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.