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Title: The Idiot

Author: Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Translator: Eva Martin

Release Date: May, 2001 [eBook #2638]
[Most recently updated: June 21, 2021]

Language: English

Character set encoding: UTF-8

Produced by: Martin Adamson, David Widger, with corrections by Andrew Sly

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE IDIOT ***




The Idiot

by Fyodor Dostoyevsky

Translated by Eva Martin


Contents

 PART I
 PART II
 PART III
 PART IV




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 not 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 Philipovna’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 check, 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 seat 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
after 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 _protégé_ 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 as 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 of 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 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, broad-shouldered, 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! 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 è 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 be 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 not 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 informed 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! 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 that I 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. All 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, gentlemen, 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 Camélias_—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.
General Epanchin alone determined to depart. He was annoyed at the
manner in which his gift had been returned, as 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 Rogojin’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 had 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 tête-à-tête
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.

II.

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—is 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 chère 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 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—
Gazéd 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 man 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 proving 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 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; “You 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, a new 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 intercourse 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! _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, tête-à-tête?”

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 readily 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
he 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! 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 unalterable, you know, dear boy, under all
circumstances, but—Well, here we part; I must go down to the right.
Rarely have I sat so uncomfortably in my saddle, as they say, as I now
sit. And people talk of the charms of a country holiday!”

Left to himself at the cross-roads, the prince glanced around him,
quickly crossed the road towards the lighted window of a neighbouring
house, and unfolded a tiny scrap of paper which he had held clasped in
his right hand during the whole of his conversation with the general.

He read the note in the uncertain rays that fell from the window. It
was as follows:

“Tomorrow morning, I shall be at the green bench in the park at seven,
and shall wait there for you. I have made up my mind to speak to you
about a most important matter which closely concerns yourself.

“P.S.—I trust that you will not show this note to anyone. Though I am
ashamed of giving you such instructions, I feel that I must do so,
considering what you are. I therefore write the words, and blush for
your simple character.

“P.P.S.—It is the same green bench that I showed you before. There!
aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I felt that it was necessary to repeat
even that information.”

The note was written and folded anyhow, evidently in a great hurry, and
probably just before Aglaya had come down to the verandah.

In inexpressible agitation, amounting almost to fear, the prince
slipped quickly away from the window, away from the light, like a
frightened thief, but as he did so he collided violently with some
gentleman who seemed to spring from the earth at his feet.

“I was watching for you, prince,” said the individual.

“Is that you, Keller?” said the prince, in surprise.

“Yes, I’ve been looking for you. I waited for you at the Epanchins’
house, but of course I could not come in. I dogged you from behind as
you walked along with the general. Well, prince, here is Keller,
absolutely at your service—command him!—ready to sacrifice himself—even
to die in case of need.”

“But—why?”

“Oh, why?—Of course you’ll be challenged! That was young Lieutenant
Moloftsoff. I know him, or rather of him; he won’t pass an insult. He
will take no notice of Rogojin and myself, and, therefore, you are the
only one left to account for. You’ll have to pay the piper, prince. He
has been asking about you, and undoubtedly his friend will call on you
tomorrow—perhaps he is at your house already. If you would do me the
honour to have me for a second, prince, I should be happy. That’s why I
have been looking for you now.”

“Duel! You’ve come to talk about a duel, too!” The prince burst out
laughing, to the great astonishment of Keller. He laughed
unrestrainedly, and Keller, who had been on pins and needles, and in a
fever of excitement to offer himself as “second,” was very near being
offended.

“You caught him by the arms, you know, prince. No man of proper pride
can stand that sort of treatment in public.”

“Yes, and he gave me a fearful dig in the chest,” cried the prince,
still laughing. “What are we to fight about? I shall beg his pardon,
that’s all. But if we must fight—we’ll fight! Let him have a shot at
me, by all means; I should rather like it. Ha, ha, ha! I know how to
load a pistol now; do you know how to load a pistol, Keller? First, you
have to buy the powder, you know; it mustn’t be wet, and it mustn’t be
that coarse stuff that they load cannons with—it must be pistol powder.
Then you pour the powder in, and get hold of a bit of felt from some
door, and then shove the bullet in. But don’t shove the bullet in
before the powder, because the thing wouldn’t go off—do you hear,
Keller, the thing wouldn’t go off! Ha, ha, ha! Isn’t that a grand
reason, Keller, my friend, eh? Do you know, my dear fellow, I really
must kiss you, and embrace you, this very moment. Ha, ha! How was it
you so suddenly popped up in front of me as you did? Come to my house
as soon as you can, and we’ll have some champagne. We’ll all get drunk!
Do you know I have a dozen of champagne in Lebedeff’s cellar? Lebedeff
sold them to me the day after I arrived. I took the lot. We’ll invite
everybody! Are you going to do any sleeping tonight?”

“As much as usual, prince—why?”

“Pleasant dreams then—ha, ha!”

The prince crossed the road, and disappeared into the park, leaving the
astonished Keller in a state of ludicrous wonder. He had never before
seen the prince in such a strange condition of mind, and could not have
imagined the possibility of it.

“Fever, probably,” he said to himself, “for the man is all nerves, and
this business has been a little too much for him. He is not _afraid_,
that’s clear; that sort never funks! H’m! champagne! That was an
interesting item of news, at all events!—Twelve bottles! Dear me,
that’s a very respectable little stock indeed! I bet anything Lebedeff
lent somebody money on deposit of this dozen of champagne. Hum! he’s a
nice fellow, is this prince! I like this sort of man. Well, I needn’t
be wasting time here, and if it’s a case of champagne, why—there’s no
time like the present!”

That the prince was almost in a fever was no more than the truth. He
wandered about the park for a long while, and at last came to himself
in a lonely avenue. He was vaguely conscious that he had already paced
this particular walk—from that large, dark tree to the bench at the
other end—about a hundred yards altogether—at least thirty times
backwards and forwards.

As to recollecting what he had been thinking of all that time, he could
not. He caught himself, however, indulging in one thought which made
him roar with laughter, though there was nothing really to laugh at in
it; but he felt that he must laugh, and go on laughing.

It struck him that the idea of the duel might not have occurred to
Keller alone, but that his lesson in the art of pistol-loading might
have been not altogether accidental! “Pooh! nonsense!” he said to
himself, struck by another thought, of a sudden. “Why, she was
immensely surprised to find me there on the verandah, and laughed and
talked about _tea!_ And yet she had this little note in her hand,
therefore she must have known that I was sitting there. So why was she
surprised? Ha, ha, ha!”

He pulled the note out and kissed it; then paused and reflected. “How
strange it all is! how strange!” he muttered, melancholy enough now. In
moments of great joy, he invariably felt a sensation of melancholy come
over him—he could not tell why.

He looked intently around him, and wondered why he had come here; he
was very tired, so he approached the bench and sat down on it. Around
him was profound silence; the music in the Vauxhall was over. The park
seemed quite empty, though it was not, in reality, later than half-past
eleven. It was a quiet, warm, clear night—a real Petersburg night of
early June; but in the dense avenue, where he was sitting, it was
almost pitch dark.

If anyone had come up at this moment and told him that he was in love,
passionately in love, he would have rejected the idea with
astonishment, and, perhaps, with irritation. And if anyone had added
that Aglaya’s note was a love-letter, and that it contained an
appointment to a lover’s rendezvous, he would have blushed with shame
for the speaker, and, probably, have challenged him to a duel.

All this would have been perfectly sincere on his part. He had never
for a moment entertained the idea of the possibility of this girl
loving him, or even of such a thing as himself falling in love with
her. The possibility of being loved himself, “a man like me,” as he put
it, he ranked among ridiculous suppositions. It appeared to him that it
was simply a joke on Aglaya’s part, if there really were anything in it
at all; but that seemed to him quite natural. His preoccupation was
caused by something different.

As to the few words which the general had let slip about Aglaya
laughing at everybody, and at himself most of all—he entirely believed
them. He did not feel the slightest sensation of offence; on the
contrary, he was quite certain that it was as it should be.

His whole thoughts were now as to next morning early; he would see her;
he would sit by her on that little green bench, and listen to how
pistols were loaded, and look at her. He wanted nothing more.

The question as to what she might have to say of special interest to
himself occurred to him once or twice. He did not doubt, for a moment,
that she really had some such subject of conversation in store, but so
very little interested in the matter was he that it did not strike him
to wonder what it could be. The crunch of gravel on the path suddenly
caused him to raise his head.

A man, whose face it was difficult to see in the gloom, approached the
bench, and sat down beside him. The prince peered into his face, and
recognized the livid features of Rogojin.

“I knew you’d be wandering about somewhere here. I didn’t have to look
for you very long,” muttered the latter between his teeth.

It was the first time they had met since the encounter on the staircase
at the hotel.

Painfully surprised as he was at this sudden apparition of Rogojin, the
prince, for some little while, was unable to collect his thoughts.
Rogojin, evidently, saw and understood the impression he had made; and
though he seemed more or less confused at first, yet he began talking
with what looked like assumed ease and freedom. However, the prince
soon changed his mind on this score, and thought that there was not
only no affectation of indifference, but that Rogojin was not even
particularly agitated. If there were a little apparent awkwardness, it
was only in his words and gestures. The man could not change his heart.

“How did you—find me here?” asked the prince for the sake of saying
something.

“Keller told me (I found him at your place) that you were in the park.
‘Of course he is!’ I thought.”

“Why so?” asked the prince uneasily.

Rogojin smiled, but did not explain.

“I received your letter, Lef Nicolaievitch—what’s the good of all
that?—It’s no use, you know. I’ve come to you from _her_,—she bade me
tell you that she must see you, she has something to say to you. She
told me to find you today.”

“I’ll come tomorrow. Now I’m going home—are you coming to my house?”

“Why should I? I’ve given you the message.—Goodbye!”

“Won’t you come?” asked the prince in a gentle voice.

“What an extraordinary man you are! I wonder at you!” Rogojin laughed
sarcastically.

“Why do you hate me so?” asked the prince, sadly. “You know yourself
that all you suspected is quite unfounded. I felt you were still angry
with me, though. Do you know why? Because you tried to kill me—that’s
why you can’t shake off your wrath against me. I tell you that I only
remember the Parfen Rogojin with whom I exchanged crosses, and vowed
brotherhood. I wrote you this in yesterday’s letter, in order that you
might forget all that madness on your part, and that you might not feel
called to talk about it when we met. Why do you avoid me? Why do you
hold your hand back from me? I tell you again, I consider all that has
passed a delirium, an insane dream. I can understand all you did, and
all you felt that day, as if it were myself. What you were then
imagining was not the case, and could never be the case. Why, then,
should there be anger between us?”

“You don’t know what anger is!” laughed Rogojin, in reply to the
prince’s heated words.

He had moved a pace or two away, and was hiding his hands behind him.

“No, it is impossible for me to come to your house again,” he added
slowly.

“Why? Do you hate me so much as all that?”

“I don’t love you, Lef Nicolaievitch, and, therefore, what would be the
use of my coming to see you? You are just like a child—you want a
plaything, and it must be taken out and given you—and then you don’t
know how to work it. You are simply repeating all you said in your
letter, and what’s the use? Of course I believe every word you say, and
I know perfectly well that you neither did or ever can deceive me in
any way, and yet, I don’t love you. You write that you’ve forgotten
everything, and only remember your brother Parfen, with whom you
exchanged crosses, and that you don’t remember anything about the
Rogojin who aimed a knife at your throat. What do you know about my
feelings, eh?” (Rogojin laughed disagreeably.) “Here you are holding
out your brotherly forgiveness to me for a thing that I have perhaps
never repented of in the slightest degree. I did not think of it again
all that evening; all my thoughts were centred on something else—”

“Not think of it again? Of course you didn’t!” cried the prince. “And I
dare swear that you came straight away down here to Pavlofsk to listen
to the music and dog her about in the crowd, and stare at her, just as
you did today. There’s nothing surprising in that! If you hadn’t been
in that condition of mind that you could think of nothing but one
subject, you would, probably, never have raised your knife against me.
I had a presentiment of what you would do, that day, ever since I saw
you first in the morning. Do you know yourself what you looked like? I
knew you would try to murder me even at the very moment when we
exchanged crosses. What did you take me to your mother for? Did you
think to stay your hand by doing so? Perhaps you did not put your
thoughts into words, but you and I were thinking the same thing, or
feeling the same thing looming over us, at the same moment. What should
you think of me now if you had not raised your knife to me—the knife
which God averted from my throat? I would have been guilty of
suspecting you all the same—and you would have intended the murder all
the same; therefore we should have been mutually guilty in any case.
Come, don’t frown; you needn’t laugh at me, either. You say you haven’t
‘repented.’ Repented! You probably couldn’t, if you were to try; you
dislike me too much for that. Why, if I were an angel of light, and as
innocent before you as a babe, you would still loathe me if you
believed that _she_ loved me, instead of loving yourself. That’s
jealousy—that is the real jealousy.

“But do you know what I have been thinking out during this last week,
Parfen? I’ll tell you. What if she loves you now better than anyone?
And what if she torments you _because_ she loves you, and in proportion
to her love for you, so she torments you the more? She won’t tell you
this, of course; you must have eyes to see. Why do you suppose she
consents to marry you? She must have a reason, and that reason she will
tell you some day. Some women desire the kind of love you give her, and
she is probably one of these. Your love and your wild nature impress
her. Do you know that a woman is capable of driving a man crazy almost,
with her cruelties and mockeries, and feels not one single pang of
regret, because she looks at him and says to herself, ‘There! I’ll
torment this man nearly into his grave, and then, oh! how I’ll
compensate him for it all with my love!’”

Rogojin listened to the end, and then burst out laughing:

“Why, prince, I declare you must have had a taste of this sort of thing
yourself—haven’t you? I have heard tell of something of the kind, you
know; is it true?”

“What? What can you have heard?” said the prince, stammering.

Rogojin continued to laugh loudly. He had listened to the prince’s
speech with curiosity and some satisfaction. The speaker’s impulsive
warmth had surprised and even comforted him.

“Why, I’ve not only heard of it; I see it for myself,” he said. “When
have you ever spoken like that before? It wasn’t like yourself, prince.
Why, if I hadn’t heard this report about you, I should never have come
all this way into the park—at midnight, too!”

“I don’t understand you in the least, Parfen.”

“Oh, _she_ told me all about it long ago, and tonight I saw for myself.
I saw you at the music, you know, and whom you were sitting with. She
swore to me yesterday, and again today, that you are madly in love with
Aglaya Ivanovna. But that’s all the same to me, prince, and it’s not my
affair at all; for if you have ceased to love _her_, _she_ has not
ceased to love _you_. You know, of course, that she wants to marry you
to that girl? She’s sworn to it! Ha, ha! She says to me, ‘Until then I
won’t marry you. When they go to church, we’ll go too—and not before.’
What on earth does she mean by it? I don’t know, and I never did.
Either she loves you without limits or—yet, if she loves you, why does
she wish to marry you to another girl? She says, ‘I want to see him
happy,’ which is to say—she loves you.”

“I wrote, and I say to you once more, that she is not in her right
mind,” said the prince, who had listened with anguish to what Rogojin
said.

“Goodness knows—you may be wrong there! At all events, she named the
day this evening, as we left the gardens. ‘In three weeks,’ says she,
‘and perhaps sooner, we shall be married.’ She swore to it, took off
her cross and kissed it. So it all depends upon you now, prince, You
see! Ha, ha!”

“That’s all madness. What you say about me, Parfen, never can and never
will be. Tomorrow, I shall come and see you—”

“How can she be mad,” Rogojin interrupted, “when she is sane enough for
other people and only mad for you? How can she write letters to _her_,
if she’s mad? If she were insane they would observe it in her letters.”

“What letters?” said the prince, alarmed.

“She writes to _her_—and the girl reads the letters. Haven’t you
heard?—You are sure to hear; she’s sure to show you the letters
herself.”

“I won’t believe this!” cried the prince.

“Why, prince, you’ve only gone a few steps along this road, I perceive.
You are evidently a mere beginner. Wait a bit! Before long, you’ll have
your own detectives, you’ll watch day and night, and you’ll know every
little thing that goes on there—that is, if—”

“Drop that subject, Rogojin, and never mention it again. And listen: as
I have sat here, and talked, and listened, it has suddenly struck me
that tomorrow is my birthday. It must be about twelve o’clock, now;
come home with me—do, and we’ll see the day in! We’ll have some wine,
and you shall wish me—I don’t know what—but you, especially you, must
wish me a good wish, and I shall wish you full happiness in return.
Otherwise, hand me my cross back again. You didn’t return it to me next
day. Haven’t you got it on now?”

“Yes, I have,” said Rogojin.

“Come along, then. I don’t wish to meet my new year without you—my new
life, I should say, for a new life is beginning for me. Did you know,
Parfen, that a new life had begun for me?”

“I see for myself that it is so—and I shall tell _her_. But you are not
quite yourself, Lef Nicolaievitch.”

IV.

The prince observed with great surprise, as he approached his villa,
accompanied by Rogojin, that a large number of people were assembled on
his verandah, which was brilliantly lighted up. The company seemed
merry and were noisily laughing and talking—even quarrelling, to judge
from the sounds. At all events they were clearly enjoying themselves,
and the prince observed further on closer investigation—that all had
been drinking champagne. To judge from the lively condition of some of
the party, it was to be supposed that a considerable quantity of
champagne had been consumed already.

All the guests were known to the prince; but the curious part of the
matter was that they had all arrived on the same evening, as though
with one accord, although he had only himself recollected the fact that
it was his birthday a few moments since.

“You must have told somebody you were going to trot out the champagne,
and that’s why they are all come!” muttered Rogojin, as the two entered
the verandah. “We know all about that! You’ve only to whistle and they
come up in shoals!” he continued, almost angrily. He was doubtless
thinking of his own late experiences with his boon companions.

All surrounded the prince with exclamations of welcome, and, on hearing
that it was his birthday, with cries of congratulation and delight;
many of them were very noisy.

The presence of certain of those in the room surprised the prince
vastly, but the guest whose advent filled him with the greatest
wonder—almost amounting to alarm—was Evgenie Pavlovitch. The prince
could not believe his eyes when he beheld the latter, and could not
help thinking that something was wrong.

Lebedeff ran up promptly to explain the arrival of all these gentlemen.
He was himself somewhat intoxicated, but the prince gathered from his
long-winded periods that the party had assembled quite naturally, and
accidentally.

First of all Hippolyte had arrived, early in the evening, and feeling
decidedly better, had determined to await the prince on the verandah.
There Lebedeff had joined him, and his household had followed—that is,
his daughters and General Ivolgin. Burdovsky had brought Hippolyte, and
stayed on with him. Gania and Ptitsin had dropped in accidentally later
on; then came Keller, and he and Colia insisted on having champagne.
Evgenie Pavlovitch had only dropped in half an hour or so ago. Lebedeff
had served the champagne readily.

“My own though, prince, my own, mind,” he said, “and there’ll be some
supper later on; my daughter is getting it ready now. Come and sit
down, prince, we are all waiting for you, we want you with us. Fancy
what we have been discussing! You know the question, ‘to be or not to
be,’—out of Hamlet! A contemporary theme! Quite up-to-date! Mr.
Hippolyte has been eloquent to a degree. He won’t go to bed, but he has
only drunk a little champagne, and that can’t do him any harm. Come
along, prince, and settle the question. Everyone is waiting for you,
sighing for the light of your luminous intelligence...”

The prince noticed the sweet, welcoming look on Vera Lebedeff’s face,
as she made her way towards him through the crowd. He held out his hand
to her. She took it, blushing with delight, and wished him “a happy
life from that day forward.” Then she ran off to the kitchen, where her
presence was necessary to help in the preparations for supper. Before
the prince’s arrival she had spent some time on the terrace, listening
eagerly to the conversation, though the visitors, mostly under the
influence of wine, were discussing abstract subjects far beyond her
comprehension. In the next room her younger sister lay on a wooden
chest, sound asleep, with her mouth wide open; but the boy, Lebedeff’s
son, had taken up his position close beside Colia and Hippolyte, his
face lit up with interest in the conversation of his father and the
rest, to which he would willingly have listened for ten hours at a
stretch.

“I have waited for you on purpose, and am very glad to see you arrive
so happy,” said Hippolyte, when the prince came forward to press his
hand, immediately after greeting Vera.

“And how do you know that I am ‘so happy’?”

“I can see it by your face! Say ‘how do you do’ to the others, and come
and sit down here, quick—I’ve been waiting for you!” he added,
accentuating the fact that he had waited. On the prince’s asking, “Will
it not be injurious to you to sit out so late?” he replied that he
could not believe that he had thought himself dying three days or so
ago, for he never had felt better than this evening.

Burdovsky next jumped up and explained that he had come in by accident,
having escorted Hippolyte from town. He murmured that he was glad he
had “written nonsense” in his letter, and then pressed the prince’s
hand warmly and sat down again.

The prince approached Evgenie Pavlovitch last of all. The latter
immediately took his arm.

“I have a couple of words to say to you,” he began, “and those on a
very important matter; let’s go aside for a minute or two.”

“Just a couple of words!” whispered another voice in the prince’s other
ear, and another hand took his other arm. Muishkin turned, and to his
great surprise observed a red, flushed face and a droll-looking figure
which he recognized at once as that of Ferdishenko. Goodness knows
where he had turned up from!

“Do you remember Ferdishenko?” he asked.

“Where have you dropped from?” cried the prince.

“He is sorry for his sins now, prince,” cried Keller. “He did not want
to let you know he was here; he was hidden over there in the
corner,—but he repents now, he feels his guilt.”

“Why, what has he done?”

“I met him outside and brought him in—he’s a gentleman who doesn’t
often allow his friends to see him, of late—but he’s sorry now.”

“Delighted, I’m sure!—I’ll come back directly, gentlemen,—sit down
there with the others, please,—excuse me one moment,” said the host,
getting away with difficulty in order to follow Evgenie.

“You are very gay here,” began the latter, “and I have had quite a
pleasant half-hour while I waited for you. Now then, my dear Lef
Nicolaievitch, this is what’s the matter. I’ve arranged it all with
Moloftsoff, and have just come in to relieve your mind on that score.
You need be under no apprehensions. He was very sensible, as he should
be, of course, for I think he was entirely to blame himself.”

“What Moloftsoff?”

“The young fellow whose arms you held, don’t you know? He was so wild
with you that he was going to send a friend to you tomorrow morning.”

“What nonsense!”

“Of course it is nonsense, and in nonsense it would have ended,
doubtless; but you know these fellows, they—”

“Excuse me, but I think you must have something else that you wished to
speak about, Evgenie Pavlovitch?”

“Of course, I have!” said the other, laughing. “You see, my dear
fellow, tomorrow, very early in the morning, I must be off to town
about this unfortunate business (my uncle, you know!). Just imagine, my
dear sir, it is all true—word for word—and, of course, everybody knew
it excepting myself. All this has been such a blow to me that I have
not managed to call in at the Epanchins’. Tomorrow I shall not see them
either, because I shall be in town. I may not be here for three days or
more; in a word, my affairs are a little out of gear. But though my
town business is, of course, most pressing, still I determined not to
go away until I had seen you, and had a clear understanding with you
upon certain points; and that without loss of time. I will wait now, if
you will allow me, until the company departs; I may just as well, for I
have nowhere else to go to, and I shall certainly not do any sleeping
tonight; I’m far too excited. And finally, I must confess that, though
I know it is bad form to pursue a man in this way, I have come to beg
your friendship, my dear prince. You are an unusual sort of a person;
you don’t lie at every step, as some men do; in fact, you don’t lie at
all, and there is a matter in which I need a true and sincere friend,
for I really may claim to be among the number of bona fide unfortunates
just now.”

He laughed again.

“But the trouble is,” said the prince, after a slight pause for
reflection, “that goodness only knows when this party will break up.
Hadn’t we better stroll into the park? I’ll excuse myself, there’s no
danger of their going away.”

“No, no! I have my reasons for wishing them not to suspect us of being
engaged in any specially important conversation. There are gentry
present who are a little too much interested in us. You are not aware
of that perhaps, prince? It will be a great deal better if they see
that we are friendly just in an ordinary way. They’ll all go in a
couple of hours, and then I’ll ask you to give me twenty minutes—half
an hour at most.”

“By all means! I assure you I am delighted—you need not have entered
into all these explanations. As for your remarks about friendship with
me—thanks, very much indeed. You must excuse my being a little absent
this evening. Do you know, I cannot somehow be attentive to anything
just now?”

“I see, I see,” said Evgenie, smiling gently. His mirth seemed very
near the surface this evening.

“What do you see?” said the prince, startled.

“I don’t want you to suspect that I have simply come here to deceive
you and pump information out of you!” said Evgenie, still smiling, and
without making any direct reply to the question.

“Oh, but I haven’t the slightest doubt that you did come to pump me,”
said the prince, laughing himself, at last; “and I dare say you are
quite prepared to deceive me too, so far as that goes. But what of
that? I’m not afraid of you; besides, you’ll hardly believe it, I feel
as though I really didn’t care a scrap one way or the other, just
now!—And—and—and as you are a capital fellow, I am convinced of that, I
dare say we really shall end by being good friends. I like you very
much Evgenie Pavlovitch; I consider you a very good fellow indeed.”

“Well, in any case, you are a most delightful man to have to deal with,
be the business what it may,” concluded Evgenie. “Come along now, I’ll
drink a glass to your health. I’m charmed to have entered into alliance
with you. By-the-by,” he added suddenly, “has this young Hippolyte come
down to stay with you?”

“Yes.”

“He’s not going to die at once, I should think, is he?”

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been half an hour here with him, and he—”

Hippolyte had been waiting for the prince all this time, and had never
ceased looking at him and Evgenie Pavlovitch as they conversed in the
corner. He became much excited when they approached the table once
more. He was disturbed in his mind, it seemed; perspiration stood in
large drops on his forehead; in his gleaming eyes it was easy to read
impatience and agitation; his gaze wandered from face to face of those
present, and from object to object in the room, apparently without aim.
He had taken a part, and an animated one, in the noisy conversation of
the company; but his animation was clearly the outcome of fever. His
talk was almost incoherent; he would break off in the middle of a
sentence which he had begun with great interest, and forget what he had
been saying. The prince discovered to his dismay that Hippolyte had
been allowed to drink two large glasses of champagne; the one now
standing by him being the third. All this he found out afterwards; at
the moment he did not notice anything, very particularly.

“Do you know I am specially glad that today is your birthday!” cried
Hippolyte.

“Why?”

“You’ll soon see. D’you know I had a feeling that there would be a lot
of people here tonight? It’s not the first time that my presentiments
have been fulfilled. I wish I had known it was your birthday, I’d have
brought you a present—perhaps I have got a present for you! Who knows?
Ha, ha! How long is it now before daylight?”

“Not a couple of hours,” said Ptitsin, looking at his watch. “What’s
the good of daylight now? One can read all night in the open air
without it,” said someone.

“The good of it! Well, I want just to see a ray of the sun,” said
Hippolyte. “Can one drink to the sun’s health, do you think, prince?”

“Oh, I dare say one can; but you had better be calm and lie down,
Hippolyte—that’s much more important.”

“You are always preaching about resting; you are a regular nurse to me,
prince. As soon as the sun begins to ‘resound’ in the sky—what poet
said that? ‘The sun resounded in the sky.’ It is beautiful, though
there’s no sense in it!—then we will go to bed. Lebedeff, tell me, is
the sun the source of life? What does the source, or ‘spring,’ of life
really mean in the Apocalypse? You have heard of the ‘Star that is
called Wormwood,’ prince?”

“I have heard that Lebedeff explains it as the railroads that cover
Europe like a net.”

Everybody laughed, and Lebedeff got up abruptly.

“No! Allow me, that is not what we are discussing!” he cried, waving
his hand to impose silence. “Allow me! With these gentlemen... all
these gentlemen,” he added, suddenly addressing the prince, “on certain
points... that is...” He thumped the table repeatedly, and the laughter
increased. Lebedeff was in his usual evening condition, and had just
ended a long and scientific argument, which had left him excited and
irritable. On such occasions he was apt to evince a supreme contempt
for his opponents.

“It is not right! Half an hour ago, prince, it was agreed among us that
no one should interrupt, no one should laugh, that each person was to
express his thoughts freely; and then at the end, when everyone had
spoken, objections might be made, even by the atheists. We chose the
general as president. Now without some such rule and order, anyone
might be shouted down, even in the loftiest and most profound
thought....”

“Go on! Go on! Nobody is going to interrupt you!” cried several voices.

“Speak, but keep to the point!”

“What is this ‘star’?” asked another.

“I have no idea,” replied General Ivolgin, who presided with much
gravity.

“I love these arguments, prince,” said Keller, also more than half
intoxicated, moving restlessly in his chair. “Scientific and
political.” Then, turning suddenly towards Evgenie Pavlovitch, who was
seated near him: “Do you know, I simply adore reading the accounts of
the debates in the English parliament. Not that the discussions
themselves interest me; I am not a politician, you know; but it
delights me to see how they address each other ‘the noble lord who
agrees with me,’ ‘my honourable opponent who astonished Europe with his
proposal,’ ‘the noble viscount sitting opposite’—all these expressions,
all this parliamentarism of a free people, has an enormous attraction
for me. It fascinates me, prince. I have always been an artist in the
depths of my soul, I assure you, Evgenie Pavlovitch.”

“Do you mean to say,” cried Gania, from the other corner, “do you mean
to say that railways are accursed inventions, that they are a source of
ruin to humanity, a poison poured upon the earth to corrupt the springs
of life?”

Gavrila Ardalionovitch was in high spirits that evening, and it seemed
to the prince that his gaiety was mingled with triumph. Of course he
was only joking with Lebedeff, meaning to egg him on, but he grew
excited himself at the same time.

“Not the railways, oh dear, no!” replied Lebedeff, with a mixture of
violent anger and extreme enjoyment. “Considered alone, the railways
will not pollute the springs of life, but as a whole they are accursed.
The whole tendency of our latest centuries, in its scientific and
materialistic aspect, is most probably accursed.”

“Is it certainly accursed?... or do you only mean it might be? That is
an important point,” said Evgenie Pavlovitch.

“It is accursed, certainly accursed!” replied the clerk, vehemently.

“Don’t go so fast, Lebedeff; you are much milder in the morning,” said
Ptitsin, smiling.

“But, on the other hand, more frank in the evening! In the evening
sincere and frank,” repeated Lebedeff, earnestly. “More candid, more
exact, more honest, more honourable, and... although I may show you my
weak side, I challenge you all; you atheists, for instance! How are you
going to save the world? How find a straight road of progress, you men
of science, of industry, of cooperation, of trades unions, and all the
rest? How are you going to save it, I say? By what? By credit? What is
credit? To what will credit lead you?”

“You are too inquisitive,” remarked Evgenie Pavlovitch.

“Well, anyone who does not interest himself in questions such as this
is, in my opinion, a mere fashionable dummy.”

“But it will lead at least to solidarity, and balance of interests,”
said Ptitsin.

“You will reach that with nothing to help you but credit? Without
recourse to any moral principle, having for your foundation only
individual selfishness, and the satisfaction of material desires?
Universal peace, and the happiness of mankind as a whole, being the
result! Is it really so that I may understand you, sir?”

“But the universal necessity of living, of drinking, of eating—in
short, the whole scientific conviction that this necessity can only be
satisfied by universal co-operation and the solidarity of interests—is,
it seems to me, a strong enough idea to serve as a basis, so to speak,
and a ‘spring of life,’ for humanity in future centuries,” said Gavrila
Ardalionovitch, now thoroughly roused.

“The necessity of eating and drinking, that is to say, solely the
instinct of self-preservation...”

“Is not that enough? The instinct of self-preservation is the normal
law of humanity...”

“Who told you that?” broke in Evgenie Pavlovitch.

“It is a law, doubtless, but a law neither more nor less normal than
that of destruction, even self-destruction. Is it possible that the
whole normal law of humanity is contained in this sentiment of
self-preservation?”

“Ah!” cried Hippolyte, turning towards Evgenie Pavlovitch, and looking
at him with a queer sort of curiosity.

Then seeing that Radomski was laughing, he began to laugh himself,
nudged Colia, who was sitting beside him, with his elbow, and again
asked what time it was. He even pulled Colia’s silver watch out of his
hand, and looked at it eagerly. Then, as if he had forgotten
everything, he stretched himself out on the sofa, put his hands behind
his head, and looked up at the sky. After a minute or two he got up and
came back to the table to listen to Lebedeff’s outpourings, as the
latter passionately commentated on Evgenie Pavlovitch’s paradox.

“That is an artful and traitorous idea. A smart notion,” vociferated
the clerk, “thrown out as an apple of discord. But it is just. You are
a scoffer, a man of the world, a cavalry officer, and, though not
without brains, you do not realize how profound is your thought, nor
how true. Yes, the laws of self-preservation and of self-destruction
are equally powerful in this world. The devil will hold his empire over
humanity until a limit of time which is still unknown. You laugh? You
do not believe in the devil? Scepticism as to the devil is a French
idea, and it is also a frivolous idea. Do you know who the devil is? Do
you know his name? Although you don’t know his name you make a mockery
of his form, following the example of Voltaire. You sneer at his hoofs,
at his tail, at his horns—all of them the produce of your imagination!
In reality the devil is a great and terrible spirit, with neither
hoofs, nor tail, nor horns; it is you who have endowed him with these
attributes! But... he is not the question just now!”

“How do you know he is not the question now?” cried Hippolyte, laughing
hysterically.

“Another excellent idea, and worth considering!” replied Lebedeff.
“But, again, that is not the question. The question at this moment is
whether we have not weakened ‘the springs of life’ by the extension...”

“Of railways?” put in Colia eagerly.

“Not railways, properly speaking, presumptuous youth, but the general
tendency of which railways may be considered as the outward expression
and symbol. We hurry and push and hustle, for the good of humanity!
‘The world is becoming too noisy, too commercial!’ groans some solitary
thinker. ‘Undoubtedly it is, but the noise of waggons bearing bread to
starving humanity is of more value than tranquillity of soul,’ replies
another triumphantly, and passes on with an air of pride. As for me, I
don’t believe in these waggons bringing bread to humanity. For, founded
on no moral principle, these may well, even in the act of carrying
bread to humanity, coldly exclude a considerable portion of humanity
from enjoying it; that has been seen more than once.”

“What, these waggons may coldly exclude?” repeated someone.

“That has been seen already,” continued Lebedeff, not deigning to
notice the interruption. “Malthus was a friend of humanity, but, with
ill-founded moral principles, the friend of humanity is the devourer of
humanity, without mentioning his pride; for, touch the vanity of one of
these numberless philanthropists, and to avenge his self-esteem, he
will be ready at once to set fire to the whole globe; and to tell the
truth, we are all more or less like that. I, perhaps, might be the
first to set a light to the fuel, and then run away. But, again, I must
repeat, that is not the question.”

“What is it then, for goodness’ sake?”

“He is boring us!”

“The question is connected with the following anecdote of past times;
for I am obliged to relate a story. In our times, and in our country,
which I hope you love as much as I do, for as far as I am concerned, I
am ready to shed the last drop of my blood...

“Go on! Go on!”

“In our dear country, as indeed in the whole of Europe, a famine visits
humanity about four times a century, as far as I can remember; once in
every twenty-five years. I won’t swear to this being the exact figure,
but anyhow they have become comparatively rare.”

“Comparatively to what?”

“To the twelfth century, and those immediately preceding and following
it. We are told by historians that widespread famines occurred in those
days every two or three years, and such was the condition of things
that men actually had recourse to cannibalism, in secret, of course.
One of these cannibals, who had reached a good age, declared of his own
free will that during the course of his long and miserable life he had
personally killed and eaten, in the most profound secrecy, sixty monks,
not to mention several children; the number of the latter he thought
was about six, an insignificant total when compared with the enormous
mass of ecclesiastics consumed by him. As to adults, laymen that is to
say, he had never touched them.”

The president joined in the general outcry.

“That’s impossible!” said he in an aggrieved tone. “I am often
discussing subjects of this nature with him, gentlemen, but for the
most part he talks nonsense enough to make one deaf: this story has no
pretence of being true.”

“General, remember the siege of Kars! And you, gentlemen, I assure you
my anecdote is the naked truth. I may remark that reality, although it
is governed by invariable law, has at times a resemblance to falsehood.
In fact, the truer a thing is the less true it sounds.”

“But could anyone possibly eat sixty monks?” objected the scoffing
listeners.

“It is quite clear that he did not eat them all at once, but in a space
of fifteen or twenty years: from that point of view the thing is
comprehensible and natural...”

“Natural?”

“And natural,” repeated Lebedeff with pedantic obstinacy. “Besides, a
Catholic monk is by nature excessively curious; it would be quite easy
therefore to entice him into a wood, or some secret place, on false
pretences, and there to deal with him as said. But I do not dispute in
the least that the number of persons consumed appears to denote a spice
of greediness.”

“It is perhaps true, gentlemen,” said the prince, quietly. He had been
listening in silence up to that moment without taking part in the
conversation, but laughing heartily with the others from time to time.
Evidently he was delighted to see that everybody was amused, that
everybody was talking at once, and even that everybody was drinking. It
seemed as if he were not intending to speak at all, when suddenly he
intervened in such a serious voice that everyone looked at him with
interest.

“It is true that there were frequent famines at that time, gentlemen. I
have often heard of them, though I do not know much history. But it
seems to me that it must have been so. When I was in Switzerland I used
to look with astonishment at the many ruins of feudal castles perched
on the top of steep and rocky heights, half a mile at least above
sea-level, so that to reach them one had to climb many miles of stony
tracks. A castle, as you know, is, a kind of mountain of stones—a
dreadful, almost an impossible, labour! Doubtless the builders were all
poor men, vassals, and had to pay heavy taxes, and to keep up the
priesthood. How, then, could they provide for themselves, and when had
they time to plough and sow their fields? The greater number must,
literally, have died of starvation. I have sometimes asked myself how
it was that these communities were not utterly swept off the face of
the earth, and how they could possibly survive. Lebedeff is not
mistaken, in my opinion, when he says that there were cannibals in
those days, perhaps in considerable numbers; but I do not understand
why he should have dragged in the monks, nor what he means by that.”

“It is undoubtedly because, in the twelfth century, monks were the only
people one could eat; they were the fat, among many lean,” said Gavrila
Ardalionovitch.

“A brilliant idea, and most true!” cried Lebedeff, “for he never even
touched the laity. Sixty monks, and not a single layman! It is a
terrible idea, but it is historic, it is statistic; it is indeed one of
those facts which enables an intelligent historian to reconstruct the
physiognomy of a special epoch, for it brings out this further point
with mathematical accuracy, that the clergy were in those days sixty
times richer and more flourishing than the rest of humanity and perhaps
sixty times fatter also...”

“You are exaggerating, you are exaggerating, Lebedeff!” cried his
hearers, amid laughter.

“I admit that it is an historic thought, but what is your conclusion?”
asked the prince.

He spoke so seriously in addressing Lebedeff, that his tone contrasted
quite comically with that of the others. They were very nearly laughing
at him, too, but he did not notice it.

“Don’t you see he is a lunatic, prince?” whispered Evgenie Pavlovitch
in his ear. “Someone told me just now that he is a bit touched on the
subject of lawyers, that he has a mania for making speeches and intends
to pass the examinations. I am expecting a splendid burlesque now.”

“My conclusion is vast,” replied Lebedeff, in a voice like thunder.
“Let us examine first the psychological and legal position of the
criminal. We see that in spite of the difficulty of finding other food,
the accused, or, as we may say, my client, has often during his
peculiar life exhibited signs of repentance, and of wishing to give up
this clerical diet. Incontrovertible facts prove this assertion. He has
eaten five or six children, a relatively insignificant number, no
doubt, but remarkable enough from another point of view. It is manifest
that, pricked by remorse—for my client is religious, in his way, and
has a conscience, as I shall prove later—and desiring to extenuate his
sin as far as possible, he has tried six times at least to substitute
lay nourishment for clerical. That this was merely an experiment we can
hardly doubt: for if it had been only a question of gastronomic
variety, six would have been too few; why only six? Why not thirty? But
if we regard it as an experiment, inspired by the fear of committing
new sacrilege, then this number six becomes intelligible. Six attempts
to calm his remorse, and the pricking of his conscience, would amply
suffice, for these attempts could scarcely have been happy ones. In my
humble opinion, a child is too small; I should say, not sufficient;
which would result in four or five times more lay children than monks
being required in a given time. The sin, lessened on the one hand,
would therefore be increased on the other, in quantity, not in quality.
Please understand, gentlemen, that in reasoning thus, I am taking the
point of view which might have been taken by a criminal of the middle
ages. As for myself, a man of the late nineteenth century, I, of
course, should reason differently; I say so plainly, and therefore you
need not jeer at me nor mock me, gentlemen. As for you, general, it is
still more unbecoming on your part. In the second place, and giving my
own personal opinion, a child’s flesh is not a satisfying diet; it is
too insipid, too sweet; and the criminal, in making these experiments,
could have satisfied neither his conscience nor his appetite. I am
about to conclude, gentlemen; and my conclusion contains a reply to one
of the most important questions of that day and of our own! This
criminal ended at last by denouncing himself to the clergy, and giving
himself up to justice. We cannot but ask, remembering the penal system
of that day, and the tortures that awaited him—the wheel, the stake,
the fire!—we cannot but ask, I repeat, what induced him to accuse
himself of this crime? Why did he not simply stop short at the number
sixty, and keep his secret until his last breath? Why could he not
simply leave the monks alone, and go into the desert to repent? Or why
not become a monk himself? That is where the puzzle comes in! There
must have been something stronger than the stake or the fire, or even
than the habits of twenty years! There must have been an idea more
powerful than all the calamities and sorrows of this world, famine or
torture, leprosy or plague—an idea which entered into the heart,
directed and enlarged the springs of life, and made even that hell
supportable to humanity! Show me a force, a power like that, in this
our century of vices and railways! I might say, perhaps, in our century
of steamboats and railways, but I repeat in our century of vices and
railways, because I am drunk but truthful! Show me a single idea which
unites men nowadays with half the strength that it had in those
centuries, and dare to maintain that the ‘springs of life’ have not
been polluted and weakened beneath this ‘star,’ beneath this network in
which men are entangled! Don’t talk to me about your prosperity, your
riches, the rarity of famine, the rapidity of the means of transport!
There is more of riches, but less of force. The idea uniting heart and
soul to heart and soul exists no more. All is loose, soft, limp—we are
all of us limp.... Enough, gentlemen! I have done. That is not the
question. No, the question is now, excellency, I believe, to sit down
to the banquet you are about to provide for us!”

Lebedeff had roused great indignation in some of his auditors (it
should be remarked that the bottles were constantly uncorked during his
speech); but this unexpected conclusion calmed even the most turbulent
spirits. “That’s how a clever barrister makes a good point!” said he,
when speaking of his peroration later on. The visitors began to laugh
and chatter once again; the committee left their seats, and stretched
their legs on the terrace. Keller alone was still disgusted with
Lebedeff and his speech; he turned from one to another, saying in a
loud voice:

“He attacks education, he boasts of the fanaticism of the twelfth
century, he makes absurd grimaces, and added to that he is by no means
the innocent he makes himself out to be. How did he get the money to
buy this house, allow me to ask?”

In another corner was the general, holding forth to a group of hearers,
among them Ptitsin, whom he had buttonholed. “I have known,” said he,
“a real interpreter of the Apocalypse, the late Gregory Semeonovitch
Burmistroff, and he—he pierced the heart like a fiery flash! He began
by putting on his spectacles, then he opened a large black book; his
white beard, and his two medals on his breast, recalling acts of
charity, all added to his impressiveness. He began in a stern voice,
and before him generals, hard men of the world, bowed down, and ladies
fell to the ground fainting. But this one here—he ends by announcing a
banquet! That is not the real thing!”

Ptitsin listened and smiled, then turned as if to get his hat; but if
he had intended to leave, he changed his mind. Before the others had
risen from the table, Gania had suddenly left off drinking, and pushed
away his glass, a dark shadow seemed to come over his face. When they
all rose, he went and sat down by Rogojin. It might have been believed
that quite friendly relations existed between them. Rogojin, who had
also seemed on the point of going away now sat motionless, his head
bent, seeming to have forgotten his intention. He had drunk no wine,
and appeared absorbed in reflection. From time to time he raised his
eyes, and examined everyone present; one might have imagined that he
was expecting something very important to himself, and that he had
decided to wait for it. The prince had taken two or three glasses of
champagne, and seemed cheerful. As he rose he noticed Evgenie
Pavlovitch, and, remembering the appointment he had made with him,
smiled pleasantly. Evgenie Pavlovitch made a sign with his head towards
Hippolyte, whom he was attentively watching. The invalid was fast
asleep, stretched out on the sofa.

“Tell me, prince, why on earth did this boy intrude himself upon you?”
he asked, with such annoyance and irritation in his voice that the
prince was quite surprised. “I wouldn’t mind laying odds that he is up
to some mischief.”

“I have observed,” said the prince, “that he seems to be an object of
very singular interest to you, Evgenie Pavlovitch. Why is it?”

“You may add that I have surely enough to think of, on my own account,
without him; and therefore it is all the more surprising that I cannot
tear my eyes and thoughts away from his detestable physiognomy.”

“Oh, come! He has a handsome face.”

“Why, look at him—look at him now!”

The prince glanced again at Evgenie Pavlovitch with considerable
surprise.

V.

Hippolyte, who had fallen asleep during Lebedeff’s discourse, now
suddenly woke up, just as though someone had jogged him in the side. He
shuddered, raised himself on his arm, gazed around, and grew very pale.
A look almost of terror crossed his face as he recollected.

“What! are they all off? Is it all over? Is the sun up?” He trembled,
and caught at the prince’s hand. “What time is it? Tell me, quick, for
goodness’ sake! How long have I slept?” he added, almost in despair,
just as though he had overslept something upon which his whole fate
depended.

“You have slept seven or perhaps eight minutes,” said Evgenie
Pavlovitch.

Hippolyte gazed eagerly at the latter, and mused for a few moments.

“Oh, is that all?” he said at last. “Then I—”

He drew a long, deep breath of relief, as it seemed. He realized that
all was not over as yet, that the sun had not risen, and that the
guests had merely gone to supper. He smiled, and two hectic spots
appeared on his cheeks.

“So you counted the minutes while I slept, did you, Evgenie
Pavlovitch?” he said, ironically. “You have not taken your eyes off me
all the evening—I have noticed that much, you see! Ah, Rogojin! I’ve
just been dreaming about him, prince,” he added, frowning. “Yes, by the
by,” starting up, “where’s the orator? Where’s Lebedeff? Has he
finished? What did he talk about? Is it true, prince, that you once
declared that ‘beauty would save the world’? Great Heaven! The prince
says that beauty saves the world! And I declare that he only has such
playful ideas because he’s in love! Gentlemen, the prince is in love. I
guessed it the moment he came in. Don’t blush, prince; you make me
sorry for you. What beauty saves the world? Colia told me that you are
a zealous Christian; is it so? Colia says you call yourself a
Christian.”

The prince regarded him attentively, but said nothing.

“You don’t answer me; perhaps you think I am very fond of you?” added
Hippolyte, as though the words had been drawn from him.

“No, I don’t think that. I know you don’t love me.”

“What, after yesterday? Wasn’t I honest with you?”

“I knew yesterday that you didn’t love me.”

“Why so? why so? Because I envy you, eh? You always think that, I know.
But do you know why I am saying all this? Look here! I must have some
more champagne—pour me out some, Keller, will you?”

“No, you’re not to drink any more, Hippolyte. I won’t let you.” The
prince moved the glass away.

“Well perhaps you’re right,” said Hippolyte, musing. “They might
say—yet, devil take them! what does it matter?—prince, what can it
matter what people will say of us _then_, eh? I believe I’m half
asleep. I’ve had such a dreadful dream—I’ve only just remembered it.
Prince, I don’t wish you such dreams as that, though sure enough,
perhaps, I _don’t_ love you. Why wish a man evil, though you do not
love him, eh? Give me your hand—let me press it sincerely. There—you’ve
given me your hand—you must feel that I _do_ press it sincerely, don’t
you? I don’t think I shall drink any more. What time is it? Never mind,
I know the time. The time has come, at all events. What! they are
laying supper over there, are they? Then this table is free? Capital,
gentlemen! I—hem! these gentlemen are not listening. Prince, I will
just read over an article I have here. Supper is more interesting, of
course, but—”

Here Hippolyte suddenly, and most unexpectedly, pulled out of his
breast-pocket a large sealed paper. This imposing-looking document he
placed upon the table before him.

The effect of this sudden action upon the company was instantaneous.
Evgenie Pavlovitch almost bounded off his chair in excitement. Rogojin
drew nearer to the table with a look on his face as if he knew what was
coming. Gania came nearer too; so did Lebedeff and the others—the paper
seemed to be an object of great interest to the company in general.

“What have you got there?” asked the prince, with some anxiety.

“At the first glimpse of the rising sun, prince, I will go to bed. I
told you I would, word of honour! You shall see!” cried Hippolyte. “You
think I’m not capable of opening this packet, do you?” He glared
defiantly round at the audience in general.

The prince observed that he was trembling all over.

“None of us ever thought such a thing!” Muishkin replied for all. “Why
should you suppose it of us? And what are you going to read, Hippolyte?
What is it?”

“Yes, what is it?” asked others. The packet sealed with red wax seemed
to attract everyone, as though it were a magnet.

“I wrote this yesterday, myself, just after I saw you, prince, and told
you I would come down here. I wrote all day and all night, and finished
it this morning early. Afterwards I had a dream.”

“Hadn’t we better hear it tomorrow?” asked the prince timidly.

“Tomorrow ‘there will be no more time!’” laughed Hippolyte,
hysterically. “You needn’t be afraid; I shall get through the whole
thing in forty minutes, at most an hour! Look how interested everybody
is! Everybody has drawn near. Look! look at them all staring at my
sealed packet! If I hadn’t sealed it up it wouldn’t have been half so
effective! Ha, ha! that’s mystery, that is! Now then, gentlemen, shall
I break the seal or not? Say the word; it’s a mystery, I tell you—a
secret! Prince, you know who said there would be ‘no more time’? It was
the great and powerful angel in the Apocalypse.”

“Better not read it now,” said the prince, putting his hand on the
packet.

“No, don’t read it!” cried Evgenie suddenly. He appeared so strangely
disturbed that many of those present could not help wondering.

“Reading? None of your reading now!” said somebody; “it’s supper-time.”
“What sort of an article is it? For a paper? Probably it’s very dull,”
said another. But the prince’s timid gesture had impressed even
Hippolyte.

“Then I’m not to read it?” he whispered, nervously. “Am I not to read
it?” he repeated, gazing around at each face in turn. “What are you
afraid of, prince?” he turned and asked the latter suddenly.

“What should I be afraid of?”

“Has anyone a coin about them? Give me a twenty-copeck piece,
somebody!” And Hippolyte leapt from his chair.

“Here you are,” said Lebedeff, handing him one; he thought the boy had
gone mad.

“Vera Lukianovna,” said Hippolyte, “toss it, will you? Heads, I read,
tails, I don’t.”

Vera Lebedeff tossed the coin into the air and let it fall on the
table.

It was “heads.”

“Then I read it,” said Hippolyte, in the tone of one bowing to the fiat
of destiny. He could not have grown paler if a verdict of death had
suddenly been presented to him.

“But after all, what is it? Is it possible that I should have just
risked my fate by tossing up?” he went on, shuddering; and looked round
him again. His eyes had a curious expression of sincerity. “That is an
astonishing psychological fact,” he cried, suddenly addressing the
prince, in a tone of the most intense surprise. “It is... it is
something quite inconceivable, prince,” he repeated with growing
animation, like a man regaining consciousness. “Take note of it,
prince, remember it; you collect, I am told, facts concerning capital
punishment... They told me so. Ha, ha! My God, how absurd!” He sat down
on the sofa, put his elbows on the table, and laid his head on his
hands. “It is shameful—though what does it matter to me if it is
shameful?

“Gentlemen, gentlemen! I am about to break the seal,” he continued,
with determination. “I—I—of course I don’t insist upon anyone listening
if they do not wish to.”

With trembling fingers he broke the seal and drew out several sheets of
paper, smoothed them out before him, and began sorting them.

“What on earth does all this mean? What’s he going to read?” muttered
several voices. Others said nothing; but one and all sat down and
watched with curiosity. They began to think something strange might
really be about to happen. Vera stood and trembled behind her father’s
chair, almost in tears with fright; Colia was nearly as much alarmed as
she was. Lebedeff jumped up and put a couple of candles nearer to
Hippolyte, so that he might see better.

“Gentlemen, this—you’ll soon see what this is,” began Hippolyte, and
suddenly commenced his reading.

“It’s headed, ‘A Necessary Explanation,’ with the motto, ‘_Après moi le
déluge!_’ Oh, deuce take it all! Surely I can never have seriously
written such a silly motto as that? Look here, gentlemen, I beg to give
notice that all this is very likely terrible nonsense. It is only a few
ideas of mine. If you think that there is anything mysterious coming—or
in a word—”

“Better read on without any more beating about the bush,” said Gania.

“Affectation!” remarked someone else.

“Too much talk,” said Rogojin, breaking the silence for the first time.

Hippolyte glanced at him suddenly, and when their eyes met Rogojin
showed his teeth in a disagreeable smile, and said the following
strange words: “That’s not the way to settle this business, my friend;
that’s not the way at all.”

Of course nobody knew what Rogojin meant by this; but his words made a
deep impression upon all. Everyone seemed to see in a flash the same
idea.

As for Hippolyte, their effect upon him was astounding. He trembled so
that the prince was obliged to support him, and would certainly have
cried out, but that his voice seemed to have entirely left him for the
moment. For a minute or two he could not speak at all, but panted and
stared at Rogojin. At last he managed to ejaculate:

“Then it was _you_ who came—_you_—_you?_”

“Came where? What do you mean?” asked Rogojin, amazed. But Hippolyte,
panting and choking with excitement, interrupted him violently.

“_You_ came to me last week, in the night, at two o’clock, the day I
was with you in the morning! Confess it was you!”

“Last week? In the night? Have you gone cracked, my good friend?”

Hippolyte paused and considered a moment. Then a smile of
cunning—almost triumph—crossed his lips.

“It was you,” he murmured, almost in a whisper, but with absolute
conviction. “Yes, it was you who came to my room and sat silently on a
chair at my window for a whole hour—more! It was between one and two at
night; you rose and went out at about three. It was you, you! Why you
should have frightened me so, why you should have wished to torment me
like that, I cannot tell—but you it was.”

There was absolute hatred in his eyes as he said this, but his look of
fear and his trembling had not left him.

“You shall hear all this directly, gentlemen. I—I—listen!”

He seized his paper in a desperate hurry; he fidgeted with it, and
tried to sort it, but for a long while his trembling hands could not
collect the sheets together. “He’s either mad or delirious,” murmured
Rogojin. At last he began.

For the first five minutes the reader’s voice continued to tremble, and
he read disconnectedly and unevenly; but gradually his voice
strengthened. Occasionally a violent fit of coughing stopped him, but
his animation grew with the progress of the reading—as did also the
disagreeable impression which it made upon his audience,—until it
reached the highest pitch of excitement.

Here is the article.

MY NECESSARY EXPLANATION.


“_Après moi le déluge._

“Yesterday morning the prince came to see me. Among other things he
asked me to come down to his villa. I knew he would come and persuade
me to this step, and that he would adduce the argument that it would be
easier for me to die ‘among people and green trees,’—as he expressed
it. But today he did not say ‘die,’ he said ‘live.’ It is pretty much
the same to me, in my position, which he says. When I asked him why he
made such a point of his ‘green trees,’ he told me, to my astonishment,
that he had heard that last time I was in Pavlofsk I had said that I
had come ‘to have a last look at the trees.’

“When I observed that it was all the same whether one died among trees
or in front of a blank brick wall, as here, and that it was not worth
making any fuss over a fortnight, he agreed at once. But he insisted
that the good air at Pavlofsk and the greenness would certainly cause a
physical change for the better, and that my excitement, and my
_dreams_, would be perhaps relieved. I remarked to him, with a smile,
that he spoke like a materialist, and he answered that he had always
been one. As he never tells a lie, there must be something in his
words. His smile is a pleasant one. I have had a good look at him. I
don’t know whether I like him or not; and I have no time to waste over
the question. The hatred which I felt for him for five months has
become considerably modified, I may say, during the last month. Who
knows, perhaps I am going to Pavlofsk on purpose to see him! But why do
I leave my chamber? Those who are sentenced to death should not leave
their cells. If I had not formed a final resolve, but had decided to
wait until the last minute, I should not leave my room, or accept his
invitation to come and die at Pavlofsk. I must be quick and finish this
explanation before tomorrow. I shall have no time to read it over and
correct it, for I must read it tomorrow to the prince and two or three
witnesses whom I shall probably find there.

“As it will be absolutely true, without a touch of falsehood, I am
curious to see what impression it will make upon me myself at the
moment when I read it out. This is my ‘last and solemn’—but why need I
call it that? There is no question about the truth of it, for it is not
worthwhile lying for a fortnight; a fortnight of life is not itself
worth having, which is a proof that I write nothing here but pure
truth.

(“N.B.—Let me remember to consider; am I mad at this moment, or not? or
rather at these moments? I have been told that consumptives sometimes
do go out of their minds for a while in the last stages of the malady.
I can prove this tomorrow when I read it out, by the impression it
makes upon the audience. I must settle this question once and for all,
otherwise I can’t go on with anything.)

“I believe I have just written dreadful nonsense; but there’s no time
for correcting, as I said before. Besides that, I have made myself a
promise not to alter a single word of what I write in this paper, even
though I find that I am contradicting myself every five lines. I wish
to verify the working of the natural logic of my ideas tomorrow during
the reading—whether I am capable of detecting logical errors, and
whether all that I have meditated over during the last six months be
true, or nothing but delirium.

“If two months since I had been called upon to leave my room and the
view of Meyer’s wall opposite, I verily believe I should have been
sorry. But now I have no such feeling, and yet I am leaving this room
and Meyer’s brick wall _for ever_. So that my conclusion, that it is
not worth while indulging in grief, or any other emotion, for a
fortnight, has proved stronger than my very nature, and has taken over
the direction of my feelings. But is it so? Is it the case that my
nature is conquered entirely? If I were to be put on the rack now, I
should certainly cry out. I should not say that it is not worth while
to yell and feel pain because I have but a fortnight to live.

“But is it true that I have but a fortnight of life left to me? I know
I told some of my friends that Doctor B. had informed me that this was
the case; but I now confess that I lied; B. has not even seen me.
However, a week ago, I called in a medical student, Kislorodoff, who is
a Nationalist, an Atheist, and a Nihilist, by conviction, and that is
why I had him. I needed a man who would tell me the bare truth without
any humbug or ceremony—and so he did—indeed, almost with pleasure
(which I thought was going a little too far).

“Well, he plumped out that I had about a month left me; it might be a
little more, he said, under favourable circumstances, but it might also
be considerably less. According to his opinion I might die quite
suddenly—tomorrow, for instance—there had been such cases. Only a day
or two since a young lady at Colomna who suffered from consumption, and
was about on a par with myself in the march of the disease, was going
out to market to buy provisions, when she suddenly felt faint, lay down
on the sofa, gasped once, and died.

“Kislorodoff told me all this with a sort of exaggerated devil-may-care
negligence, and as though he did me great honour by talking to me so,
because it showed that he considered me the same sort of exalted
Nihilistic being as himself, to whom death was a matter of no
consequence whatever, either way.

“At all events, the fact remained—a month of life and no more! That he
is right in his estimation I am absolutely persuaded.

“It puzzles me much to think how on earth the prince guessed yesterday
that I have had bad dreams. He said to me, ‘Your excitement and dreams
will find relief at Pavlofsk.’ Why did he say ‘dreams’? Either he is a
doctor, or else he is a man of exceptional intelligence and wonderful
powers of observation. (But that he is an ‘idiot,’ at bottom there can
be no doubt whatever.) It so happened that just before he arrived I had
a delightful little dream; one of a kind that I have hundreds of just
now. I had fallen asleep about an hour before he came in, and dreamed
that I was in some room, not my own. It was a large room, well
furnished, with a cupboard, chest of drawers, sofa, and my bed, a fine
wide bed covered with a silken counterpane. But I observed in the room
a dreadful-looking creature, a sort of monster. It was a little like a
scorpion, but was not a scorpion, but far more horrible, and especially
so, because there are no creatures anything like it in nature, and
because it had appeared to me for a purpose, and bore some mysterious
signification. I looked at the beast well; it was brown in colour and
had a shell; it was a crawling kind of reptile, about eight inches
long, and narrowed down from the head, which was about a couple of
fingers in width, to the end of the tail, which came to a fine point.
Out of its trunk, about a couple of inches below its head, came two
legs at an angle of forty-five degrees, each about three inches long,
so that the beast looked like a trident from above. It had eight hard
needle-like whiskers coming out from different parts of its body; it
went along like a snake, bending its body about in spite of the shell
it wore, and its motion was very quick and very horrible to look at. I
was dreadfully afraid it would sting me; somebody had told me, I
thought, that it was venomous; but what tormented me most of all was
the wondering and wondering as to who had sent it into my room, and
what was the mystery which I felt it contained.

“It hid itself under the cupboard and under the chest of drawers, and
crawled into the corners. I sat on a chair and kept my legs tucked
under me. Then the beast crawled quietly across the room and
disappeared somewhere near my chair. I looked about for it in terror,
but I still hoped that as my feet were safely tucked away it would not
be able to touch me.

“Suddenly I heard behind me, and about on a level with my head, a sort
of rattling sound. I turned sharp round and saw that the brute had
crawled up the wall as high as the level of my face, and that its
horrible tail, which was moving incredibly fast from side to side, was
actually touching my hair! I jumped up—and it disappeared. I did not
dare lie down on my bed for fear it should creep under my pillow. My
mother came into the room, and some friends of hers. They began to hunt
for the reptile and were more composed than I was; they did not seem to
be afraid of it. But they did not understand as I did.

“Suddenly the monster reappeared; it crawled slowly across the room and
made for the door, as though with some fixed intention, and with a slow
movement that was more horrible than ever.

“Then my mother opened the door and called my dog, Norma. Norma was a
great Newfoundland, and died five years ago.

“She sprang forward and stood still in front of the reptile as if she
had been turned to stone. The beast stopped too, but its tail and claws
still moved about. I believe animals are incapable of feeling
supernatural fright—if I have been rightly informed,—but at this moment
there appeared to me to be something more than ordinary about Norma’s
terror, as though it must be supernatural; and as though she felt, just
as I did myself, that this reptile was connected with some mysterious
secret, some fatal omen.

“Norma backed slowly and carefully away from the brute, which followed
her, creeping deliberately after her as though it intended to make a
sudden dart and sting her.

“In spite of Norma’s terror she looked furious, though she trembled in
all her limbs. At length she slowly bared her terrible teeth, opened
her great red jaws, hesitated—took courage, and seized the beast in her
mouth. It seemed to try to dart out of her jaws twice, but Norma caught
at it and half swallowed it as it was escaping. The shell cracked in
her teeth; and the tail and legs stuck out of her mouth and shook about
in a horrible manner. Suddenly Norma gave a piteous whine; the reptile
had bitten her tongue. She opened her mouth wide with the pain, and I
saw the beast lying across her tongue, and out of its body, which was
almost bitten in two, came a hideous white-looking substance, oozing
out into Norma’s mouth; it was of the consistency of a crushed
black-beetle. Just then I awoke and the prince entered the room.”

“Gentlemen!” said Hippolyte, breaking off here, “I have not done yet,
but it seems to me that I have written down a great deal here that is
unnecessary,—this dream—”

“You have indeed!” said Gania.

“There is too much about myself, I know, but—” As Hippolyte said this
his face wore a tired, pained look, and he wiped the sweat off his
brow.

“Yes,” said Lebedeff, “you certainly think a great deal too much about
yourself.”

“Well—gentlemen—I do not force anyone to listen! If any of you are
unwilling to sit it out, please go away, by all means!”

“He turns people out of a house that isn’t his own,” muttered Rogojin.

“Suppose we all go away?” said Ferdishenko suddenly.

Hippolyte clutched his manuscript, and gazing at the last speaker with
glittering eyes, said: “You don’t like me at all!” A few laughed at
this, but not all.

“Hippolyte,” said the prince, “give me the papers, and go to bed like a
sensible fellow. We’ll have a good talk tomorrow, but you really
mustn’t go on with this reading; it is not good for you!”

“How can I? How can I?” cried Hippolyte, looking at him in amazement.
“Gentlemen! I was a fool! I won’t break off again. Listen, everyone who
wants to!”

He gulped down some water out of a glass standing near, bent over the
table, in order to hide his face from the audience, and recommenced.

“The idea that it is not worth while living for a few weeks took
possession of me a month ago, when I was told that I had four weeks to
live, but only partially so at that time. The idea quite overmastered
me three days since, that evening at Pavlofsk. The first time that I
felt really impressed with this thought was on the terrace at the
prince’s, at the very moment when I had taken it into my head to make a
last trial of life. I wanted to see people and trees (I believe I said
so myself), I got excited, I maintained Burdovsky’s rights, ‘my
neighbour!’—I dreamt that one and all would open their arms, and
embrace me, that there would be an indescribable exchange of
forgiveness between us all! In a word, I behaved like a fool, and then,
at that very same instant, I felt my ‘last conviction.’ I ask myself
now how I could have waited six months for that conviction! I knew that
I had a disease that spares no one, and I really had no illusions; but
the more I realized my condition, the more I clung to life; I wanted to
live at any price. I confess I might well have resented that blind,
deaf fate, which, with no apparent reason, seemed to have decided to
crush me like a fly; but why did I not stop at resentment? Why did I
begin to live, knowing that it was not worthwhile to begin? Why did I
attempt to do what I knew to be an impossibility? And yet I could not
even read a book to the end; I had given up reading. What is the good
of reading, what is the good of learning anything, for just six months?
That thought has made me throw aside a book more than once.

“Yes, that wall of Meyer’s could tell a tale if it liked. There was no
spot on its dirty surface that I did not know by heart. Accursed wall!
and yet it is dearer to me than all the Pavlofsk trees!—That is—it
_would_ be dearer if it were not all the same to me, now!

“I remember now with what hungry interest I began to watch the lives of
other people—interest that I had never felt before! I used to wait for
Colia’s arrival impatiently, for I was so ill myself, then, that I
could not leave the house. I so threw myself into every little detail
of news, and took so much interest in every report and rumour, that I
believe I became a regular gossip! I could not understand, among other
things, how all these people—with so much life in and before them—do
not become _rich_—and I don’t understand it now. I remember being told
of a poor wretch I once knew, who had died of hunger. I was almost
beside myself with rage! I believe if I could have resuscitated him I
would have done so for the sole purpose of murdering him!

“Occasionally I was so much better that I could go out; but the streets
used to put me in such a rage that I would lock myself up for days
rather than go out, even if I were well enough to do so! I could not
bear to see all those preoccupied, anxious-looking creatures
continuously surging along the streets past me! Why are they always
anxious? What is the meaning of their eternal care and worry? It is
their wickedness, their perpetual detestable malice—that’s what it
is—they are all full of malice, malice!

“Whose fault is it that they are all miserable, that they don’t know
how to live, though they have fifty or sixty years of life before them?
Why did that fool allow himself to die of hunger with sixty years of
unlived life before him?

“And everyone of them shows his rags, his toil-worn hands, and yells in
his wrath: ‘Here are we, working like cattle all our lives, and always
as hungry as dogs, and there are others who do not work, and are fat
and rich!’ The eternal refrain! And side by side with them trots along
some wretched fellow who has known better days, doing light porter’s
work from morn to night for a living, always blubbering and saying that
‘his wife died because he had no money to buy medicine with,’ and his
children dying of cold and hunger, and his eldest daughter gone to the
bad, and so on. Oh! I have no pity and no patience for these fools of
people. Why can’t they be Rothschilds? Whose fault is it that a man has
not got millions of money like Rothschild? If he has life, all this
must be in his power! Whose fault is it that he does not know how to
live his life?

“Oh! it’s all the same to me now—_now!_ But at that time I would soak
my pillow at night with tears of mortification, and tear at my blanket
in my rage and fury. Oh, how I longed at that time to be turned
out—_me_, eighteen years old, poor, half-clothed, turned out into the
street, quite alone, without lodging, without work, without a crust of
bread, without relations, without a single acquaintance, in some large
town—hungry, beaten (if you like), but in good health—and _then_ I
would show them—

“What would I show them?

“Oh, don’t think that I have no sense of my own humiliation! I have
suffered already in reading so far. Which of you all does not think me
a fool at this moment—a young fool who knows nothing of life—forgetting
that to live as I have lived these last six months is to live longer
than grey-haired old men. Well, let them laugh, and say it is all
nonsense, if they please. They may say it is all fairy-tales, if they
like; and I have spent whole nights telling myself fairy-tales. I
remember them all. But how can I tell fairy-tales now? The time for
them is over. They amused me when I found that there was not even time
for me to learn the Greek grammar, as I wanted to do. ‘I shall die
before I get to the syntax,’ I thought at the first page—and threw the
book under the table. It is there still, for I forbade anyone to pick
it up.

“If this ‘Explanation’ gets into anybody’s hands, and they have
patience to read it through, they may consider me a madman, or a
schoolboy, or, more likely, a man condemned to die, who thought it only
natural to conclude that all men, excepting himself, esteem life far
too lightly, live it far too carelessly and lazily, and are, therefore,
one and all, unworthy of it. Well, I affirm that my reader is wrong
again, for my convictions have nothing to do with my sentence of death.
Ask them, ask any one of them, or all of them, what they mean by
happiness! Oh, you may be perfectly sure that if Columbus was happy, it
was not after he had discovered America, but when he was discovering
it! You may be quite sure that he reached the culminating point of his
happiness three days before he saw the New World with his actual eyes,
when his mutinous sailors wanted to tack about, and return to Europe!
What did the New World matter after all? Columbus had hardly seen it
when he died, and in reality he was entirely ignorant of what he had
discovered. The important thing is life—life and nothing else! What is
any ‘discovery’ whatever compared with the incessant, eternal discovery
of life?

“But what is the use of talking? I’m afraid all this is so commonplace
that my confession will be taken for a schoolboy exercise—the work of
some ambitious lad writing in the hope of his work ‘seeing the light’;
or perhaps my readers will say that ‘I had perhaps something to say,
but did not know how to express it.’

“Let me add to this that in every idea emanating from genius, or even
in every serious human idea—born in the human brain—there always
remains something—some sediment—which cannot be expressed to others,
though one wrote volumes and lectured upon it for five-and-thirty
years. There is always a something, a remnant, which will never come
out from your brain, but will remain there with you, and you alone, for
ever and ever, and you will die, perhaps, without having imparted what
may be the very essence of your idea to a single living soul.

“So that if I cannot now impart all that has tormented me for the last
six months, at all events you will understand that, having reached my
‘last convictions,’ I must have paid a very dear price for them. That
is what I wished, for reasons of my own, to make a point of in this my
‘Explanation.’

“But let me resume.”

VI.

“I will not deceive you. ‘Reality’ got me so entrapped in its meshes
now and again during the past six months, that I forgot my ‘sentence’
(or perhaps I did not wish to think of it), and actually busied myself
with affairs.

“A word as to my circumstances. When, eight months since, I became very
ill, I threw up all my old connections and dropped all my old
companions. As I was always a gloomy, morose sort of individual, my
friends easily forgot me; of course, they would have forgotten me all
the same, without that excuse. My position at home was solitary enough.
Five months ago I separated myself entirely from the family, and no one
dared enter my room except at stated times, to clean and tidy it, and
so on, and to bring me my meals. My mother dared not disobey me; she
kept the children quiet, for my sake, and beat them if they dared to
make any noise and disturb me. I so often complained of them that I
should think they must be very fond, indeed, of me by this time. I
think I must have tormented ‘my faithful Colia’ (as I called him) a
good deal too. He tormented me of late; I could see that he always bore
my tempers as though he had determined to ‘spare the poor invalid.’
This annoyed me, naturally. He seemed to have taken it into his head to
imitate the prince in Christian meekness! Surikoff, who lived above us,
annoyed me, too. He was so miserably poor, and I used to prove to him
that he had no one to blame but himself for his poverty. I used to be
so angry that I think I frightened him eventually, for he stopped
coming to see me. He was a most meek and humble fellow, was Surikoff.
(N.B.—They say that meekness is a great power. I must ask the prince
about this, for the expression is his.) But I remember one day in
March, when I went up to his lodgings to see whether it was true that
one of his children had been starved and frozen to death, I began to
hold forth to him about his poverty being his own fault, and, in the
course of my remarks, I accidentally smiled at the corpse of his child.
Well, the poor wretch’s lips began to tremble, and he caught me by the
shoulder, and pushed me to the door. ‘Go out,’ he said, in a whisper. I
went out, of course, and I declare I _liked_ it. I liked it at the very
moment when I was turned out. But his words filled me with a strange
sort of feeling of disdainful pity for him whenever I thought of them—a
feeling which I did not in the least desire to entertain. At the very
moment of the insult (for I admit that I did insult him, though I did
not mean to), this man could not lose his temper. His lips had
trembled, but I swear it was not with rage. He had taken me by the arm,
and said, ‘Go out,’ without the least anger. There was dignity, a great
deal of dignity, about him, and it was so inconsistent with the look of
him that, I assure you, it was quite comical. But there was no anger.
Perhaps he merely began to despise me at that moment.

“Since that time he has always taken off his hat to me on the stairs,
whenever I met him, which is a thing he never did before; but he always
gets away from me as quickly as he can, as though he felt confused. If
he did despise me, he despised me ‘meekly,’ after his own fashion.

“I dare say he only took his hat off out of fear, as it were, to the
son of his creditor; for he always owed my mother money. I thought of
having an explanation with him, but I knew that if I did, he would
begin to apologize in a minute or two, so I decided to let him alone.

“Just about that time, that is, the middle of March, I suddenly felt
very much better; this continued for a couple of weeks. I used to go
out at dusk. I like the dusk, especially in March, when the night frost
begins to harden the day’s puddles, and the gas is burning.

“Well, one night in the Shestilavochnaya, a man passed me with a paper
parcel under his arm. I did not take stock of him very carefully, but
he seemed to be dressed in some shabby summer dust-coat, much too light
for the season. When he was opposite the lamp-post, some ten yards
away, I observed something fall out of his pocket. I hurried forward to
pick it up, just in time, for an old wretch in a long kaftan rushed up
too. He did not dispute the matter, but glanced at what was in my hand
and disappeared.

“It was a large old-fashioned pocket-book, stuffed full; but I guessed,
at a glance, that it had anything in the world inside it, except money.

“The owner was now some forty yards ahead of me, and was very soon lost
in the crowd. I ran after him, and began calling out; but as I knew
nothing to say excepting ‘hey!’ he did not turn round. Suddenly he
turned into the gate of a house to the left; and when I darted in after
him, the gateway was so dark that I could see nothing whatever. It was
one of those large houses built in small tenements, of which there must
have been at least a hundred.

“When I entered the yard I thought I saw a man going along on the far
side of it; but it was so dark I could not make out his figure.

“I crossed to that corner and found a dirty dark staircase. I heard a
man mounting up above me, some way higher than I was, and thinking I
should catch him before his door would be opened to him, I rushed after
him. I heard a door open and shut on the fifth storey, as I panted
along; the stairs were narrow, and the steps innumerable, but at last I
reached the door I thought the right one. Some moments passed before I
found the bell and got it to ring.

“An old peasant woman opened the door; she was busy lighting the
‘samovar’ in a tiny kitchen. She listened silently to my questions, did
not understand a word, of course, and opened another door leading into
a little bit of a room, low and scarcely furnished at all, but with a
large, wide bed in it, hung with curtains. On this bed lay one
Terentich, as the woman called him, drunk, it appeared to me. On the
table was an end of candle in an iron candlestick, and a half-bottle of
vodka, nearly finished. Terentich muttered something to me, and signed
towards the next room. The old woman had disappeared, so there was
nothing for me to do but to open the door indicated. I did so, and
entered the next room.

“This was still smaller than the other, so cramped that I could
scarcely turn round; a narrow single bed at one side took up nearly all
the room. Besides the bed there were only three common chairs, and a
wretched old kitchen-table standing before a small sofa. One could
hardly squeeze through between the table and the bed.

“On the table, as in the other room, burned a tallow candle-end in an
iron candlestick; and on the bed there whined a baby of scarcely three
weeks old. A pale-looking woman was dressing the child, probably the
mother; she looked as though she had not as yet got over the trouble of
childbirth, she seemed so weak and was so carelessly dressed. Another
child, a little girl of about three years old, lay on the sofa, covered
over with what looked like a man’s old dress-coat.

“At the table stood a man in his shirt sleeves; he had thrown off his
coat; it lay upon the bed; and he was unfolding a blue paper parcel in
which were a couple of pounds of bread, and some little sausages.

“On the table along with these things were a few old bits of black
bread, and some tea in a pot. From under the bed there protruded an
open portmanteau full of bundles of rags. In a word, the confusion and
untidiness of the room were indescribable.

“It appeared to me, at the first glance, that both the man and the
woman were respectable people, but brought to that pitch of poverty
where untidiness seems to get the better of every effort to cope with
it, till at last they take a sort of bitter satisfaction in it. When I
entered the room, the man, who had entered but a moment before me, and
was still unpacking his parcels, was saying something to his wife in an
excited manner. The news was apparently bad, as usual, for the woman
began whimpering. The man’s face seemed to me to be refined and even
pleasant. He was dark-complexioned, and about twenty-eight years of
age; he wore black whiskers, and his lip and chin were shaved. He
looked morose, but with a sort of pride of expression. A curious scene
followed.

“There are people who find satisfaction in their own touchy feelings,
especially when they have just taken the deepest offence; at such
moments they feel that they would rather be offended than not. These
easily-ignited natures, if they are wise, are always full of remorse
afterwards, when they reflect that they have been ten times as angry as
they need have been.

“The gentleman before me gazed at me for some seconds in amazement, and
his wife in terror; as though there was something alarmingly
extraordinary in the fact that anyone could come to see them. But
suddenly he fell upon me almost with fury; I had had no time to mutter
more than a couple of words; but he had doubtless observed that I was
decently dressed and, therefore, took deep offence because I had dared
enter his den so unceremoniously, and spy out the squalor and
untidiness of it.

“Of course he was delighted to get hold of someone upon whom to vent
his rage against things in general.

“For a moment I thought he would assault me; he grew so pale that he
looked like a woman about to have hysterics; his wife was dreadfully
alarmed.

“‘How dare you come in so? Be off!’ he shouted, trembling all over with
rage and scarcely able to articulate the words. Suddenly, however, he
observed his pocketbook in my hand.

“‘I think you dropped this,’ I remarked, as quietly and drily as I
could. (I thought it best to treat him so.) For some while he stood
before me in downright terror, and seemed unable to understand. He then
suddenly grabbed at his side-pocket, opened his mouth in alarm, and
beat his forehead with his hand.

“‘My God!’ he cried, ‘where did you find it? How?’ I explained in as
few words as I could, and as drily as possible, how I had seen it and
picked it up; how I had run after him, and called out to him, and how I
had followed him upstairs and groped my way to his door.

“‘Gracious Heaven!’ he cried, ‘all our papers are in it! My dear sir,
you little know what you have done for us. I should have been
lost—lost!’

“I had taken hold of the door-handle meanwhile, intending to leave the
room without reply; but I was panting with my run upstairs, and my
exhaustion came to a climax in a violent fit of coughing, so bad that I
could hardly stand.

“I saw how the man dashed about the room to find me an empty chair, how
he kicked the rags off a chair which was covered up by them, brought it
to me, and helped me to sit down; but my cough went on for another
three minutes or so. When I came to myself he was sitting by me on
another chair, which he had also cleared of the rubbish by throwing it
all over the floor, and was watching me intently.

“‘I’m afraid you are ill?’ he remarked, in the tone which doctors use
when they address a patient. ‘I am myself a medical man’ (he did not
say ‘doctor’), with which words he waved his hands towards the room and
its contents as though in protest at his present condition. ‘I see that
you—’

“‘I’m in consumption,’ I said laconically, rising from my seat.

“He jumped up, too.

“‘Perhaps you are exaggerating—if you were to take proper measures
perhaps—”

“He was terribly confused and did not seem able to collect his
scattered senses; the pocket-book was still in his left hand.

“‘Oh, don’t mind me,’ I said. ‘Dr. B—— saw me last week’ (I lugged him
in again), ‘and my hash is quite settled; pardon me—’ I took hold of
the door-handle again. I was on the point of opening the door and
leaving my grateful but confused medical friend to himself and his
shame, when my damnable cough got hold of me again.

“My doctor insisted on my sitting down again to get my breath. He now
said something to his wife who, without leaving her place, addressed a
few words of gratitude and courtesy to me. She seemed very shy over it,
and her sickly face flushed up with confusion. I remained, but with the
air of a man who knows he is intruding and is anxious to get away. The
doctor’s remorse at last seemed to need a vent, I could see.

“‘If I—’ he began, breaking off abruptly every other moment, and
starting another sentence. ‘I—I am so very grateful to you, and I am so
much to blame in your eyes, I feel sure, I—you see—’ (he pointed to the
room again) ‘at this moment I am in such a position—’

“‘Oh!’ I said, ‘there’s nothing to see; it’s quite a clear case—you’ve
lost your post and have come up to make explanations and get another,
if you can!’

“‘How do you know that?’ he asked in amazement.

“‘Oh, it was evident at the first glance,’ I said ironically, but not
intentionally so. ‘There are lots of people who come up from the
provinces full of hope, and run about town, and have to live as best
they can.’

“He began to talk at once excitedly and with trembling lips; he began
complaining and telling me his story. He interested me, I confess; I
sat there nearly an hour. His story was a very ordinary one. He had
been a provincial doctor; he had a civil appointment, and had no sooner
taken it up than intrigues began. Even his wife was dragged into these.
He was proud, and flew into a passion; there was a change of local
government which acted in favour of his opponents; his position was
undermined, complaints were made against him; he lost his post and came
up to Petersburg with his last remaining money, in order to appeal to
higher authorities. Of course nobody would listen to him for a long
time; he would come and tell his story one day and be refused promptly;
another day he would be fed on false promises; again he would be
treated harshly; then he would be told to sign some documents; then he
would sign the paper and hand it in, and they would refuse to receive
it, and tell him to file a formal petition. In a word he had been
driven about from office to office for five months and had spent every
farthing he had; his wife’s last rags had just been pawned; and
meanwhile a child had been born to them and—and today I have a final
refusal to my petition, and I have hardly a crumb of bread left—I have
nothing left; my wife has had a baby lately—and I—I—’

“He sprang up from his chair and turned away. His wife was crying in
the corner; the child had begun to moan again. I pulled out my
note-book and began writing in it. When I had finished and rose from my
chair he was standing before me with an expression of alarmed
curiosity.

“‘I have jotted down your name,’ I told him, ‘and all the rest of
it—the place you served at, the district, the date, and all. I have a
friend, Bachmatoff, whose uncle is a councillor of state and has to do
with these matters, one Peter Matveyevitch Bachmatoff.’

“‘Peter Matveyevitch Bachmatoff!’ he cried, trembling all over with
excitement. ‘Why, nearly everything depends on that very man!’

“It is very curious, this story of the medical man, and my visit, and
the happy termination to which I contributed by accident! Everything
fitted in, as in a novel. I told the poor people not to put much hope
in me, because I was but a poor schoolboy myself—(I am not really, but
I humiliated myself as much as possible in order to make them less
hopeful)—but that I would go at once to the Vassili Ostroff and see my
friend; and that as I knew for certain that his uncle adored him, and
was absolutely devoted to him as the last hope and branch of the
family, perhaps the old man might do something to oblige his nephew.

“‘If only they would allow me to explain all to his excellency! If I
could but be permitted to tell my tale to him!” he cried, trembling
with feverish agitation, and his eyes flashing with excitement. I
repeated once more that I could not hold out much hope—that it would
probably end in smoke, and if I did not turn up next morning they must
make up their minds that there was no more to be done in the matter.

“They showed me out with bows and every kind of respect; they seemed
quite beside themselves. I shall never forget the expression of their
faces!

“I took a droshky and drove over to the Vassili Ostroff at once. For
some years I had been at enmity with this young Bachmatoff, at school.
We considered him an aristocrat; at all events I called him one. He
used to dress smartly, and always drove to school in a private trap. He
was a good companion, and was always merry and jolly, sometimes even
witty, though he was not very intellectual, in spite of the fact that
he was always top of the class; I myself was never top in anything! All
his companions were very fond of him, excepting myself. He had several
times during those years come up to me and tried to make friends; but I
had always turned sulkily away and refused to have anything to do with
him. I had not seen him for a whole year now; he was at the university.
When, at nine o’clock, or so, this evening, I arrived and was shown up
to him with great ceremony, he first received me with astonishment, and
not too affably, but he soon cheered up, and suddenly gazed intently at
me and burst out laughing.

“‘Why, what on earth can have possessed you to come and see _me_,
Terentieff?’ he cried, with his usual pleasant, sometimes audacious,
but never offensive familiarity, which I liked in reality, but for
which I also detested him. ‘Why what’s the matter?’ he cried in alarm.
‘Are you ill?’

“That confounded cough of mine had come on again; I fell into a chair,
and with difficulty recovered my breath. ‘It’s all right, it’s only
consumption’ I said. ‘I have come to you with a petition!’

“He sat down in amazement, and I lost no time in telling him the
medical man’s history; and explained that he, with the influence which
he possessed over his uncle, might do some good to the poor fellow.

“‘I’ll do it—I’ll do it, of course!’ he said. ‘I shall attack my uncle
about it tomorrow morning, and I’m very glad you told me the story. But
how was it that you thought of coming to me about it, Terentieff?’

“‘So much depends upon your uncle,’ I said. ‘And besides we have always
been enemies, Bachmatoff; and as you are a generous sort of fellow, I
thought you would not refuse my request because I was your enemy!’ I
added with irony.

“‘Like Napoleon going to England, eh?’ cried he, laughing. ‘I’ll do it
though—of course, and at once, if I can!’ he added, seeing that I rose
seriously from my chair at this point.

“And sure enough the matter ended as satisfactorily as possible. A
month or so later my medical friend was appointed to another post. He
got his travelling expenses paid, and something to help him to start
life with once more. I think Bachmatoff must have persuaded the doctor
to accept a loan from himself. I saw Bachmatoff two or three times,
about this period, the third time being when he gave a farewell dinner
to the doctor and his wife before their departure, a champagne dinner.

“Bachmatoff saw me home after the dinner and we crossed the Nicolai
bridge. We were both a little drunk. He told me of his joy, the joyful
feeling of having done a good action; he said that it was all thanks to
myself that he could feel this satisfaction; and held forth about the
foolishness of the theory that individual charity is useless.

“I, too, was burning to have my say!

“‘In Moscow,’ I said, ‘there was an old state counsellor, a civil
general, who, all his life, had been in the habit of visiting the
prisons and speaking to criminals. Every party of convicts on its way
to Siberia knew beforehand that on the Vorobeef Hills the “old general”
would pay them a visit. He did all he undertook seriously and
devotedly. He would walk down the rows of the unfortunate prisoners,
stop before each individual and ask after his needs—he never sermonized
them; he spoke kindly to them—he gave them money; he brought them all
sorts of necessaries for the journey, and gave them devotional books,
choosing those who could read, under the firm conviction that they
would read to those who could not, as they went along.

“‘He scarcely ever talked about the particular crimes of any of them,
but listened if any volunteered information on that point. All the
convicts were equal for him, and he made no distinction. He spoke to
all as to brothers, and every one of them looked upon him as a father.
When he observed among the exiles some poor woman with a child, he
would always come forward and fondle the little one, and make it laugh.
He continued these acts of mercy up to his very death; and by that time
all the criminals, all over Russia and Siberia, knew him!

“‘A man I knew who had been to Siberia and returned, told me that he
himself had been a witness of how the very most hardened criminals
remembered the old general, though, in point of fact, he could never,
of course, have distributed more than a few pence to each member of a
party. Their recollection of him was not sentimental or particularly
devoted. Some wretch, for instance, who had been a murderer—cutting the
throat of a dozen fellow-creatures, for instance; or stabbing six
little children for his own amusement (there have been such men!)—would
perhaps, without rhyme or reason, suddenly give a sigh and say, “I
wonder whether that old general is alive still!” Although perhaps he
had not thought of mentioning him for a dozen years before! How can one
say what seed of good may have been dropped into his soul, never to
die?’

“I continued in that strain for a long while, pointing out to
Bachmatoff how impossible it is to follow up the effects of any
isolated good deed one may do, in all its influences and subtle
workings upon the heart and after-actions of others.

“‘And to think that you are to be cut off from life!’ remarked
Bachmatoff, in a tone of reproach, as though he would like to find
someone to pitch into on my account.

“We were leaning over the balustrade of the bridge, looking into the
Neva at this moment.

“‘Do you know what has suddenly come into my head?’ said I,
suddenly—leaning further and further over the rail.

“‘Surely not to throw yourself into the river?’ cried Bachmatoff in
alarm. Perhaps he read my thought in my face.

“‘No, not yet. At present nothing but the following consideration. You
see I have some two or three months left me to live—perhaps four; well,
supposing that when I have but a month or two more, I take a fancy for
some “good deed” that needs both trouble and time, like this business
of our doctor friend, for instance: why, I shall have to give up the
idea of it and take to something else—some _little_ good deed, _more
within my means_, eh? Isn’t that an amusing idea!’

“Poor Bachmatoff was much impressed—painfully so. He took me all the
way home; not attempting to console me, but behaving with the greatest
delicacy. On taking leave he pressed my hand warmly and asked
permission to come and see me. I replied that if he came to me as a
‘comforter,’ so to speak (for he would be in that capacity whether he
spoke to me in a soothing manner or only kept silence, as I pointed out
to him), he would but remind me each time of my approaching death! He
shrugged his shoulders, but quite agreed with me; and we parted better
friends than I had expected.

“But that evening and that night were sown the first seeds of my ‘last
conviction.’ I seized greedily on my new idea; I thirstily drank in all
its different aspects (I did not sleep a wink that night!), and the
deeper I went into it the more my being seemed to merge itself in it,
and the more alarmed I became. A dreadful terror came over me at last,
and did not leave me all next day.

“Sometimes, thinking over this, I became quite numb with the terror of
it; and I might well have deduced from this fact, that my ‘last
conviction’ was eating into my being too fast and too seriously, and
would undoubtedly come to its climax before long. And for the climax I
needed greater determination than I yet possessed.

“However, within three weeks my determination was taken, owing to a
very strange circumstance.

“Here on my paper, I make a note of all the figures and dates that come
into my explanation. Of course, it is all the same to me, but just
now—and perhaps only at this moment—I desire that all those who are to
judge of my action should see clearly out of how logical a sequence of
deductions has at length proceeded my ‘last conviction.’

“I have said above that the determination needed by me for the
accomplishment of my final resolve, came to hand not through any
sequence of causes, but thanks to a certain strange circumstance which
had perhaps no connection whatever with the matter at issue. Ten days
ago Rogojin called upon me about certain business of his own with which
I have nothing to do at present. I had never seen Rogojin before, but
had often heard about him.

“I gave him all the information he needed, and he very soon took his
departure; so that, since he only came for the purpose of gaining the
information, the matter might have been expected to end there.

“But he interested me too much, and all that day I was under the
influence of strange thoughts connected with him, and I determined to
return his visit the next day.

“Rogojin was evidently by no means pleased to see me, and hinted,
delicately, that he saw no reason why our acquaintance should continue.
For all that, however, I spent a very interesting hour, and so, I dare
say, did he. There was so great a contrast between us that I am sure we
must both have felt it; anyhow, I felt it acutely. Here was I, with my
days numbered, and he, a man in the full vigour of life, living in the
present, without the slightest thought for ‘final convictions,’ or
numbers, or days, or, in fact, for anything but that which-which—well,
which he was mad about, if he will excuse me the expression—as a feeble
author who cannot express his ideas properly.

“In spite of his lack of amiability, I could not help seeing, in
Rogojin a man of intellect and sense; and although, perhaps, there was
little in the outside world which was of interest to him, still he was
clearly a man with eyes to see.

“I hinted nothing to him about my ‘final conviction,’ but it appeared
to me that he had guessed it from my words. He remained silent—he is a
terribly silent man. I remarked to him, as I rose to depart, that, in
spite of the contrast and the wide differences between us two, les
extremites se touchent (‘extremes meet,’ as I explained to him in
Russian); so that maybe he was not so far from my final conviction as
appeared.

“His only reply to this was a sour grimace. He rose and looked for my
cap, and placed it in my hand, and led me out of the house—that
dreadful gloomy house of his—to all appearances, of course, as though I
were leaving of my own accord, and he were simply seeing me to the door
out of politeness. His house impressed me much; it is like a
burial-ground, he seems to like it, which is, however, quite natural.
Such a full life as he leads is so overflowing with absorbing interests
that he has little need of assistance from his surroundings.

“The visit to Rogojin exhausted me terribly. Besides, I had felt ill
since the morning; and by evening I was so weak that I took to my bed,
and was in high fever at intervals, and even delirious. Colia sat with
me until eleven o’clock.

“Yet I remember all he talked about, and every word we said, though
whenever my eyes closed for a moment I could picture nothing but the
image of Surikoff just in the act of finding a million roubles. He
could not make up his mind what to do with the money, and tore his hair
over it. He trembled with fear that somebody would rob him, and at last
he decided to bury it in the ground. I persuaded him that, instead of
putting it all away uselessly underground, he had better melt it down
and make a golden coffin out of it for his starved child, and then dig
up the little one and put her into the golden coffin. Surikoff accepted
this suggestion, I thought, with tears of gratitude, and immediately
commenced to carry out my design.

“I thought I spat on the ground and left him in disgust. Colia told me,
when I quite recovered my senses, that I had not been asleep for a
moment, but that I had spoken to him about Surikoff the whole while.

“At moments I was in a state of dreadful weakness and misery, so that
Colia was greatly disturbed when he left me.

“When I arose to lock the door after him, I suddenly called to mind a
picture I had noticed at Rogojin’s in one of his gloomiest rooms, over
the door. He had pointed it out to me himself as we walked past it, and
I believe I must have stood a good five minutes in front of it. There
was nothing artistic about it, but the picture made me feel strangely
uncomfortable. It represented Christ just taken down from the cross. It
seems to me that painters as a rule represent the Saviour, both on the
cross and taken down from it, with great beauty still upon His face.
This marvellous beauty they strive to preserve even in His moments of
deepest agony and passion. But there was no such beauty in Rogojin’s
picture. This was the presentment of a poor mangled body which had
evidently suffered unbearable anguish even before its crucifixion, full
of wounds and bruises, marks of the violence of soldiers and people,
and of the bitterness of the moment when He had fallen with the
cross—all this combined with the anguish of the actual crucifixion.

“The face was depicted as though still suffering; as though the body,
only just dead, was still almost quivering with agony. The picture was
one of pure nature, for the face was not beautified by the artist, but
was left as it would naturally be, whosoever the sufferer, after such
anguish.

“I know that the earliest Christian faith taught that the Saviour
suffered actually and not figuratively, and that nature was allowed her
own way even while His body was on the cross.

“It is strange to look on this dreadful picture of the mangled corpse
of the Saviour, and to put this question to oneself: ‘Supposing that
the disciples, the future apostles, the women who had followed Him and
stood by the cross, all of whom believed in and worshipped
Him—supposing that they saw this tortured body, this face so mangled
and bleeding and bruised (and they _must_ have so seen it)—how could
they have gazed upon the dreadful sight and yet have believed that He
would rise again?’

“The thought steps in, whether one likes it or no, that death is so
terrible and so powerful, that even He who conquered it in His miracles
during life was unable to triumph over it at the last. He who called to
Lazarus, ‘Lazarus, come forth!’ and the dead man lived—He was now
Himself a prey to nature and death. Nature appears to one, looking at
this picture, as some huge, implacable, dumb monster; or still better—a
stranger simile—some enormous mechanical engine of modern days which
has seized and crushed and swallowed up a great and invaluable Being, a
Being worth nature and all her laws, worth the whole earth, which was
perhaps created merely for the sake of the advent of that Being.

“This blind, dumb, implacable, eternal, unreasoning force is well shown
in the picture, and the absolute subordination of all men and things to
it is so well expressed that the idea unconsciously arises in the mind
of anyone who looks at it. All those faithful people who were gazing at
the cross and its mutilated occupant must have suffered agony of mind
that evening; for they must have felt that all their hopes and almost
all their faith had been shattered at a blow. They must have separated
in terror and dread that night, though each perhaps carried away with
him one great thought which was never eradicated from his mind for ever
afterwards. If this great Teacher of theirs could have seen Himself
after the Crucifixion, how could He have consented to mount the Cross
and to die as He did? This thought also comes into the mind of the man
who gazes at this picture. I thought of all this by snatches probably
between my attacks of delirium—for an hour and a half or so before
Colia’s departure.

“Can there be an appearance of that which has no form? And yet it
seemed to me, at certain moments, that I beheld in some strange and
impossible form, that dark, dumb, irresistibly powerful, eternal force.

“I thought someone led me by the hand and showed me, by the light of a
candle, a huge, loathsome insect, which he assured me was that very
force, that very almighty, dumb, irresistible Power, and laughed at the
indignation with which I received this information. In my room they
always light the little lamp before my icon for the night; it gives a
feeble flicker of light, but it is strong enough to see by dimly, and
if you sit just under it you can even read by it. I think it was about
twelve or a little past that night. I had not slept a wink, and was
lying with my eyes wide open, when suddenly the door opened, and in
came Rogojin.

“He entered, and shut the door behind him. Then he silently gazed at me
and went quickly to the corner of the room where the lamp was burning
and sat down underneath it.

“I was much surprised, and looked at him expectantly.

“Rogojin only leaned his elbow on the table and silently stared at me.
So passed two or three minutes, and I recollect that his silence hurt
and offended me very much. Why did he not speak?

“That his arrival at this time of night struck me as more or less
strange may possibly be the case; but I remember I was by no means
amazed at it. On the contrary, though I had not actually told him my
thought in the morning, yet I know he understood it; and this thought
was of such a character that it would not be anything very remarkable,
if one were to come for further talk about it at any hour of night,
however late.

“I thought he must have come for this purpose.

“In the morning we had parted not the best of friends; I remember he
looked at me with disagreeable sarcasm once or twice; and this same
look I observed in his eyes now—which was the cause of the annoyance I
felt.

“I did not for a moment suspect that I was delirious and that this
Rogojin was but the result of fever and excitement. I had not the
slightest idea of such a theory at first.

“Meanwhile he continued to sit and stare jeeringly at me.

“I angrily turned round in bed and made up my mind that I would not say
a word unless he did; so I rested silently on my pillow determined to
remain dumb, if it were to last till morning. I felt resolved that he
should speak first. Probably twenty minutes or so passed in this way.
Suddenly the idea struck me—what if this is an apparition and not
Rogojin himself?

“Neither during my illness nor at any previous time had I ever seen an
apparition;—but I had always thought, both when I was a little boy, and
even now, that if I were to see one I should die on the spot—though I
don’t believe in ghosts. And yet _now_, when the idea struck me that
this was a ghost and not Rogojin at all, I was not in the least
alarmed. Nay—the thought actually irritated me. Strangely enough, the
decision of the question as to whether this were a ghost or Rogojin did
not, for some reason or other, interest me nearly so much as it ought
to have done;—I think I began to muse about something altogether
different. For instance, I began to wonder why Rogojin, who had been in
dressing-gown and slippers when I saw him at home, had now put on a
dress-coat and white waistcoat and tie? I also thought to myself, I
remember—‘if this is a ghost, and I am not afraid of it, why don’t I
approach it and verify my suspicions? Perhaps I am afraid—’ And no
sooner did this last idea enter my head than an icy blast blew over me;
I felt a chill down my backbone and my knees shook.

“At this very moment, as though divining my thoughts, Rogojin raised
his head from his arm and began to part his lips as though he were
going to laugh—but he continued to stare at me as persistently as
before.

“I felt so furious with him at this moment that I longed to rush at
him; but as I had sworn that he should speak first, I continued to lie
still—and the more willingly, as I was still by no means satisfied as
to whether it really was Rogojin or not.

“I cannot remember how long this lasted; I cannot recollect, either,
whether consciousness forsook me at intervals, or not. But at last
Rogojin rose, staring at me as intently as ever, but not smiling any
longer,—and walking very softly, almost on tip-toes, to the door, he
opened it, went out, and shut it behind him.

“I did not rise from my bed, and I don’t know how long I lay with my
eyes open, thinking. I don’t know what I thought about, nor how I fell
asleep or became insensible; but I awoke next morning after nine
o’clock when they knocked at my door. My general orders are that if I
don’t open the door and call, by nine o’clock, Matreona is to come and
bring my tea. When I now opened the door to her, the thought suddenly
struck me—how could he have come in, since the door was locked? I made
inquiries and found that Rogojin himself could not possibly have come
in, because all our doors were locked for the night.

“Well, this strange circumstance—which I have described with so much
detail—was the ultimate cause which led me to taking my final
determination. So that no logic, or logical deductions, had anything to
do with my resolve;—it was simply a matter of disgust.

“It was impossible for me to go on living when life was full of such
detestable, strange, tormenting forms. This ghost had humiliated
me;—nor could I bear to be subordinate to that dark, horrible force
which was embodied in the form of the loathsome insect. It was only
towards evening, when I had quite made up my mind on this point, that I
began to feel easier.”

VII.

“I had a small pocket pistol. I had procured it while still a boy, at
that droll age when the stories of duels and highwaymen begin to
delight one, and when one imagines oneself nobly standing fire at some
future day, in a duel.

“There were a couple of old bullets in the bag which contained the
pistol, and powder enough in an old flask for two or three charges.

“The pistol was a wretched thing, very crooked and wouldn’t carry
farther than fifteen paces at the most. However, it would send your
skull flying well enough if you pressed the muzzle of it against your
temple.

“I determined to die at Pavlofsk at sunrise, in the park—so as to make
no commotion in the house.

“This ‘explanation’ will make the matter clear enough to the police.
Students of psychology, and anyone else who likes, may make what they
please of it. I should not like this paper, however, to be made public.
I request the prince to keep a copy himself, and to give a copy to
Aglaya Ivanovna Epanchin. This is my last will and testament. As for my
skeleton, I bequeath it to the Medical Academy for the benefit of
science.

“I recognize no jurisdiction over myself, and I know that I am now
beyond the power of laws and judges.

“A little while ago a very amusing idea struck me. What if I were now
to commit some terrible crime—murder ten fellow-creatures, for
instance, or anything else that is thought most shocking and dreadful
in this world—what a dilemma my judges would be in, with a criminal who
only has a fortnight to live in any case, now that the rack and other
forms of torture are abolished! Why, I should die comfortably in their
own hospital—in a warm, clean room, with an attentive doctor—probably
much more comfortably than I should at home.

“I don’t understand why people in my position do not oftener indulge in
such ideas—if only for a joke! Perhaps they do! Who knows! There are
plenty of merry souls among us!

“But though I do not recognize any jurisdiction over myself, still I
know that I shall be judged, when I am nothing but a voiceless lump of
clay; therefore I do not wish to go before I have left a word of
reply—the reply of a free man—not one forced to justify himself—oh no!
I have no need to ask forgiveness of anyone. I wish to say a word
merely because I happen to desire it of my own free will.

“Here, in the first place, comes a strange thought!

“Who, in the name of what Law, would think of disputing my full
personal right over the fortnight of life left to me? What jurisdiction
can be brought to bear upon the case? Who would wish me, not only to be
sentenced, but to endure the sentence to the end? Surely there exists
no man who would wish such a thing—why should anyone desire it? For the
sake of morality? Well, I can understand that if I were to make an
attempt upon my own life while in the enjoyment of full health and
vigour—my life which might have been ‘useful,’ etc., etc.—morality
might reproach me, according to the old routine, for disposing of my
life without permission—or whatever its tenet may be. But now, _now_,
when my sentence is out and my days numbered! How can morality have
need of my last breaths, and why should I die listening to the
consolations offered by the prince, who, without doubt, would not omit
to demonstrate that death is actually a benefactor to me? (Christians
like him always end up with that—it is their pet theory.) And what do
they want with their ridiculous ‘Pavlofsk trees’? To sweeten my last
hours? Cannot they understand that the more I forget myself, the more I
let myself become attached to these last illusions of life and love, by
means of which they try to hide from me Meyer’s wall, and all that is
so plainly written on it—the more unhappy they make me? What is the use
of all your nature to me—all your parks and trees, your sunsets and
sunrises, your blue skies and your self-satisfied faces—when all this
wealth of beauty and happiness begins with the fact that it accounts
me—only me—one too many! What is the good of all this beauty and glory
to me, when every second, every moment, I cannot but be aware that this
little fly which buzzes around my head in the sun’s rays—even this
little fly is a sharer and participator in all the glory of the
universe, and knows its place and is happy in it;—while I—only I, am an
outcast, and have been blind to the fact hitherto, thanks to my
simplicity! Oh! I know well how the prince and others would like me,
instead of indulging in all these wicked words of my own, to sing, to
the glory and triumph of morality, that well-known verse of Gilbert’s:

“‘O, puissent voir longtemps votre beauté sacrée
Tant d’amis, sourds à mes adieux!
Qu’ils meurent pleins de jours, que leur mort soit pleurée,
Qu’un ami leur ferme les yeux!’


“But believe me, believe me, my simple-hearted friends, that in this
highly moral verse, in this academical blessing to the world in general
in the French language, is hidden the intensest gall and bitterness;
but so well concealed is the venom, that I dare say the poet actually
persuaded himself that his words were full of the tears of pardon and
peace, instead of the bitterness of disappointment and malice, and so
died in the delusion.

“Do you know there is a limit of ignominy, beyond which man’s
consciousness of shame cannot go, and after which begins satisfaction
in shame? Well, of course humility is a great force in that sense, I
admit that—though not in the sense in which religion accounts humility
to be strength!

“Religion!—I admit eternal life—and perhaps I always did admit it.

“Admitted that consciousness is called into existence by the will of a
Higher Power; admitted that this consciousness looks out upon the world
and says ‘I am;’ and admitted that the Higher Power wills that the
consciousness so called into existence, be suddenly extinguished (for
so—for some unexplained reason—it is and must be)—still there comes the
eternal question—why must I be humble through all this? Is it not
enough that I am devoured, without my being expected to bless the power
that devours me? Surely—surely I need not suppose that
Somebody—there—will be offended because I do not wish to live out the
fortnight allowed me? I don’t believe it.

“It is much simpler, and far more likely, to believe that my death is
needed—the death of an insignificant atom—in order to fulfil the
general harmony of the universe—in order to make even some plus or
minus in the sum of existence. Just as every day the death of numbers
of beings is necessary because without their annihilation the rest
cannot live on—(although we must admit that the idea is not a
particularly grand one in itself!)

“However—admit the fact! Admit that without such perpetual devouring of
one another the world cannot continue to exist, or could never have
been organized—I am ever ready to confess that I cannot understand why
this is so—but I’ll tell you what I _do_ know, for certain. If I have
once been given to understand and realize that I _am_—what does it
matter to me that the world is organized on a system full of errors and
that otherwise it cannot be organized at all? Who will or can judge me
after this? Say what you like—the thing is impossible and unjust!

“And meanwhile I have never been able, in spite of my great desire to
do so, to persuade myself that there is no future existence, and no
Providence.

“The fact of the matter is that all this _does_ exist, but that we know
absolutely nothing about the future life and its laws!

“But it is so difficult, and even impossible to understand, that surely
I am not to be blamed because I could not fathom the incomprehensible?

“Of course I know they say that one must be obedient, and of course,
too, the prince is one of those who say so: that one must be obedient
without questions, out of pure goodness of heart, and that for my
worthy conduct in this matter I shall meet with reward in another
world. We degrade God when we attribute our own ideas to Him, out of
annoyance that we cannot fathom His ways.

“Again, I repeat, I cannot be blamed because I am unable to understand
that which it is not given to mankind to fathom. Why am I to be judged
because I could not comprehend the Will and Laws of Providence? No, we
had better drop religion.

“And enough of this. By the time I have got so far in the reading of my
document the sun will be up and the huge force of his rays will be
acting upon the living world. So be it. I shall die gazing straight at
the great Fountain of life and power; I do not want this life!

“If I had had the power to prevent my own birth I should certainly
never have consented to accept existence under such ridiculous
conditions. However, I have the power to end my existence, although I
do but give back days that are already numbered. It is an insignificant
gift, and my revolt is equally insignificant.

“Final explanation: I die, not in the least because I am unable to
support these next three weeks. Oh no, I should find strength enough,
and if I wished it I could obtain consolation from the thought of the
injury that is done me. But I am not a French poet, and I do not desire
such consolation. And finally, nature has so limited my capacity for
work or activity of any kind, in allotting me but three weeks of time,
that suicide is about the only thing left that I can begin and end in
the time of my own free will.

“Perhaps then I am anxious to take advantage of my last chance of doing
something for myself. A protest is sometimes no small thing.”

The explanation was finished; Hippolyte paused at last.

There is, in extreme cases, a final stage of cynical candour when a
nervous man, excited, and beside himself with emotion, will be afraid
of nothing and ready for any sort of scandal, nay, glad of it. The
extraordinary, almost unnatural, tension of the nerves which upheld
Hippolyte up to this point, had now arrived at this final stage. This
poor feeble boy of eighteen—exhausted by disease—looked for all the
world as weak and frail as a leaflet torn from its parent tree and
trembling in the breeze; but no sooner had his eye swept over his
audience, for the first time during the whole of the last hour, than
the most contemptuous, the most haughty expression of repugnance
lighted up his face. He defied them all, as it were. But his hearers
were indignant, too; they rose to their feet with annoyance. Fatigue,
the wine consumed, the strain of listening so long, all added to the
disagreeable impression which the reading had made upon them.

Suddenly Hippolyte jumped up as though he had been shot.

“The sun is rising,” he cried, seeing the gilded tops of the trees, and
pointing to them as to a miracle. “See, it is rising now!”

“Well, what then? Did you suppose it wasn’t going to rise?” asked
Ferdishenko.

“It’s going to be atrociously hot again all day,” said Gania, with an
air of annoyance, taking his hat. “A month of this... Are you coming
home, Ptitsin?” Hippolyte listened to this in amazement, almost
amounting to stupefaction. Suddenly he became deadly pale and
shuddered.

“You manage your composure too awkwardly. I see you wish to insult me,”
he cried to Gania. “You—you are a cur!” He looked at Gania with an
expression of malice.

“What on earth is the matter with the boy? What phenomenal
feeble-mindedness!” exclaimed Ferdishenko.

“Oh, he’s simply a fool,” said Gania.

Hippolyte braced himself up a little.

“I understand, gentlemen,” he began, trembling as before, and stumbling
over every word, “that I have deserved your resentment, and—and am
sorry that I should have troubled you with this raving nonsense”
(pointing to his article), “or rather, I am sorry that I have not
troubled you enough.” He smiled feebly. “Have I troubled you, Evgenie
Pavlovitch?” He suddenly turned on Evgenie with this question. “Tell me
now, have I troubled you or not?”

“Well, it was a little drawn out, perhaps; but—”

“Come, speak out! Don’t lie, for once in your life—speak out!”
continued Hippolyte, quivering with agitation.

“Oh, my good sir, I assure you it’s entirely the same to me. Please
leave me in peace,” said Evgenie, angrily, turning his back on him.

“Good-night, prince,” said Ptitsin, approaching his host.

“What are you thinking of? Don’t go, he’ll blow his brains out in a
minute!” cried Vera Lebedeff, rushing up to Hippolyte and catching hold
of his hands in a torment of alarm. “What are you thinking of? He said
he would blow his brains out at sunrise.”

“Oh, he won’t shoot himself!” cried several voices, sarcastically.

“Gentlemen, you’d better look out,” cried Colia, also seizing Hippolyte
by the hand. “Just look at him! Prince, what are you thinking of?” Vera
and Colia, and Keller, and Burdovsky were all crowding round Hippolyte
now and holding him down.

“He has the right—the right—” murmured Burdovsky. “Excuse me, prince,
but what are your arrangements?” asked Lebedeff, tipsy and exasperated,
going up to Muishkin.

“What do you mean by ‘arrangements’?”

“No, no, excuse me! I’m master of this house, though I do not wish to
lack respect towards you. You are master of the house too, in a way;
but I can’t allow this sort of thing—”

“He won’t shoot himself; the boy is only playing the fool,” said
General Ivolgin, suddenly and unexpectedly, with indignation.

“I know he won’t, I know he won’t, general; but I—I’m master here!”

“Listen, Mr. Terentieff,” said Ptitsin, who had bidden the prince
good-night, and was now holding out his hand to Hippolyte; “I think you
remark in that manuscript of yours, that you bequeath your skeleton to
the Academy. Are you referring to your own skeleton—I mean, your very
bones?”

“Yes, my bones, I—”

“Quite so, I see; because, you know, little mistakes have occurred now
and then. There was a case—”

“Why do you tease him?” cried the prince, suddenly.

“You’ve moved him to tears,” added Ferdishenko. But Hippolyte was by no
means weeping. He was about to move from his place, when his four
guards rushed at him and seized him once more. There was a laugh at
this.

“He led up to this on purpose. He took the trouble of writing all that
so that people should come and grab him by the arm,” observed Rogojin.
“Good-night, prince. What a time we’ve sat here, my very bones ache!”

“If you really intended to shoot yourself, Terentieff,” said Evgenie
Pavlovitch, laughing, “if I were you, after all these compliments, I
should just not shoot myself in order to vex them all.”

“They are very anxious to see me blow my brains out,” said Hippolyte,
bitterly.

“Yes, they’ll be awfully annoyed if they don’t see it.”

“Then you think they won’t see it?”

“I am not trying to egg you on. On the contrary, I think it very likely
that you may shoot yourself; but the principal thing is to keep cool,”
said Evgenie with a drawl, and with great condescension.

“I only now perceive what a terrible mistake I made in reading this
article to them,” said Hippolyte, suddenly, addressing Evgenie, and
looking at him with an expression of trust and confidence, as though he
were applying to a friend for counsel.

“Yes, it’s a droll situation; I really don’t know what advice to give
you,” replied Evgenie, laughing. Hippolyte gazed steadfastly at him,
but said nothing. To look at him one might have supposed that he was
unconscious at intervals.

“Excuse me,” said Lebedeff, “but did you observe the young gentleman’s
style? ‘I’ll go and blow my brains out in the park,’ says he, ‘so as
not to disturb anyone.’ He thinks he won’t disturb anybody if he goes
three yards away, into the park, and blows his brains out there.”

“Gentlemen—” began the prince.

“No, no, excuse me, most revered prince,” Lebedeff interrupted,
excitedly. “Since you must have observed yourself that this is no joke,
and since at least half your guests must also have concluded that after
all that has been said this youth _must_ blow his brains out for
honour’s sake—I—as master of this house, and before these witnesses,
now call upon you to take steps.”

“Yes, but what am I to do, Lebedeff? What steps am I to take? I am
ready.”

“I’ll tell you. In the first place he must immediately deliver up the
pistol which he boasted of, with all its appurtenances. If he does this
I shall consent to his being allowed to spend the night in this
house—considering his feeble state of health, and of course
conditionally upon his being under proper supervision. But tomorrow he
must go elsewhere. Excuse me, prince! Should he refuse to deliver up
his weapon, then I shall instantly seize one of his arms and General
Ivolgin the other, and we shall hold him until the police arrive and
take the matter into their own hands. Mr. Ferdishenko will kindly fetch
them.”

At this there was a dreadful noise; Lebedeff danced about in his
excitement; Ferdishenko prepared to go for the police; Gania
frantically insisted that it was all nonsense, “for nobody was going to
shoot themselves.” Evgenie Pavlovitch said nothing.

“Prince,” whispered Hippolyte, suddenly, his eyes all ablaze, “you
don’t suppose that I did not foresee all this hatred?” He looked at the
prince as though he expected him to reply, for a moment. “Enough!” he
added at length, and addressing the whole company, he cried: “It’s all
my fault, gentlemen! Lebedeff, here’s the key,” (he took out a small
bunch of keys); “this one, the last but one—Colia will show you—Colia,
where’s Colia?” he cried, looking straight at Colia and not seeing him.
“Yes, he’ll show you; he packed the bag with me this morning. Take him
up, Colia; my bag is upstairs in the prince’s study, under the table.
Here’s the key, and in the little case you’ll find my pistol and the
powder, and all. Colia packed it himself, Mr. Lebedeff; he’ll show you;
but it’s on condition that tomorrow morning, when I leave for
Petersburg, you will give me back my pistol, do you hear? I do this for
the prince’s sake, not yours.”

“Capital, that’s much better!” cried Lebedeff, and seizing the key he
made off in haste.

Colia stopped a moment as though he wished to say something; but
Lebedeff dragged him away.

Hippolyte looked around at the laughing guests. The prince observed
that his teeth were chattering as though in a violent attack of ague.

“What brutes they all are!” he whispered to the prince. Whenever he
addressed him he lowered his voice.

“Let them alone, you’re too weak now—”

“Yes, directly; I’ll go away directly. I’ll—”

Suddenly he embraced Muishkin.

“Perhaps you think I am mad, eh?” he asked him, laughing very
strangely.

“No, but you—”

“Directly, directly! Stand still a moment, I wish to look in your eyes;
don’t speak—stand so—let me look at you! I am bidding farewell to
mankind.”

He stood so for ten seconds, gazing at the prince, motionless, deadly
pale, his temples wet with perspiration; he held the prince’s hand in a
strange grip, as though afraid to let him go.

“Hippolyte, Hippolyte, what is the matter with you?” cried Muishkin.

“Directly! There, that’s enough. I’ll lie down directly. I must drink
to the sun’s health. I wish to—I insist upon it! Let go!”

He seized a glass from the table, broke away from the prince, and in a
moment had reached the terrace steps.

The prince made after him, but it so happened that at this moment
Evgenie Pavlovitch stretched out his hand to say good-night. The next
instant there was a general outcry, and then followed a few moments of
indescribable excitement.

Reaching the steps, Hippolyte had paused, holding the glass in his left
hand while he put his right hand into his coat pocket.

Keller insisted afterwards that he had held his right hand in his
pocket all the while, when he was speaking to the prince, and that he
had held the latter’s shoulder with his left hand only. This
circumstance, Keller affirmed, had led him to feel some suspicion from
the first. However this may be, Keller ran after Hippolyte, but he was
too late.

He caught sight of something flashing in Hippolyte’s right hand, and
saw that it was a pistol. He rushed at him, but at that very instant
Hippolyte raised the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger. There
followed a sharp metallic click, but no report.

When Keller seized the would-be suicide, the latter fell forward into
his arms, probably actually believing that he was shot. Keller had hold
of the pistol now. Hippolyte was immediately placed in a chair, while
the whole company thronged around excitedly, talking and asking each
other questions. Every one of them had heard the snap of the trigger,
and yet they saw a live and apparently unharmed man before them.

Hippolyte himself sat quite unconscious of what was going on, and gazed
around with a senseless expression.

Lebedeff and Colia came rushing up at this moment.

“What is it?” someone asked, breathlessly—“A misfire?”

“Perhaps it wasn’t loaded,” said several voices.

“It’s loaded all right,” said Keller, examining the pistol, “but—”

“What! did it miss fire?”

“There was no cap in it,” Keller announced.

It would be difficult to describe the pitiable scene that now followed.
The first sensation of alarm soon gave place to amusement; some burst
out laughing loud and heartily, and seemed to find a malicious
satisfaction in the joke. Poor Hippolyte sobbed hysterically; he wrung
his hands; he approached everyone in turn—even Ferdishenko—and took
them by both hands, and swore solemnly that he had forgotten—absolutely
forgotten—“accidentally, and not on purpose,”—to put a cap in—that he
“had ten of them, at least, in his pocket.” He pulled them out and
showed them to everyone; he protested that he had not liked to put one
in beforehand for fear of an accidental explosion in his pocket. That
he had thought he would have lots of time to put it in afterwards—when
required—and, that, in the heat of the moment, he had forgotten all
about it. He threw himself upon the prince, then on Evgenie Pavlovitch.
He entreated Keller to give him back the pistol, and he’d soon show
them all that “his honour—his honour,”—but he was “dishonoured, now,
for ever!”

He fell senseless at last—and was carried into the prince’s study.

Lebedeff, now quite sobered down, sent for a doctor; and he and his
daughter, with Burdovsky and General Ivolgin, remained by the sick
man’s couch.

When he was carried away unconscious, Keller stood in the middle of the
room, and made the following declaration to the company in general, in
a loud tone of voice, with emphasis upon each word.

“Gentlemen, if any one of you casts any doubt again, before me, upon
Hippolyte’s good faith, or hints that the cap was forgotten
intentionally, or suggests that this unhappy boy was acting a part
before us, I beg to announce that the person so speaking shall account
to me for his words.”

No one replied.

The company departed very quickly, in a mass. Ptitsin, Gania, and
Rogojin went away together.

The prince was much astonished that Evgenie Pavlovitch changed his
mind, and took his departure without the conversation he had requested.

“Why, you wished to have a talk with me when the others left?” he said.

“Quite so,” said Evgenie, sitting down suddenly beside him, “but I have
changed my mind for the time being. I confess, I am too disturbed, and
so, I think, are you; and the matter as to which I wished to consult
you is too serious to tackle with one’s mind even a little disturbed;
too serious both for myself and for you. You see, prince, for once in
my life I wish to perform an absolutely honest action, that is, an
action with no ulterior motive; and I think I am hardly in a condition
to talk of it just at this moment, and—and—well, we’ll discuss it
another time. Perhaps the matter may gain in clearness if we wait for
two or three days—just the two or three days which I must spend in
Petersburg.”

Here he rose again from his chair, so that it seemed strange that he
should have thought it worth while to sit down at all.

The prince thought, too, that he looked vexed and annoyed, and not
nearly so friendly towards himself as he had been earlier in the night.

“I suppose you will go to the sufferer’s bedside now?” he added.

“Yes, I am afraid...” began the prince.

“Oh, you needn’t fear! He’ll live another six weeks all right. Very
likely he will recover altogether; but I strongly advise you to pack
him off tomorrow.”

“I think I may have offended him by saying nothing just now. I am
afraid he may suspect that I doubted his good faith,—about shooting
himself, you know. What do you think, Evgenie Pavlovitch?”

“Not a bit of it! You are much too good to him; you shouldn’t care a
hang about what he thinks. I have heard of such things before, but
never came across, till tonight, a man who would actually shoot himself
in order to gain a vulgar notoriety, or blow out his brains for spite,
if he finds that people don’t care to pat him on the back for his
sanguinary intentions. But what astonishes me more than anything is the
fellow’s candid confession of weakness. You’d better get rid of him
tomorrow, in any case.”

“Do you think he will make another attempt?”

“Oh no, not he, not now! But you have to be very careful with this sort
of gentleman. Crime is too often the last resource of these petty
nonentities. This young fellow is quite capable of cutting the throats
of ten people, simply for a lark, as he told us in his ‘explanation.’ I
assure you those confounded words of his will not let me sleep.”

“I think you disturb yourself too much.”

“What an extraordinary person you are, prince! Do you mean to say that
you doubt the fact that he is capable of murdering ten men?”

“I daren’t say, one way or the other; all this is very strange—but—”

“Well, as you like, just as you like,” said Evgenie Pavlovitch,
irritably. “Only you are such a plucky fellow, take care you don’t get
included among the ten victims!”

“Oh, he is much more likely not to kill anyone at all,” said the
prince, gazing thoughtfully at Evgenie. The latter laughed
disagreeably.

“Well, _au revoir!_ Did you observe that he ‘willed’ a copy of his
confession to Aglaya Ivanovna?”

“Yes, I did; I am thinking of it.”

“In connection with ‘the ten,’ eh?” laughed Evgenie, as he left the
room.

An hour later, towards four o’clock, the prince went into the park. He
had endeavoured to fall asleep, but could not, owing to the painful
beating of his heart.

He had left things quiet and peaceful; the invalid was fast asleep, and
the doctor, who had been called in, had stated that there was no
special danger. Lebedeff, Colia, and Burdovsky were lying down in the
sick-room, ready to take it in turns to watch. There was nothing to
fear, therefore, at home.

But the prince’s mental perturbation increased every moment. He
wandered about the park, looking absently around him, and paused in
astonishment when he suddenly found himself in the empty space with the
rows of chairs round it, near the Vauxhall. The look of the place
struck him as dreadful now: so he turned round and went by the path
which he had followed with the Epanchins on the way to the band, until
he reached the green bench which Aglaya had pointed out for their
rendezvous. He sat down on it and suddenly burst into a loud fit of
laughter, immediately followed by a feeling of irritation. His
disturbance of mind continued; he felt that he must go away somewhere,
anywhere.

Above his head some little bird sang out, of a sudden; he began to peer
about for it among the leaves. Suddenly the bird darted out of the tree
and away, and instantly he thought of the “fly buzzing about in the
sun’s rays” that Hippolyte had talked of; how that it knew its place
and was a participator in the universal life, while he alone was an
“outcast.” This picture had impressed him at the time, and he meditated
upon it now. An old, forgotten memory awoke in his brain, and suddenly
burst into clearness and light. It was a recollection of Switzerland,
during the first year of his cure, the very first months. At that time
he had been pretty nearly an idiot still; he could not speak properly,
and had difficulty in understanding when others spoke to him. He
climbed the mountain-side, one sunny morning, and wandered long and
aimlessly with a certain thought in his brain, which would not become
clear. Above him was the blazing sky, below, the lake; all around was
the horizon, clear and infinite. He looked out upon this, long and
anxiously. He remembered how he had stretched out his arms towards the
beautiful, boundless blue of the horizon, and wept, and wept. What had
so tormented him was the idea that he was a stranger to all this, that
he was outside this glorious festival.

What was this universe? What was this grand, eternal pageant to which
he had yearned from his childhood up, and in which he could never take
part? Every morning the same magnificent sun; every morning the same
rainbow in the waterfall; every evening the same glow on the
snow-mountains.

Every little fly that buzzed in the sun’s rays was a singer in the
universal chorus, “knew its place, and was happy in it.” Every blade of
grass grew and was happy. Everything knew its path and loved it, went
forth with a song and returned with a song; only he knew nothing,
understood nothing, neither men nor words, nor any of nature’s voices;
he was a stranger and an outcast.

Oh, he could not then speak these words, or express all he felt! He had
been tormented dumbly; but now it appeared to him that he must have
said these very words—even then—and that Hippolyte must have taken his
picture of the little fly from his tears and words of that time.

He was sure of it, and his heart beat excitedly at the thought, he knew
not why.

He fell asleep on the bench; but his mental disquiet continued through
his slumbers.

Just before he dozed off, the idea of Hippolyte murdering ten men
flitted through his brain, and he smiled at the absurdity of such a
thought.

Around him all was quiet; only the flutter and whisper of the leaves
broke the silence, but broke it only to cause it to appear yet more
deep and still.

He dreamed many dreams as he sat there, and all were full of disquiet,
so that he shuddered every moment.

At length a woman seemed to approach him. He knew her, oh! he knew her
only too well. He could always name her and recognize her anywhere;
but, strange, she seemed to have quite a different face from hers, as
he had known it, and he felt a tormenting desire to be able to say she
was not the same woman. In the face before him there was such dreadful
remorse and horror that he thought she must be a criminal, that she
must have just committed some awful crime.

Tears were trembling on her white cheek. She beckoned him, but placed
her finger on her lip as though to warn him that he must follow her
very quietly. His heart froze within him. He wouldn’t, he _couldn’t_
confess her to be a criminal, and yet he felt that something dreadful
would happen the next moment, something which would blast his whole
life.

She seemed to wish to show him something, not far off, in the park.

He rose from his seat in order to follow her, when a bright, clear peal
of laughter rang out by his side. He felt somebody’s hand suddenly in
his own, seized it, pressed it hard, and awoke. Before him stood
Aglaya, laughing aloud.

VIII.

She laughed, but she was rather angry too.

“He’s asleep! You were asleep,” she said, with contemptuous surprise.

“Is it really you?” muttered the prince, not quite himself as yet, and
recognizing her with a start of amazement. “Oh yes, of course,” he
added, “this is our rendezvous. I fell asleep here.”

“So I saw.”

“Did no one awake me besides yourself? Was there no one else here? I
thought there was another woman.”

“There was another woman here?”

At last he was wide awake.

“It was a dream, of course,” he said, musingly. “Strange that I should
have a dream like that at such a moment. Sit down—”

He took her hand and seated her on the bench; then sat down beside her
and reflected.

Aglaya did not begin the conversation, but contented herself with
watching her companion intently.

He looked back at her, but at times it was clear that he did not see
her and was not thinking of her.

Aglaya began to flush up.

“Oh yes!” cried the prince, starting. “Hippolyte’s suicide—”

“What? At your house?” she asked, but without much surprise. “He was
alive yesterday evening, wasn’t he? How could you sleep here after
that?” she cried, growing suddenly animated.

“Oh, but he didn’t kill himself; the pistol didn’t go off.” Aglaya
insisted on hearing the whole story. She hurried the prince along, but
interrupted him with all sorts of questions, nearly all of which were
irrelevant. Among other things, she seemed greatly interested in every
word that Evgenie Pavlovitch had said, and made the prince repeat that
part of the story over and over again.

“Well, that’ll do; we must be quick,” she concluded, after hearing all.
“We have only an hour here, till eight; I must be home by then without
fail, so that they may not find out that I came and sat here with you;
but I’ve come on business. I have a great deal to say to you. But you
have bowled me over considerably with your news. As to Hippolyte, I
think his pistol was bound not to go off; it was more consistent with
the whole affair. Are you sure he really wished to blow his brains out,
and that there was no humbug about the matter?”

“No humbug at all.”

“Very likely. So he wrote that you were to bring me a copy of his
confession, did he? Why didn’t you bring it?”

“Why, he didn’t die! I’ll ask him for it, if you like.”

“Bring it by all means; you needn’t ask him. He will be delighted, you
may be sure; for, in all probability, he shot at himself simply in
order that I might read his confession. Don’t laugh at what I say,
please, Lef Nicolaievitch, because it may very well be the case.”

“I’m not laughing. I am convinced, myself, that that may have been
partly the reason.”

“You are convinced? You don’t really mean to say you think that
honestly?” asked Aglaya, extremely surprised.

She put her questions very quickly and talked fast, every now and then
forgetting what she had begun to say, and not finishing her sentence.
She seemed to be impatient to warn the prince about something or other.
She was in a state of unusual excitement, and though she put on a brave
and even defiant air, she seemed to be rather alarmed. She was dressed
very simply, but this suited her well. She continually trembled and
blushed, and she sat on the very edge of the seat.

The fact that the prince confirmed her idea, about Hippolyte shooting
himself that she might read his confession, surprised her greatly.

“Of course,” added the prince, “he wished us all to applaud his
conduct—besides yourself.”

“How do you mean—applaud?”

“Well—how am I to explain? He was very anxious that we should all come
around him, and say we were so sorry for him, and that we loved him
very much, and all that; and that we hoped he wouldn’t kill himself,
but remain alive. Very likely he thought more of you than the rest of
us, because he mentioned you at such a moment, though perhaps he did
not know himself that he had you in his mind’s eye.”

“I don’t understand you. How could he have me in view, and not be aware
of it himself? And yet, I don’t know—perhaps I do. Do you know I have
intended to poison myself at least thirty times—ever since I was
thirteen or so—and to write to my parents before I did it? I used to
think how nice it would be to lie in my coffin, and have them all
weeping over me and saying it was all their fault for being so cruel,
and all that—what are you smiling at?” she added, knitting her brow.
“What do _you_ think of when you go mooning about alone? I suppose you
imagine yourself a field-marshal, and think you have conquered
Napoleon?”

“Well, I really have thought something of the sort now and then,
especially when just dozing off,” laughed the prince. “Only it is the
Austrians whom I conquer—not Napoleon.”

“I don’t wish to joke with you, Lef Nicolaievitch. I shall see
Hippolyte myself. Tell him so. As for you, I think you are behaving
very badly, because it is not right to judge a man’s soul as you are
judging Hippolyte’s. You have no gentleness, but only justice—so you
are unjust.”

The prince reflected.

“I think you are unfair towards me,” he said. “There is nothing wrong
in the thoughts I ascribe to Hippolyte; they are only natural. But of
course I don’t know for certain what he thought. Perhaps he thought
nothing, but simply longed to see human faces once more, and to hear
human praise and feel human affection. Who knows? Only it all came out
wrong, somehow. Some people have luck, and everything comes out right
with them; others have none, and never a thing turns out fortunately.”

“I suppose you have felt that in your own case,” said Aglaya.

“Yes, I have,” replied the prince, quite unsuspicious of any irony in
the remark.

“H’m—well, at all events, I shouldn’t have fallen asleep here, in your
place. It wasn’t nice of you, that. I suppose you fall asleep wherever
you sit down?”

“But I didn’t sleep a wink all night. I walked and walked about, and
went to where the music was—”

“What music?”

“Where they played last night. Then I found this bench and sat down,
and thought and thought—and at last I fell fast asleep.”

“Oh, is that it? That makes a difference, perhaps. What did you go to
the bandstand for?”

“I don’t know; I—”

“Very well—afterwards. You are always interrupting me. What woman was
it you were dreaming about?”

“It was—about—you saw her—”

“Quite so; I understand. I understand quite well. You are very—Well,
how did she appear to you? What did she look like? No, I don’t want to
know anything about her,” said Aglaya, angrily; “don’t interrupt me—”

She paused a moment as though getting breath, or trying to master her
feeling of annoyance.

“Look here; this is what I called you here for. I wish to make you a—to
ask you to be my friend. What do you stare at me like that for?” she
added, almost angrily.

The prince certainly had darted a rather piercing look at her, and now
observed that she had begun to blush violently. At such moments, the
more Aglaya blushed, the angrier she grew with herself; and this was
clearly expressed in her eyes, which flashed like fire. As a rule, she
vented her wrath on her unfortunate companion, be it who it might. She
was very conscious of her own shyness, and was not nearly so talkative
as her sisters for this reason—in fact, at times she was much too
quiet. When, therefore, she was bound to talk, especially at such
delicate moments as this, she invariably did so with an air of haughty
defiance. She always knew beforehand when she was going to blush, long
before the blush came.

“Perhaps you do not wish to accept my proposition?” she asked, gazing
haughtily at the prince.

“Oh yes, I do; but it is so unnecessary. I mean, I did not think you
need make such a proposition,” said the prince, looking confused.

“What did you suppose, then? Why did you think I invited you out here?
I suppose you think me a ‘little fool,’ as they all call me at home?”

“I didn’t know they called you a fool. I certainly don’t think you
one.”

“You don’t think me one! Oh, dear me!—that’s very clever of you; you
put it so neatly, too.”

“In my opinion, you are far from a fool sometimes—in fact, you are very
intelligent. You said a very clever thing just now about my being
unjust because I had _only_ justice. I shall remember that, and think
about it.”

Aglaya blushed with pleasure. All these changes in her expression came
about so naturally and so rapidly—they delighted the prince; he watched
her, and laughed.

“Listen,” she began again; “I have long waited to tell you all this,
ever since the time when you sent me that letter—even before that. Half
of what I have to say you heard yesterday. I consider you the most
honest and upright of men—more honest and upright than any other man;
and if anybody says that your mind is—is sometimes affected, you
know—it is unfair. I always say so and uphold it, because even if your
surface mind be a little affected (of course you will not feel angry
with me for talking so—I am speaking from a higher point of view) yet
your real mind is far better than all theirs put together. Such a mind
as they have never even _dreamed_ of; because really, there are _two_
minds—the kind that matters, and the kind that doesn’t matter. Isn’t it
so?”

“May be! may be so!” said the prince, faintly; his heart was beating
painfully.

“I knew you would not misunderstand me,” she said, triumphantly.
“Prince S. and Evgenie Pavlovitch and Alexandra don’t understand
anything about these two kinds of mind, but, just fancy, mamma does!”

“You are very like Lizabetha Prokofievna.”

“What! surely not?” said Aglaya.

“Yes, you are, indeed.”

“Thank you; I am glad to be like mamma,” she said, thoughtfully. “You
respect her very much, don’t you?” she added, quite unconscious of the
naiveness of the question.

“_Very_ much; and I am so glad that you have realized the fact.”

“I am very glad, too, because she is often laughed at by people. But
listen to the chief point. I have long thought over the matter, and at
last I have chosen you. I don’t wish people to laugh at me; I don’t
wish people to think me a ‘little fool.’ I don’t want to be chaffed. I
felt all this of a sudden, and I refused Evgenie Pavlovitch flatly,
because I am not going to be forever thrown at people’s heads to be
married. I want—I want—well, I’ll tell you, I wish to run away from
home, and I have chosen you to help me.”

“Run away from home?” cried the prince.

“Yes—yes—yes! Run away from home!” she repeated, in a transport of
rage. “I won’t, I won’t be made to blush every minute by them all! I
don’t want to blush before Prince S. or Evgenie Pavlovitch, or anyone,
and therefore I have chosen you. I shall tell you everything,
_everything_, even the most important things of all, whenever I like,
and you are to hide nothing from me on your side. I want to speak to at
least one person, as I would to myself. They have suddenly begun to say
that I am waiting for you, and in love with you. They began this before
you arrived here, and so I didn’t show them the letter, and now they
all say it, every one of them. I want to be brave, and be afraid of
nobody. I don’t want to go to their balls and things—I want to do good.
I have long desired to run away, for I have been kept shut up for
twenty years, and they are always trying to marry me off. I wanted to
run away when I was fourteen years old—I was a little fool then, I
know—but now I have worked it all out, and I have waited for you to
tell me about foreign countries. I have never seen a single Gothic
cathedral. I must go to Rome; I must see all the museums; I must study
in Paris. All this last year I have been preparing and reading
forbidden books. Alexandra and Adelaida are allowed to read anything
they like, but I mayn’t. I don’t want to quarrel with my sisters, but I
told my parents long ago that I wish to change my social position. I
have decided to take up teaching, and I count on you because you said
you loved children. Can we go in for education together—if not at once,
then afterwards? We could do good together. I won’t be a general’s
daughter any more! Tell me, are you a very learned man?”

“Oh no; not at all.”

“Oh-h-h! I’m sorry for that. I thought you were. I wonder why I always
thought so—but at all events you’ll help me, won’t you? Because I’ve
chosen you, you know.”

“Aglaya Ivanovna, it’s absurd.”

“But I will, I _will_ run away!” she cried—and her eyes flashed again
with anger—“and if you don’t agree I shall go and marry Gavrila
Ardalionovitch! I won’t be considered a horrible girl, and accused of
goodness knows what.”

“Are you out of your mind?” cried the prince, almost starting from his
seat. “What do they accuse you of? Who accuses you?”

“At home, everybody, mother, my sisters, Prince S., even that
detestable Colia! If they don’t say it, they think it. I told them all
so to their faces. I told mother and father and everybody. Mamma was
ill all the day after it, and next day father and Alexandra told me
that I didn’t understand what nonsense I was talking. I informed them
that they little knew me—I was not a small child—I understood every
word in the language—that I had read a couple of Paul de Kok’s novels
two years since on purpose, so as to know all about everything. No
sooner did mamma hear me say this than she nearly fainted!”

A strange thought passed through the prince’s brain; he gazed intently
at Aglaya and smiled.

He could not believe that this was the same haughty young girl who had
once so proudly shown him Gania’s letter. He could not understand how
that proud and austere beauty could show herself to be such an utter
child—a child who probably did not even now understand some words.

“Have you always lived at home, Aglaya Ivanovna?” he asked. “I mean,
have you never been to school, or college, or anything?”

“No—never—nowhere! I’ve been at home all my life, corked up in a
bottle; and they expect me to be married straight out of it. What are
you laughing at again? I observe that you, too, have taken to laughing
at me, and range yourself on their side against me,” she added,
frowning angrily. “Don’t irritate me—I’m bad enough without that—I
don’t know what I am doing sometimes. I am persuaded that you came here
today in the full belief that I am in love with you, and that I
arranged this meeting because of that,” she cried, with annoyance.

“I admit I was afraid that that was the case, yesterday,” blundered the
prince (he was rather confused), “but today I am quite convinced that—”

“How?” cried Aglaya—and her lower lip trembled violently. “You were
_afraid_ that I—you dared to think that I—good gracious! you suspected,
perhaps, that I sent for you to come here in order to catch you in a
trap, so that they should find us here together, and make you marry
me—”

“Aglaya Ivanovna, aren’t you ashamed of saying such a thing? How could
such a horrible idea enter your sweet, innocent heart? I am certain you
don’t believe a word of what you say, and probably you don’t even know
what you are talking about.”

Aglaya sat with her eyes on the ground; she seemed to have alarmed even
herself by what she had said.

“No, I’m not; I’m not a bit ashamed!” she murmured. “And how do you
know my heart is innocent? And how dared you send me a love-letter that
time?”

“_Love-letter?_ My letter a love-letter? That letter was the most
respectful of letters; it went straight from my heart, at what was
perhaps the most painful moment of my life! I thought of you at the
time as a kind of light. I—”

“Well, very well, very well!” she said, but quite in a different tone.
She was remorseful now, and bent forward to touch his shoulder, though
still trying not to look him in the face, as if the more persuasively
to beg him not to be angry with her. “Very well,” she continued,
looking thoroughly ashamed of herself, “I feel that I said a very
foolish thing. I only did it just to try you. Take it as unsaid, and if
I offended you, forgive me. Don’t look straight at me like that,
please; turn your head away. You called it a ‘horrible idea’; I only
said it to shock you. Very often I am myself afraid of saying what I
intend to say, and out it comes all the same. You have just told me
that you wrote that letter at the most painful moment of your life. I
know what moment that was!” she added softly, looking at the ground
again.

“Oh, if you could know all!”

“I _do_ know all!” she cried, with another burst of indignation. “You
were living in the same house as that horrible woman with whom you ran
away.” She did not blush as she said this; on the contrary, she grew
pale, and started from her seat, apparently oblivious of what she did,
and immediately sat down again. Her lip continued to tremble for a long
time.

There was silence for a moment. The prince was taken aback by the
suddenness of this last reply, and did not know to what he should
attribute it.

“I don’t love you a bit!” she said suddenly, just as though the words
had exploded from her mouth.

The prince did not answer, and there was silence again. “I love Gavrila
Ardalionovitch,” she said, quickly; but hardly audibly, and with her
head bent lower than ever.

“That is _not_ true,” said the prince, in an equally low voice.

“What! I tell stories, do I? It is true! I gave him my promise a couple
of days ago on this very seat.”

The prince was startled, and reflected for a moment.

“It is not true,” he repeated, decidedly; “you have just invented it!”

“You are wonderfully polite. You know he is greatly improved. He loves
me better than his life. He let his hand burn before my very eyes in
order to prove to me that he loved me better than his life!”

“He burned his hand!”

“Yes, believe it or not! It’s all the same to me!”

The prince sat silent once more. Aglaya did not seem to be joking; she
was too angry for that.

“What! he brought a candle with him to this place? That is, if the
episode happened here; otherwise I can’t.”

“Yes, a candle! What’s there improbable about that?”

“A whole one, and in a candlestick?”

“Yes—no—half a candle—an end, you know—no, it was a whole candle; it’s
all the same. Be quiet, can’t you! He brought a box of matches too, if
you like, and then lighted the candle and held his finger in it for
half an hour and more!—There! Can’t that be?”

“I saw him yesterday, and his fingers were all right!”

Aglaya suddenly burst out laughing, as simply as a child.

“Do you know why I have just told you these lies?” She appealed to the
prince, of a sudden, with the most childlike candour, and with the
laugh still trembling on her lips. “Because when one tells a lie, if
one insists on something unusual and eccentric—something too ‘out of
the way’ for anything, you know—the more impossible the thing is, the
more plausible does the lie sound. I’ve noticed this. But I managed it
badly; I didn’t know how to work it.” She suddenly frowned again at
this point as though at some sudden unpleasant recollection.

“If”—she began, looking seriously and even sadly at him—“if when I read
you all that about the ‘poor knight,’ I wished to-to praise you for one
thing—I also wished to show you that I knew all—and did not approve of
your conduct.”

“You are very unfair to me, and to that unfortunate woman of whom you
spoke just now in such dreadful terms, Aglaya.”

“Because I know all, all—and that is why I speak so. I know very well
how you—half a year since—offered her your hand before everybody. Don’t
interrupt me. You see, I am merely stating facts without any comment
upon them. After that she ran away with Rogojin. Then you lived with
her at some village or town, and she ran away from you.” (Aglaya
blushed dreadfully.) “Then she returned to Rogojin again, who loves her
like a madman. Then you—like a wise man as you are—came back here after
her as soon as ever you heard that she had returned to Petersburg.
Yesterday evening you sprang forward to protect her, and just now you
dreamed about her. You see, I know all. You did come back here for her,
for her—now didn’t you?”

“Yes—for her!” said the prince softly and sadly, and bending his head
down, quite unconscious of the fact that Aglaya was gazing at him with
eyes which burned like live coals. “I came to find out something—I
don’t believe in her future happiness as Rogojin’s wife, although—in a
word, I did not know how to help her or what to do for her—but I came,
on the chance.”

He glanced at Aglaya, who was listening with a look of hatred on her
face.

“If you came without knowing why, I suppose you love her very much
indeed!” she said at last.

“No,” said the prince, “no, I do not love her. Oh! if you only knew
with what horror I recall the time I spent with her!”

A shudder seemed to sweep over his whole body at the recollection.

“Tell me about it,” said Aglaya.

“There is nothing which you might not hear. Why I should wish to tell
you, and only you, this experience of mine, I really cannot say;
perhaps it really is because I love you very much. This unhappy woman
is persuaded that she is the most hopeless, fallen creature in the
world. Oh, do not condemn her! Do not cast stones at her! She has
suffered too much already in the consciousness of her own undeserved
shame.

“And she is not guilty—oh God!—Every moment she bemoans and bewails
herself, and cries out that she does not admit any guilt, that she is
the victim of circumstances—the victim of a wicked libertine.

“But whatever she may say, remember that she does not believe it
herself,—remember that she will believe nothing but that she is a
guilty creature.

“When I tried to rid her soul of this gloomy fallacy, she suffered so
terribly that my heart will never be quite at peace so long as I can
remember that dreadful time!—Do you know why she left me? Simply to
prove to me what is not true—that she is base. But the worst of it is,
she did not realize herself that that was all she wanted to prove by
her departure! She went away in response to some inner prompting to do
something disgraceful, in order that she might say to
herself—‘There—you’ve done a new act of shame—you degraded creature!’

“Oh, Aglaya—perhaps you cannot understand all this. Try to realize that
in the perpetual admission of guilt she probably finds some dreadful
unnatural satisfaction—as though she were revenging herself upon
someone.

“Now and then I was able to persuade her almost to see light around her
again; but she would soon fall, once more, into her old tormenting
delusions, and would go so far as to reproach me for placing myself on
a pedestal above her (I never had an idea of such a thing!), and
informed me, in reply to my proposal of marriage, that she ‘did not
want condescending sympathy or help from anybody.’ You saw her last
night. You don’t suppose she can be happy among such people as
those—you cannot suppose that such society is fit for her? You have no
idea how well-educated she is, and what an intellect she has! She
astonished me sometimes.”

“And you preached her sermons there, did you?”

“Oh no,” continued the prince thoughtfully, not noticing Aglaya’s
mocking tone, “I was almost always silent there. I often wished to
speak, but I really did not know what to say. In some cases it is best
to say nothing, I think. I loved her, yes, I loved her very much
indeed; but afterwards—afterwards she guessed all.”

“What did she guess?”

“That I only _pitied_ her—and—and loved her no longer!”

“How do you know that? How do you know that she is not really in love
with that—that rich cad—the man she eloped with?”

“Oh no! I know she only laughs at him; she has made a fool of him all
along.”

“Has she never laughed at you?”

“No—in anger, perhaps. Oh yes! she reproached me dreadfully in anger;
and suffered herself, too! But afterwards—oh! don’t remind me—don’t
remind me of that!”

He hid his face in his hands.

“Are you aware that she writes to me almost every day?”

“So that is true, is it?” cried the prince, greatly agitated. “I had
heard a report of it, but would not believe it.”

“Whom did you hear it from?” asked Aglaya, alarmed. “Rogojin said
something about it yesterday, but nothing definite.”

“Yesterday! Morning or evening? Before the music or after?”

“After—it was about twelve o’clock.”

“Ah! Well, if it was Rogojin—but do you know what she writes to me
about?”

“I should not be surprised by anything. She is mad!”

“There are the letters.” (Aglaya took three letters out of her pocket
and threw them down before the prince.) “For a whole week she has been
entreating and worrying and persuading me to marry you. She—well, she
is clever, though she may be mad—much cleverer than I am, as you say.
Well, she writes that she is in love with me herself, and tries to see
me every day, if only from a distance. She writes that you love me, and
that she has long known it and seen it, and that you and she talked
about me—there. She wishes to see you happy, and she says that she is
certain only I can ensure you the happiness you deserve. She writes
such strange, wild letters—I haven’t shown them to anyone. Now, do you
know what all this means? Can you guess anything?”

“It is madness—it is merely another proof of her insanity!” said the
prince, and his lips trembled.

“You are crying, aren’t you?”

“No, Aglaya. No, I’m not crying.” The prince looked at her.

“Well, what am I to do? What do you advise me? I cannot go on receiving
these letters, you know.”

“Oh, let her alone, I entreat you!” cried the prince. “What can you do
in this dark, gloomy mystery? Let her alone, and I’ll use all my power
to prevent her writing you any more letters.”

“If so, you are a heartless man!” cried Aglaya. “As if you can’t see
that it is not myself she loves, but you, you, and only you! Surely you
have not remarked everything else in her, and only not _this?_ Do you
know what these letters mean? They mean jealousy, sir—nothing but pure
jealousy! She—do you think she will ever really marry this Rogojin, as
she says here she will? She would take her own life the day after you
and I were married.”

The prince shuddered; his heart seemed to freeze within him. He gazed
at Aglaya in wonderment; it was difficult for him to realize that this
child was also a woman.

“God knows, Aglaya, that to restore her peace of mind and make her
happy I would willingly give up my life. But I cannot love her, and she
knows that.”

“Oh, make a sacrifice of yourself! That sort of thing becomes you well,
you know. Why not do it? And don’t call me ‘Aglaya’; you have done it
several times lately. You are bound, it is your _duty_ to ‘raise’ her;
you must go off somewhere again to soothe and pacify her. Why, you love
her, you know!”

“I cannot sacrifice myself so, though I admit I did wish to do so once.
Who knows, perhaps I still wish to! But I know for _certain_, that if
she married me it would be her ruin; I know this and therefore I leave
her alone. I ought to go to see her today; now I shall probably not go.
She is proud, she would never forgive me the nature of the love I bear
her, and we should both be ruined. This may be unnatural, I don’t know;
but everything seems unnatural. You say she loves me, as if this were
_love!_ As if she could love _me_, after what I have been through! No,
no, it is not love.”

“How pale you have grown!” cried Aglaya in alarm.

“Oh, it’s nothing. I haven’t slept, that’s all, and I’m rather tired.
I—we certainly did talk about you, Aglaya.”

“Oh, indeed, it is true then! _You could actually talk about me with
her_; and—and how could you have been fond of me when you had only seen
me once?”

“I don’t know. Perhaps it was that I seemed to come upon light in the
midst of my gloom. I told you the truth when I said I did not know why
I thought of you before all others. Of course it was all a sort of
dream, a dream amidst the horrors of reality. Afterwards I began to
work. I did not intend to come back here for two or three years—”

“Then you came for her sake?” Aglaya’s voice trembled.

“Yes, I came for her sake.”

There was a moment or two of gloomy silence. Aglaya rose from her seat.

“If you say,” she began in shaky tones, “if you say that this woman of
yours is mad—at all events I have nothing to do with her insane
fancies. Kindly take these three letters, Lef Nicolaievitch, and throw
them back to her, from me. And if she dares,” cried Aglaya suddenly,
much louder than before, “if she dares so much as write me one word
again, tell her I shall tell my father, and that she shall be taken to
a lunatic asylum.”

The prince jumped up in alarm at Aglaya’s sudden wrath, and a mist
seemed to come before his eyes.

“You cannot really feel like that! You don’t mean what you say. It is
not true,” he murmured.

“It _is_ true, it _is_ true,” cried Aglaya, almost beside herself with
rage.

“What’s true? What’s all this? What’s true?” said an alarmed voice just
beside them.

Before them stood Lizabetha Prokofievna.

“Why, it’s true that I am going to marry Gavrila Ardalionovitch, that I
love him and intend to elope with him tomorrow,” cried Aglaya, turning
upon her mother. “Do you hear? Is your curiosity satisfied? Are you
pleased with what you have heard?”

Aglaya rushed away homewards with these words.

“H’m! well, _you_ are not going away just yet, my friend, at all
events,” said Lizabetha, stopping the prince. “Kindly step home with
me, and let me have a little explanation of the mystery. Nice goings
on, these! I haven’t slept a wink all night as it is.”

The prince followed her.

IX.

Arrived at her house, Lizabetha Prokofievna paused in the first room.
She could go no farther, and subsided on to a couch quite exhausted;
too feeble to remember so much as to ask the prince to take a seat.
This was a large reception-room, full of flowers, and with a glass door
leading into the garden.

Alexandra and Adelaida came in almost immediately, and looked
inquiringly at the prince and their mother.

The girls generally rose at about nine in the morning in the country;
Aglaya, of late, had been in the habit of getting up rather earlier and
having a walk in the garden, but not at seven o’clock; about eight or a
little later was her usual time.

Lizabetha Prokofievna, who really had not slept all night, rose at
about eight on purpose to meet Aglaya in the garden and walk with her;
but she could not find her either in the garden or in her own room.

This agitated the old lady considerably; and she awoke her other
daughters. Next, she learned from the maid that Aglaya had gone into
the park before seven o’clock. The sisters made a joke of Aglaya’s last
freak, and told their mother that if she went into the park to look for
her, Aglaya would probably be very angry with her, and that she was
pretty sure to be sitting reading on the green bench that she had
talked of two or three days since, and about which she had nearly
quarrelled with Prince S., who did not see anything particularly lovely
in it.

Arrived at the rendezvous of the prince and her daughter, and hearing
the strange words of the latter, Lizabetha Prokofievna had been
dreadfully alarmed, for many reasons. However, now that she had dragged
the prince home with her, she began to feel a little frightened at what
she had undertaken. Why should not Aglaya meet the prince in the park
and have a talk with him, even if such a meeting should be by
appointment?

“Don’t suppose, prince,” she began, bracing herself up for the effort,
“don’t suppose that I have brought you here to ask questions. After
last night, I assure you, I am not so exceedingly anxious to see you at
all; I could have postponed the pleasure for a long while.” She paused.

“But at the same time you would be very glad to know how I happened to
meet Aglaya Ivanovna this morning?” The prince finished her speech for
her with the utmost composure.

“Well, what then? Supposing I should like to know?” cried Lizabetha
Prokofievna, blushing. “I’m sure I am not afraid of plain speaking. I’m
not offending anyone, and I never wish to, and—”

“Pardon me, it is no offence to wish to know this; you are her mother.
We met at the green bench this morning, punctually at seven
o’clock,—according to an agreement made by Aglaya Ivanovna with myself
yesterday. She said that she wished to see me and speak to me about
something important. We met and conversed for an hour about matters
concerning Aglaya Ivanovna herself, and that’s all.”

“Of course it is all, my friend. I don’t doubt you for a moment,” said
Lizabetha Prokofievna with dignity.

“Well done, prince, capital!” cried Aglaya, who entered the room at
this moment. “Thank you for assuming that I would not demean myself
with lies. Come, is that enough, mamma, or do you intend to put any
more questions?”

“You know I have never needed to blush before you, up to this day,
though perhaps you would have been glad enough to make me,” said
Lizabetha Prokofievna,—with majesty. “Good-bye, prince; forgive me for
bothering you. I trust you will rest assured of my unalterable esteem
for you.”

The prince made his bows and retired at once. Alexandra and Adelaida
smiled and whispered to each other, while Lizabetha Prokofievna glared
severely at them. “We are only laughing at the prince’s beautiful bows,
mamma,” said Adelaida. “Sometimes he bows just like a meal-sack, but
to-day he was like—like Evgenie Pavlovitch!”

“It is the _heart_ which is the best teacher of refinement and dignity,
not the dancing-master,” said her mother, sententiously, and departed
upstairs to her own room, not so much as glancing at Aglaya.

When the prince reached home, about nine o’clock, he found Vera
Lebedeff and the maid on the verandah. They were both busy trying to
tidy up the place after last night’s disorderly party.

“Thank goodness, we’ve just managed to finish it before you came in!”
said Vera, joyfully.

“Good-morning! My head whirls so; I didn’t sleep all night. I should
like to have a nap now.”

“Here, on the verandah? Very well, I’ll tell them all not to come and
wake you. Papa has gone out somewhere.”

The servant left the room. Vera was about to follow her, but returned
and approached the prince with a preoccupied air.

“Prince!” she said, “have pity on that poor boy; don’t turn him out
today.”

“Not for the world; he shall do just as he likes.”

“He won’t do any harm now; and—and don’t be too severe with him.”

“Oh dear no! Why—”

“And—and you won’t _laugh_ at him? That’s the chief thing.”

“Oh no! Never.”

“How foolish I am to speak of such things to a man like you,” said
Vera, blushing. “Though you _do_ look tired,” she added, half turning
away, “your eyes are so splendid at this moment—so full of happiness.”

“Really?” asked the prince, gleefully, and he laughed in delight.

But Vera, simple-minded little girl that she was (just like a boy, in
fact), here became dreadfully confused, of a sudden, and ran hastily
out of the room, laughing and blushing.

“What a dear little thing she is,” thought the prince, and immediately
forgot all about her.

He walked to the far end of the verandah, where the sofa stood, with a
table in front of it. Here he sat down and covered his face with his
hands, and so remained for ten minutes. Suddenly he put his hand in his
coat-pocket and hurriedly produced three letters.

But the door opened again, and out came Colia.

The prince actually felt glad that he had been interrupted,—and might
return the letters to his pocket. He was glad of the respite.

“Well,” said Colia, plunging _in medias res_, as he always did, “here’s
a go! What do you think of Hippolyte now? Don’t respect him any longer,
eh?”

“Why not? But look here, Colia, I’m tired; besides, the subject is too
melancholy to begin upon again. How is he, though?”

“Asleep—he’ll sleep for a couple of hours yet. I quite understand—you
haven’t slept—you walked about the park, I know.
Agitation—excitement—all that sort of thing—quite natural, too!”

“How do you know I walked in the park and didn’t sleep at home?”

“Vera just told me. She tried to persuade me not to come, but I
couldn’t help myself, just for one minute. I have been having my turn
at the bedside for the last two hours; Kostia Lebedeff is there now.
Burdovsky has gone. Now, lie down, prince, make yourself comfortable,
and sleep well! I’m awfully impressed, you know.”

“Naturally, all this—”

“No, no, I mean with the ‘explanation,’ especially that part of it
where he talks about Providence and a future life. There is a gigantic
thought there.”

The prince gazed affectionately at Colia, who, of course, had come in
solely for the purpose of talking about this “gigantic thought.”

“But it is not any one particular thought, only; it is the general
circumstances of the case. If Voltaire had written this now, or
Rousseau, I should have just read it and thought it remarkable, but
should not have been so _impressed_ by it. But a man who knows for
certain that he has but ten minutes to live and can talk like
that—why—it’s—it’s _pride_, that is! It is really a most extraordinary,
exalted assertion of personal dignity, it’s—it’s _defiant!_ What a
_gigantic_ strength of will, eh? And to accuse a fellow like that of
not putting in the cap on purpose; it’s base and mean! You know he
deceived us last night, the cunning rascal. I never packed his bag for
him, and I never saw his pistol. He packed it himself. But he put me
off my guard like that, you see. Vera says you are going to let him
stay on; I swear there’s no danger, especially as we are always with
him.”

“Who was by him at night?”

“I, and Burdovsky, and Kostia Lebedeff. Keller stayed a little while,
and then went over to Lebedeff’s to sleep. Ferdishenko slept at
Lebedeff’s, too; but he went away at seven o’clock. My father is always
at Lebedeff’s; but he has gone out just now. I dare say Lebedeff will
be coming in here directly; he has been looking for you; I don’t know
what he wants. Shall we let him in or not, if you are asleep? I’m going
to have a nap, too. By-the-by, such a curious thing happened. Burdovsky
woke me at seven, and I met my father just outside the room, so drunk,
he didn’t even know me. He stood before me like a log, and when he
recovered himself, asked hurriedly how Hippolyte was. ‘Yes,’ he said,
when I told him, ‘that’s all very well, but I _really_ came to warn you
that you must be very careful what you say before Ferdishenko.’ Do you
follow me, prince?”

“Yes. Is it really so? However, it’s all the same to us, of course.”

“Of course it is; we are not a secret society; and that being the case,
it is all the more curious that the general should have been on his way
to wake me up in order to tell me this.”

“Ferdishenko has gone, you say?”

“Yes, he went at seven o’clock. He came into the room on his way out; I
was watching just then. He said he was going to spend ‘the rest of the
night’ at Wilkin’s; there’s a tipsy fellow, a friend of his, of that
name. Well, I’m off. Oh, here’s Lebedeff himself! The prince wants to
go to sleep, Lukian Timofeyovitch, so you may just go away again.”

“One moment, my dear prince, just one. I must absolutely speak to you
about something which is most grave,” said Lebedeff, mysteriously and
solemnly, entering the room with a bow and looking extremely important.
He had but just returned, and carried his hat in his hand. He looked
preoccupied and most unusually dignified.

The prince begged him to take a chair.

“I hear you have called twice; I suppose you are still worried about
yesterday’s affair.”

“What, about that boy, you mean? Oh dear no, yesterday my ideas were a
little—well—mixed. Today, I assure you, I shall not oppose in the
slightest degree any suggestions it may please you to make.”

“What’s up with you this morning, Lebedeff? You look so important and
dignified, and you choose your words so carefully,” said the prince,
smiling.

“Nicolai Ardalionovitch!” said Lebedeff, in a most amiable tone of
voice, addressing the boy. “As I have a communication to make to the
prince which concerns only myself—”

“Of course, of course, not my affair. All right,” said Colia, and away
he went.

“I love that boy for his perception,” said Lebedeff, looking after him.
“My dear prince,” he continued, “I have had a terrible misfortune,
either last night or early this morning. I cannot tell the exact time.”

“What is it?”

“I have lost four hundred roubles out of my side pocket! They’re gone!”
said Lebedeff, with a sour smile.

“You’ve lost four hundred roubles? Oh! I’m sorry for that.”

“Yes, it is serious for a poor man who lives by his toil.”

“Of course, of course! How was it?”

“Oh, the wine is to blame, of course. I confess to you, prince, as I
would to Providence itself. Yesterday I received four hundred roubles
from a debtor at about five in the afternoon, and came down here by
train. I had my purse in my pocket. When I changed, I put the money
into the pocket of my plain clothes, intending to keep it by me, as I
expected to have an applicant for it in the evening.”

“It’s true then, Lebedeff, that you advertise to lend money on gold or
silver articles?”

“Yes, through an agent. My own name doesn’t appear. I have a large
family, you see, and at a small percentage—”

“Quite so, quite so. I only asked for information—excuse the question.
Go on.”

“Well, meanwhile that sick boy was brought here, and those guests came
in, and we had tea, and—well, we made merry—to my ruin! Hearing of your
birthday afterwards, and excited with the circumstances of the evening,
I ran upstairs and changed my plain clothes once more for my uniform
[Civil Service clerks in Russia wear uniform.]—you must have noticed I
had my uniform on all the evening? Well, I forgot the money in the
pocket of my old coat—you know when God will ruin a man he first of all
bereaves him of his senses—and it was only this morning at half-past
seven that I woke up and grabbed at my coat pocket, first thing. The
pocket was empty—the purse gone, and not a trace to be found!”

“Dear me! This is very unpleasant!”

“Unpleasant! Indeed it is. You have found a very appropriate
expression,” said Lebedeff, politely, but with sarcasm.

“But what’s to be done? It’s a serious matter,” said the prince,
thoughtfully. “Don’t you think you may have dropped it out of your
pocket whilst intoxicated?”

“Certainly. Anything is possible when one is intoxicated, as you neatly
express it, prince. But consider—if I, intoxicated or not, dropped an
object out of my pocket on to the ground, that object ought to remain
on the ground. Where is the object, then?”

“Didn’t you put it away in some drawer, perhaps?”

“I’ve looked everywhere, and turned out everything.”

“I confess this disturbs me a good deal. Someone must have picked it
up, then.”

“Or taken it out of my pocket—two alternatives.”

“It is very distressing, because _who_—? That’s the question!”

“Most undoubtedly, excellent prince, you have hit it—that is the very
question. How wonderfully you express the exact situation in a few
words!”

“Come, come, Lebedeff, no sarcasm! It’s a serious—”

“Sarcasm!” cried Lebedeff, wringing his hands. “All right, all right,
I’m not angry. I’m only put out about this. Whom do you suspect?”

“That is a very difficult and complicated question. I cannot suspect
the servant, for she was in the kitchen the whole evening, nor do I
suspect any of my children.”

“I should think not. Go on.”

“Then it must be one of the guests.”

“Is such a thing possible?”

“Absolutely and utterly impossible—and yet, so it must be. But one
thing I am sure of, if it be a theft, it was committed, not in the
evening when we were all together, but either at night or early in the
morning; therefore, by one of those who slept here. Burdovsky and Colia
I except, of course. They did not even come into my room.”

“Yes, or even if they had! But who did sleep with you?”

“Four of us, including myself, in two rooms. The general, myself,
Keller, and Ferdishenko. One of us four it must have been. I don’t
suspect myself, though such cases have been known.”

“Oh! _do_ go on, Lebedeff! Don’t drag it out so.”

“Well, there are three left, then—Keller firstly. He is a drunkard to
begin with, and a liberal (in the sense of other people’s pockets),
otherwise with more of the ancient knight about him than of the modern
liberal. He was with the sick man at first, but came over afterwards
because there was no place to lie down in the room and the floor was so
hard.”

“You suspect him?”

“I _did_ suspect him. When I woke up at half-past seven and tore my
hair in despair for my loss and carelessness, I awoke the general, who
was sleeping the sleep of innocence near me. Taking into consideration
the sudden disappearance of Ferdishenko, which was suspicious in
itself, we decided to search Keller, who was lying there sleeping like
a top. Well, we searched his clothes thoroughly, and not a farthing did
we find; in fact, his pockets all had holes in them. We found a dirty
handkerchief, and a love-letter from some scullery-maid. The general
decided that he was innocent. We awoke him for further inquiries, and
had the greatest difficulty in making him understand what was up. He
opened his mouth and stared—he looked so stupid and so absurdly
innocent. It wasn’t Keller.”

“Oh, I’m so glad!” said the prince, joyfully. “I was so afraid.”

“Afraid! Then you had some grounds for supposing he might be the
culprit?” said Lebedeff, frowning.

“Oh no—not a bit! It was foolish of me to say I was afraid! Don’t
repeat it please, Lebedeff, don’t tell anyone I said that!”

“My dear prince! your words lie in the lowest depth of my heart—it is
their tomb!” said Lebedeff, solemnly, pressing his hat to the region of
his heart.

“Thanks; very well. Then I suppose it’s Ferdishenko; that is, I mean,
you suspect Ferdishenko?”

“Whom else?” said Lebedeff, softly, gazing intently into the prince s
face.

“Of course—quite so, whom else? But what are the proofs?”

“We have evidence. In the first place, his mysterious disappearance at
seven o’clock, or even earlier.”

“I know, Colia told me that he had said he was off to—I forget the
name, some friend of his, to finish the night.”

“H’m! then Colia has spoken to you already?”

“Not about the theft.”

“He does not know of it; I have kept it a secret. Very well,
Ferdishenko went off to Wilkin’s. That is not so curious in itself, but
here the evidence opens out further. He left his address, you see, when
he went. Now prince, consider, why did he leave his address? Why do you
suppose he went out of his way to tell Colia that he had gone to
Wilkin’s? Who cared to know that he was going to Wilkin’s? No, no!
prince, this is finesse, thieves’ finesse! This is as good as saying,
‘There, how can I be a thief when I leave my address? I’m not
concealing my movements as a thief would.’ Do you understand, prince?”

“Oh yes, but that is not enough.”

“Second proof. The scent turns out to be false, and the address given
is a sham. An hour after—that is at about eight, I went to Wilkin’s
myself, and there was no trace of Ferdishenko. The maid did tell me,
certainly, that an hour or so since someone had been hammering at the
door, and had smashed the bell; she said she would not open the door
because she didn’t want to wake her master; probably she was too lazy
to get up herself. Such phenomena are met with occasionally!”

“But is that all your evidence? It is not enough!”

“Well, prince, whom are we to suspect, then? Consider!” said Lebedeff
with almost servile amiability, smiling at the prince. There was a look
of cunning in his eyes, however.

“You should search your room and all the cupboards again,” said the
prince, after a moment or two of silent reflection.

“But I have done so, my dear prince!” said Lebedeff, more sweetly than
ever.

“H’m! why must you needs go up and change your coat like that?” asked
the prince, banging the table with his fist, in annoyance.

“Oh, don’t be so worried on my account, prince! I assure you I am not
worth it! At least, not I alone. But I see you are suffering on behalf
of the criminal too, for wretched Ferdishenko, in fact!”

“Of course you have given me a disagreeable enough thing to think
about,” said the prince, irritably, “but what are you going to do,
since you are so sure it was Ferdishenko?”

“But who else _could_ it be, my very dear prince?” repeated Lebedeff,
as sweet as sugar again. “If you don’t wish me to suspect Mr.
Burdovsky?”

“Of course not.”

“Nor the general? Ha, ha, ha!”

“Nonsense!” said the prince, angrily, turning round upon him.

“Quite so, nonsense! Ha, ha, ha! dear me! He did amuse me, did the
general! We went off on the hot scent to Wilkin’s together, you know;
but I must first observe that the general was even more thunderstruck
than I myself this morning, when I awoke him after discovering the
theft; so much so that his very face changed—he grew red and then pale,
and at length flew into a paroxysm of such noble wrath that I assure
you I was quite surprised! He is a most generous-hearted man! He tells
lies by the thousands, I know, but it is merely a weakness; he is a man
of the highest feelings; a simple-minded man too, and a man who carries
the conviction of innocence in his very appearance. I love that man,
sir; I may have told you so before; it is a weakness of mine. Well—he
suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, opened out his coat and
bared his breast. ‘Search me,’ he says, ‘you searched Keller; why don’t
you search me too? It is only fair!’ says he. And all the while his
legs and hands were trembling with anger, and he as white as a sheet
all over! So I said to him, ‘Nonsense, general; if anybody but yourself
had said that to me, I’d have taken my head, my own head, and put it on
a large dish and carried it round to anyone who suspected you; and I
should have said: “There, you see that head? It’s my head, and I’ll go
bail with that head for him! Yes, and walk through the fire for him,
too.” There,’ says I, ‘that’s how I’d answer for you, general!’ Then he
embraced me, in the middle of the street, and hugged me so tight
(crying over me all the while) that I coughed fit to choke! ‘You are
the one friend left to me amid all my misfortunes,’ says he. Oh, he’s a
man of sentiment, that! He went on to tell me a story of how he had
been accused, or suspected, of stealing five hundred thousand roubles
once, as a young man; and how, the very next day, he had rushed into a
burning, blazing house and saved the very count who suspected him, and
Nina Alexandrovna (who was then a young girl), from a fiery death. The
count embraced him, and that was how he came to marry Nina
Alexandrovna, he said. As for the money, it was found among the ruins
next day in an English iron box with a secret lock; it had got under
the floor somehow, and if it had not been for the fire it would never
have been found! The whole thing is, of course, an absolute
fabrication, though when he spoke of Nina Alexandrovna he wept! She’s a
grand woman, is Nina Alexandrovna, though she is very angry with me!”

“Are you acquainted with her?”

“Well, hardly at all. I wish I were, if only for the sake of justifying
myself in her eyes. Nina Alexandrovna has a grudge against me for, as
she thinks, encouraging her husband in drinking; whereas in reality I
not only do not encourage him, but I actually keep him out of harm’s
way, and out of bad company. Besides, he’s my friend, prince, so that I
shall not lose sight of him, again. Where he goes, I go. He’s quite
given up visiting the captain’s widow, though sometimes he thinks sadly
of her, especially in the morning, when he’s putting on his boots. I
don’t know why it’s at that time. But he has no money, and it’s no use
his going to see her without. Has he borrowed any money from you,
prince?”

“No, he has not.”

“Ah, he’s ashamed to! He _meant_ to ask you, I know, for he said so. I
suppose he thinks that as you gave him some once (you remember), you
would probably refuse if he asked you again.”

“Do you ever give him money?”

“Prince! Money! Why I would give that man not only my money, but my
very life, if he wanted it. Well, perhaps that’s exaggeration; not
life, we’ll say, but some illness, a boil or a bad cough, or anything
of that sort, I would stand with pleasure, for his sake; for I consider
him a great man fallen—money, indeed!”

“H’m, then you _do_ give him money?”

“N-no, I have never given him money, and he knows well that I will
never give him any; because I am anxious to keep him out of intemperate
ways. He is going to town with me now; for you must know I am off to
Petersburg after Ferdishenko, while the scent is hot; I’m certain he is
there. I shall let the general go one way, while I go the other; we
have so arranged matters in order to pop out upon Ferdishenko, you see,
from different sides. But I am going to follow that naughty old general
and catch him, I know where, at a certain widow’s house; for I think it
will be a good lesson, to put him to shame by catching him with the
widow.”

“Oh, Lebedeff, don’t, don’t make any scandal about it!” said the
prince, much agitated, and speaking in a low voice.

“Not for the world, not for the world! I merely wish to make him
ashamed of himself. Oh, prince, great though this misfortune be to
myself, I cannot help thinking of his morals! I have a great favour to
ask of you, esteemed prince; I confess that it is the chief object of
my visit. You know the Ivolgins, you have even lived in their house; so
if you would lend me your help, honoured prince, in the general’s own
interest and for his good.”

Lebedeff clasped his hands in supplication.

“What help do you want from me? You may be certain that I am most
anxious to understand you, Lebedeff.”

“I felt sure of that, or I should not have come to you. We might manage
it with the help of Nina Alexandrovna, so that he might be closely
watched in his own house. Unfortunately I am not on terms...
otherwise... but Nicolai Ardalionovitch, who adores you with all his
youthful soul, might help, too.”

“No, no! Heaven forbid that we should bring Nina Alexandrovna into this
business! Or Colia, either. But perhaps I have not yet quite understood
you, Lebedeff?”

Lebedeff made an impatient movement.

“But there is nothing to understand! Sympathy and tenderness, that is
all—that is all our poor invalid requires! You will permit me to
consider him an invalid?”

“Yes, it shows delicacy and intelligence on your part.”

“I will explain my idea by a practical example, to make it clearer. You
know the sort of man he is. At present his only failing is that he is
crazy about that captain’s widow, and he cannot go to her without
money, and I mean to catch him at her house today—for his own good; but
supposing it was not only the widow, but that he had committed a real
crime, or at least some very dishonourable action (of which he is, of
course, incapable), I repeat that even in that case, if he were treated
with what I may call generous tenderness, one could get at the whole
truth, for he is very soft-hearted! Believe me, he would betray himself
before five days were out; he would burst into tears, and make a clean
breast of the matter; especially if managed with tact, and if you and
his family watched his every step, so to speak. Oh, my dear prince,”
Lebedeff added most emphatically, “I do not positively assert that he
has... I am ready, as the saying is, to shed my last drop of blood for
him this instant; but you will admit that debauchery, drunkenness, and
the captain’s widow, all these together may lead him very far.”

“I am, of course, quite ready to add my efforts to yours in such a
case,” said the prince, rising; “but I confess, Lebedeff, that I am
terribly perplexed. Tell me, do you still think... plainly, you say
yourself that you suspect Mr. Ferdishenko?”

Lebedeff clasped his hands once more.

“Why, who else could I possibly suspect? Who else, most outspoken
prince?” he replied, with an unctuous smile.

Muishkin frowned, and rose from his seat.

“You see, Lebedeff, a mistake here would be a dreadful thing. This
Ferdishenko, I would not say a word against him, of course; but, who
knows? Perhaps it really was he? I mean he really does seem to be a
more likely man than... than any other.”

Lebedeff strained his eyes and ears to take in what the prince was
saying. The latter was frowning more and more, and walking excitedly up
and down, trying not to look at Lebedeff.

“You see,” he said, “I was given to understand that Ferdishenko was
that sort of man,—that one can’t say everything before him. One has to
take care not to say too much, you understand? I say this to prove that
he really is, so to speak, more likely to have done this than anyone
else, eh? You understand? The important thing is, not to make a
mistake.”

“And who told you this about Ferdishenko?”

“Oh, I was told. Of course I don’t altogether believe it. I am very
sorry that I should have had to say this, because I assure you I don’t
believe it myself; it is all nonsense, of course. It was stupid of me
to say anything about it.”

“You see, it is very important, it is most important to know where you
got this report from,” said Lebedeff, excitedly. He had risen from his
seat, and was trying to keep step with the prince, running after him,
up and down. “Because look here, prince, I don’t mind telling you now
that as we were going along to Wilkin’s this morning, after telling me
what you know about the fire, and saving the count and all that, the
general was pleased to drop certain hints to the same effect about
Ferdishenko, but so vaguely and clumsily that I thought better to put a
few questions to him on the matter, with the result that I found the
whole thing was an invention of his excellency’s own mind. Of course,
he only lies with the best intentions; still, he lies. But, such being
the case, where could you have heard the same report? It was the
inspiration of the moment with him, you understand, so who could have
told _you?_ It is an important question, you see!”

“It was Colia told me, and his father told _him_ at about six this
morning. They met at the threshold, when Colia was leaving the room for
something or other.” The prince told Lebedeff all that Colia had made
known to himself, in detail.

“There now, that’s what we may call _scent!_” said Lebedeff, rubbing
his hands and laughing silently. “I thought it must be so, you see. The
general interrupted his innocent slumbers, at six o’clock, in order to
go and wake his beloved son, and warn him of the dreadful danger of
companionship with Ferdishenko. Dear me! what a dreadfully dangerous
man Ferdishenko must be, and what touching paternal solicitude, on the
part of his excellency, ha! ha! ha!”

“Listen, Lebedeff,” began the prince, quite overwhelmed; “_do_ act
quietly—don’t make a scandal, Lebedeff, I ask you—I entreat you! No one
must know—_no one_, mind! In that case only, I will help you.”

“Be assured, most honourable, most worthy of princes—be assured that
the whole matter shall be buried within my heart!” cried Lebedeff, in a
paroxysm of exaltation. “I’d give every drop of my blood... Illustrious
prince, I am a poor wretch in soul and spirit, but ask the veriest
scoundrel whether he would prefer to deal with one like himself, or
with a noble-hearted man like you, and there is no doubt as to his
choice! He’ll answer that he prefers the noble-hearted man—and there
you have the triumph of virtue! _Au revoir_, honoured prince! You and I
together—softly! softly!”

X.

The prince understood at last why he shivered with dread every time he
thought of the three letters in his pocket, and why he had put off
reading them until the evening.

When he fell into a heavy sleep on the sofa on the verandah, without
having had the courage to open a single one of the three envelopes, he
again dreamed a painful dream, and once more that poor, “sinful” woman
appeared to him. Again she gazed at him with tears sparkling on her
long lashes, and beckoned him after her; and again he awoke, as before,
with the picture of her face haunting him.

He longed to get up and go to her at once—but he _could not_. At
length, almost in despair, he unfolded the letters, and began to read
them.

These letters, too, were like a dream. We sometimes have strange,
impossible dreams, contrary to all the laws of nature. When we awake we
remember them and wonder at their strangeness. You remember, perhaps,
that you were in full possession of your reason during this succession
of fantastic images; even that you acted with extraordinary logic and
cunning while surrounded by murderers who hid their intentions and made
great demonstrations of friendship, while waiting for an opportunity to
cut your throat. You remember how you escaped them by some ingenious
stratagem; then you doubted if they were really deceived, or whether
they were only pretending not to know your hiding-place; then you
thought of another plan and hoodwinked them once again. You remember
all this quite clearly, but how is it that your reason calmly accepted
all the manifest absurdities and impossibilities that crowded into your
dream? One of the murderers suddenly changed into a woman before your
very eyes; then the woman was transformed into a hideous, cunning
little dwarf; and you believed it, and accepted it all almost as a
matter of course—while at the same time your intelligence seemed
unusually keen, and accomplished miracles of cunning, sagacity, and
logic! Why is it that when you awake to the world of realities you
nearly always feel, sometimes very vividly, that the vanished dream has
carried with it some enigma which you have failed to solve? You smile
at the extravagance of your dream, and yet you feel that this tissue of
absurdity contained some real idea, something that belongs to your true
life,—something that exists, and has always existed, in your heart. You
search your dream for some prophecy that you were expecting. It has
left a deep impression upon you, joyful or cruel, but what it means, or
what has been predicted to you in it, you can neither understand nor
remember.

The reading of these letters produced some such effect upon the prince.
He felt, before he even opened the envelopes, that the very fact of
their existence was like a nightmare. How could she ever have made up
her mind to write to her? he asked himself. How could she write about
that at all? And how could such a wild idea have entered her head? And
yet, the strangest part of the matter was, that while he read the
letters, he himself almost believed in the possibility, and even in the
justification, of the idea he had thought so wild. Of course it was a
mad dream, a nightmare, and yet there was something cruelly real about
it. For hours he was haunted by what he had read. Several passages
returned again and again to his mind, and as he brooded over them, he
felt inclined to say to himself that he had foreseen and known all that
was written here; it even seemed to him that he had read the whole of
this some time or other, long, long ago; and all that had tormented and
grieved him up to now was to be found in these old, long since read,
letters.

“When you open this letter” (so the first began), “look first at the
signature. The signature will tell you all, so that I need explain
nothing, nor attempt to justify myself. Were I in any way on a footing
with you, you might be offended at my audacity; but who am I, and who
are you? We are at such extremes, and I am so far removed from you,
that I could not offend you if I wished to do so.”

Farther on, in another place, she wrote: “Do not consider my words as
the sickly ecstasies of a diseased mind, but you are, in my
opinion—perfection! I have seen you—I see you every day. I do not judge
you; I have not weighed you in the scales of Reason and found you
Perfection—it is simply an article of faith. But I must confess one sin
against you—I love you. One should not love perfection. One should only
look on it as perfection—yet I am in love with you. Though love
equalizes, do not fear. I have not lowered you to my level, even in my
most secret thoughts. I have written ‘Do not fear,’ as if you could
fear. I would kiss your footprints if I could; but, oh! I am not
putting myself on a level with you!—Look at the signature—quick, look
at the signature!”

“However, observe” (she wrote in another of the letters), “that
although I couple you with him, yet I have not once asked you whether
you love him. He fell in love with you, though he saw you but once. He
spoke of you as of ‘the light.’ These are his own words—I heard him use
them. But I understood without his saying it that you were all that
light is to him. I lived near him for a whole month, and I understood
then that you, too, must love him. I think of you and him as one.”

“What was the matter yesterday?” (she wrote on another sheet). “I
passed by you, and you seemed to me to _blush_. Perhaps it was only my
fancy. If I were to bring you to the most loathsome den, and show you
the revelation of undisguised vice—you should not blush. You can never
feel the sense of personal affront. You may hate all who are mean, or
base, or unworthy—but not for yourself—only for those whom they wrong.
No one can wrong _you_. Do you know, I think you ought to love me—for
you are the same in my eyes as in his—you are as light. An angel cannot
hate, perhaps cannot love, either. I often ask myself—is it possible to
love everybody? Indeed it is not; it is not in nature. Abstract love of
humanity is nearly always love of self. But you are different. You
cannot help loving all, since you can compare with none, and are above
all personal offence or anger. Oh! how bitter it would be to me to know
that you felt anger or shame on my account, for that would be your
fall—you would become comparable at once with such as me.

“Yesterday, after seeing you, I went home and thought out a picture.

“Artists always draw the Saviour as an actor in one of the Gospel
stories. I should do differently. I should represent Christ alone—the
disciples did leave Him alone occasionally. I should paint one little
child left with Him. This child has been playing about near Him, and
had probably just been telling the Saviour something in its pretty baby
prattle. Christ had listened to it, but was now musing—one hand
reposing on the child’s bright head. His eyes have a far-away
expression. Thought, great as the Universe, is in them—His face is sad.
The little one leans its elbow upon Christ’s knee, and with its cheek
resting on its hand, gazes up at Him, pondering as children sometimes
do ponder. The sun is setting. There you have my picture.

“You are innocent—and in your innocence lies all your perfection—oh,
remember that! What is my passion to you?—you are mine now; I shall be
near you all my life—I shall not live long!”

At length, in the last letter of all, he found:

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t misunderstand me! Do not think that I
humiliate myself by writing thus to you, or that I belong to that class
of people who take a satisfaction in humiliating themselves—from pride.
I have my consolation, though it would be difficult to explain it—but I
do not humiliate myself.

“Why do I wish to unite you two? For your sakes or my own? For my own
sake, naturally. All the problems of my life would thus be solved; I
have thought so for a long time. I know that once when your sister
Adelaida saw my portrait she said that such beauty could overthrow the
world. But I have renounced the world. You think it strange that I
should say so, for you saw me decked with lace and diamonds, in the
company of drunkards and wastrels. Take no notice of that; I know that
I have almost ceased to exist. God knows what it is dwelling within me
now—it is not myself. I can see it every day in two dreadful eyes which
are always looking at me, even when not present. These eyes are silent
now, they say nothing; but I know their secret. His house is gloomy,
and there is a secret in it. I am convinced that in some box he has a
razor hidden, tied round with silk, just like the one that Moscow
murderer had. This man also lived with his mother, and had a razor
hidden away, tied round with white silk, and with this razor he
intended to cut a throat.

“All the while I was in their house I felt sure that somewhere beneath
the floor there was hidden away some dreadful corpse, wrapped in
oil-cloth, perhaps buried there by his father, who knows? Just as in
the Moscow case. I could have shown you the very spot!

“He is always silent, but I know well that he loves me so much that he
must hate me. My wedding and yours are to be on the same day; so I have
arranged with him. I have no secrets from him. I would kill him from
very fright, but he will kill me first. He has just burst out laughing,
and says that I am raving. He knows I am writing to you.”

There was much more of this delirious wandering in the letters—one of
them was very long.

At last the prince came out of the dark, gloomy park, in which he had
wandered about for hours just as yesterday. The bright night seemed to
him to be lighter than ever. “It must be quite early,” he thought. (He
had forgotten his watch.) There was a sound of distant music somewhere.
“Ah,” he thought, “the Vauxhall! They won’t be there today, of course!”
At this moment he noticed that he was close to their house; he had felt
that he must gravitate to this spot eventually, and, with a beating
heart, he mounted the verandah steps.

No one met him; the verandah was empty, and nearly pitch dark. He
opened the door into the room, but it, too, was dark and empty. He
stood in the middle of the room in perplexity. Suddenly the door
opened, and in came Alexandra, candle in hand. Seeing the prince she
stopped before him in surprise, looking at him questioningly.

It was clear that she had been merely passing through the room from
door to door, and had not had the remotest notion that she would meet
anyone.

“How did you come here?” she asked, at last.

“I—I—came in—”

“Mamma is not very well, nor is Aglaya. Adelaida has gone to bed, and I
am just going. We were alone the whole evening. Father and Prince S.
have gone to town.”

“I have come to you—now—to—”

“Do you know what time it is?”

“N—no!”

“Half-past twelve. We are always in bed by one.”

“I—I thought it was half-past nine!”

“Never mind!” she laughed, “but why didn’t you come earlier? Perhaps
you were expected!”

“I thought” he stammered, making for the door.

“_Au revoir!_ I shall amuse them all with this story tomorrow!”

He walked along the road towards his own house. His heart was beating,
his thoughts were confused, everything around seemed to be part of a
dream.

And suddenly, just as twice already he had awaked from sleep with the
same vision, that very apparition now seemed to rise up before him. The
woman appeared to step out from the park, and stand in the path in
front of him, as though she had been waiting for him there.

He shuddered and stopped; she seized his hand and pressed it
frenziedly.

No, this was no apparition!

There she stood at last, face to face with him, for the first time
since their parting.

She said something, but he looked silently back at her. His heart ached
with anguish. Oh! never would he banish the recollection of this
meeting with her, and he never remembered it but with the same pain and
agony of mind.

She went on her knees before him—there in the open road—like a
madwoman. He retreated a step, but she caught his hand and kissed it,
and, just as in his dream, the tears were sparkling on her long,
beautiful lashes.

“Get up!” he said, in a frightened whisper, raising her. “Get up at
once!”

“Are you happy—are you happy?” she asked. “Say this one word. Are you
happy now? Today, this moment? Have you just been with her? What did
she say?”

She did not rise from her knees; she would not listen to him; she put
her questions hurriedly, as though she were pursued.

“I am going away tomorrow, as you bade me—I won’t write—so that this is
the last time I shall see you, the last time! This is really the _last
time!_”

“Oh, be calm—be calm! Get up!” he entreated, in despair.

She gazed thirstily at him and clutched his hands.

“Good-bye!” she said at last, and rose and left him, very quickly.

The prince noticed that Rogojin had suddenly appeared at her side, and
had taken her arm and was leading her away.

“Wait a minute, prince,” shouted the latter, as he went. “I shall be
back in five minutes.”

He reappeared in five minutes as he had said. The prince was waiting
for him.

“I’ve put her in the carriage,” he said; “it has been waiting round the
corner there since ten o’clock. She expected that you would be with
_them_ all the evening. I told her exactly what you wrote me. She won’t
write to the girl any more, she promises; and tomorrow she will be off,
as you wish. She desired to see you for the last time, although you
refused, so we’ve been sitting and waiting on that bench till you
should pass on your way home.”

“Did she bring you with her of her own accord?”

“Of course she did!” said Rogojin, showing his teeth; “and I saw for
myself what I knew before. You’ve read her letters, I suppose?”

“Did you read them?” asked the prince, struck by the thought.

“Of course—she showed them to me herself. You are thinking of the
razor, eh? Ha, ha, ha!”

“Oh, she is mad!” cried the prince, wringing his hands.

“Who knows? Perhaps she is not so mad after all,” said Rogojin, softly,
as though thinking aloud.

The prince made no reply.

“Well, good-bye,” said Rogojin. “I’m off tomorrow too, you know.
Remember me kindly! By-the-by,” he added, turning round sharply again,
“did you answer her question just now? Are you happy, or not?”

“No, no, no!” cried the prince, with unspeakable sadness.

“Ha, ha! I never supposed you would say ‘yes,’” cried Rogojin, laughing
sardonically.

And he disappeared, without looking round again.




PART IV


I.

A week had elapsed since the rendezvous of our two friends on the green
bench in the park, when, one fine morning at about half-past ten
o’clock, Varvara Ardalionovna, otherwise Mrs. Ptitsin, who had been out
to visit a friend, returned home in a state of considerable mental
depression.

There are certain people of whom it is difficult to say anything which
will at once throw them into relief—in other words, describe them
graphically in their typical characteristics. These are they who are
generally known as “commonplace people,” and this class comprises, of
course, the immense majority of mankind. Authors, as a rule, attempt to
select and portray types rarely met with in their entirety, but these
types are nevertheless more real than real life itself.

“Podkoleosin” [A character in Gogol’s comedy, The Wedding.] was perhaps
an exaggeration, but he was by no means a non-existent character; on
the contrary, how many intelligent people, after hearing of this
Podkoleosin from Gogol, immediately began to find that scores of their
friends were exactly like him! They knew, perhaps, before Gogol told
them, that their friends were like Podkoleosin, but they did not know
what name to give them. In real life, young fellows seldom jump out of
the window just before their weddings, because such a feat, not to
speak of its other aspects, must be a decidedly unpleasant mode of
escape; and yet there are plenty of bridegrooms, intelligent fellows
too, who would be ready to confess themselves Podkoleosins in the
depths of their consciousness, just before marriage. Nor does every
husband feel bound to repeat at every step, “_Tu l’as voulu, Georges
Dandin!_” like another typical personage; and yet how many millions and
billions of Georges Dandins there are in real life who feel inclined to
utter this soul-drawn cry after their honeymoon, if not the day after
the wedding! Therefore, without entering into any more serious
examination of the question, I will content myself with remarking that
in real life typical characters are “watered down,” so to speak; and
all these Dandins and Podkoleosins actually exist among us every day,
but in a diluted form. I will just add, however, that Georges Dandin
might have existed exactly as Molière presented him, and probably does
exist now and then, though rarely; and so I will end this scientific
examination, which is beginning to look like a newspaper criticism. But
for all this, the question remains,—what are the novelists to do with
commonplace people, and how are they to be presented to the reader in
such a form as to be in the least degree interesting? They cannot be
left out altogether, for commonplace people meet one at every turn of
life, and to leave them out would be to destroy the whole reality and
probability of the story. To fill a novel with typical characters only,
or with merely strange and uncommon people, would render the book
unreal and improbable, and would very likely destroy the interest. In
my opinion, the duty of the novelist is to seek out points of interest
and instruction even in the characters of commonplace people.

For instance, when the whole essence of an ordinary person’s nature
lies in his perpetual and unchangeable commonplaceness; and when in
spite of all his endeavours to do something out of the common, this
person ends, eventually, by remaining in his unbroken line of routine—.
I think such an individual really does become a type of his own—a type
of commonplaceness which will not for the world, if it can help it, be
contented, but strains and yearns to be something original and
independent, without the slightest possibility of being so. To this
class of commonplace people belong several characters in this
novel;—characters which—I admit—I have not drawn very vividly up to now
for my reader’s benefit.

Such were, for instance, Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsin, her husband, and
her brother, Gania.

There is nothing so annoying as to be fairly rich, of a fairly good
family, pleasing presence, average education, to be “not stupid,”
kind-hearted, and yet to have no talent at all, no originality, not a
single idea of one’s own—to be, in fact, “just like everyone else.”

Of such people there are countless numbers in this world—far more even
than appear. They can be divided into two classes as all men can—that
is, those of limited intellect, and those who are much cleverer. The
former of these classes is the happier.

To a commonplace man of limited intellect, for instance, nothing is
simpler than to imagine himself an original character, and to revel in
that belief without the slightest misgiving.

Many of our young women have thought fit to cut their hair short, put
on blue spectacles, and call themselves Nihilists. By doing this they
have been able to persuade themselves, without further trouble, that
they have acquired new convictions of their own. Some men have but felt
some little qualm of kindness towards their fellow-men, and the fact
has been quite enough to persuade them that they stand alone in the van
of enlightenment and that no one has such humanitarian feelings as
they. Others have but to read an idea of somebody else’s, and they can
immediately assimilate it and believe that it was a child of their own
brain. The “impudence of ignorance,” if I may use the expression, is
developed to a wonderful extent in such cases;—unlikely as it appears,
it is met with at every turn.

This confidence of a stupid man in his own talents has been wonderfully
depicted by Gogol in the amazing character of Pirogoff. Pirogoff has
not the slightest doubt of his own genius,—nay, of his _superiority_ of
genius,—so certain is he of it that he never questions it. How many
Pirogoffs have there not been among our writers—scholars,
propagandists? I say “have been,” but indeed there are plenty of them
at this very day.

Our friend, Gania, belonged to the other class—to the “much cleverer”
persons, though he was from head to foot permeated and saturated with
the longing to be original. This class, as I have said above, is far
less happy. For the “clever commonplace” person, though he may possibly
imagine himself a man of genius and originality, none the less has
within his heart the deathless worm of suspicion and doubt; and this
doubt sometimes brings a clever man to despair. (As a rule, however,
nothing tragic happens;—his liver becomes a little damaged in the
course of time, nothing more serious. Such men do not give up their
aspirations after originality without a severe struggle,—and there have
been men who, though good fellows in themselves, and even benefactors
to humanity, have sunk to the level of base criminals for the sake of
originality).

Gania was a beginner, as it were, upon this road. A deep and
unchangeable consciousness of his own lack of talent, combined with a
vast longing to be able to persuade himself that he was original, had
rankled in his heart, even from childhood.

He seemed to have been born with overwrought nerves, and in his
passionate desire to excel, he was often led to the brink of some rash
step; and yet, having resolved upon such a step, when the moment
arrived, he invariably proved too sensible to take it. He was ready, in
the same way, to do a base action in order to obtain his wished-for
object; and yet, when the moment came to do it, he found that he was
too honest for any great baseness. (Not that he objected to acts of
petty meanness—he was always ready for _them_.) He looked with hate and
loathing on the poverty and downfall of his family, and treated his
mother with haughty contempt, although he knew that his whole future
depended on her character and reputation.

Aglaya had simply frightened him; yet he did not give up all thoughts
of her—though he never seriously hoped that she would condescend to
him. At the time of his “adventure” with Nastasia Philipovna he had
come to the conclusion that money was his only hope—money should do all
for him.

At the moment when he lost Aglaya, and after the scene with Nastasia,
he had felt so low in his own eyes that he actually brought the money
back to the prince. Of this returning of the money given to him by a
madwoman who had received it from a madman, he had often repented
since—though he never ceased to be proud of his action. During the
short time that Muishkin remained in Petersburg Gania had had time to
come to hate him for his sympathy, though the prince told him that it
was “not everyone who would have acted so nobly” as to return the
money. He had long pondered, too, over his relations with Aglaya, and
had persuaded himself that with such a strange, childish, innocent
character as hers, things might have ended very differently. Remorse
then seized him; he threw up his post, and buried himself in
self-torment and reproach.

He lived at Ptitsin’s, and openly showed contempt for the latter,
though he always listened to his advice, and was sensible enough to ask
for it when he wanted it. Gavrila Ardalionovitch was angry with Ptitsin
because the latter did not care to become a Rothschild. “If you are to
be a Jew,” he said, “do it properly—squeeze people right and left, show
some character; be the King of the Jews while you are about it.”

Ptitsin was quiet and not easily offended—he only laughed. But on one
occasion he explained seriously to Gania that he was no Jew, that he
did nothing dishonest, that he could not help the market price of
money, that, thanks to his accurate habits, he had already a good
footing and was respected, and that his business was flourishing.

“I shan’t ever be a Rothschild, and there is no reason why I should,”
he added, smiling; “but I shall have a house in the Liteynaya, perhaps
two, and that will be enough for me.” “Who knows but what I may have
three!” he concluded to himself; but this dream, cherished inwardly, he
never confided to a soul.

Nature loves and favours such people. Ptitsin will certainly have his
reward, not three houses, but four, precisely because from childhood up
he had realized that he would never be a Rothschild. That will be the
limit of Ptitsin’s fortune, and, come what may, he will never have more
than four houses.

Varvara Ardalionovna was not like her brother. She too, had passionate
desires, but they were persistent rather than impetuous. Her plans were
as wise as her methods of carrying them out. No doubt she also belonged
to the category of ordinary people who dream of being original, but she
soon discovered that she had not a grain of true originality, and she
did not let it trouble her too much. Perhaps a certain kind of pride
came to her help. She made her first concession to the demands of
practical life with great resolution when she consented to marry
Ptitsin. However, when she married she did not say to herself, “Never
mind a mean action if it leads to the end in view,” as her brother
would certainly have said in such a case; it is quite probable that he
may have said it when he expressed his elder-brotherly satisfaction at
her decision. Far from this; Varvara Ardalionovna did not marry until
she felt convinced that her future husband was unassuming, agreeable,
almost cultured, and that nothing on earth would tempt him to a really
dishonourable deed. As to small meannesses, such trifles did not
trouble her. Indeed, who is free from them? It is absurd to expect the
ideal! Besides, she knew that her marriage would provide a refuge for
all her family. Seeing Gania unhappy, she was anxious to help him, in
spite of their former disputes and misunderstandings. Ptitsin, in a
friendly way, would press his brother-in-law to enter the army. “You
know,” he said sometimes, jokingly, “you despise generals and
generaldom, but you will see that ‘they’ will all end by being generals
in their turn. You will see it if you live long enough!”

“But why should they suppose that I despise generals?” Gania thought
sarcastically to himself.

To serve her brother’s interests, Varvara Ardalionovna was constantly
at the Epanchins’ house, helped by the fact that in childhood she and
Gania had played with General Ivan Fedorovitch’s daughters. It would
have been inconsistent with her character if in these visits she had
been pursuing a chimera; her project was not chimerical at all; she was
building on a firm basis—on her knowledge of the character of the
Epanchin family, especially Aglaya, whom she studied closely. All
Varvara’s efforts were directed towards bringing Aglaya and Gania
together. Perhaps she achieved some result; perhaps, also, she made the
mistake of depending too much upon her brother, and expecting more from
him than he would ever be capable of giving. However this may be, her
manoeuvres were skilful enough. For weeks at a time she would never
mention Gania. Her attitude was modest but dignified, and she was
always extremely truthful and sincere. Examining the depths of her
conscience, she found nothing to reproach herself with, and this still
further strengthened her in her designs. But Varvara Ardalionovna
sometimes remarked that she felt spiteful; that there was a good deal
of vanity in her, perhaps even of wounded vanity. She noticed this at
certain times more than at others, and especially after her visits to
the Epanchins.

Today, as I have said, she returned from their house with a heavy
feeling of dejection. There was a sensation of bitterness, a sort of
mocking contempt, mingled with it.

Arrived at her own house, Varia heard a considerable commotion going on
in the upper storey, and distinguished the voices of her father and
brother. On entering the salon she found Gania pacing up and down at
frantic speed, pale with rage and almost tearing his hair. She frowned,
and subsided on to the sofa with a tired air, and without taking the
trouble to remove her hat. She very well knew that if she kept quiet
and asked her brother nothing about his reason for tearing up and down
the room, his wrath would fall upon her head. So she hastened to put
the question:

“The old story, eh?”

“Old story? No! Heaven knows what’s up now—I don’t! Father has simply
gone mad; mother’s in floods of tears. Upon my word, Varia, I must kick
him out of the house; or else go myself,” he added, probably
remembering that he could not well turn people out of a house which was
not his own.

“You must make allowances,” murmured Varia.

“Make allowances? For whom? Him—the old blackguard? No, no, Varia—that
won’t do! It won’t do, I tell you! And look at the swagger of the man!
He’s all to blame himself, and yet he puts on so much ‘side’ that you’d
think—my word!—‘It’s too much trouble to go through the gate, you must
break the fence for me!’ That’s the sort of air he puts on; but what’s
the matter with you, Varia? What a curious expression you have!”

“I’m all right,” said Varia, in a tone that sounded as though she were
all wrong.

Gania looked more intently at her.

“You’ve been _there?_” he asked, suddenly.

“Yes.”

“Did you find out anything?”

“Nothing unexpected. I discovered that it’s all true. My husband was
wiser than either of us. Just as he suspected from the beginning, so it
has fallen out. Where is he?”

“Out. Well—what has happened?—go on.”

“The prince is formally engaged to her—that’s settled. The elder
sisters told me about it. Aglaya has agreed. They don’t attempt to
conceal it any longer; you know how mysterious and secret they have all
been up to now. Adelaida’s wedding is put off again, so that both can
be married on one day. Isn’t that delightfully romantic? Somebody ought
to write a poem on it. Sit down and write an ode instead of tearing up
and down like that. This evening Princess Bielokonski is to arrive; she
comes just in time—they have a party tonight. He is to be presented to
old Bielokonski, though I believe he knows her already; probably the
engagement will be openly announced. They are only afraid that he may
knock something down, or trip over something when he comes into the
room. It would be just like him.”

Gania listened attentively, but to his sister’s astonishment he was by
no means so impressed by this news (which should, she thought, have
been so important to him) as she had expected.

“Well, it was clear enough all along,” he said, after a moment’s
reflection. “So that’s the end,” he added, with a disagreeable smile,
continuing to walk up and down the room, but much slower than before,
and glancing slyly into his sister’s face.

“It’s a good thing that you take it philosophically, at all events,”
said Varia. “I’m really very glad of it.”

“Yes, it’s off our hands—off _yours_, I should say.”

“I think I have served you faithfully. I never even asked you what
happiness you expected to find with Aglaya.”

“Did I ever expect to find happiness with Aglaya?”

“Come, come, don’t overdo your philosophy. Of course you did. Now it’s
all over, and a good thing, too; pair of fools that we have been! I
confess I have never been able to look at it seriously. I busied myself
in it for your sake, thinking that there was no knowing what might
happen with a funny girl like that to deal with. There were ninety to
one chances against it. To this moment I can’t make out why you wished
for it.”

“H’m! now, I suppose, you and your husband will never weary of egging
me on to work again. You’ll begin your lectures about perseverance and
strength of will, and all that. I know it all by heart,” said Gania,
laughing.

“He’s got some new idea in his head,” thought Varia. “Are they pleased
over there—the parents?” asked Gania, suddenly.

“N-no, I don’t think they are. You can judge for yourself. I think the
general is pleased enough; her mother is a little uneasy. She always
loathed the idea of the prince as a _husband_; everybody knows that.”

“Of course, naturally. The bridegroom is an impossible and ridiculous
one. I mean, has _she_ given her formal consent?”

“She has not said ‘no,’ up to now, and that’s all. It was sure to be so
with her. You know what she is like. You know how absurdly shy she is.
You remember how she used to hide in a cupboard as a child, so as to
avoid seeing visitors, for hours at a time. She is just the same now;
but, do you know, I think there is something serious in the matter,
even from her side; I feel it, somehow. She laughs at the prince, they
say, from morn to night in order to hide her real feelings; but you may
be sure she finds occasion to say something or other to him on the sly,
for he himself is in a state of radiant happiness. He walks in the
clouds; they say he is extremely funny just now; I heard it from
themselves. They seemed to be laughing at me in their sleeves—those
elder girls—I don’t know why.”

Gania had begun to frown, and probably Varia added this last sentence
in order to probe his thought. However, at this moment, the noise began
again upstairs.

“I’ll turn him out!” shouted Gania, glad of the opportunity of venting
his vexation. “I shall just turn him out—we can’t have this.”

“Yes, and then he’ll go about the place and disgrace us as he did
yesterday.”

“How ‘as he did yesterday’? What do you mean? What did he do
yesterday?” asked Gania, in alarm.

“Why, goodness me, don’t you know?” Varia stopped short.

“What? You don’t mean to say that he went there yesterday!” cried
Gania, flushing red with shame and anger. “Good heavens, Varia! Speak!
You have just been there. _Was_ he there or not, _quick?_” And Gania
rushed for the door. Varia followed and caught him by both hands.

“What are you doing? Where are you going to? You can’t let him go now;
if you do he’ll go and do something worse.”

“What did he do there? What did he say?”

“They couldn’t tell me themselves; they couldn’t make head or tail of
it; but he frightened them all. He came to see the general, who was not
at home; so he asked for Lizabetha Prokofievna. First of all, he begged
her for some place, or situation, for work of some kind, and then he
began to complain about _us_, about me and my husband, and you,
especially _you_; he said a lot of things.”

“Oh! couldn’t you find out?” muttered Gania, trembling hysterically.

“No—nothing more than that. Why, they couldn’t understand him
themselves; and very likely didn’t tell me all.”

Gania seized his head with both hands and tottered to the window; Varia
sat down at the other window.

“Funny girl, Aglaya,” she observed, after a pause. “When she left me
she said, ‘Give my special and personal respects to your parents; I
shall certainly find an opportunity to see your father one day,’ and so
serious over it. She’s a strange creature.”

“Wasn’t she joking? She was speaking sarcastically!”

“Not a bit of it; that’s just the strange part of it.”

“Does she know about father, do you think—or not?”

“That they do _not_ know about it in the house is quite certain, the
rest of them, I mean; but you have given me an idea. Aglaya perhaps
knows. She alone, though, if anyone; for the sisters were as astonished
as I was to hear her speak so seriously. If she knows, the prince must
have told her.”

“Oh! it’s not a great matter to guess who told her. A thief! A thief in
our family, and the head of the family, too!”

“Oh! nonsense!” cried Varia, angrily. “That was nothing but a
drunkard’s tale. Nonsense! Why, who invented the whole thing—Lebedeff
and the prince—a pretty pair! Both were probably drunk.”

“Father is a drunkard and a thief; I am a beggar, and the husband of my
sister is a usurer,” continued Gania, bitterly. “There was a pretty
list of advantages with which to enchant the heart of Aglaya.”

“That same husband of your sister, the usurer—”

“Feeds me? Go on. Don’t stand on ceremony, pray.”

“Don’t lose your temper. You are just like a schoolboy. You think that
all this sort of thing would harm you in Aglaya’s eyes, do you? You
little know her character. She is capable of refusing the most
brilliant party, and running away and starving in a garret with some
wretched student; that’s the sort of girl she is. You never could or
did understand how interesting you would have seen in her eyes if you
had come firmly and proudly through our misfortunes. The prince has
simply caught her with hook and line; firstly, because he never thought
of fishing for her, and secondly, because he is an idiot in the eyes of
most people. It’s quite enough for her that by accepting him she puts
her family out and annoys them all round—that’s what she likes. You
don’t understand these things.”

“We shall see whether I understand or no!” said Gania, enigmatically.
“But I shouldn’t like her to know all about father, all the same. I
thought the prince would manage to hold his tongue about this, at
least. He prevented Lebedeff spreading the news—he wouldn’t even tell
me all when I asked him—”

“Then you must see that he is not responsible. What does it matter to
you now, in any case? What are you hoping for still? If you _have_ a
hope left, it is that your suffering air may soften her heart towards
you.”

“Oh, she would funk a scandal like anyone else. You are all tarred with
one brush!”

“What! _Aglaya_ would have funked? You are a chicken-hearted fellow,
Gania!” said Varia, looking at her brother with contempt. “Not one of
us is worth much. Aglaya may be a wild sort of a girl, but she is far
nobler than any of us, a thousand times nobler!”

“Well—come! there’s nothing to get cross about,” said Gania.

“All I’m afraid of is—mother. I’m afraid this scandal about father may
come to her ears; perhaps it has already. I am dreadfully afraid.”

“It undoubtedly has already!” observed Gania.

Varia had risen from her place and had started to go upstairs to her
mother; but at this observation of Gania’s she turned and gazed at him
attentively.

“Who could have told her?”

“Hippolyte, probably. He would think it the most delightful amusement
in the world to tell her of it the instant he moved over here; I
haven’t a doubt of it.”

“But how could he know anything of it? Tell me that. Lebedeff and the
prince determined to tell no one—even Colia knows nothing.”

“What, Hippolyte? He found it out himself, of course. Why, you have no
idea what a cunning little animal he is; dirty little gossip! He has
the most extraordinary nose for smelling out other people’s secrets, or
anything approaching to scandal. Believe it or not, but I’m pretty sure
he has got round Aglaya. If he hasn’t, he soon will. Rogojin is
intimate with him, too. How the prince doesn’t notice it, I can’t
understand. The little wretch considers me his enemy now and does his
best to catch me tripping. What on earth does it matter to him, when
he’s dying? However, you’ll see; I shall catch _him_ tripping yet, and
not he me.”

“Why did you get him over here, if you hate him so? And is it really
worth your while to try to score off him?”

“Why, it was yourself who advised me to bring him over!”

“I thought he might be useful. You know he is in love with Aglaya
himself, now, and has written to her; he has even written to Lizabetha
Prokofievna!”

“Oh! he’s not dangerous there!” cried Gania, laughing angrily.
“However, I believe there is something of that sort in the air; he is
very likely to be in love, for he is a mere boy. But he won’t write
anonymous letters to the old lady; that would be too audacious a thing
for him to attempt; but I dare swear the very first thing he did was to
show me up to Aglaya as a base deceiver and intriguer. I confess I was
fool enough to attempt something through him at first. I thought he
would throw himself into my service out of revengeful feelings towards
the prince, the sly little beast! But I know him better now. As for the
theft, he may have heard of it from the widow in Petersburg, for if the
old man committed himself to such an act, he can have done it for no
other object but to give the money to her. Hippolyte said to me,
without any prelude, that the general had promised the widow four
hundred roubles. Of course I understood, and the little wretch looked
at me with a nasty sort of satisfaction. I know him; you may depend
upon it he went and told mother too, for the pleasure of wounding her.
And why doesn’t he die, I should like to know? He undertook to die
within three weeks, and here he is getting fatter. His cough is better,
too. It was only yesterday that he said that was the second day he
hadn’t coughed blood.”

“Well, turn him out!”

“I don’t _hate_, I despise him,” said Gania, grandly. “Well, I do hate
him, if you like!” he added, with a sudden access of rage, “and I’ll
tell him so to his face, even when he’s dying! If you had but read his
confession—good Lord! what refinement of impudence! Oh, but I’d have
liked to whip him then and there, like a schoolboy, just to see how
surprised he would have been! Now he hates everybody because he—Oh, I
say, what on earth are they doing there! Listen to that noise! I really
can’t stand this any longer. Ptitsin!” he cried, as the latter entered
the room, “what in the name of goodness are we coming to? Listen to
that—”

But the noise came rapidly nearer, the door burst open, and old General
Ivolgin, raging, furious, purple-faced, and trembling with anger,
rushed in. He was followed by Nina Alexandrovna, Colia, and behind the
rest, Hippolyte.

II.

Hippolyte had now been five days at the Ptitsins’. His flitting from
the prince’s to these new quarters had been brought about quite
naturally and without many words. He did not quarrel with the prince—in
fact, they seemed to part as friends. Gania, who had been hostile
enough on that eventful evening, had himself come to see him a couple
of days later, probably in obedience to some sudden impulse. For some
reason or other, Rogojin too had begun to visit the sick boy. The
prince thought it might be better for him to move away from his (the
prince’s) house. Hippolyte informed him, as he took his leave, that
Ptitsin “had been kind enough to offer him a corner,” and did not say a
word about Gania, though Gania had procured his invitation, and himself
came to fetch him away. Gania noticed this at the time, and put it to
Hippolyte’s debit on account.

Gania was right when he told his sister that Hippolyte was getting
better; that he was better was clear at the first glance. He entered
the room now last of all, deliberately, and with a disagreeable smile
on his lips.

Nina Alexandrovna came in, looking frightened. She had changed much
since we last saw her, half a year ago, and had grown thin and pale.
Colia looked worried and perplexed. He could not understand the
vagaries of the general, and knew nothing of the last achievement of
that worthy, which had caused so much commotion in the house. But he
could see that his father had of late changed very much, and that he
had begun to behave in so extraordinary a fashion both at home and
abroad that he was not like the same man. What perplexed and disturbed
him as much as anything was that his father had entirely given up
drinking during the last few days. Colia knew that he had quarrelled
with both Lebedeff and the prince, and had just bought a small bottle
of vodka and brought it home for his father.

“Really, mother,” he had assured Nina Alexandrovna upstairs, “really
you had better let him drink. He has not had a drop for three days; he
must be suffering agonies—” The general now entered the room, threw the
door wide open, and stood on the threshold trembling with indignation.

“Look here, my dear sir,” he began, addressing Ptitsin in a very loud
tone of voice; “if you have really made up your mind to sacrifice an
old man—your father too or at all events father of your wife—an old man
who has served his emperor—to a wretched little atheist like this, all
I can say is, sir, my foot shall cease to tread your floors. Make your
choice, sir; make your choice quickly, if you please! Me or this—screw!
Yes, screw, sir; I said it accidentally, but let the word stand—this
screw, for he screws and drills himself into my soul—”

“Hadn’t you better say corkscrew?” said Hippolyte.

“No, sir, _not_ corkscrew. I am a general, not a bottle, sir. Make your
choice, sir—me or him.”

Here Colia handed him a chair, and he subsided into it, breathless with
rage.

“Hadn’t you better—better—take a nap?” murmured the stupefied Ptitsin.

“A nap?” shrieked the general. “I am not drunk, sir; you insult me! I
see,” he continued, rising, “I see that all are against me here.
Enough—I go; but know, sirs—know that—”

He was not allowed to finish his sentence. Somebody pushed him back
into his chair, and begged him to be calm. Nina Alexandrovna trembled,
and cried quietly. Gania retired to the window in disgust.

“But what have I done? What is his grievance?” asked Hippolyte,
grinning.

“What have you done, indeed?” put in Nina Alexandrovna. “You ought to
be ashamed of yourself, teasing an old man like that—and in your
position, too.”

“And pray what _is_ my position, madame? I have the greatest respect
for you, personally; but—”

“He’s a little screw,” cried the general; “he drills holes in my heart
and soul. He wishes me to be a pervert to atheism. Know, you young
greenhorn, that I was covered with honours before ever you were born;
and you are nothing better than a wretched little worm, torn in two
with coughing, and dying slowly of your own malice and unbelief. What
did Gavrila bring you over here for? They’re all against me, even to my
own son—all against me.”

“Oh, come—nonsense!” cried Gania; “if you did not go shaming us all
over the town, things might be better for all parties.”

“What—shame you? I?—what do you mean, you young calf? I shame you? I
can only do you honour, sir; I cannot shame you.”

He jumped up from his chair in a fit of uncontrollable rage. Gania was
very angry too.

“Honour, indeed!” said the latter, with contempt.

“What do you say, sir?” growled the general, taking a step towards him.

“I say that I have but to open my mouth, and you—”

Gania began, but did not finish. The two—father and son—stood before
one another, both unspeakably agitated, especially Gania.

“Gania, Gania, reflect!” cried his mother, hurriedly.

“It’s all nonsense on both sides,” snapped out Varia. “Let them alone,
mother.”

“It’s only for mother’s sake that I spare him,” said Gania, tragically.

“Speak!” said the general, beside himself with rage and excitement;
“speak—under the penalty of a father’s curse!”

“Oh, father’s curse be hanged—you don’t frighten me that way!” said
Gania. “Whose fault is it that you have been as mad as a March hare all
this week? It is just a week—you see, I count the days. Take care now;
don’t provoke me too much, or I’ll tell all. Why did you go to the
Epanchins’ yesterday—tell me that? And you call yourself an old man,
too, with grey hair, and father of a family! H’m—nice sort of a
father.”

“Be quiet, Gania,” cried Colia. “Shut up, you fool!”

“Yes, but how have I offended him?” repeated Hippolyte, still in the
same jeering voice. “Why does he call me a screw? You all heard it. He
came to me himself and began telling me about some Captain Eropegoff. I
don’t wish for your company, general. I always avoided you—you know
that. What have I to do with Captain Eropegoff? All I did was to
express my opinion that probably Captain Eropegoff never existed at
all!”

“Of course he never existed!” Gania interrupted.

But the general only stood stupefied and gazed around in a dazed way.
Gania’s speech had impressed him, with its terrible candour. For the
first moment or two he could find no words to answer him, and it was
only when Hippolyte burst out laughing, and said:

“There, you see! Even your own son supports my statement that there
never was such a person as Captain Eropegoff!” that the old fellow
muttered confusedly:

“Kapiton Eropegoff—not Captain Eropegoff!—Kapiton—major
retired—Eropegoff—Kapiton.”

“Kapiton didn’t exist either!” persisted Gania, maliciously.

“What? Didn’t exist?” cried the poor general, and a deep blush suffused
his face.

“That’ll do, Gania!” cried Varia and Ptitsin.

“Shut up, Gania!” said Colia.

But this intercession seemed to rekindle the general.

“What did you mean, sir, that he didn’t exist? Explain yourself,” he
repeated, angrily.

“Because he _didn’t_ exist—never could and never did—there! You’d
better drop the subject, I warn you!”

“And this is my son—my own son—whom I—oh, gracious Heaven!
Eropegoff—Eroshka Eropegoff didn’t exist!”

“Ha, ha! it’s Eroshka now,” laughed Hippolyte.

“No, sir, Kapitoshka—not Eroshka. I mean, Kapiton Alexeyevitch—retired
major—married Maria Petrovna Lu—Lu—he was my friend and
companion—Lutugoff—from our earliest beginnings. I closed his eyes for
him—he was killed. Kapiton Eropegoff never existed! tfu!”

The general shouted in his fury; but it was to be concluded that his
wrath was not kindled by the expressed doubt as to Kapiton’s existence.
This was his scapegoat; but his excitement was caused by something
quite different. As a rule he would have merely shouted down the doubt
as to Kapiton, told a long yarn about his friend, and eventually
retired upstairs to his room. But today, in the strange uncertainty of
human nature, it seemed to require but so small an offence as this to
make his cup to overflow. The old man grew purple in the face, he
raised his hands. “Enough of this!” he yelled. “My curse—away, out of
the house I go! Colia, bring my bag away!” He left the room hastily and
in a paroxysm of rage.

His wife, Colia, and Ptitsin ran out after him.

“What have you done now?” said Varia to Gania. “He’ll probably be
making off _there_ again! What a disgrace it all is!”

“Well, he shouldn’t steal,” cried Gania, panting with fury. And just at
this moment his eye met Hippolyte’s.

“As for you, sir,” he cried, “you should at least remember that you are
in a strange house and—receiving hospitality; you should not take the
opportunity of tormenting an old man, sir, who is too evidently out of
his mind.”

Hippolyte looked furious, but he restrained himself.

“I don’t quite agree with you that your father is out of his mind,” he
observed, quietly. “On the contrary, I cannot help thinking he has been
less demented of late. Don’t you think so? He has grown so cunning and
careful, and weighs his words so deliberately; he spoke to me about
that Kapiton fellow with an object, you know! Just fancy—he wanted me
to—”

“Oh, devil take what he wanted you to do! Don’t try to be too cunning
with me, young man!” shouted Gania. “If you are aware of the real
reason for my father’s present condition (and you have kept such an
excellent spying watch during these last few days that you are sure to
be aware of it)—you had no right whatever to torment the—unfortunate
man, and to worry my mother by your exaggerations of the affair;
because the whole business is nonsense—simply a drunken freak, and
nothing more, quite unproved by any evidence, and I don’t believe that
much of it!” (he snapped his fingers). “But you must needs spy and
watch over us all, because you are a—a—”

“Screw!” laughed Hippolyte.

“Because you are a humbug, sir; and thought fit to worry people for
half an hour, and tried to frighten them into believing that you would
shoot yourself with your little empty pistol, pirouetting about and
playing at suicide! I gave you hospitality, you have fattened on it,
your cough has left you, and you repay all this—”

“Excuse me—two words! I am Varvara Ardalionovna’s guest, not yours;
_you_ have extended no hospitality to me. On the contrary, if I am not
mistaken, I believe you are yourself indebted to Mr. Ptitsin’s
hospitality. Four days ago I begged my mother to come down here and
find lodgings, because I certainly do feel better here, though I am not
fat, nor have I ceased to cough. I am today informed that my room is
ready for me; therefore, having thanked your sister and mother for
their kindness to me, I intend to leave the house this evening. I beg
your pardon—I interrupted you—I think you were about to add something?”

“Oh—if that is the state of affairs—” began Gania.

“Excuse me—I will take a seat,” interrupted Hippolyte once more,
sitting down deliberately; “for I am not strong yet. Now then, I am
ready to hear you. Especially as this is the last chance we shall have
of a talk, and very likely the last meeting we shall ever have at all.”

Gania felt a little guilty.

“I assure you I did not mean to reckon up debits and credits,” he
began, “and if you—”

“I don’t understand your condescension,” said Hippolyte. “As for me, I
promised myself, on the first day of my arrival in this house, that I
would have the satisfaction of settling accounts with you in a very
thorough manner before I said good-bye to you. I intend to perform this
operation now, if you like; after you, though, of course.”

“May I ask you to be so good as to leave this room?”

“You’d better speak out. You’ll be sorry afterwards if you don’t.”

“Hippolyte, stop, please! It’s so dreadfully undignified,” said Varia.

“Well, only for the sake of a lady,” said Hippolyte, laughing. “I am
ready to put off the reckoning, but only put it off, Varvara
Ardalionovna, because an explanation between your brother and myself
has become an absolute necessity, and I could not think of leaving the
house without clearing up all misunderstandings first.”

“In a word, you are a wretched little scandal-monger,” cried Gania,
“and you cannot go away without a scandal!”

“You see,” said Hippolyte, coolly, “you can’t restrain yourself. You’ll
be dreadfully sorry afterwards if you don’t speak out now. Come, you
shall have the first say. I’ll wait.”

Gania was silent and merely looked contemptuously at him.

“You won’t? Very well. I shall be as short as possible, for my part.
Two or three times to-day I have had the word ‘hospitality’ pushed down
my throat; this is not fair. In inviting me here you yourself entrapped
me for your own use; you thought I wished to revenge myself upon the
prince. You heard that Aglaya Ivanovna had been kind to me and read my
confession. Making sure that I should give myself up to your interests,
you hoped that you might get some assistance out of me. I will not go
into details. I don’t ask either admission or confirmation of this from
yourself; I am quite content to leave you to your conscience, and to
feel that we understand one another capitally.”

“What a history you are weaving out of the most ordinary
circumstances!” cried Varia.

“I told you the fellow was nothing but a scandal-monger,” said Gania.

“Excuse me, Varia Ardalionovna, I will proceed. I can, of course,
neither love nor respect the prince, though he is a good-hearted
fellow, if a little queer. But there is no need whatever for me to hate
him. I quite understood your brother when he first offered me aid
against the prince, though I did not show it; I knew well that your
brother was making a ridiculous mistake in me. I am ready to spare him,
however, even now; but solely out of respect for yourself, Varvara
Ardalionovna.

“Having now shown you that I am not quite such a fool as I look, and
that I have to be fished for with a rod and line for a good long while
before I am caught, I will proceed to explain why I specially wished to
make your brother look a fool. That my motive power is hate, I do not
attempt to conceal. I have felt that before dying (and I am dying,
however much fatter I may appear to you), I must absolutely make a fool
of, at least, one of that class of men which has dogged me all my life,
which I hate so cordially, and which is so prominently represented by
your much esteemed brother. I should not enjoy paradise nearly so much
without having done this first. I hate you, Gavrila Ardalionovitch,
solely (this may seem curious to you, but I repeat)—solely because you
are the type, and incarnation, and head, and crown of the most
impudent, the most self-satisfied, the most vulgar and detestable form
of commonplaceness. You are ordinary of the ordinary; you have no
chance of ever fathering the pettiest idea of your own. And yet you are
as jealous and conceited as you can possibly be; you consider yourself
a great genius; of this you are persuaded, although there are dark
moments of doubt and rage, when even this fact seems uncertain. There
are spots of darkness on your horizon, though they will disappear when
you become completely stupid. But a long and chequered path lies before
you, and of this I am glad. In the first place you will never gain a
certain person.”

“Come, come! This is intolerable! You had better stop, you little
mischief-making wretch!” cried Varia. Gania had grown very pale; he
trembled, but said nothing.

Hippolyte paused, and looked at him intently and with great
gratification. He then turned his gaze upon Varia, bowed, and went out,
without adding another word.

Gania might justly complain of the hardness with which fate treated
him. Varia dared not speak to him for a long while, as he strode past
her, backwards and forwards. At last he went and stood at the window,
looking out, with his back turned towards her. There was a fearful row
going on upstairs again.

“Are you off?” said Gania, suddenly, remarking that she had risen and
was about to leave the room. “Wait a moment—look at this.”

He approached the table and laid a small sheet of paper before her. It
looked like a little note.

“Good heavens!” cried Varia, raising her hands.

This was the note:

“GAVRILA ARDOLIONOVITCH,—persuaded of your kindness of heart, I have
determined to ask your advice on a matter of great importance to
myself. I should like to meet you tomorrow morning at seven o’clock by
the green bench in the park. It is not far from our house. Varvara
Ardalionovna, who must accompany you, knows the place well.


“A. E.”


“What on earth is one to make of a girl like that?” said Varia.

Gania, little as he felt inclined for swagger at this moment, could not
avoid showing his triumph, especially just after such humiliating
remarks as those of Hippolyte. A smile of self-satisfaction beamed on
his face, and Varia too was brimming over with delight.

“And this is the very day that they were to announce the engagement!
What will she do next?”

“What do you suppose she wants to talk about tomorrow?” asked Gania.

“Oh, _that’s_ all the same! The chief thing is that she wants to see
you after six months’ absence. Look here, Gania, this is a _serious_
business. Don’t swagger again and lose the game—play carefully, but
don’t funk, do you understand? As if she could possibly avoid seeing
what I have been working for all this last six months! And just
imagine, I was there this morning and not a word of this! I was there,
you know, on the sly. The old lady did not know, or she would have
kicked me out. I ran some risk for you, you see. I did so want to find
out, at all hazards.”

Here there was a frantic noise upstairs once more; several people
seemed to be rushing downstairs at once.

“Now, Gania,” cried Varia, frightened, “we can’t let him go out! We
can’t afford to have a breath of scandal about the town at this moment.
Run after him and beg his pardon—quick.”

But the father of the family was out in the road already. Colia was
carrying his bag for him; Nina Alexandrovna stood and cried on the
doorstep; she wanted to run after the general, but Ptitsin kept her
back.

“You will only excite him more,” he said. “He has nowhere else to go
to—he’ll be back here in half an hour. I’ve talked it all over with
Colia; let him play the fool a bit, it will do him good.”

“What are you up to? Where are you off to? You’ve nowhere to go to, you
know,” cried Gania, out of the window.

“Come back, father; the neighbours will hear!” cried Varia.

The general stopped, turned round, raised his hands and remarked: “My
curse be upon this house!”

“Which observation should always be made in as theatrical a tone as
possible,” muttered Gania, shutting the window with a bang.

The neighbours undoubtedly did hear. Varia rushed out of the room.

No sooner had his sister left him alone, than Gania took the note out
of his pocket, kissed it, and pirouetted around.

III.

As a general rule, old General Ivolgin’s paroxysms ended in smoke. He
had before this experienced fits of sudden fury, but not very often,
because he was really a man of peaceful and kindly disposition. He had
tried hundreds of times to overcome the dissolute habits which he had
contracted of late years. He would suddenly remember that he was “a
father,” would be reconciled with his wife, and shed genuine tears. His
feeling for Nina Alexandrovna amounted almost to adoration; she had
pardoned so much in silence, and loved him still in spite of the state
of degradation into which he had fallen. But the general’s struggles
with his own weakness never lasted very long. He was, in his way, an
impetuous man, and a quiet life of repentance in the bosom of his
family soon became insupportable to him. In the end he rebelled, and
flew into rages which he regretted, perhaps, even as he gave way to
them, but which were beyond his control. He picked quarrels with
everyone, began to hold forth eloquently, exacted unlimited respect,
and at last disappeared from the house, and sometimes did not return
for a long time. He had given up interfering in the affairs of his
family for two years now, and knew nothing about them but what he
gathered from hearsay.

But on this occasion there was something more serious than usual.
Everyone seemed to know something, but to be afraid to talk about it.

The general had turned up in the bosom of his family two or three days
before, but not, as usual, with the olive branch of peace in his hand,
not in the garb of penitence—in which he was usually clad on such
occasions—but, on the contrary, in an uncommonly bad temper. He had
arrived in a quarrelsome mood, pitching into everyone he came across,
and talking about all sorts and kinds of subjects in the most
unexpected manner, so that it was impossible to discover what it was
that was really putting him out. At moments he would be apparently
quite bright and happy; but as a rule he would sit moody and
thoughtful. He would abruptly commence to hold forth about the
Epanchins, about Lebedeff, or the prince, and equally abruptly would
stop short and refuse to speak another word, answering all further
questions with a stupid smile, unconscious that he was smiling, or that
he had been asked a question. The whole of the previous night he had
spent tossing about and groaning, and poor Nina Alexandrovna had been
busy making cold compresses and warm fomentations and so on, without
being very clear how to apply them. He had fallen asleep after a while,
but not for long, and had awaked in a state of violent hypochondria
which had ended in his quarrel with Hippolyte, and the solemn cursing
of Ptitsin’s establishment generally. It was also observed during those
two or three days that he was in a state of morbid self-esteem, and was
specially touchy on all points of honour. Colia insisted, in discussing
the matter with his mother, that all this was but the outcome of
abstinence from drink, or perhaps of pining after Lebedeff, with whom
up to this time the general had been upon terms of the greatest
friendship; but with whom, for some reason or other, he had quarrelled
a few days since, parting from him in great wrath. There had also been
a scene with the prince. Colia had asked an explanation of the latter,
but had been forced to conclude that he was not told the whole truth.

If Hippolyte and Nina Alexandrovna had, as Gania suspected, had some
special conversation about the general’s actions, it was strange that
the malicious youth, whom Gania had called a scandal-monger to his
face, had not allowed himself a similar satisfaction with Colia.

The fact is that probably Hippolyte was not quite so black as Gania
painted him; and it was hardly likely that he had informed Nina
Alexandrovna of certain events, of which we know, for the mere pleasure
of giving her pain. We must never forget that human motives are
generally far more complicated than we are apt to suppose, and that we
can very rarely accurately describe the motives of another. It is much
better for the writer, as a rule, to content himself with the bare
statement of events; and we shall take this line with regard to the
catastrophe recorded above, and shall state the remaining events
connected with the general’s trouble shortly, because we feel that we
have already given to this secondary character in our story more
attention than we originally intended.

The course of events had marched in the following order. When Lebedeff
returned, in company with the general, after their expedition to town a
few days since, for the purpose of investigation, he brought the prince
no information whatever. If the latter had not himself been occupied
with other thoughts and impressions at the time, he must have observed
that Lebedeff not only was very uncommunicative, but even appeared
anxious to avoid him.

When the prince did give the matter a little attention, he recalled the
fact that during these days he had always found Lebedeff to be in
radiantly good spirits, when they happened to meet; and further, that
the general and Lebedeff were always together. The two friends did not
seem ever to be parted for a moment.

Occasionally the prince heard loud talking and laughing upstairs, and
once he detected the sound of a jolly soldier’s song going on above,
and recognized the unmistakable bass of the general’s voice. But the
sudden outbreak of song did not last; and for an hour afterwards the
animated sound of apparently drunken conversation continued to be heard
from above. At length there was the clearest evidence of a grand mutual
embracing, and someone burst into tears. Shortly after this, however,
there was a violent but short-lived quarrel, with loud talking on both
sides.

All these days Colia had been in a state of great mental preoccupation.
Muishkin was usually out all day, and only came home late at night. On
his return he was invariably informed that Colia had been looking for
him. However, when they did meet, Colia never had anything particular
to tell him, excepting that he was highly dissatisfied with the general
and his present condition of mind and behaviour.

“They drag each other about the place,” he said, “and get drunk
together at the pub close by here, and quarrel in the street on the way
home, and embrace one another after it, and don’t seem to part for a
moment.”

When the prince pointed out that there was nothing new about that, for
that they had always behaved in this manner together, Colia did not
know what to say; in fact he could not explain what it was that
specially worried him, just now, about his father.

On the morning following the bacchanalian songs and quarrels recorded
above, as the prince stepped out of the house at about eleven o’clock,
the general suddenly appeared before him, much agitated.

“I have long sought the honour and opportunity of meeting
you—much-esteemed Lef Nicolaievitch,” he murmured, pressing the
prince’s hand very hard, almost painfully so; “long—very long.”

The prince begged him to step in and sit down.

“No—I will not sit down,—I am keeping you, I see,—another time!—I think
I may be permitted to congratulate you upon the realization of your
heart’s best wishes, is it not so?”

“What best wishes?”

The prince blushed. He thought, as so many in his position do, that
nobody had seen, heard, noticed, or understood anything.

“Oh—be easy, sir, be easy! I shall not wound your tenderest feelings.
I’ve been through it all myself, and I know well how unpleasant it is
when an outsider sticks his nose in where he is not wanted. I
experience this every morning. I came to speak to you about another
matter, though, an important matter. A very important matter, prince.”

The latter requested him to take a seat once more, and sat down
himself.

“Well—just for one second, then. The fact is, I came for advice. Of
course I live now without any very practical objects in life; but,
being full of self-respect, in which quality the ordinary Russian is so
deficient as a rule, and of activity, I am desirous, in a word, prince,
of placing myself and my wife and children in a position of—in fact, I
want advice.”

The prince commended his aspirations with warmth.

“Quite so—quite so! But this is all mere nonsense. I came here to speak
of something quite different, something very important, prince. And I
have determined to come to you as to a man in whose sincerity and
nobility of feeling I can trust like—like—are you surprised at my
words, prince?”

The prince was watching his guest, if not with much surprise, at all
events with great attention and curiosity.

The old man was very pale; every now and then his lips trembled, and
his hands seemed unable to rest quietly, but continually moved from
place to place. He had twice already jumped up from his chair and sat
down again without being in the least aware of it. He would take up a
book from the table and open it—talking all the while,—look at the
heading of a chapter, shut it and put it back again, seizing another
immediately, but holding it unopened in his hand, and waving it in the
air as he spoke.

“But enough!” he cried, suddenly. “I see I have been boring you with
my—”

“Not in the least—not in the least, I assure you. On the contrary, I am
listening most attentively, and am anxious to guess—”

“Prince, I wish to place myself in a respectable position—I wish to
esteem myself—and to—”

“My dear sir, a man of such noble aspirations is worthy of all esteem
by virtue of those aspirations alone.”

The prince brought out his “copy-book sentence” in the firm belief that
it would produce a good effect. He felt instinctively that some such
well-sounding humbug, brought out at the proper moment, would soothe
the old man’s feelings, and would be specially acceptable to such a man
in such a position. At all hazards, his guest must be despatched with
heart relieved and spirit comforted; that was the problem before the
prince at this moment.

The phrase flattered the general, touched him, and pleased him
mightily. He immediately changed his tone, and started off on a long
and solemn explanation. But listen as he would, the prince could make
neither head nor tail of it.

The general spoke hotly and quickly for ten minutes; he spoke as though
his words could not keep pace with his crowding thoughts. Tears stood
in his eyes, and yet his speech was nothing but a collection of
disconnected sentences, without beginning and without end—a string of
unexpected words and unexpected sentiments—colliding with one another,
and jumping over one another, as they burst from his lips.

“Enough!” he concluded at last, “you understand me, and that is the
great thing. A heart like yours cannot help understanding the
sufferings of another. Prince, you are the ideal of generosity; what
are other men beside yourself? But you are young—accept my blessing! My
principal object is to beg you to fix an hour for a most important
conversation—that is my great hope, prince. My heart needs but a little
friendship and sympathy, and yet I cannot always find means to satisfy
it.”

“But why not now? I am ready to listen, and—”

“No, no—prince, not now! Now is a dream! And it is too, too important!
It is to be the hour of Fate to me—_my own_ hour. Our interview is not
to be broken in upon by every chance comer, every impertinent guest—and
there are plenty of such stupid, impertinent fellows”—(he bent over and
whispered mysteriously, with a funny, frightened look on his face)—“who
are unworthy to tie your shoe, prince. I don’t say _mine_, mind—you
will understand me, prince. Only _you_ understand me, prince—no one
else. _He_ doesn’t understand me, he is absolutely—_absolutely_ unable
to sympathize. The first qualification for understanding another is
Heart.”

The prince was rather alarmed at all this, and was obliged to end by
appointing the same hour of the following day for the interview
desired. The general left him much comforted and far less agitated than
when he had arrived.

At seven in the evening, the prince sent to request Lebedeff to pay him
a visit. Lebedeff came at once, and “esteemed it an honour,” as he
observed, the instant he entered the room. He acted as though there had
never been the slightest suspicion of the fact that he had
systematically avoided the prince for the last three days.

He sat down on the edge of his chair, smiling and making faces, and
rubbing his hands, and looking as though he were in delighted
expectation of hearing some important communication, which had been
long guessed by all.

The prince was instantly covered with confusion; for it appeared to be
plain that everyone expected something of him—that everyone looked at
him as though anxious to congratulate him, and greeted him with hints,
and smiles, and knowing looks.

Keller, for instance, had run into the house three times of late, “just
for a moment,” and each time with the air of desiring to offer his
congratulations. Colia, too, in spite of his melancholy, had once or
twice begun sentences in much the same strain of suggestion or
insinuation.

The prince, however, immediately began, with some show of annoyance, to
question Lebedeff categorically, as to the general’s present condition,
and his opinion thereon. He described the morning’s interview in a few
words.

“Everyone has his worries, prince, especially in these strange and
troublous times of ours,” Lebedeff replied, drily, and with the air of
a man disappointed of his reasonable expectations.

“Dear me, what a philosopher you are!” laughed the prince.

“Philosophy is necessary, sir—very necessary—in our day. It is too much
neglected. As for me, much esteemed prince, I am sensible of having
experienced the honour of your confidence in a certain matter up to a
certain point, but never beyond that point. I do not for a moment
complain—”

“Lebedeff, you seem to be angry for some reason!” said the prince.

“Not the least bit in the world, esteemed and revered prince! Not the
least bit in the world!” cried Lebedeff, solemnly, with his hand upon
his heart. “On the contrary, I am too painfully aware that neither by
my position in the world, nor by my gifts of intellect and heart, nor
by my riches, nor by any former conduct of mine, have I in any way
deserved your confidence, which is far above my highest aspirations and
hopes. Oh no, prince; I may serve you, but only as your humble slave! I
am not angry, oh no! Not angry; pained perhaps, but nothing more.

“My dear Lebedeff, I—”

“Oh, nothing more, nothing more! I was saying to myself but now... ‘I
am quite unworthy of friendly relations with him,’ say I; ‘but perhaps
as landlord of this house I may, at some future date, in his good time,
receive information as to certain imminent and much to be desired
changes—’”

So saying Lebedeff fixed the prince with his sharp little eyes, still
in hope that he would get his curiosity satisfied.

The prince looked back at him in amazement.

“I don’t understand what you are driving at!” he cried, almost angrily,
“and, and—what an intriguer you are, Lebedeff!” he added, bursting into
a fit of genuine laughter.

Lebedeff followed suit at once, and it was clear from his radiant face
that he considered his prospects of satisfaction immensely improved.

“And do you know,” the prince continued, “I am amazed at your naive
ways, Lebedeff! Don’t be angry with me—not only yours, everybody else’s
also! You are waiting to hear something from me at this very moment
with such simplicity that I declare I feel quite ashamed of myself for
having nothing whatever to tell you. I swear to you solemnly, that
there is nothing to tell. There! Can you take that in?” The prince
laughed again.

Lebedeff assumed an air of dignity. It was true enough that he was
sometimes naive to a degree in his curiosity; but he was also an
excessively cunning gentleman, and the prince was almost converting him
into an enemy by his repeated rebuffs. The prince did not snub
Lebedeff’s curiosity, however, because he felt any contempt for him;
but simply because the subject was too delicate to talk about. Only a
few days before he had looked upon his own dreams almost as crimes. But
Lebedeff considered the refusal as caused by personal dislike to
himself, and was hurt accordingly. Indeed, there was at this moment a
piece of news, most interesting to the prince, which Lebedeff knew and
even had wished to tell him, but which he now kept obstinately to
himself.

“And what can I do for you, esteemed prince? Since I am told you sent
for me just now,” he said, after a few moments’ silence.

“Oh, it was about the general,” began the prince, waking abruptly from
the fit of musing which he too had indulged in “and—and about the theft
you told me of.”

“That is—er—about—what theft?”

“Oh come! just as if you didn’t understand, Lukian Timofeyovitch! What
are you up to? I can’t make you out! The money, the money, sir! The
four hundred roubles that you lost that day. You came and told me about
it one morning, and then went off to Petersburg. There, _now_ do you
understand?”

“Oh—h—h! You mean the four hundred roubles!” said Lebedeff, dragging
the words out, just as though it had only just dawned upon him what the
prince was talking about. “Thanks very much, prince, for your kind
interest—you do me too much honour. I found the money, long ago!”

“You found it? Thank God for that!”

“Your exclamation proves the generous sympathy of your nature, prince;
for four hundred roubles—to a struggling family man like myself—is no
small matter!”

“I didn’t mean that; at least, of course, I’m glad for your sake, too,”
added the prince, correcting himself, “but—how did you find it?”

“Very simply indeed! I found it under the chair upon which my coat had
hung; so that it is clear the purse simply fell out of the pocket and
on to the floor!”

“Under the chair? Impossible! Why, you told me yourself that you had
searched every corner of the room? How could you not have looked in the
most likely place of all?”

“Of course I looked there,—of course I did! Very much so! I looked and
scrambled about, and felt for it, and wouldn’t believe it was not
there, and looked again and again. It is always so in such cases. One
longs and expects to find a lost article; one sees it is not there, and
the place is as bare as one’s palm; and yet one returns and looks again
and again, fifteen or twenty times, likely enough!”

“Oh, quite so, of course. But how was it in your case?—I don’t quite
understand,” said the bewildered prince. “You say it wasn’t there at
first, and that you searched the place thoroughly, and yet it turned up
on that very spot!”

“Yes, sir—on that very spot.” The prince gazed strangely at Lebedeff.
“And the general?” he asked, abruptly.

“The—the general? How do you mean, the general?” said Lebedeff,
dubiously, as though he had not taken in the drift of the prince’s
remark.

“Oh, good heavens! I mean, what did the general say when the purse
turned up under the chair? You and he had searched for it together
there, hadn’t you?”

“Quite so—together! But the second time I thought better to say nothing
about finding it. I found it alone.”

“But—why in the world—and the money? Was it all there?”

“I opened the purse and counted it myself; right to a single rouble.”

“I think you might have come and told me,” said the prince,
thoughtfully.

“Oh—I didn’t like to disturb you, prince, in the midst of your private
and doubtless most interesting personal reflections. Besides, I wanted
to appear, myself, to have found nothing. I took the purse, and opened
it, and counted the money, and shut it and put it down again under the
chair.”

“What in the world for?”

“Oh, just out of curiosity,” said Lebedeff, rubbing his hands and
sniggering.

“What, it’s still there then, is it? Ever since the day before
yesterday?”

“Oh no! You see, I was half in hopes the general might find it. Because
if I found it, why should not he too observe an object lying before his
very eyes? I moved the chair several times so as to expose the purse to
view, but the general never saw it. He is very absent just now,
evidently. He talks and laughs and tells stories, and suddenly flies
into a rage with me, goodness knows why.”

“Well, but—have you taken the purse away now?”

“No, it disappeared from under the chair in the night.”

“Where is it now, then?”

“Here,” laughed Lebedeff, at last, rising to his full height and
looking pleasantly at the prince, “here, in the lining of my coat.
Look, you can feel it for yourself, if you like!”

Sure enough there was something sticking out of the front of the
coat—something large. It certainly felt as though it might well be the
purse fallen through a hole in the pocket into the lining.

“I took it out and had a look at it; it’s all right. I’ve let it slip
back into the lining now, as you see, and so I have been walking about
ever since yesterday morning; it knocks against my legs when I walk
along.”

“H’m! and you take no notice of it?”

“Quite so, I take no notice of it. Ha, ha! and think of this, prince,
my pockets are always strong and whole, and yet, here in one night, is
a huge hole. I know the phenomenon is unworthy of your notice; but such
is the case. I examined the hole, and I declare it actually looks as
though it had been made with a pen-knife, a most improbable
contingency.”

“And—and—the general?”

“Ah, very angry all day, sir; all yesterday and all today. He shows
decided bacchanalian predilections at one time, and at another is
tearful and sensitive, but at any moment he is liable to paroxysms of
such rage that I assure you, prince, I am quite alarmed. I am not a
military man, you know. Yesterday we were sitting together in the
tavern, and the lining of my coat was—quite accidentally, of
course—sticking out right in front. The general squinted at it, and
flew into a rage. He never looks me quite in the face now, unless he is
very drunk or maudlin; but yesterday he looked at me in such a way that
a shiver went all down my back. I intend to find the purse tomorrow;
but till then I am going to have another night of it with him.”

“What’s the good of tormenting him like this?” cried the prince.

“I don’t torment him, prince, I don’t indeed!” cried Lebedeff, hotly.
“I love him, my dear sir, I esteem him; and believe it or not, I love
him all the better for this business, yes—and value him more.”

Lebedeff said this so seriously that the prince quite lost his temper
with him.

“Nonsense! love him and torment him so! Why, by the very fact that he
put the purse prominently before you, first under the chair and then in
your lining, he shows that he does not wish to deceive you, but is
anxious to beg your forgiveness in this artless way. Do you hear? He is
asking your pardon. He confides in the delicacy of your feelings, and
in your friendship for him. And you can allow yourself to humiliate so
thoroughly honest a man!”

“Thoroughly honest, quite so, prince, thoroughly honest!” said
Lebedeff, with flashing eyes. “And only you, prince, could have found
so very appropriate an expression. I honour you for it, prince. Very
well, that’s settled; I shall find the purse now and not tomorrow.
Here, I find it and take it out before your eyes! And the money is all
right. Take it, prince, and keep it till tomorrow, will you? Tomorrow
or next day I’ll take it back again. I think, prince, that the night
after its disappearance it was buried under a bush in the garden. So I
believe—what do you think of that?”

“Well, take care you don’t tell him to his face that you have found the
purse. Simply let him see that it is no longer in the lining of your
coat, and form his own conclusions.”

“Do you think so? Had I not just better tell him I have found it, and
pretend I never guessed where it was?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said the prince, thoughtfully; “it’s too late
for that—that would be dangerous now. No, no! Better say nothing about
it. Be nice with him, you know, but don’t show him—oh, _you_ know well
enough—”

“I know, prince, of course I know, but I’m afraid I shall not carry it
out; for to do so one needs a heart like your own. He is so very
irritable just now, and so proud. At one moment he will embrace me, and
the next he flies out at me and sneers at me, and then I stick the
lining forward on purpose. Well, _au revoir_, prince, I see I am
keeping you, and boring you, too, interfering with your most
interesting private reflections.”

“Now, do be careful! Secrecy, as before!”

“Oh, silence isn’t the word! Softly, softly!”

But in spite of this conclusion to the episode, the prince remained as
puzzled as ever, if not more so. He awaited next morning’s interview
with the general most impatiently.

IV.

The time appointed was twelve o’clock, and the prince, returning home
unexpectedly late, found the general waiting for him. At the first
glance, he saw that the latter was displeased, perhaps because he had
been kept waiting. The prince apologized, and quickly took a seat. He
seemed strangely timid before the general this morning, for some
reason, and felt as though his visitor were some piece of china which
he was afraid of breaking.

On scrutinizing him, the prince soon saw that the general was quite a
different man from what he had been the day before; he looked like one
who had come to some momentous resolve. His calmness, however, was more
apparent than real. He was courteous, but there was a suggestion of
injured innocence in his manner.

“I’ve brought your book back,” he began, indicating a book lying on the
table. “Much obliged to you for lending it to me.”

“Ah, yes. Well, did you read it, general? It’s curious, isn’t it?” said
the prince, delighted to be able to open up conversation upon an
outside subject.

“Curious enough, yes, but crude, and of course dreadful nonsense;
probably the man lies in every other sentence.”

The general spoke with considerable confidence, and dragged his words
out with a conceited drawl.

“Oh, but it’s only the simple tale of an old soldier who saw the French
enter Moscow. Some of his remarks were wonderfully interesting. Remarks
of an eye-witness are always valuable, whoever he be, don’t you think
so?”

“Had I been the publisher I should not have printed it. As to the
evidence of eye-witnesses, in these days people prefer impudent lies to
the stories of men of worth and long service. I know of some notes of
the year 1812, which—I have determined, prince, to leave this house,
Mr. Lebedeff’s house.”

The general looked significantly at his host.

“Of course you have your own lodging at Pavlofsk at—at your daughter’s
house,” began the prince, quite at a loss what to say. He suddenly
recollected that the general had come for advice on a most important
matter, affecting his destiny.

“At my wife’s; in other words, at my own place, my daughter’s house.”

“I beg your pardon, I—”

“I leave Lebedeff’s house, my dear prince, because I have quarrelled
with this person. I broke with him last night, and am very sorry that I
did not do so before. I expect respect, prince, even from those to whom
I give my heart, so to speak. Prince, I have often given away my heart,
and am nearly always deceived. This person was quite unworthy of the
gift.”

“There is much that might be improved in him,” said the prince,
moderately, “but he has some qualities which—though amid them one
cannot but discern a cunning nature—reveal what is often a diverting
intellect.”

The prince’s tone was so natural and respectful that the general could
not possibly suspect him of any insincerity.

“Oh, that he possesses good traits, I was the first to show, when I
very nearly made him a present of my friendship. I am not dependent
upon his hospitality, and upon his house; I have my own family. I do
not attempt to justify my own weakness. I have drunk with this man, and
perhaps I deplore the fact now, but I did not take him up for the sake
of drink alone (excuse the crudeness of the expression, prince); I did
not make friends with him for that alone. I was attracted by his good
qualities; but when the fellow declares that he was a child in 1812,
and had his left leg cut off, and buried in the Vagarkoff cemetery, in
Moscow, such a cock-and-bull story amounts to disrespect, my dear sir,
to—to impudent exaggeration.”

“Oh, he was very likely joking; he said it for fun.”

“I quite understand you. You mean that an innocent lie for the sake of
a good joke is harmless, and does not offend the human heart. Some
people lie, if you like to put it so, out of pure friendship, in order
to amuse their fellows; but when a man makes use of extravagance in
order to show his disrespect and to make clear how the intimacy bores
him, it is time for a man of honour to break off the said intimacy, and
to teach the offender his place.”

The general flushed with indignation as he spoke.

“Oh, but Lebedeff cannot have been in Moscow in 1812. He is much too
young; it is all nonsense.”

“Very well, but even if we admit that he _was_ alive in 1812, can one
believe that a French chasseur pointed a cannon at him for a lark, and
shot his left leg off? He says he picked his own leg up and took it
away and buried it in the cemetery. He swore he had a stone put up over
it with the inscription: ‘Here lies the leg of Collegiate Secretary
Lebedeff,’ and on the other side, ‘Rest, beloved ashes, till the morn
of joy,’ and that he has a service read over it every year (which is
simply sacrilege), and goes to Moscow once a year on purpose. He
invites me to Moscow in order to prove his assertion, and show me his
leg’s tomb, and the very cannon that shot him; he says it’s the
eleventh from the gate of the Kremlin, an old-fashioned falconet taken
from the French afterwards.”

“And, meanwhile both his legs are still on his body,” said the prince,
laughing. “I assure you, it is only an innocent joke, and you need not
be angry about it.”

“Excuse me—wait a minute—he says that the leg we see is a wooden one,
made by Tchernosvitoff.”

“They do say one can dance with those!”

“Quite so, quite so; and he swears that his wife never found out that
one of his legs was wooden all the while they were married. When I
showed him the ridiculousness of all this, he said, ‘Well, if you were
one of Napoleon’s pages in 1812, you might let me bury my leg in the
Moscow cemetery.’”

“Why, did you say—” began the prince, and paused in confusion.

The general gazed at his host disdainfully.

“Oh, go on,” he said, “finish your sentence, by all means. Say how odd
it appears to you that a man fallen to such a depth of humiliation as
I, can ever have been the actual eye-witness of great events. Go on,
_I_ don’t mind! Has _he_ found time to tell you scandal about me?”

“No, I’ve heard nothing of this from Lebedeff, if you mean Lebedeff.”

“H’m; I thought differently. You see, we were talking over this period
of history. I was criticizing a current report of something which then
happened, and having been myself an eye-witness of the occurrence—you
are smiling, prince—you are looking at my face as if—”

“Oh no! not at all—I—”

“I am rather young-looking, I know; but I am actually older than I
appear to be. I was ten or eleven in the year 1812. I don’t know my age
exactly, but it has always been a weakness of mine to make it out less
than it really is.”

“I assure you, general, I do not in the least doubt your statement. One
of our living autobiographers states that when he was a small baby in
Moscow in 1812 the French soldiers fed him with bread.”

“Well, there you see!” said the general, condescendingly. “There is
nothing whatever unusual about my tale. Truth very often appears to be
impossible. I was a page—it sounds strange, I dare say. Had I been
fifteen years old I should probably have been terribly frightened when
the French arrived, as my mother was (who had been too slow about
clearing out of Moscow); but as I was only just ten I was not in the
least alarmed, and rushed through the crowd to the very door of the
palace when Napoleon alighted from his horse.”

“Undoubtedly, at ten years old you would not have felt the sense of
fear, as you say,” blurted out the prince, horribly uncomfortable in
the sensation that he was just about to blush.

“Of course; and it all happened so easily and naturally. And yet, were
a novelist to describe the episode, he would put in all kinds of
impossible and incredible details.”

“Oh,” cried the prince, “I have often thought that! Why, I know of a
murder, for the sake of a watch. It’s in all the papers now. But if
some writer had invented it, all the critics would have jumped down his
throat and said the thing was too improbable for anything. And yet you
read it in the paper, and you can’t help thinking that out of these
strange disclosures is to be gained the full knowledge of Russian life
and character. You said that well, general; it is so true,” concluded
the prince, warmly, delighted to have found a refuge from the fiery
blushes which had covered his face.

“Yes, it’s quite true, isn’t it?” cried the general, his eyes sparkling
with gratification. “A small boy, a child, would naturally realize no
danger; he would shove his way through the crowds to see the shine and
glitter of the uniforms, and especially the great man of whom everyone
was speaking, for at that time all the world had been talking of no one
but this man for some years past. The world was full of his name; I—so
to speak—drew it in with my mother’s milk. Napoleon, passing a couple
of paces from me, caught sight of me accidentally. I was very well
dressed, and being all alone, in that crowd, as you will easily
imagine...”

“Oh, of course! Naturally the sight impressed him, and proved to him
that not _all_ the aristocracy had left Moscow; that at least some
nobles and their children had remained behind.”

“Just so! just so! He wanted to win over the aristocracy! When his
eagle eye fell on me, mine probably flashed back in response. ‘_Voilà
un garçon bien éveillé! Qui est ton père?_’ I immediately replied,
almost panting with excitement, ‘A general, who died on the
battle-fields of his country!’ ‘_Le fils d’un boyard et d’un brave,
pardessus le marché. J’aime les boyards. M’aimes-tu, petit?_’

“To this keen question I replied as keenly, ‘The Russian heart can
recognize a great man even in the bitter enemy of his country.’ At
least, I don’t remember the exact words, you know, but the idea was as
I say. Napoleon was struck; he thought a minute and then said to his
suite: ‘I like that boy’s pride; if all Russians think like this child,
then—’ he didn’t finish, but went on and entered the palace. I
instantly mixed with his suite, and followed him. I was already in high
favour. I remember when he came into the first hall, the emperor
stopped before a portrait of the Empress Katherine, and after a
thoughtful glance remarked, ‘That was a great woman,’ and passed on.

“Well, in a couple of days I was known all over the palace and the
Kremlin as ‘le petit boyard.’ I only went home to sleep. They were
nearly out of their minds about me at home. A couple of days after
this, Napoleon’s page, De Bazancour, died; he had not been able to
stand the trials of the campaign. Napoleon remembered me; I was taken
away without explanation; the dead page’s uniform was tried on me, and
when I was taken before the emperor, dressed in it, he nodded his head
to me, and I was told that I was appointed to the vacant post of page.

“Well, I was glad enough, for I had long felt the greatest sympathy for
this man; and then the pretty uniform and all that—only a child, you
know—and so on. It was a dark green dress coat with gold buttons—red
facings, white trousers, and a white silk waistcoat—silk stockings,
shoes with buckles, and top-boots if I were riding out with his majesty
or with the suite.

“Though the position of all of us at that time was not particularly
brilliant, and the poverty was dreadful all round, yet the etiquette at
court was strictly preserved, and the more strictly in proportion to
the growth of the forebodings of disaster.”

“Quite so, quite so, of course!” murmured the poor prince, who didn’t
know where to look. “Your memoirs would be most interesting.”

The general was, of course, repeating what he had told Lebedeff the
night before, and thus brought it out glibly enough, but here he looked
suspiciously at the prince out of the corners of his eyes.

“My memoirs!” he began, with redoubled pride and dignity. “Write my
memoirs? The idea has not tempted me. And yet, if you please, my
memoirs have long been written, but they shall not see the light until
dust returns to dust. Then, I doubt not, they will be translated into
all languages, not of course on account of their actual literary merit,
but because of the great events of which I was the actual witness,
though but a child at the time. As a child, I was able to penetrate
into the secrecy of the great man’s private room. At nights I have
heard the groans and wailings of this ‘giant in distress.’ He could
feel no shame in weeping before such a mere child as I was, though I
understood even then that the reason for his suffering was the silence
of the Emperor Alexander.”

“Yes, of course; he had written letters to the latter with proposals of
peace, had he not?” put in the prince.

“We did not know the details of his proposals, but he wrote letter
after letter, all day and every day. He was dreadfully agitated.
Sometimes at night I would throw myself upon his breast with tears (Oh,
how I loved that man!). ‘Ask forgiveness, Oh, ask forgiveness of the
Emperor Alexander!’ I would cry. I should have said, of course, ‘Make
peace with Alexander,’ but as a child I expressed my idea in the naive
way recorded. ‘Oh, my child,’ he would say (he loved to talk to me and
seemed to forget my tender years), ‘Oh, my child, I am ready to kiss
Alexander’s feet, but I hate and abominate the King of Prussia and the
Austrian Emperor, and—and—but you know nothing of politics, my child.’
He would pull up, remembering whom he was speaking to, but his eyes
would sparkle for a long while after this. Well now, if I were to
describe all this, and I have seen greater events than these, all these
critical gentlemen of the press and political parties—Oh, no thanks!
I’m their very humble servant, but no thanks!”

“Quite so—parties—you are very right,” said the prince. “I was reading
a book about Napoleon and the Waterloo campaign only the other day, by
Charasse, in which the author does not attempt to conceal his joy at
Napoleon’s discomfiture at every page. Well now, I don’t like that; it
smells of ‘party,’ you know. You are quite right. And were you much
occupied with your service under Napoleon?”

The general was in ecstasies, for the prince’s remarks, made, as they
evidently were, in all seriousness and simplicity, quite dissipated the
last relics of his suspicion.

“I know Charasse’s book! Oh! I was so angry with his work! I wrote to
him and said—I forget what, at this moment. You ask whether I was very
busy under the Emperor? Oh no! I was called ‘page,’ but hardly took my
duty seriously. Besides, Napoleon very soon lost hope of conciliating
the Russians, and he would have forgotten all about me had he not loved
me—for personal reasons—I don’t mind saying so now. My heart was
greatly drawn to him, too. My duties were light. I merely had to be at
the palace occasionally to escort the Emperor out riding, and that was
about all. I rode very fairly well. He used to have a ride before
dinner, and his suite on those occasions were generally Davoust,
myself, and Roustan.”

“Constant?” said the prince, suddenly, and quite involuntarily.

“No; Constant was away then, taking a letter to the Empress Josephine.
Instead of him there were always a couple of orderlies—and that was
all, excepting, of course, the generals and marshals whom Napoleon
always took with him for the inspection of various localities, and for
the sake of consultation generally. I remember there was
one—Davoust—nearly always with him—a big man with spectacles. They used
to argue and quarrel sometimes. Once they were in the Emperor’s study
together—just those two and myself—I was unobserved—and they argued,
and the Emperor seemed to be agreeing to something under protest.
Suddenly his eye fell on me and an idea seemed to flash across him.

“‘Child,’ he said, abruptly. ‘If I were to recognize the Russian
orthodox religion and emancipate the serfs, do you think Russia would
come over to me?’”

“‘Never!’ I cried, indignantly.”

“The Emperor was much struck.”

“‘In the flashing eyes of this patriotic child I read and accept the
fiat of the Russian people. Enough, Davoust, it is mere phantasy on our
part. Come, let’s hear your other project.’”

“Yes, but that was a great idea,” said the prince, clearly interested.
“You ascribe it to Davoust, do you?”

“Well, at all events, they were consulting together at the time. Of
course it was the idea of an eagle, and must have originated with
Napoleon; but the other project was good too—it was the ‘Conseil du
lion!’ as Napoleon called it. This project consisted in a proposal to
occupy the Kremlin with the whole army; to arm and fortify it
scientifically, to kill as many horses as could be got, and salt their
flesh, and spend the winter there; and in spring to fight their way
out. Napoleon liked the idea—it attracted him. We rode round the
Kremlin walls every day, and Napoleon used to give orders where they
were to be patched, where built up, where pulled down and so on. All
was decided at last. They were alone together—those two and myself.

“Napoleon was walking up and down with folded arms. I could not take my
eyes off his face—my heart beat loudly and painfully.

“‘I’m off,’ said Davoust. ‘Where to?’ asked Napoleon.

“‘To salt horse-flesh,’ said Davoust. Napoleon shuddered—his fate was
being decided.

“‘Child,’ he addressed me suddenly, ‘what do you think of our plan?’ Of
course he only applied to me as a sort of toss-up, you know. I turned
to Davoust and addressed my reply to him. I said, as though inspired:

“‘Escape, general! Go home!—’

“The project was abandoned; Davoust shrugged his shoulders and went
out, whispering to himself—‘_Bah, il devient superstitieux!_’ Next
morning the order to retreat was given.”

“All this is most interesting,” said the prince, very softly, “if it
really was so—that is, I mean—” he hastened to correct himself.

“Oh, my dear prince,” cried the general, who was now so intoxicated
with his own narrative that he probably could not have pulled up at the
most patent indiscretion. “You say, ‘if it really was so!’ There was
more—_much_ more, I assure you! These are merely a few little political
acts. I tell you I was the eye-witness of the nightly sorrow and
groanings of the great man, and of _that_ no one can speak but myself.
Towards the end he wept no more, though he continued to emit an
occasional groan; but his face grew more overcast day by day, as though
Eternity were wrapping its gloomy mantle about him. Occasionally we
passed whole hours of silence together at night, Roustan snoring in the
next room—that fellow slept like a pig. ‘But he’s loyal to me and my
dynasty,’ said Napoleon of him.

“Sometimes it was very painful to me, and once he caught me with tears
in my eyes. He looked at me kindly. ‘You are sorry for me,’ he said,
‘you, my child, and perhaps one other child—my son, the King of
Rome—may grieve for me. All the rest hate me; and my brothers are the
first to betray me in misfortune.’ I sobbed and threw myself into his
arms. He could not resist me—he burst into tears, and our tears mingled
as we folded each other in a close embrace.

“‘Write, oh, write a letter to the Empress Josephine!’ I cried,
sobbing. Napoleon started, reflected, and said, ‘You remind me of a
third heart which loves me. Thank you, my friend;’ and then and there
he sat down and wrote that letter to Josephine, with which Constant was
sent off next day.”

“You did a good action,” said the prince, “for in the midst of his
angry feelings you insinuated a kind thought into his heart.”

“Just so, prince, just so. How well you bring out that fact! Because
your own heart is good!” cried the ecstatic old gentleman, and,
strangely enough, real tears glistened in his eyes. “Yes, prince, it
was a wonderful spectacle. And, do you know, I all but went off to
Paris, and should assuredly have shared his solitary exile with him;
but, alas, our destinies were otherwise ordered! We parted, he to his
island, where I am sure he thought of the weeping child who had
embraced him so affectionately at parting in Moscow; and I was sent off
to the cadet corps, where I found nothing but roughness and harsh
discipline. Alas, my happy days were done!”

“‘I do not wish to deprive your mother of you, and, therefore, I will
not ask you to go with me,’ he said, the morning of his departure, ‘but
I should like to do something for you.’ He was mounting his horse as he
spoke. ‘Write something in my sister’s album for me,’ I said rather
timidly, for he was in a state of great dejection at the moment. He
turned, called for a pen, took the album. ‘How old is your sister?’ he
asked, holding the pen in his hand. ‘Three years old,’ I said. ‘Ah,
_petite fille alors!_’ and he wrote in the album:

“‘Ne mentez jamais! NAPOLÉON (votre ami sincère).’

“Such advice, and at such a moment, you must allow, prince, was—”

“Yes, quite so; very remarkable.”

“This page of the album, framed in gold, hung on the wall of my
sister’s drawing-room all her life, in the most conspicuous place, till
the day of her death; where it is now, I really don’t know. Heavens!
it’s two o’clock! _How_ I have kept you, prince! It is really most
unpardonable of me.”

The general rose.

“Oh, not in the least,” said the prince. “On the contrary, I have been
so much interested, I’m really very much obliged to you.”

“Prince,” said the general, pressing his hand, and looking at him with
flashing eyes, and an expression as though he were under the influence
of a sudden thought which had come upon him with stunning force.
“Prince, you are so kind, so simple-minded, that sometimes I really
feel sorry for you! I gaze at you with a feeling of real affection. Oh,
Heaven bless you! May your life blossom and fructify in love. Mine is
over. Forgive me, forgive me!”

He left the room quickly, covering his face with his hands.

The prince could not doubt the sincerity of his agitation. He
understood, too, that the old man had left the room intoxicated with
his own success. The general belonged to that class of liars, who, in
spite of their transports of lying, invariably suspect that they are
not believed. On this occasion, when he recovered from his exaltation,
he would probably suspect Muishkin of pitying him, and feel insulted.

“Have I been acting rightly in allowing him to develop such vast
resources of imagination?” the prince asked himself. But his answer was
a fit of violent laughter which lasted ten whole minutes. He tried to
reproach himself for the laughing fit, but eventually concluded that he
needn’t do so, since in spite of it he was truly sorry for the old man.
The same evening he received a strange letter, short but decided. The
general informed him that they must part for ever; that he was
grateful, but that even from him he could not accept “signs of sympathy
which were humiliating to the dignity of a man already miserable
enough.”

When the prince heard that the old man had gone to Nina Alexandrovna,
though, he felt almost easy on his account.

We have seen, however, that the general paid a visit to Lizabetha
Prokofievna and caused trouble there, the final upshot being that he
frightened Mrs. Epanchin, and angered her by bitter hints as to his son
Gania.

He had been turned out in disgrace, eventually, and this was the cause
of his bad night and quarrelsome day, which ended in his sudden
departure into the street in a condition approaching insanity, as
recorded before.

Colia did not understand the position. He tried severity with his
father, as they stood in the street after the latter had cursed the
household, hoping to bring him round that way.

“Well, where are we to go to now, father?” he asked. “You don’t want to
go to the prince’s; you have quarrelled with Lebedeff; you have no
money; I never have any; and here we are in the middle of the road, in
a nice sort of mess.”

“Better to be of a mess than in a mess! I remember making a joke
something like that at the mess in eighteen hundred and forty—forty—I
forget. ‘Where is my youth, where is my golden youth?’ Who was it said
that, Colia?”

“It was Gogol, in Dead Souls, father,” cried Colia, glancing at him in
some alarm.

“‘Dead Souls,’ yes, of course, dead. When I die, Colia, you must
engrave on my tomb:

“‘Here lies a Dead Soul,
Shame pursues me.’


“Who said that, Colia?”

“I don’t know, father.”

“There was no Eropegoff? Eroshka Eropegoff?” he cried, suddenly,
stopping in the road in a frenzy. “No Eropegoff! And my own son to say
it! Eropegoff was in the place of a brother to me for eleven months. I
fought a duel for him. He was married afterwards, and then killed on
the field of battle. The bullet struck the cross on my breast and
glanced off straight into his temple. ‘I’ll never forget you,’ he
cried, and expired. I served my country well and honestly, Colia, but
shame, shame has pursued me! You and Nina will come to my grave, Colia;
poor Nina, I always used to call her Nina in the old days, and how she
loved.... Nina, Nina, oh, Nina. What have I ever done to deserve your
forgiveness and long-suffering? Oh, Colia, your mother has an angelic
spirit, an angelic spirit, Colia!”

“I know that, father. Look here, dear old father, come back home! Let’s
go back to mother. Look, she ran after us when we came out. What have
you stopped her for, just as though you didn’t take in what I said? Why
are you crying, father?”

Poor Colia cried himself, and kissed the old man’s hands

“You kiss my hands, _mine?_”

“Yes, yes, yours, yours! What is there to surprise anyone in that?
Come, come, you mustn’t go on like this, crying in the middle of the
road; and you a general too, a military man! Come, let’s go back.”

“God bless you, dear boy, for being respectful to a disgraced man. Yes,
to a poor disgraced old fellow, your father. You shall have such a son
yourself; le roi de Rome. Oh, curses on this house!”

“Come, come, what does all this mean?” cried Colia beside himself at
last. “What is it? What has happened to you? Why don’t you wish to come
back home? Why have you gone out of your mind, like this?”

“I’ll explain it, I’ll explain all to you. Don’t shout! You shall hear.
Le roi de Rome. Oh, I am sad, I am melancholy!

“‘Nurse, where is your tomb?’

“Who said that, Colia?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know who said it. Come home at once; come on!
I’ll punch Gania’s head myself, if you like—only come. Oh, where _are_
you off to again?” The general was dragging him away towards the door
of a house nearby. He sat down on the step, still holding Colia by the
hand.

“Bend down—bend down your ear. I’ll tell you all—disgrace—bend down,
I’ll tell you in your ear.”

“What are you dreaming of?” said poor, frightened Colia, stooping down
towards the old man, all the same.

“Le roi de Rome,” whispered the general, trembling all over.

“What? What _do_ you mean? What roi de Rome?”

“I—I,” the general continued to whisper, clinging more and more tightly
to the boy’s shoulder. “I—wish—to tell you—all—Maria—Maria
Petrovna—Su—Su—Su.......”

Colia broke loose, seized his father by the shoulders, and stared into
his eyes with frenzied gaze. The old man had grown livid—his lips were
shaking, convulsions were passing over his features. Suddenly he leant
over and began to sink slowly into Colia’s arms.

“He’s got a stroke!” cried Colia, loudly, realizing what was the matter
at last.

V.

In point of fact, Varia had rather exaggerated the certainty of her
news as to the prince’s betrothal to Aglaya. Very likely, with the
perspicacity of her sex, she gave out as an accomplished fact what she
felt was pretty sure to become a fact in a few days. Perhaps she could
not resist the satisfaction of pouring one last drop of bitterness into
her brother Gania’s cup, in spite of her love for him. At all events,
she had been unable to obtain any definite news from the Epanchin
girls—the most she could get out of them being hints and surmises, and
so on. Perhaps Aglaya’s sisters had merely been pumping Varia for news
while pretending to impart information; or perhaps, again, they had
been unable to resist the feminine gratification of teasing a
friend—for, after all this time, they could scarcely have helped
divining the aim of her frequent visits.

On the other hand, the prince, although he had told Lebedeff,—as we
know, that nothing had happened, and that he had nothing to impart,—the
prince may have been in error. Something strange seemed to have
happened, without anything definite having actually happened. Varia had
guessed that with her true feminine instinct.

How or why it came about that everyone at the Epanchins’ became imbued
with one conviction—that something very important had happened to
Aglaya, and that her fate was in process of settlement—it would be very
difficult to explain. But no sooner had this idea taken root, than all
at once declared that they had seen and observed it long ago; that they
had remarked it at the time of the “poor knight” joke, and even before,
though they had been unwilling to believe in such nonsense.

So said the sisters. Of course, Lizabetha Prokofievna had foreseen it
long before the rest; her “heart had been sore” for a long while, she
declared, and it was now so sore that she appeared to be quite
overwhelmed, and the very thought of the prince became distasteful to
her.

There was a question to be decided—most important, but most difficult;
so much so, that Mrs. Epanchin did not even see how to put it into
words. Would the prince do or not? Was all this good or bad? If good
(which might be the case, of course), _why_ good? If bad (which was
hardly doubtful), _wherein_, especially, bad? Even the general, the
paterfamilias, though astonished at first, suddenly declared that,
“upon his honour, he really believed he had fancied something of the
kind, after all. At first, it seemed a new idea, and then, somehow, it
looked as familiar as possible.” His wife frowned him down there. This
was in the morning; but in the evening, alone with his wife, he had
given tongue again.

“Well, really, you know”—(silence)—“of course, you know all this is
very strange, if true, which I cannot deny; but”—(silence).—“But, on
the other hand, if one looks things in the face, you know—upon my
honour, the prince is a rare good fellow—and—and—and—well, his name,
you know—your family name—all this looks well, and perpetuates the name
and title and all that—which at this moment is not standing so high as
it might—from one point of view—don’t you know? The world, the world is
the world, of course—and people will talk—and—and—the prince has
property, you know—if it is not very large—and then he—he—” (Continued
silence, and collapse of the general.)

Hearing these words from her husband, Lizabetha Prokofievna was driven
beside herself.

According to her opinion, the whole thing had been one huge,
fantastical, absurd, unpardonable mistake. “First of all, this prince
is an idiot, and, secondly, he is a fool—knows nothing of the world,
and has no place in it. Whom can he be shown to? Where can you take him
to? What will old Bielokonski say? We never thought of such a husband
as _that_ for our Aglaya!”

Of course, the last argument was the chief one. The maternal heart
trembled with indignation to think of such an absurdity, although in
that heart there rose another voice, which said: “And _why_ is not the
prince such a husband as you would have desired for Aglaya?” It was
this voice which annoyed Lizabetha Prokofievna more than anything else.

For some reason or other, the sisters liked the idea of the prince.
They did not even consider it very strange; in a word, they might be
expected at any moment to range themselves strongly on his side. But
both of them decided to say nothing either way. It had always been
noticed in the family that the stronger Mrs. Epanchin’s opposition was
to any project, the nearer she was, in reality, to giving in.

Alexandra, however, found it difficult to keep absolute silence on the
subject. Long since holding, as she did, the post of “confidential
adviser to mamma,” she was now perpetually called in council, and asked
her opinion, and especially her assistance, in order to recollect “how
on earth all this happened?” Why did no one see it? Why did no one say
anything about it? What did all that wretched “poor knight” joke mean?
Why was she, Lizabetha Prokofievna, driven to think, and foresee, and
worry for everybody, while they all sucked their thumbs, and counted
the crows in the garden, and did nothing? At first, Alexandra had been
very careful, and had merely replied that perhaps her father’s remark
was not so far out: that, in the eyes of the world, probably the choice
of the prince as a husband for one of the Epanchin girls would be
considered a very wise one. Warming up, however, she added that the
prince was by no means a fool, and never had been; and that as to
“place in the world,” no one knew what the position of a respectable
person in Russia would imply in a few years—whether it would depend on
successes in the government service, on the old system, or what.

To all this her mother replied that Alexandra was a freethinker, and
that all this was due to that “cursed woman’s rights question.”

Half an hour after this conversation, she went off to town, and thence
to the Kammenny Ostrof, [“Stone Island,” a suburb and park of St.
Petersburg] to see Princess Bielokonski, who had just arrived from
Moscow on a short visit. The princess was Aglaya’s godmother.

“Old Bielokonski” listened to all the fevered and despairing
lamentations of Lizabetha Prokofievna without the least emotion; the
tears of this sorrowful mother did not evoke answering sighs—in fact,
she laughed at her. She was a dreadful old despot, this princess; she
could not allow equality in anything, not even in friendship of the
oldest standing, and she insisted on treating Mrs. Epanchin as her
_protégée_, as she had been thirty-five years ago. She could never put
up with the independence and energy of Lizabetha’s character. She
observed that, as usual, the whole family had gone much too far ahead,
and had converted a fly into an elephant; that, so far as she had heard
their story, she was persuaded that nothing of any seriousness had
occurred; that it would surely be better to wait until something _did_
happen; that the prince, in her opinion, was a very decent young
fellow, though perhaps a little eccentric, through illness, and not
quite as weighty in the world as one could wish. The worst feature was,
she said, Nastasia Philipovna.

Lizabetha Prokofievna well understood that the old lady was angry at
the failure of Evgenie Pavlovitch—her own recommendation. She returned
home to Pavlofsk in a worse humour than when she left, and of course
everybody in the house suffered. She pitched into everyone, because,
she declared, they had ‘gone mad.’ Why were things always mismanaged in
her house? Why had everybody been in such a frantic hurry in this
matter? So far as she could see, nothing whatever had happened. Surely
they had better wait and see what was to happen, instead of making
mountains out of molehills.

And so the conclusion of the matter was that it would be far better to
take it quietly, and wait coolly to see what would turn up. But, alas!
peace did not reign for more than ten minutes. The first blow dealt to
its power was in certain news communicated to Lizabetha Prokofievna as
to events which had happened during her trip to see the princess. (This
trip had taken place the day after that on which the prince had turned
up at the Epanchins at nearly one o’clock at night, thinking it was
nine.)

The sisters replied candidly and fully enough to their mother’s
impatient questions on her return. They said, in the first place, that
nothing particular had happened since her departure; that the prince
had been, and that Aglaya had kept him waiting a long while before she
appeared—half an hour, at least; that she had then come in, and
immediately asked the prince to have a game of chess; that the prince
did not know the game, and Aglaya had beaten him easily; that she had
been in a wonderfully merry mood, and had laughed at the prince, and
chaffed him so unmercifully that one was quite sorry to see his
wretched expression.

She had then asked him to play cards—the game called “little fools.” At
this game the tables were turned completely, for the prince had shown
himself a master at it. Aglaya had cheated and changed cards, and
stolen others, in the most bare-faced way, but, in spite of everything
the prince had beaten her hopelessly five times running, and she had
been left “little fool” each time.

Aglaya then lost her temper, and began to say such awful things to the
prince that he laughed no more, but grew dreadfully pale, especially
when she said that she should not remain in the house with him, and
that he ought to be ashamed of coming to their house at all, especially
at night, “_after all that had happened_.”

So saying, she had left the room, banging the door after her, and the
prince went off, looking as though he were on his way to a funeral, in
spite of all their attempts at consolation.

Suddenly, a quarter of an hour after the prince’s departure, Aglaya had
rushed out of her room in such a hurry that she had not even wiped her
eyes, which were full of tears. She came back because Colia had brought
a hedgehog. Everybody came in to see the hedgehog. In answer to their
questions Colia explained that the hedgehog was not his, and that he
had left another boy, Kostia Lebedeff, waiting for him outside. Kostia
was too shy to come in, because he was carrying a hatchet; they had
bought the hedgehog and the hatchet from a peasant whom they had met on
the road. He had offered to sell them the hedgehog, and they had paid
fifty copecks for it; and the hatchet had so taken their fancy that
they had made up their minds to buy it of their own accord. On hearing
this, Aglaya urged Colia to sell her the hedgehog; she even called him
“dear Colia,” in trying to coax him. He refused for a long time, but at
last he could hold out no more, and went to fetch Kostia Lebedeff. The
latter appeared, carrying his hatchet, and covered with confusion. Then
it came out that the hedgehog was not theirs, but the property of a
schoolmate, one Petroff, who had given them some money to buy
Schlosser’s History for him, from another schoolfellow who at that
moment was driven to raising money by the sale of his books. Colia and
Kostia were about to make this purchase for their friend when chance
brought the hedgehog to their notice, and they had succumbed to the
temptation of buying it. They were now taking Petroff the hedgehog and
hatchet which they had bought with his money, instead of Schlosser’s
History. But Aglaya so entreated them that at last they consented to
sell her the hedgehog. As soon as she had got possession of it, she put
it in a wicker basket with Colia’s help, and covered it with a napkin.
Then she said to Colia: “Go and take this hedgehog to the prince from
me, and ask him to accept it as a token of my profound respect.” Colia
joyfully promised to do the errand, but he demanded explanations. “What
does the hedgehog mean? What is the meaning of such a present?” Aglaya
replied that it was none of his business. “I am sure that there is some
allegory about it,” Colia persisted. Aglaya grew angry, and called him
“a silly boy.” “If I did not respect all women in your person,” replied
Colia, “and if my own principles would permit it, I would soon prove to
you, that I know how to answer such an insult!” But, in the end, Colia
went off with the hedgehog in great delight, followed by Kostia
Lebedeff. Aglaya’s annoyance was soon over, and seeing that Colia was
swinging the hedgehog’s basket violently to and fro, she called out to
him from the verandah, as if they had never quarrelled: “Colia, dear,
please take care not to drop him!” Colia appeared to have no grudge
against her, either, for he stopped, and answered most cordially: “No,
I will not drop him! Don’t be afraid, Aglaya Ivanovna!” After which he
went on his way. Aglaya burst out laughing and ran up to her room,
highly delighted. Her good spirits lasted the whole day.

All this filled poor Lizabetha’s mind with chaotic confusion. What on
earth did it all mean? The most disturbing feature was the hedgehog.
What was the symbolic signification of a hedgehog? What did they
understand by it? What underlay it? Was it a cryptic message?

Poor General Epanchin “put his foot in it” by answering the above
questions in his own way. He said there was no cryptic message at all.
As for the hedgehog, it was just a hedgehog, which meant
nothing—unless, indeed, it was a pledge of friendship,—the sign of
forgetting of offences and so on. At all events, it was a joke, and, of
course, a most pardonable and innocent one.

We may as well remark that the general had guessed perfectly
accurately.

The prince, returning home from the interview with Aglaya, had sat
gloomy and depressed for half an hour. He was almost in despair when
Colia arrived with the hedgehog.

Then the sky cleared in a moment. The prince seemed to arise from the
dead; he asked Colia all about it, made him repeat the story over and
over again, and laughed and shook hands with the boys in his delight.

It seemed clear to the prince that Aglaya forgave him, and that he
might go there again this very evening; and in his eyes that was not
only the main thing, but everything in the world.

“What children we are still, Colia!” he cried at last,
enthusiastically,—“and how delightful it is that we can be children
still!”

“Simply—my dear prince,—simply she is in love with you,—that’s the
whole of the secret!” replied Colia, with authority.

The prince blushed, but this time he said nothing. Colia burst out
laughing and clapped his hands. A minute later the prince laughed too,
and from this moment until the evening he looked at his watch every
other minute to see how much time he had to wait before evening came.

But the situation was becoming rapidly critical.

Mrs. Epanchin could bear her suspense no longer, and in spite of the
opposition of husband and daughters, she sent for Aglaya, determined to
get a straightforward answer out of her, once for all.

“Otherwise,” she observed hysterically, “I shall die before evening.”

It was only now that everyone realized to what a ridiculous dead-lock
the whole matter had been brought. Excepting feigned surprise,
indignation, laughter, and jeering—both at the prince and at everyone
who asked her questions,—nothing could be got out of Aglaya.

Lizabetha Prokofievna went to bed and only rose again in time for tea,
when the prince might be expected.

She awaited him in trembling agitation; and when he at last arrived she
nearly went off into hysterics.

Muishkin himself came in very timidly. He seemed to feel his way, and
looked in each person’s eyes in a questioning way,—for Aglaya was
absent, which fact alarmed him at once.

This evening there were no strangers present—no one but the immediate
members of the family. Prince S. was still in town, occupied with the
affairs of Evgenie Pavlovitch’s uncle.

“I wish at least _he_ would come and say something!” complained poor
Lizabetha Prokofievna.

The general sat still with a most preoccupied air. The sisters were
looking very serious and did not speak a word, and Lizabetha
Prokofievna did not know how to commence the conversation.

At length she plunged into an energetic and hostile criticism of
railways, and glared at the prince defiantly.

Alas Aglaya still did not come—and the prince was quite lost. He had
the greatest difficulty in expressing his opinion that railways were
most useful institutions,—and in the middle of his speech Adelaida
laughed, which threw him into a still worse state of confusion.

At this moment in marched Aglaya, as calm and collected as could be.
She gave the prince a ceremonious bow and solemnly took up a prominent
position near the big round table. She looked at the prince
questioningly.

All present realized that the moment for the settlement of perplexities
had arrived.

“Did you get my hedgehog?” she inquired, firmly and almost angrily.

“Yes, I got it,” said the prince, blushing.

“Tell us now, at once, what you made of the present? I must have you
answer this question for mother’s sake; she needs pacifying, and so do
all the rest of the family!”

“Look here, Aglaya—” began the general.

“This—this is going beyond all limits!” said Lizabetha Prokofievna,
suddenly alarmed.

“It is not in the least beyond all limits, mamma!” said her daughter,
firmly. “I sent the prince a hedgehog this morning, and I wish to hear
his opinion of it. Go on, prince.”

“What—what sort of opinion, Aglaya Ivanovna?”

“About the hedgehog.”

“That is—I suppose you wish to know how I received the hedgehog, Aglaya
Ivanovna,—or, I should say, how I regarded your sending him to me? In
that case, I may tell you—in a word—that I—in fact—”

He paused, breathless.

“Come—you haven’t told us much!” said Aglaya, after waiting some five
seconds. “Very well, I am ready to drop the hedgehog, if you like; but
I am anxious to be able to clear up this accumulation of
misunderstandings. Allow me to ask you, prince,—I wish to hear from
you, personally—are you making me an offer, or not?”

“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Lizabetha Prokofievna. The prince
started. The general stiffened in his chair; the sisters frowned.

“Don’t deceive me now, prince—tell the truth. All these people
persecute me with astounding questions—about you. Is there any ground
for all these questions, or not? Come!”

“I have not asked you to marry me yet, Aglaya Ivanovna,” said the
prince, becoming suddenly animated; “but you know yourself how much I
love you and trust you.”

“No—I asked you this—answer this! Do you intend to ask for my hand, or
not?”

“Yes—I do ask for it!” said the prince, more dead than alive now.

There was a general stir in the room.

“No—no—my dear girl,” began the general. “You cannot proceed like this,
Aglaya, if that’s how the matter stands. It’s impossible. Prince,
forgive it, my dear fellow, but—Lizabetha Prokofievna!”—he appealed to
his spouse for help—“you must really—”

“Not I—not I! I retire from all responsibility,” said Lizabetha
Prokofievna, with a wave of the hand.

“Allow me to speak, please, mamma,” said Aglaya. “I think I ought to
have something to say in the matter. An important moment of my destiny
is about to be decided”—(this is how Aglaya expressed herself)—“and I
wish to find out how the matter stands, for my own sake, though I am
glad you are all here. Allow me to ask you, prince, since you cherish
those intentions, how you consider that you will provide for my
happiness?”

“I—I don’t quite know how to answer your question, Aglaya Ivanovna.
What is there to say to such a question? And—and must I answer?”

“I think you are rather overwhelmed and out of breath. Have a little
rest, and try to recover yourself. Take a glass of water, or—but
they’ll give you some tea directly.”

“I love you, Aglaya Ivanovna,—I love you very much. I love only
you—and—please don’t jest about it, for I do love you very much.”

“Well, this matter is important. We are not children—we must look into
it thoroughly. Now then, kindly tell me—what does your fortune consist
of?”

“No—Aglaya—come, enough of this, you mustn’t behave like this,” said
her father, in dismay.

“It’s disgraceful,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna in a loud whisper.

“She’s mad—quite!” said Alexandra.

“Fortune—money—do you mean?” asked the prince in some surprise.

“Just so.”

“I have now—let’s see—I have a hundred and thirty-five thousand
roubles,” said the prince, blushing violently.

“Is that all, really?” said Aglaya, candidly, without the slightest
show of confusion. “However, it’s not so bad, especially if managed
with economy. Do you intend to serve?”

“I—I intended to try for a certificate as private tutor.”

“Very good. That would increase our income nicely. Have you any
intention of being a Kammer-junker?”

“A Kammer-junker? I had not thought of it, but—”

But here the two sisters could restrain themselves no longer, and both
of them burst into irrepressible laughter.

Adelaida had long since detected in Aglaya’s features the gathering
signs of an approaching storm of laughter, which she restrained with
amazing self-control.

Aglaya looked menacingly at her laughing sisters, but could not contain
herself any longer, and the next minute she too had burst into an
irrepressible, and almost hysterical, fit of mirth. At length she
jumped up, and ran out of the room.

“I knew it was all a joke!” cried Adelaida. “I felt it ever since—since
the hedgehog.”

“No, no! I cannot allow this,—this is a little too much,” cried
Lizabetha Prokofievna, exploding with rage, and she rose from her seat
and followed Aglaya out of the room as quickly as she could.

The two sisters hurriedly went after her.

The prince and the general were the only two persons left in the room.

“It’s—it’s really—now could you have imagined anything like it, Lef
Nicolaievitch?” cried the general. He was evidently so much agitated
that he hardly knew what he wished to say. “Seriously now, seriously I
mean—”

“I only see that Aglaya Ivanovna is laughing at me,” said the poor
prince, sadly.

“Wait a bit, my boy, I’ll just go—you stay here, you know. But do just
explain, if you can, Lef Nicolaievitch, how in the world has all this
come about? And what does it all mean? You must understand, my dear
fellow; I am a father, you see, and I ought to be allowed to understand
the matter—do explain, I beg you!”

“I love Aglaya Ivanovna—she knows it,—and I think she must have long
known it.”

The general shrugged his shoulders.

“Strange—it’s strange,” he said, “and you love her very much?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Well—it’s all most strange to me. That is—my dear fellow, it is such a
surprise—such a blow—that... You see, it is not your financial position
(though I should not object if you were a bit richer)—I am thinking of
my daughter’s happiness, of course, and the thing is—are you able to
give her the happiness she deserves? And then—is all this a joke on her
part, or is she in earnest? I don’t mean on your side, but on hers.”

At this moment Alexandra’s voice was heard outside the door, calling
out “Papa!”

“Wait for me here, my boy—will you? Just wait and think it all over,
and I’ll come back directly,” he said hurriedly, and made off with what
looked like the rapidity of alarm in response to Alexandra’s call.

He found the mother and daughter locked in one another’s arms, mingling
their tears.

These were the tears of joy and peace and reconciliation. Aglaya was
kissing her mother’s lips and cheeks and hands; they were hugging each
other in the most ardent way.

“There, look at her now—Ivan Fedorovitch! Here she is—all of her! This
is our _real_ Aglaya at last!” said Lizabetha Prokofievna.

Aglaya raised her happy, tearful face from her mother’s breast, glanced
at her father, and burst out laughing. She sprang at him and hugged him
too, and kissed him over and over again. She then rushed back to her
mother and hid her face in the maternal bosom, and there indulged in
more tears. Her mother covered her with a corner of her shawl.

“Oh, you cruel little girl! How will you treat us all next, I wonder?”
she said, but she spoke with a ring of joy in her voice, and as though
she breathed at last without the oppression which she had felt so long.

“Cruel?” sobbed Aglaya. “Yes, I _am_ cruel, and worthless, and
spoiled—tell father so,—oh, here he is—I forgot Father, listen!” She
laughed through her tears.

“My darling, my little idol,” cried the general, kissing and fondling
her hands (Aglaya did not draw them away); “so you love this young man,
do you?”

“No, no, no, can’t _bear_ him, I can’t _bear_ your young man!” cried
Aglaya, raising her head. “And if you dare say that _once_ more,
papa—I’m serious, you know, I’m,—do you hear me—I’m serious!”

She certainly did seem to be serious enough. She had flushed up all
over and her eyes were blazing.

The general felt troubled and remained silent, while Lizabetha
Prokofievna telegraphed to him from behind Aglaya to ask no questions.

“If that’s the case, darling—then, of course, you shall do exactly as
you like. He is waiting alone downstairs. Hadn’t I better hint to him
gently that he can go?” The general telegraphed to Lizabetha
Prokofievna in his turn.

“No, no, you needn’t do anything of the sort; you mustn’t hint gently
at all. I’ll go down myself directly. I wish to apologize to this young
man, because I hurt his feelings.”

“Yes, _seriously_,” said the general, gravely.

“Well, you’d better stay here, all of you, for a little, and I’ll go
down to him alone to begin with. I’ll just go in and then you can
follow me almost at once. That’s the best way.”

She had almost reached the door when she turned round again.

“I shall laugh—I know I shall; I shall die of laughing,” she said,
lugubriously.

However, she turned and ran down to the prince as fast as her feet
could carry her.

“Well, what does it all mean? What do you make of it?” asked the
general of his spouse, hurriedly.

“I hardly dare say,” said Lizabetha, as hurriedly, “but I think it’s as
plain as anything can be.”

“I think so too, as clear as day; she loves him.”

“Loves him? She is head over ears in love, that’s what she is,” put in
Alexandra.

“Well, God bless her, God bless her, if such is her destiny,” said
Lizabetha, crossing herself devoutly.

“H’m destiny it is,” said the general, “and there’s no getting out of
destiny.”

With these words they all moved off towards the drawing-room, where
another surprise awaited them. Aglaya had not only not laughed, as she
had feared, but had gone to the prince rather timidly, and said to him:

“Forgive a silly, horrid, spoilt girl”—(she took his hand here)—“and be
quite assured that we all of us esteem you beyond all words. And if I
dared to turn your beautiful, admirable simplicity to ridicule, forgive
me as you would a little child its mischief. Forgive me all my
absurdity of just now, which, of course, meant nothing, and could not
have the slightest consequence.” She spoke these words with great
emphasis.

Her father, mother, and sisters came into the room and were much struck
with the last words, which they just caught as they entered—“absurdity
which of course meant nothing”—and still more so with the emphasis with
which Aglaya had spoken.

They exchanged glances questioningly, but the prince did not seem to
have understood the meaning of Aglaya’s words; he was in the highest
heaven of delight.

“Why do you speak so?” he murmured. “Why do you ask my forgiveness?”

He wished to add that he was unworthy of being asked for forgiveness by
her, but paused. Perhaps he did understand Aglaya’s sentence about
“absurdity which meant nothing,” and like the strange fellow that he
was, rejoiced in the words.

Undoubtedly the fact that he might now come and see Aglaya as much as
he pleased again was quite enough to make him perfectly happy; that he
might come and speak to her, and see her, and sit by her, and walk with
her—who knows, but that all this was quite enough to satisfy him for
the whole of his life, and that he would desire no more to the end of
time?

(Lizabetha Prokofievna felt that this might be the case, and she didn’t
like it; though very probably she could not have put the idea into
words.)

It would be difficult to describe the animation and high spirits which
distinguished the prince for the rest of the evening.

He was so happy that “it made one feel happy to look at him,” as
Aglaya’s sisters expressed it afterwards. He talked, and told stories
just as he had done once before, and never since, namely on the very
first morning of his acquaintance with the Epanchins, six months ago.
Since his return to Petersburg from Moscow, he had been remarkably
silent, and had told Prince S. on one occasion, before everyone, that
he did not think himself justified in degrading any thought by his
unworthy words.

But this evening he did nearly all the talking himself, and told
stories by the dozen, while he answered all questions put to him
clearly, gladly, and with any amount of detail.

There was nothing, however, of love-making in his talk. His ideas were
all of the most serious kind; some were even mystical and profound.

He aired his own views on various matters, some of his most private
opinions and observations, many of which would have seemed rather
funny, so his hearers agreed afterwards, had they not been so well
expressed.

The general liked serious subjects of conversation; but both he and
Lizabetha Prokofievna felt that they were having a little too much of a
good thing tonight, and as the evening advanced, they both grew more or
less melancholy; but towards night, the prince fell to telling funny
stories, and was always the first to burst out laughing himself, which
he invariably did so joyously and simply that the rest laughed just as
much at him as at his stories.

As for Aglaya, she hardly said a word all the evening; but she listened
with all her ears to Lef Nicolaievitch’s talk, and scarcely took her
eyes off him.

“She looked at him, and stared and stared, and hung on every word he
said,” said Lizabetha afterwards, to her husband, “and yet, tell her
that she loves him, and she is furious!”

“What’s to be done? It’s fate,” said the general, shrugging his
shoulders, and, for a long while after, he continued to repeat: “It’s
fate, it’s fate!”

We may add that to a business man like General Epanchin the present
position of affairs was most unsatisfactory. He hated the uncertainty
in which they had been, perforce, left. However, he decided to say no
more about it, and merely to look on, and take his time and tune from
Lizabetha Prokofievna.

The happy state in which the family had spent the evening, as just
recorded, was not of very long duration. Next day Aglaya quarrelled
with the prince again, and so she continued to behave for the next few
days. For whole hours at a time she ridiculed and chaffed the wretched
man, and made him almost a laughing-stock.

It is true that they used to sit in the little summer-house together
for an hour or two at a time, very often, but it was observed that on
these occasions the prince would read the paper, or some book, aloud to
Aglaya.

“Do you know,” Aglaya said to him once, interrupting the reading, “I’ve
remarked that you are dreadfully badly educated. You never know
anything thoroughly, if one asks you; neither anyone’s name, nor dates,
nor about treaties and so on. It’s a great pity, you know!”

“I told you I had not had much of an education,” replied the prince.

“How am I to respect you, if that’s the case? Read on now. No—don’t!
Stop reading!”

And once more, that same evening, Aglaya mystified them all. Prince S.
had returned, and Aglaya was particularly amiable to him, and asked a
great deal after Evgenie Pavlovitch. (Muishkin had not come in as yet.)

Suddenly Prince S. hinted something about “a new and approaching change
in the family.” He was led to this remark by a communication
inadvertently made to him by Lizabetha Prokofievna, that Adelaida’s
marriage must be postponed a little longer, in order that the two
weddings might come off together.

It is impossible to describe Aglaya’s irritation. She flared up, and
said some indignant words about “all these silly insinuations.” She
added that “she had no intentions as yet of replacing anybody’s
mistress.”

These words painfully impressed the whole party; but especially her
parents. Lizabetha Prokofievna summoned a secret council of two, and
insisted upon the general’s demanding from the prince a full
explanation of his relations with Nastasia Philipovna. The general
argued that it was only a whim of Aglaya’s; and that, had not Prince S.
unfortunately made that remark, which had confused the child and made
her blush, she never would have said what she did; and that he was sure
Aglaya knew well that anything she might have heard of the prince and
Nastasia Philipovna was merely the fabrication of malicious tongues,
and that the woman was going to marry Rogojin. He insisted that the
prince had nothing whatever to do with Nastasia Philipovna, so far as
any liaison was concerned; and, if the truth were to be told about it,
he added, never had had.

Meanwhile nothing put the prince out, and he continued to be in the
seventh heaven of bliss. Of course he could not fail to observe some
impatience and ill-temper in Aglaya now and then; but he believed in
something else, and nothing could now shake his conviction. Besides,
Aglaya’s frowns never lasted long; they disappeared of themselves.

Perhaps he was too easy in his mind. So thought Hippolyte, at all
events, who met him in the park one day.

“Didn’t I tell you the truth now, when I said you were in love?” he
said, coming up to Muishkin of his own accord, and stopping him.

The prince gave him his hand and congratulated him upon “looking so
well.”

Hippolyte himself seemed to be hopeful about his state of health, as is
often the case with consumptives.

He had approached the prince with the intention of talking
sarcastically about his happy expression of face, but very soon forgot
his intention and began to talk about himself. He began complaining
about everything, disconnectedly and endlessly, as was his wont.

“You wouldn’t believe,” he concluded, “how irritating they all are
there. They are such wretchedly small, vain, egotistical, _commonplace_
people! Would you believe it, they invited me there under the express
condition that I should die quickly, and they are all as wild as
possible with me for not having died yet, and for being, on the
contrary, a good deal better! Isn’t it a comedy? I don’t mind betting
that you don’t believe me!”

The prince said nothing.

“I sometimes think of coming over to you again,” said Hippolyte,
carelessly. “So you _don’t_ think them capable of inviting a man on the
condition that he is to look sharp and die?”

“I certainly thought they invited you with quite other views.”

“Ho, ho! you are not nearly so simple as they try to make you out! This
is not the time for it, or I would tell you a thing or two about that
beauty, Gania, and his hopes. You are being undermined, pitilessly
undermined, and—and it is really melancholy to see you so calm about
it. But alas! it’s your nature—you can’t help it!”

“My word! what a thing to be melancholy about! Why, do you think I
should be any happier if I were to feel disturbed about the excavations
you tell me of?”

“It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a
fool’s paradise! I suppose you don’t believe that you have a rival in
that quarter?”

“Your insinuations as to rivalry are rather cynical, Hippolyte. I’m
sorry to say I have no right to answer you! As for Gania, I put it to
you, _can_ any man have a happy mind after passing through what he has
had to suffer? I think that is the best way to look at it. He will
change yet, he has lots of time before him, and life is rich;
besides—besides...” the prince hesitated. “As to being undermined, I
don’t know what in the world you are driving at, Hippolyte. I think we
had better drop the subject!”

“Very well, we’ll drop it for a while. You can’t look at anything but
in your exalted, generous way. You must put out your finger and touch a
thing before you’ll believe it, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I suppose you despise
me dreadfully, prince, eh? What do you think?”

“Why? Because you have suffered more than we have?”

“No; because I am unworthy of my sufferings, if you like!”

“Whoever _can_ suffer is worthy to suffer, I should think. Aglaya
Ivanovna wished to see you, after she had read your confession, but—”

“She postponed the pleasure—I see—I quite understand!” said Hippolyte,
hurriedly, as though he wished to banish the subject. “I hear—they tell
me—that you read her all that nonsense aloud? Stupid bosh it
was—written in delirium. And I can’t understand how anyone can be so—I
won’t say _cruel_, because the word would be humiliating to myself, but
we’ll say childishly vain and revengeful, as to _reproach_ me with this
confession, and use it as a weapon against me. Don’t be afraid, I’m not
referring to yourself.”

“Oh, but I’m sorry you repudiate the confession, Hippolyte—it is
sincere; and, do you know, even the absurd parts of it—and these are
many” (here Hippolyte frowned savagely) “are, as it were, redeemed by
suffering—for it must have cost you something to admit what you there
say—great torture, perhaps, for all I know. Your motive must have been
a very noble one all through. Whatever may have appeared to the
contrary, I give you my word, I see this more plainly every day. I do
not judge you; I merely say this to have it off my mind, and I am only
sorry that I did not say it all _then_—”

Hippolyte flushed hotly. He had thought at first that the prince was
“humbugging” him; but on looking at his face he saw that he was
absolutely serious, and had no thought of any deception. Hippolyte
beamed with gratification.

“And yet I must die,” he said, and almost added: “a man like me!

“And imagine how that Gania annoys me! He has developed the idea—or
pretends to believe—that in all probability three or four others who
heard my confession will die before I do. There’s an idea for you—and
all this by way of _consoling_ me! Ha! ha! ha! In the first place they
haven’t died yet; and in the second, if they _did_ die—all of them—what
would be the satisfaction to me in that? He judges me by himself. But
he goes further, he actually pitches into me because, as he declares,
‘any decent fellow’ would die quietly, and that ‘all this’ is mere
egotism on my part. He doesn’t see what refinement of egotism it is on
his own part—and at the same time, what ox-like coarseness! Have you
ever read of the death of one Stepan Gleboff, in the eighteenth
century? I read of it yesterday by chance.”

“Who was he?”

“He was impaled on a stake in the time of Peter.”

“I know, I know! He lay there fifteen hours in the hard frost, and died
with the most extraordinary fortitude—I know—what of him?”

“Only that God gives that sort of dying to some, and not to others.
Perhaps you think, though, that I could not die like Gleboff?”

“Not at all!” said the prince, blushing. “I was only going to say that
you—not that you could not be like Gleboff—but that you would have been
more like—”

“I guess what you mean—I should be an Osterman, not a Gleboff—eh? Is
that what you meant?”

“What Osterman?” asked the prince in some surprise.

“Why, Osterman—the diplomatist. Peter’s Osterman,” muttered Hippolyte,
confused. There was a moment’s pause of mutual confusion.

“Oh, no, no!” said the prince at last, “that was not what I was going
to say—oh no! I don’t think you would ever have been like Osterman.”

Hippolyte frowned gloomily.

“I’ll tell you why I draw the conclusion,” explained the prince,
evidently desirous of clearing up the matter a little. “Because, though
I often think over the men of those times, I cannot for the life of me
imagine them to be like ourselves. It really appears to me that they
were of another race altogether than ourselves of today. At that time
people seemed to stick so to one idea; now, they are more nervous, more
sensitive, more enlightened—people of two or three ideas at once—as it
were. The man of today is a broader man, so to speak—and I declare I
believe that is what prevents him from being so self-contained and
independent a being as his brother of those earlier days. Of course my
remark was only made under this impression, and not in the least—”

“I quite understand. You are trying to comfort me for the naiveness
with which you disagreed with me—eh? Ha! ha! ha! You are a regular
child, prince! However, I cannot help seeing that you always treat me
like—like a fragile china cup. Never mind, never mind, I’m not a bit
angry! At all events we have had a very funny talk. Do you know, all
things considered, I should like to be something better than Osterman!
I wouldn’t take the trouble to rise from the dead to be an Osterman.
However, I see I must make arrangements to die soon, or I myself—.
Well—leave me now! _Au revoir._ Look here—before you go, just give me
your opinion: how do you think I ought to die, now? I mean—the best,
the most virtuous way? Tell me!”

“You should pass us by and forgive us our happiness,” said the prince
in a low voice.

“Ha! ha! ha! I thought so. I thought I should hear something like that.
Well, you are—you really are—oh dear me! Eloquence, eloquence!
Good-bye!”

VI.

As to the evening party at the Epanchins’ at which Princess Bielokonski
was to be present, Varia had reported with accuracy; though she had
perhaps expressed herself too strongly.

The thing was decided in a hurry and with a certain amount of quite
unnecessary excitement, doubtless because “nothing could be done in
this house like anywhere else.”

The impatience of Lizabetha Prokofievna “to get things settled”
explained a good deal, as well as the anxiety of both parents for the
happiness of their beloved daughter. Besides, Princess Bielokonski was
going away soon, and they hoped that she would take an interest in the
prince. They were anxious that he should enter society under the
auspices of this lady, whose patronage was the best of recommendations
for any young man.

Even if there seems something strange about the match, the general and
his wife said to each other, the “world” will accept Aglaya’s fiance
without any question if he is under the patronage of the princess. In
any case, the prince would have to be “shown” sooner or later; that is,
introduced into society, of which he had, so far, not the least idea.
Moreover, it was only a question of a small gathering of a few intimate
friends. Besides Princess Bielokonski, only one other lady was
expected, the wife of a high dignitary. Evgenie Pavlovitch, who was to
escort the princess, was the only young man.

Muishkin was told of the princess’s visit three days beforehand, but
nothing was said to him about the party until the night before it was
to take place.

He could not help observing the excited and agitated condition of all
members of the family, and from certain hints dropped in conversation
he gathered that they were all anxious as to the impression he should
make upon the princess. But the Epanchins, one and all, believed that
Muishkin, in his simplicity of mind, was quite incapable of realizing
that they could be feeling any anxiety on his account, and for this
reason they all looked at him with dread and uneasiness.

In point of fact, he did attach marvellously little importance to the
approaching event. He was occupied with altogether different thoughts.
Aglaya was growing hourly more capricious and gloomy, and this
distressed him. When they told him that Evgenie Pavlovitch was
expected, he evinced great delight, and said that he had long wished to
see him—and somehow these words did not please anyone.

Aglaya left the room in a fit of irritation, and it was not until late
in the evening, past eleven, when the prince was taking his departure,
that she said a word or two to him, privately, as she accompanied him
as far as the front door.

“I should like you,” she said, “not to come here tomorrow until
evening, when the guests are all assembled. You know there are to be
guests, don’t you?”

She spoke impatiently and with severity; this was the first allusion
she had made to the party of tomorrow.

She hated the idea of it, everyone saw that; and she would probably
have liked to quarrel about it with her parents, but pride and modesty
prevented her from broaching the subject.

The prince jumped to the conclusion that Aglaya, too, was nervous about
him, and the impression he would make, and that she did not like to
admit her anxiety; and this thought alarmed him.

“Yes, I am invited,” he replied.

She was evidently in difficulties as to how best to go on. “May I speak
of something serious to you, for once in my life?” she asked, angrily.
She was irritated at she knew not what, and could not restrain her
wrath.

“Of course you may; I am very glad to listen,” replied Muishkin.

Aglaya was silent a moment and then began again with evident dislike of
her subject:

“I do not wish to quarrel with them about this; in some things they
won’t be reasonable. I always did feel a loathing for the laws which
seem to guide mamma’s conduct at times. I don’t speak of father, for he
cannot be expected to be anything but what he is. Mother is a
noble-minded woman, I know; you try to suggest anything mean to her,
and you’ll see! But she is such a slave to these miserable creatures! I
don’t mean old Bielokonski alone. She is a contemptible old thing, but
she is able to twist people round her little finger, and I admire that
in her, at all events! How mean it all is, and how foolish! We were
always middle-class, thoroughly middle-class, people. Why should we
attempt to climb into the giddy heights of the fashionable world? My
sisters are all for it. It’s Prince S. they have to thank for poisoning
their minds. Why are you so glad that Evgenie Pavlovitch is coming?”

“Listen to me, Aglaya,” said the prince, “I do believe you are nervous
lest I shall make a fool of myself tomorrow at your party?”

“Nervous about you?” Aglaya blushed. “Why should I be nervous about
you? What would it matter to me if you were to make ever such a fool of
yourself? How can you say such a thing? What do you mean by ‘making a
fool of yourself’? What a vulgar expression! I suppose you intend to
talk in that sort of way tomorrow evening? Look up a few more such
expressions in your dictionary; do, you’ll make a grand effect! I’m
sorry that you seem to be able to come into a room as gracefully as you
do; where did you learn the art? Do you think you can drink a cup of
tea decently, when you know everybody is looking at you, on purpose to
see how you do it?”

“Yes, I think I can.”

“Can you? I’m sorry for it then, for I should have had a good laugh at
you otherwise. Do break _something_ at least, in the drawing-room!
Upset the Chinese vase, won’t you? It’s a valuable one; _do_ break it.
Mamma values it, and she’ll go out of her mind—it was a present. She’ll
cry before everyone, you’ll see! Wave your hand about, you know, as you
always do, and just smash it. Sit down near it on purpose.”

“On the contrary, I shall sit as far from it as I can. Thanks for the
hint.”

“Ha, ha! Then you are afraid you _will_ wave your arms about! I
wouldn’t mind betting that you’ll talk about some lofty subject,
something serious and learned. How delightful, how tactful that will
be!”

“I should think it would be very foolish indeed, unless it happened to
come in appropriately.”

“Look here, once for all,” cried Aglaya, boiling over, “if I hear you
talking about capital punishment, or the economical condition of
Russia, or about Beauty redeeming the world, or anything of that sort,
I’ll—well, of course I shall laugh and seem very pleased, but I warn
you beforehand, don’t look me in the face again! I’m serious now, mind,
this time I _am really_ serious.” She certainly did say this very
seriously, so much so, that she looked quite different from what she
usually was, and the prince could not help noticing the fact. She did
not seem to be joking in the slightest degree.

“Well, you’ve put me into such a fright that I shall certainly make a
fool of myself, and very likely break something too. I wasn’t a bit
alarmed before, but now I’m as nervous as can be.”

“Then don’t speak at all. Sit still and don’t talk.”

“Oh, I can’t do that, you know! I shall say something foolish out of
pure ‘funk,’ and break something for the same excellent reason; I know
I shall. Perhaps I shall slip and fall on the slippery floor; I’ve done
that before now, you know. I shall dream of it all night now. Why did
you say anything about it?”

Aglaya looked blackly at him.

“Do you know what, I had better not come at all tomorrow! I’ll plead
sick-list and stay away,” said the prince, with decision.

Aglaya stamped her foot, and grew quite pale with anger.

“Oh, my goodness! Just listen to that! ‘Better not come,’ when the
party is on purpose for him! Good Lord! What a delightful thing it is
to have to do with such a—such a stupid as you are!”

“Well, I’ll come, I’ll come,” interrupted the prince, hastily, “and
I’ll give you my word of honour that I will sit the whole evening and
not say a word.”

“I believe that’s the best thing you can do. You said you’d ‘plead
sick-list’ just now; where in the world do you get hold of such
expressions? Why do you talk to me like this? Are you trying to
irritate me, or what?”

“Forgive me, it’s a schoolboy expression. I won’t do it again. I know
quite well, I see it, that you are anxious on my account (now, don’t be
angry), and it makes me very happy to see it. You wouldn’t believe how
frightened I am of misbehaving somehow, and how glad I am of your
instructions. But all this panic is simply nonsense, you know, Aglaya!
I give you my word it is; I am so pleased that you are such a child,
such a dear good child. How _charming_ you can be if you like, Aglaya.”

Aglaya wanted to be angry, of course, but suddenly some quite
unexpected feeling seized upon her heart, all in a moment.

“And you won’t reproach me for all these rude words of mine—some
day—afterwards?” she asked, of a sudden.

“What an idea! Of course not. And what are you blushing for again? And
there comes that frown once more! You’ve taken to looking too gloomy
sometimes, Aglaya, much more than you used to. I know why it is.”

“Be quiet, do be quiet!”

“No, no, I had much better speak out. I have long wished to say it, and
_have_ said it, but that’s not enough, for you didn’t believe me.
Between us two there stands a being who—”

“Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet, be quiet!” Aglaya struck in, suddenly,
seizing his hand in hers, and gazing at him almost in terror.

At this moment she was called by someone. She broke loose from him with
an air of relief and ran away.

The prince was in a fever all night. It was strange, but he had
suffered from fever for several nights in succession. On this
particular night, while in semi-delirium, he had an idea: what if on
the morrow he were to have a fit before everybody? The thought seemed
to freeze his blood within him. All night he fancied himself in some
extraordinary society of strange persons. The worst of it was that he
was talking nonsense; he knew that he ought not to speak at all, and
yet he talked the whole time; he seemed to be trying to persuade them
all to something. Evgenie and Hippolyte were among the guests, and
appeared to be great friends.

He awoke towards nine o’clock with a headache, full of confused ideas
and strange impressions. For some reason or other he felt most anxious
to see Rogojin, to see and talk to him, but what he wished to say he
could not tell. Next, he determined to go and see Hippolyte. His mind
was in a confused state, so much so that the incidents of the morning
seemed to be imperfectly realized, though acutely felt.

One of these incidents was a visit from Lebedeff. Lebedeff came rather
early—before ten—but he was tipsy already. Though the prince was not in
an observant condition, yet he could not avoid seeing that for at least
three days—ever since General Ivolgin had left the house Lebedeff had
been behaving very badly. He looked untidy and dirty at all times of
the day, and it was said that he had begun to rage about in his own
house, and that his temper was very bad. As soon as he arrived this
morning, he began to hold forth, beating his breast and apparently
blaming himself for something.

“I’ve—I’ve had a reward for my meanness—I’ve had a slap in the face,”
he concluded, tragically.

“A slap in the face? From whom? And so early in the morning?”

“Early?” said Lebedeff, sarcastically. “Time counts for nothing, even
in physical chastisement; but my slap in the face was not physical, it
was moral.”

He suddenly took a seat, very unceremoniously, and began his story. It
was very disconnected; the prince frowned, and wished he could get
away; but suddenly a few words struck him. He sat stiff with
wonder—Lebedeff said some extraordinary things.

In the first place he began about some letter; the name of Aglaya
Ivanovna came in. Then suddenly he broke off and began to accuse the
prince of something; he was apparently offended with him. At first he
declared that the prince had trusted him with his confidences as to “a
certain person” (Nastasia Philipovna), but that of late his friendship
had been thrust back into his bosom, and his innocent question as to
“approaching family changes” had been curtly put aside, which Lebedeff
declared, with tipsy tears, he could not bear; especially as he knew so
much already both from Rogojin and Nastasia Philipovna and her friend,
and from Varvara Ardalionovna, and even from Aglaya Ivanovna, through
his daughter Vera. “And who told Lizabetha Prokofievna something in
secret, by letter? Who told her all about the movements of a certain
person called Nastasia Philipovna? Who was the anonymous person, eh?
Tell me!”

“Surely not you?” cried the prince.

“Just so,” said Lebedeff, with dignity; “and only this very morning I
have sent up a letter to the noble lady, stating that I have a matter
of great importance to communicate. She received the letter; I know she
got it; and she received _me_, too.”

“Have you just seen Lizabetha Prokofievna?” asked the prince, scarcely
believing his ears.

“Yes, I saw her, and got the said slap in the face as mentioned. She
chucked the letter back to me unopened, and kicked me out of the house,
morally, not physically, although not far off it.”

“What letter do you mean she returned unopened?”

“What! didn’t I tell you? Ha, ha, ha! I thought I had. Why, I received
a letter, you know, to be handed over—”

“From whom? To whom?”

But it was difficult, if not impossible, to extract anything from
Lebedeff. All the prince could gather was, that the letter had been
received very early, and had a request written on the outside that it
might be sent on to the address given.

“Just as before, sir, just as before! To a certain person, and from a
certain hand. The individual’s name who wrote the letter is to be
represented by the letter A.—”

“What? Impossible! To Nastasia Philipovna? Nonsense!” cried the prince.

“It was, I assure you, and if not to her then to Rogojin, which is the
same thing. Mr. Hippolyte has had letters, too, and all from the
individual whose name begins with an A.,” smirked Lebedeff, with a
hideous grin.

As he kept jumping from subject to subject, and forgetting what he had
begun to talk about, the prince said nothing, but waited, to give him
time.

It was all very vague. Who had taken the letters, if letters there
were? Probably Vera—and how could Lebedeff have got them? In all
probability, he had managed to steal the present letter from Vera, and
had himself gone over to Lizabetha Prokofievna with some idea in his
head. So the prince concluded at last.

“You are mad!” he cried, indignantly.

“Not quite, esteemed prince,” replied Lebedeff, with some acerbity. “I
confess I thought of doing you the service of handing the letter over
to yourself, but I decided that it would pay me better to deliver it up
to the noble lady aforesaid, as I had informed her of everything
hitherto by anonymous letters; so when I sent her up a note from
myself, with the letter, you know, in order to fix a meeting for eight
o’clock this morning, I signed it ‘your secret correspondent.’ They let
me in at once—very quickly—by the back door, and the noble lady
received me.”

“Well? Go on.”

“Oh, well, when I saw her she almost punched my head, as I say; in fact
so nearly that one might almost say she did punch my head. She threw
the letter in my face; she seemed to reflect first, as if she would
have liked to keep it, but thought better of it and threw it in my face
instead. ‘If anybody can have been such a fool as to trust a man like
you to deliver the letter,’ says she, ‘take it and deliver it!’ Hey!
she was grandly indignant. A fierce, fiery lady that, sir!”

“Where’s the letter now?”

“Oh, I’ve still got it, here!”

And he handed the prince the very letter from Aglaya to Gania, which
the latter showed with so much triumph to his sister at a later hour.

“This letter cannot be allowed to remain in your hands.”

“It’s for you—for you! I’ve brought it you on purpose!” cried Lebedeff,
excitedly. “Why, I’m yours again now, heart and hand, your slave; there
was but a momentary pause in the flow of my love and esteem for you.
Mea culpa, mea culpa! as the Pope of Rome says.”

“This letter should be sent on at once,” said the prince, disturbed.
“I’ll hand it over myself.”

“Wouldn’t it be better, esteemed prince, wouldn’t it be better—to—don’t
you know—”

Lebedeff made a strange and very expressive grimace; he twisted about
in his chair, and did something, apparently symbolical, with his hands.

“What do you mean?” said the prince.

“Why, open it, for the time being, don’t you know?” he said, most
confidentially and mysteriously.

The prince jumped up so furiously that Lebedeff ran towards the door;
having gained which strategic position, however, he stopped and looked
back to see if he might hope for pardon.

“Oh, Lebedeff, Lebedeff! Can a man really sink to such depths of
meanness?” said the prince, sadly.

Lebedeff’s face brightened.

“Oh, I’m a mean wretch—a mean wretch!” he said, approaching the prince
once more, and beating his breast, with tears in his eyes.

“It’s abominable dishonesty, you know!”

“Dishonesty—it is, it is! That’s the very word!”

“What in the world induces you to act so? You are nothing but a spy.
Why did you write anonymously to worry so noble and generous a lady?
Why should not Aglaya Ivanovna write a note to whomever she pleases?
What did you mean to complain of today? What did you expect to get by
it? What made you go at all?”

“Pure amiable curiosity,—I assure you—desire to do a service. That’s
all. Now I’m entirely yours again, your slave; hang me if you like!”

“Did you go before Lizabetha Prokofievna in your present condition?”
inquired the prince.

“No—oh no, fresher—more the correct card. I only became this like after
the humiliation I suffered there.”

“Well—that’ll do; now leave me.”

This injunction had to be repeated several times before the man could
be persuaded to move. Even then he turned back at the door, came as far
as the middle of the room, and there went through his mysterious
motions designed to convey the suggestion that the prince should open
the letter. He did not dare put his suggestion into words again.

After this performance, he smiled sweetly and left the room on tiptoe.

All this had been very painful to listen to. One fact stood out certain
and clear, and that was that poor Aglaya must be in a state of great
distress and indecision and mental torment (“from jealousy,” the prince
whispered to himself). Undoubtedly in this inexperienced, but hot and
proud little head, there were all sorts of plans forming, wild and
impossible plans, maybe; and the idea of this so frightened the prince
that he could not make up his mind what to do. Something must be done,
that was clear.

He looked at the address on the letter once more. Oh, he was not in the
least degree alarmed about Aglaya writing such a letter; he could trust
her. What he did not like about it was that he could not trust Gania.

However, he made up his mind that he would himself take the note and
deliver it. Indeed, he went so far as to leave the house and walk up
the road, but changed his mind when he had nearly reached Ptitsin’s
door. However, he there luckily met Colia, and commissioned him to
deliver the letter to his brother as if direct from Aglaya. Colia asked
no questions but simply delivered it, and Gania consequently had no
suspicion that it had passed through so many hands.

Arrived home again, the prince sent for Vera Lebedeff and told her as
much as was necessary, in order to relieve her mind, for she had been
in a dreadful state of anxiety since she had missed the letter. She
heard with horror that her father had taken it. Muishkin learned from
her that she had on several occasions performed secret missions both
for Aglaya and for Rogojin, without, however, having had the slightest
idea that in so doing she might injure the prince in any way.

The latter, with one thing and another, was now so disturbed and
confused, that when, a couple of hours or so later, a message came from
Colia that the general was ill, he could hardly take the news in.

However, when he did master the fact, it acted upon him as a tonic by
completely distracting his attention. He went at once to Nina
Alexandrovna’s, whither the general had been carried, and stayed there
until the evening. He could do no good, but there are people whom to
have near one is a blessing at such times. Colia was in an almost
hysterical state; he cried continuously, but was running about all day,
all the same; fetching doctors, of whom he collected three; going to
the chemist’s, and so on.

The general was brought round to some extent, but the doctors declared
that he could not be said to be out of danger. Varia and Nina
Alexandrovna never left the sick man’s bedside; Gania was excited and
distressed, but would not go upstairs, and seemed afraid to look at the
patient. He wrung his hands when the prince spoke to him, and said that
“such a misfortune at such a moment” was terrible.

The prince thought he knew what Gania meant by “such a moment.”

Hippolyte was not in the house. Lebedeff turned up late in the
afternoon; he had been asleep ever since his interview with the prince
in the morning. He was quite sober now, and cried with real sincerity
over the sick general—mourning for him as though he were his own
brother. He blamed himself aloud, but did not explain why. He repeated
over and over again to Nina Alexandrovna that he alone was to blame—no
one else—but that he had acted out of “pure amiable curiosity,” and
that “the deceased,” as he insisted upon calling the still living
general, had been the greatest of geniuses.

He laid much stress on the genius of the sufferer, as if this idea must
be one of immense solace in the present crisis.

Nina Alexandrovna—seeing his sincerity of feeling—said at last, and
without the faintest suspicion of reproach in her voice: “Come,
come—don’t cry! God will forgive you!”

Lebedeff was so impressed by these words, and the tone in which they
were spoken, that he could not leave Nina Alexandrovna all the
evening—in fact, for several days. Till the general’s death, indeed, he
spent almost all his time at his side.

Twice during the day a messenger came to Nina Alexandrovna from the
Epanchins to inquire after the invalid.

When—late in the evening—the prince made his appearance in Lizabetha
Prokofievna’s drawing-room, he found it full of guests. Mrs. Epanchin
questioned him very fully about the general as soon as he appeared; and
when old Princess Bielokonski wished to know “who this general was, and
who was Nina Alexandrovna,” she proceeded to explain in a manner which
pleased the prince very much.

He himself, when relating the circumstances of the general’s illness to
Lizabetha Prokofievna, “spoke beautifully,” as Aglaya’s sisters
declared afterwards—“modestly, quietly, without gestures or too many
words, and with great dignity.” He had entered the room with propriety
and grace, and he was perfectly dressed; he not only did not “fall down
on the slippery floor,” as he had expressed it, but evidently made a
very favourable impression upon the assembled guests.

As for his own impression on entering the room and taking his seat, he
instantly remarked that the company was not in the least such as
Aglaya’s words had led him to fear, and as he had dreamed of—in
nightmare form—all night.

This was the first time in his life that he had seen a little corner of
what was generally known by the terrible name of “society.” He had long
thirsted, for reasons of his own, to penetrate the mysteries of the
magic circle, and, therefore, this assemblage was of the greatest
possible interest to him.

His first impression was one of fascination. Somehow or other he felt
that all these people must have been born on purpose to be together! It
seemed to him that the Epanchins were not having a party at all; that
these people must have been here always, and that he himself was one of
them—returned among them after a long absence, but one of them,
naturally and indisputably.

It never struck him that all this refined simplicity and nobility and
wit and personal dignity might possibly be no more than an exquisite
artistic polish. The majority of the guests—who were somewhat
empty-headed, after all, in spite of their aristocratic bearing—never
guessed, in their self-satisfied composure, that much of their
superiority was mere veneer, which indeed they had adopted
unconsciously and by inheritance.

The prince would never so much as suspect such a thing in the delight
of his first impression.

He saw, for instance, that one important dignitary, old enough to be
his grandfather, broke off his own conversation in order to listen to
_him_—a young and inexperienced man; and not only listened, but seemed
to attach value to his opinion, and was kind and amiable, and yet they
were strangers and had never seen each other before. Perhaps what most
appealed to the prince’s impressionability was the refinement of the
old man’s courtesy towards him. Perhaps the soil of his susceptible
nature was really predisposed to receive a pleasant impression.

Meanwhile all these people—though friends of the family and of each
other to a certain extent—were very far from being such intimate
friends of the family and of each other as the prince concluded. There
were some present who never would think of considering the Epanchins
their equals. There were even some who hated one another cordially. For
instance, old Princess Bielokonski had all her life despised the wife
of the “dignitary,” while the latter was very far from loving Lizabetha
Prokofievna. The dignitary himself had been General Epanchin’s
protector from his youth up; and the general considered him so majestic
a personage that he would have felt a hearty contempt for himself if he
had even for one moment allowed himself to pose as the great man’s
equal, or to think of him—in his fear and reverence—as anything less
than an Olympic God! There were others present who had not met for
years, and who had no feeling whatever for each other, unless it were
dislike; and yet they met tonight as though they had seen each other
but yesterday in some friendly and intimate assembly of kindred
spirits.

It was not a large party, however. Besides Princess Bielokonski and the
old dignitary (who was really a great man) and his wife, there was an
old military general—a count or baron with a German name, a man reputed
to possess great knowledge and administrative ability. He was one of
those Olympian administrators who know everything except Russia,
pronounce a word of extraordinary wisdom, admired by all, about once in
five years, and, after being an eternity in the service, generally die
full of honour and riches, though they have never done anything great,
and have even been hostile to all greatness. This general was Ivan
Fedorovitch’s immediate superior in the service; and it pleased the
latter to look upon him also as a patron. On the other hand, the great
man did not at all consider himself Epanchin’s patron. He was always
very cool to him, while taking advantage of his ready services, and
would instantly have put another in his place if there had been the
slightest reason for the change.

Another guest was an elderly, important-looking gentleman, a distant
relative of Lizabetha Prokofievna’s. This gentleman was rich, held a
good position, was a great talker, and had the reputation of being “one
of the dissatisfied,” though not belonging to the dangerous sections of
that class. He had the manners, to some extent, of the English
aristocracy, and some of their tastes (especially in the matter of
under-done roast beef, harness, men-servants, etc.). He was a great
friend of the dignitary’s, and Lizabetha Prokofievna, for some reason
or other, had got hold of the idea that this worthy intended at no
distant date to offer the advantages of his hand and heart to
Alexandra.

Besides the elevated and more solid individuals enumerated, there were
present a few younger though not less elegant guests. Besides Prince S.
and Evgenie Pavlovitch, we must name the eminent and fascinating Prince
N.—once the vanquisher of female hearts all over Europe. This gentleman
was no longer in the first bloom of youth—he was forty-five, but still
very handsome. He was well off, and lived, as a rule, abroad, and was
noted as a good teller of stories. Then came a few guests belonging to
a lower stratum of society—people who, like the Epanchins themselves,
moved only occasionally in this exalted sphere. The Epanchins liked to
draft among their more elevated guests a few picked representatives of
this lower stratum, and Lizabetha Prokofievna received much praise for
this practice, which proved, her friends said, that she was a woman of
tact. The Epanchins prided themselves upon the good opinion people held
of them.

One of the representatives of the middle-class present today was a
colonel of engineers, a very serious man and a great friend of Prince
S., who had introduced him to the Epanchins. He was extremely silent in
society, and displayed on the forefinger of his right hand a large
ring, probably bestowed upon him for services of some sort. There was
also a poet, German by name, but a Russian poet; very presentable, and
even handsome—the sort of man one could bring into society with
impunity. This gentleman belonged to a German family of decidedly
bourgeois origin, but he had a knack of acquiring the patronage of
“big-wigs,” and of retaining their favour. He had translated some great
German poem into Russian verse, and claimed to have been a friend of a
famous Russian poet, since dead. (It is strange how great a multitude
of literary people there are who have had the advantages of friendship
with some great man of their own profession who is, unfortunately,
dead.) The dignitary’s wife had introduced this worthy to the
Epanchins. This lady posed as the patroness of literary people, and she
certainly had succeeded in obtaining pensions for a few of them, thanks
to her influence with those in authority on such matters. She was a
lady of weight in her own way. Her age was about forty-five, so that
she was a very young wife for such an elderly husband as the dignitary.
She had been a beauty in her day and still loved, as many ladies of
forty-five do love, to dress a little too smartly. Her intellect was
nothing to boast of, and her literary knowledge very doubtful. Literary
patronage was, however, with her as much a mania as was the love of
gorgeous clothes. Many books and translations were dedicated to her by
her proteges, and a few of these talented individuals had published
some of their own letters to her, upon very weighty subjects.

This, then, was the society that the prince accepted at once as true
coin, as pure gold without alloy.

It so happened, however, that on this particular evening all these good
people were in excellent humour and highly pleased with themselves.
Every one of them felt that they were doing the Epanchins the greatest
possible honour by their presence. But alas! the prince never suspected
any such subtleties! For instance, he had no suspicion of the fact that
the Epanchins, having in their mind so important a step as the marriage
of their daughter, would never think of presuming to take it without
having previously “shown off” the proposed husband to the dignitary—the
recognized patron of the family. The latter, too, though he would
probably have received news of a great disaster to the Epanchin family
with perfect composure, would nevertheless have considered it a
personal offence if they had dared to marry their daughter without his
advice, or we might almost say, his leave.

The amiable and undoubtedly witty Prince N. could not but feel that he
was as a sun, risen for one night only to shine upon the Epanchin
drawing-room. He accounted them immeasurably his inferiors, and it was
this feeling which caused his special amiability and delightful ease
and grace towards them. He knew very well that he must tell some story
this evening for the edification of the company, and led up to it with
the inspiration of anticipatory triumph.

The prince, when he heard the story afterwards, felt that he had never
yet come across so wonderful a humorist, or such remarkable brilliancy
as was shown by this man; and yet if he had only known it, this story
was the oldest, stalest, and most worn-out yarn, and every drawing-room
in town was sick to death of it. It was only in the innocent Epanchin
household that it passed for a new and brilliant tale—as a sudden and
striking reminiscence of a splendid and talented man.

Even the German poet, though as amiable as possible, felt that he was
doing the house the greatest of honours by his presence in it.

But the prince only looked at the bright side; he did not turn the coat
and see the shabby lining.

Aglaya had not foreseen that particular calamity. She herself looked
wonderfully beautiful this evening. All three sisters were dressed very
tastefully, and their hair was done with special care.

Aglaya sat next to Evgenie Pavlovitch, and laughed and talked to him
with an unusual display of friendliness. Evgenie himself behaved rather
more sedately than usual, probably out of respect to the dignitary.
Evgenie had been known in society for a long while. He had appeared at
the Epanchins’ today with crape on his hat, and Princess Bielokonski
had commended this action on his part. Not every society man would have
worn crape for “such an uncle.” Lizabetha Prokofievna had liked it
also, but was too preoccupied to take much notice. The prince remarked
that Aglaya looked attentively at him two or three times, and seemed to
be satisfied with his behaviour.

Little by little he became very happy indeed. All his late anxieties
and apprehensions (after his conversation with Lebedeff) now appeared
like so many bad dreams—impossible, and even laughable.

He did not speak much, only answering such questions as were put to
him, and gradually settled down into unbroken silence, listening to
what went on, and steeped in perfect satisfaction and contentment.

Little by little a sort of inspiration, however, began to stir within
him, ready to spring into life at the right moment. When he did begin
to speak, it was accidentally, in response to a question, and
apparently without any special object.

VII.

While he feasted his eyes upon Aglaya, as she talked merrily with
Evgenie and Prince N., suddenly the old anglomaniac, who was talking to
the dignitary in another corner of the room, apparently telling him a
story about something or other—suddenly this gentleman pronounced the
name of “Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff” aloud. The prince quickly
turned towards him, and listened.

The conversation had been on the subject of land, and the present
disorders, and there must have been something amusing said, for the old
man had begun to laugh at his companion’s heated expressions.

The latter was describing in eloquent words how, in consequence of
recent legislation, he was obliged to sell a beautiful estate in the N.
province, not because he wanted ready money—in fact, he was obliged to
sell it at half its value. “To avoid another lawsuit about the
Pavlicheff estate, I ran away,” he said. “With a few more inheritances
of that kind I should soon be ruined!”

At this point General Epanchin, noticing how interested Muishkin had
become in the conversation, said to him, in a low tone:

“That gentleman—Ivan Petrovitch—is a relation of your late friend, Mr.
Pavlicheff. You wanted to find some of his relations, did you not?”

The general, who had been talking to his chief up to this moment, had
observed the prince’s solitude and silence, and was anxious to draw him
into the conversation, and so introduce him again to the notice of some
of the important personages.

“Lef Nicolaievitch was a ward of Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff, after
the death of his own parents,” he remarked, meeting Ivan Petrovitch’s
eye.

“Very happy to meet him, I’m sure,” remarked the latter. “I remember
Lef Nicolaievitch well. When General Epanchin introduced us just now, I
recognized you at once, prince. You are very little changed, though I
saw you last as a child of some ten or eleven years old. There was
something in your features, I suppose, that—”

“You saw me as a child!” exclaimed the prince, with surprise.

“Oh! yes, long ago,” continued Ivan Petrovitch, “while you were living
with my cousin at Zlatoverhoff. You don’t remember me? No, I dare say
you don’t; you had some malady at the time, I remember. It was so
serious that I was surprised—”

“No; I remember nothing!” said the prince. A few more words of
explanation followed, words which were spoken without the smallest
excitement by his companion, but which evoked the greatest agitation in
the prince; and it was discovered that two old ladies to whose care the
prince had been left by Pavlicheff, and who lived at Zlatoverhoff, were
also relations of Ivan Petrovitch.

The latter had no idea and could give no information as to why
Pavlicheff had taken so great an interest in the little prince, his
ward.

“In point of fact I don’t think I thought much about it,” said the old
fellow. He seemed to have a wonderfully good memory, however, for he
told the prince all about the two old ladies, Pavlicheff’s cousins, who
had taken care of him, and whom, he declared, he had taken to task for
being too severe with the prince as a small sickly boy—the elder
sister, at least; the younger had been kind, he recollected. They both
now lived in another province, on a small estate left to them by
Pavlicheff. The prince listened to all this with eyes sparkling with
emotion and delight.

He declared with unusual warmth that he would never forgive himself for
having travelled about in the central provinces during these last six
months without having hunted up his two old friends.

He declared, further, that he had intended to go every day, but had
always been prevented by circumstances; but that now he would promise
himself the pleasure—however far it was, he would find them out. And so
Ivan Petrovitch _really_ knew Natalia Nikitishna!—what a saintly nature
was hers!—and Martha Nikitishna! Ivan Petrovitch must excuse him, but
really he was not quite fair on dear old Martha. She was severe,
perhaps; but then what else could she be with such a little idiot as he
was then? (Ha, ha.) He really was an idiot then, Ivan Petrovitch must
know, though he might not believe it. (Ha, ha.) So he had really seen
him there! Good heavens! And was he really and truly and actually a
cousin of Pavlicheff’s?

“I assure you of it,” laughed Ivan Petrovitch, gazing amusedly at the
prince.

“Oh! I didn’t say it because I _doubt_ the fact, you know. (Ha, ha.)
How could I doubt such a thing? (Ha, ha, ha.) I made the remark
because—because Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff was such a splendid man,
don’t you see! Such a high-souled man, he really was, I assure you.”

The prince did not exactly pant for breath, but he “seemed almost to
_choke_ out of pure simplicity and goodness of heart,” as Adelaida
expressed it, on talking the party over with her fiance, the Prince S.,
next morning.

“But, my goodness me,” laughed Ivan Petrovitch, “why can’t I be cousin
to even a splendid man?”

“Oh, dear!” cried the prince, confused, trying to hurry his words out,
and growing more and more eager every moment: “I’ve gone and said
another stupid thing. I don’t know what to say. I—I didn’t mean that,
you know—I—I—he really was such a splendid man, wasn’t he?”

The prince trembled all over. Why was he so agitated? Why had he flown
into such transports of delight without any apparent reason? He had far
outshot the measure of joy and emotion consistent with the occasion.
Why this was it would be difficult to say.

He seemed to feel warmly and deeply grateful to someone for something
or other—perhaps to Ivan Petrovitch; but likely enough to all the
guests, individually, and collectively. He was much too happy.

Ivan Petrovitch began to stare at him with some surprise; the
dignitary, too, looked at him with considerable attention; Princess
Bielokonski glared at him angrily, and compressed her lips. Prince N.,
Evgenie, Prince S., and the girls, all broke off their own
conversations and listened. Aglaya seemed a little startled; as for
Lizabetha Prokofievna, her heart sank within her.

This was odd of Lizabetha Prokofievna and her daughters. They had
themselves decided that it would be better if the prince did not talk
all the evening. Yet seeing him sitting silent and alone, but perfectly
happy, they had been on the point of exerting themselves to draw him
into one of the groups of talkers around the room. Now that he was in
the midst of a talk they became more than ever anxious and perturbed.

“That he was a splendid man is perfectly true; you are quite right,”
repeated Ivan Petrovitch, but seriously this time. “He was a fine and a
worthy fellow—worthy, one may say, of the highest respect,” he added,
more and more seriously at each pause; “and it is agreeable to see, on
your part, such—”

“Wasn’t it this same Pavlicheff about whom there was a strange story in
connection with some abbot? I don’t remember who the abbot was, but I
remember at one time everybody was talking about it,” remarked the old
dignitary.

“Yes—Abbot Gurot, a Jesuit,” said Ivan Petrovitch. “Yes, that’s the
sort of thing our best men are apt to do. A man of rank, too, and
rich—a man who, if he had continued to serve, might have done anything;
and then to throw up the service and everything else in order to go
over to Roman Catholicism and turn Jesuit—openly, too—almost
triumphantly. By Jove! it was positively a mercy that he died when he
did—it was indeed—everyone said so at the time.”

The prince was beside himself.

“Pavlicheff?—Pavlicheff turned Roman Catholic? Impossible!” he cried,
in horror.

“H’m! impossible is rather a strong word,” said Ivan Petrovitch. “You
must allow, my dear prince... However, of course you value the memory
of the deceased so very highly; and he certainly was the kindest of
men; to which fact, by the way, I ascribe, more than to anything else,
the success of the abbot in influencing his religious convictions. But
you may ask me, if you please, how much trouble and worry I,
personally, had over that business, and especially with this same
Gurot! Would you believe it,” he continued, addressing the dignitary,
“they actually tried to put in a claim under the deceased’s will, and I
had to resort to the very strongest measures in order to bring them to
their senses? I assure you they knew their cue, did these
gentlemen—wonderful! Thank goodness all this was in Moscow, and I got
the Court, you know, to help me, and we soon brought them to their
senses.”

“You wouldn’t believe how you have pained and astonished me,” cried the
prince.

“Very sorry; but in point of fact, you know, it was all nonsense and
would have ended in smoke, as usual—I’m sure of that. Last year,”—he
turned to the old man again,—“Countess K. joined some Roman Convent
abroad. Our people never seem to be able to offer any resistance so
soon as they get into the hands of these—intriguers—especially abroad.”

“That is all thanks to our lassitude, I think,” replied the old man,
with authority. “And then their way of preaching; they have a skilful
manner of doing it! And they know how to startle one, too. I got quite
a fright myself in ’32, in Vienna, I assure you; but I didn’t cave in
to them, I ran away instead, ha, ha!”

“Come, come, I’ve always heard that you ran away with the beautiful
Countess Levitsky that time—throwing up everything in order to do
it—and not from the Jesuits at all,” said Princess Bielokonski,
suddenly.

“Well, yes—but we call it from the Jesuits, you know; it comes to the
same thing,” laughed the old fellow, delighted with the pleasant
recollection.

“You seem to be very religious,” he continued, kindly, addressing the
prince, “which is a thing one meets so seldom nowadays among young
people.”

The prince was listening open-mouthed, and still in a condition of
excited agitation. The old man was evidently interested in him, and
anxious to study him more closely.

“Pavlicheff was a man of bright intellect and a good Christian, a
sincere Christian,” said the prince, suddenly. “How could he possibly
embrace a faith which is unchristian? Roman Catholicism is, so to
speak, simply the same thing as unchristianity,” he added with flashing
eyes, which seemed to take in everybody in the room.

“Come, that’s a little _too_ strong, isn’t it?” murmured the old man,
glancing at General Epanchin in surprise.

“How do you make out that the Roman Catholic religion is _unchristian?_
What is it, then?” asked Ivan Petrovitch, turning to the prince.

“It is not a Christian religion, in the first place,” said the latter,
in extreme agitation, quite out of proportion to the necessity of the
moment. “And in the second place, Roman Catholicism is, in my opinion,
worse than Atheism itself. Yes—that is my opinion. Atheism only
preaches a negation, but Romanism goes further; it preaches a
disfigured, distorted Christ—it preaches Anti-Christ—I assure you, I
swear it! This is my own personal conviction, and it has long
distressed me. The Roman Catholic believes that the Church on earth
cannot stand without universal temporal Power. He cries ‘non possumus!’
In my opinion the Roman Catholic religion is not a faith at all, but
simply a continuation of the Roman Empire, and everything is
subordinated to this idea—beginning with faith. The Pope has seized
territories and an earthly throne, and has held them with the sword.
And so the thing has gone on, only that to the sword they have added
lying, intrigue, deceit, fanaticism, superstition, swindling;—they have
played fast and loose with the most sacred and sincere feelings of
men;—they have exchanged everything—everything for money, for base
earthly _power!_ And is this not the teaching of Anti-Christ? How could
the upshot of all this be other than Atheism? Atheism is the child of
Roman Catholicism—it proceeded from these Romans themselves, though
perhaps they would not believe it. It grew and fattened on hatred of
its parents; it is the progeny of their lies and spiritual feebleness.
Atheism! In our country it is only among the upper classes that you
find unbelievers; men who have lost the root or spirit of their faith;
but abroad whole masses of the people are beginning to profess
unbelief—at first because of the darkness and lies by which they were
surrounded; but now out of fanaticism, out of loathing for the Church
and Christianity!”

The prince paused to get breath. He had spoken with extraordinary
rapidity, and was very pale.

All present interchanged glances, but at last the old dignitary burst
out laughing frankly. Prince N. took out his eye-glass to have a good
look at the speaker. The German poet came out of his corner and crept
nearer to the table, with a spiteful smile.

“You exaggerate the matter very much,” said Ivan Petrovitch, with
rather a bored air. “There are, in the foreign Churches, many
representatives of their faith who are worthy of respect and esteem.”

“Oh, but I did not speak of individual representatives. I was merely
talking about Roman Catholicism, and its essence—of Rome itself. A
Church can never entirely disappear; I never hinted at that!”

“Agreed that all this may be true; but we need not discuss a subject
which belongs to the domain of theology.”

“Oh, no; oh, no! Not to theology alone, I assure you! Why, Socialism is
the progeny of Romanism and of the Romanistic spirit. It and its
brother Atheism proceed from Despair in opposition to Catholicism. It
seeks to replace in itself the moral power of religion, in order to
appease the spiritual thirst of parched humanity and save it; not by
Christ, but by force. ‘Don’t dare to believe in God, don’t dare to
possess any individuality, any property! _Fraternité ou la Mort_; two
million heads. ‘By their works ye shall know them’—we are told. And we
must not suppose that all this is harmless and without danger to
ourselves. Oh, no; we must resist, and quickly, quickly! We must let
our Christ shine forth upon the Western nations, our Christ whom we
have preserved intact, and whom they have never known. Not as slaves,
allowing ourselves to be caught by the hooks of the Jesuits, but
carrying our Russian civilization to _them_, we must stand before them,
not letting it be said among us that their preaching is ‘skilful,’ as
someone expressed it just now.”

“But excuse me, excuse me;” cried Ivan Petrovitch considerably
disturbed, and looking around uneasily. “Your ideas are, of course,
most praiseworthy, and in the highest degree patriotic; but you
exaggerate the matter terribly. It would be better if we dropped the
subject.”

“No, sir, I do not exaggerate, I understate the matter, if anything,
undoubtedly understate it; simply because I cannot express myself as I
should like, but—”

“Allow me!”

The prince was silent. He sat straight up in his chair and gazed
fervently at Ivan Petrovitch.

“It seems to me that you have been too painfully impressed by the news
of what happened to your good benefactor,” said the old dignitary,
kindly, and with the utmost calmness of demeanour. “You are excitable,
perhaps as the result of your solitary life. If you would make up your
mind to live more among your fellows in society, I trust, I am sure,
that the world would be glad to welcome you, as a remarkable young man;
and you would soon find yourself able to look at things more calmly.
You would see that all these things are much simpler than you think;
and, besides, these rare cases come about, in my opinion, from ennui
and from satiety.”

“Exactly, exactly! That is a true thought!” cried the prince. “From
ennui, from our ennui but not from satiety! Oh, no, you are wrong
there! Say from _thirst_ if you like; the thirst of fever! And please
do not suppose that this is so small a matter that we may have a laugh
at it and dismiss it; we must be able to foresee our disasters and arm
against them. We Russians no sooner arrive at the brink of the water,
and realize that we are really at the brink, than we are so delighted
with the outlook that in we plunge and swim to the farthest point we
can see. Why is this? You say you are surprised at Pavlicheff’s action;
you ascribe it to madness, to kindness of heart, and what not, but it
is not so.

“Our Russian intensity not only astonishes ourselves; all Europe
wonders at our conduct in such cases! For, if one of us goes over to
Roman Catholicism, he is sure to become a Jesuit at once, and a rabid
one into the bargain. If one of us becomes an Atheist, he must needs
begin to insist on the prohibition of faith in God by force, that is,
by the sword. Why is this? Why does he then exceed all bounds at once?
Because he has found land at last, the fatherland that he sought in
vain before; and, because his soul is rejoiced to find it, he throws
himself upon it and kisses it! Oh, it is not from vanity alone, it is
not from feelings of vanity that Russians become Atheists and Jesuits!
But from spiritual thirst, from anguish of longing for higher things,
for dry firm land, for foothold on a fatherland which they never
believed in because they never knew it. It is easier for a Russian to
become an Atheist, than for any other nationality in the world. And not
only does a Russian ‘become an Atheist,’ but he actually _believes in_
Atheism, just as though he had found a new faith, not perceiving that
he has pinned his faith to a negation. Such is our anguish of thirst!
‘Whoso has no country has no God.’ That is not my own expression; it is
the expression of a merchant, one of the Old Believers, whom I once met
while travelling. He did not say exactly these words. I think his
expression was:

“‘Whoso forsakes his country forsakes his God.’

“But let these thirsty Russian souls find, like Columbus’ discoverers,
a new world; let them find the Russian world, let them search and
discover all the gold and treasure that lies hid in the bosom of their
own land! Show them the restitution of lost humanity, in the future, by
Russian thought alone, and by means of the God and of the Christ of our
Russian faith, and you will see how mighty and just and wise and good a
giant will rise up before the eyes of the astonished and frightened
world; astonished because they expect nothing but the sword from us,
because they think they will get nothing out of us but barbarism. This
has been the case up to now, and the longer matters go on as they are
now proceeding, the more clear will be the truth of what I say; and I—”

But at this moment something happened which put a most unexpected end
to the orator’s speech. All this heated tirade, this outflow of
passionate words and ecstatic ideas which seemed to hustle and tumble
over each other as they fell from his lips, bore evidence of some
unusually disturbed mental condition in the young fellow who had
“boiled over” in such a remarkable manner, without any apparent reason.

Of those who were present, such as knew the prince listened to his
outburst in a state of alarm, some with a feeling of mortification. It
was so unlike his usual timid self-constraint; so inconsistent with his
usual taste and tact, and with his instinctive feeling for the higher
proprieties. They could not understand the origin of the outburst; it
could not be simply the news of Pavlicheff’s perversion. By the ladies
the prince was regarded as little better than a lunatic, and Princess
Bielokonski admitted afterwards that “in another minute she would have
bolted.”

The two old gentlemen looked quite alarmed. The old general (Epanchin’s
chief) sat and glared at the prince in severe displeasure. The colonel
sat immovable. Even the German poet grew a little pale, though he wore
his usual artificial smile as he looked around to see what the others
would do.

In point of fact it is quite possible that the matter would have ended
in a very commonplace and natural way in a few minutes. The undoubtedly
astonished, but now more collected, General Epanchin had several times
endeavoured to interrupt the prince, and not having succeeded he was
now preparing to take firmer and more vigorous measures to attain his
end. In another minute or two he would probably have made up his mind
to lead the prince quietly out of the room, on the plea of his being
ill (and it was more than likely that the general was right in his
belief that the prince _was_ actually ill), but it so happened that
destiny had something different in store.

At the beginning of the evening, when the prince first came into the
room, he had sat down as far as possible from the Chinese vase which
Aglaya had spoken of the day before.

Will it be believed that, after Aglaya’s alarming words, an
ineradicable conviction had taken possession of his mind that, however
he might try to avoid this vase next day, he must certainly break it?
But so it was.

During the evening other impressions began to awaken in his mind, as we
have seen, and he forgot his presentiment. But when Pavlicheff was
mentioned and the general introduced him to Ivan Petrovitch, he had
changed his place, and went over nearer to the table; when, it so
happened, he took the chair nearest to the beautiful vase, which stood
on a pedestal behind him, just about on a level with his elbow.

As he spoke his last words he had risen suddenly from his seat with a
wave of his arm, and there was a general cry of horror.

The huge vase swayed backwards and forwards; it seemed to be uncertain
whether or no to topple over on to the head of one of the old men, but
eventually determined to go the other way, and came crashing over
towards the German poet, who darted out of the way in terror.

The crash, the cry, the sight of the fragments of valuable china
covering the carpet, the alarm of the company—what all this meant to
the poor prince it would be difficult to convey to the mind of the
reader, or for him to imagine.

But one very curious fact was that all the shame and vexation and
mortification which he felt over the accident were less powerful than
the deep impression of the almost supernatural truth of his
premonition. He stood still in alarm—in almost superstitious alarm, for
a moment; then all mists seemed to clear away from his eyes; he was
conscious of nothing but light and joy and ecstasy; his breath came and
went; but the moment passed. Thank God it was not that! He drew a long
breath and looked around.

For some minutes he did not seem to comprehend the excitement around
him; that is, he comprehended it and saw everything, but he stood
aside, as it were, like someone invisible in a fairy tale, as though he
had nothing to do with what was going on, though it pleased him to take
an interest in it.

He saw them gather up the broken bits of china; he heard the loud
talking of the guests and observed how pale Aglaya looked, and how very
strangely she was gazing at him. There was no hatred in her expression,
and no anger whatever. It was full of alarm for him, and sympathy and
affection, while she looked around at the others with flashing, angry
eyes. His heart filled with a sweet pain as he gazed at her.

At length he observed, to his amazement, that all had taken their seats
again, and were laughing and talking as though nothing had happened.
Another minute and the laughter grew louder—they were laughing at him,
at his dumb stupor—laughing kindly and merrily. Several of them spoke
to him, and spoke so kindly and cordially, especially Lizabetha
Prokofievna—she was saying the kindest possible things to him.

Suddenly he became aware that General Epanchin was tapping him on the
shoulder; Ivan Petrovitch was laughing too, but still more kind and
sympathizing was the old dignitary. He took the prince by the hand and
pressed it warmly; then he patted it, and quietly urged him to
recollect himself—speaking to him exactly as he would have spoken to a
little frightened child, which pleased the prince wonderfully; and next
seated him beside himself.

The prince gazed into his face with pleasure, but still seemed to have
no power to speak. His breath failed him. The old man’s face pleased
him greatly.

“Do you really forgive me?” he said at last. “And—and Lizabetha
Prokofievna too?” The laugh increased, tears came into the prince’s
eyes, he could not believe in all this kindness—he was enchanted.

“The vase certainly was a very beautiful one. I remember it here for
fifteen years—yes, quite that!” remarked Ivan Petrovitch.

“Oh, what a dreadful calamity! A wretched vase smashed, and a man half
dead with remorse about it,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna, loudly. “What
made you so dreadfully startled, Lef Nicolaievitch?” she added, a
little timidly. “Come, my dear boy! cheer up. You really alarm me,
taking the accident so to heart.”

“Do you forgive me all—_all_, besides the vase, I mean?” said the
prince, rising from his seat once more, but the old gentleman caught
his hand and drew him down again—he seemed unwilling to let him go.

“_C’est très-curieux et c’est très-sérieux_,” he whispered across the
table to Ivan Petrovitch, rather loudly. Probably the prince heard him.

“So that I have not offended any of you? You will not believe how happy
I am to be able to think so. It is as it should be. As if I _could_
offend anyone here! I should offend you again by even suggesting such a
thing.”

“Calm yourself, my dear fellow. You are exaggerating again; you really
have no occasion to be so grateful to us. It is a feeling which does
you great credit, but an exaggeration, for all that.”

“I am not exactly thanking you, I am only feeling a growing admiration
for you—it makes me happy to look at you. I dare say I am speaking very
foolishly, but I must speak—I must explain, if it be out of nothing
better than self-respect.”

All he said and did was abrupt, confused, feverish—very likely the
words he spoke, as often as not, were not those he wished to say. He
seemed to inquire whether he _might_ speak. His eyes lighted on
Princess Bielokonski.

“All right, my friend, talk away, talk away!” she remarked. “Only don’t
lose your breath; you were in such a hurry when you began, and look
what you’ve come to now! Don’t be afraid of speaking—all these ladies
and gentlemen have seen far stranger people than yourself; you don’t
astonish _them_. You are nothing out-of-the-way remarkable, you know.
You’ve done nothing but break a vase, and give us all a fright.”

The prince listened, smiling.

“Wasn’t it you,” he said, suddenly turning to the old gentleman, “who
saved the student Porkunoff and a clerk called Shoabrin from being sent
to Siberia, two or three months since?”

The old dignitary blushed a little, and murmured that the prince had
better not excite himself further.

“And I have heard of _you_,” continued the prince, addressing Ivan
Petrovitch, “that when some of your villagers were burned out you gave
them wood to build up their houses again, though they were no longer
your serfs and had behaved badly towards you.”

“Oh, come, come! You are exaggerating,” said Ivan Petrovitch, beaming
with satisfaction, all the same. He was right, however, in this
instance, for the report had reached the prince’s ears in an incorrect
form.

“And you, princess,” he went on, addressing Princess Bielokonski, “was
it not you who received me in Moscow, six months since, as kindly as
though I had been your own son, in response to a letter from Lizabetha
Prokofievna; and gave me one piece of advice, again as to your own son,
which I shall never forget? Do you remember?”

“What are you making such a fuss about?” said the old lady, with
annoyance. “You are a good fellow, but very silly. One gives you a
halfpenny, and you are as grateful as though one had saved your life.
You think this is praiseworthy on your part, but it is not—it is not,
indeed.”

She seemed to be very angry, but suddenly burst out laughing, quite
good-humouredly.

Lizabetha Prokofievna’s face brightened up, too; so did that of General
Epanchin.

“I told you Lef Nicolaievitch was a man—a man—if only he would not be
in such a hurry, as the princess remarked,” said the latter, with
delight.

Aglaya alone seemed sad and depressed; her face was flushed, perhaps
with indignation.

“He really is very charming,” whispered the old dignitary to Ivan
Petrovitch.

“I came into this room with anguish in my heart,” continued the prince,
with ever-growing agitation, speaking quicker and quicker, and with
increasing strangeness. “I—I was afraid of you all, and afraid of
myself. I was most afraid of myself. When I returned to Petersburg, I
promised myself to make a point of seeing our greatest men, and members
of our oldest families—the old families like my own. I am now among
princes like myself, am I not? I wished to know you, and it was
necessary, very, very necessary. I had always heard so much that was
evil said of you all—more evil than good; as to how small and petty
were your interests, how absurd your habits, how shallow your
education, and so on. There is so much written and said about you! I
came here today with anxious curiosity; I wished to see for myself and
form my own convictions as to whether it were true that the whole of
this upper stratum of Russian society is _worthless_, has outlived its
time, has existed too long, and is only fit to die—and yet is dying
with petty, spiteful warring against that which is destined to
supersede it and take its place—hindering the Coming Men, and knowing
not that itself is in a dying condition. I did not fully believe in
this view even before, for there never was such a class among
us—excepting perhaps at court, by accident—or by uniform; but now there
is not even that, is there? It has vanished, has it not?”

“No, not a bit of it,” said Ivan Petrovitch, with a sarcastic laugh.

“Good Lord, he’s off again!” said Princess Bielokonski, impatiently.

“Laissez-le dire! He is trembling all over,” said the old man, in a
warning whisper.

The prince certainly was beside himself.

“Well? What have I seen?” he continued. “I have seen men of graceful
simplicity of intellect; I have seen an old man who is not above
speaking kindly and even _listening_ to a boy like myself; I see before
me persons who can understand, who can forgive—kind, good Russian
hearts—hearts almost as kind and cordial as I met abroad. Imagine how
delighted I must have been, and how surprised! Oh, let me express this
feeling! I have so often heard, and I have even believed, that in
society there was nothing but empty forms, and that reality had
vanished; but I now see for myself that this can never be the case
_here_, among us—it may be the order elsewhere, but not in Russia.
Surely you are not all Jesuits and deceivers! I heard Prince N.‘s story
just now. Was it not simple-minded, spontaneous humour? Could such
words come from the lips of a man who is dead?—a man whose heart and
talents are dried up? Could dead men and women have treated me so
kindly as you have all been treating me to-day? Is there not material
for the future in all this—for hope? Can such people fail to
_understand?_ Can such men fall away from reality?”

“Once more let us beg you to be calm, my dear boy. We’ll talk of all
this another time—I shall do so with the greatest pleasure, for one,”
said the old dignitary, with a smile.

Ivan Petrovitch grunted and twisted round in his chair. General
Epanchin moved nervously. The latter’s chief had started a conversation
with the wife of the dignitary, and took no notice whatever of the
prince, but the old lady very often glanced at him, and listened to
what he was saying.

“No, I had better speak,” continued the prince, with a new outburst of
feverish emotion, and turning towards the old man with an air of
confidential trustfulness. “Yesterday, Aglaya Ivanovna forbade me to
talk, and even specified the particular subjects I must not touch
upon—she knows well enough that I am odd when I get upon these matters.
I am nearly twenty-seven years old, and yet I know I am little better
than a child. I have no right to express my ideas, and said so long
ago. Only in Moscow, with Rogojin, did I ever speak absolutely freely!
He and I read Pushkin together—all his works. Rogojin knew nothing of
Pushkin, had not even heard his name. I am always afraid of spoiling a
great Thought or Idea by my absurd manner. I have no eloquence, I know.
I always make the wrong gestures—inappropriate gestures—and therefore I
degrade the Thought, and raise a laugh instead of doing my subject
justice. I have no sense of proportion either, and that is the chief
thing. I know it would be much better if I were always to sit still and
say nothing. When I do so, I appear to be quite a sensible sort of a
person, and what’s more, I think about things. But now I must speak; it
is better that I should. I began to speak because you looked so kindly
at me; you have such a beautiful face. I promised Aglaya Ivanovna
yesterday that I would not speak all the evening.”

“Really?” said the old man, smiling.

“But, at times, I can’t help thinking that I am wrong in feeling so
about it, you know. Sincerity is more important than elocution, isn’t
it?”

“Sometimes.”

“I want to explain all to you—everything—everything! I know you think
me Utopian, don’t you—an idealist? Oh, no! I’m not, indeed—my ideas are
all so simple. You don’t believe me? You are smiling. Do you know, I am
sometimes very wicked—for I lose my faith? This evening as I came here,
I thought to myself, ‘What shall I talk about? How am I to begin, so
that they may be able to understand partially, at all events?’ How
afraid I was—dreadfully afraid! And yet, how _could_ I be afraid—was it
not shameful of me? Was I afraid of finding a bottomless abyss of empty
selfishness? Ah! that’s why I am so happy at this moment, because I
find there is no bottomless abyss at all—but good, healthy material,
full of life.

“It is not such a very dreadful circumstance that we are odd people, is
it? For we really are odd, you know—careless, reckless, easily wearied
of anything. We don’t look thoroughly into matters—don’t care to
understand things. We are all like this—you and I, and all of them!
Why, here are you, now—you are not a bit angry with me for calling you
‘odd,’ are you? And, if so, surely there is good material in you? Do
you know, I sometimes think it is a good thing to be odd. We can
forgive one another more easily, and be more humble. No one can begin
by being perfect—there is much one cannot understand in life at first.
In order to attain to perfection, one must begin by failing to
understand much. And if we take in knowledge too quickly, we very
likely are not taking it in at all. I say all this to you—you who by
this time understand so much—and doubtless have failed to understand so
much, also. I am not afraid of you any longer. You are not angry that a
mere boy should say such words to you, are you? Of course not! You know
how to forget and to forgive. You are laughing, Ivan Petrovitch? You
think I am a champion of other classes of people—that I am _their_
advocate, a democrat, and an orator of Equality?” The prince laughed
hysterically; he had several times burst into these little, short
nervous laughs. “Oh, no—it is for you, for myself, and for all of us
together, that I am alarmed. I am a prince of an old family myself, and
I am sitting among my peers; and I am talking like this in the hope of
saving us all; in the hope that our class will not disappear
altogether—into the darkness—unguessing its danger—blaming everything
around it, and losing ground every day. Why should we disappear and
give place to others, when we may still, if we choose, remain in the
front rank and lead the battle? Let us be servants, that we may become
lords in due season!”

He tried to get upon his feet again, but the old man still restrained
him, gazing at him with increasing perturbation as he went on.

“Listen—I know it is best not to speak! It is best simply to give a
good example—simply to begin the work. I have done this—I have begun,
and—and—oh! _can_ anyone be unhappy, really? Oh! what does grief
matter—what does misfortune matter, if one knows how to be happy? Do
you know, I cannot understand how anyone can pass by a green tree, and
not feel happy only to look at it! How anyone can talk to a man and not
feel happy in loving him! Oh, it is my own fault that I cannot express
myself well enough! But there are lovely things at every step I
take—things which even the most miserable man must recognize as
beautiful. Look at a little child—look at God’s day dawn—look at the
grass growing—look at the eyes that love you, as they gaze back into
your eyes!”

He had risen, and was speaking standing up. The old gentleman was
looking at him now in unconcealed alarm. Lizabetha Prokofievna wrung
her hands. “Oh, my God!” she cried. She had guessed the state of the
case before anyone else.

Aglaya rushed quickly up to him, and was just in time to receive him in
her arms, and to hear with dread and horror that awful, wild cry as he
fell writhing to the ground.

There he lay on the carpet, and someone quickly placed a cushion under
his head.

No one had expected this.

In a quarter of an hour or so Prince N. and Evgenie Pavlovitch and the
old dignitary were hard at work endeavouring to restore the harmony of
the evening, but it was of no avail, and very soon after the guests
separated and went their ways.

A great deal of sympathy was expressed; a considerable amount of advice
was volunteered; Ivan Petrovitch expressed his opinion that the young
man was “a Slavophile, or something of that sort”; but that it was not
a dangerous development. The old dignitary said nothing.

True enough, most of the guests, next day and the day after, were not
in very good humour. Ivan Petrovitch was a little offended, but not
seriously so. General Epanchin’s chief was rather cool towards him for
some while after the occurrence. The old dignitary, as patron of the
family, took the opportunity of murmuring some kind of admonition to
the general, and added, in flattering terms, that he was most
interested in Aglaya’s future. He was a man who really did possess a
kind heart, although his interest in the prince, in the earlier part of
the evening, was due, among other reasons, to the latter’s connection
with Nastasia Philipovna, according to popular report. He had heard a
good deal of this story here and there, and was greatly interested in
it, so much so that he longed to ask further questions about it.

Princess Bielokonski, as she drove away on this eventful evening, took
occasion to say to Lizabetha Prokofievna:

“Well—he’s a good match—and a bad one; and if you want my opinion, more
bad than good. You can see for yourself the man is an invalid.”

Lizabetha therefore decided that the prince was impossible as a husband
for Aglaya; and during the ensuing night she made a vow that never
while she lived should he marry Aglaya. With this resolve firmly
impressed upon her mind, she awoke next day; but during the morning,
after her early lunch, she fell into a condition of remarkable
inconsistency.

In reply to a very guarded question of her sisters’, Aglaya had
answered coldly, but exceedingly haughtily:

“I have never given him my word at all, nor have I ever counted him as
my future husband—never in my life. He is just as little to me as all
the rest.”

Lizabetha Prokofievna suddenly flared up.

“I did not expect that of you, Aglaya,” she said. “He is an impossible
husband for you,—I know it; and thank God that we agree upon that
point; but I did not expect to hear such words from you. I thought I
should hear a very different tone from you. I would have turned out
everyone who was in the room last night and kept him,—that’s the sort
of man he is, in my opinion!”

Here she suddenly paused, afraid of what she had just said. But she
little knew how unfair she was to her daughter at that moment. It was
all settled in Aglaya’s mind. She was only waiting for the hour that
would bring the matter to a final climax; and every hint, every
careless probing of her wound, did but further lacerate her heart.

VIII.

This same morning dawned for the prince pregnant with no less painful
presentiments,—which fact his physical state was, of course, quite
enough to account for; but he was so indefinably melancholy,—his
sadness could not attach itself to anything in particular, and this
tormented him more than anything else. Of course certain facts stood
before him, clear and painful, but his sadness went beyond all that he
could remember or imagine; he realized that he was powerless to console
himself unaided. Little by little he began to develop the expectation
that this day something important, something decisive, was to happen to
him.

His attack of yesterday had been a slight one. Excepting some little
heaviness in the head and pain in the limbs, he did not feel any
particular effects. His brain worked all right, though his soul was
heavy within him.

He rose late, and immediately upon waking remembered all about the
previous evening; he also remembered, though not quite so clearly, how,
half an hour after his fit, he had been carried home.

He soon heard that a messenger from the Epanchins’ had already been to
inquire after him. At half-past eleven another arrived; and this
pleased him.

Vera Lebedeff was one of the first to come to see him and offer her
services. No sooner did she catch sight of him than she burst into
tears; but when he tried to soothe her she began to laugh. He was quite
struck by the girl’s deep sympathy for him; he seized her hand and
kissed it. Vera flushed crimson.

“Oh, don’t, don’t!” she exclaimed in alarm, snatching her hand away.
She went hastily out of the room in a state of strange confusion.

Lebedeff also came to see the prince, in a great hurry to get away to
the “deceased,” as he called General Ivolgin, who was alive still, but
very ill. Colia also turned up, and begged the prince for pity’s sake
to tell him all he knew about his father which had been concealed from
him till now. He said he had found out nearly everything since
yesterday; the poor boy was in a state of deep affliction. With all the
sympathy which he could bring into play, the prince told Colia the
whole story without reserve, detailing the facts as clearly as he
could. The tale struck Colia like a thunderbolt. He could not speak. He
listened silently, and cried softly to himself the while. The prince
perceived that this was an impression which would last for the whole of
the boy’s life. He made haste to explain his view of the matter, and
pointed out that the old man’s approaching death was probably brought
on by horror at the thought of his action; and that it was not everyone
who was capable of such a feeling.

Colia’s eyes flashed as he listened.

“Gania and Varia and Ptitsin are a worthless lot! I shall not quarrel
with them; but from this moment our feet shall not travel the same
road. Oh, prince, I have felt much that is quite new to me since
yesterday! It is a lesson for me. I shall now consider my mother as
entirely my responsibility; though she may be safe enough with Varia.
Still, meat and drink is not everything.”

He jumped up and hurried off, remembering suddenly that he was wanted
at his father’s bedside; but before he went out of the room he inquired
hastily after the prince’s health, and receiving the latter’s reply,
added:

“Isn’t there something else, prince? I heard yesterday, but I have no
right to talk about this... If you ever want a true friend and
servant—neither you nor I are so very happy, are we?—come to me. I
won’t ask you questions, though.”

He ran off and left the prince more dejected than ever.

Everyone seemed to be speaking prophetically, hinting at some
misfortune or sorrow to come; they had all looked at him as though they
knew something which he did not know. Lebedeff had asked questions,
Colia had hinted, and Vera had shed tears. What was it?

At last, with a sigh of annoyance, he said to himself that it was
nothing but his own cursed sickly suspicion. His face lighted up with
joy when, at about two o’clock, he espied the Epanchins coming along to
pay him a short visit, “just for a minute.” They really had only come
for a minute.

Lizabetha Prokofievna had announced, directly after lunch, that they
would all take a walk together. The information was given in the form
of a command, without explanation, drily and abruptly. All had issued
forth in obedience to the mandate; that is, the girls, mamma, and
Prince S. Lizabetha Prokofievna went off in a direction exactly
contrary to the usual one, and all understood very well what she was
driving at, but held their peace, fearing to irritate the good lady.
She, as though anxious to avoid any conversation, walked ahead, silent
and alone. At last Adelaida remarked that it was no use racing along at
such a pace, and that she could not keep up with her mother.

“Look here,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna, turning round suddenly; “we
are passing his house. Whatever Aglaya may think, and in spite of
anything that may happen, he is not a stranger to us; besides which, he
is ill and in misfortune. I, for one, shall call in and see him. Let
anyone follow me who cares to.”

Of course every one of them followed her.

The prince hastened to apologize, very properly, for yesterday’s mishap
with the vase, and for the scene generally.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” replied Lizabetha; “I’m not sorry for the vase,
I’m sorry for you. H’m! so you can see that there was a ‘scene,’ can
you? Well, it doesn’t matter much, for everyone must realize now that
it is impossible to be hard on you. Well, _au revoir_. I advise you to
have a walk, and then go to sleep again if you can. Come in as usual,
if you feel inclined; and be assured, once for all, whatever happens,
and whatever may have happened, you shall always remain the friend of
the family—mine, at all events. I can answer for myself.”

In response to this challenge all the others chimed in and re-echoed
mamma’s sentiments.

And so they took their departure; but in this hasty and kindly designed
visit there was hidden a fund of cruelty which Lizabetha Prokofievna
never dreamed of. In the words “as usual,” and again in her added,
“mine, at all events,” there seemed an ominous knell of some evil to
come.

The prince began to think of Aglaya. She had certainly given him a
wonderful smile, both at coming and again at leave-taking, but had not
said a word, not even when the others all professed their friendship
for him. She had looked very intently at him, but that was all. Her
face had been paler than usual; she looked as though she had slept
badly.

The prince made up his mind that he would make a point of going there
“as usual,” tonight, and looked feverishly at his watch.

Vera came in three minutes after the Epanchins had left. “Lef
Nicolaievitch,” she said, “Aglaya Ivanovna has just given me a message
for you.”

The prince trembled.

“Is it a note?”

“No, a verbal message; she had hardly time even for that. She begs you
earnestly not to go out of the house for a single moment all to-day,
until seven o’clock in the evening. It may have been nine; I didn’t
quite hear.”

“But—but, why is this? What does it mean?”

“I don’t know at all; but she said I was to tell you particularly.”

“Did she say that?”

“Not those very words. She only just had time to whisper as she went
by; but by the way she looked at me I knew it was important. She looked
at me in a way that made my heart stop beating.”

The prince asked a few more questions, and though he learned nothing
else, he became more and more agitated.

Left alone, he lay down on the sofa, and began to think.

“Perhaps,” he thought, “someone is to be with them until nine tonight
and she is afraid that I may come and make a fool of myself again, in
public.” So he spent his time longing for the evening and looking at
his watch. But the clearing-up of the mystery came long before the
evening, and came in the form of a new and agonizing riddle.

Half an hour after the Epanchins had gone, Hippolyte arrived, so tired
that, almost unconscious, he sank into a chair, and broke into such a
fit of coughing that he could not stop. He coughed till the blood came.
His eyes glittered, and two red spots on his cheeks grew brighter and
brighter. The prince murmured something to him, but Hippolyte only
signed that he must be left alone for a while, and sat silent. At last
he came to himself.

“I am off,” he said, hoarsely, and with difficulty.

“Shall I see you home?” asked the prince, rising from his seat, but
suddenly stopping short as he remembered Aglaya’s prohibition against
leaving the house. Hippolyte laughed.

“I don’t mean that I am going to leave your house,” he continued, still
gasping and coughing. “On the contrary, I thought it absolutely
necessary to come and see you; otherwise I should not have troubled
you. I am off there, you know, and this time I believe, seriously, that
I am off! It’s all over. I did not come here for sympathy, believe me.
I lay down this morning at ten o’clock with the intention of not rising
again before that time; but I thought it over and rose just once more
in order to come here; from which you may deduce that I had some reason
for wishing to come.”

“It grieves me to see you so, Hippolyte. Why didn’t you send me a
message? I would have come up and saved you this trouble.”

“Well, well! Enough! You’ve pitied me, and that’s all that good manners
exact. I forgot, how are you?”

“I’m all right; yesterday I was a little—”

“I know, I heard; the china vase caught it! I’m sorry I wasn’t there.
I’ve come about something important. In the first place I had, the
pleasure of seeing Gavrila Ardalionovitch and Aglaya Ivanovna enjoying
a rendezvous on the green bench in the park. I was astonished to see
what a fool a man can look. I remarked upon the fact to Aglaya Ivanovna
when he had gone. I don’t think anything ever surprises you, prince!”
added Hippolyte, gazing incredulously at the prince’s calm demeanour.
“To be astonished by nothing is a sign, they say, of a great intellect.
In my opinion it would serve equally well as a sign of great
foolishness. I am not hinting about you; pardon me! I am very
unfortunate today in my expressions.”

“I knew yesterday that Gavrila Ardalionovitch—” began the prince, and
paused in evident confusion, though Hippolyte had shown annoyance at
his betraying no surprise.

“You knew it? Come, that’s news! But no—perhaps better not tell me. And
were you a witness of the meeting?”

“If you were there yourself you must have known that I was _not_
there!”

“Oh! but you may have been sitting behind the bushes somewhere.
However, I am very glad, on your account, of course. I was beginning to
be afraid that Mr. Gania—might have the preference!”

“May I ask you, Hippolyte, not to talk of this subject? And not to use
such expressions?”

“Especially as you know all, eh?”

“You are wrong. I know scarcely anything, and Aglaya Ivanovna is aware
that I know nothing. I knew nothing whatever about this meeting. You
say there was a meeting. Very well; let’s leave it so—”

“Why, what do you mean? You said you knew, and now suddenly you know
nothing! You say ‘very well; let’s leave it so.’ But I say, don’t be so
confiding, especially as you know nothing. You are confiding simply
_because_ you know nothing. But do you know what these good people have
in their minds’ eye—Gania and his sister? Perhaps you are suspicious?
Well, well, I’ll drop the subject!” he added, hastily, observing the
prince’s impatient gesture. “But I’ve come to you on my own business; I
wish to make you a clear explanation. What a nuisance it is that one
cannot die without explanations! I have made such a quantity of them
already. Do you wish to hear what I have to say?”

“Speak away, I am listening.”

“Very well, but I’ll change my mind, and begin about Gania. Just fancy
to begin with, if you can, that I, too, was given an appointment at the
green bench today! However, I won’t deceive you; I asked for the
appointment. I said I had a secret to disclose. I don’t know whether I
came there too early, I think I must have; but scarcely had I sat down
beside Aglaya Ivanovna than I saw Gavrila Ardalionovitch and his sister
Varia coming along, arm in arm, just as though they were enjoying a
morning walk together. Both of them seemed very much astonished, not to
say disturbed, at seeing me; they evidently had not expected the
pleasure. Aglaya Ivanovna blushed up, and was actually a little
confused. I don’t know whether it was merely because I was there, or
whether Gania’s beauty was too much for her! But anyway, she turned
crimson, and then finished up the business in a very funny manner. She
jumped up from her seat, bowed back to Gania, smiled to Varia, and
suddenly observed: ‘I only came here to express my gratitude for all
your kind wishes on my behalf, and to say that if I find I need your
services, believe me—’ Here she bowed them away, as it were, and they
both marched off again, looking very foolish. Gania evidently could not
make head nor tail of the matter, and turned as red as a lobster; but
Varia understood at once that they must get away as quickly as they
could, so she dragged Gania away; she is a great deal cleverer than he
is. As for myself, I went there to arrange a meeting to be held between
Aglaya Ivanovna and Nastasia Philipovna.”

“Nastasia Philipovna!” cried the prince.

“Aha! I think you are growing less cool, my friend, and are beginning
to be a trifle surprised, aren’t you? I’m glad that you are not above
ordinary human feelings, for once. I’ll console you a little now, after
your consternation. See what I get for serving a young and high-souled
maiden! This morning I received a slap in the face from the lady!”

“A—a moral one?” asked the prince, involuntarily.

“Yes—not a physical one! I don’t suppose anyone—even a woman—would
raise a hand against me now. Even Gania would hesitate! I did think at
one time yesterday, that he would fly at me, though. I bet anything
that I know what you are thinking of now! You are thinking: ‘Of course
one can’t strike the little wretch, but one could suffocate him with a
pillow, or a wet towel, when he is asleep! One _ought_ to get rid of
him somehow.’ I can see in your face that you are thinking that at this
very second.”

“I never thought of such a thing for a moment,” said the prince, with
disgust.

“I don’t know—I dreamed last night that I was being suffocated with a
wet cloth by—somebody. I’ll tell you who it was—Rogojin! What do you
think, can a man be suffocated with a wet cloth?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve heard so. Well, we’ll leave that question just now. Why am I a
scandal-monger? Why did she call me a scandal-monger? And mind, _after_
she had heard every word I had to tell her, and had asked all sorts of
questions besides—but such is the way of women. For _her_ sake I
entered into relations with Rogojin—an interesting man! At _her_
request I arranged a personal interview between herself and Nastasia
Philipovna. Could she have been angry because I hinted that she was
enjoying Nastasia Philipovna’s ‘leavings’? Why, I have been impressing
it upon her all this while for her own good. Two letters have I written
her in that strain, and I began straight off today about its being
humiliating for her. Besides, the word ‘leavings’ is not my invention.
At all events, they all used it at Gania’s, and she used it herself. So
why am I a scandal-monger? I see—I see you are tremendously amused, at
this moment! Probably you are laughing at me and fitting those silly
lines to my case—

“‘Maybe sad Love upon his setting smiles, And with vain hopes his
farewell hour beguiles.’

“Ha, ha, ha!”

Hippolyte suddenly burst into a fit of hysterical laughter, which
turned into a choking cough.

“Observe,” he gasped, through his coughing, “what a fellow Gania is! He
talks about Nastasia’s ‘leavings,’ but what does he want to take
himself?”

The prince sat silent for a long while. His mind was filled with dread
and horror.

“You spoke of a meeting with Nastasia Philipovna,” he said at last, in
a low voice.

“Oh—come! Surely you must know that there is to be a meeting today
between Nastasia and Aglaya Ivanovna, and that Nastasia has been sent
for on purpose, through Rogojin, from St. Petersburg? It has been
brought about by invitation of Aglaya Ivanovna and my own efforts, and
Nastasia is at this moment with Rogojin, not far from here—at Dana
Alexeyevna’s—that curious friend of hers; and to this questionable
house Aglaya Ivanovna is to proceed for a friendly chat with Nastasia
Philipovna, and for the settlement of several problems. They are going
to play at arithmetic—didn’t you know about it? Word of honour?”

“It’s a most improbable story.”

“Oh, very well! if it’s improbable—it is—that’s all! And yet—where
should you have heard it? Though I must say, if a fly crosses the room
it’s known all over the place here. However, I’ve warned you, and you
may be grateful to me. Well—_au revoir_—probably in the next world! One
more thing—don’t think that I am telling you all this for your sake.
Oh, dear, no! Do you know that I dedicated my confession to Aglaya
Ivanovna? I did though, and how she took it, ha, ha! Oh, no! I am not
acting from any high, exalted motives. But though I may have behaved
like a cad to you, I have not done _her_ any harm. I don’t apologize
for my words about ‘leavings’ and all that. I am atoning for that, you
see, by telling you the place and time of the meeting. Goodbye! You had
better take your measures, if you are worthy the name of a man! The
meeting is fixed for this evening—that’s certain.”

Hippolyte walked towards the door, but the prince called him back and
he stopped.

“Then you think Aglaya Ivanovna herself intends to go to Nastasia
Philipovna’s tonight?” he asked, and bright hectic spots came out on
his cheeks and forehead.

“I don’t know absolutely for certain; but in all probability it is so,”
replied Hippolyte, looking round. “Nastasia would hardly go to her; and
they can’t meet at Gania’s, with a man nearly dead in the house.”

“It’s impossible, for that very reason,” said the prince. “How would
she get out if she wished to? You don’t know the habits of that
house—she _could_ not get away alone to Nastasia Philipovna’s! It’s all
nonsense!”

“Look here, my dear prince, no one jumps out of the window if they can
help it; but when there’s a fire, the dandiest gentleman or the finest
lady in the world will skip out! When the moment comes, and there’s
nothing else to be done—our young lady will go to Nastasia
Philipovna’s! Don’t they let the young ladies out of the house alone,
then?”

“I didn’t mean that exactly.”

“If you didn’t mean that, then she has only to go down the steps and
walk off, and she need never come back unless she chooses: Ships are
burned behind one sometimes, and one doesn’t care to return whence one
came. Life need not consist only of lunches, and dinners, and Prince
S’s. It strikes me you take Aglaya Ivanovna for some conventional
boarding-school girl. I said so to her, and she quite agreed with me.
Wait till seven or eight o’clock. In your place I would send someone
there to keep watch, so as to seize the exact moment when she steps out
of the house. Send Colia. He’ll play the spy with pleasure—for you at
least. Ha, ha, ha!”

Hippolyte went out.

There was no reason for the prince to set anyone to watch, even if he
had been capable of such a thing. Aglaya’s command that he should stay
at home all day seemed almost explained now. Perhaps she meant to call
for him, herself, or it might be, of course, that she was anxious to
make sure of his not coming there, and therefore bade him remain at
home. His head whirled; the whole room seemed to be turning round. He
lay down on the sofa, and closed his eyes.

One way or the other the question was to be decided at last—finally.

Oh, no, he did not think of Aglaya as a boarding-school miss, or a
young lady of the conventional type! He had long since feared that she
might take some such step as this. But why did she wish to see
Nastasia?

He shivered all over as he lay; he was in high fever again.

No! he did not account her a child. Certain of her looks, certain of
her words, of late, had filled him with apprehension. At times it had
struck him that she was putting too great a restraint upon herself, and
he remembered that he had been alarmed to observe this. He had tried,
all these days, to drive away the heavy thoughts that oppressed him;
but what was the hidden mystery of that soul? The question had long
tormented him, although he implicitly trusted that soul. And now it was
all to be cleared up. It was a dreadful thought. And “that woman”
again! Why did he always feel as though “that woman” were fated to
appear at each critical moment of his life, and tear the thread of his
destiny like a bit of rotten string? That he always _had_ felt this he
was ready to swear, although he was half delirious at the moment. If he
had tried to forget her, all this time, it was simply because he was
afraid of her. Did he love the woman or hate her? This question he did
not once ask himself today; his heart was quite pure. He knew whom he
loved. He was not so much afraid of this meeting, nor of its
strangeness, nor of any reasons there might be for it, unknown to
himself; he was afraid of the woman herself, Nastasia Philipovna. He
remembered, some days afterwards, how during all those fevered hours he
had seen but _her_ eyes, _her_ look, had heard _her_ voice, strange
words of hers; he remembered that this was so, although he could not
recollect the details of his thoughts.

He could remember that Vera brought him some dinner, and that he took
it; but whether he slept after dinner, or no, he could not recollect.

He only knew that he began to distinguish things clearly from the
moment when Aglaya suddenly appeared, and he jumped up from the sofa
and went to meet her. It was just a quarter past seven then.

Aglaya was quite alone, and dressed, apparently hastily, in a light
mantle. Her face was pale, as it had been in the morning, and her eyes
were ablaze with bright but subdued fire. He had never seen that
expression in her eyes before.

She gazed attentively at him.

“You are quite ready, I observe,” she said, with absolute composure,
“dressed, and your hat in your hand. I see somebody has thought fit to
warn you, and I know who. Hippolyte?”

“Yes, he told me,” said the prince, feeling only half alive.

“Come then. You know, I suppose, that you must escort me there? You are
well enough to go out, aren’t you?”

“I am well enough; but is it really possible?—”

He broke off abruptly, and could not add another word. This was his one
attempt to stop the mad child, and, after he had made it, he followed
her as though he had no will of his own. Confused as his thoughts were,
he was, nevertheless, capable of realizing the fact that if he did not
go with her, she would go alone, and so he must go with her at all
hazards. He guessed the strength of her determination; it was beyond
him to check it.

They walked silently, and said scarcely a word all the way. He only
noticed that she seemed to know the road very well; and once, when he
thought it better to go by a certain lane, and remarked to her that it
would be quieter and less public, she only said, “it’s all the same,”
and went on.

When they were almost arrived at Daria Alexeyevna’s house (it was a
large wooden structure of ancient date), a gorgeously-dressed lady and
a young girl came out of it. Both these ladies took their seats in a
carriage, which was waiting at the door, talking and laughing loudly
the while, and drove away without appearing to notice the approaching
couple.

No sooner had the carriage driven off than the door opened once more;
and Rogojin, who had apparently been awaiting them, let them in and
closed it after them.

“There is not another soul in the house now excepting our four selves,”
he said aloud, looking at the prince in a strange way.

Nastasia Philipovna was waiting for them in the first room they went
into. She was dressed very simply, in black.

She rose at their entrance, but did not smile or give her hand, even to
the prince. Her anxious eyes were fixed upon Aglaya. Both sat down, at
a little distance from one another—Aglaya on the sofa, in the corner of
the room, Nastasia by the window. The prince and Rogojin remained
standing, and were not invited to sit.

Muishkin glanced at Rogojin in perplexity, but the latter only smiled
disagreeably, and said nothing. The silence continued for some few
moments.

An ominous expression passed over Nastasia Philipovna’s face, of a
sudden. It became obstinate-looking, hard, and full of hatred; but she
did not take her eyes off her visitors for a moment.

Aglaya was clearly confused, but not frightened. On entering she had
merely glanced momentarily at her rival, and then had sat still, with
her eyes on the ground, apparently in thought. Once or twice she
glanced casually round the room. A shade of disgust was visible in her
expression; she looked as though she were afraid of contamination in
this place.

She mechanically arranged her dress, and fidgeted uncomfortably,
eventually changing her seat to the other end of the sofa. Probably she
was unconscious of her own movements; but this very unconsciousness
added to the offensiveness of their suggested meaning.

At length she looked straight into Nastasia’s eyes, and instantly read
all there was to read in her rival’s expression. Woman understood
woman! Aglaya shuddered.

“You know of course why I requested this meeting?” she said at last,
quietly, and pausing twice in the delivery of this very short sentence.

“No—I know nothing about it,” said Nastasia, drily and abruptly.

Aglaya blushed. Perhaps it struck her as very strange and impossible
that she should really be sitting here and waiting for “that woman’s”
reply to her question.

At the first sound of Nastasia’s voice a shudder ran through her frame.
Of course “that woman” observed and took in all this.

“You know quite well, but you are pretending to be ignorant,” said
Aglaya, very low, with her eyes on the ground.

“Why should I?” asked Nastasia Philipovna, smiling slightly.

“You want to take advantage of my position, now that I am in your
house,” continued Aglaya, awkwardly.

“For that position _you_ are to blame and not I,” said Nastasia,
flaring up suddenly. “_I_ did not invite _you_, but you me; and to this
moment I am quite ignorant as to why I am thus honoured.”

Aglaya raised her head haughtily.

“Restrain your tongue!” she said. “I did not come here to fight you
with your own weapons.

“Oh! then you did come ‘to fight,’ I may conclude? Dear me!—and I
thought you were cleverer—”

They looked at one another with undisguised malice. One of these women
had written to the other, so lately, such letters as we have seen; and
it all was dispersed at their first meeting. Yet it appeared that not
one of the four persons in the room considered this in any degree
strange.

The prince who, up to yesterday, would not have believed that he could
even dream of such an impossible scene as this, stood and listened and
looked on, and felt as though he had long foreseen it all. The most
fantastic dream seemed suddenly to have been metamorphosed into the
most vivid reality.

One of these women so despised the other, and so longed to express her
contempt for her (perhaps she had only come for that very purpose, as
Rogojin said next day), that howsoever fantastical was the other woman,
howsoever afflicted her spirit and disturbed her understanding, no
preconceived idea of hers could possibly stand up against that deadly
feminine contempt of her rival. The prince felt sure that Nastasia
would say nothing about the letters herself; but he could judge by her
flashing eyes and the expression of her face what the thought of those
letters must be costing her at this moment. He would have given half
his life to prevent Aglaya from speaking of them. But Aglaya suddenly
braced herself up, and seemed to master herself fully, all in an
instant.

“You have not quite understood,” she said. “I did not come to quarrel
with you, though I do not like you. I came to speak to you as... as one
human being to another. I came with my mind made up as to what I had to
say to you, and I shall not change my intention, although you may
misunderstand me. So much the worse for you, not for myself! I wished
to reply to all you have written to me and to reply personally, because
I think that is the more convenient way. Listen to my reply to all your
letters. I began to be sorry for Prince Lef Nicolaievitch on the very
day I made his acquaintance, and when I heard—afterwards—of all that
took place at your house in the evening, I was sorry for him because he
was such a simple-minded man, and because he, in the simplicity of his
soul, believed that he could be happy with a woman of your character.
What I feared actually took place; you could not love him, you tortured
him, and threw him over. You could not love him because you are too
proud—no, not proud, that is an error; because you are too vain—no, not
quite that either; too self-loving; you are self-loving to madness.
Your letters to me are a proof of it. You could not love so simple a
soul as his, and perhaps in your heart you despised him and laughed at
him. All you could love was your shame and the perpetual thought that
you were disgraced and insulted. If you were less shameful, or had no
cause at all for shame, you would be still more unhappy than you are
now.”

Aglaya brought out these thronging words with great satisfaction. They
came from her lips hurriedly and impetuously, and had been prepared and
thought out long ago, even before she had ever dreamed of the present
meeting. She watched with eagerness the effect of her speech as shown
in Nastasia’s face, which was distorted with agitation.

“You remember,” she continued, “he wrote me a letter at that time; he
says you know all about that letter and that you even read it. I
understand all by means of this letter, and understand it correctly. He
has since confirmed it all to me—what I now say to you, word for word.
After receiving his letter I waited; I guessed that you would soon come
back here, because you could never do without Petersburg; you are still
too young and lovely for the provinces. However, this is not my own
idea,” she added, blushing dreadfully; and from this moment the colour
never left her cheeks to the end of her speech. “When I next saw the
prince I began to feel terribly pained and hurt on his account. Do not
laugh; if you laugh you are unworthy of understanding what I say.”

“Surely you see that I am not laughing,” said Nastasia, sadly and
sternly.

“However, it’s all the same to me; laugh or not, just as you please.
When I asked him about you, he told me that he had long since ceased to
love you, that the very recollection of you was a torture to him, but
that he was sorry for you; and that when he thought of you his heart
was pierced. I ought to tell you that I never in my life met a man
anything like him for noble simplicity of mind and for boundless
trustfulness. I guessed that anyone who liked could deceive him, and
that he would immediately forgive anyone who did deceive him; and it
was for this that I grew to love him—”

Aglaya paused for a moment, as though suddenly brought up in
astonishment that she could have said these words, but at the same time
a great pride shone in her eyes, like a defiant assertion that it would
not matter to her if “this woman” laughed in her face for the admission
just made.

“I have told you all now, and of course you understand what I wish of
you.”

“Perhaps I do; but tell me yourself,” said Nastasia Philipovna,
quietly.

Aglaya flushed up angrily.

“I wished to find out from you,” she said, firmly, “by what right you
dare to meddle with his feelings for me? By what right you dared send
me those letters? By what right do you continually remind both me and
him that you love him, after you yourself threw him over and ran away
from him in so insulting and shameful a way?”

“I never told either him or you that I loved him!” replied Nastasia
Philipovna, with an effort. “And—and I did run away from him—you are
right there,” she added, scarcely audibly.

“Never told either him or me?” cried Aglaya. “How about your letters?
Who asked you to try to persuade me to marry him? Was not that a
declaration from you? Why do you force yourself upon us in this way? I
confess I thought at first that you were anxious to arouse an aversion
for him in my heart by your meddling, in order that I might give him
up; and it was only afterwards that I guessed the truth. You imagined
that you were doing an heroic action! How could you spare any love for
him, when you love your own vanity to such an extent? Why could you not
simply go away from here, instead of writing me those absurd letters?
Why do you not _now_ marry that generous man who loves you, and has
done you the honour of offering you his hand? It is plain enough why;
if you marry Rogojin you lose your grievance; you will have nothing
more to complain of. You will be receiving too much honour. Evgenie
Pavlovitch was saying the other day that you had read too many poems
and are too well educated for—your position; and that you live in
idleness. Add to this your vanity, and, there you have reason enough—”

“And do you not live in idleness?”

Things had come to this unexpected point too quickly. Unexpected
because Nastasia Philipovna, on her way to Pavlofsk, had thought and
considered a good deal, and had expected something different, though
perhaps not altogether good, from this interview; but Aglaya had been
carried away by her own outburst, just as a rolling stone gathers
impetus as it careers downhill, and could not restrain herself in the
satisfaction of revenge.

It was strange, Nastasia Philipovna felt, to see Aglaya like this. She
gazed at her, and could hardly believe her eyes and ears for a moment
or two.

Whether she were a woman who had read too many poems, as Evgenie
Pavlovitch supposed, or whether she were mad, as the prince had assured
Aglaya, at all events, this was a woman who, in spite of her
occasionally cynical and audacious manner, was far more refined and
trustful and sensitive than appeared. There was a certain amount of
romantic dreaminess and caprice in her, but with the fantastic was
mingled much that was strong and deep.

The prince realized this, and great suffering expressed itself in his
face.

Aglaya observed it, and trembled with anger.

“How dare you speak so to me?” she said, with a haughtiness which was
quite indescribable, replying to Nastasia’s last remark.

“You must have misunderstood what I said,” said Nastasia, in some
surprise.

“If you wished to preserve your good name, why did you not give up
your—your ‘guardian,’ Totski, without all that theatrical posturing?”
said Aglaya, suddenly a propos of nothing.

“What do you know of my position, that you dare to judge me?” cried
Nastasia, quivering with rage, and growing terribly white.

“I know this much, that you did not go out to honest work, but went
away with a rich man, Rogojin, in order to pose as a fallen angel. I
don’t wonder that Totski was nearly driven to suicide by such a fallen
angel.”

“Silence!” cried Nastasia Philipovna. “You are about as fit to
understand me as the housemaid here, who bore witness against her lover
in court the other day. She would understand me better than you do.”

“Probably an honest girl living by her own toil. Why do you speak of a
housemaid so contemptuously?”

“I do not despise toil; I despise you when you speak of toil.”

“If you had cared to be an honest woman, you would have gone out as a
laundress.”

Both had risen, and were gazing at one another with pallid faces.

“Aglaya, don’t! This is unfair,” cried the prince, deeply distressed.

Rogojin was not smiling now; he sat and listened with folded arms, and
lips tight compressed.

“There, look at her,” cried Nastasia, trembling with passion. “Look at
this young lady! And I imagined her an angel! Did you come to me
without your governess, Aglaya Ivanovna? Oh, fie, now shall I just tell
you why you came here today? Shall I tell you without any
embellishments? You came because you were afraid of me!”

“Afraid of _you?_” asked Aglaya, beside herself with naive amazement
that the other should dare talk to her like this.

“Yes, me, of course! Of course you were afraid of me, or you would not
have decided to come. You cannot despise one you fear. And to think
that I have actually esteemed you up to this very moment! Do you know
why you are afraid of me, and what is your object now? You wished to
satisfy yourself with your own eyes as to which he loves best, myself
or you, because you are fearfully jealous.”

“He has told me already that he hates you,” murmured Aglaya, scarcely
audibly.

“Perhaps, perhaps! I am not worthy of him, I know. But I think you are
lying, all the same. He cannot hate me, and he cannot have said so. I
am ready to forgive you, in consideration of your position; but I
confess I thought better of you. I thought you were wiser, and more
beautiful, too; I did, indeed! Well, take your treasure! See, he is
gazing at you, he can’t recollect himself. Take him, but on one
condition; go away at once, this instant!”

She fell back into a chair, and burst into tears. But suddenly some new
expression blazed in her eyes. She stared fixedly at Aglaya, and rose
from her seat.

“Or would you like me to bid him, _bid him_, do you hear, _command
him_, now, at once, to throw you up, and remain mine for ever? Shall I?
He will stay, and he will marry me too, and you shall trot home all
alone. Shall I?—shall I say the word?” she screamed like a madwoman,
scarcely believing herself that she could really pronounce such wild
words.

Aglaya had made for the door in terror, but she stopped at the
threshold, and listened. “Shall I turn Rogojin off? Ha! ha! you thought
I would marry him for your benefit, did you? Why, I’ll call out _now_,
if you like, in your presence, ‘Rogojin, get out!’ and say to the
prince, ‘Do you remember what you promised me?’ Heavens! what a fool I
have been to humiliate myself before them! Why, prince, you yourself
gave me your word that you would marry me whatever happened, and would
never abandon me. You said you loved me and would forgive me all,
and—and resp—yes, you even said that! I only ran away from you in order
to set you free, and now I don’t care to let you go again. Why does she
treat me so—so shamefully? I am not a loose woman—ask Rogojin there!
He’ll tell you. Will you go again now that she has insulted me, before
your eyes, too; turn away from me and lead her away, arm-in-arm? May
you be accursed too, for you were the only one I trusted among them
all! Go away, Rogojin, I don’t want you,” she continued, blind with
fury, and forcing the words out with dry lips and distorted features,
evidently not believing a single word of her own tirade, but, at the
same time, doing her utmost to prolong the moment of self-deception.

The outburst was so terribly violent that the prince thought it would
have killed her.

“There he is!” she shrieked again, pointing to the prince and
addressing Aglaya. “There he is! and if he does not approach me at once
and take _me_ and throw you over, then have him for your own—I give him
up to you! I don’t want him!”

Both she and Aglaya stood and waited as though in expectation, and both
looked at the prince like madwomen.

But he, perhaps, did not understand the full force of this challenge;
in fact, it is certain he did not. All he could see was the poor
despairing face which, as he had said to Aglaya, “had pierced his heart
for ever.”

He could bear it no longer, and with a look of entreaty, mingled with
reproach, he addressed Aglaya, pointing to Nastasia the while:

“How can you?” he murmured; “she is so unhappy.”

But he had no time to say another word before Aglaya’s terrible look
bereft him of speech. In that look was embodied so dreadful a suffering
and so deadly a hatred, that he gave a cry and flew to her; but it was
too late.

She could not hold out long enough even to witness his movement in her
direction. She had hidden her face in her hands, cried once “Oh, my
God!” and rushed out of the room. Rogojin followed her to undo the
bolts of the door and let her out into the street.

The prince made a rush after her, but he was caught and held back. The
distorted, livid face of Nastasia gazed at him reproachfully, and her
blue lips whispered:

“What? Would you go to her—to her?”

She fell senseless into his arms.

He raised her, carried her into the room, placed her in an arm-chair,
and stood over her, stupefied. On the table stood a tumbler of water.
Rogojin, who now returned, took this and sprinkled a little in her
face. She opened her eyes, but for a moment she understood nothing.

Suddenly she looked around, shuddered, gave a loud cry, and threw
herself in the prince’s arms.

“Mine, mine!” she cried. “Has the proud young lady gone? Ha, ha, ha!”
she laughed hysterically. “And I had given him up to her! Why—why did
I? Mad—mad! Get away, Rogojin! Ha, ha, ha!”

Rogojin stared intently at them; then he took his hat, and without a
word, left the room.

A few moments later, the prince was seated by Nastasia on the sofa,
gazing into her eyes and stroking her face and hair, as he would a
little child’s. He laughed when she laughed, and was ready to cry when
she cried. He did not speak, but listened to her excited, disconnected
chatter, hardly understanding a word of it the while. No sooner did he
detect the slightest appearance of complaining, or weeping, or
reproaching, than he would smile at her kindly, and begin stroking her
hair and her cheeks, soothing and consoling her once more, as if she
were a child.

IX.

A fortnight had passed since the events recorded in the last chapter,
and the position of the actors in our story had become so changed that
it is almost impossible for us to continue the tale without some few
explanations. Yet we feel that we ought to limit ourselves to the
simple record of facts, without much attempt at explanation, for a very
patent reason: because we ourselves have the greatest possible
difficulty in accounting for the facts to be recorded. Such a statement
on our part may appear strange to the reader. How is anyone to tell a
story which he cannot understand himself? In order to keep clear of a
false position, we had perhaps better give an example of what we mean;
and probably the intelligent reader will soon understand the
difficulty. More especially are we inclined to take this course since
the example will constitute a distinct march forward of our story, and
will not hinder the progress of the events remaining to be recorded.

During the next fortnight—that is, through the early part of July—the
history of our hero was circulated in the form of strange, diverting,
most unlikely-sounding stories, which passed from mouth to mouth,
through the streets and villas adjoining those inhabited by Lebedeff,
Ptitsin, Nastasia Philipovna and the Epanchins; in fact, pretty well
through the whole town and its environs. All society—both the
inhabitants of the place and those who came down of an evening for the
music—had got hold of one and the same story, in a thousand varieties
of detail—as to how a certain young prince had raised a terrible
scandal in a most respectable household, had thrown over a daughter of
the family, to whom he was engaged, and had been captured by a woman of
shady reputation whom he was determined to marry at once—breaking off
all old ties for the satisfaction of his insane idea; and, in spite of
the public indignation roused by his action, the marriage was to take
place in Pavlofsk openly and publicly, and the prince had announced his
intention of going through with it with head erect and looking the
whole world in the face. The story was so artfully adorned with
scandalous details, and persons of so great eminence and importance
were apparently mixed up in it, while, at the same time, the evidence
was so circumstantial, that it was no wonder the matter gave food for
plenty of curiosity and gossip.

According to the reports of the most talented gossip-mongers—those who,
in every class of society, are always in haste to explain every event
to their neighbours—the young gentleman concerned was of good family—a
prince—fairly rich—weak of intellect, but a democrat and a dabbler in
the Nihilism of the period, as exposed by Mr. Turgenieff. He could
hardly talk Russian, but had fallen in love with one of the Miss
Epanchins, and his suit met with so much encouragement that he had been
received in the house as the recognized bridegroom-to-be of the young
lady. But like the Frenchman of whom the story is told that he studied
for holy orders, took all the oaths, was ordained priest, and next
morning wrote to his bishop informing him that, as he did not believe
in God and considered it wrong to deceive the people and live upon
their pockets, he begged to surrender the orders conferred upon him the
day before, and to inform his lordship that he was sending this letter
to the public press,—like this Frenchman, the prince played a false
game. It was rumoured that he had purposely waited for the solemn
occasion of a large evening party at the house of his future bride, at
which he was introduced to several eminent persons, in order publicly
to make known his ideas and opinions, and thereby insult the
“big-wigs,” and to throw over his bride as offensively as possible; and
that, resisting the servants who were told off to turn him out of the
house, he had seized and thrown down a magnificent china vase. As a
characteristic addition to the above, it was currently reported that
the young prince really loved the lady to whom he was engaged, and had
thrown her over out of purely Nihilistic motives, with the intention of
giving himself the satisfaction of marrying a fallen woman in the face
of all the world, thereby publishing his opinion that there is no
distinction between virtuous and disreputable women, but that all women
are alike, free; and a “fallen” woman, indeed, somewhat superior to a
virtuous one.

It was declared that he believed in no classes or anything else,
excepting “the woman question.”

All this looked likely enough, and was accepted as fact by most of the
inhabitants of the place, especially as it was borne out, more or less,
by daily occurrences.

Of course much was said that could not be determined absolutely. For
instance, it was reported that the poor girl had so loved her future
husband that she had followed him to the house of the other woman, the
day after she had been thrown over; others said that he had insisted on
her coming, himself, in order to shame and insult her by his taunts and
Nihilistic confessions when she reached the house. However all these
things might be, the public interest in the matter grew daily,
especially as it became clear that the scandalous wedding was
undoubtedly to take place.

So that if our readers were to ask an explanation, not of the wild
reports about the prince’s Nihilistic opinions, but simply as to how
such a marriage could possibly satisfy his real aspirations, or as to
the spiritual condition of our hero at this time, we confess that we
should have great difficulty in giving the required information.

All we know is, that the marriage really was arranged, and that the
prince had commissioned Lebedeff and Keller to look after all the
necessary business connected with it; that he had requested them to
spare no expense; that Nastasia herself was hurrying on the wedding;
that Keller was to be the prince’s best man, at his own earnest
request; and that Burdovsky was to give Nastasia away, to his great
delight. The wedding was to take place before the middle of July.

But, besides the above, we are cognizant of certain other undoubted
facts, which puzzle us a good deal because they seem flatly to
contradict the foregoing.

We suspect, for instance, that having commissioned Lebedeff and the
others, as above, the prince immediately forgot all about masters of
ceremonies and even the ceremony itself; and we feel quite certain that
in making these arrangements he did so in order that he might
absolutely escape all thought of the wedding, and even forget its
approach if he could, by detailing all business concerning it to
others.

What did he think of all this time, then? What did he wish for? There
is no doubt that he was a perfectly free agent all through, and that as
far as Nastasia was concerned, there was no force of any kind brought
to bear on him. Nastasia wished for a speedy marriage, true!—but the
prince agreed at once to her proposals; he agreed, in fact, so casually
that anyone might suppose he was but acceding to the most simple and
ordinary suggestion.

There are many strange circumstances such as this before us; but in our
opinion they do but deepen the mystery, and do not in the smallest
degree help us to understand the case.

However, let us take one more example. Thus, we know for a fact that
during the whole of this fortnight the prince spent all his days and
evenings with Nastasia; he walked with her, drove with her; he began to
be restless whenever he passed an hour without seeing her—in fact, to
all appearances, he sincerely loved her. He would listen to her for
hours at a time with a quiet smile on his face, scarcely saying a word
himself. And yet we know, equally certainly, that during this period he
several times set off, suddenly, to the Epanchins’, not concealing the
fact from Nastasia Philipovna, and driving the latter to absolute
despair. We know also that he was not received at the Epanchins’ so
long as they remained at Pavlofsk, and that he was not allowed an
interview with Aglaya;—but next day he would set off once more on the
same errand, apparently quite oblivious of the fact of yesterday’s
visit having been a failure,—and, of course, meeting with another
refusal. We know, too, that exactly an hour after Aglaya had fled from
Nastasia Philipovna’s house on that fateful evening, the prince was at
the Epanchins’,—and that his appearance there had been the cause of the
greatest consternation and dismay; for Aglaya had not been home, and
the family only discovered then, for the first time, that the two of
them had been to Nastasia’s house together.

It was said that Elizabetha Prokofievna and her daughters had there and
then denounced the prince in the strongest terms, and had refused any
further acquaintance and friendship with him; their rage and
denunciations being redoubled when Varia Ardalionovna suddenly arrived
and stated that Aglaya had been at her house in a terrible state of
mind for the last hour, and that she refused to come home.

This last item of news, which disturbed Lizabetha Prokofievna more than
anything else, was perfectly true. On leaving Nastasia’s, Aglaya had
felt that she would rather die than face her people, and had therefore
gone straight to Nina Alexandrovna’s. On receiving the news, Lizabetha
and her daughters and the general all rushed off to Aglaya, followed by
Prince Lef Nicolaievitch—undeterred by his recent dismissal; but
through Varia he was refused a sight of Aglaya here also. The end of
the episode was that when Aglaya saw her mother and sisters crying over
her and not uttering a word of reproach, she had flung herself into
their arms and gone straight home with them.

It was said that Gania managed to make a fool of himself even on this
occasion; for, finding himself alone with Aglaya for a minute or two
when Varia had gone to the Epanchins’, he had thought it a fitting
opportunity to make a declaration of his love, and on hearing this
Aglaya, in spite of her state of mind at the time, had suddenly burst
out laughing, and had put a strange question to him. She asked him
whether he would consent to hold his finger to a lighted candle in
proof of his devotion! Gania—it was said—looked so comically bewildered
that Aglaya had almost laughed herself into hysterics, and had rushed
out of the room and upstairs,—where her parents had found her.

Hippolyte told the prince this last story, sending for him on purpose.
When Muishkin heard about the candle and Gania’s finger he had laughed
so that he had quite astonished Hippolyte,—and then shuddered and burst
into tears. The prince’s condition during those days was strange and
perturbed. Hippolyte plainly declared that he thought he was out of his
mind;—this, however, was hardly to be relied upon.

Offering all these facts to our readers and refusing to explain them,
we do not for a moment desire to justify our hero’s conduct. On the
contrary, we are quite prepared to feel our share of the indignation
which his behaviour aroused in the hearts of his friends. Even Vera
Lebedeff was angry with him for a while; so was Colia; so was Keller,
until he was selected for best man; so was Lebedeff himself,—who began
to intrigue against him out of pure irritation;—but of this anon. In
fact we are in full accord with certain forcible words spoken to the
prince by Evgenie Pavlovitch, quite unceremoniously, during the course
of a friendly conversation, six or seven days after the events at
Nastasia Philipovna’s house.

We may remark here that not only the Epanchins themselves, but all who
had anything to do with them, thought it right to break with the prince
in consequence of his conduct. Prince S. even went so far as to turn
away and cut him dead in the street. But Evgenie Pavlovitch was not
afraid to compromise himself by paying the prince a visit, and did so,
in spite of the fact that he had recommenced to visit at the
Epanchins’, where he was received with redoubled hospitality and
kindness after the temporary estrangement.

Evgenie called upon the prince the day after that on which the
Epanchins left Pavlofsk. He knew of all the current rumours,—in fact,
he had probably contributed to them himself. The prince was delighted
to see him, and immediately began to speak of the Epanchins;—which
simple and straightforward opening quite took Evgenie’s fancy, so that
he melted at once, and plunged _in medias res_ without ceremony.

The prince did not know, up to this, that the Epanchins had left the
place. He grew very pale on hearing the news; but a moment later he
nodded his head, and said thoughtfully:

“I knew it was bound to be so.” Then he added quickly:

“Where have they gone to?”

Evgenie meanwhile observed him attentively, and the rapidity of the
questions, their simplicity, the prince’s candour, and at the same
time, his evident perplexity and mental agitation, surprised him
considerably. However, he told Muishkin all he could, kindly and in
detail. The prince hardly knew anything, for this was the first
informant from the household whom he had met since the estrangement.

Evgenie reported that Aglaya had been really ill, and that for two
nights she had not slept at all, owing to high fever; that now she was
better and out of serious danger, but still in a nervous, hysterical
state.

“It’s a good thing that there is peace in the house, at all events,” he
continued. “They never utter a hint about the past, not only in
Aglaya’s presence, but even among themselves. The old people are
talking of a trip abroad in the autumn, immediately after Adelaida’s
wedding; Aglaya received the news in silence.”

Evgenie himself was very likely going abroad also; so were Prince S.
and his wife, if affairs allowed of it; the general was to stay at
home. They were all at their estate of Colmina now, about twenty miles
or so from St. Petersburg. Princess Bielokonski had not returned to
Moscow yet, and was apparently staying on for reasons of her own.
Lizabetha Prokofievna had insisted that it was quite impossible to
remain in Pavlofsk after what had happened. Evgenie had told her of all
the rumours current in town about the affair; so that there could be no
talk of their going to their house on the Yelagin as yet.

“And in point of fact, prince,” added Evgenie Pavlovitch, “you must
allow that they could hardly have stayed here, considering that they
knew of all that went on at your place, and in the face of your daily
visits to their house, visits which you insisted upon making in spite
of their refusal to see you.”

“Yes—yes, quite so; you are quite right. I wished to see Aglaya
Ivanovna, you know!” said the prince, nodding his head.

“Oh, my dear fellow,” cried Evgenie, warmly, with real sorrow in his
voice, “how could you permit all that to come about as it has? Of
course, of course, I know it was all so unexpected. I admit that you,
only naturally, lost your head, and—and could not stop the foolish
girl; that was not in your power. I quite see so much; but you really
should have understood how seriously she cared for you. She could not
bear to share you with another; and you could bring yourself to throw
away and shatter such a treasure! Oh, prince, prince!”

“Yes, yes, you are quite right again,” said the poor prince, in anguish
of mind. “I was wrong, I know. But it was only Aglaya who looked on
Nastasia Philipovna so; no one else did, you know.”

“But that’s just the worst of it all, don’t you see, that there was
absolutely nothing serious about the matter in reality!” cried Evgenie,
beside himself: “Excuse me, prince, but I have thought over all this; I
have thought a great deal over it; I know all that had happened before;
I know all that took place six months since; and I know there was
_nothing_ serious about the matter, it was but fancy, smoke, fantasy,
distorted by agitation, and only the alarmed jealousy of an absolutely
inexperienced girl could possibly have mistaken it for serious
reality.”

Here Evgenie Pavlovitch quite let himself go, and gave the reins to his
indignation.

Clearly and reasonably, and with great psychological insight, he drew a
picture of the prince’s past relations with Nastasia Philipovna.
Evgenie Pavlovitch always had a ready tongue, but on this occasion his
eloquence, surprised himself. “From the very beginning,” he said, “you
began with a lie; what began with a lie was bound to end with a lie;
such is the law of nature. I do not agree, in fact I am angry, when I
hear you called an idiot; you are far too intelligent to deserve such
an epithet; but you are so far _strange_ as to be unlike others; that
you must allow, yourself. Now, I have come to the conclusion that the
basis of all that has happened, has been first of all your innate
inexperience (remark the expression ‘innate,’ prince). Then follows
your unheard-of simplicity of heart; then comes your absolute want of
sense of proportion (to this want you have several times confessed);
and lastly, a mass, an accumulation, of intellectual convictions which
you, in your unexampled honesty of soul, accept unquestionably as also
innate and natural and true. Admit, prince, that in your relations with
Nastasia Philipovna there has existed, from the very first, something
democratic, and the fascination, so to speak, of the ‘woman question’?
I know all about that scandalous scene at Nastasia Philipovna’s house
when Rogojin brought the money, six months ago. I’ll show you yourself
as in a looking-glass, if you like. I know exactly all that went on, in
every detail, and why things have turned out as they have. You
thirsted, while in Switzerland, for your home-country, for Russia; you
read, doubtless, many books about Russia, excellent books, I dare say,
but hurtful to _you_; and you arrived here; as it were, on fire with
the longing to be of service. Then, on the very day of your arrival,
they tell you a sad story of an ill-used woman; they tell _you_, a
knight, pure and without reproach, this tale of a poor woman! The same
day you actually _see_ her; you are attracted by her beauty, her
fantastic, almost demoniacal, beauty—(I admit her beauty, of course).

“Add to all this your nervous nature, your epilepsy, and your sudden
arrival in a strange town—the day of meetings and of exciting scenes,
the day of unexpected acquaintanceships, the day of sudden actions, the
day of meeting with the three lovely Epanchin girls, and among them
Aglaya—add your fatigue, your excitement; add Nastasia’ s evening
party, and the tone of that party, and—what were you to expect of
yourself at such a moment as that?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” said the prince, once more, nodding his head, and
blushing slightly. “Yes, it was so, or nearly so—I know it. And
besides, you see, I had not slept the night before, in the train, or
the night before that, either, and I was very tired.”

“Of course, of course, quite so; that’s what I am driving at!”
continued Evgenie, excitedly. “It is as clear as possible, and most
comprehensible, that you, in your enthusiasm, should plunge headlong
into the first chance that came of publicly airing your great idea that
you, a prince, and a pure-living man, did not consider a woman
disgraced if the sin were not her own, but that of a disgusting social
libertine! Oh, heavens! it’s comprehensible enough, my dear prince, but
that is not the question, unfortunately! The question is, was there any
reality and truth in your feelings? Was it nature, or nothing but
intellectual enthusiasm? What do you think yourself? We are told, of
course, that a far worse woman was _forgiven_, but we don’t find that
she was told that she had done well, or that she was worthy of honour
and respect! Did not your common-sense show you what was the real state
of the case, a few months later? The question is now, not whether she
is an innocent woman (I do not insist one way or the other—I do not
wish to); but can her whole career justify such intolerable pride, such
insolent, rapacious egotism as she has shown? Forgive me, I am too
violent, perhaps, but—”

“Yes—I dare say it is all as you say; I dare say you are quite right,”
muttered the prince once more. “She is very sensitive and easily put
out, of course; but still, she...”

“She is worthy of sympathy? Is that what you wished to say, my good
fellow? But then, for the mere sake of vindicating her worthiness of
sympathy, you should not have insulted and offended a noble and
generous girl in her presence! This is a terrible exaggeration of
sympathy! How can you love a girl, and yet so humiliate her as to throw
her over for the sake of another woman, before the very eyes of that
other woman, when you have already made her a formal proposal of
marriage? And you _did_ propose to her, you know; you did so before her
parents and sisters. Can you be an honest man, prince, if you act so? I
ask you! And did you not deceive that beautiful girl when you assured
her of your love?”

“Yes, you are quite right. Oh! I feel that I am very guilty!” said
Muishkin, in deepest distress.

“But as if that is enough!” cried Evgenie, indignantly. “As if it is
enough simply to say: ‘I know I am very guilty!’ You are to blame, and
yet you persevere in evil-doing. Where was your heart, I should like to
know, your _christian heart_, all that time? Did she look as though she
were suffering less, at that moment? You saw her face—was she suffering
less than the other woman? How could you see her suffering and allow it
to continue? How could you?”

“But I did not allow it,” murmured the wretched prince.

“How—what do you mean you didn’t allow?”

“Upon my word, I didn’t! To this moment I don’t know how it all
happened. I—I ran after Aglaya Ivanovna, but Nastasia Philipovna fell
down in a faint; and since that day they won’t let me see Aglaya—that’s
all I know.”

“It’s all the same; you ought to have run after Aglaya though the other
was fainting.”

“Yes, yes, I ought—but I couldn’t! She would have died—she would have
killed herself. You don’t know her; and I should have told Aglaya
everything afterwards—but I see, Evgenie Pavlovitch, you don’t know
all. Tell me now, why am I not allowed to see Aglaya? I should have
cleared it all up, you know. Neither of them kept to the real point,
you see. I could never explain what I mean to you, but I think I could
to Aglaya. Oh! my God, my God! You spoke just now of Aglaya’s face at
the moment when she ran away. Oh, my God! I remember it! Come along,
come along—quick!” He pulled at Evgenie’s coat-sleeve nervously and
excitedly, and rose from his chair.

“Where to?”

“Come to Aglaya—quick, quick!”

“But I told you she is not at Pavlofsk. And what would be the use if
she were?”

“Oh, she’ll understand, she’ll understand!” cried the prince, clasping
his hands. “She would understand that all this is not the point—not a
bit the real point—it is quite foreign to the real question.”

“How can it be foreign? You _are_ going to be married, are you not?
Very well, then you are persisting in your course. _Are_ you going to
marry her or not?”

“Yes, I shall marry her—yes.”

“Then why is it ‘not the point’?”

“Oh, no, it is not the point, not a bit. It makes no difference, my
marrying her—it means nothing.”

“How ‘means nothing’? You are talking nonsense, my friend. You are
marrying the woman you love in order to secure her happiness, and
Aglaya sees and knows it. How can you say that it’s ‘not the point’?”

“Her happiness? Oh, no! I am only marrying her—well, because she wished
it. It means nothing—it’s all the same. She would certainly have died.
I see now that that marriage with Rogojin was an insane idea. I
understand all now that I did not understand before; and, do you know,
when those two stood opposite to one another, I could not bear Nastasia
Philipovna’s face! You must know, Evgenie Pavlovitch, I have never told
anyone before—not even Aglaya—that I cannot bear Nastasia Philipovna’s
face.” (He lowered his voice mysteriously as he said this.) “You
described that evening at Nastasia Philipovna’s (six months since) very
accurately just now; but there is one thing which you did not mention,
and of which you took no account, because you do not know. I mean her
_face_—I looked at her face, you see. Even in the morning when I saw
her portrait, I felt that I could not _bear_ to look at it. Now,
there’s Vera Lebedeff, for instance, her eyes are quite different, you
know. I’m _afraid_ of her face!” he added, with real alarm.

“You are _afraid_ of it?”

“Yes—she’s mad!” he whispered, growing pale.

“Do you know this for certain?” asked Evgenie, with the greatest
curiosity.

“Yes, for certain—quite for certain, now! I have discovered it
_absolutely_ for certain, these last few days.”

“What are you doing, then?” cried Evgenie, in horror. “You must be
marrying her solely out of _fear_, then! I can’t make head or tail of
it, prince. Perhaps you don’t even love her?”

“Oh, no; I love her with all my soul. Why, she is a child! She’s a
child now—a real child. Oh! you know nothing about it at all, I see.”

“And are you assured, at the same time, that you love Aglaya too?”

“Yes—yes—oh; yes!”

“How so? Do you want to make out that you love them _both?_”

“Yes—yes—both! I do!”

“Excuse me, prince, but think what you are saying! Recollect yourself!”

“Without Aglaya—I—I _must_ see Aglaya!—I shall die in my sleep very
soon—I thought I was dying in my sleep last night. Oh! if Aglaya only
knew all—I mean really, _really_ all! Because she must know
_all_—that’s the first condition towards understanding. Why cannot we
ever know all about another, especially when that other has been
guilty? But I don’t know what I’m talking about—I’m so confused. You
pained me so dreadfully. Surely—surely Aglaya has not the same
expression now as she had at the moment when she ran away? Oh, yes! I
am guilty and I know it—I know it! Probably I am in fault all round—I
don’t quite know how—but I am in fault, no doubt. There is something
else, but I cannot explain it to you, Evgenie Pavlovitch. I have no
words; but Aglaya will understand. I have always believed Aglaya will
understand—I am assured she will.”

“No, prince, she will not. Aglaya loved like a woman, like a human
being, not like an abstract spirit. Do you know what, my poor prince?
The most probable explanation of the matter is that you never loved
either the one or the other in reality.”

“I don’t know—perhaps you are right in much that you have said, Evgenie
Pavlovitch. You are very wise, Evgenie Pavlovitch—oh! how my head is
beginning to ache again! Come to her, quick—for God’s sake, come!”

“But I tell you she is not in Pavlofsk! She’s in Colmina.”

“Oh, come to Colmina, then! Come—let us go at once!”

“No—no, impossible!” said Evgenie, rising.

“Look here—I’ll write a letter—take a letter for me!”

“No—no, prince; you must forgive me, but I can’t undertake any such
commissions! I really can’t.”

And so they parted.

Evgenie Pavlovitch left the house with strange convictions. He, too,
felt that the prince must be out of his mind.

“And what did he mean by that _face_—a face which he so fears, and yet
so loves? And meanwhile he really may die, as he says, without seeing
Aglaya, and she will never know how devotedly he loves her! Ha, ha, ha!
How does the fellow manage to love two of them? Two different kinds of
love, I suppose! This is very interesting—poor idiot! What on earth
will become of him now?”

X.

The prince did not die before his wedding—either by day or night, as he
had foretold that he might. Very probably he passed disturbed nights,
and was afflicted with bad dreams; but, during the daytime, among his
fellow-men, he seemed as kind as ever, and even contented; only a
little thoughtful when alone.

The wedding was hurried on. The day was fixed for exactly a week after
Evgenie’s visit to the prince. In the face of such haste as this, even
the prince’s best friends (if he had had any) would have felt the
hopelessness of any attempt to save “the poor madman.” Rumour said that
in the visit of Evgenie Pavlovitch was to be discerned the influence of
Lizabetha Prokofievna and her husband... But if those good souls, in
the boundless kindness of their hearts, were desirous of saving the
eccentric young fellow from ruin, they were unable to take any stronger
measures to attain that end. Neither their position, nor their private
inclination, perhaps (and only naturally), would allow them to use any
more pronounced means.

We have observed before that even some of the prince’s nearest
neighbours had begun to oppose him. Vera Lebedeff’s passive
disagreement was limited to the shedding of a few solitary tears; to
more frequent sitting alone at home, and to a diminished frequency in
her visits to the prince’s apartments.

Colia was occupied with his father at this time. The old man died
during a second stroke, which took place just eight days after the
first. The prince showed great sympathy in the grief of the family, and
during the first days of their mourning he was at the house a great
deal with Nina Alexandrovna. He went to the funeral, and it was
observable that the public assembled in church greeted his arrival and
departure with whisperings, and watched him closely.

The same thing happened in the park and in the street, wherever he
went. He was pointed out when he drove by, and he often overheard the
name of Nastasia Philipovna coupled with his own as he passed. People
looked out for her at the funeral, too, but she was not there; and
another conspicuous absentee was the captain’s widow, whom Lebedeff had
prevented from coming.

The funeral service produced a great effect on the prince. He whispered
to Lebedeff that this was the first time he had ever heard a Russian
funeral service since he was a little boy. Observing that he was
looking about him uneasily, Lebedeff asked him whom he was seeking.

“Nothing. I only thought I—”

“Is it Rogojin?”

“Why—is he here?”

“Yes, he’s in church.”

“I thought I caught sight of his eyes!” muttered the prince, in
confusion. “But what of it!—Why is he here? Was he asked?”

“Oh, dear, no! Why, they don’t even know him! Anyone can come in, you
know. Why do you look so amazed? I often meet him; I’ve seen him at
least four times, here at Pavlofsk, within the last week.”

“I haven’t seen him once—since that day!” the prince murmured.

As Nastasia Philipovna had not said a word about having met Rogojin
since “that day,” the prince concluded that the latter had his own
reasons for wishing to keep out of sight. All the day of the funeral
our hero was in a deeply thoughtful state, while Nastasia Philipovna
was particularly merry, both in the daytime and in the evening.

Colia had made it up with the prince before his father’s death, and it
was he who urged him to make use of Keller and Burdovsky, promising to
answer himself for the former’s behaviour. Nina Alexandrovna and
Lebedeff tried to persuade him to have the wedding in St. Petersburg,
instead of in the public fashion contemplated, down here at Pavlofsk in
the height of the season. But the prince only said that Nastasia
Philipovna desired to have it so, though he saw well enough what
prompted their arguments.

The next day Keller came to visit the prince. He was in a high state of
delight with the post of honour assigned to him at the wedding.

Before entering he stopped on the threshold, raised his hand as if
making a solemn vow, and cried:

“I won’t drink!”

Then he went up to the prince, seized both his hands, shook them
warmly, and declared that he had at first felt hostile towards the
project of this marriage, and had openly said so in the billiard-rooms,
but that the reason simply was that, with the impatience of a friend,
he had hoped to see the prince marry at least a Princess de Rohan or de
Chabot; but that now he saw that the prince’s way of thinking was ten
times more noble than that of “all the rest put together.” For he
desired neither pomp nor wealth nor honour, but only the truth! The
sympathies of exalted personages were well known, and the prince was
too highly placed by his education, and so on, not to be in some sense
an exalted personage!

“But all the common herd judge differently; in the town, at the
meetings, in the villas, at the band, in the inns and the
billiard-rooms, the coming event has only to be mentioned and there are
shouts and cries from everybody. I have even heard talk of getting up a
‘charivari’ under the windows on the wedding-night. So if ‘you have
need of the pistol’ of an honest man, prince, I am ready to fire half a
dozen shots even before you rise from your nuptial couch!”

Keller also advised, in anticipation of the crowd making a rush after
the ceremony, that a fire-hose should be placed at the entrance to the
house; but Lebedeff was opposed to this measure, which he said might
result in the place being pulled down.

“I assure you, prince, that Lebedeff is intriguing against you. He
wants to put you under control. Imagine that! To take ‘from you the use
of your free-will and your money’—that is to say, the two things that
distinguish us from the animals! I have heard it said positively. It is
the sober truth.”

The prince recollected that somebody had told him something of the kind
before, and he had, of course, scoffed at it. He only laughed now, and
forgot the hint at once.

Lebedeff really had been busy for some little while; but, as usual, his
plans had become too complex to succeed, through sheer excess of
ardour. When he came to the prince—the very day before the wedding—to
confess (for he always confessed to the persons against whom he
intrigued, especially when the plan failed), he informed our hero that
he himself was a born Talleyrand, but for some unknown reason had
become simple Lebedeff. He then proceeded to explain his whole game to
the prince, interesting the latter exceedingly.

According to Lebedeff’s account, he had first tried what he could do
with General Epanchin. The latter informed him that he wished well to
the unfortunate young man, and would gladly do what he could to “save
him,” but that he did not think it would be seemly for him to interfere
in this matter. Lizabetha Prokofievna would neither hear nor see him.
Prince S. and Evgenie Pavlovitch only shrugged their shoulders, and
implied that it was no business of theirs. However, Lebedeff had not
lost heart, and went off to a clever lawyer,—a worthy and respectable
man, whom he knew well. This old gentleman informed him that the thing
was perfectly feasible if he could get hold of competent witnesses as
to Muishkin’s mental incapacity. Then, with the assistance of a few
influential persons, he would soon see the matter arranged.

Lebedeff immediately procured the services of an old doctor, and
carried the latter away to Pavlofsk to see the prince, by way of
viewing the ground, as it were, and to give him (Lebedeff) counsel as
to whether the thing was to be done or not. The visit was not to be
official, but merely friendly.

Muishkin remembered the doctor’s visit quite well. He remembered that
Lebedeff had said that he looked ill, and had better see a doctor; and
although the prince scouted the idea, Lebedeff had turned up almost
immediately with his old friend, explaining that they had just met at
the bedside of Hippolyte, who was very ill, and that the doctor had
something to tell the prince about the sick man.

The prince had, of course, at once received him, and had plunged into a
conversation about Hippolyte. He had given the doctor an account of
Hippolyte’s attempted suicide; and had proceeded thereafter to talk of
his own malady,—of Switzerland, of Schneider, and so on; and so deeply
was the old man interested by the prince’s conversation and his
description of Schneider’s system, that he sat on for two hours.

Muishkin gave him excellent cigars to smoke, and Lebedeff, for his
part, regaled him with liqueurs, brought in by Vera, to whom the
doctor—a married man and the father of a family—addressed such
compliments that she was filled with indignation. They parted friends,
and, after leaving the prince, the doctor said to Lebedeff: “If all
such people were put under restraint, there would be no one left for
keepers.” Lebedeff then, in tragic tones, told of the approaching
marriage, whereupon the other nodded his head and replied that, after
all, marriages like that were not so rare; that he had heard that the
lady was very fascinating and of extraordinary beauty, which was enough
to explain the infatuation of a wealthy man; that, further, thanks to
the liberality of Totski and of Rogojin, she possessed—so he had
heard—not only money, but pearls, diamonds, shawls, and furniture, and
consequently she could not be considered a bad match. In brief, it
seemed to the doctor that the prince’s choice, far from being a sign of
foolishness, denoted, on the contrary, a shrewd, calculating, and
practical mind. Lebedeff had been much struck by this point of view,
and he terminated his confession by assuring the prince that he was
ready, if need be, to shed his very life’s blood for him.

Hippolyte, too, was a source of some distraction to the prince at this
time; he would send for him at any and every hour of the day. They
lived,—Hippolyte and his mother and the children,—in a small house not
far off, and the little ones were happy, if only because they were able
to escape from the invalid into the garden. The prince had enough to do
in keeping the peace between the irritable Hippolyte and his mother,
and eventually the former became so malicious and sarcastic on the
subject of the approaching wedding, that Muishkin took offence at last,
and refused to continue his visits.

A couple of days later, however, Hippolyte’s mother came with tears in
her eyes, and begged the prince to come back, “or _he_ would eat her up
bodily.” She added that Hippolyte had a great secret to disclose. Of
course the prince went. There was no secret, however, unless we reckon
certain pantings and agitated glances around (probably all put on) as
the invalid begged his visitor to “beware of Rogojin.”

“He is the sort of man,” he continued, “who won’t give up his object,
you know; he is not like you and me, prince—he belongs to quite a
different order of beings. If he sets his heart on a thing he won’t be
afraid of anything—” and so on.

Hippolyte was very ill, and looked as though he could not long survive.
He was tearful at first, but grew more and more sarcastic and malicious
as the interview proceeded.

The prince questioned him in detail as to his hints about Rogojin. He
was anxious to seize upon some facts which might confirm Hippolyte’s
vague warnings; but there were none; only Hippolyte’s own private
impressions and feelings.

However, the invalid—to his immense satisfaction—ended by seriously
alarming the prince.

At first Muishkin had not cared to make any reply to his sundry
questions, and only smiled in response to Hippolyte’s advice to “run
for his life—abroad, if necessary. There are Russian priests
everywhere, and one can get married all over the world.”

But it was Hippolyte’s last idea which upset him.

“What I am really alarmed about, though,” he said, “is Aglaya Ivanovna.
Rogojin knows how you love her. Love for love. You took Nastasia
Philipovna from him. He will murder Aglaya Ivanovna; for though she is
not yours, of course, now, still such an act would pain you,—wouldn’t
it?”

He had attained his end. The prince left the house beside himself with
terror.

These warnings about Rogojin were expressed on the day before the
wedding. That evening the prince saw Nastasia Philipovna for the last
time before they were to meet at the altar; but Nastasia was not in a
position to give him any comfort or consolation. On the contrary, she
only added to his mental perturbation as the evening went on. Up to
this time she had invariably done her best to cheer him—she was afraid
of his looking melancholy; she would try singing to him, and telling
him every sort of funny story or reminiscence that she could recall.
The prince nearly always pretended to be amused, whether he were so
actually or no; but often enough he laughed sincerely, delighted by the
brilliancy of her wit when she was carried away by her narrative, as
she very often was. Nastasia would be wild with joy to see the
impression she had made, and to hear his laugh of real amusement; and
she would remain the whole evening in a state of pride and happiness.
But this evening her melancholy and thoughtfulness grew with every
hour.

The prince had told Evgenie Pavlovitch with perfect sincerity that he
loved Nastasia Philipovna with all his soul. In his love for her there
was the sort of tenderness one feels for a sick, unhappy child which
cannot be left alone. He never spoke of his feelings for Nastasia to
anyone, not even to herself. When they were together they never
discussed their “feelings,” and there was nothing in their cheerful,
animated conversation which an outsider could not have heard. Daria
Alexeyevna, with whom Nastasia was staying, told afterwards how she had
been filled with joy and delight only to look at them, all this time.

Thanks to the manner in which he regarded Nastasia’s mental and moral
condition, the prince was to some extent freed from other perplexities.
She was now quite different from the woman he had known three months
before. He was not astonished, for instance, to see her now so
impatient to marry him—she who formerly had wept with rage and hurled
curses and reproaches at him if he mentioned marriage! “It shows that
she no longer fears, as she did then, that she would make me unhappy by
marrying me,” he thought. And he felt sure that so sudden a change
could not be a natural one. This rapid growth of self-confidence could
not be due only to her hatred for Aglaya. To suppose that would be to
suspect the depth of her feelings. Nor could it arise from dread of the
fate that awaited her if she married Rogojin. These causes, indeed, as
well as others, might have played a part in it, but the true reason,
Muishkin decided, was the one he had long suspected—that the poor sick
soul had come to the end of its forces. Yet this was an explanation
that did not procure him any peace of mind. At times he seemed to be
making violent efforts to think of nothing, and one would have said
that he looked on his marriage as an unimportant formality, and on his
future happiness as a thing not worth considering. As to conversations
such as the one held with Evgenie Pavlovitch, he avoided them as far as
possible, feeling that there were certain objections to which he could
make no answer.

The prince had observed that Nastasia knew well enough what Aglaya was
to him. He never spoke of it, but he had seen her face when she had
caught him starting off for the Epanchins’ house on several occasions.
When the Epanchins left Pavlofsk, she had beamed with radiance and
happiness. Unsuspicious and unobservant as he was, he had feared at
that time that Nastasia might have some scheme in her mind for a scene
or scandal which would drive Aglaya out of Pavlofsk. She had encouraged
the rumours and excitement among the inhabitants of the place as to her
marriage with the prince, in order to annoy her rival; and, finding it
difficult to meet the Epanchins anywhere, she had, on one occasion,
taken him for a drive past their house. He did not observe what was
happening until they were almost passing the windows, when it was too
late to do anything. He said nothing, but for two days afterwards he
was ill.

Nastasia did not try that particular experiment again. A few days
before that fixed for the wedding, she grew grave and thoughtful. She
always ended by getting the better of her melancholy, and becoming
merry and cheerful again, but not quite so unaffectedly happy as she
had been some days earlier.

The prince redoubled his attentive study of her symptoms. It was a most
curious circumstance, in his opinion, that she never spoke of Rogojin.
But once, about five days before the wedding, when the prince was at
home, a messenger arrived begging him to come at once, as Nastasia
Philipovna was very ill.

He had found her in a condition approaching to absolute madness. She
screamed, and trembled, and cried out that Rogojin was hiding out there
in the garden—that she had seen him herself—and that he would murder
her in the night—that he would cut her throat. She was terribly
agitated all day. But it so happened that the prince called at
Hippolyte’s house later on, and heard from his mother that she had been
in town all day, and had there received a visit from Rogojin, who had
made inquiries about Pavlofsk. On inquiry, it turned out that Rogojin
visited the old lady in town at almost the same moment when Nastasia
declared that she had seen him in the garden; so that the whole thing
turned out to be an illusion on her part. Nastasia immediately went
across to Hippolyte’s to inquire more accurately, and returned
immensely relieved and comforted.

On the day before the wedding, the prince left Nastasia in a state of
great animation. Her wedding-dress and all sorts of finery had just
arrived from town. Muishkin had not imagined that she would be so
excited over it, but he praised everything, and his praise rendered her
doubly happy.

But Nastasia could not hide the cause of her intense interest in her
wedding splendour. She had heard of the indignation in the town, and
knew that some of the populace was getting up a sort of charivari with
music, that verses had been composed for the occasion, and that the
rest of Pavlofsk society more or less encouraged these preparations.
So, since attempts were being made to humiliate her, she wanted to hold
her head even higher than usual, and to overwhelm them all with the
beauty and taste of her toilette. “Let them shout and whistle, if they
dare!” Her eyes flashed at the thought. But, underneath this, she had
another motive, of which she did not speak. She thought that possibly
Aglaya, or at any rate someone sent by her, would be present incognito
at the ceremony, or in the crowd, and she wished to be prepared for
this eventuality.

The prince left her at eleven, full of these thoughts, and went home.
But it was not twelve o’clock when a messenger came to say that
Nastasia was very bad, and he must come at once.

On hurrying back he found his bride locked up in her own room and could
hear her hysterical cries and sobs. It was some time before she could
be made to hear that the prince had come, and then she opened the door
only just sufficiently to let him in, and immediately locked it behind
him. She then fell on her knees at his feet. (So at least Dana
Alexeyevna reported.)

“What am I doing? What am I doing to you?” she sobbed convulsively,
embracing his knees.

The prince was a whole hour soothing and comforting her, and left her,
at length, pacified and composed. He sent another messenger during the
night to inquire after her, and two more next morning. The last brought
back a message that Nastasia was surrounded by a whole army of
dressmakers and maids, and was as happy and as busy as such a beauty
should be on her wedding morning, and that there was not a vestige of
yesterday’s agitation remaining. The message concluded with the news
that at the moment of the bearer’s departure there was a great
confabulation in progress as to which diamonds were to be worn, and
how.

This message entirely calmed the prince’s mind.

The following report of the proceedings on the wedding day may be
depended upon, as coming from eye-witnesses.

The wedding was fixed for eight o’clock in the evening. Nastasia
Philipovna was ready at seven. From six o’clock groups of people began
to gather at Nastasia’s house, at the prince’s, and at the church door,
but more especially at the former place. The church began to fill at
seven.

Colia and Vera Lebedeff were very anxious on the prince’s account, but
they were so busy over the arrangements for receiving the guests after
the wedding, that they had not much time for the indulgence of personal
feelings.

There were to be very few guests besides the best men and so on; only
Dana Alexeyevna, the Ptitsins, Gania, and the doctor. When the prince
asked Lebedeff why he had invited the doctor, who was almost a
stranger, Lebedeff replied:

“Why, he wears an ‘order,’ and it looks so well!”

This idea amused the prince.

Keller and Burdovsky looked wonderfully correct in their dress-coats
and white kid gloves, although Keller caused the bridegroom some alarm
by his undisguisedly hostile glances at the gathering crowd of
sight-seers outside.

At about half-past seven the prince started for the church in his
carriage.

We may remark here that he seemed anxious not to omit a single one of
the recognized customs and traditions observed at weddings. He wished
all to be done as openly as possible, and “in due order.”

Arrived at the church, Muishkin, under Keller’s guidance, passed
through the crowd of spectators, amid continuous whispering and excited
exclamations. The prince stayed near the altar, while Keller made off
once more to fetch the bride.

On reaching the gate of Daria Alexeyevna’s house, Keller found a far
denser crowd than he had encountered at the prince’s. The remarks and
exclamations of the spectators here were of so irritating a nature that
Keller was very near making them a speech on the impropriety of their
conduct, but was luckily caught by Burdovsky, in the act of turning to
address them, and hurried indoors.

Nastasia Philipovna was ready. She rose from her seat, looked into the
glass and remarked, as Keller told the tale afterwards, that she was
“as pale as a corpse.” She then bent her head reverently, before the
ikon in the corner, and left the room.

A torrent of voices greeted her appearance at the front door. The crowd
whistled, clapped its hands, and laughed and shouted; but in a moment
or two isolated voices were distinguishable.

“What a beauty!” cried one.

“Well, she isn’t the first in the world, nor the last,” said another.

“Marriage covers everything,” observed a third.

“I defy you to find another beauty like that,” said a fourth.

“She’s a real princess! I’d sell my soul for such a princess as that!”

Nastasia came out of the house looking as white as any handkerchief;
but her large dark eyes shone upon the vulgar crowd like blazing coals.
The spectators’ cries were redoubled, and became more exultant and
triumphant every moment. The door of the carriage was open, and Keller
had given his hand to the bride to help her in, when suddenly with a
loud cry she rushed from him, straight into the surging crowd. Her
friends about her were stupefied with amazement; the crowd parted as
she rushed through it, and suddenly, at a distance of five or six yards
from the carriage, appeared Rogojin. It was his look that had caught
her eyes.

Nastasia rushed to him like a madwoman, and seized both his hands.

“Save me!” she cried. “Take me away, anywhere you like, quick!”

Rogojin seized her in his arms and almost carried her to the carriage.
Then, in a flash, he tore a hundred-rouble note out of his pocket and
held it to the coachman.

“To the station, quick! If you catch the train you shall have another.
Quick!”

He leaped into the carriage after Nastasia and banged the door. The
coachman did not hesitate a moment; he whipped up the horses, and they
were off.

“One more second and I should have stopped him,” said Keller,
afterwards. In fact, he and Burdovsky jumped into another carriage and
set off in pursuit; but it struck them as they drove along that it was
not much use trying to bring Nastasia back by force.

“Besides,” said Burdovsky, “the prince would not like it, would he?” So
they gave up the pursuit.

Rogojin and Nastasia Philipovna reached the station just in time for
the train. As he jumped out of the carriage and was almost on the point
of entering the train, Rogojin accosted a young girl standing on the
platform and wearing an old-fashioned, but respectable-looking, black
cloak and a silk handkerchief over her head.

“Take fifty roubles for your cloak?” he shouted, holding the money out
to the girl. Before the astonished young woman could collect her
scattered senses, he pushed the money into her hand, seized the mantle,
and threw it and the handkerchief over Nastasia’s head and shoulders.
The latter’s wedding-array would have attracted too much attention, and
it was not until some time later that the girl understood why her old
cloak and kerchief had been bought at such a price.

The news of what had happened reached the church with extraordinary
rapidity. When Keller arrived, a host of people whom he did not know
thronged around to ask him questions. There was much excited talking,
and shaking of heads, even some laughter; but no one left the church,
all being anxious to observe how the now celebrated bridegroom would
take the news. He grew very pale upon hearing it, but took it quite
quietly.

“I was afraid,” he muttered, scarcely audibly, “but I hardly thought it
would come to this.” Then after a short silence, he added: “However, in
her state, it is quite consistent with the natural order of things.”

Even Keller admitted afterwards that this was “extraordinarily
philosophical” on the prince’s part. He left the church quite calm, to
all appearances, as many witnesses were found to declare afterwards. He
seemed anxious to reach home and be left alone as quickly as possible;
but this was not to be. He was accompanied by nearly all the invited
guests, and besides this, the house was almost besieged by excited
bands of people, who insisted upon being allowed to enter the verandah.
The prince heard Keller and Lebedeff remonstrating and quarrelling with
these unknown individuals, and soon went out himself. He approached the
disturbers of his peace, requested courteously to be told what was
desired; then politely putting Lebedeff and Keller aside, he addressed
an old gentleman who was standing on the verandah steps at the head of
the band of would-be guests, and courteously requested him to honour
him with a visit. The old fellow was quite taken aback by this, but
entered, followed by a few more, who tried to appear at their ease. The
rest remained outside, and presently the whole crowd was censuring
those who had accepted the invitation. The prince offered seats to his
strange visitors, tea was served, and a general conversation sprang up.
Everything was done most decorously, to the considerable surprise of
the intruders. A few tentative attempts were made to turn the
conversation to the events of the day, and a few indiscreet questions
were asked; but Muishkin replied to everybody with such simplicity and
good-humour, and at the same time with so much dignity, and showed such
confidence in the good breeding of his guests, that the indiscreet
talkers were quickly silenced. By degrees the conversation became
almost serious. One gentleman suddenly exclaimed, with great vehemence:
“Whatever happens, I shall not sell my property; I shall wait.
Enterprise is better than money, and there, sir, you have my whole
system of economy, if you wish!” He addressed the prince, who warmly
commended his sentiments, though Lebedeff whispered in his ear that
this gentleman, who talked so much of his “property,” had never had
either house or home.

Nearly an hour passed thus, and when tea was over the visitors seemed
to think that it was time to go. As they went out, the doctor and the
old gentleman bade Muishkin a warm farewell, and all the rest took
their leave with hearty protestations of good-will, dropping remarks to
the effect that “it was no use worrying,” and that “perhaps all would
turn out for the best,” and so on. Some of the younger intruders would
have asked for champagne, but they were checked by the older ones. When
all had departed, Keller leaned over to Lebedeff, and said:

“With you and me there would have been a scene. We should have shouted
and fought, and called in the police. But he has simply made some new
friends—and such friends, too! I know them!”

Lebedeff, who was slightly intoxicated, answered with a sigh:

“Things are hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed unto babes.
I have applied those words to him before, but now I add that God has
preserved the babe himself from the abyss, He and all His saints.”

At last, about half-past ten, the prince was left alone. His head
ached. Colia was the last to go, after having helped him to change his
wedding clothes. They parted on affectionate terms, and, without
speaking of what had happened, Colia promised to come very early the
next day. He said later that the prince had given no hint of his
intentions when they said good-bye, but had hidden them even from him.
Soon there was hardly anyone left in the house. Burdovsky had gone to
see Hippolyte; Keller and Lebedeff had wandered off together somewhere.

Only Vera Lebedeff remained hurriedly rearranging the furniture in the
rooms. As she left the verandah, she glanced at the prince. He was
seated at the table, with both elbows upon it, and his head resting on
his hands. She approached him, and touched his shoulder gently. The
prince started and looked at her in perplexity; he seemed to be
collecting his senses for a minute or so, before he could remember
where he was. As recollection dawned upon him, he became violently
agitated. All he did, however, was to ask Vera very earnestly to knock
at his door and awake him in time for the first train to Petersburg
next morning. Vera promised, and the prince entreated her not to tell
anyone of his intention. She promised this, too; and at last, when she
had half-closed the door, he called her back a third time, took her
hands in his, kissed them, then kissed her forehead, and in a rather
peculiar manner said to her, “Until tomorrow!”

Such was Vera’s story afterwards.

She went away in great anxiety about him, but when she saw him in the
morning, he seemed to be quite himself again, greeted her with a smile,
and told her that he would very likely be back by the evening. It
appears that he did not consider it necessary to inform anyone
excepting Vera of his departure for town.

XI.

An hour later he was in St. Petersburg, and by ten o’clock he had rung
the bell at Rogojin’s.

He had gone to the front door, and was kept waiting a long while before
anyone came. At last the door of old Mrs. Rogojin’s flat was opened,
and an aged servant appeared.

“Parfen Semionovitch is not at home,” she announced from the doorway.
“Whom do you want?”

“Parfen Semionovitch.”

“He is not in.”

The old woman examined the prince from head to foot with great
curiosity.

“At all events tell me whether he slept at home last night, and whether
he came alone?”

The old woman continued to stare at him, but said nothing.

“Was not Nastasia Philipovna here with him, yesterday evening?”

“And, pray, who are you yourself?”

“Prince Lef Nicolaievitch Muishkin; he knows me well.”

“He is not at home.”

The woman lowered her eyes.

“And Nastasia Philipovna?”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Stop a minute! When will he come back?”

“I don’t know that either.”

The door was shut with these words, and the old woman disappeared. The
prince decided to come back within an hour. Passing out of the house,
he met the porter.

“Is Parfen Semionovitch at home?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why did they tell me he was not at home, then?”

“Where did they tell you so,—at his door?”

“No, at his mother’s flat; I rang at Parfen Semionovitch’s door and
nobody came.”

“Well, he may have gone out. I can’t tell. Sometimes he takes the keys
with him, and leaves the rooms empty for two or three days.”

“Do you know for certain that he was at home last night?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Was Nastasia Philipovna with him?”

“I don’t know; she doesn’t come often. I think I should have known if
she had come.”

The prince went out deep in thought, and walked up and down the
pavement for some time. The windows of all the rooms occupied by
Rogojin were closed, those of his mother’s apartments were open. It was
a hot, bright day. The prince crossed the road in order to have a good
look at the windows again; not only were Rogojin’s closed, but the
white blinds were all down as well.

He stood there for a minute and then, suddenly and strangely enough, it
seemed to him that a little corner of one of the blinds was lifted, and
Rogojin’s face appeared for an instant and then vanished. He waited
another minute, and decided to go and ring the bell once more; however,
he thought better of it again and put it off for an hour.

The chief object in his mind at this moment was to get as quickly as he
could to Nastasia Philipovna’s lodging. He remembered that, not long
since, when she had left Pavlofsk at his request, he had begged her to
put up in town at the house of a respectable widow, who had
well-furnished rooms to let, near the Ismailofsky barracks. Probably
Nastasia had kept the rooms when she came down to Pavlofsk this last
time; and most likely she would have spent the night in them, Rogojin
having taken her straight there from the station.

The prince took a droshky. It struck him as he drove on that he ought
to have begun by coming here, since it was most improbable that Rogojin
should have taken Nastasia to his own house last night. He remembered
that the porter said she very rarely came at all, so that it was still
less likely that she would have gone there so late at night.

Vainly trying to comfort himself with these reflections, the prince
reached the Ismailofsky barracks more dead than alive.

To his consternation the good people at the lodgings had not only heard
nothing of Nastasia, but all came out to look at him as if he were a
marvel of some sort. The whole family, of all ages, surrounded him, and
he was begged to enter. He guessed at once that they knew perfectly
well who he was, and that yesterday ought to have been his wedding-day;
and further that they were dying to ask about the wedding, and
especially about why he should be here now, inquiring for the woman who
in all reasonable human probability might have been expected to be with
him in Pavlofsk.

He satisfied their curiosity, in as few words as possible, with regard
to the wedding, but their exclamations and sighs were so numerous and
sincere that he was obliged to tell the whole story—in a short form, of
course. The advice of all these agitated ladies was that the prince
should go at once and knock at Rogojin’s until he was let in: and when
let in insist upon a substantial explanation of everything. If Rogojin
was really not at home, the prince was advised to go to a certain
house, the address of which was given, where lived a German lady, a
friend of Nastasia Philipovna’s. It was possible that she might have
spent the night there in her anxiety to conceal herself.

The prince rose from his seat in a condition of mental collapse. The
good ladies reported afterwards that “his pallor was terrible to see,
and his legs seemed to give way underneath him.” With difficulty he was
made to understand that his new friends would be glad of his address,
in order to act with him if possible. After a moment’s thought he gave
the address of the small hotel, on the stairs of which he had had a fit
some five weeks since. He then set off once more for Rogojin’s.

This time they neither opened the door at Rogojin’s flat nor at the one
opposite. The prince found the porter with difficulty, but when found,
the man would hardly look at him or answer his questions, pretending to
be busy. Eventually, however, he was persuaded to reply so far as to
state that Rogojin had left the house early in the morning and gone to
Pavlofsk, and that he would not return today at all.

“I shall wait; he may come back this evening.”

“He may not be home for a week.”

“Then, at all events, he _did_ sleep here, did he?”

“Well—he did sleep here, yes.”

All this was suspicious and unsatisfactory. Very likely the porter had
received new instructions during the interval of the prince’s absence;
his manner was so different now. He had been obliging—now he was as
obstinate and silent as a mule. However, the prince decided to call
again in a couple of hours, and after that to watch the house, in case
of need. His hope was that he might yet find Nastasia at the address
which he had just received. To that address he now set off at full
speed.

But alas! at the German lady’s house they did not even appear to
understand what he wanted. After a while, by means of certain hints, he
was able to gather that Nastasia must have had a quarrel with her
friend two or three weeks ago, since which date the latter had neither
heard nor seen anything of her. He was given to understand that the
subject of Nastasia’s present whereabouts was not of the slightest
interest to her; and that Nastasia might marry all the princes in the
world for all she cared! So Muishkin took his leave hurriedly. It
struck him now that she might have gone away to Moscow just as she had
done the last time, and that Rogojin had perhaps gone after her, or
even _with_ her. If only he could find some trace!

However, he must take his room at the hotel; and he started off in that
direction. Having engaged his room, he was asked by the waiter whether
he would take dinner; replying mechanically in the affirmative, he sat
down and waited; but it was not long before it struck him that dining
would delay him. Enraged at this idea, he started up, crossed the dark
passage (which filled him with horrible impressions and gloomy
forebodings), and set out once more for Rogojin’s. Rogojin had not
returned, and no one came to the door. He rang at the old lady’s door
opposite, and was informed that Parfen Semionovitch would not return
for three days. The curiosity with which the old servant stared at him
again impressed the prince disagreeably. He could not find the porter
this time at all.

As before, he crossed the street and watched the windows from the other
side, walking up and down in anguish of soul for half an hour or so in
the stifling heat. Nothing stirred; the blinds were motionless; indeed,
the prince began to think that the apparition of Rogojin’s face could
have been nothing but fancy. Soothed by this thought, he drove off once
more to his friends at the Ismailofsky barracks. He was expected there.
The mother had already been to three or four places to look for
Nastasia, but had not found a trace of any kind.

The prince said nothing, but entered the room, sat down silently, and
stared at them, one after the other, with the air of a man who cannot
understand what is being said to him. It was strange—one moment he
seemed to be so observant, the next so absent; his behaviour struck all
the family as most remarkable. At length he rose from his seat, and
begged to be shown Nastasia’s rooms. The ladies reported afterwards how
he had examined everything in the apartments. He observed an open book
on the table, Madam Bovary, and requested the leave of the lady of the
house to take it with him. He had turned down the leaf at the open
page, and pocketed it before they could explain that it was a library
book. He had then seated himself by the open window, and seeing a
card-table, he asked who played cards.

He was informed that Nastasia used to play with Rogojin every evening,
either at “preference” or “little fool,” or “whist”; that this had been
their practice since her last return from Pavlofsk; that she had taken
to this amusement because she did not like to see Rogojin sitting
silent and dull for whole evenings at a time; that the day after
Nastasia had made a remark to this effect, Rogojin had whipped a pack
of cards out of his pocket. Nastasia had laughed, but soon they began
playing. The prince asked where were the cards, but was told that
Rogojin used to bring a new pack every day, and always carried it away
in his pocket.

The good ladies recommended the prince to try knocking at Rogojin’s
once more—not at once, but in the evening. Meanwhile, the mother would
go to Pavlofsk to inquire at Dana Alexeyevna’s whether anything had
been heard of Nastasia there. The prince was to come back at ten
o’clock and meet her, to hear her news and arrange plans for the
morrow.

In spite of the kindly-meant consolations of his new friends, the
prince walked to his hotel in inexpressible anguish of spirit, through
the hot, dusty streets, aimlessly staring at the faces of those who
passed him. Arrived at his destination, he determined to rest awhile in
his room before he started for Rogojin’s once more. He sat down, rested
his elbows on the table and his head on his hands, and fell to
thinking.

Heaven knows how long and upon what subjects he thought. He thought of
many things—of Vera Lebedeff, and of her father; of Hippolyte; of
Rogojin himself, first at the funeral, then as he had met him in the
park, then, suddenly, as they had met in this very passage, outside,
when Rogojin had watched in the darkness and awaited him with uplifted
knife. The prince remembered his enemy’s eyes as they had glared at him
in the darkness. He shuddered, as a sudden idea struck him.

This idea was, that if Rogojin were in Petersburg, though he might hide
for a time, yet he was quite sure to come to him—the prince—before
long, with either good or evil intentions, but probably with the same
intention as on that other occasion. At all events, if Rogojin were to
come at all he would be sure to seek the prince here—he had no other
town address—perhaps in this same corridor; he might well seek him here
if he needed him. And perhaps he did need him. This idea seemed quite
natural to the prince, though he could not have explained why he should
so suddenly have become necessary to Rogojin. Rogojin would not come if
all were well with him, that was part of the thought; he would come if
all were not well; and certainly, undoubtedly, all would not be well
with him. The prince could not bear this new idea; he took his hat and
rushed out towards the street. It was almost dark in the passage.

“What if he were to come out of that corner as I go by and—and stop
me?” thought the prince, as he approached the familiar spot. But no one
came out.

He passed under the gateway and into the street. The crowds of people
walking about—as is always the case at sunset in Petersburg, during the
summer—surprised him, but he walked on in the direction of Rogojin’s
house.

About fifty yards from the hotel, at the first cross-road, as he passed
through the crowd of foot-passengers sauntering along, someone touched
his shoulder, and said in a whisper into his ear:

“Lef Nicolaievitch, my friend, come along with me.” It was Rogojin.

The prince immediately began to tell him, eagerly and joyfully, how he
had but the moment before expected to see him in the dark passage of
the hotel.

“I was there,” said Rogojin, unexpectedly. “Come along.” The prince was
surprised at this answer; but his astonishment increased a couple of
minutes afterwards, when he began to consider it. Having thought it
over, he glanced at Rogojin in alarm. The latter was striding along a
yard or so ahead, looking straight in front of him, and mechanically
making way for anyone he met.

“Why did you not ask for me at my room if you were in the hotel?” asked
the prince, suddenly.

Rogojin stopped and looked at him; then reflected, and replied as
though he had not heard the question:

“Look here, Lef Nicolaievitch, you go straight on to the house; I shall
walk on the other side. See that we keep together.”

So saying, Rogojin crossed the road.

Arrived on the opposite pavement, he looked back to see whether the
prince were moving, waved his hand in the direction of the Gorohovaya,
and strode on, looking across every moment to see whether Muishkin
understood his instructions. The prince supposed that Rogojin desired
to look out for someone whom he was afraid to miss; but if so, why had
he not told _him_ whom to look out for? So the two proceeded for half a
mile or so. Suddenly the prince began to tremble from some unknown
cause. He could not bear it, and signalled to Rogojin across the road.

The latter came at once.

“Is Nastasia Philipovna at your house?”

“Yes.”

“And was it you looked out of the window under the blind this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did—”

But the prince could not finish his question; he did not know what to
say. Besides this, his heart was beating so that he found it difficult
to speak at all. Rogojin was silent also and looked at him as before,
with an expression of deep thoughtfulness.

“Well, I’m going,” he said, at last, preparing to recross the road.
“You go along here as before; we will keep to different sides of the
road; it’s better so, you’ll see.”

When they reached the Gorohovaya, and came near the house, the prince’s
legs were trembling so that he could hardly walk. It was about ten
o’clock. The old lady’s windows were open, as before; Rogojin’s were
all shut, and in the darkness the white blinds showed whiter than ever.
Rogojin and the prince each approached the house on his respective side
of the road; Rogojin, who was on the near side, beckoned the prince
across. He went over to the doorway.

“Even the porter does not know that I have come home now. I told him,
and told them at my mother’s too, that I was off to Pavlofsk,” said
Rogojin, with a cunning and almost satisfied smile. “We’ll go in
quietly and nobody will hear us.”

He had the key in his hand. Mounting the staircase he turned and
signalled to the prince to go more softly; he opened the door very
quietly, let the prince in, followed him, locked the door behind him,
and put the key in his pocket.

“Come along,” he whispered.

He had spoken in a whisper all the way. In spite of his apparent
outward composure, he was evidently in a state of great mental
agitation. Arrived in a large salon, next to the study, he went to the
window and cautiously beckoned the prince up to him.

“When you rang the bell this morning I thought it must be you. I went
to the door on tip-toe and heard you talking to the servant opposite. I
had told her before that if anyone came and rang—especially you, and I
gave her your name—she was not to tell about me. Then I thought, what
if he goes and stands opposite and looks up, or waits about to watch
the house? So I came to this very window, looked out, and there you
were staring straight at me. That’s how it came about.”

“Where is Nastasia Philipovna?” asked the prince, breathlessly.

“She’s here,” replied Rogojin, slowly, after a slight pause.

“Where?”

Rogojin raised his eyes and gazed intently at the prince.

“Come,” he said.

He continued to speak in a whisper, very deliberately as before, and
looked strangely thoughtful and dreamy. Even while he told the story of
how he had peeped through the blind, he gave the impression of wishing
to say something else. They entered the study. In this room some
changes had taken place since the prince last saw it. It was now
divided into two equal parts by a heavy green silk curtain stretched
across it, separating the alcove beyond, where stood Rogojin’s bed,
from the rest of the room.

The heavy curtain was drawn now, and it was very dark. The bright
Petersburg summer nights were already beginning to close in, and but
for the full moon, it would have been difficult to distinguish anything
in Rogojin’s dismal room, with the drawn blinds. They could just see
one anothers faces, however, though not in detail. Rogojin’s face was
white, as usual. His glittering eyes watched the prince with an intent
stare.

“Had you not better light a candle?” said Muishkin.

“No, I needn’t,” replied Rogojin, and taking the other by the hand he
drew him down to a chair. He himself took a chair opposite and drew it
up so close that he almost pressed against the prince’s knees. At their
side was a little round table.

“Sit down,” said Rogojin; “let’s rest a bit.” There was silence for a
moment.

“I knew you would be at that hotel,” he continued, just as men
sometimes commence a serious conversation by discussing any outside
subject before leading up to the main point. “As I entered the passage
it struck me that perhaps you were sitting and waiting for me, just as
I was waiting for you. Have you been to the old lady at Ismailofsky
barracks?”

“Yes,” said the prince, squeezing the word out with difficulty owing to
the dreadful beating of his heart.

“I thought you would. ‘They’ll talk about it,’ I thought; so I
determined to go and fetch you to spend the night here—‘We will be
together,’ I thought, ‘for this one night—’”

“Rogojin, _where_ is Nastasia Philipovna?” said the prince, suddenly
rising from his seat. He was quaking in all his limbs, and his words
came in a scarcely audible whisper. Rogojin rose also.

“There,” he whispered, nodding his head towards the curtain.

“Asleep?” whispered the prince.

Rogojin looked intently at him again, as before.

“Let’s go in—but you mustn’t—well—let’s go in.”

He lifted the curtain, paused—and turned to the prince. “Go in,” he
said, motioning him to pass behind the curtain. Muishkin went in.

“It’s so dark,” he said.

“You can see quite enough,” muttered Rogojin.

“I can just see there’s a bed—”

“Go nearer,” suggested Rogojin, softly.

The prince took a step forward—then another—and paused. He stood and
stared for a minute or two.

Neither of the men spoke a word while at the bedside. The prince’s
heart beat so loud that its knocking seemed to be distinctly audible in
the deathly silence.

But now his eyes had become so far accustomed to the darkness that he
could distinguish the whole of the bed. Someone was asleep upon it—in
an absolutely motionless sleep. Not the slightest movement was
perceptible, not the faintest breathing could be heard. The sleeper was
covered with a white sheet; the outline of the limbs was hardly
distinguishable. He could only just make out that a human being lay
outstretched there.

All around, on the bed, on a chair beside it, on the floor, were
scattered the different portions of a magnificent white silk dress,
bits of lace, ribbons and flowers. On a small table at the bedside
glittered a mass of diamonds, torn off and thrown down anyhow. From
under a heap of lace at the end of the bed peeped a small white foot,
which looked as though it had been chiselled out of marble; it was
terribly still.

The prince gazed and gazed, and felt that the more he gazed the more
death-like became the silence. Suddenly a fly awoke somewhere, buzzed
across the room, and settled on the pillow. The prince shuddered.

“Let’s go,” said Rogojin, touching his shoulder. They left the alcove
and sat down in the two chairs they had occupied before, opposite to
one another. The prince trembled more and more violently, and never
took his questioning eyes off Rogojin’s face.

“I see you are shuddering, Lef Nicolaievitch,” said the latter, at
length, “almost as you did once in Moscow, before your fit; don’t you
remember? I don’t know what I shall do with you—”

The prince bent forward to listen, putting all the strain he could
muster upon his understanding in order to take in what Rogojin said,
and continuing to gaze at the latter’s face.

“Was it you?” he muttered, at last, motioning with his head towards the
curtain.

“Yes, it was I,” whispered Rogojin, looking down.

Neither spoke for five minutes.

“Because, you know,” Rogojin recommenced, as though continuing a former
sentence, “if you were ill now, or had a fit, or screamed, or anything,
they might hear it in the yard, or even in the street, and guess that
someone was passing the night in the house. They would all come and
knock and want to come in, because they know I am not at home. I didn’t
light a candle for the same reason. When I am not here—for two or three
days at a time, now and then—no one comes in to tidy the house or
anything; those are my orders. So that I want them to not know we are
spending the night here—”

“Wait,” interrupted the prince. “I asked both the porter and the woman
whether Nastasia Philipovna had spent last night in the house; so they
knew—”

“I know you asked. I told them that she had called in for ten minutes,
and then gone straight back to Pavlofsk. No one knows she slept here.
Last night we came in just as carefully as you and I did today. I
thought as I came along with her that she would not like to creep in so
secretly, but I was quite wrong. She whispered, and walked on tip-toe;
she carried her skirt over her arm, so that it shouldn’t rustle, and
she held up her finger at me on the stairs, so that I shouldn’t make a
noise—it was you she was afraid of. She was mad with terror in the
train, and she begged me to bring her to this house. I thought of
taking her to her rooms at the Ismailofsky barracks first; but she
wouldn’t hear of it. She said, ‘No—not there; he’ll find me out at once
there. Take me to your own house, where you can hide me, and tomorrow
we’ll set off for Moscow.’ Thence she would go to Orel, she said. When
she went to bed, she was still talking about going to Orel.”

“Wait! What do you intend to do now, Parfen?”

“Well, I’m afraid of you. You shudder and tremble so. We’ll pass the
night here together. There are no other beds besides that one; but I’ve
thought how we’ll manage. I’ll take the cushions off all the sofas, and
lay them down on the floor, up against the curtain here—for you and
me—so that we shall be together. For if they come in and look about
now, you know, they’ll find her, and carry her away, and they’ll be
asking me questions, and I shall say I did it, and then they’ll take me
away, too, don’t you see? So let her lie close to us—close to you and
me.”

“Yes, yes,” agreed the prince, warmly.

“So we will not say anything about it, or let them take her away?”

“Not for anything!” cried the other; “no, no, no!”

“So I had decided, my friend; not to give her up to anyone,” continued
Rogojin. “We’ll be very quiet. I have only been out of the house one
hour all day, all the rest of the time I have been with her. I dare say
the air is very bad here. It is so hot. Do you find it bad?”

“I don’t know—perhaps—by morning it will be.”

“I’ve covered her with oilcloth—best American oilcloth, and put the
sheet over that, and four jars of disinfectant, on account of the
smell—as they did at Moscow—you remember? And she’s lying so still; you
shall see, in the morning, when it’s light. What! can’t you get up?”
asked Rogojin, seeing the other was trembling so that he could not rise
from his seat.

“My legs won’t move,” said the prince; “it’s fear, I know. When my fear
is over, I’ll get up—”

“Wait a bit—I’ll make the bed, and you can lie down. I’ll lie down,
too, and we’ll listen and watch, for I don’t know yet what I shall
do... I tell you beforehand, so that you may be ready in case I—”

Muttering these disconnected words, Rogojin began to make up the beds.
It was clear that he had devised these beds long before; last night he
slept on the sofa. But there was no room for two on the sofa, and he
seemed anxious that he and the prince should be close to one another;
therefore, he now dragged cushions of all sizes and shapes from the
sofas, and made a sort of bed of them close by the curtain. He then
approached the prince, and gently helped him to rise, and led him
towards the bed. But the prince could now walk by himself, so that his
fear must have passed; for all that, however, he continued to shudder.

“It’s hot weather, you see,” continued Rogojin, as he lay down on the
cushions beside Muishkin, “and, naturally, there will be a smell. I
daren’t open the window. My mother has some beautiful flowers in pots;
they have a delicious scent; I thought of fetching them in, but that
old servant will find out, she’s very inquisitive.”

“Yes, she is inquisitive,” assented the prince.

“I thought of buying flowers, and putting them all round her; but I was
afraid it would make us sad to see her with flowers round her.”

“Look here,” said the prince; he was bewildered, and his brain
wandered. He seemed to be continually groping for the questions he
wished to ask, and then losing them. “Listen—tell me—how did you—with a
knife?—That same one?”

“Yes, that same one.”

“Wait a minute, I want to ask you something else, Parfen; all sorts of
things; but tell me first, did you intend to kill her before my
wedding, at the church door, with your knife?”

“I don’t know whether I did or not,” said Rogojin, drily, seeming to be
a little astonished at the question, and not quite taking it in.

“Did you never take your knife to Pavlofsk with you?”

“No. As to the knife,” he added, “this is all I can tell you about it.”
He was silent for a moment, and then said, “I took it out of the locked
drawer this morning about three, for it was in the early morning all
this—happened. It has been inside the book ever since—and—and—this is
what is such a marvel to me, the knife only went in a couple of inches
at most, just under her left breast, and there wasn’t more than half a
tablespoonful of blood altogether, not more.”

“Yes—yes—yes—” The prince jumped up in extraordinary agitation. “I
know, I know, I’ve read of that sort of thing—it’s internal
haemorrhage, you know. Sometimes there isn’t a drop—if the blow goes
straight to the heart—”

“Wait—listen!” cried Rogojin, suddenly, starting up. “Somebody’s
walking about, do you hear? In the hall.” Both sat up to listen.

“I hear,” said the prince in a whisper, his eyes fixed on Rogojin.

“Footsteps?”

“Yes.”

“Shall we shut the door, and lock it, or not?”

“Yes, lock it.”

They locked the door, and both lay down again. There was a long
silence.

“Yes, by-the-by,” whispered the prince, hurriedly and excitedly as
before, as though he had just seized hold of an idea and was afraid of
losing it again. “I—I wanted those cards! They say you played cards
with her?”

“Yes, I played with her,” said Rogojin, after a short silence.

“Where are the cards?”

“Here they are,” said Rogojin, after a still longer pause.

He pulled out a pack of cards, wrapped in a bit of paper, from his
pocket, and handed them to the prince. The latter took them, with a
sort of perplexity. A new, sad, helpless feeling weighed on his heart;
he had suddenly realized that not only at this moment, but for a long
while, he had not been saying what he wanted to say, had not been
acting as he wanted to act; and that these cards which he held in his
hand, and which he had been so delighted to have at first, were now of
no use—no use... He rose, and wrung his hands. Rogojin lay motionless,
and seemed neither to hear nor see his movements; but his eyes blazed
in the darkness, and were fixed in a wild stare.

The prince sat down on a chair, and watched him in alarm. Half an hour
went by.

Suddenly Rogojin burst into a loud abrupt laugh, as though he had quite
forgotten that they must speak in whispers.

“That officer, eh!—that young officer—don’t you remember that fellow at
the band? Eh? Ha, ha, ha! Didn’t she whip him smartly, eh?”

The prince jumped up from his seat in renewed terror. When Rogojin
quieted down (which he did at once) the prince bent over him, sat down
beside him, and with painfully beating heart and still more painful
breath, watched his face intently. Rogojin never turned his head, and
seemed to have forgotten all about him. The prince watched and waited.
Time went on—it began to grow light.

Rogojin began to wander—muttering disconnectedly; then he took to
shouting and laughing. The prince stretched out a trembling hand and
gently stroked his hair and his cheeks—he could do nothing more. His
legs trembled again and he seemed to have lost the use of them. A new
sensation came over him, filling his heart and soul with infinite
anguish.

Meanwhile the daylight grew full and strong; and at last the prince lay
down, as though overcome by despair, and laid his face against the
white, motionless face of Rogojin. His tears flowed on to Rogojin’s
cheek, though he was perhaps not aware of them himself.

At all events when, after many hours, the door was opened and people
thronged in, they found the murderer unconscious and in a raging fever.
The prince was sitting by him, motionless, and each time that the sick
man gave a laugh, or a shout, he hastened to pass his own trembling
hand over his companion’s hair and cheeks, as though trying to soothe
and quiet him. But alas! he understood nothing of what was said to him,
and recognized none of those who surrounded him.

If Schneider himself had arrived then and seen his former pupil and
patient, remembering the prince’s condition during the first year in
Switzerland, he would have flung up his hands, despairingly, and cried,
as he did then:

“An idiot!”

XII.

When the widow hurried away to Pavlofsk, she went straight to Daria
Alexeyevna’s house, and telling all she knew, threw her into a state of
great alarm. Both ladies decided to communicate at once with Lebedeff,
who, as the friend and landlord of the prince, was also much agitated.
Vera Lebedeff told all she knew, and by Lebedeff’s advice it was
decided that all three should go to Petersburg as quickly as possible,
in order to avert “what might so easily happen.”

This is how it came about that at eleven o’clock next morning Rogojin’s
flat was opened by the police in the presence of Lebedeff, the two
ladies, and Rogojin’s own brother, who lived in the wing.

The evidence of the porter went further than anything else towards the
success of Lebedeff in gaining the assistance of the police. He
declared that he had seen Rogojin return to the house last night,
accompanied by a friend, and that both had gone upstairs very secretly
and cautiously. After this there was no hesitation about breaking open
the door, since it could not be got open in any other way.

Rogojin suffered from brain fever for two months. When he recovered
from the attack he was at once brought up on trial for murder.

He gave full, satisfactory, and direct evidence on every point; and the
prince’s name was, thanks to this, not brought into the proceedings.
Rogojin was very quiet during the progress of the trial. He did not
contradict his clever and eloquent counsel, who argued that the brain
fever, or inflammation of the brain, was the cause of the crime;
clearly proving that this malady had existed long before the murder was
perpetrated, and had been brought on by the sufferings of the accused.

But Rogojin added no words of his own in confirmation of this view, and
as before, he recounted with marvellous exactness the details of his
crime. He was convicted, but with extenuating circumstances, and
condemned to hard labour in Siberia for fifteen years. He heard his
sentence grimly, silently, and thoughtfully. His colossal fortune, with
the exception of the comparatively small portion wasted in the first
wanton period of his inheritance, went to his brother, to the great
satisfaction of the latter.

The old lady, Rogojin’s mother, is still alive, and remembers her
favourite son Parfen sometimes, but not clearly. God spared her the
knowledge of this dreadful calamity which had overtaken her house.

Lebedeff, Keller, Gania, Ptitsin, and many other friends of ours
continue to live as before. There is scarcely any change in them, so
that there is no need to tell of their subsequent doings.

Hippolyte died in great agitation, and rather sooner than he expected,
about a fortnight after Nastasia Philipovna’s death. Colia was much
affected by these events, and drew nearer to his mother in heart and
sympathy. Nina Alexandrovna is anxious, because he is “thoughtful
beyond his years,” but he will, we think, make a useful and active man.

The prince’s further fate was more or less decided by Colia, who
selected, out of all the persons he had met during the last six or
seven months, Evgenie Pavlovitch, as friend and confidant. To him he
made over all that he knew as to the events above recorded, and as to
the present condition of the prince. He was not far wrong in his
choice. Evgenie Pavlovitch took the deepest interest in the fate of the
unfortunate “idiot,” and, thanks to his influence, the prince found
himself once more with Dr. Schneider, in Switzerland.

Evgenie Pavlovitch, who went abroad at this time, intending to live a
long while on the continent, being, as he often said, quite superfluous
in Russia, visits his sick friend at Schneider’s every few months.

But Dr. Schneider frowns ever more and more and shakes his head; he
hints that the brain is fatally injured; he does not as yet declare
that his patient is incurable, but he allows himself to express the
gravest fears.

Evgenie takes this much to heart, and he has a heart, as is proved by
the fact that he receives and even answers letters from Colia. But
besides this, another trait in his character has become apparent, and
as it is a good trait we will make haste to reveal it. After each visit
to Schneider’s establishment, Evgenie Pavlovitch writes another letter,
besides that to Colia, giving the most minute particulars concerning
the invalid’s condition. In these letters is to be detected, and in
each one more than the last, a growing feeling of friendship and
sympathy.

The individual who corresponds thus with Evgenie Pavlovitch, and who
engages so much of his attention and respect, is Vera Lebedeff. We have
never been able to discover clearly how such relations sprang up. Of
course the root of them was in the events which we have already
recorded, and which so filled Vera with grief on the prince’s account
that she fell seriously ill. But exactly how the acquaintance and
friendship came about, we cannot say.

We have spoken of these letters chiefly because in them is often to be
found some news of the Epanchin family, and of Aglaya in particular.
Evgenie Pavlovitch wrote of her from Paris, that after a short and
sudden attachment to a certain Polish count, an exile, she had suddenly
married him, quite against the wishes of her parents, though they had
eventually given their consent through fear of a terrible scandal.
Then, after a six months’ silence, Evgenie Pavlovitch informed his
correspondent, in a long letter, full of detail, that while paying his
last visit to Dr. Schneider’s establishment, he had there come across
the whole Epanchin family (excepting the general, who had remained in
St. Petersburg) and Prince S. The meeting was a strange one. They all
received Evgenie Pavlovitch with effusive delight; Adelaida and
Alexandra were deeply grateful to him for his “angelic kindness to the
unhappy prince.”

Lizabetha Prokofievna, when she saw poor Muishkin, in his enfeebled and
humiliated condition, had wept bitterly. Apparently all was forgiven
him.

Prince S. had made a few just and sensible remarks. It seemed to
Evgenie Pavlovitch that there was not yet perfect harmony between
Adelaida and her fiance, but he thought that in time the impulsive
young girl would let herself be guided by his reason and experience.
Besides, the recent events that had befallen her family had given
Adelaida much to think about, especially the sad experiences of her
younger sister. Within six months, everything that the family had
dreaded from the marriage with the Polish count had come to pass. He
turned out to be neither count nor exile—at least, in the political
sense of the word—but had had to leave his native land owing to some
rather dubious affair of the past. It was his noble patriotism, of
which he made a great display, that had rendered him so interesting in
Aglaya’s eyes. She was so fascinated that, even before marrying him,
she joined a committee that had been organized abroad to work for the
restoration of Poland; and further, she visited the confessional of a
celebrated Jesuit priest, who made an absolute fanatic of her. The
supposed fortune of the count had dwindled to a mere nothing, although
he had given almost irrefutable evidence of its existence to Lizabetha
Prokofievna and Prince S.

Besides this, before they had been married half a year, the count and
his friend the priest managed to bring about a quarrel between Aglaya
and her family, so that it was now several months since they had seen
her. In a word, there was a great deal to say; but Mrs. Epanchin, and
her daughters, and even Prince S., were still so much distressed by
Aglaya’s latest infatuations and adventures, that they did not care to
talk of them, though they must have known that Evgenie knew much of the
story already.

Poor Lizabetha Prokofievna was most anxious to get home, and, according
to Evgenie’s account, she criticized everything foreign with much
hostility.

“They can’t bake bread anywhere, decently; and they all freeze in their
houses, during winter, like a lot of mice in a cellar. At all events,
I’ve had a good Russian cry over this poor fellow,” she added, pointing
to the prince, who had not recognized her in the slightest degree. “So
enough of this nonsense; it’s time we faced the truth. All this
continental life, all this Europe of yours, and all the trash about
‘going abroad’ is simply foolery, and it is mere foolery on our part to
come. Remember what I say, my friend; you’ll live to agree with me
yourself.”

So spoke the good lady, almost angrily, as she took leave of Evgenie
Pavlovitch.




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