PART II

I.

Two days after the strange conclusion to Nastasia Philipovna’s birthday

party, with the record of which we concluded the first part of this

story, Prince Muishkin hurriedly left St. Petersburg for Moscow, in

order to see after some business connected with the receipt of his

unexpected fortune.

It was said that there were other reasons for his hurried departure;

but as to this, and as to his movements in Moscow, and as to his

prolonged absence from St. Petersburg, we are able to give very little

information.

The prince was away for six months, and even those who were most

interested in his destiny were able to pick up very little news about

him all that while. True, certain rumours did reach his friends, but

these were both strange and rare, and each one contradicted the last.

Of course the Epanchin family was much interested in his movements,

though he had not had time to bid them farewell before his departure.

The general, however, had had an opportunity of seeing him once or

twice since the eventful evening, and had spoken very seriously with

him; but though he had seen the prince, as I say, he told his family

nothing about the circumstance. In fact, for a month or so after his

departure it was considered not the thing to mention the prince’s name

in the Epanchin household. Only Mrs. Epanchin, at the commencement of

this period, had announced that she had been “cruelly mistaken in the

prince!” and a day or two after, she had added, evidently alluding to

him, but not mentioning his name, that it was an unalterable

characteristic of hers to be mistaken in people. Then once more, ten

days later, after some passage of arms with one of her daughters, she

had remarked sententiously. “We have had enough of mistakes. I shall be

more careful in future!” However, it was impossible to avoid remarking

that there was some sense of oppression in the household—something

unspoken, but felt; something strained. All the members of the family

wore frowning looks. The general was unusually busy; his family hardly

ever saw him.

As to the girls, nothing was said openly, at all events; and probably

very little in private. They were proud damsels, and were not always

perfectly confidential even among themselves. But they understood each

other thoroughly at the first word on all occasions; very often at the

first glance, so that there was no need of much talking as a rule.

One fact, at least, would have been perfectly plain to an outsider, had

any such person been on the spot; and that was, that the prince had

made a very considerable impression upon the family, in spite of the

fact that he had but once been inside the house, and then only for a

short time. Of course, if analyzed, this impression might have proved

to be nothing more than a feeling of curiosity; but be it what it

might, there it undoubtedly was.

Little by little, the rumours spread about town became lost in a maze

of uncertainty. It was said that some foolish young prince, name

unknown, had suddenly come into possession of a gigantic fortune, and

had married a French ballet dancer. This was contradicted, and the

rumour circulated that it was a young merchant who had come into the

enormous fortune and married the great ballet dancer, and that at the

wedding the drunken young fool had burned seventy thousand roubles at a

candle out of pure bravado.

However, all these rumours soon died down, to which circumstance

certain facts largely contributed. For instance, the whole of the

Rogojin troop had departed, with him at their head, for Moscow. This

was exactly a week after a dreadful orgy at the Ekaterinhof gardens,

where Nastasia Philipovna had been present. It became known that after

this orgy Nastasia Philipovna had entirely disappeared, and that she

had since been traced to Moscow; so that the exodus of the Rogojin band

was found consistent with this report.

There were rumours current as to Gania, too; but circumstances soon

contradicted these. He had fallen seriously ill, and his illness

precluded his appearance in society, and even at business, for over a

month. As soon as he had recovered, however, he threw up his situation

in the public company under General Epanchin’s direction, for some

unknown reason, and the post was given to another. He never went near

the Epanchins’ house at all, and was exceedingly irritable and

depressed.

Varvara Ardalionovna married Ptitsin this winter, and it was said that

the fact of Gania’s retirement from business was the ultimate cause of

the marriage, since Gania was now not only unable to support his

family, but even required help himself.

We may mention that Gania was no longer mentioned in the Epanchin

household any more than the prince was; but that a certain circumstance

in connection with the fatal evening at Nastasia’s house became known

to the general, and, in fact, to all the family the very next day. This

fact was that Gania had come home that night, but had refused to go to

bed. He had awaited the prince’s return from Ekaterinhof with feverish

impatience.

On the latter’s arrival, at six in the morning, Gania had gone to him

in his room, bringing with him the singed packet of money, which he had

insisted that the prince should return to Nastasia Philipovna without

delay. It was said that when Gania entered the prince’s room, he came

with anything but friendly feelings, and in a condition of despair and

misery; but that after a short conversation, he had stayed on for a

couple of hours with him, sobbing continuously and bitterly the whole

time. They had parted upon terms of cordial friendship.

The Epanchins heard about this, as well as about the episode at

Nastasia Philipovna’s. It was strange, perhaps, that the facts should

become so quickly, and fairly accurately, known. As far as Gania was

concerned, it might have been supposed that the news had come through

Varvara Ardalionovna, who had suddenly become a frequent visitor of the

Epanchin girls, greatly to their mother’s surprise. But though Varvara

had seen fit, for some reason, to make friends with them, it was not

likely that she would have talked to them about her brother. She had

plenty of pride, in spite of the fact that in thus acting she was

seeking intimacy with people who had practically shown her brother the

door. She and the Epanchin girls had been acquainted in childhood,

although of late they had met but rarely. Even now Varvara hardly ever

appeared in the drawing-room, but would slip in by a back way.

Lizabetha Prokofievna, who disliked Varvara, although she had a great

respect for her mother, was much annoyed by this sudden intimacy, and

put it down to the general “contrariness” of her daughters, who were

“always on the lookout for some new way of opposing her.” Nevertheless,

Varvara continued her visits.

A month after Muishkin’s departure, Mrs. Epanchin received a letter

from her old friend Princess Bielokonski (who had lately left for

Moscow), which letter put her into the greatest good humour. She did

not divulge its contents either to her daughters or the general, but

her conduct towards the former became affectionate in the extreme. She

even made some sort of confession to them, but they were unable to

understand what it was about. She actually relaxed towards the general

a little—he had been long disgraced—and though she managed to quarrel

with them all the next day, yet she soon came round, and from her

general behaviour it was to be concluded that she had had good news of

some sort, which she would like, but could not make up her mind, to

disclose.

However, a week later she received another letter from the same source,

and at last resolved to speak.

She solemnly announced that she had heard from old Princess

Bielokonski, who had given her most comforting news about “that queer

young prince.” Her friend had hunted him up, and found that all was

going well with him. He had since called in person upon her, making an

extremely favourable impression, for the princess had received him each

day since, and had introduced him into several good houses.

The girls could see that their mother concealed a great deal from them,

and left out large pieces of the letter in reading it to them.

However, the ice was broken, and it suddenly became possible to mention

the prince’s name again. And again it became evident how very strong

was the impression the young man had made in the household by his one

visit there. Mrs. Epanchin was surprised at the effect which the news

from Moscow had upon the girls, and they were no less surprised that

after solemnly remarking that her most striking characteristic was

“being mistaken in people” she should have troubled to obtain for the

prince the favour and protection of so powerful an old lady as the

Princess Bielokonski. As soon as the ice was thus broken, the general

lost no time in showing that he, too, took the greatest interest in the

subject. He admitted that he was interested, but said that it was

merely in the business side of the question. It appeared that, in the

interests of the prince, he had made arrangements in Moscow for a

careful watch to be kept upon the prince’s business affairs, and

especially upon Salaskin. All that had been said as to the prince being

an undoubted heir to a fortune turned out to be perfectly true; but the

fortune proved to be much smaller than was at first reported. The

estate was considerably encumbered with debts; creditors turned up on

all sides, and the prince, in spite of all advice and entreaty,

insisted upon managing all matters of claim himself—which, of course,

meant satisfying everybody all round, although half the claims were

absolutely fraudulent.

Mrs. Epanchin confirmed all this. She said the princess had written to

much the same effect, and added that there was no curing a fool. But it

was plain, from her expression of face, how strongly she approved of

this particular young fool’s doings. In conclusion, the general

observed that his wife took as great an interest in the prince as

though he were her own son; and that she had commenced to be especially

affectionate towards Aglaya was a self-evident fact.

All this caused the general to look grave and important. But, alas!

this agreeable state of affairs very soon changed once more.

A couple of weeks went by, and suddenly the general and his wife were

once more gloomy and silent, and the ice was as firm as ever. The fact

was, the general, who had heard first, how Nastasia Philipovna had fled

to Moscow and had been discovered there by Rogojin; that she had then

disappeared once more, and been found again by Rogojin, and how after

that she had almost promised to marry him, now received news that she

had once more disappeared, almost on the very day fixed for her

wedding, flying somewhere into the interior of Russia this time, and

that Prince Muishkin had left all his affairs in the hands of Salaskin

and disappeared also—but whether he was with Nastasia, or had only set

off in search of her, was unknown.

Lizabetha Prokofievna received confirmatory news from the princess—and

alas, two months after the prince’s first departure from St.

Petersburg, darkness and mystery once more enveloped his whereabouts

and actions, and in the Epanchin family the ice of silence once more

formed over the subject. Varia, however, informed the girls of what had

happened, she having received the news from Ptitsin, who generally knew

more than most people.

To make an end, we may say that there were many changes in the Epanchin

household in the spring, so that it was not difficult to forget the

prince, who sent no news of himself.

The Epanchin family had at last made up their minds to spend the summer

abroad, all except the general, who could not waste time in “travelling

for enjoyment,” of course. This arrangement was brought about by the

persistence of the girls, who insisted that they were never allowed to

go abroad because their parents were too anxious to marry them off.

Perhaps their parents had at last come to the conclusion that husbands

might be found abroad, and that a summer’s travel might bear fruit. The

marriage between Alexandra and Totski had been broken off. Since the

prince’s departure from St. Petersburg no more had been said about it;

the subject had been dropped without ceremony, much to the joy of Mrs.

General, who, announced that she was “ready to cross herself with both

hands” in gratitude for the escape. The general, however, regretted

Totski for a long while. “Such a fortune!” he sighed, “and such a good,

easy-going fellow!”

After a time it became known that Totski had married a French marquise,

and was to be carried off by her to Paris, and then to Brittany.

“Oh, well,” thought the general, “he’s lost to us for good, now.”

So the Epanchins prepared to depart for the summer.

But now another circumstance occurred, which changed all the plans once

more, and again the intended journey was put off, much to the delight

of the general and his spouse.

A certain Prince S—— arrived in St. Petersburg from Moscow, an eminent

and honourable young man. He was one of those active persons who always

find some good work with which to employ themselves. Without forcing

himself upon the public notice, modest and unobtrusive, this young

prince was concerned with much that happened in the world in general.

He had served, at first, in one of the civil departments, had then

attended to matters connected with the local government of provincial

towns, and had of late been a corresponding member of several important

scientific societies. He was a man of excellent family and solid means,

about thirty-five years of age.

Prince S—— made the acquaintance of the general’s family, and Adelaida,

the second girl, made a great impression upon him. Towards the spring

he proposed to her, and she accepted him. The general and his wife were

delighted. The journey abroad was put off, and the wedding was fixed

for a day not very distant.

The trip abroad might have been enjoyed later on by Mrs. Epanchin and

her two remaining daughters, but for another circumstance.

It so happened that Prince S—— introduced a distant relation of his own

into the Epanchin family—one Evgenie Pavlovitch, a young officer of

about twenty-eight years of age, whose conquests among the ladies in

Moscow had been proverbial. This young gentleman no sooner set eyes on

Aglaya than he became a frequent visitor at the house. He was witty,

well-educated, and extremely wealthy, as the general very soon

discovered. His past reputation was the only thing against him.

Nothing was said; there were not even any hints dropped; but still, it

seemed better to the parents to say nothing more about going abroad

this season, at all events. Aglaya herself perhaps was of a different

opinion.

All this happened just before the second appearance of our hero upon

the scene.

By this time, to judge from appearances, poor Prince Muishkin had been

quite forgotten in St. Petersburg. If he had appeared suddenly among

his acquaintances, he would have been received as one from the skies;

but we must just glance at one more fact before we conclude this

preface.

Colia Ivolgin, for some time after the prince’s departure, continued

his old life. That is, he went to school, looked after his father,

helped Varia in the house, and ran her errands, and went frequently to

see his friend, Hippolyte.

The lodgers had disappeared very quickly—Ferdishenko soon after the

events at Nastasia Philipovna’s, while the prince went to Moscow, as we

know. Gania and his mother went to live with Varia and Ptitsin

immediately after the latter’s wedding, while the general was housed in

a debtor’s prison by reason of certain IOU’s given to the captain’s

widow under the impression that they would never be formally used

against him. This unkind action much surprised poor Ardalion

Alexandrovitch, the victim, as he called himself, of an “unbounded

trust in the nobility of the human heart.”

When he signed those notes of hand he never dreamt that they would be a

source of future trouble. The event showed that he was mistaken. “Trust

in anyone after this! Have the least confidence in man or woman!” he

cried in bitter tones, as he sat with his new friends in prison, and

recounted to them his favourite stories of the siege of Kars, and the

resuscitated soldier. On the whole, he accommodated himself very well

to his new position. Ptitsin and Varia declared that he was in the

right place, and Gania was of the same opinion. The only person who

deplored his fate was poor Nina Alexandrovna, who wept bitter tears

over him, to the great surprise of her household, and, though always in

feeble health, made a point of going to see him as often as possible.

Since the general’s “mishap,” as Colia called it, and the marriage of

his sister, the boy had quietly possessed himself of far more freedom.

His relations saw little of him, for he rarely slept at home. He made

many new friends; and was moreover, a frequent visitor at the debtor’s

prison, to which he invariably accompanied his mother. Varia, who used

to be always correcting him, never spoke to him now on the subject of

his frequent absences, and the whole household was surprised to see

Gania, in spite of his depression, on quite friendly terms with his

brother. This was something new, for Gania had been wont to look upon

Colia as a kind of errand-boy, treating him with contempt, threatening

to “pull his ears,” and in general driving him almost wild with

irritation. It seemed now that Gania really needed his brother, and the

latter, for his part, felt as if he could forgive Gania much since he

had returned the hundred thousand roubles offered to him by Nastasia

Philipovna. Three months after the departure of the prince, the Ivolgin

family discovered that Colia had made acquaintance with the Epanchins,

and was on very friendly terms with the daughters. Varia heard of it

first, though Colia had not asked her to introduce him. Little by

little the family grew quite fond of him. Madame Epanchin at first

looked on him with disdain, and received him coldly, but in a short

time he grew to please her, because, as she said, he “was candid and no

flatterer”—a very true description. From the first he put himself on an

equality with his new friends, and though he sometimes read newspapers

and books to the mistress of the house, it was simply because he liked

to be useful.

One day, however, he and Lizabetha Prokofievna quarrelled seriously

about the “woman question,” in the course of a lively discussion on

that burning subject. He told her that she was a tyrant, and that he

would never set foot in her house again. It may seem incredible, but a

day or two after, Madame Epanchin sent a servant with a note begging

him to return, and Colia, without standing on his dignity, did so at

once.

Aglaya was the only one of the family whose good graces he could not

gain, and who always spoke to him haughtily, but it so happened that

the boy one day succeeded in giving the proud maiden a surprise.

It was about Easter, when, taking advantage of a momentary tête-à-tête

Colia handed Aglaya a letter, remarking that he “had orders to deliver

it to her privately.” She stared at him in amazement, but he did not

wait to hear what she had to say, and went out. Aglaya broke the seal,

and read as follows:

“Once you did me the honour of giving me your confidence. Perhaps you

have quite forgotten me now! How is it that I am writing to you? I do

not know; but I am conscious of an irresistible desire to remind you of

my existence, especially you. How many times I have needed all three of

you; but only you have dwelt always in my mind’s eye. I need you—I need

you very much. I will not write about myself. I have nothing to tell

you. But I long for you to be happy. _Are_ you happy? That is all I

wished to say to you—Your brother,

“Pr. L. Muishkin.”

On reading this short and disconnected note, Aglaya suddenly blushed

all over, and became very thoughtful.

It would be difficult to describe her thoughts at that moment. One of

them was, “Shall I show it to anyone?” But she was ashamed to show it.

So she ended by hiding it in her table drawer, with a very strange,

ironical smile upon her lips.

Next day, she took it out, and put it into a large book, as she usually

did with papers which she wanted to be able to find easily. She laughed

when, about a week later, she happened to notice the name of the book,

and saw that it was Don Quixote, but it would be difficult to say

exactly why.

I cannot say, either, whether she showed the letter to her sisters.

But when she had read it herself once more, it suddenly struck her that

surely that conceited boy, Colia, had not been the one chosen

correspondent of the prince all this while. She determined to ask him,

and did so with an exaggerated show of carelessness. He informed her

haughtily that though he had given the prince his permanent address

when the latter left town, and had offered his services, the prince had

never before given him any commission to perform, nor had he written

until the following lines arrived, with Aglaya’s letter. Aglaya took

the note, and read it.

“DEAR COLIA,—Please be so kind as to give the enclosed sealed letter to

Aglaya Ivanovna. Keep well—Ever your loving,

“Pr. L. Muishkin.”

“It seems absurd to trust a little pepper-box like you,” said Aglaya,

as she returned the note, and walked past the “pepper-box” with an

expression of great contempt.

This was more than Colia could bear. He had actually borrowed Gania’s

new green tie for the occasion, without saying why he wanted it, in

order to impress her. He was very deeply mortified.

II.

It was the beginning of June, and for a whole week the weather in St.

Petersburg had been magnificent. The Epanchins had a luxurious

country-house at Pavlofsk, [One of the fashionable summer resorts near

St. Petersburg.] and to this spot Mrs. Epanchin determined to proceed

without further delay. In a couple of days all was ready, and the

family had left town. A day or two after this removal to Pavlofsk,

Prince Muishkin arrived in St. Petersburg by the morning train from

Moscow. No one met him; but, as he stepped out of the carriage, he

suddenly became aware of two strangely glowing eyes fixed upon him from

among the crowd that met the train. On endeavouring to re-discover the

eyes, and see to whom they belonged, he could find nothing to guide

him. It must have been a hallucination. But the disagreeable impression

remained, and without this, the prince was sad and thoughtful already,

and seemed to be much preoccupied.

His cab took him to a small and bad hotel near the Litaynaya. Here he

engaged a couple of rooms, dark and badly furnished. He washed and

changed, and hurriedly left the hotel again, as though anxious to waste

no time. Anyone who now saw him for the first time since he left

Petersburg would judge that he had improved vastly so far as his

exterior was concerned. His clothes certainly were very different; they

were more fashionable, perhaps even too much so, and anyone inclined to

mockery might have found something to smile at in his appearance. But

what is there that people will not smile at?

The prince took a cab and drove to a street near the Nativity, where he

soon discovered the house he was seeking. It was a small wooden villa,

and he was struck by its attractive and clean appearance; it stood in a

pleasant little garden, full of flowers. The windows looking on the

street were open, and the sound of a voice, reading aloud or making a

speech, came through them. It rose at times to a shout, and was

interrupted occasionally by bursts of laughter.

Prince Muishkin entered the court-yard, and ascended the steps. A cook

with her sleeves turned up to the elbows opened the door. The visitor

asked if Mr. Lebedeff were at home.

“He is in there,” said she, pointing to the salon.

The room had a blue wall-paper, and was well, almost pretentiously,

furnished, with its round table, its divan, and its bronze clock under

a glass shade. There was a narrow pier-glass against the wall, and a

chandelier adorned with lustres hung by a bronze chain from the

ceiling.

When the prince entered, Lebedeff was standing in the middle of the

room, his back to the door. He was in his shirt-sleeves, on account of

the extreme heat, and he seemed to have just reached the peroration of

his speech, and was impressively beating his breast.

His audience consisted of a youth of about fifteen years of age with a

clever face, who had a book in his hand, though he was not reading; a

young lady of twenty, in deep mourning, stood near him with an infant

in her arms; another girl of thirteen, also in black, was laughing

loudly, her mouth wide open; and on the sofa lay a handsome young man,

with black hair and eyes, and a suspicion of beard and whiskers. He

frequently interrupted the speaker and argued with him, to the great

delight of the others.

“Lukian Timofeyovitch! Lukian Timofeyovitch! Here’s someone to see you!

Look here!... a gentleman to speak to you!... Well, it’s not my fault!”

and the cook turned and went away red with anger.

Lebedeff started, and at sight of the prince stood like a statue for a

moment. Then he moved up to him with an ingratiating smile, but stopped

short again.

“Prince! ex-ex-excellency!” he stammered. Then suddenly he ran towards

the girl with the infant, a movement so unexpected by her that she

staggered and fell back, but next moment he was threatening the other

child, who was standing, still laughing, in the doorway. She screamed,

and ran towards the kitchen. Lebedeff stamped his foot angrily; then,

seeing the prince regarding him with amazement, he murmured

apologetically—“Pardon to show respect!... he-he!”

“You are quite wrong...” began the prince.

“At once... at once... in one moment!”

He rushed like a whirlwind from the room, and Muishkin looked

inquiringly at the others.

They were all laughing, and the guest joined in the chorus.

“He has gone to get his coat,” said the boy.

“How annoying!” exclaimed the prince. “I thought... Tell me, is he...”

“You think he is drunk?” cried the young man on the sofa. “Not in the

least. He’s only had three or four small glasses, perhaps five; but

what is that? The usual thing!”

As the prince opened his mouth to answer, he was interrupted by the

girl, whose sweet face wore an expression of absolute frankness.

“He never drinks much in the morning; if you have come to talk business

with him, do it now. It is the best time. He sometimes comes back drunk

in the evening; but just now he passes the greater part of the evening

in tears, and reads passages of Holy Scripture aloud, because our

mother died five weeks ago.”

“No doubt he ran off because he did not know what to say to you,” said

the youth on the divan. “I bet he is trying to cheat you, and is

thinking how best to do it.”

Just then Lebedeff returned, having put on his coat.

“Five weeks!” said he, wiping his eyes. “Only five weeks! Poor

orphans!”

“But why wear a coat in holes,” asked the girl, “when your new one is

hanging behind the door? Did you not see it?”

“Hold your tongue, dragon-fly!” he scolded. “What a plague you are!” He

stamped his foot irritably, but she only laughed, and answered:

“Are you trying to frighten me? I am not Tania, you know, and I don’t

intend to run away. Look, you are waking Lubotchka, and she will have

convulsions again. Why do you shout like that?”

“Well, well! I won’t again,” said the master of the house, his anxiety

getting the better of his temper. He went up to his daughter, and

looked at the child in her arms, anxiously making the sign of the cross

over her three times. “God bless her! God bless her!” he cried with

emotion. “This little creature is my daughter Luboff,” addressing the

prince. “My wife, Helena, died—at her birth; and this is my big

daughter Vera, in mourning, as you see; and this, this, oh, this,”

pointing to the young man on the divan...

“Well, go on! never mind me!” mocked the other. “Don’t be afraid!”

“Excellency! Have you read that account of the murder of the Zemarin

family, in the newspaper?” cried Lebedeff, all of a sudden.

“Yes,” said Muishkin, with some surprise.

“Well, that is the murderer! It is he—in fact—”

“What do you mean?” asked the visitor.

“I am speaking allegorically, of course; but he will be the murderer of

a Zemarin family in the future. He is getting ready. ...”

They all laughed, and the thought crossed the prince’s mind that

perhaps Lebedeff was really trifling in this way because he foresaw

inconvenient questions, and wanted to gain time.

“He is a traitor! a conspirator!” shouted Lebedeff, who seemed to have

lost all control over himself. “A monster! a slanderer! Ought I to

treat him as a nephew, the son of my sister Anisia?”

“Oh! do be quiet! You must be drunk! He has taken it into his head to

play the lawyer, prince, and he practices speechifying, and is always

repeating his eloquent pleadings to his children. And who do you think

was his last client? An old woman who had been robbed of five hundred

roubles, her all, by some rogue of a usurer, besought him to take up

her case, instead of which he defended the usurer himself, a Jew named

Zeidler, because this Jew promised to give him fifty roubles....”

“It was to be fifty if I won the case, only five if I lost,”

interrupted Lebedeff, speaking in a low tone, a great contrast to his

earlier manner.

“Well! naturally he came to grief: the law is not administered as it

used to be, and he only got laughed at for his pains. But he was much

pleased with himself in spite of that. ‘Most learned judge!’ said he,

‘picture this unhappy man, crippled by age and infirmities, who gains

his living by honourable toil—picture him, I repeat, robbed of his all,

of his last mouthful; remember, I entreat you, the words of that

learned legislator, “Let mercy and justice alike rule the courts of

law.”’ Now, would you believe it, excellency, every morning he recites

this speech to us from beginning to end, exactly as he spoke it before

the magistrate. To-day we have heard it for the fifth time. He was just

starting again when you arrived, so much does he admire it. He is now

preparing to undertake another case. I think, by the way, that you are

Prince Muishkin? Colia tells me you are the cleverest man he has ever

known....”

“The cleverest in the world,” interrupted his uncle hastily.

“I do not pay much attention to that opinion,” continued the young man

calmly. “Colia is very fond of you, but he,” pointing to Lebedeff, “is

flattering you. I can assure you I have no intention of flattering you,

or anyone else, but at least you have some common-sense. Well, will you

judge between us? Shall we ask the prince to act as arbitrator?” he

went on, addressing his uncle.

“I am so glad you chanced to come here, prince.”

“I agree,” said Lebedeff, firmly, looking round involuntarily at his

daughter, who had come nearer, and was listening attentively to the

conversation.

“What is it all about?” asked the prince, frowning. His head ached, and

he felt sure that Lebedeff was trying to cheat him in some way, and

only talking to put off the explanation that he had come for.

“I will tell you all the story. I am his nephew; he did speak the truth

there, although he is generally telling lies. I am at the University,

and have not yet finished my course. I mean to do so, and I shall, for

I have a determined character. I must, however, find something to do

for the present, and therefore I have got employment on the railway at

twenty-four roubles a month. I admit that my uncle has helped me once

or twice before. Well, I had twenty roubles in my pocket, and I gambled

them away. Can you believe that I should be so low, so base, as to lose

money in that way?”

“And the man who won it is a rogue, a rogue whom you ought not to have

paid!” cried Lebedeff.

“Yes, he is a rogue, but I was obliged to pay him,” said the young man.

“As to his being a rogue, he is assuredly that, and I am not saying it

because he beat you. He is an ex-lieutenant, prince, dismissed from the

service, a teacher of boxing, and one of Rogojin’s followers. They are

all lounging about the pavements now that Rogojin has turned them off.

Of course, the worst of it is that, knowing he was a rascal, and a

card-sharper, I none the less played palki with him, and risked my last

rouble. To tell the truth, I thought to myself, ‘If I lose, I will go

to my uncle, and I am sure he will not refuse to help me.’ Now that was

base—cowardly and base!”

“That is so,” observed Lebedeff quietly; “cowardly and base.”

“Well, wait a bit, before you begin to triumph,” said the nephew

viciously; for the words seemed to irritate him. “He is delighted! I

came to him here and told him everything: I acted honourably, for I did

not excuse myself. I spoke most severely of my conduct, as everyone

here can witness. But I must smarten myself up before I take up my new

post, for I am really like a tramp. Just look at my boots! I cannot

possibly appear like this, and if I am not at the bureau at the time

appointed, the job will be given to someone else; and I shall have to

try for another. Now I only beg for fifteen roubles, and I give my word

that I will never ask him for anything again. I am also ready to

promise to repay my debt in three months’ time, and I will keep my

word, even if I have to live on bread and water. My salary will amount

to seventy-five roubles in three months. The sum I now ask, added to

what I have borrowed already, will make a total of about thirty-five

roubles, so you see I shall have enough to pay him and confound him! if

he wants interest, he shall have that, too! Haven’t I always paid back

the money he lent me before? Why should he be so mean now? He grudges

my having paid that lieutenant; there can be no other reason! That’s

the kind he is—a dog in the manger!”

“And he won’t go away!” cried Lebedeff. “He has installed himself here,

and here he remains!”

“I have told you already, that I will not go away until I have got what

I ask. Why are you smiling, prince? You look as if you disapproved of

me.”

“I am not smiling, but I really think you are in the wrong, somewhat,”

replied Muishkin, reluctantly.

“Don’t shuffle! Say plainly that you think that I am quite wrong,

without any ‘somewhat’! Why ‘somewhat’?”

“I will say you are quite wrong, if you wish.”

“If I wish! That’s good, I must say! Do you think I am deceived as to

the flagrant impropriety of my conduct? I am quite aware that his money

is his own, and that my action—is much like an attempt at extortion.

But you-you don’t know what life is! If people don’t learn by

experience, they never understand. They must be taught. My intentions

are perfectly honest; on my conscience he will lose nothing, and I will

pay back the money with interest. Added to which he has had the moral

satisfaction of seeing me disgraced. What does he want more? and what

is he good for if he never helps anyone? Look what he does himself!

just ask him about his dealings with others, how he deceives people!

How did he manage to buy this house? You may cut off my head if he has

not let you in for something—and if he is not trying to cheat you

again. You are smiling. You don’t believe me?”

“It seems to me that all this has nothing to do with your affairs,”

remarked the prince.

“I have lain here now for three days,” cried the young man without

noticing, “and I have seen a lot! Fancy! he suspects his daughter, that

angel, that orphan, my cousin—he suspects her, and every evening he

searches her room, to see if she has a lover hidden in it! He comes

here too on tiptoe, creeping softly—oh, so softly—and looks under the

sofa—my bed, you know. He is mad with suspicion, and sees a thief in

every corner. He runs about all night long; he was up at least seven

times last night, to satisfy himself that the windows and doors were

barred, and to peep into the oven. That man who appears in court for

scoundrels, rushes in here in the night and prays, lying prostrate,

banging his head on the ground by the half-hour—and for whom do you

think he prays? Who are the sinners figuring in his drunken petitions?

I have heard him with my own ears praying for the repose of the soul of

the Countess du Barry! Colia heard it too. He is as mad as a March

hare!”

“You hear how he slanders me, prince,” said Lebedeff, almost beside

himself with rage. “I may be a drunkard, an evil-doer, a thief, but at

least I can say one thing for myself. He does not know—how should he,

mocker that he is?—that when he came into the world it was I who washed

him, and dressed him in his swathing-bands, for my sister Anisia had

lost her husband, and was in great poverty. I was very little better

off than she, but I sat up night after night with her, and nursed both

mother and child; I used to go downstairs and steal wood for them from

the house-porter. How often did I sing him to sleep when I was half

dead with hunger! In short, I was more than a father to him, and

now—now he jeers at me! Even if I did cross myself, and pray for the

repose of the soul of the Comtesse du Barry, what does it matter? Three

days ago, for the first time in my life, I read her biography in an

historical dictionary. Do you know who she was? You there!” addressing

his nephew. “Speak! do you know?”

“Of course no one knows anything about her but you,” muttered the young

man in a would-be jeering tone.

“She was a Countess who rose from shame to reign like a Queen. An

Empress wrote to her, with her own hand, as ‘_Ma chère cousine_.’ At a

_lever-du-roi_ one morning (do you know what a _lever-du-roi_ was?)—a

Cardinal, a Papal legate, offered to put on her stockings; a high and

holy person like that looked on it as an honour! Did you know this? I

see by your expression that you did not! Well, how did she die?

Answer!”

“Oh! do stop—you are too absurd!”

“This is how she died. After all this honour and glory, after having

been almost a Queen, she was guillotined by that butcher, Samson. She

was quite innocent, but it had to be done, for the satisfaction of the

fishwives of Paris. She was so terrified, that she did not understand

what was happening. But when Samson seized her head, and pushed her

under the knife with his foot, she cried out: ‘Wait a moment! wait a

moment, monsieur!’ Well, because of that moment of bitter suffering,

perhaps the Saviour will pardon her other faults, for one cannot

imagine a greater agony. As I read the story my heart bled for her. And

what does it matter to you, little worm, if I implored the Divine mercy

for her, great sinner as she was, as I said my evening prayer? I might

have done it because I doubted if anyone had ever crossed himself for

her sake before. It may be that in the other world she will rejoice to

think that a sinner like herself has cried to heaven for the salvation

of her soul. Why are you laughing? You believe nothing, atheist! And

your story was not even correct! If you had listened to what I was

saying, you would have heard that I did not only pray for the Comtesse

du Barry. I said, ‘Oh Lord! give rest to the soul of that great sinner,

the Comtesse du Barry, and to all unhappy ones like her.’ You see that

is quite a different thing, for how many sinners there are, how many

women, who have passed through the trials of this life, are now

suffering and groaning in purgatory! I prayed for you, too, in spite of

your insolence and impudence, also for your fellows, as it seems that

you claim to know how I pray...”

“Oh! that’s enough in all conscience! Pray for whom you choose, and the

devil take them and you! We have a scholar here; you did not know that,

prince?” he continued, with a sneer. “He reads all sorts of books and

memoirs now.”

“At any rate, your uncle has a kind heart,” remarked the prince, who

really had to force himself to speak to the nephew, so much did he

dislike him.

“Oh, now you are going to praise him! He will be set up! He puts his

hand on his heart, and he is delighted! I never said he was a man

without heart, but he is a rascal—that’s the pity of it. And then, he

is addicted to drink, and his mind is unhinged, like that of most

people who have taken more than is good for them for years. He loves

his children—oh, I know that well enough! He respected my aunt, his

late wife... and he even has a sort of affection for me. He has

remembered me in his will.”

“I shall leave you nothing!” exclaimed his uncle angrily.

“Listen to me, Lebedeff,” said the prince in a decided voice, turning

his back on the young man. “I know by experience that when you choose,

you can be business-like... I have very little time to spare, and if

you... By the way—excuse me—what is your Christian name? I have

forgotten it.”

“Ti-Ti-Timofey.”

“And?”

“Lukianovitch.”

Everyone in the room began to laugh.

“He is telling lies!” cried the nephew. “Even now he cannot speak the

truth. He is not called Timofey Lukianovitch, prince, but Lukian

Timofeyovitch. Now do tell us why you must needs lie about it? Lukian

or Timofey, it is all the same to you, and what difference can it make

to the prince? He tells lies without the least necessity, simply by

force of habit, I assure you.”

“Is that true?” said the prince impatiently.

“My name really is Lukian Timofeyovitch,” acknowledged Lebedeff,

lowering his eyes, and putting his hand on his heart.

“Well, for God’s sake, what made you say the other?”

“To humble myself,” murmured Lebedeff.

“What on earth do you mean? Oh I if only I knew where Colia was at this

moment!” cried the prince, standing up, as if to go.

“I can tell you all about Colia,” said the young man

“Oh! no, no!” said Lebedeff, hurriedly.

“Colia spent the night here, and this morning went after his father,

whom you let out of prison by paying his debts—Heaven only knows why!

Yesterday the general promised to come and lodge here, but he did not

appear. Most probably he slept at the hotel close by. No doubt Colia is

there, unless he has gone to Pavlofsk to see the Epanchins. He had a

little money, and was intending to go there yesterday. He must be

either at the hotel or at Pavlofsk.”

“At Pavlofsk! He is at Pavlofsk, undoubtedly!” interrupted Lebedeff....

“But come—let us go into the garden—we will have coffee there....” And

Lebedeff seized the prince’s arm, and led him from the room. They went

across the yard, and found themselves in a delightful little garden

with the trees already in their summer dress of green, thanks to the

unusually fine weather. Lebedeff invited his guest to sit down on a

green seat before a table of the same colour fixed in the earth, and

took a seat facing him. In a few minutes the coffee appeared, and the

prince did not refuse it. The host kept his eyes fixed on Muishkin,

with an expression of passionate servility.

“I knew nothing about your home before,” said the prince absently, as

if he were thinking of something else.

“Poor orphans,” began Lebedeff, his face assuming a mournful air, but

he stopped short, for the other looked at him inattentively, as if he

had already forgotten his own remark. They waited a few minutes in

silence, while Lebedeff sat with his eyes fixed mournfully on the young

man’s face.

“Well!” said the latter, at last rousing himself. “Ah! yes! You know

why I came, Lebedeff. Your letter brought me. Speak! Tell me all about

it.”

The clerk, rather confused, tried to say something, hesitated, began to

speak, and again stopped. The prince looked at him gravely.

“I think I understand, Lukian Timofeyovitch: you were not sure that I

should come. You did not think I should start at the first word from

you, and you merely wrote to relieve your conscience. However, you see

now that I have come, and I have had enough of trickery. Give up

serving, or trying to serve, two masters. Rogojin has been here these

three weeks. Have you managed to sell her to him as you did before?

Tell me the truth.”

“He discovered everything, the monster... himself......”

“Don’t abuse him; though I dare say you have something to complain

of....”

“He beat me, he thrashed me unmercifully!” replied Lebedeff vehemently.

“He set a dog on me in Moscow, a bloodhound, a terrible beast that

chased me all down the street.”

“You seem to take me for a child, Lebedeff. Tell me, is it a fact that

she left him while they were in Moscow?”

“Yes, it is a fact, and this time, let me tell you, on the very eve of

their marriage! It was a question of minutes when she slipped off to

Petersburg. She came to me directly she arrived—‘Save me, Lukian! find

me some refuge, and say nothing to the prince!’ She is afraid of you,

even more than she is of him, and in that she shows her wisdom!” And

Lebedeff slily put his finger to his brow as he said the last words.

“And now it is you who have brought them together again?”

“Excellency, how could I, how could I prevent it?”

“That will do. I can find out for myself. Only tell me, where is she

now? At his house? With him?”

“Oh no! Certainly not! ‘I am free,’ she says; you know how she insists

on that point. ‘I am entirely free.’ She repeats it over and over

again. She is living in Petersburgskaia, with my sister-in-law, as I

told you in my letter.”

“She is there at this moment?”

“Yes, unless she has gone to Pavlofsk: the fine weather may have

tempted her, perhaps, into the country, with Daria Alexeyevna. ‘I am

quite free,’ she says. Only yesterday she boasted of her freedom to

Nicolai Ardalionovitch—a bad sign,” added Lebedeff, smiling.

“Colia goes to see her often, does he not?”

“He is a strange boy, thoughtless, and inclined to be indiscreet.”

“Is it long since you saw her?”

“I go to see her every day, every day.”

“Then you were there yesterday?”

“N-no: I have not been these three last days.”

“It is a pity you have taken too much wine, Lebedeff I want to ask you

something... but...”

“All right! all right! I am not drunk,” replied the clerk, preparing to

listen.

“Tell me, how was she when you left her?”

“She is a woman who is seeking...”

“Seeking?”

“She seems always to be searching about, as if she had lost something.

The mere idea of her coming marriage disgusts her; she looks on it as

an insult. She cares as much for _him_ as for a piece of

orange-peel—not more. Yet I am much mistaken if she does not look on

him with fear and trembling. She forbids his name to be mentioned

before her, and they only meet when unavoidable. He understands, well

enough! But it must be gone through. She is restless, mocking,

deceitful, violent....”

“Deceitful and violent?”

“Yes, violent. I can give you a proof of it. A few days ago she tried

to pull my hair because I said something that annoyed her. I tried to

soothe her by reading the Apocalypse aloud.”

“What?” exclaimed the prince, thinking he had not heard aright.

“By reading the Apocalypse. The lady has a restless imagination, he-he!

She has a liking for conversation on serious subjects, of any kind; in

fact they please her so much, that it flatters her to discuss them. Now

for fifteen years at least I have studied the Apocalypse, and she

agrees with me in thinking that the present is the epoch represented by

the third horse, the black one whose rider holds a measure in his hand.

It seems to me that everything is ruled by measure in our century; all

men are clamouring for their rights; ‘a measure of wheat for a penny,

and three measures of barley for a penny.’ But, added to this, men

desire freedom of mind and body, a pure heart, a healthy life, and all

God’s good gifts. Now by pleading their rights alone, they will never

attain all this, so the white horse, with his rider Death, comes next,

and is followed by Hell. We talked about this matter when we met, and

it impressed her very much.”

“Do you believe all this?” asked Muishkin, looking curiously at his

companion.

“I both believe it and explain it. I am but a poor creature, a beggar,

an atom in the scale of humanity. Who has the least respect for

Lebedeff? He is a target for all the world, the butt of any fool who

chooses to kick him. But in interpreting revelation I am the equal of

anyone, great as he may be! Such is the power of the mind and the

spirit. I have made a lordly personage tremble, as he sat in his

armchair... only by talking to him of things concerning the spirit. Two

years ago, on Easter Eve, His Excellency Nil Alexeyovitch, whose

subordinate I was then, wished to hear what I had to say, and sent a

message by Peter Zakkaritch to ask me to go to his private room. ‘They

tell me you expound the prophecies relating to Antichrist,’ said he,

when we were alone. ‘Is that so?’ ‘Yes,’ I answered unhesitatingly, and

I began to give some comments on the Apostle’s allegorical vision. At

first he smiled, but when we reached the numerical computations and

correspondences, he trembled, and turned pale. Then he begged me to

close the book, and sent me away, promising to put my name on the

reward list. That took place as I said on the eve of Easter, and eight

days later his soul returned to God.”

“What?”

“It is the truth. One evening after dinner he stumbled as he stepped

out of his carriage. He fell, and struck his head on the curb, and died

immediately. He was seventy-three years of age, and had a red face, and

white hair; he deluged himself with scent, and was always smiling like

a child. Peter Zakkaritch recalled my interview with him, and said,

‘_you foretold his death._’”

The prince rose from his seat, and Lebedeff, surprised to see his guest

preparing to go so soon, remarked: “You are not interested?” in a

respectful tone.

“I am not very well, and my head aches. Doubtless the effect of the

journey,” replied the prince, frowning.

“You should go into the country,” said Lebedeff timidly.

The prince seemed to be considering the suggestion.

“You see, I am going into the country myself in three days, with my

children and belongings. The little one is delicate; she needs change

of air; and during our absence this house will be done up. I am going

to Pavlofsk.”

“You are going to Pavlofsk too?” asked the prince sharply. “Everybody

seems to be going there. Have you a house in that neighbourhood?”

“I don’t know of many people going to Pavlofsk, and as for the house,

Ivan Ptitsin has let me one of his villas rather cheaply. It is a

pleasant place, lying on a hill surrounded by trees, and one can live

there for a mere song. There is good music to be heard, so no wonder it

is popular. I shall stay in the lodge. As to the villa itself...”

“Have you let it?”

“N-no—not exactly.”

“Let it to me,” said the prince.

Now this was precisely what Lebedeff had made up his mind to do in the

last three minutes. Not that he had any difficulty in finding a tenant;

in fact the house was occupied at present by a chance visitor, who had

told Lebedeff that he would perhaps take it for the summer months. The

clerk knew very well that this “_perhaps_” meant “_certainly_,” but as

he thought he could make more out of a tenant like the prince, he felt

justified in speaking vaguely about the present inhabitant’s

intentions. “This is quite a coincidence,” thought he, and when the

subject of price was mentioned, he made a gesture with his hand, as if

to waive away a question of so little importance.

“Oh well, as you like!” said Muishkin. “I will think it over. You shall

lose nothing!”

They were walking slowly across the garden.

“But if you... I could...” stammered Lebedeff, “if... if you please,

prince, tell you something on the subject which would interest you, I

am sure.” He spoke in wheedling tones, and wriggled as he walked along.

Muishkin stopped short.

“Daria Alexeyevna also has a villa at Pavlofsk.”

“Well?”

“A certain person is very friendly with her, and intends to visit her

pretty often.”

“Well?”

“Aglaya Ivanovna...”

“Oh stop, Lebedeff!” interposed Muishkin, feeling as if he had been

touched on an open wound. “That... that has nothing to do with me. I

should like to know when you are going to start. The sooner the better

as far as I am concerned, for I am at an hotel.”

They had left the garden now, and were crossing the yard on their way

to the gate.

“Well, leave your hotel at once and come here; then we can all go

together to Pavlofsk the day after tomorrow.”

“I will think about it,” said the prince dreamily, and went off.

The clerk stood looking after his guest, struck by his sudden

absent-mindedness. He had not even remembered to say goodbye, and

Lebedeff was the more surprised at the omission, as he knew by

experience how courteous the prince usually was.

III.

It was now close on twelve o’clock.

The prince knew that if he called at the Epanchins’ now he would only

find the general, and that the latter might probably carry him straight

off to Pavlofsk with him; whereas there was one visit he was most

anxious to make without delay.

So at the risk of missing General Epanchin altogether, and thus

postponing his visit to Pavlofsk for a day, at least, the prince

decided to go and look for the house he desired to find.

The visit he was about to pay was, in some respects, a risky one. He

was in two minds about it, but knowing that the house was in the

Gorohovaya, not far from the Sadovaya, he determined to go in that

direction, and to try to make up his mind on the way.

Arrived at the point where the Gorohovaya crosses the Sadovaya, he was

surprised to find how excessively agitated he was. He had no idea that

his heart could beat so painfully.

One house in the Gorohovaya began to attract his attention long before

he reached it, and the prince remembered afterwards that he had said to

himself: “That is the house, I’m sure of it.” He came up to it quite

curious to discover whether he had guessed right, and felt that he

would be disagreeably impressed to find that he had actually done so.

The house was a large gloomy-looking structure, without the slightest

claim to architectural beauty, in colour a dirty green. There are a few

of these old houses, built towards the end of the last century, still

standing in that part of St. Petersburg, and showing little change from

their original form and colour. They are solidly built, and are

remarkable for the thickness of their walls, and for the fewness of

their windows, many of which are covered by gratings. On the

ground-floor there is usually a money-changer’s shop, and the owner

lives over it. Without as well as within, the houses seem inhospitable

and mysterious—an impression which is difficult to explain, unless it

has something to do with the actual architectural style. These houses

are almost exclusively inhabited by the merchant class.

Arrived at the gate, the prince looked up at the legend over it, which

ran:

“House of Rogojin, hereditary and honourable citizen.”

He hesitated no longer; but opened the glazed door at the bottom of the

outer stairs and made his way up to the second storey. The place was

dark and gloomy-looking; the walls of the stone staircase were painted

a dull red. Rogojin and his mother and brother occupied the whole of

the second floor. The servant who opened the door to Muishkin led him,

without taking his name, through several rooms and up and down many

steps until they arrived at a door, where he knocked.

Parfen Rogojin opened the door himself.

On seeing the prince he became deadly white, and apparently fixed to

the ground, so that he was more like a marble statue than a human

being. The prince had expected some surprise, but Rogojin evidently

considered his visit an impossible and miraculous event. He stared with

an expression almost of terror, and his lips twisted into a bewildered

smile.

“Parfen! perhaps my visit is ill-timed. I—I can go away again if you

like,” said Muishkin at last, rather embarrassed.

“No, no; it’s all right, come in,” said Parfen, recollecting himself.

They were evidently on quite familiar terms. In Moscow they had had

many occasions of meeting; indeed, some few of those meetings were but

too vividly impressed upon their memories. They had not met now,

however, for three months.

The deathlike pallor, and a sort of slight convulsion about the lips,

had not left Rogojin’s face. Though he welcomed his guest, he was still

obviously much disturbed. As he invited the prince to sit down near the

table, the latter happened to turn towards him, and was startled by the

strange expression on his face. A painful recollection flashed into his

mind. He stood for a time, looking straight at Rogojin, whose eyes

seemed to blaze like fire. At last Rogojin smiled, though he still

looked agitated and shaken.

“What are you staring at me like that for?” he muttered. “Sit down.”

The prince took a chair.

“Parfen,” he said, “tell me honestly, did you know that I was coming to

Petersburg or no?”

“Oh, I supposed you were coming,” the other replied, smiling

sarcastically, “and I was right in my supposition, you see; but how was

I to know that you would come _today?_”

A certain strangeness and impatience in his manner impressed the prince

very forcibly.

“And if you had known that I was coming today, why be so irritated

about it?” he asked, in quiet surprise.

“Why did you ask me?”

“Because when I jumped out of the train this morning, two eyes glared

at me just as yours did a moment since.”

“Ha! and whose eyes may they have been?” said Rogojin, suspiciously. It

seemed to the prince that he was trembling.

“I don’t know; I thought it was a hallucination. I often have

hallucinations nowadays. I feel just as I did five years ago when my

fits were about to come on.”

“Well, perhaps it was a hallucination, I don’t know,” said Parfen.

He tried to give the prince an affectionate smile, and it seemed to the

latter as though in this smile of his something had broken, and that he

could not mend it, try as he would.

“Shall you go abroad again then?” he asked, and suddenly added, “Do you

remember how we came up in the train from Pskoff together? You and your

cloak and leggings, eh?”

And Rogojin burst out laughing, this time with unconcealed malice, as

though he were glad that he had been able to find an opportunity for

giving vent to it.

“Have you quite taken up your quarters here?” asked the prince

“Yes, I’m at home. Where else should I go to?”

“We haven’t met for some time. Meanwhile I have heard things about you

which I should not have believed to be possible.”

“What of that? People will say anything,” said Rogojin drily.

“At all events, you’ve disbanded your troop—and you are living in your

own house instead of being fast and loose about the place; that’s all

very good. Is this house all yours, or joint property?”

“It is my mother’s. You get to her apartments by that passage.”

“Where’s your brother?”

“In the other wing.”

“Is he married?”

“Widower. Why do you want to know all this?”

The prince looked at him, but said nothing. He had suddenly relapsed

into musing, and had probably not heard the question at all. Rogojin

did not insist upon an answer, and there was silence for a few moments.

“I guessed which was your house from a hundred yards off,” said the

prince at last.

“Why so?”

“I don’t quite know. Your house has the aspect of yourself and all your

family; it bears the stamp of the Rogojin life; but ask me why I think

so, and I can tell you nothing. It is nonsense, of course. I am nervous

about this kind of thing troubling me so much. I had never before

imagined what sort of a house you would live in, and yet no sooner did

I set eyes on this one than I said to myself that it must be yours.”

“Really!” said Rogojin vaguely, not taking in what the prince meant by

his rather obscure remarks.

The room they were now sitting in was a large one, lofty but dark, well

furnished, principally with writing-tables and desks covered with

papers and books. A wide sofa covered with red morocco evidently served

Rogojin for a bed. On the table beside which the prince had been

invited to seat himself lay some books; one containing a marker where

the reader had left off, was a volume of Solovieff’s History. Some

oil-paintings in worn gilded frames hung on the walls, but it was

impossible to make out what subjects they represented, so blackened

were they by smoke and age. One, a life-sized portrait, attracted the

prince’s attention. It showed a man of about fifty, wearing a long

riding-coat of German cut. He had two medals on his breast; his beard

was white, short and thin; his face yellow and wrinkled, with a sly,

suspicious expression in the eyes.

“That is your father, is it not?” asked the prince.

“Yes, it is,” replied Rogojin with an unpleasant smile, as if he had

expected his guest to ask the question, and then to make some

disagreeable remark.

“Was he one of the Old Believers?”

“No, he went to church, but to tell the truth he really preferred the

old religion. This was his study and is now mine. Why did you ask if he

were an Old Believer?”

“Are you going to be married here?”

“Ye-yes!” replied Rogojin, starting at the unexpected question.

“Soon?”

“You know yourself it does not depend on me.”

“Parfen, I am not your enemy, and I do not intend to oppose your

intentions in any way. I repeat this to you now just as I said it to

you once before on a very similar occasion. When you were arranging for

your projected marriage in Moscow, I did not interfere with you—you

know I did not. That first time she fled to me from you, from the very

altar almost, and begged me to ‘save her from you.’ Afterwards she ran

away from me again, and you found her and arranged your marriage with

her once more; and now, I hear, she has run away from you and come to

Petersburg. Is it true? Lebedeff wrote me to this effect, and that’s

why I came here. That you had once more arranged matters with Nastasia

Philipovna I only learned last night in the train from a friend of

yours, Zaleshoff—if you wish to know.

“I confess I came here with an object. I wished to persuade Nastasia to

go abroad for her health; she requires it. Both mind and body need a

change badly. I did not intend to take her abroad myself. I was going

to arrange for her to go without me. Now I tell you honestly, Parfen,

if it is true that all is made up between you, I will not so much as

set eyes upon her, and I will never even come to see you again.

“You know quite well that I am telling the truth, because I have always

been frank with you. I have never concealed my own opinion from you. I

have always told you that I consider a marriage between you and her

would be ruin to her. You would also be ruined, and perhaps even more

hopelessly. If this marriage were to be broken off again, I admit I

should be greatly pleased; but at the same time I have not the

slightest intention of trying to part you. You may be quite easy in

your mind, and you need not suspect me. You know yourself whether I was

ever really your rival or not, even when she ran away and came to me.

“There, you are laughing at me—I know why you laugh. It is perfectly

true that we lived apart from one another all the time, in different

towns. I told you before that I did not love her with love, but with

pity! You said then that you understood me; did you really understand

me or not? What hatred there is in your eyes at this moment! I came to

relieve your mind, because you are dear to me also. I love you very

much, Parfen; and now I shall go away and never come back again.

Goodbye.”

The prince rose.

“Stay a little,” said Parfen, not leaving his chair and resting his

head on his right hand. “I haven’t seen you for a long time.”

The prince sat down again. Both were silent for a few moments.

“When you are not with me I hate you, Lef Nicolaievitch. I have loathed

you every day of these three months since I last saw you. By heaven I

have!” said Rogojin. “I could have poisoned you at any minute. Now, you

have been with me but a quarter of an hour, and all my malice seems to

have melted away, and you are as dear to me as ever. Stay here a little

longer.”

“When I am with you you trust me; but as soon as my back is turned you

suspect me,” said the prince, smiling, and trying to hide his emotion.

“I trust your voice, when I hear you speak. I quite understand that you

and I cannot be put on a level, of course.”

“Why did you add that?—There! Now you are cross again,” said the

prince, wondering.

“We were not asked, you see. We were made different, with different

tastes and feelings, without being consulted. You say you love her with

pity. I have no pity for her. She hates me—that’s the plain truth of

the matter. I dream of her every night, and always that she is laughing

at me with another man. And so she does laugh at me. She thinks no more

of marrying me than if she were changing her shoe. Would you believe

it, I haven’t seen her for five days, and I daren’t go near her. She

asks me what I come for, as if she were not content with having

disgraced me—”

“Disgraced you! How?”

“Just as though you didn’t know! Why, she ran away from me, and went to

you. You admitted it yourself, just now.”

“But surely you do not believe that she...”

“That she did not disgrace me at Moscow with that officer,

Zemtuznikoff? I know for certain she did, after having fixed our

marriage-day herself!”

“Impossible!” cried the prince.

“I know it for a fact,” replied Rogojin, with conviction.

“It is not like her, you say? My friend, that’s absurd. Perhaps such an

act would horrify her, if she were with you, but it is quite different

where I am concerned. She looks on me as vermin. Her affair with Keller

was simply to make a laughing-stock of me. You don’t know what a fool

she made of me in Moscow; and the money I spent over her! The money!

the money!”

“And you can marry her now, Parfen! What will come of it all?” said the

prince, with dread in his voice.

Rogojin gazed back gloomily, and with a terrible expression in his

eyes, but said nothing.

“I haven’t been to see her for five days,” he repeated, after a slight

pause. “I’m afraid of being turned out. She says she’s still her own

mistress, and may turn me off altogether, and go abroad. She told me

this herself,” he said, with a peculiar glance at Muishkin. “I think

she often does it merely to frighten me. She is always laughing at me,

for some reason or other; but at other times she’s angry, and won’t say

a word, and that’s what I’m afraid of. I took her a shawl one day, the

like of which she might never have seen, although she did live in

luxury and she gave it away to her maid, Katia. Sometimes when I can

keep away no longer, I steal past the house on the sly, and once I

watched at the gate till dawn—I thought something was going on—and she

saw me from the window. She asked me what I should do if I found she

had deceived me. I said, ‘You know well enough.’”

“What did she know?” cried the prince.

“How was I to tell?” replied Rogojin, with an angry laugh. “I did my

best to catch her tripping in Moscow, but did not succeed. However, I

caught hold of her one day, and said: ‘You are engaged to be married

into a respectable family, and do you know what sort of a woman you

are? _That’s_ the sort of woman you are,’ I said.”

“You told her that?”

“Yes.”

“Well, go on.”

“She said, ‘I wouldn’t even have you for a footman now, much less for a

husband.’ ‘I shan’t leave the house,’ I said, ‘so it doesn’t matter.’

‘Then I shall call somebody and have you kicked out,’ she cried. So

then I rushed at her, and beat her till she was bruised all over.”

“Impossible!” cried the prince, aghast.

“I tell you it’s true,” said Rogojin quietly, but with eyes ablaze with

passion.

“Then for a day and a half I neither slept, nor ate, nor drank, and

would not leave her. I knelt at her feet: ‘I shall die here,’ I said,

‘if you don’t forgive me; and if you have me turned out, I shall drown

myself; because, what should I be without you now?’ She was like a

madwoman all that day; now she would cry; now she would threaten me

with a knife; now she would abuse me. She called in Zaleshoff and

Keller, and showed me to them, shamed me in their presence. ‘Let’s all

go to the theatre,’ she says, ‘and leave him here if he won’t go—it’s

not my business. They’ll give you some tea, Parfen Semeonovitch, while

I am away, for you must be hungry.’ She came back from the theatre

alone. ‘Those cowards wouldn’t come,’ she said. ‘They are afraid of

you, and tried to frighten me, too. “He won’t go away as he came,” they

said, “he’ll cut your throat—see if he doesn’t.” Now, I shall go to my

bedroom, and I shall not even lock my door, just to show you how much I

am afraid of you. You must be shown that once for all. Did you have

tea?’ ‘No,’ I said, ‘and I don’t intend to.’ ‘Ha, ha! you are playing

off your pride against your stomach! That sort of heroism doesn’t sit

well on you,’ she said.

“With that she did as she had said she would; she went to bed, and did

not lock her door. In the morning she came out. ‘Are you quite mad?’

she said, sharply. ‘Why, you’ll die of hunger like this.’ ‘Forgive me,’

I said. ‘No, I won’t, and I won’t marry you. I’ve said it. Surely you

haven’t sat in this chair all night without sleeping?’ ‘I didn’t

sleep,’ I said. ‘H’m! how sensible of you. And are you going to have no

breakfast or dinner today?’ ‘I told you I wouldn’t. Forgive me!’

‘You’ve no idea how unbecoming this sort of thing is to you,’ she said,

‘it’s like putting a saddle on a cow’s back. Do you think you are

frightening me? My word, what a dreadful thing that you should sit here

and eat no food! How terribly frightened I am!’ She wasn’t angry long,

and didn’t seem to remember my offence at all. I was surprised, for she

is a vindictive, resentful woman—but then I thought that perhaps she

despised me too much to feel any resentment against me. And that’s the

truth.

“She came up to me and said, ‘Do you know who the Pope of Rome is?’

‘I’ve heard of him,’ I said. ‘I suppose you’ve read the Universal

History, Parfen Semeonovitch, haven’t you?’ she asked. ‘I’ve learned

nothing at all,’ I said. ‘Then I’ll lend it to you to read. You must

know there was a Roman Pope once, and he was very angry with a certain

Emperor; so the Emperor came and neither ate nor drank, but knelt

before the Pope’s palace till he should be forgiven. And what sort of

vows do you think that Emperor was making during all those days on his

knees? Stop, I’ll read it to you!’ Then she read me a lot of verses,

where it said that the Emperor spent all the time vowing vengeance

against the Pope. ‘You don’t mean to say you don’t approve of the poem,

Parfen Semeonovitch,’ she says. ‘All you have read out is perfectly

true,’ say I. ‘Aha!’ says she, ‘you admit it’s true, do you? And you

are making vows to yourself that if I marry you, you will remind me of

all this, and take it out of me.’ ‘I don’t know,’ I say, ‘perhaps I was

thinking like that, and perhaps I was not. I’m not thinking of anything

just now.’ ‘What are your thoughts, then?’ ‘I’m thinking that when you

rise from your chair and go past me, I watch you, and follow you with

my eyes; if your dress does but rustle, my heart sinks; if you leave

the room, I remember every little word and action, and what your voice

sounded like, and what you said. I thought of nothing all last night,

but sat here listening to your sleeping breath, and heard you move a

little, twice.’ ‘And as for your attack upon me,’ she says, ‘I suppose

you never once thought of _that?_’ ‘Perhaps I did think of it, and

perhaps not,’ I say. ‘And what if I don’t either forgive you or marry,

you?’ ‘I tell you I shall go and drown myself.’ ‘H’m!’ she said, and

then relapsed into silence. Then she got angry, and went out. ‘I

suppose you’d murder me before you drowned yourself, though!’ she cried

as she left the room.

“An hour later, she came to me again, looking melancholy. ‘I will marry

you, Parfen Semeonovitch,’ she says, not because I’m frightened of you,

but because it’s all the same to me how I ruin myself. And how can I do

it better? Sit down; they’ll bring you some dinner directly. And if I

do marry you, I’ll be a faithful wife to you—you need not doubt that.’

Then she thought a bit, and said, ‘At all events, you are not a

flunkey; at first, I thought you were no better than a flunkey.’ And

she arranged the wedding and fixed the day straight away on the spot.

“Then, in another week, she had run away again, and came here to

Lebedeff’s; and when I found her here, she said to me, ‘I’m not going

to renounce you altogether, but I wish to put off the wedding a bit

longer yet—just as long as I like—for I am still my own mistress; so

you may wait, if you like.’ That’s how the matter stands between us

now. What do you think of all this, Lef Nicolaievitch?”

“‘What do you think of it yourself?” replied the prince, looking sadly

at Rogojin.

“As if I can think anything about it! I—” He was about to say more, but

stopped in despair.

The prince rose again, as if he would leave.

“At all events, I shall not interfere with you!” he murmured, as though

making answer to some secret thought of his own.

“I’ll tell you what!” cried Rogojin, and his eyes flashed fire. “I

can’t understand your yielding her to me like this; I don’t understand

it. Have you given up loving her altogether? At first you suffered

badly—I know it—I saw it. Besides, why did you come post-haste after

us? Out of pity, eh? He, he, he!” His mouth curved in a mocking smile.

“Do you think I am deceiving you?” asked the prince.

“No! I trust you—but I can’t understand. It seems to me that your pity

is greater than my love.” A hungry longing to speak his mind out seemed

to flash in the man’s eyes, combined with an intense anger.

“Your love is mingled with hatred, and therefore, when your love

passes, there will be the greater misery,” said the prince. “I tell you

this, Parfen—”

“What! that I’ll cut her throat, you mean?”

The prince shuddered.

“You’ll hate her afterwards for all your present love, and for all the

torment you are suffering on her account now. What seems to me the most

extraordinary thing is, that she can again consent to marry you, after

all that has passed between you. When I heard the news yesterday, I

could hardly bring myself to believe it. Why, she has run twice from

you, from the very altar rails, as it were. She must have some

presentiment of evil. What can she want with you now? Your money?

Nonsense! Besides, I should think you must have made a fairly large

hole in your fortune already. Surely it is not because she is so very

anxious to find a husband? She could find many a one besides yourself.

Anyone would be better than you, because you will murder her, and I

feel sure she must know that but too well by now. Is it because you

love her so passionately? Indeed, that may be it. I have heard that

there are women who want just that kind of love... but still...” The

prince paused, reflectively.

“What are you grinning at my father’s portrait again for?” asked

Rogojin, suddenly. He was carefully observing every change in the

expression of the prince’s face.

“I smiled because the idea came into my head that if it were not for

this unhappy passion of yours you might have, and would have, become

just such a man as your father, and that very quickly, too. You’d have

settled down in this house of yours with some silent and obedient wife.

You would have spoken rarely, trusted no one, heeded no one, and

thought of nothing but making money.”

“Laugh away! She said exactly the same, almost word for word, when she

saw my father’s portrait. It’s remarkable how entirely you and she are

at one now-a-days.”

“What, has she been here?” asked the prince with curiosity.

“Yes! She looked long at the portrait and asked all about my father.

‘You’d be just such another,’ she said at last, and laughed. ‘You have

such strong passions, Parfen,’ she said, ‘that they’d have taken you to

Siberia in no time if you had not, luckily, intelligence as well. For

you have a good deal of intelligence.’ (She said this—believe it or

not. The first time I ever heard anything of that sort from her.)

‘You’d soon have thrown up all this rowdyism that you indulge in now,

and you’d have settled down to quiet, steady money-making, because you

have little education; and here you’d have stayed just like your father

before you. And you’d have loved your money so that you’d amass not two

million, like him, but ten million; and you’d have died of hunger on

your money bags to finish up with, for you carry everything to

extremes.’ There, that’s exactly word for word as she said it to me.

She never talked to me like that before. She always talks nonsense and

laughs when she’s with me. We went all over this old house together. ‘I

shall change all this,’ I said, ‘or else I’ll buy a new house for the

wedding.’ ‘No, no!’ she said, ‘don’t touch anything; leave it all as it

is; I shall live with your mother when I marry you.’

“I took her to see my mother, and she was as respectful and kind as

though she were her own daughter. Mother has been almost demented ever

since father died—she’s an old woman. She sits and bows from her chair

to everyone she sees. If you left her alone and didn’t feed her for

three days, I don’t believe she would notice it. Well, I took her hand,

and I said, ‘Give your blessing to this lady, mother, she’s going to be

my wife.’ So Nastasia kissed mother’s hand with great feeling. ‘She

must have suffered terribly, hasn’t she?’ she said. She saw this book

here lying before me. ‘What! have you begun to read Russian history?’

she asked. She told me once in Moscow, you know, that I had better get

Solovieff’s Russian History and read it, because I knew nothing.

‘That’s good,’ she said, ‘you go on like that, reading books. I’ll make

you a list myself of the books you ought to read first—shall I?’ She

had never once spoken to me like this before; it was the first time I

felt I could breathe before her like a living creature.”

“I’m very, very glad to hear of this, Parfen,” said the prince, with

real feeling. “Who knows? Maybe God will yet bring you near to one

another.”

“Never, never!” cried Rogojin, excitedly.

“Look here, Parfen; if you love her so much, surely you must be anxious

to earn her respect? And if you do so wish, surely you may hope to? I

said just now that I considered it extraordinary that she could still

be ready to marry you. Well, though I cannot yet understand it, I feel

sure she must have some good reason, or she wouldn’t do it. She is sure

of your love; but besides that, she must attribute _something_ else to

you—some good qualities, otherwise the thing would not be. What you

have just said confirms my words. You say yourself that she found it

possible to speak to you quite differently from her usual manner. You

are suspicious, you know, and jealous, therefore when anything annoying

happens to you, you exaggerate its significance. Of course, of course,

she does not think so ill of you as you say. Why, if she did, she would

simply be walking to death by drowning or by the knife, with her eyes

wide open, when she married you. It is impossible! As if anybody would

go to their death deliberately!”

Rogojin listened to the prince’s excited words with a bitter smile. His

conviction was, apparently, unalterable.

“How dreadfully you look at me, Parfen!” said the prince, with a

feeling of dread.

“Water or the knife?” said the latter, at last. “Ha, ha—that’s exactly

why she is going to marry me, because she knows for certain that the

knife awaits her. Prince, can it be that you don’t even yet see what’s

at the root of it all?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Perhaps he really doesn’t understand me! They do say that you are

a—you know what! She loves another—there, you can understand that much!

Just as I love her, exactly so she loves another man. And that other

man is—do you know who? It’s you. There—you didn’t know that, eh?”

“I?”

“You, you! She has loved you ever since that day, her birthday! Only

she thinks she cannot marry you, because it would be the ruin of you.

‘Everybody knows what sort of a woman I am,’ she says. She told me all

this herself, to my very face! She’s afraid of disgracing and ruining

you, she says, but it doesn’t matter about me. She can marry me all

right! Notice how much consideration she shows for me!”

“But why did she run away to me, and then again from me to—”

“From you to me? Ha, ha! that’s nothing! Why, she always acts as though

she were in a delirium now-a-days! Either she says, ‘Come on, I’ll

marry you! Let’s have the wedding quickly!’ and fixes the day, and

seems in a hurry for it, and when it begins to come near she feels

frightened; or else some other idea gets into her head—goodness knows!

you’ve seen her—you know how she goes on—laughing and crying and

raving! There’s nothing extraordinary about her having run away from

you! She ran away because she found out how dearly she loved you. She

could not bear to be near you. You said just now that I had found her

at Moscow, when she ran away from you. I didn’t do anything of the

sort; she came to me herself, straight from you. ‘Name the day—I’m

ready!’ she said. ‘Let’s have some champagne, and go and hear the

gipsies sing!’ I tell you she’d have thrown herself into the water long

ago if it were not for me! She doesn’t do it because I am, perhaps,

even more dreadful to her than the water! She’s marrying me out of

spite; if she marries me, I tell you, it will be for spite!”

“But how do you, how can you—” began the prince, gazing with dread and

horror at Rogojin.

“Why don’t you finish your sentence? Shall I tell you what you were

thinking to yourself just then? You were thinking, ‘How can she marry

him after this? How can it possibly be permitted?’ Oh, I know what you

were thinking about!”

“I didn’t come here for that purpose, Parfen. That was not in my mind—”

“That may be! Perhaps you didn’t _come_ with the idea, but the idea is

certainly there _now!_ Ha, ha! well, that’s enough! What are you upset

about? Didn’t you really know it all before? You astonish me!”

“All this is mere jealousy—it is some malady of yours, Parfen! You

exaggerate everything,” said the prince, excessively agitated. “What

are you doing?”

“Let go of it!” said Parfen, seizing from the prince’s hand a knife

which the latter had at that moment taken up from the table, where it

lay beside the history. Parfen replaced it where it had been.

“I seemed to know it—I felt it, when I was coming back to Petersburg,”

continued the prince, “I did not want to come, I wished to forget all

this, to uproot it from my memory altogether! Well, good-bye—what is

the matter?”

He had absently taken up the knife a second time, and again Rogojin

snatched it from his hand, and threw it down on the table. It was a

plain looking knife, with a bone handle, a blade about eight inches

long, and broad in proportion, it did not clasp.

Seeing that the prince was considerably struck by the fact that he had

twice seized this knife out of his hand, Rogojin caught it up with some

irritation, put it inside the book, and threw the latter across to

another table.

“Do you cut your pages with it, or what?” asked Muishkin, still rather

absently, as though unable to throw off a deep preoccupation into which

the conversation had thrown him.

“Yes.”

“It’s a garden knife, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Can’t one cut pages with a garden knife?”

“It’s quite new.”

“Well, what of that? Can’t I buy a new knife if I like?” shouted

Rogojin furiously, his irritation growing with every word.

The prince shuddered, and gazed fixedly at Parfen. Suddenly he burst

out laughing.

“Why, what an idea!” he said. “I didn’t mean to ask you any of these

questions; I was thinking of something quite different! But my head is

heavy, and I seem so absent-minded nowadays! Well, good-bye—I can’t

remember what I wanted to say—good-bye!”

“Not that way,” said Rogojin.

“There, I’ve forgotten that too!”

“This way—come along—I’ll show you.”

IV.

They passed through the same rooms which the prince had traversed on

his arrival. In the largest there were pictures on the walls, portraits

and landscapes of little interest. Over the door, however, there was

one of strange and rather striking shape; it was six or seven feet in

length, and not more than a foot in height. It represented the Saviour

just taken from the cross.

The prince glanced at it, but took no further notice. He moved on

hastily, as though anxious to get out of the house. But Rogojin

suddenly stopped underneath the picture.

“My father picked up all these pictures very cheap at auctions, and so

on,” he said; “they are all rubbish, except the one over the door, and

that is valuable. A man offered five hundred roubles for it last week.”

“Yes—that’s a copy of a Holbein,” said the prince, looking at it again,

“and a good copy, too, so far as I am able to judge. I saw the picture

abroad, and could not forget it—what’s the matter?”

Rogojin had dropped the subject of the picture and walked on. Of course

his strange frame of mind was sufficient to account for his conduct;

but, still, it seemed queer to the prince that he should so abruptly

drop a conversation commenced by himself. Rogojin did not take any

notice of his question.

“Lef Nicolaievitch,” said Rogojin, after a pause, during which the two

walked along a little further, “I have long wished to ask you, do you

believe in God?”

“How strangely you speak, and how odd you look!” said the other,

involuntarily.

“I like looking at that picture,” muttered Rogojin, not noticing,

apparently, that the prince had not answered his question.

“That picture! That picture!” cried Muishkin, struck by a sudden idea.

“Why, a man’s faith might be ruined by looking at that picture!”

“So it is!” said Rogojin, unexpectedly. They had now reached the front

door.

The prince stopped.

“How?” he said. “What do you mean? I was half joking, and you took me

up quite seriously! Why do you ask me whether I believe in God?”

“Oh, no particular reason. I meant to ask you before—many people are

unbelievers nowadays, especially Russians, I have been told. You ought

to know—you’ve lived abroad.”

Rogojin laughed bitterly as he said these words, and opening the door,

held it for the prince to pass out. Muishkin looked surprised, but went

out. The other followed him as far as the landing of the outer stairs,

and shut the door behind him. They both now stood facing one another,

as though oblivious of where they were, or what they had to do next.

“Well, good-bye!” said the prince, holding out his hand.

“Good-bye,” said Rogojin, pressing it hard, but quite mechanically.

The prince made one step forward, and then turned round.

“As to faith,” he said, smiling, and evidently unwilling to leave

Rogojin in this state—“as to faith, I had four curious conversations in

two days, a week or so ago. One morning I met a man in the train, and

made acquaintance with him at once. I had often heard of him as a very

learned man, but an atheist; and I was very glad of the opportunity of

conversing with so eminent and clever a person. He doesn’t believe in

God, and he talked a good deal about it, but all the while it appeared

to me that he was speaking _outside the subject_. And it has always

struck me, both in speaking to such men and in reading their books,

that they do not seem really to be touching on that at all, though on

the surface they may appear to do so. I told him this, but I dare say I

did not clearly express what I meant, for he could not understand me.

“That same evening I stopped at a small provincial hotel, and it so

happened that a dreadful murder had been committed there the night

before, and everybody was talking about it. Two peasants—elderly men

and old friends—had had tea together there the night before, and were

to occupy the same bedroom. They were not drunk but one of them had

noticed for the first time that his friend possessed a silver watch

which he was wearing on a chain. He was by no means a thief, and was,

as peasants go, a rich man; but this watch so fascinated him that he

could not restrain himself. He took a knife, and when his friend turned

his back, he came up softly behind, raised his eyes to heaven, crossed

himself, and saying earnestly—‘God forgive me, for Christ’s sake!’ he

cut his friend’s throat like a sheep, and took the watch.”

Rogojin roared with laughter. He laughed as though he were in a sort of

fit. It was strange to see him laughing so after the sombre mood he had

been in just before.

“Oh, I like that! That beats anything!” he cried convulsively, panting

for breath. “One is an absolute unbeliever; the other is such a

thorough-going believer that he murders his friend to the tune of a

prayer! Oh, prince, prince, that’s too good for anything! You can’t

have invented it. It’s the best thing I’ve heard!”

“Next morning I went out for a stroll through the town,” continued the

prince, so soon as Rogojin was a little quieter, though his laughter

still burst out at intervals, “and soon observed a drunken-looking

soldier staggering about the pavement. He came up to me and said, ‘Buy

my silver cross, sir! You shall have it for fourpence—it’s real

silver.’ I looked, and there he held a cross, just taken off his own

neck, evidently, a large tin one, made after the Byzantine pattern. I

fished out fourpence, and put his cross on my own neck, and I could see

by his face that he was as pleased as he could be at the thought that

he had succeeded in cheating a foolish gentleman, and away he went to

drink the value of his cross. At that time everything that I saw made a

tremendous impression upon me. I had understood nothing about Russia

before, and had only vague and fantastic memories of it. So I thought,

‘I will wait awhile before I condemn this Judas. Only God knows what

may be hidden in the hearts of drunkards.’

“Well, I went homewards, and near the hotel I came across a poor woman,

carrying a child—a baby of some six weeks old. The mother was quite a

girl herself. The baby was smiling up at her, for the first time in its

life, just at that moment; and while I watched the woman she suddenly

crossed herself, oh, so devoutly! ‘What is it, my good woman?’ I asked

her. (I was never but asking questions then!) ‘Exactly as is a mother’s

joy when her baby smiles for the first time into her eyes, so is God’s

joy when one of His children turns and prays to Him for the first time,

with all his heart!’ This is what that poor woman said to me, almost

word for word; and such a deep, refined, truly religious thought it

was—a thought in which the whole essence of Christianity was expressed

in one flash—that is, the recognition of God as our Father, and of

God’s joy in men as His own children, which is the chief idea of

Christ. She was a simple country-woman—a mother, it’s true—and perhaps,

who knows, she may have been the wife of the drunken soldier!

“Listen, Parfen; you put a question to me just now. This is my reply.

The essence of religious feeling has nothing to do with reason, or

atheism, or crime, or acts of any kind—it has nothing to do with these

things—and never had. There is something besides all this, something

which the arguments of the atheists can never touch. But the principal

thing, and the conclusion of my argument, is that this is most clearly

seen in the heart of a Russian. This is a conviction which I have

gained while I have been in this Russia of ours. Yes, Parfen! there is

work to be done; there is work to be done in this Russian world!

Remember what talks we used to have in Moscow! And I never wished to

come here at all; and I never thought to meet you like this, Parfen!

Well, well—good-bye—good-bye! God be with you!”

He turned and went downstairs.

“Lef Nicolaievitch!” cried Parfen, before he had reached the next

landing. “Have you got that cross you bought from the soldier with

you?”

“Yes, I have,” and the prince stopped again.

“Show it me, will you?”

A new fancy! The prince reflected, and then mounted the stairs once

more. He pulled out the cross without taking it off his neck.

“Give it to me,” said Parfen.

“Why? do you—”

The prince would rather have kept this particular cross.

“I’ll wear it; and you shall have mine. I’ll take it off at once.”

“You wish to exchange crosses? Very well, Parfen, if that’s the case,

I’m glad enough—that makes us brothers, you know.”

The prince took off his tin cross, Parfen his gold one, and the

exchange was made.

Parfen was silent. With sad surprise the prince observed that the look

of distrust, the bitter, ironical smile, had still not altogether left

his newly-adopted brother’s face. At moments, at all events, it showed

itself but too plainly,

At last Rogojin took the prince’s hand, and stood so for some moments,

as though he could not make up his mind. Then he drew him along,

murmuring almost inaudibly,

“Come!”

They stopped on the landing, and rang the bell at a door opposite to

Parfen’s own lodging.

An old woman opened to them and bowed low to Parfen, who asked her some

questions hurriedly, but did not wait to hear her answer. He led the

prince on through several dark, cold-looking rooms, spotlessly clean,

with white covers over all the furniture.

Without the ceremony of knocking, Parfen entered a small apartment,

furnished like a drawing-room, but with a polished mahogany partition

dividing one half of it from what was probably a bedroom. In one corner

of this room sat an old woman in an arm-chair, close to the stove. She

did not look very old, and her face was a pleasant, round one; but she

was white-haired and, as one could detect at the first glance, quite in

her second childhood. She wore a black woollen dress, with a black

handkerchief round her neck and shoulders, and a white cap with black

ribbons. Her feet were raised on a footstool. Beside her sat another

old woman, also dressed in mourning, and silently knitting a stocking;

this was evidently a companion. They both looked as though they never

broke the silence. The first old woman, so soon as she saw Rogojin and

the prince, smiled and bowed courteously several times, in token of her

gratification at their visit.

“Mother,” said Rogojin, kissing her hand, “here is my great friend,

Prince Muishkin; we have exchanged crosses; he was like a real brother

to me at Moscow at one time, and did a great deal for me. Bless him,

mother, as you would bless your own son. Wait a moment, let me arrange

your hands for you.”

But the old lady, before Parfen had time to touch her, raised her right

hand, and, with three fingers held up, devoutly made the sign of the

cross three times over the prince. She then nodded her head kindly at

him once more.

“There, come along, Lef Nicolaievitch; that’s all I brought you here

for,” said Rogojin.

When they reached the stairs again he added:

“She understood nothing of what I said to her, and did not know what I

wanted her to do, and yet she blessed you; that shows she wished to do

so herself. Well, goodbye; it’s time you went, and I must go too.”

He opened his own door.

“Well, let me at least embrace you and say goodbye, you strange

fellow!” cried the prince, looking with gentle reproach at Rogojin, and

advancing towards him. But the latter had hardly raised his arms when

he dropped them again. He could not make up his mind to it; he turned

away from the prince in order to avoid looking at him. He could not

embrace him.

“Don’t be afraid,” he muttered, indistinctly, “though I have taken your

cross, I shall not murder you for your watch.” So saying, he laughed

suddenly, and strangely. Then in a moment his face became transfigured;

he grew deadly white, his lips trembled, his eyes burned like fire. He

stretched out his arms and held the prince tightly to him, and said in

a strangled voice:

“Well, take her! It’s Fate! She’s yours. I surrender her.... Remember

Rogojin!” And pushing the prince from him, without looking back at him,

he hurriedly entered his own flat, and banged the door.

V.

It was late now, nearly half-past two, and the prince did not find

General Epanchin at home. He left a card, and determined to look up

Colia, who had a room at a small hotel near. Colia was not in, but he

was informed that he might be back shortly, and had left word that if

he were not in by half-past three it was to be understood that he had

gone to Pavlofsk to General Epanchin’s, and would dine there. The

prince decided to wait till half-past three, and ordered some dinner.

At half-past three there was no sign of Colia. The prince waited until

four o’clock, and then strolled off mechanically wherever his feet

should carry him.

In early summer there are often magnificent days in St.

Petersburg—bright, hot and still. This happened to be such a day.

For some time the prince wandered about without aim or object. He did

not know the town well. He stopped to look about him on bridges, at

street corners. He entered a confectioner’s shop to rest, once. He was

in a state of nervous excitement and perturbation; he noticed nothing

and no one; and he felt a craving for solitude, to be alone with his

thoughts and his emotions, and to give himself up to them passively. He

loathed the idea of trying to answer the questions that would rise up

in his heart and mind. “I am not to blame for all this,” he thought to

himself, half unconsciously.

Towards six o’clock he found himself at the station of the

Tsarsko-Selski railway.

He was tired of solitude now; a new rush of feeling took hold of him,

and a flood of light chased away the gloom, for a moment, from his

soul. He took a ticket to Pavlofsk, and determined to get there as fast

as he could, but something stopped him; a reality, and not a fantasy,

as he was inclined to think it. He was about to take his place in a

carriage, when he suddenly threw away his ticket and came out again,

disturbed and thoughtful. A few moments later, in the street, he

recalled something that had bothered him all the afternoon. He caught

himself engaged in a strange occupation which he now recollected he had

taken up at odd moments for the last few hours—it was looking about all

around him for something, he did not know what. He had forgotten it for

a while, half an hour or so, and now, suddenly, the uneasy search had

recommenced.

But he had hardly become conscious of this curious phenomenon, when

another recollection suddenly swam through his brain, interesting him

for the moment, exceedingly. He remembered that the last time he had

been engaged in looking around him for the unknown something, he was

standing before a cutler’s shop, in the window of which were exposed

certain goods for sale. He was extremely anxious now to discover

whether this shop and these goods really existed, or whether the whole

thing had been a hallucination.

He felt in a very curious condition today, a condition similar to that

which had preceded his fits in bygone years.

He remembered that at such times he had been particularly absentminded,

and could not discriminate between objects and persons unless he

concentrated special attention upon them.

He remembered seeing something in the window marked at sixty copecks.

Therefore, if the shop existed and if this object were really in the

window, it would prove that he had been able to concentrate his

attention on this article at a moment when, as a general rule, his

absence of mind would have been too great to admit of any such

concentration; in fact, very shortly after he had left the railway

station in such a state of agitation.

So he walked back looking about him for the shop, and his heart beat

with intolerable impatience. Ah! here was the very shop, and there was

the article marked “60 cop.” Of course, it’s sixty copecks, he thought,

and certainly worth no more. This idea amused him and he laughed.

But it was a hysterical laugh; he was feeling terribly oppressed. He

remembered clearly that just here, standing before this window, he had

suddenly turned round, just as earlier in the day he had turned and

found the dreadful eyes of Rogojin fixed upon him. Convinced,

therefore, that in this respect at all events he had been under no

delusion, he left the shop and went on.

This must be thought out; it was clear that there had been no

hallucination at the station then, either; something had actually

happened to him, on both occasions; there was no doubt of it. But again

a loathing for all mental exertion overmastered him; he would not think

it out now, he would put it off and think of something else. He

remembered that during his epileptic fits, or rather immediately

preceding them, he had always experienced a moment or two when his

whole heart, and mind, and body seemed to wake up to vigour and light;

when he became filled with joy and hope, and all his anxieties seemed

to be swept away for ever; these moments were but presentiments, as it

were, of the one final second (it was never more than a second) in

which the fit came upon him. That second, of course, was inexpressible.

When his attack was over, and the prince reflected on his symptoms, he

used to say to himself: “These moments, short as they are, when I feel

such extreme consciousness of myself, and consequently more of life

than at other times, are due only to the disease—to the sudden rupture

of normal conditions. Therefore they are not really a higher kind of

life, but a lower.” This reasoning, however, seemed to end in a

paradox, and lead to the further consideration:—“What matter though it

be only disease, an abnormal tension of the brain, if when I recall and

analyze the moment, it seems to have been one of harmony and beauty in

the highest degree—an instant of deepest sensation, overflowing with

unbounded joy and rapture, ecstatic devotion, and completest life?”

Vague though this sounds, it was perfectly comprehensible to Muishkin,

though he knew that it was but a feeble expression of his sensations.

That there was, indeed, beauty and harmony in those abnormal moments,

that they really contained the highest synthesis of life, he could not

doubt, nor even admit the possibility of doubt. He felt that they were

not analogous to the fantastic and unreal dreams due to intoxication by

hashish, opium or wine. Of that he could judge, when the attack was

over. These instants were characterized—to define it in a word—by an

intense quickening of the sense of personality. Since, in the last

conscious moment preceding the attack, he could say to himself, with

full understanding of his words: “I would give my whole life for this

one instant,” then doubtless to him it really was worth a lifetime. For

the rest, he thought the dialectical part of his argument of little

worth; he saw only too clearly that the result of these ecstatic

moments was stupefaction, mental darkness, idiocy. No argument was

possible on that point. His conclusion, his estimate of the “moment,”

doubtless contained some error, yet the reality of the sensation

troubled him. What’s more unanswerable than a fact? And this fact had

occurred. The prince had confessed unreservedly to himself that the

feeling of intense beatitude in that crowded moment made the moment

worth a lifetime. “I feel then,” he said one day to Rogojin in Moscow,

“I feel then as if I understood those amazing words—‘There shall be no

more time.’” And he added with a smile: “No doubt the epileptic Mahomet

refers to that same moment when he says that he visited all the

dwellings of Allah, in less time than was needed to empty his pitcher

of water.” Yes, he had often met Rogojin in Moscow, and many were the

subjects they discussed. “He told me I had been a brother to him,”

thought the prince. “He said so today, for the first time.”

He was sitting in the Summer Garden on a seat under a tree, and his

mind dwelt on the matter. It was about seven o’clock, and the place was

empty. The stifling atmosphere foretold a storm, and the prince felt a

certain charm in the contemplative mood which possessed him. He found

pleasure, too, in gazing at the exterior objects around him. All the

time he was trying to forget some thing, to escape from some idea that

haunted him; but melancholy thoughts came back, though he would so

willingly have escaped from them. He remembered suddenly how he had

been talking to the waiter, while he dined, about a recently committed

murder which the whole town was discussing, and as he thought of it

something strange came over him. He was seized all at once by a violent

desire, almost a temptation, against which he strove in vain.

He jumped up and walked off as fast as he could towards the “Petersburg

Side.” [One of the quarters of St. Petersburg.] He had asked someone, a

little while before, to show him which was the Petersburg Side, on the

banks of the Neva. He had not gone there, however; and he knew very

well that it was of no use to go now, for he would certainly not find

Lebedeff’s relation at home. He had the address, but she must certainly

have gone to Pavlofsk, or Colia would have let him know. If he were to

go now, it would merely be out of curiosity, but a sudden, new idea had

come into his head.

However, it was something to move on and know where he was going. A

minute later he was still moving on, but without knowing anything. He

could no longer think out his new idea. He tried to take an interest in

all he saw; in the sky, in the Neva. He spoke to some children he met.

He felt his epileptic condition becoming more and more developed. The

evening was very close; thunder was heard some way off.

The prince was haunted all that day by the face of Lebedeff’s nephew

whom he had seen for the first time that morning, just as one is

haunted at times by some persistent musical refrain. By a curious

association of ideas, the young man always appeared as the murderer of

whom Lebedeff had spoken when introducing him to Muishkin. Yes, he had

read something about the murder, and that quite recently. Since he came

to Russia, he had heard many stories of this kind, and was interested

in them. His conversation with the waiter, an hour ago, chanced to be

on the subject of this murder of the Zemarins, and the latter had

agreed with him about it. He thought of the waiter again, and decided

that he was no fool, but a steady, intelligent man: though, said he to

himself, “God knows what he may really be; in a country with which one

is unfamiliar it is difficult to understand the people one meets.” He

was beginning to have a passionate faith in the Russian soul, however,

and what discoveries he had made in the last six months, what

unexpected discoveries! But every soul is a mystery, and depths of

mystery lie in the soul of a Russian. He had been intimate with

Rogojin, for example, and a brotherly friendship had sprung up between

them—yet did he really know him? What chaos and ugliness fills the

world at times! What a self-satisfied rascal is that nephew of

Lebedeff’s! “But what am I thinking,” continued the prince to himself.

“Can he really have committed that crime? Did he kill those six

persons? I seem to be confusing things... how strange it all is.... My

head goes round... And Lebedeff’s daughter—how sympathetic and charming

her face was as she held the child in her arms! What an innocent look

and child-like laugh she had! It is curious that I had forgotten her

until now. I expect Lebedeff adores her—and I really believe, when I

think of it, that as sure as two and two make four, he is fond of that

nephew, too!”

Well, why should he judge them so hastily! Could he really say what

they were, after one short visit? Even Lebedeff seemed an enigma today.

Did he expect to find him so? He had never seen him like that before.

Lebedeff and the Comtesse du Barry! Good Heavens! If Rogojin should

really kill someone, it would not, at any rate, be such a senseless,

chaotic affair. A knife made to a special pattern, and six people

killed in a kind of delirium. But Rogojin also had a knife made to a

special pattern. Can it be that Rogojin wishes to murder anyone? The

prince began to tremble violently. “It is a crime on my part to imagine

anything so base, with such cynical frankness.” His face reddened with

shame at the thought; and then there came across him as in a flash the

memory of the incidents at the Pavlofsk station, and at the other

station in the morning; and the question asked him by Rogojin about

_the eyes_ and Rogojin’s cross, that he was even now wearing; and the

benediction of Rogojin’s mother; and his embrace on the darkened

staircase—that last supreme renunciation—and now, to find himself full

of this new “idea,” staring into shop-windows, and looking round for

things—how base he was!

Despair overmastered his soul; he would not go on, he would go back to

his hotel; he even turned and went the other way; but a moment after he

changed his mind again and went on in the old direction.

Why, here he was on the Petersburg Side already, quite close to the

house! Where was his “idea”? He was marching along without it now. Yes,

his malady was coming back, it was clear enough; all this gloom and

heaviness, all these “ideas,” were nothing more nor less than a fit

coming on; perhaps he would have a fit this very day.

But just now all the gloom and darkness had fled, his heart felt full

of joy and hope, there was no such thing as doubt. And yes, he hadn’t

seen her for so long; he really must see her. He wished he could meet

Rogojin; he would take his hand, and they would go to her together. His

heart was pure, he was no rival of Parfen’s. Tomorrow, he would go and

tell him that he had seen her. Why, he had only come for the sole

purpose of seeing her, all the way from Moscow! Perhaps she might be

here still, who knows? She might not have gone away to Pavlofsk yet.

Yes, all this must be put straight and above-board, there must be no

more passionate renouncements, such as Rogojin’s. It must all be clear

as day. Cannot Rogojin’s soul bear the light? He said he did not love

her with sympathy and pity; true, he added that “your pity is greater

than my love,” but he was not quite fair on himself there. Kin! Rogojin

reading a book—wasn’t that sympathy beginning? Did it not show that he

comprehended his relations with her? And his story of waiting day and

night for her forgiveness? That didn’t look quite like passion alone.

And as to her face, could it inspire nothing but passion? Could her

face inspire passion at all now? Oh, it inspired suffering, grief,

overwhelming grief of the soul! A poignant, agonizing memory swept over

the prince’s heart.

Yes, agonizing. He remembered how he had suffered that first day when

he thought he observed in her the symptoms of madness. He had almost

fallen into despair. How could he have lost his hold upon her when she

ran away from him to Rogojin? He ought to have run after her himself,

rather than wait for news as he had done. Can Rogojin have failed to

observe, up to now, that she is mad? Rogojin attributes her strangeness

to other causes, to passion! What insane jealousy! What was it he had

hinted at in that suggestion of his? The prince suddenly blushed, and

shuddered to his very heart.

But why recall all this? There was insanity on both sides. For him, the

prince, to love this woman with passion, was unthinkable. It would be

cruel and inhuman. Yes. Rogojin is not fair to himself; he has a large

heart; he has aptitude for sympathy. When he learns the truth, and

finds what a pitiable being is this injured, broken, half-insane

creature, he will forgive her all the torment she has caused him. He

will become her slave, her brother, her friend. Compassion will teach

even Rogojin, it will show him how to reason. Compassion is the chief

law of human existence. Oh, how guilty he felt towards Rogojin! And,

for a few warm, hasty words spoken in Moscow, Parfen had called him

“brother,” while he—but no, this was delirium! It would all come right!

That gloomy Parfen had implied that his faith was waning; he must

suffer dreadfully. He said he liked to look at that picture; it was not

that he liked it, but he felt the need of looking at it. Rogojin was

not merely a passionate soul; he was a fighter. He was fighting for the

restoration of his dying faith. He must have something to hold on to

and believe, and someone to believe in. What a strange picture that of

Holbein’s is! Why, this is the street, and here’s the house, No. 16.

The prince rang the bell, and asked for Nastasia Philipovna. The lady

of the house came out, and stated that Nastasia had gone to stay with

Daria Alexeyevna at Pavlofsk, and might be there some days.

Madame Filisoff was a little woman of forty, with a cunning face, and

crafty, piercing eyes. When, with an air of mystery, she asked her

visitor’s name, he refused at first to answer, but in a moment he

changed his mind, and left strict instructions that it should be given

to Nastasia Philipovna. The urgency of his request seemed to impress

Madame Filisoff, and she put on a knowing expression, as if to say,

“You need not be afraid, I quite understand.” The prince’s name

evidently was a great surprise to her. He stood and looked absently at

her for a moment, then turned, and took the road back to his hotel. But

he went away not as he came. A great change had suddenly come over him.

He went blindly forward; his knees shook under him; he was tormented by

“ideas”; his lips were blue, and trembled with a feeble, meaningless

smile. His demon was upon him once more.

What had happened to him? Why was his brow clammy with drops of

moisture, his knees shaking beneath him, and his soul oppressed with a

cold gloom? Was it because he had just seen these dreadful eyes again?

Why, he had left the Summer Garden on purpose to see them; that had

been his “idea.” He had wished to assure himself that he would see them

once more at that house. Then why was he so overwhelmed now, having

seen them as he expected? just as though he had not expected to see

them! Yes, they were the very same eyes; and no doubt about it. The

same that he had seen in the crowd that morning at the station, the

same that he had surprised in Rogojin’s rooms some hours later, when

the latter had replied to his inquiry with a sneering laugh, “Well,

whose eyes were they?” Then for the third time they had appeared just

as he was getting into the train on his way to see Aglaya. He had had a

strong impulse to rush up to Rogojin, and repeat his words of the

morning “Whose eyes are they?” Instead he had fled from the station,

and knew nothing more, until he found himself gazing into the window of

a cutler’s shop, and wondering if a knife with a staghorn handle would

cost more than sixty copecks. And as the prince sat dreaming in the

Summer Garden under a lime-tree, a wicked demon had come and whispered

in his car: “Rogojin has been spying upon you and watching you all the

morning in a frenzy of desperation. When he finds you have not gone to

Pavlofsk—a terrible discovery for him—he will surely go at once to that

house in Petersburg Side, and watch for you there, although only this

morning you gave your word of honour not to see _her_, and swore that

you had not come to Petersburg for that purpose.” And thereupon the

prince had hastened off to that house, and what was there in the fact

that he had met Rogojin there? He had only seen a wretched, suffering

creature, whose state of mind was gloomy and miserable, but most

comprehensible. In the morning Rogojin had seemed to be trying to keep

out of the way; but at the station this afternoon he had stood out, he

had concealed himself, indeed, less than the prince himself; at the

house, now, he had stood fifty yards off on the other side of the road,

with folded hands, watching, plainly in view and apparently desirous of

being seen. He had stood there like an accuser, like a judge, not like

a—a what?

And why had not the prince approached him and spoken to him, instead of

turning away and pretending he had seen nothing, although their eyes

met? (Yes, their eyes had met, and they had looked at each other.) Why,

he had himself wished to take Rogojin by the hand and go in together,

he had himself determined to go to him on the morrow and tell him that

he had seen her, he had repudiated the demon as he walked to the house,

and his heart had been full of joy.

Was there something in the whole aspect of the man, today, sufficient

to justify the prince’s terror, and the awful suspicions of his demon?

Something seen, but indescribable, which filled him with dreadful

presentiments? Yes, he was convinced of it—convinced of what? (Oh, how

mean and hideous of him to feel this conviction, this presentiment! How

he blamed himself for it!) “Speak if you dare, and tell me, what is the

presentiment?” he repeated to himself, over and over again. “Put it

into words, speak out clearly and distinctly. Oh, miserable coward that

I am!” The prince flushed with shame for his own baseness. “How shall I

ever look this man in the face again? My God, what a day! And what a

nightmare, what a nightmare!”

There was a moment, during this long, wretched walk back from the

Petersburg Side, when the prince felt an irresistible desire to go

straight to Rogojin’s, wait for him, embrace him with tears of shame

and contrition, and tell him of his distrust, and finish with it—once

for all.

But here he was back at his hotel.

How often during the day he had thought of this hotel with loathing—its

corridor, its rooms, its stairs. How he had dreaded coming back to it,

for some reason.

“What a regular old woman I am today,” he had said to himself each

time, with annoyance. “I believe in every foolish presentiment that

comes into my head.”

He stopped for a moment at the door; a great flush of shame came over

him. “I am a coward, a wretched coward,” he said, and moved forward

again; but once more he paused.

Among all the incidents of the day, one recurred to his mind to the

exclusion of the rest; although now that his self-control was regained,

and he was no longer under the influence of a nightmare, he was able to

think of it calmly. It concerned the knife on Rogojin’s table. “Why

should not Rogojin have as many knives on his table as he chooses?”

thought the prince, wondering at his suspicions, as he had done when he

found himself looking into the cutler’s window. “What could it have to

do with me?” he said to himself again, and stopped as if rooted to the

ground by a kind of paralysis of limb such as attacks people under the

stress of some humiliating recollection.

The doorway was dark and gloomy at any time; but just at this moment it

was rendered doubly so by the fact that the thunder-storm had just

broken, and the rain was coming down in torrents.

And in the semi-darkness the prince distinguished a man standing close

to the stairs, apparently waiting.

There was nothing particularly significant in the fact that a man was

standing back in the doorway, waiting to come out or go upstairs; but

the prince felt an irresistible conviction that he knew this man, and

that it was Rogojin. The man moved on up the stairs; a moment later the

prince passed up them, too. His heart froze within him. “In a minute or

two I shall know all,” he thought.

The staircase led to the first and second corridors of the hotel, along

which lay the guests’ bedrooms. As is often the case in Petersburg

houses, it was narrow and very dark, and turned around a massive stone

column.

On the first landing, which was as small as the necessary turn of the

stairs allowed, there was a niche in the column, about half a yard

wide, and in this niche the prince felt convinced that a man stood

concealed. He thought he could distinguish a figure standing there. He

would pass by quickly and not look. He took a step forward, but could

bear the uncertainty no longer and turned his head.

The eyes—the same two eyes—met his! The man concealed in the niche had

also taken a step forward. For one second they stood face to face.

Suddenly the prince caught the man by the shoulder and twisted him

round towards the light, so that he might see his face more clearly.

Rogojin’s eyes flashed, and a smile of insanity distorted his

countenance. His right hand was raised, and something glittered in it.

The prince did not think of trying to stop it. All he could remember

afterwards was that he seemed to have called out:

“Parfen! I won’t believe it.”

Next moment something appeared to burst open before him: a wonderful

inner light illuminated his soul. This lasted perhaps half a second,

yet he distinctly remembered hearing the beginning of the wail, the

strange, dreadful wail, which burst from his lips of its own accord,

and which no effort of will on his part could suppress.

Next moment he was absolutely unconscious; black darkness blotted out

everything.

He had fallen in an epileptic fit.

As is well known, these fits occur instantaneously. The face,

especially the eyes, become terribly disfigured, convulsions seize the

limbs, a terrible cry breaks from the sufferer, a wail from which

everything human seems to be blotted out, so that it is impossible to

believe that the man who has just fallen is the same who emitted the

dreadful cry. It seems more as though some other being, inside the

stricken one, had cried. Many people have borne witness to this

impression; and many cannot behold an epileptic fit without a feeling

of mysterious terror and dread.

Such a feeling, we must suppose, overtook Rogojin at this moment, and

saved the prince’s life. Not knowing that it was a fit, and seeing his

victim disappear head foremost into the darkness, hearing his head

strike the stone steps below with a crash, Rogojin rushed downstairs,

skirting the body, and flung himself headlong out of the hotel, like a

raving madman.

The prince’s body slipped convulsively down the steps till it rested at

the bottom. Very soon, in five minutes or so, he was discovered, and a

crowd collected around him.

A pool of blood on the steps near his head gave rise to grave fears.

Was it a case of accident, or had there been a crime? It was, however,

soon recognized as a case of epilepsy, and identification and proper

measures for restoration followed one another, owing to a fortunate

circumstance. Colia Ivolgin had come back to his hotel about seven

o’clock, owing to a sudden impulse which made him refuse to dine at the

Epanchins’, and, finding a note from the prince awaiting him, had sped

away to the latter’s address. Arrived there, he ordered a cup of tea

and sat sipping it in the coffee-room. While there he heard excited

whispers of someone just found at the bottom of the stairs in a fit;

upon which he had hurried to the spot, with a presentiment of evil, and

at once recognized the prince.

The sufferer was immediately taken to his room, and though he partially

regained consciousness, he lay long in a semi-dazed condition.

The doctor stated that there was no danger to be apprehended from the

wound on the head, and as soon as the prince could understand what was

going on around him, Colia hired a carriage and took him away to

Lebedeff’s. There he was received with much cordiality, and the

departure to the country was hastened on his account. Three days later

they were all at Pavlofsk.

VI.

Lebedeff’s country-house was not large, but it was pretty and

convenient, especially the part which was let to the prince.

A row of orange and lemon trees and jasmines, planted in green tubs,

stood on the fairly wide terrace. According to Lebedeff, these trees

gave the house a most delightful aspect. Some were there when he bought

it, and he was so charmed with the effect that he promptly added to

their number. When the tubs containing these plants arrived at the

villa and were set in their places, Lebedeff kept running into the

street to enjoy the view of the house, and every time he did so the

rent to be demanded from the future tenant went up with a bound.

This country villa pleased the prince very much in his state of

physical and mental exhaustion. On the day that they left for Pavlofsk,

that is the day after his attack, he appeared almost well, though in

reality he felt very far from it. The faces of those around him for the

last three days had made a pleasant impression. He was pleased to see,

not only Colia, who had become his inseparable companion, but Lebedeff

himself and all the family, except the nephew, who had left the house.

He was also glad to receive a visit from General Ivolgin, before

leaving St. Petersburg.

It was getting late when the party arrived at Pavlofsk, but several

people called to see the prince, and assembled in the verandah. Gania

was the first to arrive. He had grown so pale and thin that the prince

could hardly recognize him. Then came Varia and Ptitsin, who were

rusticating in the neighbourhood. As to General Ivolgin, he scarcely

budged from Lebedeff’s house, and seemed to have moved to Pavlofsk with

him. Lebedeff did his best to keep Ardalion Alexandrovitch by him, and

to prevent him from invading the prince’s quarters. He chatted with him

confidentially, so that they might have been taken for old friends.

During those three days the prince had noticed that they frequently

held long conversations; he often heard their voices raised in argument

on deep and learned subjects, which evidently pleased Lebedeff. He

seemed as if he could not do without the general. But it was not only

Ardalion Alexandrovitch whom Lebedeff kept out of the prince’s way.

Since they had come to the villa, he treated his own family the same.

Upon the pretext that his tenant needed quiet, he kept him almost in

isolation, and Muishkin protested in vain against this excess of zeal.

Lebedeff stamped his feet at his daughters and drove them away if they

attempted to join the prince on the terrace; not even Vera was

excepted.

“They will lose all respect if they are allowed to be so free and easy;

besides it is not proper for them,” he declared at last, in answer to a

direct question from the prince.

“Why on earth not?” asked the latter. “Really, you know, you are making

yourself a nuisance, by keeping guard over me like this. I get bored

all by myself; I have told you so over and over again, and you get on

my nerves more than ever by waving your hands and creeping in and out

in the mysterious way you do.”

It was a fact that Lebedeff, though he was so anxious to keep everyone

else from disturbing the patient, was continually in and out of the

prince’s room himself. He invariably began by opening the door a crack

and peering in to see if the prince was there, or if he had escaped;

then he would creep softly up to the arm-chair, sometimes making

Muishkin jump by his sudden appearance. He always asked if the patient

wanted anything, and when the latter replied that he only wanted to be

left in peace, he would turn away obediently and make for the door on

tip-toe, with deprecatory gestures to imply that he had only just

looked in, that he would not speak a word, and would go away and not

intrude again; which did not prevent him from reappearing in ten

minutes or a quarter of an hour. Colia had free access to the prince,

at which Lebedeff was quite disgusted and indignant. He would listen at

the door for half an hour at a time while the two were talking. Colia

found this out, and naturally told the prince of his discovery.

“Do you think yourself my master, that you try to keep me under lock

and key like this?” said the prince to Lebedeff. “In the country, at

least, I intend to be free, and you may make up your mind that I mean

to see whom I like, and go where I please.”

“Why, of course,” replied the clerk, gesticulating with his hands.

The prince looked him sternly up and down.

“Well, Lukian Timofeyovitch, have you brought the little cupboard that

you had at the head of your bed with you here?”

“No, I left it where it was.”

“Impossible!”

“It cannot be moved; you would have to pull the wall down, it is so

firmly fixed.”

“Perhaps you have one like it here?”

“I have one that is even better, much better; that is really why I

bought this house.”

“Ah! What visitor did you turn away from my door, about an hour ago?”

“The-the general. I would not let him in; there is no need for him to

visit you, prince... I have the deepest esteem for him, he is a—a great

man. You don’t believe it? Well, you will see, and yet, most excellent

prince, you had much better not receive him.”

“May I ask why? and also why you walk about on tiptoe and always seem

as if you were going to whisper a secret in my ear whenever you come

near me?”

“I am vile, vile; I know it!” cried Lebedeff, beating his breast with a

contrite air. “But will not the general be too hospitable for you?”

“Too hospitable?”

“Yes. First, he proposes to come and live in my house. Well and good;

but he sticks at nothing; he immediately makes himself one of the

family. We have talked over our respective relations several times, and

discovered that we are connected by marriage. It seems also that you

are a sort of nephew on his mother’s side; he was explaining it to me

again only yesterday. If you are his nephew, it follows that I must

also be a relation of yours, most excellent prince. Never mind about

that, it is only a foible; but just now he assured me that all his

life, from the day he was made an ensign to the 11th of last June, he

has entertained at least two hundred guests at his table every day.

Finally, he went so far as to say that they never rose from the table;

they dined, supped, and had tea, for fifteen hours at a stretch. This

went on for thirty years without a break; there was barely time to

change the table-cloth; directly one person left, another took his

place. On feast-days he entertained as many as three hundred guests,

and they numbered seven hundred on the thousandth anniversary of the

foundation of the Russian Empire. It amounts to a passion with him; it

makes one uneasy to hear of it. It is terrible to have to entertain

people who do things on such a scale. That is why I wonder whether such

a man is not too hospitable for you and me.”

“But you seem to be on the best of terms with him?”

“Quite fraternal—I look upon it as a joke. Let us be brothers-in-law,

it is all the same to me,—rather an honour than not. But in spite of

the two hundred guests and the thousandth anniversary of the Russian

Empire, I can see that he is a very remarkable man. I am quite sincere.

You said just now that I always looked as if I was going to tell you a

secret; you are right. I have a secret to tell you: a certain person

has just let me know that she is very anxious for a secret interview

with you.”

“Why should it be secret? Not at all; I will call on her myself

tomorrow.”

“No, oh no!” cried Lebedeff, waving his arms; “if she is afraid, it is

not for the reason you think. By the way, do you know that the monster

comes every day to inquire after your health?”

“You call him a monster so often that it makes me suspicious.”

“You must have no suspicions, none whatever,” said Lebedeff quickly. “I

only want you to know that the person in question is not afraid of him,

but of something quite, quite different.”

“What on earth is she afraid of, then? Tell me plainly, without any

more beating about the bush,” said the prince, exasperated by the

other’s mysterious grimaces.

“Ah that is the secret,” said Lebedeff, with a smile.

“Whose secret?”

“Yours. You forbade me yourself to mention it before you, most

excellent prince,” murmured Lebedeff. Then, satisfied that he had

worked up Muishkin’s curiosity to the highest pitch, he added abruptly:

“She is afraid of Aglaya Ivanovna.”

The prince frowned for a moment in silence, and then said suddenly:

“Really, Lebedeff, I must leave your house. Where are Gavrila

Ardalionovitch and the Ptitsins? Are they here? Have you chased them

away, too?”

“They are coming, they are coming; and the general as well. I will open

all the doors; I will call all my daughters, all of them, this very

minute,” said Lebedeff in a low voice, thoroughly frightened, and

waving his hands as he ran from door to door.

At that moment Colia appeared on the terrace; he announced that

Lizabetha Prokofievna and her three daughters were close behind him.

Moved by this news, Lebedeff hurried up to the prince.

“Shall I call the Ptitsins, and Gavrila Ardalionovitch? Shall I let the

general in?” he asked.

“Why not? Let in anyone who wants to see me. I assure you, Lebedeff,

you have misunderstood my position from the very first; you have been

wrong all along. I have not the slightest reason to hide myself from

anyone,” replied the prince gaily.

Seeing him laugh, Lebedeff thought fit to laugh also, and though much

agitated his satisfaction was quite visible.

Colia was right; the Epanchin ladies were only a few steps behind him.

As they approached the terrace other visitors appeared from Lebedeff’s

side of the house—the Ptitsins, Gania, and Ardalion Alexandrovitch.

The Epanchins had only just heard of the prince’s illness and of his

presence in Pavlofsk, from Colia; and up to this time had been in a

state of considerable bewilderment about him. The general brought the

prince’s card down from town, and Mrs. Epanchin had felt convinced that

he himself would follow his card at once; she was much excited.

In vain the girls assured her that a man who had not written for six

months would not be in such a dreadful hurry, and that probably he had

enough to do in town without needing to bustle down to Pavlofsk to see

them. Their mother was quite angry at the very idea of such a thing,

and announced her absolute conviction that he would turn up the next

day at latest.

So next day the prince was expected all the morning, and at dinner,

tea, and supper; and when he did not appear in the evening, Mrs.

Epanchin quarrelled with everyone in the house, finding plenty of

pretexts without so much as mentioning the prince’s name.

On the third day there was no talk of him at all, until Aglaya remarked

at dinner: “Mamma is cross because the prince hasn’t turned up,” to

which the general replied that it was not his fault.

Mrs. Epanchin misunderstood the observation, and rising from her place

she left the room in majestic wrath. In the evening, however, Colia

came with the story of the prince’s adventures, so far as he knew them.

Mrs. Epanchin was triumphant; although Colia had to listen to a long

lecture. “He idles about here the whole day long, one can’t get rid of

him; and then when he is wanted he does not come. He might have sent a

line if he did not wish to inconvenience himself.”

At the words “one can’t get rid of him,” Colia was very angry, and

nearly flew into a rage; but he resolved to be quiet for the time and

show his resentment later. If the words had been less offensive he

might have forgiven them, so pleased was he to see Lizabetha

Prokofievna worried and anxious about the prince’s illness.

She would have insisted on sending to Petersburg at once, for a certain

great medical celebrity; but her daughters dissuaded her, though they

were not willing to stay behind when she at once prepared to go and

visit the invalid. Aglaya, however, suggested that it was a little

unceremonious to go _en masse_ to see him.

“Very well then, stay at home,” said Mrs. Epanchin, “and a good thing

too, for Evgenie Pavlovitch is coming down and there will be no one at

home to receive him.”

Of course, after this, Aglaya went with the rest. In fact, she had

never had the slightest intention of doing otherwise.

Prince S., who was in the house, was requested to escort the ladies. He

had been much interested when he first heard of the prince from the

Epanchins. It appeared that they had known one another before, and had

spent some time together in a little provincial town three months ago.

Prince S. had greatly taken to him, and was delighted with the

opportunity of meeting him again.

The general had not come down from town as yet, nor had Evgenie

Pavlovitch arrived.

It was not more than two or three hundred yards from the Epanchins’

house to Lebedeff’s. The first disagreeable impression experienced by

Mrs. Epanchin was to find the prince surrounded by a whole assembly of

other guests—not to mention the fact that some of those present were

particularly detestable in her eyes. The next annoying circumstance was

when an apparently strong and healthy young fellow, well dressed, and

smiling, came forward to meet her on the terrace, instead of the

half-dying unfortunate whom she had expected to see.

She was astonished and vexed, and her disappointment pleased Colia

immensely. Of course he could have undeceived her before she started,

but the mischievous boy had been careful not to do that, foreseeing the

probably laughable disgust that she would experience when she found her

dear friend, the prince, in good health. Colia was indelicate enough to

voice the delight he felt at his success in managing to annoy Lizabetha

Prokofievna, with whom, in spite of their really amicable relations, he

was constantly sparring.

“Just wait a while, my boy!” said she; “don’t be too certain of your

triumph.” And she sat down heavily, in the arm-chair pushed forward by

the prince.

Lebedeff, Ptitsin, and General Ivolgin hastened to find chairs for the

young ladies. Varia greeted them joyfully, and they exchanged

confidences in ecstatic whispers.

“I must admit, prince, I was a little put out to see you up and about

like this—I expected to find you in bed; but I give you my word, I was

only annoyed for an instant, before I collected my thoughts properly. I

am always wiser on second thoughts, and I dare say you are the same. I

assure you I am as glad to see you well as though you were my own

son,—yes, and more; and if you don’t believe me the more shame to you,

and it’s not my fault. But that spiteful boy delights in playing all

sorts of tricks. You are his patron, it seems. Well, I warn you that

one fine morning I shall deprive myself of the pleasure of his further

acquaintance.”

“What have I done wrong now?” cried Colia. “What was the good of

telling you that the prince was nearly well again? You would not have

believed me; it was so much more interesting to picture him on his

death-bed.”

“How long do you remain here, prince?” asked Madame Epanchin.

“All the summer, and perhaps longer.”

“You are alone, aren’t you,—not married?”

“No, I’m not married!” replied the prince, smiling at the ingenuousness

of this little feeler.

“Oh, you needn’t laugh! These things do happen, you know! Now then—why

didn’t you come to us? We have a wing quite empty. But just as you

like, of course. Do you lease it from _him?_—this fellow, I mean,” she

added, nodding towards Lebedeff. “And why does he always wriggle so?”

At that moment Vera, carrying the baby in her arms as usual, came out

of the house, on to the terrace. Lebedeff kept fidgeting among the

chairs, and did not seem to know what to do with himself, though he had

no intention of going away. He no sooner caught sight of his daughter,

than he rushed in her direction, waving his arms to keep her away; he

even forgot himself so far as to stamp his foot.

“Is he mad?” asked Madame Epanchin suddenly.

“No, he...”

“Perhaps he is drunk? Your company is rather peculiar,” she added, with

a glance at the other guests....

“But what a pretty girl! Who is she?”

“That is Lebedeff’s daughter—Vera Lukianovna.”

“Indeed? She looks very sweet. I should like to make her acquaintance.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth, when Lebedeff dragged Vera

forward, in order to present her.

“Orphans, poor orphans!” he began in a pathetic voice.

“The child she carries is an orphan, too. She is Vera’s sister, my

daughter Luboff. The day this babe was born, six weeks ago, my wife

died, by the will of God Almighty.... Yes... Vera takes her mother’s

place, though she is but her sister... nothing more... nothing more...”

“And you! You are nothing more than a fool, if you’ll excuse me! Well!

well! you know that yourself, I expect,” said the lady indignantly.

Lebedeff bowed low. “It is the truth,” he replied, with extreme

respect.

“Oh, Mr. Lebedeff, I am told you lecture on the Apocalypse. Is it

true?” asked Aglaya.

“Yes, that is so... for the last fifteen years.”

“I have heard of you, and I think read of you in the newspapers.”

“No, that was another commentator, whom the papers named. He is dead,

however, and I have taken his place,” said the other, much delighted.

“We are neighbours, so will you be so kind as to come over one day and

explain the Apocalypse to me?” said Aglaya. “I do not understand it in

the least.”

“Allow me to warn you,” interposed General Ivolgin, “that he is the

greatest charlatan on earth.” He had taken the chair next to the girl,

and was impatient to begin talking. “No doubt there are pleasures and

amusements peculiar to the country,” he continued, “and to listen to a

pretended student holding forth on the book of the Revelations may be

as good as any other. It may even be original. But... you seem to be

looking at me with some surprise—may I introduce myself—General

Ivolgin—I carried you in my arms as a baby—”

“Delighted, I’m sure,” said Aglaya; “I am acquainted with Varvara

Ardalionovna and Nina Alexandrovna.” She was trying hard to restrain

herself from laughing.

Mrs. Epanchin flushed up; some accumulation of spleen in her suddenly

needed an outlet. She could not bear this General Ivolgin whom she had

once known, long ago—in society.

“You are deviating from the truth, sir, as usual!” she remarked,

boiling over with indignation; “you never carried her in your life!”

“You have forgotten, mother,” said Aglaya, suddenly. “He really did

carry me about,—in Tver, you know. I was six years old, I remember. He

made me a bow and arrow, and I shot a pigeon. Don’t you remember

shooting a pigeon, you and I, one day?”

“Yes, and he made me a cardboard helmet, and a little wooden sword—I

remember!” said Adelaida.

“Yes, I remember too!” said Alexandra. “You quarrelled about the

wounded pigeon, and Adelaida was put in the corner, and stood there

with her helmet and sword and all.”

The poor general had merely made the remark about having carried Aglaya

in his arms because he always did so begin a conversation with young

people. But it happened that this time he had really hit upon the

truth, though he had himself entirely forgotten the fact. But when

Adelaida and Aglaya recalled the episode of the pigeon, his mind became

filled with memories, and it is impossible to describe how this poor

old man, usually half drunk, was moved by the recollection.

“I remember—I remember it all!” he cried. “I was captain then. You were

such a lovely little thing—Nina Alexandrovna!—Gania, listen! I was

received then by General Epanchin.”

“Yes, and look what you have come to now!” interrupted Mrs. Epanchin.

“However, I see you have not quite drunk your better feelings away. But

you’ve broken your wife’s heart, sir—and instead of looking after your

children, you have spent your time in public-houses and debtors’

prisons! Go away, my friend, stand in some corner and weep, and bemoan

your fallen dignity, and perhaps God will forgive you yet! Go, go! I’m

serious! There’s nothing so favourable for repentance as to think of

the past with feelings of remorse!”

There was no need to repeat that she was serious. The general, like all

drunkards, was extremely emotional and easily touched by recollections

of his better days. He rose and walked quietly to the door, so meekly

that Mrs. Epanchin was instantly sorry for him.

“Ardalion Alexandrovitch,” she cried after him, “wait a moment, we are

all sinners! When you feel that your conscience reproaches you a little

less, come over to me and we’ll have a talk about the past! I dare say

I am fifty times more of a sinner than you are! And now go, go,

good-bye, you had better not stay here!” she added, in alarm, as he

turned as though to come back.

“Don’t go after him just now, Colia, or he’ll be vexed, and the benefit

of this moment will be lost!” said the prince, as the boy was hurrying

out of the room.

“Quite true! Much better to go in half an hour or so,” said Mrs.

Epanchin.

“That’s what comes of telling the truth for once in one’s life!” said

Lebedeff. “It reduced him to tears.”

“Come, come! the less _you_ say about it the better—to judge from all I

have heard about you!” replied Mrs. Epanchin.

The prince took the first opportunity of informing the Epanchin ladies

that he had intended to pay them a visit that day, if they had not

themselves come this afternoon, and Lizabetha Prokofievna replied that

she hoped he would still do so.

By this time some of the visitors had disappeared.

Ptitsin had tactfully retreated to Lebedeff’s wing; and Gania soon

followed him.

The latter had behaved modestly, but with dignity, on this occasion of

his first meeting with the Epanchins since the rupture. Twice Mrs.

Epanchin had deliberately examined him from head to foot; but he had

stood fire without flinching. He was certainly much changed, as anyone

could see who had not met him for some time; and this fact seemed to

afford Aglaya a good deal of satisfaction.

“That was Gavrila Ardalionovitch, who just went out, wasn’t it?” she

asked suddenly, interrupting somebody else’s conversation to make the

remark.

“Yes, it was,” said the prince.

“I hardly knew him; he is much changed, and for the better!”

“I am very glad,” said the prince.

“He has been very ill,” added Varia.

“How has he changed for the better?” asked Mrs. Epanchin. “I don’t see

any change for the better! What’s better in him? Where did you get

_that_ idea from? _what_’s better?”

“There’s nothing better than the ‘poor knight’!” said Colia, who was

standing near the last speaker’s chair.

“I quite agree with you there!” said Prince S., laughing.

“So do I,” said Adelaida, solemnly.

“_What_ poor knight?” asked Mrs. Epanchin, looking round at the face of

each of the speakers in turn. Seeing, however, that Aglaya was

blushing, she added, angrily:

“What nonsense you are all talking! What do you mean by poor knight?”

“It’s not the first time this urchin, your favourite, has shown his

impudence by twisting other people’s words,” said Aglaya, haughtily.

Every time that Aglaya showed temper (and this was very often), there

was so much childish pouting, such “school-girlishness,” as it were, in

her apparent wrath, that it was impossible to avoid smiling at her, to

her own unutterable indignation. On these occasions she would say, “How

can they, how _dare_ they laugh at me?”

This time everyone laughed at her, her sisters, Prince S., Prince

Muishkin (though he himself had flushed for some reason), and Colia.

Aglaya was dreadfully indignant, and looked twice as pretty in her

wrath.

“He’s always twisting round what one says,” she cried.

“I am only repeating your own exclamation!” said Colia. “A month ago

you were turning over the pages of your Don Quixote, and suddenly

called out ‘there is nothing better than the poor knight.’ I don’t know

whom you were referring to, of course, whether to Don Quixote, or

Evgenie Pavlovitch, or someone else, but you certainly said these

words, and afterwards there was a long conversation...”

“You are inclined to go a little too far, my good boy, with your

guesses,” said Mrs. Epanchin, with some show of annoyance.

“But it’s not I alone,” cried Colia. “They all talked about it, and

they do still. Why, just now Prince S. and Adelaida Ivanovna declared

that they upheld ‘the poor knight’; so evidently there does exist a

‘poor knight’; and if it were not for Adelaida Ivanovna, we should have

known long ago who the ‘poor knight’ was.”

“Why, how am I to blame?” asked Adelaida, smiling.

“You wouldn’t draw his portrait for us, that’s why you are to blame!

Aglaya Ivanovna asked you to draw his portrait, and gave you the whole

subject of the picture. She invented it herself; and you wouldn’t.”

“What was I to draw? According to the lines she quoted:

“‘From his face he never lifted

That eternal mask of steel.’”

“What sort of a face was I to draw? I couldn’t draw a mask.”

“I don’t know what you are driving at; what mask do you mean?” said

Mrs. Epanchin, irritably. She began to see pretty clearly though what

it meant, and whom they referred to by the generally accepted title of

“poor knight.” But what specially annoyed her was that the prince was

looking so uncomfortable, and blushing like a ten-year-old child.

“Well, have you finished your silly joke?” she added, “and am I to be

told what this ‘poor knight’ means, or is it a solemn secret which

cannot be approached lightly?”

But they all laughed on.

“It’s simply that there is a Russian poem,” began Prince S., evidently

anxious to change the conversation, “a strange thing, without beginning

or end, and all about a ‘poor knight.’ A month or so ago, we were all

talking and laughing, and looking up a subject for one of Adelaida’s

pictures—you know it is the principal business of this family to find

subjects for Adelaida’s pictures. Well, we happened upon this ‘poor

knight.’ I don’t remember who thought of it first—”

“Oh! Aglaya Ivanovna did,” said Colia.

“Very likely—I don’t recollect,” continued Prince S.

“Some of us laughed at the subject; some liked it; but she declared

that, in order to make a picture of the gentleman, she must first see

his face. We then began to think over all our friends’ faces to see if

any of them would do, and none suited us, and so the matter stood;

that’s all. I don’t know why Nicolai Ardalionovitch has brought up the

joke now. What was appropriate and funny then, has quite lost all

interest by this time.”

“Probably there’s some new silliness about it,” said Mrs. Epanchin,

sarcastically.

“There is no silliness about it at all—only the profoundest respect,”

said Aglaya, very seriously. She had quite recovered her temper; in

fact, from certain signs, it was fair to conclude that she was

delighted to see this joke going so far; and a careful observer might

have remarked that her satisfaction dated from the moment when the fact

of the prince’s confusion became apparent to all.

“‘Profoundest respect!’ What nonsense! First, insane giggling, and

then, all of a sudden, a display of ‘profoundest respect.’ Why respect?

Tell me at once, why have you suddenly developed this ‘profound

respect,’ eh?”

“Because,” replied Aglaya gravely, “in the poem the knight is described

as a man capable of living up to an ideal all his life. That sort of

thing is not to be found every day among the men of our times. In the

poem it is not stated exactly what the ideal was, but it was evidently

some vision, some revelation of pure Beauty, and the knight wore round

his neck, instead of a scarf, a rosary. A device—A. N. B.—the meaning

of which is not explained, was inscribed on his shield—”

“No, A. N. D.,” corrected Colia.

“I say A. N. B., and so it shall be!” cried Aglaya, irritably. “Anyway,

the ‘poor knight’ did not care what his lady was, or what she did. He

had chosen his ideal, and he was bound to serve her, and break lances

for her, and acknowledge her as the ideal of pure Beauty, whatever she

might say or do afterwards. If she had taken to stealing, he would have

championed her just the same. I think the poet desired to embody in

this one picture the whole spirit of medieval chivalry and the platonic

love of a pure and high-souled knight. Of course it’s all an ideal, and

in the ‘poor knight’ that spirit reached the utmost limit of

asceticism. He is a Don Quixote, only serious and not comical. I used

not to understand him, and laughed at him, but now I love the ‘poor

knight,’ and respect his actions.”

So ended Aglaya; and, to look at her, it was difficult, indeed, to

judge whether she was joking or in earnest.

“Pooh! he was a fool, and his actions were the actions of a fool,” said

Mrs. Epanchin; “and as for you, young woman, you ought to know better.

At all events, you are not to talk like that again. What poem is it?

Recite it! I want to hear this poem! I have hated poetry all my life.

Prince, you must excuse this nonsense. We neither of us like this sort

of thing! Be patient!”

They certainly were put out, both of them.

The prince tried to say something, but he was too confused, and could

not get his words out. Aglaya, who had taken such liberties in her

little speech, was the only person present, perhaps, who was not in the

least embarrassed. She seemed, in fact, quite pleased.

She now rose solemnly from her seat, walked to the centre of the

terrace, and stood in front of the prince’s chair. All looked on with

some surprise, and Prince S. and her sisters with feelings of decided

alarm, to see what new frolic she was up to; it had gone quite far

enough already, they thought. But Aglaya evidently thoroughly enjoyed

the affectation and ceremony with which she was introducing her

recitation of the poem.

Mrs. Epanchin was just wondering whether she would not forbid the

performance after all, when, at the very moment that Aglaya commenced

her declamation, two new guests, both talking loudly, entered from the

street. The new arrivals were General Epanchin and a young man.

Their entrance caused some slight commotion.

VII.

The young fellow accompanying the general was about twenty-eight, tall,

and well built, with a handsome and clever face, and bright black eyes,

full of fun and intelligence.

Aglaya did not so much as glance at the new arrivals, but went on with

her recitation, gazing at the prince the while in an affected manner,

and at him alone. It was clear to him that she was doing all this with

some special object.

But the new guests at least somewhat eased his strained and

uncomfortable position. Seeing them approaching, he rose from his

chair, and nodding amicably to the general, signed to him not to

interrupt the recitation. He then got behind his chair, and stood there

with his left hand resting on the back of it. Thanks to this change of

position, he was able to listen to the ballad with far less

embarrassment than before. Mrs. Epanchin had also twice motioned to the

new arrivals to be quiet, and stay where they were.

The prince was much interested in the young man who had just entered.

He easily concluded that this was Evgenie Pavlovitch Radomski, of whom

he had already heard mention several times. He was puzzled, however, by

the young man’s plain clothes, for he had always heard of Evgenie

Pavlovitch as a military man. An ironical smile played on Evgenie’s

lips all the while the recitation was proceeding, which showed that he,

too, was probably in the secret of the ‘poor knight’ joke. But it had

become quite a different matter with Aglaya. All the affectation of

manner which she had displayed at the beginning disappeared as the

ballad proceeded. She spoke the lines in so serious and exalted a

manner, and with so much taste, that she even seemed to justify the

exaggerated solemnity with which she had stepped forward. It was

impossible to discern in her now anything but a deep feeling for the

spirit of the poem which she had undertaken to interpret.

Her eyes were aglow with inspiration, and a slight tremor of rapture

passed over her lovely features once or twice. She continued to recite:

“Once there came a vision glorious,

Mystic, dreadful, wondrous fair;

Burned itself into his spirit,

And abode for ever there!

“Never more—from that sweet moment—

Gazéd he on womankind;

He was dumb to love and wooing

And to all their graces blind.

“Full of love for that sweet vision,

Brave and pure he took the field;

With his blood he stained the letters

N. P. B. upon his shield.

“‘Lumen caeli, sancta Rosa!’

Shouting on the foe he fell,

And like thunder rang his war-cry

O’er the cowering infidel.

“Then within his distant castle,

Home returned, he dreamed his days—

Silent, sad,—and when death took him

He was mad, the legend says.”

When recalling all this afterwards the prince could not for the life of

him understand how to reconcile the beautiful, sincere, pure nature of

the girl with the irony of this jest. That it was a jest there was no

doubt whatever; he knew that well enough, and had good reason, too, for

his conviction; for during her recitation of the ballad Aglaya had

deliberately changed the letters A. N. B. into N. P. B. He was quite

sure she had not done this by accident, and that his ears had not

deceived him. At all events her performance—which was a joke, of

course, if rather a crude one,—was premeditated. They had evidently

talked (and laughed) over the ‘poor knight’ for more than a month.

Yet Aglaya had brought out these letters N. P. B. not only without the

slightest appearance of irony, or even any particular accentuation, but

with so even and unbroken an appearance of seriousness that assuredly

anyone might have supposed that these initials were the original ones

written in the ballad. The thing made an uncomfortable impression upon

the prince. Of course Mrs. Epanchin saw nothing either in the change of

initials or in the insinuation embodied therein. General Epanchin only

knew that there was a recitation of verses going on, and took no

further interest in the matter. Of the rest of the audience, many had

understood the allusion and wondered both at the daring of the lady and

at the motive underlying it, but tried to show no sign of their

feelings. But Evgenie Pavlovitch (as the prince was ready to wager)

both comprehended and tried his best to show that he comprehended; his

smile was too mocking to leave any doubt on that point.

“How beautiful that is!” cried Mrs. Epanchin, with sincere admiration.

“Whose is it?”

“Pushkin’s, mama, of course! Don’t disgrace us all by showing your

ignorance,” said Adelaida.

“As soon as we reach home give it to me to read.”

“I don’t think we have a copy of Pushkin in the house.”

“There are a couple of torn volumes somewhere; they have been lying

about from time immemorial,” added Alexandra.

“Send Feodor or Alexey up by the very first train to buy a copy,

then.—Aglaya, come here—kiss me, dear, you recited beautifully! but,”

she added in a whisper, “if you were sincere I am sorry for you. If it

was a joke, I do not approve of the feelings which prompted you to do

it, and in any case you would have done far better not to recite it at

all. Do you understand?—Now come along, young woman; we’ve sat here too

long. I’ll speak to you about this another time.”

Meanwhile the prince took the opportunity of greeting General Epanchin,

and the general introduced Evgenie Pavlovitch to him.

“I caught him up on the way to your house,” explained the general. “He

had heard that we were all here.”

“Yes, and I heard that you were here, too,” added Evgenie Pavlovitch;

“and since I had long promised myself the pleasure of seeking not only

your acquaintance but your friendship, I did not wish to waste time,

but came straight on. I am sorry to hear that you are unwell.”

“Oh, but I’m quite well now, thank you, and very glad to make your

acquaintance. Prince S. has often spoken to me about you,” said

Muishkin, and for an instant the two men looked intently into one

another’s eyes.

The prince remarked that Evgenie Pavlovitch’s plain clothes had

evidently made a great impression upon the company present, so much so

that all other interests seemed to be effaced before this surprising

fact.

His change of dress was evidently a matter of some importance. Adelaida

and Alexandra poured out a stream of questions; Prince S., a relative

of the young man, appeared annoyed; and Ivan Fedorovitch quite excited.

Aglaya alone was not interested. She merely looked closely at Evgenie

for a minute, curious perhaps as to whether civil or military clothes

became him best, then turned away and paid no more attention to him or

his costume. Lizabetha Prokofievna asked no questions, but it was clear

that she was uneasy, and the prince fancied that Evgenie was not in her

good graces.

“He has astonished me,” said Ivan Fedorovitch. “I nearly fell down with

surprise. I could hardly believe my eyes when I met him in Petersburg

just now. Why this haste? That’s what I want to know. He has always

said himself that there is no need to break windows.”

Evgenie Pavlovitch remarked here that he had spoken of his intention of

leaving the service long ago. He had, however, always made more or less

of a joke about it, so no one had taken him seriously. For that matter

he joked about everything, and his friends never knew what to believe,

especially if he did not wish them to understand him.

“I have only retired for a time,” said he, laughing. “For a few months;

at most for a year.”

“But there is no necessity for you to retire at all,” complained the

general, “as far as I know.”

“I want to go and look after my country estates. You advised me to do

that yourself,” was the reply. “And then I wish to go abroad.”

After a few more expostulations, the conversation drifted into other

channels, but the prince, who had been an attentive listener, thought

all this excitement about so small a matter very curious. “There must

be more in it than appears,” he said to himself.

“I see the ‘poor knight’ has come on the scene again,” said Evgenie

Pavlovitch, stepping to Aglaya’s side.

To the amazement of the prince, who overheard the remark, Aglaya looked

haughtily and inquiringly at the questioner, as though she would give

him to know, once for all, that there could be no talk between them

about the ‘poor knight,’ and that she did not understand his question.

“But not now! It is too late to send to town for a Pushkin now. It is

much too late, I say!” Colia was exclaiming in a loud voice. “I have

told you so at least a hundred times.”

“Yes, it is really much too late to send to town now,” said Evgenie

Pavlovitch, who had escaped from Aglaya as rapidly as possible. “I am

sure the shops are shut in Petersburg; it is past eight o’clock,” he

added, looking at his watch.

“We have done without him so far,” interrupted Adelaida in her turn.

“Surely we can wait until to-morrow.”

“Besides,” said Colia, “it is quite unusual, almost improper, for

people in our position to take any interest in literature. Ask Evgenie

Pavlovitch if I am not right. It is much more fashionable to drive a

waggonette with red wheels.”

“You got that from some magazine, Colia,” remarked Adelaida.

“He gets most of his conversation in that way,” laughed Evgenie

Pavlovitch. “He borrows whole phrases from the reviews. I have long had

the pleasure of knowing both Nicholai Ardalionovitch and his

conversational methods, but this time he was not repeating something he

had read; he was alluding, no doubt, to my yellow waggonette, which

has, or had, red wheels. But I have exchanged it, so you are rather

behind the times, Colia.”

The prince had been listening attentively to Radomski’s words, and

thought his manner very pleasant. When Colia chaffed him about his

waggonette he had replied with perfect equality and in a friendly

fashion. This pleased Muishkin.

At this moment Vera came up to Lizabetha Prokofievna, carrying several

large and beautifully bound books, apparently quite new.

“What is it?” demanded the lady.

“This is Pushkin,” replied the girl. “Papa told me to offer it to you.”

“What? Impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Epanchin.

“Not as a present, not as a present! I should not have taken the

liberty,” said Lebedeff, appearing suddenly from behind his daughter.

“It is our own Pushkin, our family copy, Annenkoff’s edition; it could

not be bought now. I beg to suggest, with great respect, that your

excellency should buy it, and thus quench the noble literary thirst

which is consuming you at this moment,” he concluded grandiloquently.

“Oh! if you will sell it, very good—and thank you. You shall not be a

loser! But for goodness’ sake, don’t twist about like that, sir! I have

heard of you; they tell me you are a very learned person. We must have

a talk one of these days. You will bring me the books yourself?”

“With the greatest respect... and... and veneration,” replied Lebedeff,

making extraordinary grimaces.

“Well, bring them, with or without respect, provided always you do not

drop them on the way; but on the condition,” went on the lady, looking

full at him, “that you do not cross my threshold. I do not intend to

receive you today. You may send your daughter Vera at once, if you

like. I am much pleased with her.”

“Why don’t you tell him about them?” said Vera impatiently to her

father. “They will come in, whether you announce them or not, and they

are beginning to make a row. Lef Nicolaievitch,”—she addressed herself

to the prince—“four men are here asking for you. They have waited some

time, and are beginning to make a fuss, and papa will not bring them

in.”

“Who are these people?” said the prince.

“They say that they have come on business, and they are the kind of

men, who, if you do not see them here, will follow you about the

street. It would be better to receive them, and then you will get rid

of them. Gavrila Ardalionovitch and Ptitsin are both there, trying to

make them hear reason.”

“Pavlicheff’s son! It is not worth while!” cried Lebedeff. “There is no

necessity to see them, and it would be most unpleasant for your

excellency. They do not deserve...”

“What? Pavlicheff’s son!” cried the prince, much perturbed. “I know...

I know—but I entrusted this matter to Gavrila Ardalionovitch. He told

me...”

At that moment Gania, accompanied by Ptitsin, came out to the terrace.

From an adjoining room came a noise of angry voices, and General

Ivolgin, in loud tones, seemed to be trying to shout them down. Colia

rushed off at once to investigate the cause of the uproar.

“This is most interesting!” observed Evgenie Pavlovitch.

“I expect he knows all about it!” thought the prince.

“What, the son of Pavlicheff? And who may this son of Pavlicheff be?”

asked General Epanchin with surprise; and looking curiously around him,

he discovered that he alone had no clue to the mystery. Expectation and

suspense were on every face, with the exception of that of the prince,

who stood gravely wondering how an affair so entirely personal could

have awakened such lively and widespread interest in so short a time.

Aglaya went up to him with a peculiarly serious look.

“It will be well,” she said, “if you put an end to this affair yourself

_at once_: but you must allow us to be your witnesses. They want to

throw mud at you, prince, and you must be triumphantly vindicated. I

give you joy beforehand!”

“And I also wish for justice to be done, once for all,” cried Madame

Epanchin, “about this impudent claim. Deal with them promptly, prince,

and don’t spare them! I am sick of hearing about the affair, and many a

quarrel I have had in your cause. But I confess I am anxious to see

what happens, so do make them come out here, and we will remain. You

have heard people talking about it, no doubt?” she added, turning to

Prince S.

“Of course,” said he. “I have heard it spoken about at your house, and

I am anxious to see these young men!”

“They are Nihilists, are they not?”

“No, they are not Nihilists,” explained Lebedeff, who seemed much

excited. “This is another lot—a special group. According to my nephew

they are more advanced even than the Nihilists. You are quite wrong,

excellency, if you think that your presence will intimidate them;

nothing intimidates them. Educated men, learned men even, are to be

found among Nihilists; these go further, in that they are men of

action. The movement is, properly speaking, a derivative from

Nihilism—though they are only known indirectly, and by hearsay, for

they never advertise their doings in the papers. They go straight to

the point. For them, it is not a question of showing that Pushkin is

stupid, or that Russia must be torn in pieces. No; but if they have a

great desire for anything, they believe they have a right to get it

even at the cost of the lives, say, of eight persons. They are checked

by no obstacles. In fact, prince, I should not advise you...”

But Muishkin had risen, and was on his way to open the door for his

visitors.

“You are slandering them, Lebedeff,” said he, smiling.

“You are always thinking about your nephew’s conduct. Don’t believe

him, Lizabetha Prokofievna. I can assure you Gorsky and Daniloff are

exceptions—and that these are only... mistaken. However, I do not care

about receiving them here, in public. Excuse me, Lizabetha Prokofievna.

They are coming, and you can see them, and then I will take them away.

Please come in, gentlemen!”

Another thought tormented him: He wondered was this an arranged

business—arranged to happen when he had guests in his house, and in

anticipation of his humiliation rather than of his triumph? But he

reproached himself bitterly for such a thought, and felt as if he

should die of shame if it were discovered. When his new visitors

appeared, he was quite ready to believe himself infinitely less to be

respected than any of them.

Four persons entered, led by General Ivolgin, in a state of great

excitement, and talking eloquently.

“He is for me, undoubtedly!” thought the prince, with a smile. Colia

also had joined the party, and was talking with animation to Hippolyte,

who listened with a jeering smile on his lips.

The prince begged the visitors to sit down. They were all so young that

it made the proceedings seem even more extraordinary. Ivan Fedorovitch,

who really understood nothing of what was going on, felt indignant at

the sight of these youths, and would have interfered in some way had it

not been for the extreme interest shown by his wife in the affair. He

therefore remained, partly through curiosity, partly through

good-nature, hoping that his presence might be of some use. But the bow

with which General Ivolgin greeted him irritated him anew; he frowned,

and decided to be absolutely silent.

As to the rest, one was a man of thirty, the retired officer, now a

boxer, who had been with Rogojin, and in his happier days had given

fifteen roubles at a time to beggars. Evidently he had joined the

others as a comrade to give them moral, and if necessary material,

support. The man who had been spoken of as “Pavlicheff’s son,” although

he gave the name of Antip Burdovsky, was about twenty-two years of age,

fair, thin and rather tall. He was remarkable for the poverty, not to

say uncleanliness, of his personal appearance: the sleeves of his

overcoat were greasy; his dirty waistcoat, buttoned up to his neck,

showed not a trace of linen; a filthy black silk scarf, twisted till it

resembled a cord, was round his neck, and his hands were unwashed. He

looked round with an air of insolent effrontery. His face, covered with

pimples, was neither thoughtful nor even contemptuous; it wore an

expression of complacent satisfaction in demanding his rights and in

being an aggrieved party. His voice trembled, and he spoke so fast, and

with such stammerings, that he might have been taken for a foreigner,

though the purest Russian blood ran in his veins. Lebedeff’s nephew,

whom the reader has seen already, accompanied him, and also the youth

named Hippolyte Terentieff. The latter was only seventeen or eighteen.

He had an intelligent face, though it was usually irritated and fretful

in expression. His skeleton-like figure, his ghastly complexion, the

brightness of his eyes, and the red spots of colour on his cheeks,

betrayed the victim of consumption to the most casual glance. He

coughed persistently, and panted for breath; it looked as though he had

but a few weeks more to live. He was nearly dead with fatigue, and

fell, rather than sat, into a chair. The rest bowed as they came in;

and being more or less abashed, put on an air of extreme

self-assurance. In short, their attitude was not that which one would

have expected in men who professed to despise all trivialities, all

foolish mundane conventions, and indeed everything, except their own

personal interests.

“Antip Burdovsky,” stuttered the son of Pavlicheff.

“Vladimir Doktorenko,” said Lebedeff’s nephew briskly, and with a

certain pride, as if he boasted of his name.

“Keller,” murmured the retired officer.

“Hippolyte Terentieff,” cried the last-named, in a shrill voice.

They sat now in a row facing the prince, and frowned, and played with

their caps. All appeared ready to speak, and yet all were silent; the

defiant expression on their faces seemed to say, “No, sir, you don’t

take us in!” It could be felt that the first word spoken by anyone

present would bring a torrent of speech from the whole deputation.

VIII.

“I _did_ not expect you, gentlemen,” began the prince. “I have been ill

until to-day. A month ago,” he continued, addressing himself to Antip

Burdovsky, “I put your business into Gavrila Ardalionovitch Ivolgin’s

hands, as I told you then. I do not in the least object to having a

personal interview... but you will agree with me that this is hardly

the time... I propose that we go into another room, if you will not

keep me long... As you see, I have friends here, and believe me...”

“Friends as many as you please, but allow me,” interrupted the harsh

voice of Lebedeff’s nephew—“allow me to tell you that you might have

treated us rather more politely, and not have kept us waiting at least

two hours...

“No doubt... and I... is that acting like a prince? And you... you may

be a general! But I... I am not your valet! And I... I...” stammered

Antip Burdovsky.

He was extremely excited; his lips trembled, and the resentment of an

embittered soul was in his voice. But he spoke so indistinctly that

hardly a dozen words could be gathered.

“It was a princely action!” sneered Hippolyte.

“If anyone had treated me so,” grumbled the boxer.

“I mean to say that if I had been in Burdovsky’s place...I...”

“Gentlemen, I did not know you were there; I have only just been

informed, I assure you,” repeated Muishkin.

“We are not afraid of your friends, prince,” remarked Lebedeff’s

nephew, “for we are within our rights.”

The shrill tones of Hippolyte interrupted him. “What right have you...

by what right do you demand us to submit this matter, about

Burdovsky... to the judgment of your friends? We know only too well

what the judgment of your friends will be!...”

This beginning gave promise of a stormy discussion. The prince was much

discouraged, but at last he managed to make himself heard amid the

vociferations of his excited visitors.

“If you,” he said, addressing Burdovsky—“if you prefer not to speak

here, I offer again to go into another room with you... and as to your

waiting to see me, I repeat that I only this instant heard...”

“Well, you have no right, you have no right, no right at all!... Your

friends indeed!”... gabbled Burdovsky, defiantly examining the faces

round him, and becoming more and more excited. “You have no right!...”

As he ended thus abruptly, he leant forward, staring at the prince with

his short-sighted, bloodshot eyes. The latter was so astonished, that

he did not reply, but looked steadily at him in return.

“Lef Nicolaievitch!” interposed Madame Epanchin, suddenly, “read this

at once, this very moment! It is about this business.”

She held out a weekly comic paper, pointing to an article on one of its

pages. Just as the visitors were coming in, Lebedeff, wishing to

ingratiate himself with the great lady, had pulled this paper from his

pocket, and presented it to her, indicating a few columns marked in

pencil. Lizabetha Prokofievna had had time to read some of it, and was

greatly upset.

“Would it not be better to peruse it alone... later,” asked the prince,

nervously.

“No, no, read it—read it at once directly, and aloud, aloud!” cried

she, calling Colia to her and giving him the journal.—“Read it aloud,

so that everyone may hear it!”

An impetuous woman, Lizabetha Prokofievna sometimes weighed her anchors

and put out to sea quite regardless of the possible storms she might

encounter. Ivan Fedorovitch felt a sudden pang of alarm, but the others

were merely curious, and somewhat surprised. Colia unfolded the paper,

and began to read, in his clear, high-pitched voice, the following

article:

“Proletarians and scions of nobility! An episode of the brigandage of

today and every day! Progress! Reform! Justice!”

“Strange things are going on in our so-called Holy Russia in this age

of reform and great enterprises; this age of patriotism in which

hundreds of millions are yearly sent abroad; in which industry is

encouraged, and the hands of Labour paralyzed, etc.; there is no end to

this, gentlemen, so let us come to the point. A strange thing has

happened to a scion of our defunct aristocracy. (_De profundis!_) The

grandfathers of these scions ruined themselves at the gaming-tables;

their fathers were forced to serve as officers or subalterns; some have

died just as they were about to be tried for innocent thoughtlessness

in the handling of public funds. Their children are sometimes

congenital idiots, like the hero of our story; sometimes they are found

in the dock at the Assizes, where they are generally acquitted by the

jury for edifying motives; sometimes they distinguish themselves by one

of those burning scandals that amaze the public and add another blot to

the stained record of our age. Six months ago—that is, last winter—this

particular scion returned to Russia, wearing gaiters like a foreigner,

and shivering with cold in an old scantily-lined cloak. He had come

from Switzerland, where he had just undergone a successful course of

treatment for idiocy (_sic!_). Certainly Fortune favoured him, for,

apart from the interesting malady of which he was cured in Switzerland

(can there be a cure for idiocy?) his story proves the truth of the

Russian proverb that ‘happiness is the right of certain classes!’ Judge

for yourselves. Our subject was an infant in arms when he lost his

father, an officer who died just as he was about to be court-martialled

for gambling away the funds of his company, and perhaps also for

flogging a subordinate to excess (remember the good old days,

gentlemen). The orphan was brought up by the charity of a very rich

Russian landowner. In the good old days, this man, whom we will call

P——, owned four thousand souls as serfs (souls as serfs!—can you

understand such an expression, gentlemen? I cannot; it must be looked

up in a dictionary before one can understand it; these things of a

bygone day are already unintelligible to us). He appears to have been

one of those Russian parasites who lead an idle existence abroad,

spending the summer at some spa, and the winter in Paris, to the

greater profit of the organizers of public balls. It may safely be said

that the manager of the Chateau des Fleurs (lucky man!) pocketed at

least a third of the money paid by Russian peasants to their lords in

the days of serfdom. However this may be, the gay P—— brought up the

orphan like a prince, provided him with tutors and governesses (pretty,

of course!) whom he chose himself in Paris. But the little aristocrat,

the last of his noble race, was an idiot. The governesses, recruited at

the Chateau des Fleurs, laboured in vain; at twenty years of age their

pupil could not speak in any language, not even Russian. But ignorance

of the latter was still excusable. At last P—— was seized with a

strange notion; he imagined that in Switzerland they could change an

idiot into a man of sense. After all, the idea was quite logical; a

parasite and landowner naturally supposed that intelligence was a

marketable commodity like everything else, and that in Switzerland

especially it could be bought for money. The case was entrusted to a

celebrated Swiss professor, and cost thousands of roubles; the

treatment lasted five years. Needless to say, the idiot did not become

intelligent, but it is alleged that he grew into something more or less

resembling a man. At this stage P—— died suddenly, and, as usual, he

had made no will and left his affairs in disorder. A crowd of eager

claimants arose, who cared nothing about any last scion of a noble race

undergoing treatment in Switzerland, at the expense of the deceased, as

a congenital idiot. Idiot though he was, the noble scion tried to cheat

his professor, and they say he succeeded in getting him to continue the

treatment gratis for two years, by concealing the death of his

benefactor. But the professor himself was a charlatan. Getting anxious

at last when no money was forthcoming, and alarmed above all by his

patient’s appetite, he presented him with a pair of old gaiters and a

shabby cloak and packed him off to Russia, third class. It would seem

that Fortune had turned her back upon our hero. Not at all; Fortune,

who lets whole populations die of hunger, showered all her gifts at

once upon the little aristocrat, like Kryloff’s Cloud which passes over

an arid plain and empties itself into the sea. He had scarcely arrived

in St. Petersburg, when a relation of his mother’s (who was of

bourgeois origin, of course), died at Moscow. He was a merchant, an Old

Believer, and he had no children. He left a fortune of several millions

in good current coin, and everything came to our noble scion, our

gaitered baron, formerly treated for idiocy in a Swiss lunatic asylum.

Instantly the scene changed, crowds of friends gathered round our

baron, who meanwhile had lost his head over a celebrated demi-mondaine;

he even discovered some relations; moreover a number of young girls of

high birth burned to be united to him in lawful matrimony. Could anyone

possibly imagine a better match? Aristocrat, millionaire, and idiot, he

has every advantage! One might hunt in vain for his equal, even with

the lantern of Diogenes; his like is not to be had even by getting it

made to order!”

“Oh, I don’t know what this means” cried Ivan Fedorovitch, transported

with indignation.

“Leave off, Colia,” begged the prince. Exclamations arose on all sides.

“Let him go on reading at all costs!” ordered Lizabetha Prokofievna,

evidently preserving her composure by a desperate effort. “Prince, if

the reading is stopped, you and I will quarrel.”

Colia had no choice but to obey. With crimson cheeks he read on

unsteadily:

“But while our young millionaire dwelt as it were in the Empyrean,

something new occurred. One fine morning a man called upon him, calm

and severe of aspect, distinguished, but plainly dressed. Politely, but

in dignified terms, as befitted his errand, he briefly explained the

motive for his visit. He was a lawyer of enlightened views; his client

was a young man who had consulted him in confidence. This young man was

no other than the son of P——, though he bears another name. In his

youth P——, the sensualist, had seduced a young girl, poor but

respectable. She was a serf, but had received a European education.

Finding that a child was expected, he hastened her marriage with a man

of noble character who had loved her for a long time. He helped the

young couple for a time, but he was soon obliged to give up, for the

high-minded husband refused to accept anything from him. Soon the

careless nobleman forgot all about his former mistress and the child

she had borne him; then, as we know, he died intestate. P——’s son, born

after his mother’s marriage, found a true father in the generous man

whose name he bore. But when he also died, the orphan was left to

provide for himself, his mother now being an invalid who had lost the

use of her limbs. Leaving her in a distant province, he came to the

capital in search of pupils. By dint of daily toil he earned enough to

enable him to follow the college courses, and at last to enter the

university. But what can one earn by teaching the children of Russian

merchants at ten copecks a lesson, especially with an invalid mother to

keep? Even her death did not much diminish the hardships of the young

man’s struggle for existence. Now this is the question: how, in the

name of justice, should our scion have argued the case? Our readers

will think, no doubt, that he would say to himself: ‘P—— showered

benefits upon me all my life; he spent tens of thousands of roubles to

educate me, to provide me with governesses, and to keep me under

treatment in Switzerland. Now I am a millionaire, and P——’s son, a

noble young man who is not responsible for the faults of his careless

and forgetful father, is wearing himself out giving ill-paid lessons.

According to justice, all that was done for me ought to have been done

for him. The enormous sums spent upon me were not really mine; they

came to me by an error of blind Fortune, when they ought to have gone

to P——’s son. They should have gone to benefit him, not me, in whom P——

interested himself by a mere caprice, instead of doing his duty as a

father. If I wished to behave nobly, justly, and with delicacy, I ought

to bestow half my fortune upon the son of my benefactor; but as economy

is my favourite virtue, and I know this is not a case in which the law

can intervene, I will not give up half my millions. But it would be too

openly vile, too flagrantly infamous, if I did not at least restore to

P——’s son the tens of thousands of roubles spent in curing my idiocy.

This is simply a case of conscience and of strict justice. Whatever

would have become of me if P—— had not looked after my education, and

had taken care of his own son instead of me?’

“No, gentlemen, our scions of the nobility do not reason thus. The

lawyer, who had taken up the matter purely out of friendship to the

young man, and almost against his will, invoked every consideration of

justice, delicacy, honour, and even plain figures; in vain, the

ex-patient of the Swiss lunatic asylum was inflexible. All this might

pass, but the sequel is absolutely unpardonable, and not to be excused

by any interesting malady. This millionaire, having but just discarded

the old gaiters of his professor, could not even understand that the

noble young man slaving away at his lessons was not asking for

charitable help, but for his rightful due, though the debt was not a

legal one; that, correctly speaking, he was not asking for anything,

but it was merely his friends who had thought fit to bestir themselves

on his behalf. With the cool insolence of a bloated capitalist, secure

in his millions, he majestically drew a banknote for fifty roubles from

his pocket-book and sent it to the noble young man as a humiliating

piece of charity. You can hardly believe it, gentlemen! You are

scandalized and disgusted; you cry out in indignation! But that is what

he did! Needless to say, the money was returned, or rather flung back

in his face. The case is not within the province of the law, it must be

referred to the tribunal of public opinion; this is what we now do,

guaranteeing the truth of all the details which we have related.”

When Colia had finished reading, he handed the paper to the prince, and

retired silently to a corner of the room, hiding his face in his hands.

He was overcome by a feeling of inexpressible shame; his boyish

sensitiveness was wounded beyond endurance. It seemed to him that

something extraordinary, some sudden catastrophe had occurred, and that

he was almost the cause of it, because he had read the article aloud.

Yet all the others were similarly affected. The girls were

uncomfortable and ashamed. Lizabetha Prokofievna restrained her violent

anger by a great effort; perhaps she bitterly regretted her

interference in the matter; for the present she kept silence. The

prince felt as very shy people often do in such a case; he was so

ashamed of the conduct of other people, so humiliated for his guests,

that he dared not look them in the face. Ptitsin, Varia, Gania, and

Lebedeff himself, all looked rather confused. Stranger still, Hippolyte

and the “son of Pavlicheff” also seemed slightly surprised, and

Lebedeff’s nephew was obviously far from pleased. The boxer alone was

perfectly calm; he twisted his moustaches with affected dignity, and if

his eyes were cast down it was certainly not in confusion, but rather

in noble modesty, as if he did not wish to be insolent in his triumph.

It was evident that he was delighted with the article.

“The devil knows what it means,” growled Ivan Fedorovitch, under his

breath; “it must have taken the united wits of fifty footmen to write

it.”

“May I ask your reason for such an insulting supposition, sir?” said

Hippolyte, trembling with rage.

“You will admit yourself, general, that for an honourable man, if the

author is an honourable man, that is an—an insult,” growled the boxer

suddenly, with convulsive jerkings of his shoulders.

“In the first place, it is not for you to address me as ‘sir,’ and, in

the second place, I refuse to give you any explanation,” said Ivan

Fedorovitch vehemently; and he rose without another word, and went and

stood on the first step of the flight that led from the verandah to the

street, turning his back on the company. He was indignant with

Lizabetha Prokofievna, who did not think of moving even now.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, let me speak at last,” cried the prince, anxious

and agitated. “Please let us understand one another. I say nothing

about the article, gentlemen, except that every word is false; I say

this because you know it as well as I do. It is shameful. I should be

surprised if any one of you could have written it.”

“I did not know of its existence till this moment,” declared Hippolyte.

“I do not approve of it.”

“I knew it had been written, but I would not have advised its

publication,” said Lebedeff’s nephew, “because it is premature.”

“I knew it, but I have a right. I... I...” stammered the “son of

Pavlicheff.”

“What! Did you write all that yourself? Is it possible?” asked the

prince, regarding Burdovsky with curiosity.

“One might dispute your right to ask such questions,” observed

Lebedeff’s nephew.

“I was only surprised that Mr. Burdovsky should have—however, this is

what I have to say. Since you had already given the matter publicity,

why did you object just now, when I began to speak of it to my

friends?”

“At last!” murmured Lizabetha Prokofievna indignantly.

Lebedeff could restrain himself no longer; he made his way through the

row of chairs.

“Prince,” he cried, “you are forgetting that if you consented to

receive and hear them, it was only because of your kind heart which has

no equal, for they had not the least right to demand it, especially as

you had placed the matter in the hands of Gavrila Ardalionovitch, which

was also extremely kind of you. You are also forgetting, most excellent

prince, that you are with friends, a select company; you cannot

sacrifice them to these gentlemen, and it is only for you to have them

turned out this instant. As the master of the house I shall have great

pleasure ....”

“Quite right!” agreed General Ivolgin in a loud voice.

“That will do, Lebedeff, that will do—” began the prince, when an

indignant outcry drowned his words.

“Excuse me, prince, excuse me, but now that will not do,” shouted

Lebedeff’s nephew, his voice dominating all the others. “The matter

must be clearly stated, for it is obviously not properly understood.

They are calling in some legal chicanery, and upon that ground they are

threatening to turn us out of the house! Really, prince, do you think

we are such fools as not to be aware that this matter does not come

within the law, and that legally we cannot claim a rouble from you? But

we are also aware that if actual law is not on our side, human law is

for us, natural law, the law of common-sense and conscience, which is

no less binding upon every noble and honest man—that is, every man of

sane judgment—because it is not to be found in miserable legal codes.

If we come here without fear of being turned out (as was threatened

just now) because of the imperative tone of our demand, and the

unseemliness of such a visit at this late hour (though it was not late

when we arrived, we were kept waiting in your anteroom), if, I say, we

came in without fear, it is just because we expected to find you a man

of sense; I mean, a man of honour and conscience. It is quite true that

we did not present ourselves humbly, like your flatterers and

parasites, but holding up our heads as befits independent men. We

present no petition, but a proud and free demand (note it well, we do

not beseech, we demand!). We ask you fairly and squarely in a dignified

manner. Do you believe that in this affair of Burdovsky you have right

on your side? Do you admit that Pavlicheff overwhelmed you with

benefits, and perhaps saved your life? If you admit it (which we take

for granted), do you intend, now that you are a millionaire, and do you

not think it in conformity with justice, to indemnify Burdovsky? Yes or

no? If it is yes, or, in other words, if you possess what you call

honour and conscience, and we more justly call common-sense, then

accede to our demand, and the matter is at an end. Give us

satisfaction, without entreaties or thanks from us; do not expect

thanks from us, for what you do will be done not for our sake, but for

the sake of justice. If you refuse to satisfy us, that is, if your

answer is no, we will go away at once, and there will be an end of the

matter. But we will tell you to your face before the present company

that you are a man of vulgar and undeveloped mind; we will openly deny

you the right to speak in future of your honour and conscience, for you

have not paid the fair price of such a right. I have no more to say—I

have put the question before you. Now turn us out if you dare. You can

do it; force is on your side. But remember that we do not beseech, we

demand! We do not beseech, we demand!”

With these last excited words, Lebedeff’s nephew was silent.

“We demand, we demand, we demand, we do not beseech,” spluttered

Burdovsky, red as a lobster.

The speech of Lebedeff’s nephew caused a certain stir among the

company; murmurs arose, though with the exception of Lebedeff, who was

still very much excited, everyone was careful not to interfere in the

matter. Strangely enough, Lebedeff, although on the prince’s side,

seemed quite proud of his nephew’s eloquence. Gratified vanity was

visible in the glances he cast upon the assembled company.

“In my opinion, Mr. Doktorenko,” said the prince, in rather a low

voice, “you are quite right in at least half of what you say. I would

go further and say that you are altogether right, and that I quite

agree with you, if there were not something lacking in your speech. I

cannot undertake to say precisely what it is, but you have certainly

omitted something, and you cannot be quite just while there is

something lacking. But let us put that aside and return to the point.

Tell me what induced you to publish this article. Every word of it is a

calumny, and I think, gentlemen, that you have been guilty of a mean

action.”

“Allow me—”

“Sir—”

“What? What? What?” cried all the visitors at once, in violent

agitation.

“As to the article,” said Hippolyte in his croaking voice, “I have told

you already that we none of us approve of it! There is the writer,” he

added, pointing to the boxer, who sat beside him. “I quite admit that

he has written it in his old regimental manner, with an equal disregard

for style and decency. I know he is a cross between a fool and an

adventurer; I make no bones about telling him so to his face every day.

But after all he is half justified; publicity is the lawful right of

every man; consequently, Burdovsky is not excepted. Let him answer for

his own blunders. As to the objection which I made just now in the name

of all, to the presence of your friends, I think I ought to explain,

gentlemen, that I only did so to assert our rights, though we really

wished to have witnesses; we had agreed unanimously upon the point

before we came in. We do not care who your witnesses may be, or whether

they are your friends or not. As they cannot fail to recognize

Burdovsky’s right (seeing that it is mathematically demonstrable), it

is just as well that the witnesses should be your friends. The truth

will only be more plainly evident.”

“It is quite true; we had agreed upon that point,” said Lebedeff’s

nephew, in confirmation.

“If that is the case, why did you begin by making such a fuss about

it?” asked the astonished prince.

The boxer was dying to get in a few words; owing, no doubt, to the

presence of the ladies, he was becoming quite jovial.

“As to the article, prince,” he said, “I admit that I wrote it, in

spite of the severe criticism of my poor friend, in whom I always

overlook many things because of his unfortunate state of health. But I

wrote and published it in the form of a letter, in the paper of a

friend. I showed it to no one but Burdovsky, and I did not read it all

through, even to him. He immediately gave me permission to publish it,

but you will admit that I might have done so without his consent.

Publicity is a noble, beneficent, and universal right. I hope, prince,

that you are too progressive to deny this?”

“I deny nothing, but you must confess that your article—”

“Is a bit thick, you mean? Well, in a way that is in the public

interest; you will admit that yourself, and after all one cannot

overlook a blatant fact. So much the worse for the guilty parties, but

the public welfare must come before everything. As to certain

inaccuracies and figures of speech, so to speak, you will also admit

that the motive, aim, and intention, are the chief thing. It is a

question, above all, of making a wholesome example; the individual case

can be examined afterwards; and as to the style—well, the thing was

meant to be humorous, so to speak, and, after all, everybody writes

like that; you must admit it yourself! Ha, ha!”

“But, gentlemen, I assure you that you are quite astray,” exclaimed the

prince. “You have published this article upon the supposition that I

would never consent to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky. Acting on that

conviction, you have tried to intimidate me by this publication and to

be revenged for my supposed refusal. But what did you know of my

intentions? It may be that I have resolved to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky’s

claim. I now declare openly, in the presence of these witnesses, that I

will do so.”

“The noble and intelligent word of an intelligent and most noble man,

at last!” exclaimed the boxer.

“Good God!” exclaimed Lizabetha Prokofievna involuntarily.

“This is intolerable,” growled the general.

“Allow me, gentlemen, allow me,” urged the prince.

“I will explain matters to you. Five weeks ago I received a visit from

Tchebaroff, your agent, Mr. Burdovsky. You have given a very flattering

description of him in your article, Mr. Keller,” he continued, turning

to the boxer with a smile, “but he did not please me at all. I saw at

once that Tchebaroff was the moving spirit in the matter, and, to speak

frankly, I thought he might have induced you, Mr. Burdovsky, to make

this claim, by taking advantage of your simplicity.”

“You have no right.... I am not simple,” stammered Burdovsky, much

agitated.

“You have no sort of right to suppose such things,” said Lebedeff’s

nephew in a tone of authority.

“It is most offensive!” shrieked Hippolyte; “it is an insulting

suggestion, false, and most ill-timed.”

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen; please excuse me,” said the prince. “I

thought absolute frankness on both sides would be best, but have it

your own way. I told Tchebaroff that, as I was not in Petersburg, I

would commission a friend to look into the matter without delay, and

that I would let you know, Mr. Burdovsky. Gentlemen, I have no

hesitation in telling you that it was the fact of Tchebaroff’s

intervention that made me suspect a fraud. Oh! do not take offence at

my words, gentlemen, for Heaven’s sake do not be so touchy!” cried the

prince, seeing that Burdovsky was getting excited again, and that the

rest were preparing to protest. “If I say I suspected a fraud, there is

nothing personal in that. I had never seen any of you then; I did not

even know your names; I only judged by Tchebaroff; I am speaking quite

generally—if you only knew how I have been ‘done’ since I came into my

fortune!”

“You are shockingly naive, prince,” said Lebedeff’s nephew in mocking

tones.

“Besides, though you are a prince and a millionaire, and even though

you may really be simple and good-hearted, you can hardly be outside

the general law,” Hippolyte declared loudly.

“Perhaps not; it is very possible,” the prince agreed hastily, “though

I do not know what general law you allude to. I will go on—only please

do not take offence without good cause. I assure you I do not mean to

offend you in the least. Really, it is impossible to speak three words

sincerely without your flying into a rage! At first I was amazed when

Tchebaroff told me that Pavlicheff had a son, and that he was in such a

miserable position. Pavlicheff was my benefactor, and my father’s

friend. Oh, Mr. Keller, why does your article impute things to my

father without the slightest foundation? He never squandered the funds

of his company nor ill-treated his subordinates, I am absolutely

certain of it; I cannot imagine how you could bring yourself to write

such a calumny! But your assertions concerning Pavlicheff are

absolutely intolerable! You do not scruple to make a libertine of that

noble man; you call him a sensualist as coolly as if you were speaking

the truth, and yet it would not be possible to find a chaster man. He

was even a scholar of note, and in correspondence with several

celebrated scientists, and spent large sums in the interests of

science. As to his kind heart and his good actions, you were right

indeed when you said that I was almost an idiot at that time, and could

hardly understand anything—(I could speak and understand Russian,

though),—but now I can appreciate what I remember—”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Hippolyte, “is not this rather sentimental?

You said you wished to come to the point; please remember that it is

after nine o’clock.”

“Very well, gentlemen—very well,” replied the prince. “At first I

received the news with mistrust, then I said to myself that I might be

mistaken, and that Pavlicheff might possibly have had a son. But I was

absolutely amazed at the readiness with which the son had revealed the

secret of his birth at the expense of his mother’s honour. For

Tchebaroff had already menaced me with publicity in our interview....”

“What nonsense!” Lebedeff’s nephew interrupted violently.

“You have no right—you have no right!” cried Burdovsky.

“The son is not responsible for the misdeeds of his father; and the

mother is not to blame,” added Hippolyte, with warmth.

“That seems to me all the more reason for sparing her,” said the prince

timidly.

“Prince, you are not only simple, but your simplicity is almost past

the limit,” said Lebedeff’s nephew, with a sarcastic smile.

“But what right had you?” said Hippolyte in a very strange tone.

“None—none whatever,” agreed the prince hastily. “I admit you are right

there, but it was involuntary, and I immediately said to myself that my

personal feelings had nothing to do with it,—that if I thought it right

to satisfy the demands of Mr. Burdovsky, out of respect for the memory

of Pavlicheff, I ought to do so in any case, whether I esteemed Mr.

Burdovsky or not. I only mentioned this, gentlemen, because it seemed

so unnatural to me for a son to betray his mother’s secret in such a

way. In short, that is what convinced me that Tchebaroff must be a

rogue, and that he had induced Mr. Burdovsky to attempt this fraud.”

“But this is intolerable!” cried the visitors, some of them starting to

their feet.

“Gentlemen, I supposed from this that poor Mr. Burdovsky must be a

simple-minded man, quite defenceless, and an easy tool in the hands of

rogues. That is why I thought it my duty to try and help him as

‘Pavlicheff’s son’; in the first place by rescuing him from the

influence of Tchebaroff, and secondly by making myself his friend. I

have resolved to give him ten thousand roubles; that is about the sum

which I calculate that Pavlicheff must have spent on me.”

“What, only ten thousand!” cried Hippolyte.

“Well, prince, your arithmetic is not up to much, or else you are

mighty clever at it, though you affect the air of a simpleton,” said

Lebedeff’s nephew.

“I will not accept ten thousand roubles,” said Burdovsky.

“Accept, Antip,” whispered the boxer eagerly, leaning past the back of

Hippolyte’s chair to give his friend this piece of advice. “Take it for

the present; we can see about more later on.”

“Look here, Mr. Muishkin,” shouted Hippolyte, “please understand that

we are not fools, nor idiots, as your guests seem to imagine; these

ladies who look upon us with such scorn, and especially this fine

gentleman” (pointing to Evgenie Pavlovitch) “whom I have not the honour

of knowing, though I think I have heard some talk about him—”

“Really, really, gentlemen,” cried the prince in great agitation, “you

are misunderstanding me again. In the first place, Mr. Keller, you have

greatly overestimated my fortune in your article. I am far from being a

millionaire. I have barely a tenth of what you suppose. Secondly, my

treatment in Switzerland was very far from costing tens of thousands of

roubles. Schneider received six hundred roubles a year, and he was only

paid for the first three years. As to the pretty governesses whom

Pavlicheff is supposed to have brought from Paris, they only exist in

Mr. Keller’s imagination; it is another calumny. According to my

calculations, the sum spent on me was very considerably under ten

thousand roubles, but I decided on that sum, and you must admit that in

paying a debt I could not offer Mr. Burdovsky more, however kindly

disposed I might be towards him; delicacy forbids it; I should seem to

be offering him charity instead of rightful payment. I don’t know how

you cannot see that, gentlemen! Besides, I had no intention of leaving

the matter there. I meant to intervene amicably later on and help to

improve poor Mr. Burdovsky’s position. It is clear that he has been

deceived, or he would never have agreed to anything so vile as the

scandalous revelations about his mother in Mr. Keller’s article. But,

gentlemen, why are you getting angry again? Are we never to come to an

understanding? Well, the event has proved me right! I have just seen

with my own eyes the proof that my conjecture was correct!” he added,

with increasing eagerness.

He meant to calm his hearers, and did not perceive that his words had

only increased their irritation.

“What do you mean? What are you convinced of?” they demanded angrily.

“In the first place, I have had the opportunity of getting a correct

idea of Mr. Burdovsky. I see what he is for myself. He is an innocent

man, deceived by everyone! A defenceless victim, who deserves

indulgence! Secondly, Gavrila Ardalionovitch, in whose hands I had

placed the matter, had his first interview with me barely an hour ago.

I had not heard from him for some time, as I was away, and have been

ill for three days since my return to St. Petersburg. He tells me that

he has exposed the designs of Tchebaroff and has proof that justifies

my opinion of him. I know, gentlemen, that many people think me an

idiot. Counting upon my reputation as a man whose purse-strings are

easily loosened, Tchebaroff thought it would be a simple matter to

fleece me, especially by trading on my gratitude to Pavlicheff. But the

main point is—listen, gentlemen, let me finish!—the main point is that

Mr. Burdovsky is not Pavlicheff’s son at all. Gavrila Ardalionovitch

has just told me of his discovery, and assures me that he has positive

proofs. Well, what do you think of that? It is scarcely credible, even

after all the tricks that have been played upon me. Please note that we

have positive proofs! I can hardly believe it myself, I assure you; I

do not yet believe it; I am still doubtful, because Gavrila

Ardalionovitch has not had time to go into details; but there can be no

further doubt that Tchebaroff is a rogue! He has deceived poor Mr.

Burdovsky, and all of you, gentlemen, who have come forward so nobly to

support your friend—(he evidently needs support, I quite see that!). He

has abused your credulity and involved you all in an attempted fraud,

for when all is said and done this claim is nothing else!”

“What! a fraud? What, he is not Pavlicheff’s son? Impossible!”

These exclamations but feebly expressed the profound bewilderment into

which the prince’s words had plunged Burdovsky’s companions.

“Certainly it is a fraud! Since Mr. Burdovsky is not Pavlicheff’s son,

his claim is neither more nor less than attempted fraud (supposing, of

course, that he had known the truth), but the fact is that he has been

deceived. I insist on this point in order to justify him; I repeat that

his simple-mindedness makes him worthy of pity, and that he cannot

stand alone; otherwise he would have behaved like a scoundrel in this

matter. But I feel certain that he does not understand it! I was just

the same myself before I went to Switzerland; I stammered incoherently;

one tries to express oneself and cannot. I understand that. I am all

the better able to pity Mr. Burdovsky, because I know from experience

what it is to be like that, and so I have a right to speak. Well,

though there is no such person as ‘Pavlicheff’s son,’ and it is all

nothing but a humbug, yet I will keep to my decision, and I am prepared

to give up ten thousand roubles in memory of Pavlicheff. Before Mr.

Burdovsky made this claim, I proposed to found a school with this

money, in memory of my benefactor, but I shall honour his memory quite

as well by giving the ten thousand roubles to Mr. Burdovsky, because,

though he was not Pavlicheff’s son, he was treated almost as though he

were. That is what gave a rogue the opportunity of deceiving him; he

really did think himself Pavlicheff’s son. Listen, gentlemen; this

matter must be settled; keep calm; do not get angry; and sit down!

Gavrila Ardalionovitch will explain everything to you at once, and I

confess that I am very anxious to hear all the details myself. He says

that he has even been to Pskoff to see your mother, Mr. Burdovsky; she

is not dead, as the article which was just read to us makes out. Sit

down, gentlemen, sit down!”

The prince sat down, and at length prevailed upon Burdovsky’s company

to do likewise. During the last ten or twenty minutes, exasperated by

continual interruptions, he had raised his voice, and spoken with great

vehemence. Now, no doubt, he bitterly regretted several words and

expressions which had escaped him in his excitement. If he had not been

driven beyond the limits of endurance, he would not have ventured to

express certain conjectures so openly. He had no sooner sat down than

his heart was torn by sharp remorse. Besides insulting Burdovsky with

the supposition, made in the presence of witnesses, that he was

suffering from the complaint for which he had himself been treated in

Switzerland, he reproached himself with the grossest indelicacy in

having offered him the ten thousand roubles before everyone. “I ought

to have waited till to-morrow and offered him the money when we were

alone,” thought Muishkin. “Now it is too late, the mischief is done!

Yes, I am an idiot, an absolute idiot!” he said to himself, overcome

with shame and regret.

Till then Gavrila Ardalionovitch had sat apart in silence. When the

prince called upon him, he came and stood by his side, and in a calm,

clear voice began to render an account of the mission confided to him.

All conversation ceased instantly. Everyone, especially the Burdovsky

party, listened with the utmost curiosity.

IX.

“You will not deny, I am sure,” said Gavrila Ardalionovitch, turning to

Burdovsky, who sat looking at him with wide-open eyes, perplexed and

astonished. “You will not deny, seriously, that you were born just two

years after your mother’s legal marriage to Mr. Burdovsky, your father.

Nothing would be easier than to prove the date of your birth from

well-known facts; we can only look on Mr. Keller’s version as a work of

imagination, and one, moreover, extremely offensive both to you and

your mother. Of course he distorted the truth in order to strengthen

your claim, and to serve your interests. Mr. Keller said that he

previously consulted you about his article in the paper, but did not

read it to you as a whole. Certainly he could not have read that

passage...”

“As a matter of fact, I did not read it,” interrupted the boxer, “but

its contents had been given me on unimpeachable authority, and I...”

“Excuse me, Mr. Keller,” interposed Gavrila Ardalionovitch. “Allow me

to speak. I assure you your article shall be mentioned in its proper

place, and you can then explain everything, but for the moment I would

rather not anticipate. Quite accidentally, with the help of my sister,

Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsin, I obtained from one of her intimate

friends, Madame Zoubkoff, a letter written to her twenty-five years

ago, by Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff, then abroad. After getting into

communication with this lady, I went by her advice to Timofei

Fedorovitch Viazovkin, a retired colonel, and one of Pavlicheff’s

oldest friends. He gave me two more letters written by the latter when

he was still in foreign parts. These three documents, their dates, and

the facts mentioned in them, prove in the most undeniable manner, that

eighteen months before your birth, Nicolai Andreevitch went abroad,

where he remained for three consecutive years. Your mother, as you are

well aware, has never been out of Russia.... It is too late to read the

letters now; I am content to state the fact. But if you desire it, come

to me tomorrow morning, bring witnesses and writing experts with you,

and I will prove the absolute truth of my story. From that moment the

question will be decided.”

These words caused a sensation among the listeners, and there was a

general movement of relief. Burdovsky got up abruptly.

“If that is true,” said he, “I have been deceived, grossly deceived,

but not by Tchebaroff: and for a long time past, a long time. I do not

wish for experts, not I, nor to go to see you. I believe you. I give it

up.... But I refuse the ten thousand roubles. Good-bye.”

“Wait five minutes more, Mr. Burdovsky,” said Gavrila Ardalionovitch

pleasantly. “I have more to say. Some rather curious and important

facts have come to light, and it is absolutely necessary, in my

opinion, that you should hear them. You will not regret, I fancy, to

have the whole matter thoroughly cleared up.”

Burdovsky silently resumed his seat, and bent his head as though in

profound thought. His friend, Lebedeff’s nephew, who had risen to

accompany him, also sat down again. He seemed much disappointed, though

as self-confident as ever. Hippolyte looked dejected and sulky, as well

as surprised. He had just been attacked by a violent fit of coughing,

so that his handkerchief was stained with blood. The boxer looked

thoroughly frightened.

“Oh, Antip!” cried he in a miserable voice, “I did say to you the other

day—the day before yesterday—that perhaps you were not really

Pavlicheff’s son!”

There were sounds of half-smothered laughter at this.

“Now, that is a valuable piece of information, Mr. Keller,” replied

Gania. “However that may be, I have private information which convinces

me that Mr. Burdovsky, though doubtless aware of the date of his birth,

knew nothing at all about Pavlicheff’s sojourn abroad. Indeed, he

passed the greater part of his life out of Russia, returning at

intervals for short visits. The journey in question is in itself too

unimportant for his friends to recollect it after more than twenty

years; and of course Mr. Burdovsky could have known nothing about it,

for he was not born. As the event has proved, it was not impossible to

find evidence of his absence, though I must confess that chance has

helped me in a quest which might very well have come to nothing. It was

really almost impossible for Burdovsky or Tchebaroff to discover these

facts, even if it had entered their heads to try. Naturally they never

dreamt...”

Here the voice of Hippolyte suddenly intervened.

“Allow me, Mr. Ivolgin,” he said irritably. “What is the good of all

this rigmarole? Pardon me. All is now clear, and we acknowledge the

truth of your main point. Why go into these tedious details? You wish

perhaps to boast of the cleverness of your investigation, to cry up

your talents as detective? Or perhaps your intention is to excuse

Burdovsky, by proving that he took up the matter in ignorance? Well, I

consider that extremely impudent on your part! You ought to know that

Burdovsky has no need of being excused or justified by you or anyone

else! It is an insult! The affair is quite painful enough for him

without that. Will nothing make you understand?”

“Enough! enough! Mr. Terentieff,” interrupted Gania.

“Don’t excite yourself; you seem very ill, and I am sorry for that. I

am almost done, but there are a few facts to which I must briefly

refer, as I am convinced that they ought to be clearly explained once

for all....” A movement of impatience was noticed in his audience as he

resumed: “I merely wish to state, for the information of all concerned,

that the reason for Mr. Pavlicheff’s interest in your mother, Mr.

Burdovsky, was simply that she was the sister of a serf-girl with whom

he was deeply in love in his youth, and whom most certainly he would

have married but for her sudden death. I have proofs that this

circumstance is almost, if not quite, forgotten. I may add that when

your mother was about ten years old, Pavlicheff took her under his

care, gave her a good education, and later, a considerable dowry. His

relations were alarmed, and feared he might go so far as to marry her,

but she gave her hand to a young land-surveyor named Burdovsky when she

reached the age of twenty. I can even say definitely that it was a

marriage of affection. After his wedding your father gave up his

occupation as land-surveyor, and with his wife’s dowry of fifteen

thousand roubles went in for commercial speculations. As he had had no

experience, he was cheated on all sides, and took to drink in order to

forget his troubles. He shortened his life by his excesses, and eight

years after his marriage he died. Your mother says herself that she was

left in the direst poverty, and would have died of starvation had it

not been for Pavlicheff, who generously allowed her a yearly pension of

six hundred roubles. Many people recall his extreme fondness for you as

a little boy. Your mother confirms this, and agrees with others in

thinking that he loved you the more because you were a sickly child,

stammering in your speech, and almost deformed—for it is known that all

his life Nicolai Andreevitch had a partiality for unfortunates of every

kind, especially children. In my opinion this is most important. I may

add that I discovered yet another fact, the last on which I employed my

detective powers. Seeing how fond Pavlicheff was of you,—it was thanks

to him you went to school, and also had the advantage of special

teachers—his relations and servants grew to believe that you were his

son, and that your father had been betrayed by his wife. I may point

out that this idea was only accredited generally during the last years

of Pavlicheff’s life, when his next-of-kin were trembling about the

succession, when the earlier story was quite forgotten, and when all

opportunity for discovering the truth had seemingly passed away. No

doubt you, Mr. Burdovsky, heard this conjecture, and did not hesitate

to accept it as true. I have had the honour of making your mother’s

acquaintance, and I find that she knows all about these reports. What

she does not know is that you, her son, should have listened to them so

complaisantly. I found your respected mother at Pskoff, ill and in deep

poverty, as she has been ever since the death of your benefactor. She

told me with tears of gratitude how you had supported her; she expects

much of you, and believes fervently in your future success...”

“Oh, this is unbearable!” said Lebedeff’s nephew impatiently. “What is

the good of all this romancing?”

“It is revolting and unseemly!” cried Hippolyte, jumping up in a fury.

Burdovsky alone sat silent and motionless.

“What is the good of it?” repeated Gavrila Ardalionovitch, with

pretended surprise. “Well, firstly, because now perhaps Mr. Burdovsky

is quite convinced that Mr. Pavlicheff’s love for him came simply from

generosity of soul, and not from paternal duty. It was most necessary

to impress this fact upon his mind, considering that he approved of the

article written by Mr. Keller. I speak thus because I look on you, Mr.

Burdovsky, as an honourable man. Secondly, it appears that there was no

intention of cheating in this case, even on the part of Tchebaroff. I

wish to say this quite plainly, because the prince hinted a while ago

that I too thought it an attempt at robbery and extortion. On the

contrary, everyone has been quite sincere in the matter, and although

Tchebaroff may be somewhat of a rogue, in this business he has acted

simply as any sharp lawyer would do under the circumstances. He looked

at it as a case that might bring him in a lot of money, and he did not

calculate badly; because on the one hand he speculated on the

generosity of the prince, and his gratitude to the late Mr. Pavlicheff,

and on the other to his chivalrous ideas as to the obligations of

honour and conscience. As to Mr. Burdovsky, allowing for his

principles, we may acknowledge that he engaged in the business with

very little personal aim in view. At the instigation of Tchebaroff and

his other friends, he decided to make the attempt in the service of

truth, progress, and humanity. In short, the conclusion may be drawn

that, in spite of all appearances, Mr. Burdovsky is a man of

irreproachable character, and thus the prince can all the more readily

offer him his friendship, and the assistance of which he spoke just

now...”

“Hush! hush! Gavrila Ardalionovitch!” cried Muishkin in dismay, but it

was too late.

“I said, and I have repeated it over and over again,” shouted Burdovsky

furiously, “that I did not want the money. I will not take it...

why...I will not... I am going away!”

He was rushing hurriedly from the terrace, when Lebedeff’s nephew

seized his arms, and said something to him in a low voice. Burdovsky

turned quickly, and drawing an addressed but unsealed envelope from his

pocket, he threw it down on a little table beside the prince.

“There’s the money!... How dare you?... The money!”

“Those are the two hundred and fifty roubles you dared to send him as a

charity, by the hands of Tchebaroff,” explained Doktorenko.

“The article in the newspaper put it at fifty!” cried Colia.

“I beg your pardon,” said the prince, going up to Burdovsky. “I have

done you a great wrong, but I did not send you that money as a charity,

believe me. And now I am again to blame. I offended you just now.” (The

prince was much distressed; he seemed worn out with fatigue, and spoke

almost incoherently.) “I spoke of swindling... but I did not apply that

to you. I was deceived .... I said you were... afflicted... like me...

But you are not like me... you give lessons... you support your mother.

I said you had dishonoured your mother, but you love her. She says so

herself... I did not know... Gavrila Ardalionovitch did not tell me

that... Forgive me! I dared to offer you ten thousand roubles, but I

was wrong. I ought to have done it differently, and now... there is no

way of doing it, for you despise me...”

“I declare, this is a lunatic asylum!” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna.

“Of course it is a lunatic asylum!” repeated Aglaya sharply, but her

words were overpowered by other voices. Everybody was talking loudly,

making remarks and comments; some discussed the affair gravely, others

laughed. Ivan Fedorovitch Epanchin was extremely indignant. He stood

waiting for his wife with an air of offended dignity. Lebedeff’s nephew

took up the word again.

“Well, prince, to do you justice, you certainly know how to make the

most of your—let us call it infirmity, for the sake of politeness; you

have set about offering your money and friendship in such a way that no

self-respecting man could possibly accept them. This is an excess of

ingenuousness or of malice—you ought to know better than anyone which

word best fits the case.”

“Allow me, gentlemen,” said Gavrila Ardalionovitch, who had just

examined the contents of the envelope, “there are only a hundred

roubles here, not two hundred and fifty. I point this out, prince, to

prevent misunderstanding.”

“Never mind, never mind,” said the prince, signing to him to keep

quiet.

“But we do mind,” said Lebedeff’s nephew vehemently. “Prince, your

‘never mind’ is an insult to us. We have nothing to hide; our actions

can bear daylight. It is true that there are only a hundred roubles

instead of two hundred and fifty, but it is all the same.”

“Why, no, it is hardly the same,” remarked Gavrila Ardalionovitch, with

an air of ingenuous surprise.

“Don’t interrupt, we are not such fools as you think, Mr. Lawyer,”

cried Lebedeff’s nephew angrily. “Of course there is a difference

between a hundred roubles and two hundred and fifty, but in this case

the principle is the main point, and that a hundred and fifty roubles

are missing is only a side issue. The point to be emphasized is that

Burdovsky will not accept your highness’s charity; he flings it back in

your face, and it scarcely matters if there are a hundred roubles or

two hundred and fifty. Burdovsky has refused ten thousand roubles; you

heard him. He would not have returned even a hundred roubles if he was

dishonest! The hundred and fifty roubles were paid to Tchebaroff for

his travelling expenses. You may jeer at our stupidity and at our

inexperience in business matters; you have done all you could already

to make us look ridiculous; but do not dare to call us dishonest. The

four of us will club together every day to repay the hundred and fifty

roubles to the prince, if we have to pay it in instalments of a rouble

at a time, but we will repay it, with interest. Burdovsky is poor, he

has no millions. After his journey to see the prince Tchebaroff sent in

his bill. We counted on winning... Who would not have done the same in

such a case?”

“Who indeed?” exclaimed Prince S.

“I shall certainly go mad, if I stay here!” cried Lizabetha

Prokofievna.

“It reminds me,” said Evgenie Pavlovitch, laughing, “of the famous plea

of a certain lawyer who lately defended a man for murdering six people

in order to rob them. He excused his client on the score of poverty.

‘It is quite natural,’ he said in conclusion, ‘considering the state of

misery he was in, that he should have thought of murdering these six

people; which of you, gentlemen, would not have done the same in his

place?’”

“Enough,” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna abruptly, trembling with anger,

“we have had enough of this balderdash!”

In a state of terrible excitement she threw back her head, with flaming

eyes, casting looks of contempt and defiance upon the whole company, in

which she could no longer distinguish friend from foe. She had

restrained herself so long that she felt forced to vent her rage on

somebody. Those who knew Lizabetha Prokofievna saw at once how it was

with her. “She flies into these rages sometimes,” said Ivan Fedorovitch

to Prince S. the next day, “but she is not often so violent as she was

yesterday; it does not happen more than once in three years.”

“Be quiet, Ivan Fedorovitch! Leave me alone!” cried Mrs. Epanchin. “Why

do you offer me your arm now? You had not sense enough to take me away

before. You are my husband, you are a father, it was your duty to drag

me away by force, if in my folly I refused to obey you and go quietly.

You might at least have thought of your daughters. We can find our way

out now without your help. Here is shame enough for a year! Wait a

moment ‘till I thank the prince! Thank you, prince, for the

entertainment you have given us! It was most amusing to hear these

young men... It is vile, vile! A chaos, a scandal, worse than a

nightmare! Is it possible that there can be many such people on earth?

Be quiet, Aglaya! Be quiet, Alexandra! It is none of your business!

Don’t fuss round me like that, Evgenie Pavlovitch; you exasperate me!

So, my dear,” she cried, addressing the prince, “you go so far as to

beg their pardon! He says, ‘Forgive me for offering you a fortune.’ And

you, you mountebank, what are you laughing at?” she cried, turning

suddenly on Lebedeff’s nephew. “‘We refuse ten thousand roubles; we do

not beseech, we demand!’ As if he did not know that this idiot will

call on them tomorrow to renew his offers of money and friendship. You

will, won’t you? You will? Come, will you, or won’t you?”

“I shall,” said the prince, with gentle humility.

“You hear him! You count upon it, too,” she continued, turning upon

Doktorenko. “You are as sure of him now as if you had the money in your

pocket. And there you are playing the swaggerer to throw dust in our

eyes! No, my dear sir, you may take other people in! I can see through

all your airs and graces, I see your game!”

“Lizabetha Prokofievna!” exclaimed the prince.

“Come, Lizabetha Prokofievna, it is quite time for us to be going, we

will take the prince with us,” said Prince S. with a smile, in the

coolest possible way.

The girls stood apart, almost frightened; their father was positively

horrified. Mrs. Epanchin’s language astonished everybody. Some who

stood a little way off smiled furtively, and talked in whispers.

Lebedeff wore an expression of utmost ecstasy.

“Chaos and scandal are to be found everywhere, madame,” remarked

Doktorenko, who was considerably put out of countenance.

“Not like this! Nothing like the spectacle you have just given us,

sir,” answered Lizabetha Prokofievna, with a sort of hysterical rage.

“Leave me alone, will you?” she cried violently to those around her,

who were trying to keep her quiet. “No, Evgenie Pavlovitch, if, as you

said yourself just now, a lawyer said in open court that he found it

quite natural that a man should murder six people because he was in

misery, the world must be coming to an end. I had not heard of it

before. Now I understand everything. And this stutterer, won’t he turn

out a murderer?” she cried, pointing to Burdovsky, who was staring at

her with stupefaction. “I bet he will! He will have none of your money,

possibly, he will refuse it because his conscience will not allow him

to accept it, but he will go murdering you by night and walking off

with your cashbox, with a clear conscience! He does not call it a

dishonest action but ‘the impulse of a noble despair’; ‘a negation’; or

the devil knows what! Bah! everything is upside down, everyone walks

head downwards. A young girl, brought up at home, suddenly jumps into a

cab in the middle of the street, saying: ‘Good-bye, mother, I married

Karlitch, or Ivanitch, the other day!’ And you think it quite right?

You call such conduct estimable and natural? The ‘woman question’? Look

here,” she continued, pointing to Colia, “the other day that

whippersnapper told me that this was the whole meaning of the ‘woman

question.’ But even supposing that your mother is a fool, you are none

the less, bound to treat her with humanity. Why did you come here

tonight so insolently? ‘Give us our rights, but don’t dare to speak in

our presence. Show us every mark of deepest respect, while we treat you

like the scum of the earth.’ The miscreants have written a tissue of

calumny in their article, and these are the men who seek for truth, and

do battle for the right! ‘We do not beseech, we demand, you will get no

thanks from us, because you will be acting to satisfy your own

conscience!’ What morality! But, good heavens! if you declare that the

prince’s generosity will, excite no gratitude in you, he might answer

that he is not, bound to be grateful to Pavlicheff, who also was only

satisfying his own conscience. But you counted on the prince’s,

gratitude towards Pavlicheff; you never lent him any money; he owes you

nothing; then what were you counting upon if not on his gratitude? And

if you appeal to that sentiment in others, why should you expect to be

exempted from it? They are mad! They say society is savage and inhuman

because it despises a young girl who has been seduced. But if you call

society inhuman you imply that the young girl is made to suffer by its

censure. How then, can you hold her up to the scorn of society in the

newspapers without realizing that you are making her suffering, still

greater? Madmen! Vain fools! They don’t believe in God, they don’t

believe in Christ! But you are so eaten up by pride and vanity, that

you will end by devouring each other—that is my prophecy! Is not this

absurd? Is it not monstrous chaos? And after all this, that shameless

creature will go and beg their pardon! Are there many people like you?

What are you smiling at? Because I am not ashamed to disgrace myself

before you?—Yes, I am disgraced—it can’t be helped now! But don’t you

jeer at me, you scum!” (this was aimed at Hippolyte). “He is almost at

his last gasp, yet he corrupts others. You, have got hold of this lad—”

(she pointed to Colia); “you, have turned his head, you have taught him

to be an atheist, you don’t believe in God, and you are not too old to

be whipped, sir! A plague upon you! And so, Prince Lef Nicolaievitch,

you will call on them tomorrow, will you?” she asked the prince

breathlessly, for the second time.

“Yes.”

“Then I will never speak to you again.” She made a sudden movement to

go, and then turned quickly back. “And you will call on that atheist?”

she continued, pointing to Hippolyte. “How dare you grin at me like

that?” she shouted furiously, rushing at the invalid, whose mocking

smile drove her to distraction.

Exclamations arose on all sides.

“Lizabetha Prokofievna! Lizabetha Prokofievna! Lizabetha Prokofievna!”

“Mother, this is disgraceful!” cried Aglaya.

Mrs. Epanchin had approached Hippolyte and seized him firmly by the

arm, while her eyes, blazing with fury, were fixed upon his face.

“Do not distress yourself, Aglaya Ivanovitch,” he answered calmly;

“your mother knows that one cannot strike a dying man. I am ready to

explain why I was laughing. I shall be delighted if you will let me—”

A violent fit of coughing, which lasted a full minute, prevented him

from finishing his sentence.

“He is dying, yet he will not stop holding forth!” cried Lizabetha

Prokofievna. She loosed her hold on his arm, almost terrified, as she

saw him wiping the blood from his lips. “Why do you talk? You ought to

go home to bed.”

“So I will,” he whispered hoarsely. “As soon as I get home I will go to

bed at once; and I know I shall be dead in a fortnight; Botkine told me

so himself last week. That is why I should like to say a few farewell

words, if you will let me.”

“But you must be mad! It is ridiculous! You should take care of

yourself; what is the use of holding a conversation now? Go home to

bed, do!” cried Mrs. Epanchin in horror.

“When I do go to bed I shall never get up again,” said Hippolyte, with

a smile. “I meant to take to my bed yesterday and stay there till I

died, but as my legs can still carry me, I put it off for two days, so

as to come here with them to-day—but I am very tired.”

“Oh, sit down, sit down, why are you standing?”

Lizabetha Prokofievna placed a chair for him with her own hands.

“Thank you,” he said gently. “Sit opposite to me, and let us talk. We

must have a talk now, Lizabetha Prokofievna; I am very anxious for it.”

He smiled at her once more. “Remember that today, for the last time, I

am out in the air, and in the company of my fellow-men, and that in a

fortnight I shall certainly be no longer in this world. So, in a way,

this is my farewell to nature and to men. I am not very sentimental,

but do you know, I am quite glad that all this has happened at

Pavlofsk, where at least one can see a green tree.”

“But why talk now?” replied Lizabetha Prokofievna, more and more

alarmed; “You are quite feverish. Just now you would not stop shouting,

and now you can hardly breathe. You are gasping.”

“I shall have time to rest. Why will you not grant my last wish? Do you

know, Lizabetha Prokofievna, that I have dreamed of meeting you for a

long while? I had often heard of you from Colia; he is almost the only

person who still comes to see me. You are an original and eccentric

woman; I have seen that for myself—Do you know, I have even been rather

fond of you?”

“Good heavens! And I very nearly struck him!”

“You were prevented by Aglaya Ivanovna. I think I am not mistaken? That

is your daughter, Aglaya Ivanovna? She is so beautiful that I

recognized her directly, although I had never seen her before. Let me,

at least, look on beauty for the last time in my life,” he said with a

wry smile. “You are here with the prince, and your husband, and a large

company. Why should you refuse to gratify my last wish?”

“Give me a chair!” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, but she seized one for

herself and sat down opposite to Hippolyte. “Colia, you must go home

with him,” she commanded, “and tomorrow I will come my self.”

“Will you let me ask the prince for a cup of tea?... I am exhausted. Do

you know what you might do, Lizabetha Prokofievna? I think you wanted

to take the prince home with you for tea. Stay here, and let us spend

the evening together. I am sure the prince will give us all some tea.

Forgive me for being so free and easy—but I know you are kind, and the

prince is kind, too. In fact, we are all good-natured people—it is

really quite comical.”

The prince bestirred himself to give orders. Lebedeff hurried out,

followed by Vera.

“It is quite true,” said Mrs. Epanchin decisively. “Talk, but not too

loud, and don’t excite yourself. You have made me sorry for you.

Prince, you don’t deserve that I should stay and have tea with you, yet

I will, all the same, but I won’t apologize. I apologize to nobody!

Nobody! It is absurd! However, forgive me, prince, if I blew you

up—that is, if you like, of course. But please don’t let me keep

anyone,” she added suddenly to her husband and daughters, in a tone of

resentment, as though they had grievously offended her. “I can come

home alone quite well.”

But they did not let her finish, and gathered round her eagerly. The

prince immediately invited everyone to stay for tea, and apologized for

not having thought of it before. The general murmured a few polite

words, and asked Lizabetha Prokofievna if she did not feel cold on the

terrace. He very nearly asked Hippolyte how long he had been at the

University, but stopped himself in time. Evgenie Pavlovitch and Prince

S. suddenly grew extremely gay and amiable. Adelaida and Alexandra had

not recovered from their surprise, but it was now mingled with

satisfaction; in short, everyone seemed very much relieved that

Lizabetha Prokofievna had got over her paroxysm. Aglaya alone still

frowned, and sat apart in silence. All the other guests stayed on as

well; no one wanted to go, not even General Ivolgin, but Lebedeff said

something to him in passing which did not seem to please him, for he

immediately went and sulked in a corner. The prince took care to offer

tea to Burdovsky and his friends as well as the rest. The invitation

made them rather uncomfortable. They muttered that they would wait for

Hippolyte, and went and sat by themselves in a distant corner of the

verandah. Tea was served at once; Lebedeff had no doubt ordered it for

himself and his family before the others arrived. It was striking

eleven.

X.

After moistening his lips with the tea which Vera Lebedeff brought him,

Hippolyte set the cup down on the table, and glanced round. He seemed

confused and almost at a loss.

“Just look, Lizabetha Prokofievna,” he began, with a kind of feverish

haste; “these china cups are supposed to be extremely valuable.

Lebedeff always keeps them locked up in his china-cupboard; they were

part of his wife’s dowry. Yet he has brought them out tonight—in your

honour, of course! He is so pleased—” He was about to add something

else, but could not find the words.

“There, he is feeling embarrassed; I expected as much,” whispered

Evgenie Pavlovitch suddenly in the prince’s ear. “It is a bad sign;

what do you think? Now, out of spite, he will come out with something

so outrageous that even Lizabetha Prokofievna will not be able to stand

it.”

Muishkin looked at him inquiringly.

“You do not care if he does?” added Evgenie Pavlovitch. “Neither do I;

in fact, I should be glad, merely as a proper punishment for our dear

Lizabetha Prokofievna. I am very anxious that she should get it,

without delay, and I shall stay till she does. You seem feverish.”

“Never mind; by-and-by; yes, I am not feeling well,” said the prince

impatiently, hardly listening. He had just heard Hippolyte mention his

own name.

“You don’t believe it?” said the invalid, with a nervous laugh. “I

don’t wonder, but the prince will have no difficulty in believing it;

he will not be at all surprised.”

“Do you hear, prince—do you hear that?” said Lizabetha Prokofievna,

turning towards him.

There was laughter in the group around her, and Lebedeff stood before

her gesticulating wildly.

“He declares that your humbug of a landlord revised this gentleman’s

article—the article that was read aloud just now—in which you got such

a charming dressing-down.”

The prince regarded Lebedeff with astonishment.

“Why don’t you say something?” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, stamping

her foot.

“Well,” murmured the prince, with his eyes still fixed on Lebedeff, “I

can see now that he did.”

“Is it true?” she asked eagerly.

“Absolutely, your excellency,” said Lebedeff, without the least

hesitation.

Mrs. Epanchin almost sprang up in amazement at his answer, and at the

assurance of his tone.

“He actually seems to boast of it!” she cried.

“I am base—base!” muttered Lebedeff, beating his breast, and hanging

his head.

“What do I care if you are base or not? He thinks he has only to say,

‘I am base,’ and there is an end of it. As to you, prince, are you not

ashamed?—I repeat, are you not ashamed, to mix with such riff-raff? I

will never forgive you!”

“The prince will forgive me!” said Lebedeff with emotional conviction.

Keller suddenly left his seat, and approached Lizabetha Prokofievna.

“It was only out of generosity, madame,” he said in a resonant voice,

“and because I would not betray a friend in an awkward position, that I

did not mention this revision before; though you heard him yourself

threatening to kick us down the steps. To clear the matter up, I

declare now that I did have recourse to his assistance, and that I paid

him six roubles for it. But I did not ask him to correct my style; I

simply went to him for information concerning the facts, of which I was

ignorant to a great extent, and which he was competent to give. The

story of the gaiters, the appetite in the Swiss professor’s house, the

substitution of fifty roubles for two hundred and fifty—all such

details, in fact, were got from him. I paid him six roubles for them;

but he did not correct the style.”

“I must state that I only revised the first part of the article,”

interposed Lebedeff with feverish impatience, while laughter rose from

all around him; “but we fell out in the middle over one idea, so I

never corrected the second part. Therefore I cannot be held responsible

for the numerous grammatical blunders in it.”

“That is all he thinks of!” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna.

“May I ask when this article was revised?” said Evgenie Pavlovitch to

Keller.

“Yesterday morning,” he replied, “we had an interview which we all gave

our word of honour to keep secret.”

“The very time when he was cringing before you and making protestations

of devotion! Oh, the mean wretches! I will have nothing to do with your

Pushkin, and your daughter shall not set foot in my house!”

Lizabetha Prokofievna was about to rise, when she saw Hippolyte

laughing, and turned upon him with irritation.

“Well, sir, I suppose you wanted to make me look ridiculous?”

“Heaven forbid!” he answered, with a forced smile. “But I am more than

ever struck by your eccentricity, Lizabetha Prokofievna. I admit that I

told you of Lebedeff’s duplicity, on purpose. I knew the effect it

would have on you,—on you alone, for the prince will forgive him. He

has probably forgiven him already, and is racking his brains to find

some excuse for him—is not that the truth, prince?”

He gasped as he spoke, and his strange agitation seemed to increase.

“Well?” said Mrs. Epanchin angrily, surprised at his tone; “well, what

more?”

“I have heard many things of the kind about you...they delighted me...

I have learned to hold you in the highest esteem,” continued Hippolyte.

His words seemed tinged with a kind of sarcastic mockery, yet he was

extremely agitated, casting suspicious glances around him, growing

confused, and constantly losing the thread of his ideas. All this,

together with his consumptive appearance, and the frenzied expression

of his blazing eyes, naturally attracted the attention of everyone

present.

“I might have been surprised (though I admit I know nothing of the

world), not only that you should have stayed on just now in the company

of such people as myself and my friends, who are not of your class, but

that you should let these... young ladies listen to such a scandalous

affair, though no doubt novel-reading has taught them all there is to

know. I may be mistaken; I hardly know what I am saying; but surely no

one but you would have stayed to please a whippersnapper (yes, a

whippersnapper; I admit it) to spend the evening and take part in

everything—only to be ashamed of it tomorrow. (I know I express myself

badly.) I admire and appreciate it all extremely, though the expression

on the face of his excellency, your husband, shows that he thinks it

very improper. He-he!” He burst out laughing, and was seized with a fit

of coughing which lasted for two minutes and prevented him from

speaking.

“He has lost his breath now!” said Lizabetha Prokofievna coldly,

looking at him with more curiosity than pity: “Come, my dear boy, that

is quite enough—let us make an end of this.”

Ivan Fedorovitch, now quite out of patience, interrupted suddenly. “Let

me remark in my turn, sir,” he said in tones of deep annoyance, “that

my wife is here as the guest of Prince Lef Nicolaievitch, our friend

and neighbour, and that in any case, young man, it is not for you to

pass judgment on the conduct of Lizabetha Prokofievna, or to make

remarks aloud in my presence concerning what feelings you think may be

read in my face. Yes, my wife stayed here,” continued the general, with

increasing irritation, “more out of amazement than anything else.

Everyone can understand that a collection of such strange young men

would attract the attention of a person interested in contemporary

life. I stayed myself, just as I sometimes stop to look on in the

street when I see something that may be regarded as-as-as-”

“As a curiosity,” suggested Evgenie Pavlovitch, seeing his excellency

involved in a comparison which he could not complete.

“That is exactly the word I wanted,” said the general with

satisfaction—“a curiosity. However, the most astonishing and, if I may

so express myself, the most painful, thing in this matter, is that you

cannot even understand, young man, that Lizabetha Prokofievna, only

stayed with you because you are ill,—if you really are dying—moved by

the pity awakened by your plaintive appeal, and that her name,

character, and social position place her above all risk of

contamination. Lizabetha Prokofievna!” he continued, now crimson with

rage, “if you are coming, we will say goodnight to the prince, and—”

“Thank you for the lesson, general,” said Hippolyte, with unexpected

gravity, regarding him thoughtfully.

“Two minutes more, if you please, dear Ivan Fedorovitch,” said

Lizabetha Prokofievna to her husband; “it seems to me that he is in a

fever and delirious; you can see by his eyes what a state he is in; it

is impossible to let him go back to Petersburg tonight. Can you put him

up, Lef Nicolaievitch? I hope you are not bored, dear prince,” she

added suddenly to Prince S. “Alexandra, my dear, come here! Your hair

is coming down.”

She arranged her daughter’s hair, which was not in the least

disordered, and gave her a kiss. This was all that she had called her

for.

“I thought you were capable of development,” said Hippolyte, coming out

of his fit of abstraction. “Yes, that is what I meant to say,” he

added, with the satisfaction of one who suddenly remembers something he

had forgotten. “Here is Burdovsky, sincerely anxious to protect his

mother; is not that so? And he himself is the cause of her disgrace.

The prince is anxious to help Burdovsky and offers him friendship and a

large sum of money, in the sincerity of his heart. And here they stand

like two sworn enemies—ha, ha, ha! You all hate Burdovsky because his

behaviour with regard to his mother is shocking and repugnant to you;

do you not? Is not that true? Is it not true? You all have a passion

for beauty and distinction in outward forms; that is all you care for,

isn’t it? I have suspected for a long time that you cared for nothing

else! Well, let me tell you that perhaps there is not one of you who

loved your mother as Burdovsky loved his. As to you, prince, I know

that you have sent money secretly to Burdovsky’s mother through Gania.

Well, I bet now,” he continued with an hysterical laugh, “that

Burdovsky will accuse you of indelicacy, and reproach you with a want

of respect for his mother! Yes, that is quite certain! Ha, ha, ha!”

He caught his breath, and began to cough once more.

“Come, that is enough! That is all now; you have no more to say? Now go

to bed; you are burning with fever,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna

impatiently. Her anxious eyes had never left the invalid. “Good

heavens, he is going to begin again!”

“You are laughing, I think? Why do you keep laughing at me?” said

Hippolyte irritably to Evgenie Pavlovitch, who certainly was laughing.

“I only want to know, Mr. Hippolyte—excuse me, I forget your surname.”

“Mr. Terentieff,” said the prince.

“Oh yes, Mr. Terentieff. Thank you prince. I heard it just now, but had

forgotten it. I want to know, Mr. Terentieff, if what I have heard

about you is true. It seems you are convinced that if you could speak

to the people from a window for a quarter of an hour, you could make

them all adopt your views and follow you?”

“I may have said so,” answered Hippolyte, as if trying to remember.

“Yes, I certainly said so,” he continued with sudden animation, fixing

an unflinching glance on his questioner. “What of it?”

“Nothing. I was only seeking further information, to put the finishing

touch.”

Evgenie Pavlovitch was silent, but Hippolyte kept his eyes fixed upon

him, waiting impatiently for more.

“Well, have you finished?” said Lizabetha Prokofievna to Evgenie. “Make

haste, sir; it is time he went to bed. Have you more to say?” She was

very angry.

“Yes, I have a little more,” said Evgenie Pavlovitch, with a smile. “It

seems to me that all you and your friends have said, Mr. Terentieff,

and all you have just put forward with such undeniable talent, may be

summed up in the triumph of right above all, independent of everything

else, to the exclusion of everything else; perhaps even before having

discovered what constitutes the right. I may be mistaken?”

“You are certainly mistaken; I do not even understand you. What else?”

Murmurs arose in the neighbourhood of Burdovsky and his companions;

Lebedeff’s nephew protested under his breath.

“I have nearly finished,” replied Evgenie Pavlovitch.

“I will only remark that from these premises one could conclude that

might is right—I mean the right of the clenched fist, and of personal

inclination. Indeed, the world has often come to that conclusion.

Prudhon upheld that might is right. In the American War some of the

most advanced Liberals took sides with the planters on the score that

the blacks were an inferior race to the whites, and that might was the

right of the white race.”

“Well?”

“You mean, no doubt, that you do not deny that might is right?”

“What then?”

“You are at least logical. I would only point out that from the right

of might, to the right of tigers and crocodiles, or even Daniloff and

Gorsky, is but a step.”

“I know nothing about that; what else?”

Hippolyte was scarcely listening. He kept saying “well?” and “what

else?” mechanically, without the least curiosity, and by mere force of

habit.

“Why, nothing else; that is all.”

“However, I bear you no grudge,” said Hippolyte suddenly, and, hardly

conscious of what he was doing, he held out his hand with a smile. The

gesture took Evgenie Pavlovitch by surprise, but with the utmost

gravity he touched the hand that was offered him in token of

forgiveness.

“I can but thank you,” he said, in a tone too respectful to be sincere,

“for your kindness in letting me speak, for I have often noticed that

our Liberals never allow other people to have an opinion of their own,

and immediately answer their opponents with abuse, if they do not have

recourse to arguments of a still more unpleasant nature.”

“What you say is quite true,” observed General Epanchin; then, clasping

his hands behind his back, he returned to his place on the terrace

steps, where he yawned with an air of boredom.

“Come, sir, that will do; you weary me,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna

suddenly to Evgenie Pavlovitch.

Hippolyte rose all at once, looking troubled and almost frightened.

“It is time for me to go,” he said, glancing round in perplexity. “I

have detained you... I wanted to tell you everything... I thought you

all... for the last time... it was a whim...”

He evidently had sudden fits of returning animation, when he awoke from

his semi-delirium; then, recovering full self-possession for a few

moments, he would speak, in disconnected phrases which had perhaps

haunted him for a long while on his bed of suffering, during weary,

sleepless nights.

“Well, good-bye,” he said abruptly. “You think it is easy for me to say

good-bye to you? Ha, ha!”

Feeling that his question was somewhat gauche, he smiled angrily. Then

as if vexed that he could not ever express what he really meant, he

said irritably, in a loud voice:

“Excellency, I have the honour of inviting you to my funeral; that is,

if you will deign to honour it with your presence. I invite you all,

gentlemen, as well as the general.”

He burst out laughing again, but it was the laughter of a madman.

Lizabetha Prokofievna approached him anxiously and seized his arm. He

stared at her for a moment, still laughing, but soon his face grew

serious.

“Do you know that I came here to see those trees?” pointing to the

trees in the park. “It is not ridiculous, is it? Say that it is not

ridiculous!” he demanded urgently of Lizabetha Prokofievna. Then he

seemed to be plunged in thought. A moment later he raised his head, and

his eyes sought for someone. He was looking for Evgenie Pavlovitch, who

was close by on his right as before, but he had forgotten this, and his

eyes ranged over the assembled company. “Ah! you have not gone!” he

said, when he caught sight of him at last. “You kept on laughing just

now, because I thought of speaking to the people from the window for a

quarter of an hour. But I am not eighteen, you know; lying on that bed,

and looking out of that window, I have thought of all sorts of things

for such a long time that... a dead man has no age, you know. I was

saying that to myself only last week, when I was awake in the night. Do

you know what you fear most? You fear our sincerity more than anything,

although you despise us! The idea crossed my mind that night... You

thought I was making fun of you just now, Lizabetha Prokofievna? No,

the idea of mockery was far from me; I only meant to praise you. Colia

told me the prince called you a child—very well—but let me see, I had

something else to say...” He covered his face with his hands and tried

to collect his thoughts.

“Ah, yes—you were going away just now, and I thought to myself: ‘I

shall never see these people again—never again! This is the last time I

shall see the trees, too. I shall see nothing after this but the red

brick wall of Meyer’s house opposite my window. Tell them about it—try

to tell them,’ I thought. ‘Here is a beautiful young girl—you are a

dead man; make them understand that. Tell them that a dead man may say

anything—and Mrs. Grundy will not be angry—ha-ha! You are not

laughing?” He looked anxiously around. “But you know I get so many

queer ideas, lying there in bed. I have grown convinced that nature is

full of mockery—you called me an atheist just now, but you know this

nature... why are you laughing again? You are very cruel!” he added

suddenly, regarding them all with mournful reproach. “I have not

corrupted Colia,” he concluded in a different and very serious tone, as

if remembering something again.

“Nobody here is laughing at you. Calm yourself,” said Lizabetha

Prokofievna, much moved. “You shall see a new doctor tomorrow; the

other was mistaken; but sit down, do not stand like that! You are

delirious—” Oh, what shall we do with him she cried in anguish, as she

made him sit down again in the arm-chair.

A tear glistened on her cheek. At the sight of it Hippolyte seemed

amazed. He lifted his hand timidly and, touched the tear with his

finger, smiling like a child.

“I... you,” he began joyfully. “You cannot tell how I... he always

spoke so enthusiastically of you, Colia here; I liked his enthusiasm. I

was not corrupting him! But I must leave him, too—I wanted to leave

them all—there was not one of them—not one! I wanted to be a man of

action—I had a right to be. Oh! what a lot of things I wanted! Now I

want nothing; I renounce all my wants; I swore to myself that I would

want nothing; let them seek the truth without me! Yes, nature is full

of mockery! Why”—he continued with sudden warmth—“does she create the

choicest beings only to mock at them? The only human being who is

recognized as perfect, when nature showed him to mankind, was given the

mission to say things which have caused the shedding of so much blood

that it would have drowned mankind if it had all been shed at once! Oh!

it is better for me to die! I should tell some dreadful lie too; nature

would so contrive it! I have corrupted nobody. I wanted to live for the

happiness of all men, to find and spread the truth. I used to look out

of my window at the wall of Meyer’s house, and say to myself that if I

could speak for a quarter of an hour I would convince the whole world,

and now for once in my life I have come into contact with... you—if not

with the others! And what is the result? Nothing! The sole result is

that you despise me! Therefore I must be a fool, I am useless, it is

time I disappeared! And I shall leave not even a memory! Not a sound,

not a trace, not a single deed! I have not spread a single truth!... Do

not laugh at the fool! Forget him! Forget him forever! I beseech you,

do not be so cruel as to remember! Do you know that if I were not

consumptive, I would kill myself?”

Though he seemed to wish to say much more, he became silent. He fell

back into his chair, and, covering his face with his hands, began to

sob like a little child.

“Oh! what on earth are we to do with him?” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna.

She hastened to him and pressed his head against her bosom, while he

sobbed convulsively.

“Come, come, come! There, you must not cry, that will do. You are a

good child! God will forgive you, because you knew no better. Come now,

be a man! You know presently you will be ashamed.”

Hippolyte raised his head with an effort, saying:

“I have little brothers and sisters, over there, poor avid innocent.

She will corrupt them! You are a saint! You are a child yourself—save

them! Snatch them from that... she is... it is shameful! Oh! help them!

God will repay you a hundredfold. For the love of God, for the love of

Christ!”

“Speak, Ivan Fedorovitch! What are we to do?” cried Lizabetha

Prokofievna, irritably. “Please break your majestic silence! I tell

you, if you cannot come to some decision, I will stay here all night

myself. You have tyrannized over me enough, you autocrat!”

She spoke angrily, and in great excitement, and expected an immediate

reply. But in such a case, no matter how many are present, all prefer

to keep silence: no one will take the initiative, but all reserve their

comments till afterwards. There were some present—Varvara Ardalionovna,

for instance—who would have willingly sat there till morning without

saying a word. Varvara had sat apart all the evening without opening

her lips, but she listened to everything with the closest attention;

perhaps she had her reasons for so doing.

“My dear,” said the general, “it seems to me that a sick-nurse would be

of more use here than an excitable person like you. Perhaps it would be

as well to get some sober, reliable man for the night. In any case we

must consult the prince, and leave the patient to rest at once.

Tomorrow we can see what can be done for him.”

“It is nearly midnight; we are going. Will he come with us, or is he to

stay here?” Doktorenko asked crossly of the prince.

“You can stay with him if you like,” said Muishkin.

“There is plenty of room here.”

Suddenly, to the astonishment of all, Keller went quickly up to the

general.

“Excellency,” he said, impulsively, “if you want a reliable man for the

night, I am ready to sacrifice myself for my friend—such a soul as he

has! I have long thought him a great man, excellency! My article showed

my lack of education, but when he criticizes he scatters pearls!”

Ivan Fedorovitch turned from the boxer with a gesture of despair.

“I shall be delighted if he will stay; it would certainly be difficult

for him to get back to Petersburg,” said the prince, in answer to the

eager questions of Lizabetha Prokofievna.

“But you are half asleep, are you not? If you don’t want him, I will

take him back to my house! Why, good gracious! He can hardly stand up

himself! What is it? Are you ill?”

Not finding the prince on his death-bed, Lizabetha Prokofievna had been

misled by his appearance to think him much better than he was. But his

recent illness, the painful memories attached to it, the fatigue of

this evening, the incident with “Pavlicheff’s son,” and now this scene

with Hippolyte, had all so worked on his oversensitive nature that he

was now almost in a fever. Moreover, a new trouble, almost a fear,

showed itself in his eyes; he watched Hippolyte anxiously as if

expecting something further.

Suddenly Hippolyte arose. His face, shockingly pale, was that of a man

overwhelmed with shame and despair. This was shown chiefly in the look

of fear and hatred which he cast upon the assembled company, and in the

wild smile upon his trembling lips. Then he cast down his eyes, and

with the same smile, staggered towards Burdovsky and Doktorenko, who

stood at the entrance to the verandah. He had decided to go with them.

“There! that is what I feared!” cried the prince. “It was inevitable!”

Hippolyte turned upon him, a prey to maniacal rage, which set all the

muscles of his face quivering.

“Ah! that is what you feared! It was inevitable, you say! Well, let me

tell you that if I hate anyone here—I hate you all,” he cried, in a

hoarse, strained voice—“but you, you, with your jesuitical soul, your

soul of sickly sweetness, idiot, beneficent millionaire—I hate you

worse than anything or anyone on earth! I saw through you and hated you

long ago; from the day I first heard of you. I hated you with my whole

heart. You have contrived all this! You have driven me into this state!

You have made a dying man disgrace himself. You, you, you are the cause

of my abject cowardice! I would kill you if I remained alive! I do not

want your benefits; I will accept none from anyone; do you hear? Not

from any one! I want nothing! I was delirious, do not dare to triumph!

I curse every one of you, once for all!”

Breath failed him here, and he was obliged to stop.

“He is ashamed of his tears!” whispered Lebedeff to Lizabetha

Prokofievna. “It was inevitable. Ah! what a wonderful man the prince

is! He read his very soul.”

But Mrs. Epanchin would not deign to look at Lebedeff. Drawn up

haughtily, with her head held high, she gazed at the “riff-raff,” with

scornful curiosity. When Hippolyte had finished, Ivan Fedorovitch

shrugged his shoulders, and his wife looked him angrily up and down, as

if to demand the meaning of his movement. Then she turned to the

prince.

“Thanks, prince, many thanks, eccentric friend of the family, for the

pleasant evening you have provided for us. I am sure you are quite

pleased that you have managed to mix us up with your extraordinary

affairs. It is quite enough, dear family friend; thank you for giving

us an opportunity of getting to know you so well.”

She arranged her cloak with hands that trembled with anger as she

waited for the “riff-raff” to go. The cab which Lebedeff’s son had gone

to fetch a quarter of an hour ago, by Doktorenko’s order, arrived at

that moment. The general thought fit to put in a word after his wife.

“Really, prince, I hardly expected after—after all our friendly

intercourse—and you see, Lizabetha Prokofievna—”

“Papa, how can you?” cried Adelaida, walking quickly up to the prince

and holding out her hand.

He smiled absently at her; then suddenly he felt a burning sensation in

his ear as an angry voice whispered:

“If you do not turn those dreadful people out of the house this very

instant, I shall hate you all my life—all my life!” It was Aglaya. She

seemed almost in a frenzy, but she turned away before the prince could

look at her. However, there was no one left to turn out of the house,

for they had managed meanwhile to get Hippolyte into the cab, and it

had driven off.

“Well, how much longer is this going to last, Ivan Fedorovitch? What do

you think? Shall I soon be delivered from these odious youths?”

“My dear, I am quite ready; naturally... the prince.”

Ivan Fedorovitch held out his hand to Muishkin, but ran after his wife,

who was leaving with every sign of violent indignation, before he had

time to shake it. Adelaida, her fiance, and Alexandra, said good-bye to

their host with sincere friendliness. Evgenie Pavlovitch did the same,

and he alone seemed in good spirits.

“What I expected has happened! But I am sorry, you poor fellow, that

you should have had to suffer for it,” he murmured, with a most

charming smile.

Aglaya left without saying good-bye. But the evening was not to end

without a last adventure. An unexpected meeting was yet in store for

Lizabetha Prokofievna.

She had scarcely descended the terrace steps leading to the high road

that skirts the park at Pavlofsk, when suddenly there dashed by a smart

open carriage, drawn by a pair of beautiful white horses. Having passed

some ten yards beyond the house, the carriage suddenly drew up, and one

of the two ladies seated in it turned sharp round as though she had

just caught sight of some acquaintance whom she particularly wished to

see.

“Evgenie Pavlovitch! Is that you?” cried a clear, sweet voice, which

caused the prince, and perhaps someone else, to tremble. “Well, I _am_

glad I’ve found you at last! I’ve sent to town for you twice today

myself! My messengers have been searching for you everywhere!”

Evgenie Pavlovitch stood on the steps like one struck by lightning.

Mrs. Epanchin stood still too, but not with the petrified expression of

Evgenie. She gazed haughtily at the audacious person who had addressed

her companion, and then turned a look of astonishment upon Evgenie

himself.

“There’s news!” continued the clear voice. “You need not be anxious

about Kupferof’s IOU’s—Rogojin has bought them up. I persuaded him

to!—I dare say we shall settle Biscup too, so it’s all right, you see!

_Au revoir_, tomorrow! And don’t worry!” The carriage moved on, and

disappeared.

“The woman’s mad!” cried Evgenie, at last, crimson with anger, and

looking confusedly around. “I don’t know what she’s talking about! What

IOU’s? Who is she?” Mrs. Epanchin continued to watch his face for a

couple of seconds; then she marched briskly and haughtily away towards

her own house, the rest following her.

A minute afterwards, Evgenie Pavlovitch reappeared on the terrace, in

great agitation.

“Prince,” he said, “tell me the truth; do you know what all this

means?”

“I know nothing whatever about it!” replied the latter, who was,

himself, in a state of nervous excitement.

“No?”

“No!”

“Well, nor do I!” said Evgenie Pavlovitch, laughing suddenly. “I

haven’t the slightest knowledge of any such IOU’s as she mentioned, I

swear I haven’t—What’s the matter, are you fainting?”

“Oh, no—no—I’m all right, I assure you!”

XI.

The anger of the Epanchin family was unappeased for three days. As

usual the prince reproached himself, and had expected punishment, but

he was inwardly convinced that Lizabetha Prokofievna could not be

seriously angry with him, and that she probably was more angry with

herself. He was painfully surprised, therefore, when three days passed

with no word from her. Other things also troubled and perplexed him,

and one of these grew more important in his eyes as the days went by.

He had begun to blame himself for two opposite tendencies—on the one

hand to extreme, almost “senseless,” confidence in his fellows, on the

other to a “vile, gloomy suspiciousness.”

By the end of the third day the incident of the eccentric lady and

Evgenie Pavlovitch had attained enormous and mysterious proportions in

his mind. He sorrowfully asked himself whether he had been the cause of

this new “monstrosity,” or was it... but he refrained from saying who

else might be in fault. As for the letters N.P.B., he looked on that as

a harmless joke, a mere childish piece of mischief—so childish that he

felt it would be shameful, almost dishonourable, to attach any

importance to it.

The day after these scandalous events, however, the prince had the

honour of receiving a visit from Adelaida and her fiance, Prince S.

They came, ostensibly, to inquire after his health. They had wandered

out for a walk, and called in “by accident,” and talked for almost the

whole of the time they were with him about a certain most lovely tree

in the park, which Adelaida had set her heart upon for a picture. This,

and a little amiable conversation on Prince S.’s part, occupied the

time, and not a word was said about last evening’s episodes. At length

Adelaida burst out laughing, apologized, and explained that they had

come incognito; from which, and from the circumstance that they said

nothing about the prince’s either walking back with them or coming to

see them later on, the latter inferred that he was in Mrs. Epanchin’s

black books. Adelaida mentioned a watercolour that she would much like

to show him, and explained that she would either send it by Colia, or

bring it herself the next day—which to the prince seemed very

suggestive.

At length, however, just as the visitors were on the point of

departing, Prince S. seemed suddenly to recollect himself. “Oh yes,

by-the-by,” he said, “do you happen to know, my dear Lef Nicolaievitch,

who that lady was who called out to Evgenie Pavlovitch last night, from

the carriage?”

“It was Nastasia Philipovna,” said the prince; “didn’t you know that? I

cannot tell you who her companion was.”

“But what on earth did she mean? I assure you it is a real riddle to

me—to me, and to others, too!” Prince S. seemed to be under the

influence of sincere astonishment.

“She spoke of some bills of Evgenie Pavlovitch’s,” said the prince,

simply, “which Rogojin had bought up from someone; and implied that

Rogojin would not press him.”

“Oh, I heard that much, my dear fellow! But the thing is so impossibly

absurd! A man of property like Evgenie to give IOU’s to a money-lender,

and to be worried about them! It is ridiculous. Besides, he cannot

possibly be on such intimate terms with Nastasia Philipovna as she gave

us to understand; that’s the principal part of the mystery! He has

given me his word that he knows nothing whatever about the matter, and

of course I believe him. Well, the question is, my dear prince, do you

know anything about it? Has any sort of suspicion of the meaning of it

come across you?”

“No, I know nothing whatever about it. I assure you I had nothing at

all to do with it.”

“Oh, prince, how strange you have become! I assure you, I hardly know

you for your old self. How can you suppose that I ever suggested you

could have had a finger in such a business? But you are not quite

yourself today, I can see.” He embraced the prince, and kissed him.

“What do you mean, though,” asked Muishkin, “‘by such a business’? I

don’t see any particular ‘business’ about it at all!”

“Oh, undoubtedly, this person wished somehow, and for some reason, to

do Evgenie Pavlovitch a bad turn, by attributing to him—before

witnesses—qualities which he neither has nor can have,” replied Prince

S. drily enough.

Muiskhin looked disturbed, but continued to gaze intently and

questioningly into Prince S.’s face. The latter, however, remained

silent.

“Then it was not simply a matter of bills?” Muishkin said at last, with

some impatience. “It was not as she said?”

“But I ask you, my dear sir, how can there be anything in common

between Evgenie Pavlovitch, and—her, and again Rogojin? I tell you he

is a man of immense wealth—as I know for a fact; and he has further

expectations from his uncle. Simply Nastasia Philipovna—”

Prince S. paused, as though unwilling to continue talking about

Nastasia Philipovna.

“Then at all events he knows her!” remarked the prince, after a

moment’s silence.

“Oh, that may be. He may have known her some time ago—two or three

years, at least. He used to know Totski. But it is impossible that

there should be any intimacy between them. She has not even been in the

place—many people don’t even know that she has returned from Moscow! I

have only observed her carriage about for the last three days or so.”

“It’s a lovely carriage,” said Adelaida.

“Yes, it was a beautiful turn-out, certainly!”

The visitors left the house, however, on no less friendly terms than

before. But the visit was of the greatest importance to the prince,

from his own point of view. Admitting that he had his suspicions, from

the moment of the occurrence of last night, perhaps even before, that

Nastasia had some mysterious end in view, yet this visit confirmed his

suspicions and justified his fears. It was all clear to him; Prince S.

was wrong, perhaps, in his view of the matter, but he was somewhere

near the truth, and was right in so far as that he understood there to

be an intrigue of some sort going on. Perhaps Prince S. saw it all more

clearly than he had allowed his hearers to understand. At all events,

nothing could be plainer than that he and Adelaida had come for the

express purpose of obtaining explanations, and that they suspected him

of being concerned in the affair. And if all this were so, then _she_

must have some terrible object in view! What was it? There was no

stopping _her_, as Muishkin knew from experience, in the performance of

anything she had set her mind on! “Oh, she is mad, mad!” thought the

poor prince.

But there were many other puzzling occurrences that day, which required

immediate explanation, and the prince felt very sad. A visit from Vera

Lebedeff distracted him a little. She brought the infant Lubotchka with

her as usual, and talked cheerfully for some time. Then came her

younger sister, and later the brother, who attended a school close by.

He informed Muishkin that his father had lately found a new

interpretation of the star called “wormwood,” which fell upon the

water-springs, as described in the Apocalypse. He had decided that it

meant the network of railroads spread over the face of Europe at the

present time. The prince refused to believe that Lebedeff could have

given such an interpretation, and they decided to ask him about it at

the earliest opportunity. Vera related how Keller had taken up his

abode with them on the previous evening. She thought he would remain

for some time, as he was greatly pleased with the society of General

Ivolgin and of the whole family. But he declared that he had only come

to them in order to complete his education! The prince always enjoyed

the company of Lebedeff’s children, and today it was especially

welcome, for Colia did not appear all day. Early that morning he had

started for Petersburg. Lebedeff also was away on business. But Gavrila

Ardalionovitch had promised to visit Muishkin, who eagerly awaited his

coming.

About seven in the evening, soon after dinner, he arrived. At the first

glance it struck the prince that he, at any rate, must know all the

details of last night’s affair. Indeed, it would have been impossible

for him to remain in ignorance considering the intimate relationship

between him, Varvara Ardalionovna, and Ptitsin. But although he and the

prince were intimate, in a sense, and although the latter had placed

the Burdovsky affair in his hands—and this was not the only mark of

confidence he had received—it seemed curious how many matters there

were that were tacitly avoided in their conversations. Muishkin thought

that Gania at times appeared to desire more cordiality and frankness.

It was apparent now, when he entered, that he was convinced that the

moment for breaking the ice between them had come at last.

But all the same Gania was in haste, for his sister was waiting at

Lebedeff’s to consult him on an urgent matter of business. If he had

anticipated impatient questions, or impulsive confidences, he was soon

undeceived. The prince was thoughtful, reserved, even a little

absent-minded, and asked none of the questions—one in particular—that

Gania had expected. So he imitated the prince’s demeanour, and talked

fast and brilliantly upon all subjects but the one on which their

thoughts were engaged. Among other things Gania told his host that

Nastasia Philipovna had been only four days in Pavlofsk, and that

everyone was talking about her already. She was staying with Daria

Alexeyevna, in an ugly little house in Mattrossky Street, but drove

about in the smartest carriage in the place. A crowd of followers had

pursued her from the first, young and old. Some escorted her on

horse-back when she took the air in her carriage.

She was as capricious as ever in the choice of her acquaintances, and

admitted few into her narrow circle. Yet she already had a numerous

following and many champions on whom she could depend in time of need.

One gentleman on his holiday had broken off his engagement on her

account, and an old general had quarrelled with his only son for the

same reason.

She was accompanied sometimes in her carriage by a girl of sixteen, a

distant relative of her hostess. This young lady sang very well; in

fact, her music had given a kind of notoriety to their little house.

Nastasia, however, was behaving with great discretion on the whole. She

dressed quietly, though with such taste as to drive all the ladies in

Pavlofsk mad with envy, of that, as well as of her beauty and her

carriage and horses.

“As for yesterday’s episode,” continued Gania, “of course it was

pre-arranged.” Here he paused, as though expecting to be asked how he

knew that. But the prince did not inquire. Concerning Evgenie

Pavlovitch, Gania stated, without being asked, that he believed the

former had not known Nastasia Philipovna in past years, but that he had

probably been introduced to her by somebody in the park during these

four days. As to the question of the IOU’s she had spoken of, there

might easily be something in that; for though Evgenie was undoubtedly a

man of wealth, yet certain of his affairs were equally undoubtedly in

disorder. Arrived at this interesting point, Gania suddenly broke off,

and said no more about Nastasia’s prank of the previous evening.

At last Varvara Ardalionovna came in search of her brother, and

remained for a few minutes. Without Muishkin’s asking her, she informed

him that Evgenie Pavlovitch was spending the day in Petersburg, and

perhaps would remain there over tomorrow; and that her husband had also

gone to town, probably in connection with Evgenie Pavlovitch’s affairs.

“Lizabetha Prokofievna is in a really fiendish temper today,” she

added, as she went out, “but the most curious thing is that Aglaya has

quarrelled with her whole family; not only with her father and mother,

but with her sisters also. It is not a good sign.” She said all this

quite casually, though it was extremely important in the eyes of the

prince, and went off with her brother. Regarding the episode of

“Pavlicheff’s son,” Gania had been absolutely silent, partly from a

kind of false modesty, partly, perhaps, to “spare the prince’s

feelings.” The latter, however, thanked him again for the trouble he

had taken in the affair.

Muishkin was glad enough to be left alone. He went out of the garden,

crossed the road, and entered the park. He wished to reflect, and to

make up his mind as to a certain “step.” This step was one of those

things, however, which are not thought out, as a rule, but decided for

or against hastily, and without much reflection. The fact is, he felt a

longing to leave all this and go away—go anywhere, if only it were far

enough, and at once, without bidding farewell to anyone. He felt a

presentiment that if he remained but a few days more in this place, and

among these people, he would be fixed there irrevocably and

permanently. However, in a very few minutes he decided that to run away

was impossible; that it would be cowardly; that great problems lay

before him, and that he had no right to leave them unsolved, or at

least to refuse to give all his energy and strength to the attempt to

solve them. Having come to this determination, he turned and went home,

his walk having lasted less than a quarter of an hour. At that moment

he was thoroughly unhappy.

Lebedeff had not returned, so towards evening Keller managed to

penetrate into the prince’s apartments. He was not drunk, but in a

confidential and talkative mood. He announced that he had come to tell

the story of his life to Muishkin, and had only remained at Pavlofsk

for that purpose. There was no means of turning him out; nothing short

of an earthquake would have removed him.

In the manner of one with long hours before him, he began his history;

but after a few incoherent words he jumped to the conclusion, which was

that “having ceased to believe in God Almighty, he had lost every

vestige of morality, and had gone so far as to commit a theft.” “Could

you imagine such a thing?” said he.

“Listen to me, Keller,” returned the prince. “If I were in your place,

I should not acknowledge that unless it were absolutely necessary for

some reason. But perhaps you are making yourself out to be worse than

you are, purposely?”

“I should tell it to no one but yourself, prince, and I only name it

now as a help to my soul’s evolution. When I die, that secret will die

with me! But, excellency, if you knew, if you only had the least idea,

how difficult it is to get money nowadays! Where to find it is the

question. Ask for a loan, the answer is always the same: ‘Give us gold,

jewels, or diamonds, and it will be quite easy.’ Exactly what one has

not got! Can you picture that to yourself? I got angry at last, and

said, ‘I suppose you would accept emeralds?’ ‘Certainly, we accept

emeralds with pleasure. Yes!’ ‘Well, that’s all right,’ said I. ‘Go to

the devil, you den of thieves!’ And with that I seized my hat, and

walked out.”

“Had you any emeralds?” asked the prince.

“What? I have emeralds? Oh, prince! with what simplicity, with what

almost pastoral simplicity, you look upon life!”

Could not something be made of this man under good influences? asked

the prince of himself, for he began to feel a kind of pity for his

visitor. He thought little of the value of his own personal influence,

not from a sense of humility, but from his peculiar way of looking at

things in general. Imperceptibly the conversation grew more animated

and more interesting, so that neither of the two felt anxious to bring

it to a close. Keller confessed, with apparent sincerity, to having

been guilty of many acts of such a nature that it astonished the prince

that he could mention them, even to him. At every fresh avowal he

professed the deepest repentance, and described himself as being

“bathed in tears”; but this did not prevent him from putting on a

boastful air at times, and some of his stories were so absurdly comical

that both he and the prince laughed like madmen.

“One point in your favour is that you seem to have a child-like mind,

and extreme truthfulness,” said the prince at last. “Do you know that

that atones for much?”

“I am assuredly noble-minded, and chivalrous to a degree!” said Keller,

much softened. “But, do you know, this nobility of mind exists in a

dream, if one may put it so? It never appears in practice or deed. Now,

why is that? I can never understand.”

“Do not despair. I think we may say without fear of deceiving

ourselves, that you have now given a fairly exact account of your life.

I, at least, think it would be impossible to add much to what you have

just told me.”

“Impossible?” cried Keller, almost pityingly. “Oh prince, how little

you really seem to understand human nature!”

“Is there really much more to be added?” asked the prince, with mild

surprise. “Well, what is it you really want of me? Speak out; tell me

why you came to make your confession to me?”

“What did I want? Well, to begin with, it is good to meet a man like

you. It is a pleasure to talk over my faults with you. I know you for

one of the best of men... and then... then...”

He hesitated, and appeared so much embarrassed that the prince helped

him out.

“Then you wanted me to lend you money?”

The words were spoken in a grave tone, and even somewhat shyly.

Keller started, gave an astonished look at the speaker, and thumped the

table with his fist.

“Well, prince, that’s enough to knock me down! It astounds me! Here you

are, as simple and innocent as a knight of the golden age, and yet...

yet... you read a man’s soul like a psychologist! Now, do explain it to

me, prince, because I... I really do not understand!... Of course, my

aim was to borrow money all along, and you... you asked the question as

if there was nothing blameable in it—as if you thought it quite

natural.”

“Yes... from you it is quite natural.”

“And you are not offended?”

“Why should I be offended?”

“Well, just listen, prince. I remained here last evening, partly

because I have a great admiration for the French archbishop Bourdaloue.

I enjoyed a discussion over him till three o’clock in the morning, with

Lebedeff; and then... then—I swear by all I hold sacred that I am

telling you the truth—then I wished to develop my soul in this frank

and heartfelt confession to you. This was my thought as I was sobbing

myself to sleep at dawn. Just as I was losing consciousness, tears in

my soul, tears on my face (I remember how I lay there sobbing), an idea

from hell struck me. ‘Why not, after confessing, borrow money from

him?’ You see, this confession was a kind of masterstroke; I intended

to use it as a means to your good grace and favour—and then—then I

meant to walk off with a hundred and fifty roubles. Now, do you not

call that base?”

“It is hardly an exact statement of the case,” said the prince in

reply. “You have confused your motives and ideas, as I need scarcely

say too often happens to myself. I can assure you, Keller, I reproach

myself bitterly for it sometimes. When you were talking just now I

seemed to be listening to something about myself. At times I have

imagined that all men were the same,” he continued earnestly, for he

appeared to be much interested in the conversation, “and that consoled

me in a certain degree, for a _double_ motive is a thing most difficult

to fight against. I have tried, and I know. God knows whence they

arise, these ideas that you speak of as base. I fear these double

motives more than ever just now, but I am not your judge, and in my

opinion it is going too far to give the name of baseness to it—what do

you think? You were going to employ your tears as a ruse in order to

borrow money, but you also say—in fact, you have sworn to the fact—that

independently of this your confession was made with an honourable

motive. As for the money, you want it for drink, do you not? After your

confession, that is weakness, of course; but, after all, how can anyone

give up a bad habit at a moment’s notice? It is impossible. What can we

do? It is best, I think, to leave the matter to your own conscience.

How does it seem to you?” As he concluded the prince looked curiously

at Keller; evidently this problem of double motives had often been

considered by him before.

“Well, how anybody can call you an idiot after that, is more than I can

understand!” cried the boxer.

The prince reddened slightly.

“Bourdaloue, the archbishop, would not have spared a man like me,”

Keller continued, “but you, you have judged me with humanity. To show

how grateful I am, and as a punishment, I will not accept a hundred and

fifty roubles. Give me twenty-five—that will be enough; it is all I

really need, for a fortnight at least. I will not ask you for more for

a fortnight. I should like to have given Agatha a present, but she does

not really deserve it. Oh, my dear prince, God bless you!”

At this moment Lebedeff appeared, having just arrived from Petersburg.

He frowned when he saw the twenty-five rouble note in Keller’s hand,

but the latter, having got the money, went away at once. Lebedeff began

to abuse him.

“You are unjust; I found him sincerely repentant,” observed the prince,

after listening for a time.

“What is the good of repentance like that? It is the same exactly as

mine yesterday, when I said, ‘I am base, I am base,’—words, and nothing

more!”

“Then they were only words on your part? I thought, on the contrary...”

“Well, I don’t mind telling you the truth—you only! Because you see

through a man somehow. Words and actions, truth and falsehood, are all

jumbled up together in me, and yet I am perfectly sincere. I feel the

deepest repentance, believe it or not, as you choose; but words and

lies come out in the infernal craving to get the better of other

people. It is always there—the notion of cheating people, and of using

my repentant tears to my own advantage! I assure you this is the truth,

prince! I would not tell any other man for the world! He would laugh

and jeer at me—but you, you judge a man humanely.”

“Why, Keller said the same thing to me nearly word for word a few

minutes ago!” cried Muishkin. “And you both seem inclined to boast

about it! You astonish me, but I think he is more sincere than you, for

you make a regular trade of it. Oh, don’t put on that pathetic

expression, and don’t put your hand on your heart! Have you anything to

say to me? You have not come for nothing...”

Lebedeff grinned and wriggled.

“I have been waiting all day for you, because I want to ask you a

question; and, for once in your life, please tell me the truth at once.

Had you anything to do with that affair of the carriage yesterday?”

Lebedeff began to grin again, rubbed his hands, sneezed, but spoke not

a word in reply.

“I see you had something to do with it.”

“Indirectly, quite indirectly! I am speaking the truth—I am indeed! I

merely told a certain person that I had people in my house, and that

such and such personages might be found among them.”

“I am aware that you sent your son to that house—he told me so himself

just now, but what is this intrigue?” said the prince, impatiently.

“It is not my intrigue!” cried Lebedeff, waving his hand.

“It was engineered by other people, and is, properly speaking, rather a

fantasy than an intrigue!”

“But what is it all about? Tell me, for Heaven’s sake! Cannot you

understand how nearly it touches me? Why are they blackening Evgenie

Pavlovitch’s reputation?”

Lebedeff grimaced and wriggled again.

“Prince!” said he. “Excellency! You won’t let me tell you the whole

truth; I have tried to explain; more than once I have begun, but you

have not allowed me to go on...”

The prince gave no answer, and sat deep in thought. Evidently he was

struggling to decide.

“Very well! Tell me the truth,” he said, dejectedly.

“Aglaya Ivanovna...” began Lebedeff, promptly.

“Be silent! At once!” interrupted the prince, red with indignation, and

perhaps with shame, too. “It is impossible and absurd! All that has

been invented by you, or fools like you! Let me never hear you say a

word again on that subject!”

Late in the evening Colia came in with a whole budget of Petersburg and

Pavlofsk news. He did not dwell much on the Petersburg part of it,

which consisted chiefly of intelligence about his friend Hippolyte, but

passed quickly to the Pavlofsk tidings. He had gone straight to the

Epanchins’ from the station.

“There’s the deuce and all going on there!” he said. “First of all

about the row last night, and I think there must be something new as

well, though I didn’t like to ask. Not a word about _you_, prince, the

whole time! The most interesting fact was that Aglaya had been

quarrelling with her people about Gania. Colia did not know any

details, except that it had been a terrible quarrel! Also Evgenie

Pavlovitch had called, and met with an excellent reception all round.

And another curious thing: Mrs. Epanchin was so angry that she called

Varia to her—Varia was talking to the girls—and turned her out of the

house ‘once for all’ she said. I heard it from Varia herself—Mrs.

Epanchin was quite polite, but firm; and when Varia said good-bye to

the girls, she told them nothing about it, and they didn’t know they

were saying goodbye for the last time. I’m sorry for Varia, and for

Gania too; he isn’t half a bad fellow, in spite of his faults, and I

shall never forgive myself for not liking him before! I don’t know

whether I ought to continue to go to the Epanchins’ now,” concluded

Colia—“I like to be quite independent of others, and of other people’s

quarrels if I can; but I must think over it.”

“I don’t think you need break your heart over Gania,” said the prince;

“for if what you say is true, he must be considered dangerous in the

Epanchin household, and if so, certain hopes of his must have been

encouraged.”

“What? What hopes?” cried Colia; “you surely don’t mean Aglaya?—oh,

no!—”

“You’re a dreadful sceptic, prince,” he continued, after a moment’s

silence. “I have observed of late that you have grown sceptical about

everything. You don’t seem to believe in people as you did, and are

always attributing motives and so on—am I using the word ‘sceptic’ in

its proper sense?”

“I believe so; but I’m not sure.”

“Well, I’ll change it, right or wrong; I’ll say that you are not

sceptical, but _jealous_. There! you are deadly jealous of Gania, over

a certain proud damsel! Come!” Colia jumped up, with these words, and

burst out laughing. He laughed as he had perhaps never laughed before,

and still more when he saw the prince flushing up to his temples. He

was delighted that the prince should be jealous about Aglaya. However,

he stopped immediately on seeing that the other was really hurt, and

the conversation continued, very earnestly, for an hour or more.

Next day the prince had to go to town, on business. Returning in the

afternoon, he happened upon General Epanchin at the station. The latter

seized his hand, glancing around nervously, as if he were afraid of

being caught in wrong-doing, and dragged him into a first-class

compartment. He was burning to speak about something of importance.

“In the first place, my dear prince, don’t be angry with me. I would

have come to see you yesterday, but I didn’t know how Lizabetha

Prokofievna would take it. My dear fellow, my house is simply a hell

just now, a sort of sphinx has taken up its abode there. We live in an

atmosphere of riddles; I can’t make head or tail of anything. As for

you, I feel sure you are the least to blame of any of us, though you

certainly have been the cause of a good deal of trouble. You see, it’s

all very pleasant to be a philanthropist; but it can be carried too

far. Of course I admire kind-heartedness, and I esteem my wife, but—”

The general wandered on in this disconnected way for a long time; it

was clear that he was much disturbed by some circumstance which he

could make nothing of.

“It is plain to me, that _you_ are not in it at all,” he continued, at

last, a little less vaguely, “but perhaps you had better not come to

our house for a little while. I ask you in the friendliest manner,

mind; just till the wind changes again. As for Evgenie Pavlovitch,” he

continued with some excitement, “the whole thing is a calumny, a dirty

calumny. It is simply a plot, an intrigue, to upset our plans and to

stir up a quarrel. You see, prince, I’ll tell you privately, Evgenie

and ourselves have not said a word yet, we have no formal

understanding, we are in no way bound on either side, but the word may

be said very soon, don’t you see, _very_ soon, and all this is most

injurious, and is meant to be so. Why? I’m sure I can’t tell you. She’s

an extraordinary woman, you see, an eccentric woman; I tell you I am so

frightened of that woman that I can’t sleep. What a carriage that was,

and where did it come from, eh? I declare, I was base enough to suspect

Evgenie at first; but it seems certain that that cannot be the case,

and if so, why is she interfering here? That’s the riddle, what does

she want? Is it to keep Evgenie to herself? But, my dear fellow, I

swear to you, I swear he doesn’t even _know_ her, and as for those

bills, why, the whole thing is an invention! And the familiarity of the

woman! It’s quite clear we must treat the impudent creature’s attempt

with disdain, and redouble our courtesy towards Evgenie. I told my wife

so.

“Now I’ll tell you my secret conviction. I’m certain that she’s doing

this to revenge herself on me, on account of the past, though I assure

you that all the time I was blameless. I blush at the very idea. And

now she turns up again like this, when I thought she had finally

disappeared! Where’s Rogojin all this time? I thought she was Mrs.

Rogojin, long ago.”

The old man was in a state of great mental perturbation. The whole of

the journey, which occupied nearly an hour, he continued in this

strain, putting questions and answering them himself, shrugging his

shoulders, pressing the prince’s hand, and assuring the latter that, at

all events, he had no suspicion whatever of _him_. This last assurance

was satisfactory, at all events. The general finished by informing him

that Evgenie’s uncle was head of one of the civil service departments,

and rich, very rich, and a gourmand. “And, well, Heaven preserve him,

of course—but Evgenie gets his money, don’t you see? But, for all this,

I’m uncomfortable, I don’t know why. There’s something in the air, I

feel there’s something nasty in the air, like a bat, and I’m by no

means comfortable.”

And it was not until the third day that the formal reconciliation

between the prince and the Epanchins took place, as said before.

XII.

It was seven in the evening, and the prince was just preparing to go

out for a walk in the park, when suddenly Mrs. Epanchin appeared on the

terrace.

“In the first place, don’t dare to suppose,” she began, “that I am

going to apologize. Nonsense! You were entirely to blame.”

The prince remained silent.

“Were you to blame, or not?”

“No, certainly not, no more than yourself, though at first I thought I

was.”

“Oh, very well, let’s sit down, at all events, for I don’t intend to

stand up all day. And remember, if you say, one word about ‘mischievous

urchins,’ I shall go away and break with you altogether. Now then, did

you, or did you not, send a letter to Aglaya, a couple of months or so

ago, about Easter-tide?”

“Yes!”

“What for? What was your object? Show me the letter.” Mrs. Epanchin’s

eyes flashed; she was almost trembling with impatience.

“I have not got the letter,” said the prince, timidly, extremely

surprised at the turn the conversation had taken. “If anyone has it, if

it still exists, Aglaya Ivanovna must have it.”

“No finessing, please. What did you write about?”

“I am not finessing, and I am not in the least afraid of telling you;

but I don’t see the slightest reason why I should not have written.”

“Be quiet, you can talk afterwards! What was the letter about? Why are

you blushing?”

The prince was silent. At last he spoke.

“I don’t understand your thoughts, Lizabetha Prokofievna; but I can see

that the fact of my having written is for some reason repugnant to you.

You must admit that I have a perfect right to refuse to answer your

questions; but, in order to show you that I am neither ashamed of the

letter, nor sorry that I wrote it, and that I am not in the least

inclined to blush about it” (here the prince’s blushes redoubled), “I

will repeat the substance of my letter, for I think I know it almost by

heart.”

So saying, the prince repeated the letter almost word for word, as he

had written it.

“My goodness, what utter twaddle, and what may all this nonsense have

signified, pray? If it had any meaning at all!” said Mrs. Epanchin,

cuttingly, after having listened with great attention.

“I really don’t absolutely know myself; I know my feeling was very

sincere. I had moments at that time full of life and hope.”

“What sort of hope?”

“It is difficult to explain, but certainly not the hopes you have in

your mind. Hopes—well, in a word, hopes for the future, and a feeling

of joy that _there_, at all events, I was not entirely a stranger and a

foreigner. I felt an ecstasy in being in my native land once more; and

one sunny morning I took up a pen and wrote her that letter, but why to

_her_, I don’t quite know. Sometimes one longs to have a friend near,

and I evidently felt the need of one then,” added the prince, and

paused.

“Are you in love with her?”

“N-no! I wrote to her as to a sister; I signed myself her brother.”

“Oh yes, of course, on purpose! I quite understand.”

“It is very painful to me to answer these questions, Lizabetha

Prokofievna.”

“I dare say it is; but that’s no affair of mine. Now then, assure me

truly as before Heaven, are you lying to me or not?”

“No, I am not lying.”

“Are you telling the truth when you say you are not in love?”

“I believe it is the absolute truth.”

“‘I believe,’ indeed! Did that mischievous urchin give it to her?”

“I asked Nicolai Ardalionovitch...”

“The urchin! the urchin!” interrupted Lizabetha Prokofievna in an angry

voice. “I do not want to know if it were Nicolai Ardalionovitch! The

urchin!”

“Nicolai Ardalionovitch...”

“The urchin, I tell you!”

“No, it was not the urchin: it was Nicolai Ardalionovitch,” said the

prince very firmly, but without raising his voice.

“Well, all right! All right, my dear! I shall put that down to your

account.”

She was silent a moment to get breath, and to recover her composure.

“Well!—and what’s the meaning of the ‘poor knight,’ eh?”

“I don’t know in the least; I wasn’t present when the joke was made. It

_is_ a joke. I suppose, and that’s all.”

“Well, that’s a comfort, at all events. You don’t suppose she could

take any interest in you, do you? Why, she called you an ‘idiot’

herself.”

“I think you might have spared me that,” murmured the prince

reproachfully, almost in a whisper.

“Don’t be angry; she is a wilful, mad, spoilt girl. If she likes a

person she will pitch into him, and chaff him. I used to be just such

another. But for all that you needn’t flatter yourself, my boy; she is

not for you. I don’t believe it, and it is not to be. I tell you so at

once, so that you may take proper precautions. Now, I want to hear you

swear that you are not married to that woman?”

“Lizabetha Prokofievna, what are you thinking of?” cried the prince,

almost leaping to his feet in amazement.

“Why? You very nearly were, anyhow.”

“Yes—I nearly was,” whispered the prince, hanging his head.

“Well then, have you come here for _her?_ Are you in love with _her?_

With _that_ creature?”

“I did not come to marry at all,” replied the prince.

“Is there anything you hold sacred?”

“There is.”

“Then swear by it that you did not come here to marry _her!_”

“I’ll swear it by whatever you please.”

“I believe you. You may kiss me; I breathe freely at last. But you must

know, my dear friend, Aglaya does not love you, and she shall never be

your wife while I am out of my grave. So be warned in time. Do you hear

me?”

“Yes, I hear.”

The prince flushed up so much that he could not look her in the face.

“I have waited for you with the greatest impatience (not that you were

worth it). Every night I have drenched my pillow with tears, not for

you, my friend, not for you, don’t flatter yourself! I have my own

grief, always the same, always the same. But I’ll tell you why I have

been awaiting you so impatiently, because I believe that Providence

itself sent you to be a friend and a brother to me. I haven’t a friend

in the world except Princess Bielokonski, and she is growing as stupid

as a sheep from old age. Now then, tell me, yes or no? Do you know why

she called out from her carriage the other night?”

“I give you my word of honour that I had nothing to do with the matter

and know nothing about it.”

“Very well, I believe you. I have my own ideas about it. Up to

yesterday morning I thought it was really Evgenie Pavlovitch who was to

blame; now I cannot help agreeing with the others. But why he was made

such a fool of I cannot understand. However, he is not going to marry

Aglaya, I can tell you that. He may be a very excellent fellow, but—so

it shall be. I was not at all sure of accepting him before, but now I

have quite made up my mind that I won’t have him. ‘Put me in my coffin

first and then into my grave, and then you may marry my daughter to

whomsoever you please,’ so I said to the general this very morning. You

see how I trust you, my boy.”

“Yes, I see and understand.”

Mrs. Epanchin gazed keenly into the prince’s eyes. She was anxious to

see what impression the news as to Evgenie Pavlovitch had made upon

him.

“Do you know anything about Gavrila Ardalionovitch?” she asked at last.

“Oh yes, I know a good deal.”

“Did you know he had communications with Aglaya?”

“No, I didn’t,” said the prince, trembling a little, and in great

agitation. “You say Gavrila Ardalionovitch has private communications

with Aglaya?—Impossible!”

“Only quite lately. His sister has been working like a rat to clear the

way for him all the winter.”

“I don’t believe it!” said the prince abruptly, after a short pause.

“Had it been so I should have known long ago.”

“Oh, of course, yes; he would have come and wept out his secret on your

bosom. Oh, you simpleton—you simpleton! Anyone can deceive you and take

you in like a—like a,—aren’t you ashamed to trust him? Can’t you see

that he humbugs you just as much as ever he pleases?”

“I know very well that he does deceive me occasionally, and he knows

that I know it, but—” The prince did not finish his sentence.

“And that’s why you trust him, eh? So I should have supposed. Good

Lord, was there ever such a man as you? Tfu! and are you aware, sir,

that this Gania, or his sister Varia, have brought her into

correspondence with Nastasia Philipovna?”

“Brought whom?” cried Muishkin.

“Aglaya.”

“I don’t believe it! It’s impossible! What object could they have?” He

jumped up from his chair in his excitement.

“Nor do I believe it, in spite of the proofs. The girl is self-willed

and fantastic, and insane! She’s wicked, wicked! I’ll repeat it for a

thousand years that she’s wicked; they _all_ are, just now, all my

daughters, even that ‘wet hen’ Alexandra. And yet I don’t believe it.

Because I don’t choose to believe it, perhaps; but I don’t. Why haven’t

you been?” she turned on the prince suddenly. “Why didn’t you come near

us all these three days, eh?”

The prince began to give his reasons, but she interrupted him again.

“Everybody takes you in and deceives you; you went to town yesterday. I

dare swear you went down on your knees to that rogue, and begged him to

accept your ten thousand roubles!”

“I never thought of doing any such thing. I have not seen him, and he

is not a rogue, in my opinion. I have had a letter from him.”

“Show it me!”

The prince took a paper from his pocket-book, and handed it to

Lizabetha Prokofievna. It ran as follows:

“Sir,

“In the eyes of the world I am sure that I have no cause for pride

or self-esteem. I am much too insignificant for that. But what may

be so to other men’s eyes is not so to yours. I am convinced that

you are better than other people. Doktorenko disagrees with me, but

I am content to differ from him on this point. I will never accept

one single copeck from you, but you have helped my mother, and I am

bound to be grateful to you for that, however weak it may seem. At

any rate, I have changed my opinion about you, and I think right to

inform you of the fact; but I also suppose that there can be no

further intercourse between us.

“Antip Burdovsky.

“P.S.—The two hundred roubles I owe you shall certainly be repaid in

time.”

“How extremely stupid!” cried Mrs. Epanchin, giving back the letter

abruptly. “It was not worth the trouble of reading. Why are you

smiling?”

“Confess that you are pleased to have read it.”

“What! Pleased with all that nonsense! Why, cannot you see that they

are all infatuated with pride and vanity?”

“He has acknowledged himself to be in the wrong. Don’t you see that the

greater his vanity, the more difficult this admission must have been on

his part? Oh, what a little child you are, Lizabetha Prokofievna!”

“Are you tempting me to box your ears for you, or what?”

“Not at all. I am only proving that you are glad about the letter. Why

conceal your real feelings? You always like to do it.”

“Never come near my house again!” cried Mrs. Epanchin, pale with rage.

“Don’t let me see as much as a _shadow_ of you about the place! Do you

hear?”

“Oh yes, and in three days you’ll come and invite me yourself. Aren’t

you ashamed now? These are your best feelings; you are only tormenting

yourself.”

“I’ll die before I invite you! I shall forget your very name! I’ve

forgotten it already!”

She marched towards the door.

“But I’m forbidden your house as it is, without your added threats!”

cried the prince after her.

“What? Who forbade you?”

She turned round so suddenly that one might have supposed a needle had

been stuck into her.

The prince hesitated. He perceived that he had said too much now.

“_Who_ forbade you?” cried Mrs. Epanchin once more.

“Aglaya Ivanovna told me—”

“When? Speak—quick!”

“She sent to say, yesterday morning, that I was never to dare to come

near the house again.”

Lizabetha Prokofievna stood like a stone.

“What did she send? Whom? Was it that boy? Was it a message?—quick!”

“I had a note,” said the prince.

“Where is it? Give it here, at once.”

The prince thought a moment. Then he pulled out of his waistcoat pocket

an untidy slip of paper, on which was scrawled:

“PRINCE LEF NICOLAIEVITCH,—If you think fit, after all that has passed,

to honour our house with a visit, I can assure you you will not find me

among the number of those who are in any way delighted to see you.

“Aglaya Epanchin.”

Mrs. Epanchin reflected a moment. The next minute she flew at the

prince, seized his hand, and dragged him after her to the door.

“Quick—come along!” she cried, breathless with agitation and

impatience. “Come along with me this moment!”

“But you declared I wasn’t—”

“Don’t be a simpleton. You behave just as though you weren’t a man at

all. Come on! I shall see, now, with my own eyes. I shall see all.”

“Well, let me get my hat, at least.”

“Here’s your miserable hat. He couldn’t even choose a respectable shape

for his hat! Come on! She did that because I took your part and said

you ought to have come—little vixen!—else she would never have sent you

that silly note. It’s a most improper note, I call it; most improper

for such an intelligent, well-brought-up girl to write. H’m! I dare say

she was annoyed that you didn’t come; but she ought to have known that

one can’t write like that to an idiot like you, for you’d be sure to

take it literally.” Mrs. Epanchin was dragging the prince along with

her all the time, and never let go of his hand for an instant. “What

are you listening for?” she added, seeing that she had committed

herself a little. “She wants a clown like you—she hasn’t seen one for

some time—to play with. That’s why she is anxious for you to come to

the house. And right glad I am that she’ll make a thorough good fool of

you. You deserve it; and she can do it—oh! she can, indeed!—as well as

most people.”