have been
on his part? Oh, what a little child you are, Lizabetha
Prokofievna!"
"Are you tempting me to box
your ears for you, or what?"
"Not at all. I am only
proving that you are glad about the letter. Why conceal your
real feelings? You always like to do it."
"Never come near my house
again!" cried Mrs. Epanchin, pale with rage. "Don't let me
see as much as a SHADOW of you about the place! Do you
hear?"
"Oh yes, and in three days
you'll come and invite me yourself. Aren't you ashamed now?
These are your best feelings; you are only tormenting
yourself."
"I'll die before I invite
you! I shall forget your very name! I've forgotten it
already!"
She marched towards the
door.
"But I'm forbidden your
house as it is, without your added threats!" cried the
prince after her.
"What? Who forbade you?"
She turned round so
suddenly that one might have supposed a needle had been
stuck into her.
The prince hesitated. He
perceived that he had said too much now.
"WHO forbade you?" cried
Mrs. Epanchin once more.
"Aglaya Ivanovna told me—"
"When? Speak—quick!"
"She sent to say, yesterday
morning, that I was never to dare to come near the house
again."
Lizabetha Prokofievna stood
like a stone.
"What did she send? Whom?
Was it that boy? Was it a message?-quick!"
"I had a note," said the
prince.
"Where is it? Give it here,
at once."
The prince thought a
moment. Then he pulled out of his waistcoat pocket an untidy
slip of paper, on which was scrawled:
"PRINCE LEF
NICOLAIEVITCH,—If you think fit, after all that has passed,
to honour our house with a visit, I can assure you you will
not find me among the number of those who are in any way
delighted to see you.
"AGLAYA EPANCHIN."
Mrs. Epanchin reflected a
moment. The next minute she flew at the prince, seized his
hand, and dragged him after her to the door.
"Quick—come along!" she
cried, breathless with agitation and impatience. "Come along
with me this moment!"
"But you declared I
wasn't—"
"Don't be a simpleton. You
behave just as though you weren't a man at all. Come on! I
shall see, now, with my own eyes. I shall see all."
"Well, let me get my hat,
at least."
"Here's your miserable hat
He couldn't even choose a respectable shape for his hat!
Come on! She did that because I took your part and said you
ought to have come—little vixen!—else she would never have
sent you that silly note. It's a most improper note, I call
it; most improper for such an intelligent, well-brought-up
girl to write. H'm! I dare say she was annoyed that you
didn't come; but she ought to have known that one can't
write like that to an idiot like you, for you'd be sure to
take it literally." Mrs. Epanchin was dragging the prince
along with her all the time, and never let go of his hand
for an instant. "What are you listening for?" she added,
seeing that she had committed herself a little. "She wants a
clown like you—she hasn't seen one for some time—to play
with. That's why she is anxious for you to come to the
house. And right glad I am that she'll make a thorough good
fool of you. You deserve it; and she can do it—oh! she can,
indeed!—as well as most people."
PART III
I.
THE Epanchin family, or at
least the more serious members of it, were sometimes grieved
because they seemed so unlike the rest of the world. They
were not quite certain, but had at times a strong suspicion
that things did not happen to them as they did to other
people. Others led a quiet, uneventful life, while they were
subject to continual upheavals. Others kept on the rails
without difficulty; they ran off at the slightest obstacle.
Other houses were governed by a timid routine; theirs was
somehow different. Perhaps Lizabetha Prokofievna was alone
in making these fretful observations; the girls, though not
wanting in intelligence, were still young; the general was
intelligent, too, but narrow, and in any difficulty he was
content to say, "H'm!" and leave the matter to his wife.
Consequently, on her fell the responsibility. It was not
that they distinguished themselves as a family by any
particular originality, or that their excursions off the
track led to any breach of the proprieties. Oh no.
There was nothing
premeditated, there was not even any conscious purpose in it
all, and yet, in spite of everything, the family, although
highly respected, was not quite what every highly respected
family ought to be. For a long time now Lizabetha
Prokofievna had had it in her mind that all the trouble was
owing to her "unfortunate character," and this added to her
distress. She blamed her own stupid unconventional
"eccentricity." Always restless, always on the go, she
constantly seemed to lose her way, and to get into trouble
over the simplest and more ordinary affairs of life.
We said at the beginning of
our story, that the Epanchins were liked and esteemed by
their neighbours. In spite of his humble origin, Ivan
Fedorovitch himself was received everywhere with respect. He
deserved this, partly on account of his wealth and position,
partly because, though limited, he was really a very good
fellow. But a certain limitation of mind seems to be an
indispensable asset, if not to all public personages, at
least to all serious financiers. Added to this, his manner
was modest and unassuming; he knew when to be silent, yet
never allowed himself to be trampled upon. Also—and this was
more important than all—he had the advantage of being under
exalted patronage.
As to Lizabetha
Prokofievna, she, as the reader knows, belonged to an
aristocratic family. True, Russians think more of
influential friends than of birth, but she had both. She was
esteemed and even loved by people of consequence in society,
whose example in receiving her was therefore followed by
others. It seems hardly necessary to remark that her family
worries and anxieties had little or no foundation, or that
her imagination increased them to an absurd degree; but if
you have a wart on your forehead or nose, you imagine that
all the world is looking at it, and that people would make
fun of you because of it, even if you had discovered
America! Doubtless Lizabetha Prokofievna was considered
"eccentric" in society, but she was none the less esteemed:
the pity was that she was ceasing to believe in that esteem.
When she thought of her daughters, she said to herself
sorrowfully that she was a hindrance rather than a help to
their future, that her character and temper were absurd,
ridiculous, insupportable. Naturally, she put the blame on
her surroundings, and from morning to night was quarrelling
with her husband and children, whom she really loved to the
point of self-sacrifice, even, one might say, of passion.
She was, above all
distressed by the idea that her daughters might grow up
"eccentric," like herself; she believed that no other
society girls were like them. "They are growing into
Nihilists!" she repeated over and over again. For years she
had tormented herself with this idea, and with the question:
"Why don't they get married?"
"It is to annoy their
mother; that is their one aim in life; it can be nothing
else. The fact is it is all of a piece with these modern
ideas, that wretched woman's question! Six months ago Aglaya
took a fancy to cut off her magnificent hair. Why, even I,
when I was young, had nothing like it! The scissors were in
her hand, and I had to go down on my knees and implore
her... She did it, I know, from sheer mischief, to spite her
mother, for she is a naughty, capricious girl, a real
spoiled child spiteful and mischievous to a degree! And then
Alexandra wanted to shave her head, not from caprice or
mischief, but, like a little fool, simply because Aglaya
persuaded her she would sleep better without her hair, and
not suffer from headache! And how many suitors have they not
had during the last five years! Excellent offers, too! What
more do they want? Why don't they get married? For no other
reason than to vex their mother—none—none!"
But Lizabetha Prokofievna
felt somewhat consoled when she could say that one of her
girls, Adelaida, was settled at last. "It will be one off
our hands!" she declared aloud, though in private she
expressed herself with greater tenderness. The engagement
was both happy and suitable, and was therefore approved in
society. Prince S. was a distinguished man, he had money,
and his future wife was devoted to him; what more could be
desired? Lizabetha Prokofievna had felt less anxious about
this daughter, however, although she considered her artistic
tastes suspicious. But to make up for them she was, as her
mother expressed it, "merry," and had plenty of
"common-sense." It was Aglaya's future which disturbed her
most. With regard to her eldest daughter, Alexandra, the
mother never quite knew whether there was cause for anxiety
or not. Sometimes she felt as if there was nothing to be
expected from her. She was twenty-five now, and must be
fated to be an old maid, and "with such beauty, too!" The
mother spent whole nights in weeping and lamenting, while
all the time the cause of her grief slumbered peacefully.
"What is the matter with her? Is she a Nihilist, or simply a
fool?"
But Lizabetha Prokofievna
knew perfectly well how unnecessary was the last question.
She set a high value on Alexandra Ivanovna's judgment, and
often consulted her in difficulties; but that she was a 'wet
hen' she never for a moment doubted. "She is so calm;
nothing rouses her—though wet hens are not always calm! Oh!
I can't understand it!" Her eldest daughter inspired
Lizabetha with a kind of puzzled compassion. She did not
feel this in Aglaya's case, though the latter was her idol.
It may be said that these outbursts and epithets, such as
"wet hen" (in which the maternal solicitude usually showed
itself), only made Alexandra laugh. Sometimes the most
trivial thing annoyed Mrs. Epanchin, and drove her into a
frenzy. For instance, Alexandra Ivanovna liked to sleep
late, and was always dreaming, though her dreams had the
peculiarity of being as innocent and naive as those of a
child of seven; and the very innocence of her dreams annoyed
her mother. Once she dreamt of nine hens, and this was the
cause of quite a serious quarrel—no one knew why. Another
time she had—it was most unusual—a dream with a spark of
originality in it. She dreamt of a monk in a dark room, into
which she was too frightened to go. Adelaida and Aglaya
rushed off with shrieks of laughter to relate this to their
mother, but she was quite angry, and said her daughters were
all fools.
"H'm! she is as stupid as a
fool! A veritable 'wet hen'! Nothing excites her; and yet
she is not happy; some days it makes one miserable only to
look at her! Why is she unhappy, I wonder?" At times
Lizabetha Prokofievna put this question to her husband, and
as usual she spoke in the threatening tone of one who
demands an immediate answer. Ivan Fedorovitch would frown,
shrug his shoulders, and at last give his opinion: "She
needs a husband!"
"God forbid that he should
share your ideas, Ivan Fedorovitch!" his wife flashed back.
"Or that he should be as gross and churlish as you!"
The general promptly made
his escape, and Lizabetha Prokofievna after a while grew
calm again. That evening, of course, she would be unusually
attentive, gentle, and respectful to her "gross and
churlish" husband, her "dear, kind Ivan Fedorovitch," for
she had never left off loving him. She was even still "in
love" with him. He knew it well, and for his part held her
in the greatest esteem.
But the mother's great and
continual anxiety was Aglaya. "She is exactly like me—my
image in everything," said Mrs. Epanchin to herself. "A
tyrant! A real little demon! A Nihilist! Eccentric,
senseless and mischievous! Good Lord, how unhappy she will
be!"
But as we said before, the
fact of Adelaida's approaching marriage was balm to the
mother. For a whole month she forgot her fears and worries.
Adelaida's fate was
settled; and with her name that of Aglaya's was linked, in
society gossip. People whispered that Aglaya, too, was "as
good as engaged;" and Aglaya always looked so sweet and
behaved so well (during this period), that the mother's
heart was full of joy. Of course, Evgenie Pavlovitch must be
thoroughly studied first, before the final step should be
taken; but, really, how lovely dear Aglaya had become—she
actually grew more beautiful every day! And then—Yes, and
then—this abominable prince showed his face again, and
everything went topsy-turvy at once, and everyone seemed as
mad as March hares.
What had really happened?
If it had been any other
family than the Epanchins', nothing particular would have
happened. But, thanks to Mrs. Epanchin's invariable
fussiness and anxiety, there could not be the slightest
hitch in the simplest matters of everyday life, but she
immediately foresaw the most dreadful and alarming
consequences, and suffered accordingly.
What then must have been
her condition, when, among all the imaginary anxieties and
calamities which so constantly beset her, she now saw
looming ahead a serious cause for annoyance—something really
likely to arouse doubts and suspicions!
"How dared they, how DARED
they write that hateful anonymous letter informing me that
Aglaya is in communication with Nastasia Philipovna?" she
thought, as she dragged the prince along towards her own
house, and again when she sat him down at the round table
where the family was already assembled. "How dared they so
much as THINK of such a thing? I should DIE with shame if I
thought there was a particle of truth in it, or if I were to
show the letter to Aglaya herself! Who dares play these
jokes upon US, the Epanchins? WHY didn't we go to the
Yelagin instead of coming down here? I TOLD you we had
better go to the Yelagin this summer, Ivan Fedorovitch. It's
all your fault. I dare say it was that Varia who sent the
letter. It's all Ivan Fedorovitch. THAT woman is doing it
all for him, I know she is, to show she can make a fool of
him now just as she did when he used to give her pearls.
"But after all is said, we
are mixed up in it. Your daughters are mixed up in it, Ivan
Fedorovitch; young ladies in society, young ladies at an age
to be married; they were present, they heard everything
there was to hear. They were mixed up with that other scene,
too, with those dreadful youths. You must be pleased to
remember they heard it all. I cannot forgive that wretched
prince. I never shall forgive him! And why, if you please,
has Aglaya had an attack of nerves for these last three
days? Why has she all but quarrelled with her sisters, even
with Alexandra—whom she respects so much that she always
kisses her hands as though she were her mother? What are all
these riddles of hers that we have to guess? What has
Gavrila Ardalionovitch to do with it? Why did she take upon
herself to champion him this morning, and burst into tears
over it? Why is there an allusion to that cursed 'poor
knight' in the anonymous letter? And why did I rush off to
him just now like a lunatic, and drag him back here? I do
believe I've gone mad at last. What on earth have I done
now? To talk to a young man about my daughter's secrets—and
secrets having to do with himself, too! Thank goodness, he's
an idiot, and a friend of the house! Surely Aglaya hasn't
fallen in love with such a gaby! What an idea! Pfu! we ought
all to be put under glass cases—myself first of all—and be
shown off as curiosities, at ten copecks a peep!"
"I shall never forgive you
for all this, Ivan Fedorovitch—never! Look at her now. Why
doesn't she make fun of him? She said she would, and she
doesn't. Look there! She stares at him with all her eyes,
and doesn't move; and yet she told him not to come. He looks
pale enough; and that abominable chatterbox, Evgenie
Pavlovitch, monopolizes the whole of the conversation.
Nobody else can get a word in. I could soon find out all
about everything if I could only change the subject."
The prince certainly was
very pale. He sat at the table and seemed to be feeling, by
turns, sensations of alarm and rapture.
Oh, how frightened he was
of looking to one side—one particular corner—whence he knew
very well that a pair of dark eyes were watching him
intently, and how happy he was to think that he was once
more among them, and occasionally hearing that well-known
voice, although she had written and forbidden him to come
again!
"What on earth will she say
to me, I wonder?" he thought to himself.
He had not said a word yet;
he sat silent and listened to Evgenie Pavlovitch's
eloquence. The latter had never appeared so happy and
excited as on this evening. The prince listened to him, but
for a long time did not take in a word he said.
Excepting Ivan Fedorovitch,
who had not as yet returned from town, the whole family was
present. Prince S. was there; and they all intended to go
out to hear the band very soon.
Colia arrived presently and
joined the circle. "So he is received as usual, after all,"
thought the prince.
The Epanchins'
country-house was a charming building, built after the model
of a Swiss chalet, and covered with creepers. It was
surrounded on all sides by a flower garden, and the family
sat, as a rule, on the open verandah as at the prince's
house.
The subject under
discussion did not appear to be very popular with the
assembly, and some would have been delighted to change it;
but Evgenie would not stop holding forth, and the prince's
arrival seemed to spur him on to still further oratorical
efforts.
Lizabetha Prokofievna
frowned, but had not as yet grasped the subject, which
seemed to have arisen out of a heated argument. Aglaya sat
apart, almost in the corner, listening in stubborn silence.
"Excuse me," continued
Evgenie Pavlovitch hotly, "I don't say a word against
liberalism. Liberalism is not a sin, it is a necessary part
of a great whole, which whole would collapse and fall to
pieces without it. Liberalism has just as much right to
exist as has the most moral conservatism; but I am attacking
RUSSIAN liberalism; and I attack it for the simple reason
that a Russian liberal is not a Russian liberal, he is a
non-Russian liberal. Show me a real Russian liberal, and
I'll kiss him before you all, with pleasure."
"If he cared to kiss you,
that is," said Alexandra, whose cheeks were red with
irritation and excitement.
"Look at that, now,"
thought the mother to herself, "she does nothing but sleep
and eat for a year at a time, and then suddenly flies out in
the most incomprehensible way!"
The prince observed that
Alexandra appeared to be angry with Evgenie, because he
spoke on a serious subject in a frivolous manner, pretending
to be in earnest, but with an under-current of irony.
"I was saying just now,
before you came in, prince, that there has been nothing
national up to now, about our liberalism, and nothing the
liberals do, or have done, is in the least degree national.
They are drawn from two classes only, the old landowning
class, and clerical families—"
"How, nothing that they
have done is Russian?" asked Prince S.
"It may be Russian, but it
is not national. Our liberals are not Russian, nor are our
conservatives, and you may be sure that the nation does not
recognize anything that has been done by the landed gentry,
or by the seminarists, or what is to be done either."
"Come, that's good! How can
you maintain such a paradox? If you are serious, that is. I
cannot allow such a statement about the landed proprietors
to pass unchallenged. Why, you are a landed proprietor
yourself!" cried Prince S. hotly.
"I suppose you'll say there
is nothing national about our literature either?" said
Alexandra.
"Well, I am not a great
authority on literary questions, but I certainly do hold
that Russian literature is not Russian, except perhaps
Lomonosoff, Pouschkin and Gogol."
"In the first place, that
is a considerable admission, and in the second place, one of
the above was a peasant, and the other two were both landed
proprietors!"
"Quite so, but don't be in
such a hurry! For since it has been the part of these three
men, and only these three, to say something absolutely their
own, not borrowed, so by this very fact these three men
become really national. If any Russian shall have done or
said anything really and absolutely original, he is to be
called national from that moment, though he may not be able
to talk the Russian language; still he is a national
Russian. I consider that an axiom. But we were not speaking
of literature; we began by discussing the socialists. Very
well then, I insist that there does not exist one single
Russian socialist. There does not, and there has never
existed such a one, because all socialists are derived from
the two classes—the landed proprietors, and the seminarists.
All our eminent socialists are merely old liberals of the
class of landed proprietors, men who were liberals in the
days of serfdom. Why do you laugh? Give me their books, give
me their studies, their memoirs, and though I am not a
literary critic, yet I will prove as clear as day that every
chapter and every word of their writings has been the work
of a former landed proprietor of the old school. You'll find
that all their raptures, all their generous transports are
proprietary, all their woes and their tears, proprietary;
all proprietary or seminarist! You are laughing again, and
you, prince, are smiling too. Don't you agree with me?"
It was true enough that
everybody was laughing, the prince among them.
"I cannot tell you on the
instant whether I agree with you or not," said the latter,
suddenly stopping his laughter, and starting like a
schoolboy caught at mischief. "But, I assure you, I am
listening to you with extreme gratification."
So saying, he almost panted
with agitation, and a cold sweat stood upon his forehead.
These were his first words since he had entered the house;
he tried to lift his eyes, and look around, but dared not;
Evgenie Pavlovitch noticed his confusion, and smiled.
"I'll just tell you one
fact, ladies and gentlemen," continued the latter, with
apparent seriousness and even exaltation of manner, but with
a suggestion of "chaff" behind every word, as though he were
laughing in his sleeve at his own nonsense—"a fact, the
discovery of which, I believe, I may claim to have made by
myself alone. At all events, no other has ever said or
written a word about it; and in this fact is expressed the
whole essence of Russian liberalism of the sort which I am
now considering.
"In the first place, what
is liberalism, speaking generally, but an attack (whether
mistaken or reasonable, is quite another question) upon the
existing order of things? Is this so? Yes. Very well. Then
my 'fact' consists in this, that RUSSIAN liberalism is not
an attack upon the existing order of things, but an attack
upon the very essence of things themselves—indeed, on the
things themselves; not an attack on the Russian order of
things, but on Russia itself. My Russian liberal goes so far
as to reject Russia; that is, he hates and strikes his own
mother. Every misfortune and mishap of the mother-country
fills him with mirth, and even with ecstasy. He hates the
national customs, Russian history, and everything. If he has
a justification, it is that he does not know what he is
doing, and believes that his hatred of Russia is the
grandest and most profitable kind of liberalism. (You will
often find a liberal who is applauded and esteemed by his
fellows, but who is in reality the dreariest, blindest,
dullest of conservatives, and is not aware of the fact.)
This hatred for Russia has been mistaken by some of our
'Russian liberals' for sincere love of their country, and
they boast that they see better than their neighbours what
real love of one's country should consist in. But of late
they have grown, more candid and are ashamed of the
expression 'love of country,' and have annihilated the very
spirit of the words as something injurious and petty and
undignified. This is the truth, and I hold by it; but at the
same time it is a phenomenon which has not been repeated at
any other time or place; and therefore, though I hold to it
as a fact, yet I recognize that it is an accidental
phenomenon, and may likely enough pass away. There can be no
such thing anywhere else as a liberal who really hates his
country; and how is this fact to be explained among US? By
my original statement that a Russian liberal is NOT a
RUSSIAN liberal—that's the only explanation that I can see."
"I take all that you have
said as a joke," said Prince S. seriously.
"I have not seen all kinds
of liberals, and cannot, therefore, set myself up as a
judge," said Alexandra, "but I have heard all you have said
with indignation. You have taken some accidental case and
twisted it into a universal law, which is unjust."
"Accidental case!" said
Evgenie Pavlovitch. "Do you consider it an accidental case,
prince?"
"I must also admit," said
the prince, "that I have not seen much, or been very far
into the question; but I cannot help thinking that you are
more or less right, and that Russian liberalism—that phase
of it which you are considering, at least—really is
sometimes inclined to hate Russia itself, and not only its
existing order of things in general. Of course this is only
PARTIALLY the truth; you cannot lay down the law for all..."
The prince blushed and
broke off, without finishing what he meant to say.
In spite of his shyness and
agitation, he could not help being greatly interested in the
conversation. A special characteristic of his was the naive
candour with which he always listened to arguments which
interested him, and with which he answered any questions put
to him on the subject at issue. In the very expression of
his face this naivete was unmistakably evident, this
disbelief in the insincerity of others, and unsuspecting
disregard of irony or humour in their words.
But though Evgenie
Pavlovitch had put his questions to the prince with no other
purpose but to enjoy the joke of his simple-minded
seriousness, yet now, at his answer, he was surprised into
some seriousness himself, and looked gravely at Muishkin as
though he had not expected that sort of answer at all.
"Why, how strange!" he
ejaculated. "You didn't answer me seriously, surely, did
you?"
"Did not you ask me the
question seriously" inquired the prince, in amazement.
Everybody laughed.
"Oh, trust HIM for that!"
said Adelaida. "Evgenie Pavlovitch turns everything and
everybody he can lay hold of to ridicule. You should hear
the things he says sometimes, apparently in perfect
seriousness."
"In my opinion the
conversation has been a painful one throughout, and we ought
never to have begun it," said Alexandra. "We were all going
for a walk—"
"Come along then," said
Evgenie; "it's a glorious evening. But, to prove that this
time I was speaking absolutely seriously, and especially to
prove this to the prince (for you, prince, have interested
me exceedingly, and I swear to you that I am not quite such
an ass as I like to appear sometimes, although I am rather
an ass, I admit), and—well, ladies and gentlemen, will you
allow me to put just one more question to the prince, out of
pure curiosity? It shall be the last. This question came
into my mind a couple of hours since (you see, prince, I do
think seriously at times), and I made my own decision upon
it; now I wish to hear what the prince will say to it."
"We have just used the
expression 'accidental case.' This is a significant phrase;
we often hear it. Well, not long since everyone was talking
and reading about that terrible murder of six people on the
part of a—young fellow, and of the extraordinary speech of
the counsel for the defence, who observed that in the
poverty-stricken condition of the criminal it must have come
NATURALLY into his head to kill these six people. I do not
quote his words, but that is the sense of them, or something
very like it. Now, in my opinion, the barrister who put
forward this extraordinary plea was probably absolutely
convinced that he was stating the most liberal, the most
humane, the most enlightened view of the case that could
possibly be brought forward in these days. Now, was this
distortion, this capacity for a perverted way of viewing
things, a special or accidental case, or is such a general
rule?"
Everyone laughed at this.
"A special case—accidental,
of course!" cried Alexandra and Adelaida.
"Let me remind you once
more, Evgenie," said Prince S., "that your joke is getting a
little threadbare."
"What do you think about
it, prince?" asked Evgenie, taking no notice of the last
remark, and observing Muishkin's serious eyes fixed upon his
face. "What do you think—was it a special or a usual
case—the rule, or an exception? I confess I put the question
especially for you."
"No, I don't think it was a
special case," said the prince, quietly, but firmly.
"My dear fellow!" cried
Prince S., with some annoyance, "don't you see that he is
chaffing you? He is simply laughing at you, and wants to
make game of you."
"I thought Evgenie
Pavlovitch was talking seriously," said the prince, blushing
and dropping his eyes.
"My dear prince," continued
Prince S. "remember what you and I were saying two or three
months ago. We spoke of the fact that in our newly opened
Law Courts one could already lay one's finger upon so many
talented and remarkable young barristers. How pleased you
were with the state of things as we found it, and how glad I
was to observe your delight! We both said it was a matter to
be proud of; but this clumsy defence that Evgenie mentions,
this strange argument CAN, of course, only be an accidental
case—one in a thousand!"
The prince reflected a
little, but very soon he replied, with absolute conviction
in his tone, though he still spoke somewhat shyly and
timidly:
"I only wished to say that
this 'distortion,' as Evgenie Pavlovitch expressed it, is
met with very often, and is far more the general rule than
the exception, unfortunately for Russia. So much so, that if
this distortion were not the general rule, perhaps these
dreadful crimes would be less frequent."
"Dreadful crimes? But I can
assure you that crimes just as dreadful, and probably more
horrible, have occurred before our times, and at all times,
and not only here in Russia, but everywhere else as well.
And in my opinion it is not at all likely that such murders
will cease to occur for a very long time to come. The only
difference is that in former times there was less publicity,
while now everyone talks and writes freely about such
things—which fact gives the impression that such crimes have
only now sprung into existence. That is where your mistake
lies—an extremely natural mistake, I assure you, my dear
fellow!" said Prince S.
"I know that there were
just as many, and just as terrible, crimes before our times.
Not long since I visited a convict prison and made
acquaintance with some of the criminals. There were some
even more dreadful criminals than this one we have been
speaking of—men who have murdered a dozen of their
fellow-creatures, and feel no remorse whatever. But what I
especially noticed was this, that the very most hopeless and
remorseless murderer—however hardened a criminal he may
be—still KNOWS THAT HE IS A CRIMINAL; that is, he is
conscious that he has acted wickedly, though he may feel no
remorse whatever. And they were all like this. Those of whom
Evgenie Pavlovitch has spoken, do not admit that they are
criminals at all; they think they had a right to do what
they did, and that they were even doing a good deed,
perhaps. I consider there is the greatest difference between
the two cases. And recollect—it was a YOUTH, at the
particular age which is most helplessly susceptible to the
distortion of ideas!"
Prince S. was now no longer
smiling; he gazed at the prince in bewilderment.
Alexandra, who had seemed
to wish to put in her word when the prince began, now sat
silent, as though some sudden thought had caused her to
change her mind about speaking.
Evgenie Pavlovitch gazed at
him in real surprise, and this time his expression of face
had no mockery in it whatever.
"What are you looking so
surprised about, my friend?" asked Mrs. Epanchin, suddenly.
"Did you suppose he was stupider than yourself, and was
incapable of forming his own opinions, or what?"
"No! Oh no! Not at all!"
said Evgenie. "But—how is it, prince, that you—(excuse the
question, will you?)—if you are capable of observing and
seeing things as you evidently do, how is it that you saw
nothing distorted or perverted in that claim upon your
property, which you acknowledged a day or two since; and
which was full of arguments founded upon the most distorted
views of right and wrong?"
"I'll tell you what, my
friend," cried Mrs. Epanchin, of a sudden, "here are we all
sitting here and imagining we are very clever, and perhaps
laughing at the prince, some of us, and meanwhile he has
received a letter this very day in which that same claimant
renounces his claim, and begs the prince's pardon. There I
we don't often get that sort of letter; and yet we are not
ashamed to walk with our noses in the air before him."
"And Hippolyte has come
down here to stay," said Colia, suddenly.
"What! has he arrived?"
said the prince, starting up.
"Yes, I brought him down
from town just after you had left the house."
"There now! It's just like
him," cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, boiling over once more,
and entirely oblivious of the fact that she had just taken
the prince's part. "I dare swear that you went up to town
yesterday on purpose to get the little wretch to do you the
great honour of coming to stay at your house. You did go up
to town, you know you did—you said so yourself! Now then,
did you, or did you not, go down on your knees and beg him
to come, confess!"
"No, he didn't, for I saw
it all myself," said Colia. "On the contrary, Hippolyte
kissed his hand twice and thanked him; and all the prince
said was that he thought Hippolyte might feel better here in
the country!"
"Don't, Colia,—what is the
use of saying all that?" cried the prince, rising and taking
his hat.
"Where are you going to
now?" cried Mrs. Epanchin.
"Never mind about him now,
prince," said Colia. "He is all right and taking a nap after
the journey. He is very happy to be here; but I think
perhaps it would be better if you let him alone for
today,—he is very sensitive now that he is so ill—and he
might be embarrassed if you show him too much attention at
first. He is decidedly better today, and says he has not
felt so well for the last six months, and has coughed much
less, too."
The prince observed that
Aglaya came out of her corner and approached the table at
this point.
He did not dare look at
her, but he was conscious, to the very tips of his fingers,
that she was gazing at him, perhaps angrily; and that she
had probably flushed up with a look of fiery indignation in
her black eyes.
"It seems to me, Mr. Colia,
that you were very foolish to bring your young friend
down—if he is the same consumptive boy who wept so
profusely, and invited us all to his own funeral," remarked
Evgenie Pavlovitch. "He talked so eloquently about the blank
wall outside his bedroom window, that I'm sure he will never
support life here without it."
"I think so too," said Mrs.
Epanchin; "he will quarrel with you, and be off," and she
drew her workbox towards her with an air of dignity, quite
oblivious of the fact that the family was about to start for
a walk in the park.
"Yes, I remember he boasted
about the blank wall in an extraordinary way," continued
Evgenie, "and I feel that without that blank wall he will
never be able to die eloquently; and he does so long to die
eloquently!"
"Oh, you must forgive him
the blank wall," said the prince, quietly. "He has come down
to see a few trees now, poor fellow."
"Oh, I forgive him with all
my heart; you may tell him so if you like," laughed Evgenie.
"I don't think you should
take it quite like that," said the prince, quietly, and
without removing his eyes from the carpet. "I think it is
more a case of his forgiving you."
"Forgiving me! why so? What
have I done to need his forgiveness?"
"If you don't understand,
then—but of course, you do understand. He wished—he wished
to bless you all round and to have your blessing—before he
died—that's all."
"My dear prince," began
Prince S., hurriedly, exchanging glances with some of those
present, "you will not easily find heaven on earth, and yet
you seem to expect to. Heaven is a difficult thing to find
anywhere, prince; far more difficult than appears to that
good heart of yours. Better stop this conversation, or we
shall all be growing quite disturbed in our minds, and—"
"Let's go and hear the
band, then," said Lizabetha Prokofievna, angrily rising from
her place.
The rest of the company
followed her example.
II.
THE prince suddenly
approached Evgenie Pavlovitch.
"Evgenie Pavlovitch," he
said, with strange excitement and seizing the latter's hand
in his own, "be assured that I esteem you as a generous and
honourable man, in spite of everything. Be assured of that."
Evgenie Pavlovitch fell
back a step in astonishment. For one moment it was all he
could do to restrain himself from bursting out laughing;
but, looking closer, he observed that the prince did not
seem to be quite himself; at all events, he was in a very
curious state.
"I wouldn't mind betting,
prince," he cried, "that you did not in the least mean to
say that, and very likely you meant to address someone else
altogether. What is it? Are you feeling unwell or anything?"
"Very likely, extremely
likely, and you must be a very close observer to detect the
fact that perhaps I did not intend to come up to YOU at
all."
So saying he smiled
strangely; but suddenly and excitedly he began again:
"Don't remind me of what I
have done or said. Don't! I am very much ashamed of myself,
I—"
"Why, what have you done? I
don't understand you."
"I see you are ashamed of
me, Evgenie Pavlovitch; you are blushing for me; that's a
sign of a good heart. Don't be afraid; I shall go away
directly."
"What's the matter with
him? Do his fits begin like that?" said Lizabetha
Prokofievna, in a high state of alarm, addressing Colia.
"No, no, Lizabetha
Prokofievna, take no notice of me. I am not going to have a
fit. I will go away directly; but I know I am afflicted. I
was twenty-four years an invalid, you see—the first
twenty-four years of my life—so take all I do and say as the
sayings and actions of an invalid. I'm going away directly,
I really am—don't be afraid. I am not blushing, for I don't
think I need blush about it, need I? But I see that I am out
of place in society—society is better without me. It's not
vanity, I assure you. I have thought over it all these last
three days, and I have made up my mind that I ought to
unbosom myself candidly before you at the first opportunity.
There are certain things, certain great ideas, which I must
not so much as approach, as Prince S. has just reminded me,
or I shall make you all laugh. I have no sense of
proportion, I know; my words and gestures do not express my
ideas—they are a humiliation and abasement of the ideas, and
therefore, I have no right—and I am too sensitive. Still, I
believe I am beloved in this household, and esteemed far
more than I deserve. But I can't help knowing that after
twenty-four years of illness there must be some trace left,
so that it is impossible for people to refrain from laughing
at me sometimes; don't you think so?"
He seemed to pause for a
reply, for some verdict, as it were, and looked humbly
around him.
All present stood rooted to
the earth with amazement at this unexpected and apparently
uncalled-for outbreak; but the poor prince's painful and
rambling speech gave rise to a strange episode.
"Why do you say all this
here?" cried Aglaya, suddenly. "Why do you talk like this to
THEM?"
She appeared to be in the
last stages of wrath and irritation; her eyes flashed. The
prince stood dumbly and blindly before her, and suddenly
grew pale.
"There is not one of them
all who is worthy of these words of yours," continued
Aglaya. "Not one of them is worth your little finger, not
one of them has heart or head to compare with yours! You are
more honest than all, and better, nobler, kinder, wiser than
all. There are some here who are unworthy to bend and pick
up the handkerchief you have just dropped. Why do you
humiliate yourself like this, and place yourself lower than
these people? Why do you debase yourself before them? Why
have you no pride?"
"My God! Who would ever
have believed this?" cried Mrs. Epanchin, wringing her
hands.
"Hurrah for the 'poor
knight'!" cried Colia.
"Be quiet! How dare they
laugh at me in your house?" said Aglaya, turning sharply on
her mother in that hysterical frame of mind that rides
recklessly over every obstacle and plunges blindly through
proprieties. "Why does everyone, everyone worry and torment
me? Why have they all been bullying me these three days
about you, prince? I will not marry you—never, and under no
circumstances! Know that once and for all; as if anyone
could marry an absurd creature like you! Just look in the
glass and see what you look like, this very moment! Why, WHY
do they torment me and say I am going to marry you? You must
know it; you are in the plot with them!"
"No one ever tormented you
on the subject," murmured Adelaida, aghast.
"No one ever thought of
such a thing! There has never been a word said about it!"
cried Alexandra.
"Who has been annoying her?
Who has been tormenting the child? Who could have said such
a thing to her? Is she raving?" cried Lizabetha Prokofievna,
trembling with rage, to the company in general.
"Every one of them has been
saying it—every one of them—all these three days! And I will
never, never marry him!"
So saying, Aglaya burst
into bitter tears, and, hiding her face in her handkerchief,
sank back into a chair.
"But he has never even—"
"I have never asked you to
marry me, Aglaya Ivanovna!" said the prince, of a sudden.
"WHAT?" cried Mrs.
Epanchin, raising her hands in horror. "WHAT'S that?"
She could not believe her
ears.
"I meant to say—I only
meant to say," said the prince, faltering, "I merely meant
to explain to Aglaya Ivanovna—to have the honour to explain,
as it were—that I had no intention—never had—to ask the
honour of her hand. I assure you I am not guilty, Aglaya
Ivanovna, I am not, indeed. I never did wish to—I never
thought of it at all—and never shall—you'll see it
yourself—you may be quite assured of it. Some wicked person
has been maligning me to you; but it's all right. Don't
worry about it."
So saying, the prince
approached Aglaya.
She took the handkerchief
from her face, glanced keenly at him, took in what he had
said, and burst out laughing—such a merry, unrestrained
laugh, so hearty and gay, that. Adelaida could not contain
herself. She, too, glanced at the prince's panic-stricken
countenance, then rushed at her sister, threw her arms round
her neck, and burst into as merry a fit of laughter as
Aglaya's own. They laughed together like a couple of
school-girls. Hearing and seeing this, the prince smiled
happily, and in accents of relief and joy, he exclaimed
"Well, thank God—thank God!"
Alexandra now joined in,
and it looked as though the three sisters were going to
laugh on for ever.
"They are insane," muttered
Lizabetha Prokofievna. "Either they frighten one out of
one's wits, or else—"
But Prince S. was laughing
now, too, so was Evgenie Pavlovitch, so was Colia, and so
was the prince himself, who caught the infection as he
looked round radiantly upon the others.
"Come along, let's go out
for a walk!" cried Adelaida. "We'll all go together, and the
prince must absolutely go with us. You needn't go away, you
dear good fellow! ISN'T he a dear, Aglaya? Isn't he, mother?
I must really give him a kiss for—for his explanation to
Aglaya just now. Mother, dear, I may kiss him, mayn't I?
Aglaya, may I kiss YOUR prince?" cried the young rogue, and
sure enough she skipped up to the prince and kissed his
forehead.
He seized her hands, and
pressed them so hard that Adelaida nearly cried out; he then
gazed with delight into her eyes, and raising her right hand
to his lips with enthusiasm, kissed it three times.
"Come along," said Aglaya.
"Prince, you must walk with me. May he, mother? This young
cavalier, who won't have me? You said you would NEVER have
me, didn't you, prince? No-no, not like that; THAT'S not the
way to give your arm. Don't you know how to give your arm to
a lady yet? There—so. Now, come along, you and I will lead
the way. Would you like to lead the way with me alone,
tete-a-tete?"
She went on talking and
chatting without a pause, with occasional little bursts of
laughter between.
"Thank God—thank God!" said
Lizabetha Prokofievna to herself, without quite knowing why
she felt so relieved.
"What extraordinary people
they are!" thought Prince S., for perhaps the hundredth time
since he had entered into intimate relations with the
family; but—he liked these "extraordinary people," all the
same. As for Prince Lef Nicolaievitch himself, Prince S. did
not seem quite to like him, somehow. He was decidedly
preoccupied and a little disturbed as they all started off.
Evgenie Pavlovitch seemed
to be in a lively humour. He made Adelaida and Alexandra
laugh all the way to the Vauxhall; but they both laughed so
very really and promptly that the worthy Evgenie began at
last to suspect that they were not listening to him at all.
At this idea, he burst out
laughing all at once, in quite unaffected mirth, and without
giving any explanation.
The sisters, who also
appeared to be in high spirits, never tired of glancing at
Aglaya and the prince, who were walking in front. It was
evident that their younger sister was a thorough puzzle to
them both.
Prince S. tried hard to get
up a conversation with Mrs. Epanchin upon outside subjects,
probably with the good intention of distracting and amusing
her; but he bored her dreadfully. She was absent-minded to a
degree, and answered at cross purposes, and sometimes not at
all.
But the puzzle and mystery
of Aglaya was not yet over for the evening. The last
exhibition fell to the lot of the prince alone. When they
had proceeded some hundred paces or so from the house,
Aglaya said to her obstinately silent cavalier in a quick
half-whisper:
"Look to the right!"
The prince glanced in the
direction indicated.
"Look closer. Do you see
that bench, in the park there, just by those three big
trees—that green bench?"
The prince replied that he
saw it.
"Do you like the position
of it? Sometimes of a morning early, at seven o'clock, when
all the rest are still asleep, I come out and sit there
alone."
The prince muttered that
the spot was a lovely one.
"Now, go away, I don't wish
to have your arm any longer; or perhaps, better, continue to
give me your arm, and walk along beside me, but don't speak
a word to me. I wish to think by myself."
The warning was certainly
unnecessary; for the prince would not have said a word all
the rest of the time whether forbidden to speak or not. His
heart beat loud and painfully when Aglaya spoke of the
bench; could she—but no! he banished the thought, after an
instant's deliberation.
At Pavlofsk, on weekdays,
the public is more select than it is on Sundays and
Saturdays, when the townsfolk come down to walk about and
enjoy the park.
The ladies dress elegantly,
on these days, and it is the fashion to gather round the
band, which is probably the best of our pleasure-garden
bands, and plays the newest pieces. The behaviour of the
public is most correct and proper, and there is an
appearance of friendly intimacy among the usual frequenters.
Many come for nothing but to look at their acquaintances,
but there are others who come for the sake of the music. It
is very seldom that anything happens to break the harmony of
the proceedings, though, of course, accidents will happen
everywhere.
On this particular evening
the weather was lovely, and there were a large number of
people present. All the places anywhere near the orchestra
were occupied.
Our friends took chairs
near the side exit. The crowd and the music cheered Mrs.
Epanchin a little, and amused the girls; they bowed and
shook hands with some of their friends and nodded at a
distance to others; they examined the ladies' dresses,
noticed comicalities and eccentricities among the people,
and laughed and talked among themselves. Evgenie Pavlovitch,
too, found plenty of friends to bow to. Several people
noticed Aglaya and the prince, who were still together.
Before very long two or
three young men had come up, and one or two remained to
talk; all of these young men appeared to be on intimate
terms with Evgenie Pavlovitch. Among them was a young
officer, a remarkably handsome fellow—very good-natured and
a great chatterbox. He tried to get up a conversation with
Aglaya, and did his best to secure her attention. Aglaya
behaved very graciously to him, and chatted and laughed
merrily. Evgenie Pavlovitch begged the prince's leave to
introduce their friend to him. The prince hardly realized
what was wanted of him, but the introduction came off; the
two men bowed and shook hands.
Evgenie Pavlovitch's friend
asked the prince some question, but the latter did not
reply, or if he did, he muttered something so strangely
indistinct that there was nothing to be made of it. The
officer stared intently at him, then glanced at Evgenie,
divined why the latter had introduced him, and gave his
undivided attention to Aglaya again. Only Evgenie Pavlovitch
observed that Aglaya flushed up for a moment at this.
The prince did not notice
that others were talking and making themselves agreeable to
Aglaya; in fact, at moments, he almost forgot that he was
sitting by her himself. At other moments he felt a longing
to go away somewhere and be alone with his thoughts, and to
feel that no one knew where he was.
Or if that were impossible
he would like to be alone at home, on the terrace-without
either Lebedeff or his children, or anyone else about him,
and to lie there and think—a day and night and another day
again! He thought of the mountains-and especially of a
certain spot which he used to frequent, whence he would look
down upon the distant valleys and fields, and see the
waterfall, far off, like a little silver thread, and the old
ruined castle in the distance. Oh! how he longed to be there
now—alone with his thoughts—to think of one thing all his
life—one thing! A thousand years would not be too much time!
And let everyone here forget him—forget him utterly! How
much better it would have been if they had never known
him—if all this could but prove to be a dream. Perhaps it
was a dream!
Now and then he looked at
Aglaya for five minutes at a time, without taking his eyes
off her face; but his expression was very strange; he would
gaze at her as though she were an object a couple of miles
distant, or as though he were looking at her portrait and
not at herself at all.
"Why do you look at me like
that, prince?" she asked suddenly, breaking off her merry
conversation and laughter with those about her. "I'm afraid
of you! You look as though you were just going to put out
your hand and touch my face to see if it's real! Doesn't he,
Evgenie Pavlovitch—doesn't he look like that?"
The prince seemed surprised
that he should have been addressed at all; he reflected a
moment, but did not seem to take in what had been said to
him; at all events, he did not answer. But observing that
she and the others had begun to laugh, he too opened his
mouth and laughed with them.
The laughter became
general, and the young officer, who seemed a particularly
lively sort of person, simply shook with mirth.
Aglaya suddenly whispered
angrily to herself the word—
"Idiot!"
"My goodness—surely she is
not in love with such a—surely she isn't mad!" groaned Mrs.
Epanchin, under her breath.
"It's all a joke, mamma;
it's just a joke like the 'poor knight'—nothing more
whatever, I assure you!" Alexandra whispered in her ear.
"She is chaffing him—making a fool of him, after her own
private fashion, that's all! But she carries it just a
little too far—she is a regular little actress. How she
frightened us just now—didn't she?—and all for a lark!"
"Well, it's lucky she has
happened upon an idiot, then, that's all I can say!"
whispered Lizabetha Prokofievna, who was somewhat comforted,
however, by her daughter's remark.
The prince had heard
himself referred to as "idiot," and had shuddered at the
moment; but his shudder, it so happened, was not caused by
the word applied to him. The fact was that in the crowd, not
far from where lie was sitting, a pale familiar face, with
curly black hair, and a well-known smile and expression, had
flashed across his vision for a moment, and disappeared
again. Very likely he had imagined it! There only remained
to him the impression of a strange smile, two eyes, and a
bright green tie. Whether the man had disappeared among the
crowd, or whether he had turned towards the Vauxhall, the
prince could not say.
But a moment or two
afterwards he began to glance keenly about him. That first
vision might only too likely be the forerunner of a second;
it was almost certain to be so. Surely he had not forgotten
the possibility of such a meeting when he came to the
Vauxhall? True enough, he had not remarked where he was
coming to when he set out with Aglaya; he had not been in a
condition to remark anything at all.
Had he been more careful to
observe his companion, he would have seen that for the last
quarter of an hour Aglaya had also been glancing around in
apparent anxiety, as though she expected to see someone, or
something particular, among the crowd of people. Now, at the
moment when his own anxiety became so marked, her excitement
also increased visibly, and when he looked about him, she
did the same.
The reason for their
anxiety soon became apparent. From that very side entrance
to the Vauxhall, near which the prince and all the Epanchin
party were seated, there suddenly appeared quite a large
knot of persons, at least a dozen.
Heading this little band
walked three ladies, two of whom were remarkably lovely; and
there was nothing surprising in the fact that they should
have had a large troop of admirers following in their wake.
But there was something in
the appearance of both the ladies and their admirers which
was peculiar, quite different for that of the rest of the
public assembled around the orchestra.
Nearly everyone observed
the little band advancing, and all pretended not to see or
notice them, except a few young fellows who exchanged
glances and smiled, saying something to one another in
whispers.
It was impossible to avoid
noticing them, however, in reality, for they made their
presence only too conspicuous by laughing and talking
loudly. It was to be supposed that some of them were more
than half drunk, although they were well enough dressed,
some even particularly well. There were one or two, however,
who were very strange-looking creatures, with flushed faces
and extraordinary clothes; some were military men; not all
were quite young; one or two were middle-aged gentlemen of
decidedly disagreeable appearance, men who are avoided in
society like the plague, decked out in large gold studs and
rings, and magnificently "got up," generally.
Among our suburban resorts
there are some which enjoy a specially high reputation for
respectability and fashion; but the most careful individual
is not absolutely exempt from the danger of a tile falling
suddenly upon his head from his neighbour's roof.
Such a tile was about to
descend upon the elegant and decorous public now assembled
to hear the music.
In order to pass from the
Vauxhall to the band-stand, the visitor has to descend two
or three steps. Just at these steps the group paused, as
though it feared to proceed further; but very quickly one of
the three ladies, who formed its apex, stepped forward into
the charmed circle, followed by two members of her suite.
One of these was a
middle-aged man of very respectable appearance, but with the
stamp of parvenu upon him, a man whom nobody knew, and who
evidently knew nobody. The other follower was younger and
far less respectable-looking.
No one else followed the
eccentric lady; but as she descended the steps she did not
even look behind her, as though it were absolutely the same
to her whether anyone were following or not. She laughed and
talked loudly, however, just as before. She was dressed with
great taste, but with rather more magnificence than was
needed for the occasion, perhaps.
She walked past the
orchestra, to where an open carriage was waiting, near the
road.
The prince had not seen HER
for more than three months. All these days since his arrival
from Petersburg he had intended to pay her a visit, but some
mysterious presentiment had restrained him. He could not
picture to himself what impression this meeting with her
would make upon him, though he had often tried to imagine
it, with fear and trembling. One fact was quite certain, and
that was that the meeting would be painful.
Several times during the
last six months he had recalled the effect which the first
sight of this face had had upon him, when he only saw its
portrait. He recollected well that even the portrait face
had left but too painful an impression.
That month in the
provinces, when he had seen this woman nearly every day, had
affected him so deeply that he could not now look back upon
it calmly. In the very look of this woman there was
something which tortured him. In conversation with Rogojin
he had attributed this sensation to pity—immeasurable pity,
and this was the truth. The sight of the portrait face alone
had filled his heart full of the agony of real sympathy; and
this feeling of sympathy, nay, of actual SUFFERING, for her,
had never left his heart since that hour, and was still in
full force. Oh yes, and more powerful than ever!
But the prince was not
satisfied with what he had said to Rogojin. Only at this
moment, when she suddenly made her appearance before him,
did he realize to the full the exact emotion which she
called up in him, and which he had not described correctly
to Rogojin.
And, indeed, there were no
words in which he could have expressed his horror, yes,
HORROR, for he was now fully convinced from his own private
knowledge of her, that the woman was mad.
If, loving a woman above
everything in the world, or at least having a foretaste of
the possibility of such love for her, one were suddenly to
behold her on a chain, behind bars and under the lash of a
keeper, one would feel something like what the poor prince
now felt.
"What's the matter?" asked
Aglaya, in a whisper, giving his sleeve a little tug.
He turned his head towards
her and glanced at her black and (for some reason) flashing
eyes, tried to smile, and then, apparently forgetting her in
an instant, turned to the right once more, and continued to
watch the startling apparition before him.
Nastasia Philipovna was at
this moment passing the young ladies' chairs.
Evgenie Pavlovitch
continued some apparently extremely funny and interesting
anecdote to Alexandra, speaking quickly and with much
animation. The prince remembered that at this moment Aglaya
remarked in a half-whisper:
"WHAT a—"
She did not finish her
indefinite sentence; she restrained herself in a moment; but
it was enough.
Nastasia Philipovna, who up
to now had been walking along as though she had not noticed
the Epanchin party, suddenly turned her head in their
direction, as though she had just observed Evgenie
Pavlovitch sitting there for the first time.
"Why, I declare, here he
is!" she cried, stopping suddenly. "The man one can't find
with all one's messengers sent about the place, sitting just
under one's nose, exactly where one never thought of
looking! I thought you were sure to be at your uncle's by
this time."
Evgenie Pavlovitch flushed
up and looked angrily at Nastasia Philipovna, then turned
his back on her.
"What I don't you know
about it yet? He doesn't know—imagine that! Why, he's shot
himself. Your uncle shot himself this very morning. I was
told at two this afternoon. Half the town must know it by
now. They say there are three hundred and fifty thousand
roubles, government money, missing; some say five hundred
thousand. And I was under the impression that he would leave
you a fortune! He's whistled it all away. A most depraved
old gentleman, really! Well, ta, ta!—bonne chance! Surely
you intend to be off there, don't you? Ha, ha! You've
retired from the army in good time, I see! Plain clothes!
Well done, sly rogue! Nonsense! I see—you knew it all
before—I dare say you knew all about it yesterday-"
Although the impudence of
this attack, this public proclamation of intimacy, as it
were, was doubtless premeditated, and had its special
object, yet Evgenie Pavlovitch at first seemed to intend to
make no show of observing either his tormentor or her words.
But Nastasia's communication struck him with the force of a
thunderclap. On hearing of his uncle's death he suddenly
grew as white as a sheet, and turned towards his informant.
At this moment, Lizabetha
Prokofievna rose swiftly from her seat, beckoned her
companions, and left the place almost at a run.
Only the prince stopped
behind for a moment, as though in indecision; and Evgenie
Pavlovitch lingered too, for he had not collected his
scattered wits. But the Epanchins had not had time to get
more than twenty paces away when a scandalous episode
occurred. The young officer, Evgenie Pavlovitch's friend who
had been conversing with Aglaya, said aloud in a great state
of indignation:
"She ought to be
whipped—that's the only way to deal with creatures like
that—she ought to be whipped!"
This gentleman was a
confidant of Evgenie's, and had doubtless heard of the
carriage episode.
Nastasia turned to him. Her
eyes flashed; she rushed up to a young man standing near,
whom she did not know in the least, but who happened to have
in his hand a thin cane. Seizing this from him, she brought
it with all her force across the face of her insulter.
All this occurred, of
course, in one instant of time.
The young officer,
forgetting himself, sprang towards her. Nastasia's followers
were not by her at the moment (the elderly gentleman having
disappeared altogether, and the younger man simply standing
aside and roaring with laughter).
In another moment, of
course, the police would have been on the spot, and it would
have gone hard with Nastasia Philipovna had not unexpected
aid appeared.
Muishkin, who was but a
couple of steps away, had time to spring forward and seize
the officer's arms from behind.
The officer, tearing
himself from the prince's grasp, pushed him so violently
backwards that he staggered a few steps and then subsided
into a chair.
But there were other
defenders for Nastasia on the spot by this time. The
gentleman known as the "boxer" now confronted the enraged
officer.
"Keller is my name, sir;
ex-lieutenant," he said, very loud. "If you will accept me
as champion of the fair sex, I am at your disposal. English
boxing has no secrets from me. I sympathize with you for the
insult you have received, but I can't permit you to raise
your hand against a woman in public. If you prefer to meet
me—as would be more fitting to your rank—in some other
manner, of course you understand me, captain."
But the young officer had
recovered himself, and was no longer listening. At this
moment Rogojin appeared, elbowing through the crowd; he took
Nastasia's hand, drew it through his arm, and quickly led
her away. He appeared to be terribly excited; he was
trembling all over, and was as pale as a corpse. As he
carried Nastasia off, he turned and grinned horribly in the
officer's face, and with low malice observed:
"Tfu! look what the fellow
got! Look at the blood on his cheek! Ha, ha!"
Recollecting himself,
however, and seeing at a glance the sort of people he had to
deal with, the officer turned his back on both his
opponents, and courteously, but concealing his face with his
handkerchief, approached the prince, who was now rising from
the chair into which he had fallen.
"Prince Muishkin, I
believe? The gentleman to whom I had the honour of being
introduced?"
"She is mad, insane—I
assure you, she is mad," replied the prince in trembling
tones, holding out both his hands mechanically towards the
officer.
"I cannot boast of any such
knowledge, of course, but I wished to know your name."
He bowed and retired
without waiting for an answer.
Five seconds after the
disappearance of the last actor in this scene, the police
arrived. The whole episode had not lasted more than a couple
of minutes. Some of the spectators had risen from their
places, and departed altogether; some merely exchanged their
seats for others a little further off; some were delighted
with the occurrence, and talked and laughed over it for a
long time.
In a word, the incident
closed as such incidents do, and the band began to play
again. The prince walked away after the Epanchin party. Had
he thought of looking round to the left after he had been
pushed so unceremoniously into the chair, he would have
observed Aglaya standing some twenty yards away. She had
stayed to watch the scandalous scene in spite of her
mother's and sisters' anxious cries to her to come away.
Prince S. ran up to her and
persuaded her, at last, to come home with them.
Lizabetha Prokofievna saw
that she returned in such a state of agitation that it was
doubtful whether she had even heard their calls. But only a
couple of minutes later, when they had reached the park,
Aglaya suddenly remarked, in her usual calm, indifferent
voice:
"I wanted to see how the
farce would end."
III.
THE occurrence at the
Vauxhall had filled both mother and daughters with something
like horror. In their excitement Lizabetha Prokofievna and
the girls were nearly running all the way home.
In her opinion there was so
much disclosed and laid bare by the episode, that, in spite
of the chaotic condition of her mind, she was able to feel
more or less decided on certain points which, up to now, had
been in a cloudy condition.
However, one and all of the
party realized that something important had happened, and
that, perhaps fortunately enough, something which had
hitherto been enveloped in the obscurity of guess-work had
now begun to come forth a little from the mists. In spite of
Prince S.'s assurances and explanations, Evgenie
Pavlovitch's real character and position were at last coming
to light. He was publicly convicted of intimacy with "that
creature." So thought Lizabetha Prokofievna and her two
elder daughters.
But the real upshot of the
business was that the number of riddles to be solved was
augmented. The two girls, though rather irritated at their
mother's exaggerated alarm and haste to depart from the
scene, had been unwilling to worry her at first with
questions.
Besides, they could not
help thinking that their sister Aglaya probably knew more
about the whole matter than both they and their mother put
together.
Prince S. looked as black
as night, and was silent and moody. Mrs. Epanchin did not
say a word to him all the way home, and he did not seem to
observe the fact. Adelaida tried to pump him a little by
asking, "who was the uncle they were talking about, and what
was it that had happened in Petersburg?" But he had merely
muttered something disconnected about "making inquiries,"
and that "of course it was all nonsense." "Oh, of course,"
replied Adelaida, and asked no more questions. Aglaya, too,
was very quiet; and the only remark she made on the way home
was that they were "walking much too fast to be pleasant."
Once she turned and
observed the prince hurrying after them. Noticing his
anxiety to catch them up, she smiled ironically, and then
looked back no more. At length, just as they neared the
house, General Epanchin came out and met them; he had only
just arrived from town.
His first word was to
inquire after Evgenie Pavlovitch. But Lizabetha stalked past
him, and neither looked at him nor answered his question.
He immediately judged from
the faces of his daughters and Prince S. that there was a
thunderstorm brewing, and he himself already bore evidences
of unusual perturbation of mind.
He immediately button-holed
Prince S., and standing at the front door, engaged in a
whispered conversation with him. By the troubled aspect of
both of them, when they entered the house, and approached
Mrs. Epanchin, it was evident that they had been discussing
very disturbing news.
Little by little the family
gathered together upstairs in Lizabetha Prokofievna's
apartments, and Prince Muishkin found himself alone on the
verandah when he arrived. He settled himself in a corner and
sat waiting, though he knew not what he expected. It never
struck him that he had better go away, with all this
disturbance in the house. He seemed to have forgotten all
the world, and to be ready to sit on where he was for years
on end. From upstairs he caught sounds of excited
conversation every now and then.
He could not say how long
he sat there. It grew late and became quite dark.
Suddenly Aglaya entered the
verandah. She seemed to be quite calm, though a little pale.
Observing the prince, whom
she evidently did not expect to see there, alone in the
corner, she smiled, and approached him:
"What are you doing there?"
she asked.
The prince muttered
something, blushed, and jumped up; but Aglaya immediately
sat down beside him; so he reseated himself.
She looked suddenly, but
attentively into his face, then at the window, as though
thinking of something else, and then again at him.
"Perhaps she wants to laugh
at me," thought the prince, "but no; for if she did she
certainly would do so."
"Would you like some tea?
I'll order some," she said, after a minute or two of
silence.
"N-no thanks, I don't
know—"
"Don't know! How can you
not know? By-the-by, look here—if someone were to challenge
you to a duel, what should you do? I wished to ask you
this—some time ago—"
"Why? Nobody would ever
challenge me to a duel!"
"But if they were to, would
you be dreadfully frightened?"
"I dare say I should
be—much alarmed!"
"Seriously? Then are you a
coward?"
"N-no!—I don't think so. A
coward is a man who is afraid and runs away; the man who is
frightened but does not run away, is not quite a coward,"
said the prince with a smile, after a moment's thought.
"And you wouldn't run
away?"
"No—I don't think I should
run away," replied the prince, laughing outright at last at
Aglaya's questions.
"Though I am a woman, I
should certainly not run away for anything," said Aglaya, in
a slightly pained voice. "However, I see you are laughing at
me and twisting your face up as usual in order to make
yourself look more interesting. Now tell me, they generally
shoot at twenty paces, don't they? At ten, sometimes? I
suppose if at ten they must be either wounded or killed,
mustn't they?"
"I don't think they often
kill each other at duels."
"They killed Pushkin that
way."
"That may have been an
accident."
"Not a bit of it; it was a
duel to the death, and he was killed."
"The bullet struck so low
down that probably his antagonist would never have aimed at
that part of him—people never do; he would have aimed at his
chest or head; so that probably the bullet hit him
accidentally. I have been told this by competent
authorities."
"Well, a soldier once told
me that they were always ordered to aim at the middle of the
body. So you see they don't aim at the chest or head; they
aim lower on purpose. I asked some officer about this
afterwards, and he said it was perfectly true."
"That is probably when they
fire from a long distance."
"Can you shoot at all?"
"No, I have never shot in
my life."
"Can't you even load a
pistol?"
"No! That is, I understand
how it's done, of course, but I have never done it."
"Then, you don't know how,
for it is a matter that needs practice. Now listen and
learn; in the first place buy good powder, not damp (they
say it mustn't be at all damp, but very dry), some fine kind
it is—you must ask for PISTOL powder, not the stuff they
load cannons with. They say one makes the bullets oneself,
somehow or other. Have you got a pistol?"
"No—and I don't want one,"
said the prince, laughing.
"Oh, what NONSENSE! You
must buy one. French or English are the best, they say. Then
take a little powder, about a thimbleful, or perhaps two,
and pour it into the barrel. Better put plenty. Then push in
a bit of felt (it MUST be felt, for some reason or other);
you can easily get a bit off some old mattress, or off a
door; it's used to keep the cold out. Well, when you have
pushed the felt down, put the bullet in; do you hear now?
The bullet last and the powder first, not the other way, or
the pistol won't shoot. What are you laughing at? I wish you
to buy a pistol and practise every day, and you must learn
to hit a mark for CERTAIN; will you?"
The prince only laughed.
Aglaya stamped her foot with annoyance.
Her serious air, however,
during this conversation had surprised him considerably. He
had a feeling that he ought to be asking her something, that
there was something he wanted to find out far more important
than how to load a pistol; but his thoughts had all
scattered, and he was only aware that she was sitting by,
him, and talking to him, and that he was looking at her; as
to what she happened to be saying to him, that did not
matter in the least.
The general now appeared on
the verandah, coming from upstairs. He was on his way out,
with an expression of determination on his face, and of
preoccupation and worry also.
"Ah! Lef Nicolaievitch,
it's you, is it? Where are you off to now?" he asked,
oblivious of the fact that the prince had not showed the
least sign of moving. "Come along with me; I want to say a
word or two to you."
"Au revoir, then!" said
Aglaya, holding out her hand to the prince.
It was quite dark now, and
Muishkin could not see her face clearly, but a minute or two
later, when he and the general had left the villa, he
suddenly flushed up, and squeezed his right hand tightly.
It appeared that he and the
general were going in the same direction. In spite of the
lateness of the hour, the general was hurrying away to talk
to someone upon some important subject. Meanwhile he talked
incessantly but disconnectedly to the prince, and
continually brought in the name of Lizabetha Prokofievna.
If the prince had been in a
condition to pay more attention to what the general was
saying, he would have discovered that the latter was
desirous of drawing some information out of him, or indeed
of asking him some question outright; but that he could not
make up his mind to come to the point.
Muishkin was so absent,
that from the very first he could not attend to a word the
other was saying; and when the general suddenly stopped
before him with some excited question, he was obliged to
confess, ignominiously, that he did not know in the least
what he had been talking about.
The general shrugged his
shoulders.
"How strange everyone,
yourself included, has become of late," said he. "I was
telling you that I cannot in the least understand Lizabetha
Prokofievna's ideas and agitations. She is in hysterics up
there, and moans and says that we have been 'shamed and
disgraced.' How? Why? When? By whom? I confess that I am
very much to blame myself; I do not conceal the fact; but
the conduct, the outrageous behaviour of this woman, must
really be kept within limits, by the police if necessary,
and I am just on my way now to talk the question over and
make some arrangements. It can all be managed quietly and
gently, even kindly, and without the slightest fuss or
scandal. I foresee that the future is pregnant with events,
and that there is much that needs explanation. There is
intrigue in the wind; but if on one side nothing is known,
on the other side nothing will be explained. If I have heard
nothing about it, nor have YOU, nor HE, nor SHE—who HAS
heard about it, I should like to know? How CAN all this be
explained except by the fact that half of it is mirage or
moonshine, or some hallucination of that sort?"
"SHE is insane," muttered
the prince, suddenly recollecting all that had passed, with
a spasm of pain at his heart.
"I too had that idea, and I
slept in peace. But now I see that their opinion is more
correct. I do not believe in the theory of madness! The
woman has no common sense; but she is not only not insane,
she is artful to a degree. Her outburst of this evening
about Evgenie's uncle proves that conclusively. It was
VILLAINOUS, simply jesuitical, and it was all for some
special purpose."
"What about Evgenie's
uncle?"
"My goodness, Lef
Nicolaievitch, why, you can't have heard a single word I
said! Look at me, I'm still trembling all over with the
dreadful shock! It is that that kept me in town so late.
Evgenie Pavlovitch's uncle—"
"Well?" cried the prince.
"Shot himself this morning,
at seven o'clock. A respected, eminent old man of seventy;
and exactly point for point as she described it; a sum of
money, a considerable sum of government money, missing!"
"Why, how could she—"
"What, know of it? Ha, ha,
ha! Why, there was a whole crowd round her the moment she
appeared on the scenes here. You know what sort of people
surround her nowadays, and solicit the honour of her
'acquaintance.' Of course she might easily have heard the
news from someone coming from town. All Petersburg, if not
all Pavlofsk, knows it by now. Look at the slyness of her
observation about Evgenie's uniform! I mean, her remark that
he had retired just in time! There's a venomous hint for
you, if you like! No, no! there's no insanity there! Of
course I refuse to believe that Evgenie Pavlovitch could
have known beforehand of the catastrophe; that is, that at
such and such a day at seven o'clock, and all that; but he
might well have had a presentiment of the truth. And I—all
of us—Prince S. and everybody, believed that he was to
inherit a large fortune from this uncle. It's dreadful,
horrible! Mind, I don't suspect Evgenie of anything, be
quite clear on that point; but the thing is a little
suspicious, nevertheless. Prince S. can't get over it.
Altogether it is a very extraordinary combination of
circumstances."
"What suspicion attaches to
Evgenie Pavlovitch?"
"Oh, none at all! He has
behaved very well indeed. I didn't mean to drop any sort of
hint. His own fortune is intact, I believe. Lizabetha
Prokofievna, of course, refuses to listen to anything.
That's the worst of it all, these family catastrophes or
quarrels, or whatever you like to call them. You know,
prince, you are a friend of the family, so I don't mind
telling you; it now appears that Evgenie Pavlovitch proposed
to Aglaya a month ago, and was refused."
"Impossible!" cried the
prince.
"Why? Do you know anything
about it? Look here," continued the general, more agitated
than ever, and trembling with excitement, "maybe I have been
letting the cat out of the bag too freely with you, if so,
it is because you are—that sort of man, you know! Perhaps
you have some special information?"
"I know nothing about
Evgenie Pavlovitch!" said the prince.
"Nor do I! They always try
to bury me underground when there's anything going on; they
don't seem to reflect that it is unpleasant to a man to be
treated so! I won't stand it! We have just had a terrible
scene!—mind, I speak to you as I would to my own son! Aglaya
laughs at her mother. Her sisters guessed about Evgenie
having proposed and been rejected, and told Lizabetha.
"I tell you, my dear
fellow, Aglaya is such an extraordinary, such a self-willed,
fantastical little creature, you wouldn't believe it! Every
high quality, every brilliant trait of heart and mind, are
to be found in her, and, with it all, so much caprice and
mockery, such wild fancies—indeed, a little devil! She has
just been laughing at her mother to her very face, and at
her sisters, and at Prince S., and everybody—and of course
she always laughs at me! You know I love the child—I love
her even when she laughs at me, and I believe the wild
little creature has a special fondness for me for that very
reason. She is fonder of me than any of the others. I dare
swear she has had a good laugh at YOU before now! You were
having a quiet talk just now, I observed, after all the
thunder and lightning upstairs. She was sitting with you
just as though there had been no row at all."
The prince blushed
painfully in the darkness, and closed his right hand
tightly, but he said nothing.
"My dear good Prince Lef
Nicolaievitch," began the general again, suddenly, "both I
and Lizabetha Prokofievna—(who has begun to respect you once
more, and me through you, goodness knows why!)—we both love
you very sincerely, and esteem you, in spite of any
appearances to the contrary. But you'll admit what a riddle
it must have been for us when that calm, cold, little
spitfire, Aglaya—(for she stood up to her mother and
answered her questions with inexpressible contempt, and mine
still more so, because, like a fool, I thought it my duty to
assert myself as head of the family)—when Aglaya stood up of
a sudden and informed us that 'that madwoman' (strangely
enough, she used exactly the same expression as you did)
'has taken it into her head to marry me to Prince Lef
Nicolaievitch, and therefore is doing her best to choke
Evgenie Pavlovitch off, and rid the house of him.' That's
what she said. She would not give the slightest explanation;
she burst out laughing, banged the door, and went away. We
all stood there with our mouths open. Well, I was told
afterwards of your little passage with Aglaya this
afternoon, and-and—dear prince—you are a good, sensible
fellow, don't be angry if I speak out—she is laughing at
you, my boy! She is enjoying herself like a child, at your
expense, and therefore, since she is a child, don't be angry
with her, and don't think anything of it. I assure you, she
is simply making a fool of you, just as she does with one
and all of us out of pure lack of something better to do.
Well—good-bye! You know our feelings, don't you—our sincere
feelings for yourself? They are un