PART IV

I.

A week had elapsed since the rendezvous of our two friends on the green

bench in the park, when, one fine morning at about half-past ten

o’clock, Varvara Ardalionovna, otherwise Mrs. Ptitsin, who had been out

to visit a friend, returned home in a state of considerable mental

depression.

There are certain people of whom it is difficult to say anything which

will at once throw them into relief—in other words, describe them

graphically in their typical characteristics. These are they who are

generally known as “commonplace people,” and this class comprises, of

course, the immense majority of mankind. Authors, as a rule, attempt to

select and portray types rarely met with in their entirety, but these

types are nevertheless more real than real life itself.

“Podkoleosin” [A character in Gogol’s comedy, The Wedding.] was perhaps

an exaggeration, but he was by no means a non-existent character; on

the contrary, how many intelligent people, after hearing of this

Podkoleosin from Gogol, immediately began to find that scores of their

friends were exactly like him! They knew, perhaps, before Gogol told

them, that their friends were like Podkoleosin, but they did not know

what name to give them. In real life, young fellows seldom jump out of

the window just before their weddings, because such a feat, not to

speak of its other aspects, must be a decidedly unpleasant mode of

escape; and yet there are plenty of bridegrooms, intelligent fellows

too, who would be ready to confess themselves Podkoleosins in the

depths of their consciousness, just before marriage. Nor does every

husband feel bound to repeat at every step, “_Tu l’as voulu, Georges

Dandin!_” like another typical personage; and yet how many millions and

billions of Georges Dandins there are in real life who feel inclined to

utter this soul-drawn cry after their honeymoon, if not the day after

the wedding! Therefore, without entering into any more serious

examination of the question, I will content myself with remarking that

in real life typical characters are “watered down,” so to speak; and

all these Dandins and Podkoleosins actually exist among us every day,

but in a diluted form. I will just add, however, that Georges Dandin

might have existed exactly as Molière presented him, and probably does

exist now and then, though rarely; and so I will end this scientific

examination, which is beginning to look like a newspaper criticism. But

for all this, the question remains,—what are the novelists to do with

commonplace people, and how are they to be presented to the reader in

such a form as to be in the least degree interesting? They cannot be

left out altogether, for commonplace people meet one at every turn of

life, and to leave them out would be to destroy the whole reality and

probability of the story. To fill a novel with typical characters only,

or with merely strange and uncommon people, would render the book

unreal and improbable, and would very likely destroy the interest. In

my opinion, the duty of the novelist is to seek out points of interest

and instruction even in the characters of commonplace people.

For instance, when the whole essence of an ordinary person’s nature

lies in his perpetual and unchangeable commonplaceness; and when in

spite of all his endeavours to do something out of the common, this

person ends, eventually, by remaining in his unbroken line of routine—.

I think such an individual really does become a type of his own—a type

of commonplaceness which will not for the world, if it can help it, be

contented, but strains and yearns to be something original and

independent, without the slightest possibility of being so. To this

class of commonplace people belong several characters in this

novel;—characters which—I admit—I have not drawn very vividly up to now

for my reader’s benefit.

Such were, for instance, Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsin, her husband, and

her brother, Gania.

There is nothing so annoying as to be fairly rich, of a fairly good

family, pleasing presence, average education, to be “not stupid,”

kind-hearted, and yet to have no talent at all, no originality, not a

single idea of one’s own—to be, in fact, “just like everyone else.”

Of such people there are countless numbers in this world—far more even

than appear. They can be divided into two classes as all men can—that

is, those of limited intellect, and those who are much cleverer. The

former of these classes is the happier.

To a commonplace man of limited intellect, for instance, nothing is

simpler than to imagine himself an original character, and to revel in

that belief without the slightest misgiving.

Many of our young women have thought fit to cut their hair short, put

on blue spectacles, and call themselves Nihilists. By doing this they

have been able to persuade themselves, without further trouble, that

they have acquired new convictions of their own. Some men have but felt

some little qualm of kindness towards their fellow-men, and the fact

has been quite enough to persuade them that they stand alone in the van

of enlightenment and that no one has such humanitarian feelings as

they. Others have but to read an idea of somebody else’s, and they can

immediately assimilate it and believe that it was a child of their own

brain. The “impudence of ignorance,” if I may use the expression, is

developed to a wonderful extent in such cases;—unlikely as it appears,

it is met with at every turn.

This confidence of a stupid man in his own talents has been wonderfully

depicted by Gogol in the amazing character of Pirogoff. Pirogoff has

not the slightest doubt of his own genius,—nay, of his _superiority_ of

genius,—so certain is he of it that he never questions it. How many

Pirogoffs have there not been among our writers—scholars,

propagandists? I say “have been,” but indeed there are plenty of them

at this very day.

Our friend, Gania, belonged to the other class—to the “much cleverer”

persons, though he was from head to foot permeated and saturated with

the longing to be original. This class, as I have said above, is far

less happy. For the “clever commonplace” person, though he may possibly

imagine himself a man of genius and originality, none the less has

within his heart the deathless worm of suspicion and doubt; and this

doubt sometimes brings a clever man to despair. (As a rule, however,

nothing tragic happens;—his liver becomes a little damaged in the

course of time, nothing more serious. Such men do not give up their

aspirations after originality without a severe struggle,—and there have

been men who, though good fellows in themselves, and even benefactors

to humanity, have sunk to the level of base criminals for the sake of

originality).

Gania was a beginner, as it were, upon this road. A deep and

unchangeable consciousness of his own lack of talent, combined with a

vast longing to be able to persuade himself that he was original, had

rankled in his heart, even from childhood.

He seemed to have been born with overwrought nerves, and in his

passionate desire to excel, he was often led to the brink of some rash

step; and yet, having resolved upon such a step, when the moment

arrived, he invariably proved too sensible to take it. He was ready, in

the same way, to do a base action in order to obtain his wished-for

object; and yet, when the moment came to do it, he found that he was

too honest for any great baseness. (Not that he objected to acts of

petty meanness—he was always ready for _them_.) He looked with hate and

loathing on the poverty and downfall of his family, and treated his

mother with haughty contempt, although he knew that his whole future

depended on her character and reputation.

Aglaya had simply frightened him; yet he did not give up all thoughts

of her—though he never seriously hoped that she would condescend to

him. At the time of his “adventure” with Nastasia Philipovna he had

come to the conclusion that money was his only hope—money should do all

for him.

At the moment when he lost Aglaya, and after the scene with Nastasia,

he had felt so low in his own eyes that he actually brought the money

back to the prince. Of this returning of the money given to him by a

madwoman who had received it from a madman, he had often repented

since—though he never ceased to be proud of his action. During the

short time that Muishkin remained in Petersburg Gania had had time to

come to hate him for his sympathy, though the prince told him that it

was “not everyone who would have acted so nobly” as to return the

money. He had long pondered, too, over his relations with Aglaya, and

had persuaded himself that with such a strange, childish, innocent

character as hers, things might have ended very differently. Remorse

then seized him; he threw up his post, and buried himself in

self-torment and reproach.

He lived at Ptitsin’s, and openly showed contempt for the latter,

though he always listened to his advice, and was sensible enough to ask

for it when he wanted it. Gavrila Ardalionovitch was angry with Ptitsin

because the latter did not care to become a Rothschild. “If you are to

be a Jew,” he said, “do it properly—squeeze people right and left, show

some character; be the King of the Jews while you are about it.”

Ptitsin was quiet and not easily offended—he only laughed. But on one

occasion he explained seriously to Gania that he was no Jew, that he

did nothing dishonest, that he could not help the market price of

money, that, thanks to his accurate habits, he had already a good

footing and was respected, and that his business was flourishing.

“I shan’t ever be a Rothschild, and there is no reason why I should,”

he added, smiling; “but I shall have a house in the Liteynaya, perhaps

two, and that will be enough for me.” “Who knows but what I may have

three!” he concluded to himself; but this dream, cherished inwardly, he

never confided to a soul.

Nature loves and favours such people. Ptitsin will certainly have his

reward, not three houses, but four, precisely because from childhood up

he had realized that he would never be a Rothschild. That will be the

limit of Ptitsin’s fortune, and, come what may, he will never have more

than four houses.

Varvara Ardalionovna was not like her brother. She too, had passionate

desires, but they were persistent rather than impetuous. Her plans were

as wise as her methods of carrying them out. No doubt she also belonged

to the category of ordinary people who dream of being original, but she

soon discovered that she had not a grain of true originality, and she

did not let it trouble her too much. Perhaps a certain kind of pride

came to her help. She made her first concession to the demands of

practical life with great resolution when she consented to marry

Ptitsin. However, when she married she did not say to herself, “Never

mind a mean action if it leads to the end in view,” as her brother

would certainly have said in such a case; it is quite probable that he

may have said it when he expressed his elder-brotherly satisfaction at

her decision. Far from this; Varvara Ardalionovna did not marry until

she felt convinced that her future husband was unassuming, agreeable,

almost cultured, and that nothing on earth would tempt him to a really

dishonourable deed. As to small meannesses, such trifles did not

trouble her. Indeed, who is free from them? It is absurd to expect the

ideal! Besides, she knew that her marriage would provide a refuge for

all her family. Seeing Gania unhappy, she was anxious to help him, in

spite of their former disputes and misunderstandings. Ptitsin, in a

friendly way, would press his brother-in-law to enter the army. “You

know,” he said sometimes, jokingly, “you despise generals and

generaldom, but you will see that ‘they’ will all end by being generals

in their turn. You will see it if you live long enough!”

“But why should they suppose that I despise generals?” Gania thought

sarcastically to himself.

To serve her brother’s interests, Varvara Ardalionovna was constantly

at the Epanchins’ house, helped by the fact that in childhood she and

Gania had played with General Ivan Fedorovitch’s daughters. It would

have been inconsistent with her character if in these visits she had

been pursuing a chimera; her project was not chimerical at all; she was

building on a firm basis—on her knowledge of the character of the

Epanchin family, especially Aglaya, whom she studied closely. All

Varvara’s efforts were directed towards bringing Aglaya and Gania

together. Perhaps she achieved some result; perhaps, also, she made the

mistake of depending too much upon her brother, and expecting more from

him than he would ever be capable of giving. However this may be, her

manoeuvres were skilful enough. For weeks at a time she would never

mention Gania. Her attitude was modest but dignified, and she was

always extremely truthful and sincere. Examining the depths of her

conscience, she found nothing to reproach herself with, and this still

further strengthened her in her designs. But Varvara Ardalionovna

sometimes remarked that she felt spiteful; that there was a good deal

of vanity in her, perhaps even of wounded vanity. She noticed this at

certain times more than at others, and especially after her visits to

the Epanchins.

Today, as I have said, she returned from their house with a heavy

feeling of dejection. There was a sensation of bitterness, a sort of

mocking contempt, mingled with it.

Arrived at her own house, Varia heard a considerable commotion going on

in the upper storey, and distinguished the voices of her father and

brother. On entering the salon she found Gania pacing up and down at

frantic speed, pale with rage and almost tearing his hair. She frowned,

and subsided on to the sofa with a tired air, and without taking the

trouble to remove her hat. She very well knew that if she kept quiet

and asked her brother nothing about his reason for tearing up and down

the room, his wrath would fall upon her head. So she hastened to put

the question:

“The old story, eh?”

“Old story? No! Heaven knows what’s up now—I don’t! Father has simply

gone mad; mother’s in floods of tears. Upon my word, Varia, I must kick

him out of the house; or else go myself,” he added, probably

remembering that he could not well turn people out of a house which was

not his own.

“You must make allowances,” murmured Varia.

“Make allowances? For whom? Him—the old blackguard? No, no, Varia—that

won’t do! It won’t do, I tell you! And look at the swagger of the man!

He’s all to blame himself, and yet he puts on so much ‘side’ that you’d

think—my word!—‘It’s too much trouble to go through the gate, you must

break the fence for me!’ That’s the sort of air he puts on; but what’s

the matter with you, Varia? What a curious expression you have!”

“I’m all right,” said Varia, in a tone that sounded as though she were

all wrong.

Gania looked more intently at her.

“You’ve been _there?_” he asked, suddenly.

“Yes.”

“Did you find out anything?”

“Nothing unexpected. I discovered that it’s all true. My husband was

wiser than either of us. Just as he suspected from the beginning, so it

has fallen out. Where is he?”

“Out. Well—what has happened?—go on.”

“The prince is formally engaged to her—that’s settled. The elder

sisters told me about it. Aglaya has agreed. They don’t attempt to

conceal it any longer; you know how mysterious and secret they have all

been up to now. Adelaida’s wedding is put off again, so that both can

be married on one day. Isn’t that delightfully romantic? Somebody ought

to write a poem on it. Sit down and write an ode instead of tearing up

and down like that. This evening Princess Bielokonski is to arrive; she

comes just in time—they have a party tonight. He is to be presented to

old Bielokonski, though I believe he knows her already; probably the

engagement will be openly announced. They are only afraid that he may

knock something down, or trip over something when he comes into the

room. It would be just like him.”

Gania listened attentively, but to his sister’s astonishment he was by

no means so impressed by this news (which should, she thought, have

been so important to him) as she had expected.

“Well, it was clear enough all along,” he said, after a moment’s

reflection. “So that’s the end,” he added, with a disagreeable smile,

continuing to walk up and down the room, but much slower than before,

and glancing slyly into his sister’s face.

“It’s a good thing that you take it philosophically, at all events,”

said Varia. “I’m really very glad of it.”

“Yes, it’s off our hands—off _yours_, I should say.”

“I think I have served you faithfully. I never even asked you what

happiness you expected to find with Aglaya.”

“Did I ever expect to find happiness with Aglaya?”

“Come, come, don’t overdo your philosophy. Of course you did. Now it’s

all over, and a good thing, too; pair of fools that we have been! I

confess I have never been able to look at it seriously. I busied myself

in it for your sake, thinking that there was no knowing what might

happen with a funny girl like that to deal with. There were ninety to

one chances against it. To this moment I can’t make out why you wished

for it.”

“H’m! now, I suppose, you and your husband will never weary of egging

me on to work again. You’ll begin your lectures about perseverance and

strength of will, and all that. I know it all by heart,” said Gania,

laughing.

“He’s got some new idea in his head,” thought Varia. “Are they pleased

over there—the parents?” asked Gania, suddenly.

“N-no, I don’t think they are. You can judge for yourself. I think the

general is pleased enough; her mother is a little uneasy. She always

loathed the idea of the prince as a _husband_; everybody knows that.”

“Of course, naturally. The bridegroom is an impossible and ridiculous

one. I mean, has _she_ given her formal consent?”

“She has not said ‘no,’ up to now, and that’s all. It was sure to be so

with her. You know what she is like. You know how absurdly shy she is.

You remember how she used to hide in a cupboard as a child, so as to

avoid seeing visitors, for hours at a time. She is just the same now;

but, do you know, I think there is something serious in the matter,

even from her side; I feel it, somehow. She laughs at the prince, they

say, from morn to night in order to hide her real feelings; but you may

be sure she finds occasion to say something or other to him on the sly,

for he himself is in a state of radiant happiness. He walks in the

clouds; they say he is extremely funny just now; I heard it from

themselves. They seemed to be laughing at me in their sleeves—those

elder girls—I don’t know why.”

Gania had begun to frown, and probably Varia added this last sentence

in order to probe his thought. However, at this moment, the noise began

again upstairs.

“I’ll turn him out!” shouted Gania, glad of the opportunity of venting

his vexation. “I shall just turn him out—we can’t have this.”

“Yes, and then he’ll go about the place and disgrace us as he did

yesterday.”

“How ‘as he did yesterday’? What do you mean? What did he do

yesterday?” asked Gania, in alarm.

“Why, goodness me, don’t you know?” Varia stopped short.

“What? You don’t mean to say that he went there yesterday!” cried

Gania, flushing red with shame and anger. “Good heavens, Varia! Speak!

You have just been there. _Was_ he there or not, _quick?_” And Gania

rushed for the door. Varia followed and caught him by both hands.

“What are you doing? Where are you going to? You can’t let him go now;

if you do he’ll go and do something worse.”

“What did he do there? What did he say?”

“They couldn’t tell me themselves; they couldn’t make head or tail of

it; but he frightened them all. He came to see the general, who was not

at home; so he asked for Lizabetha Prokofievna. First of all, he begged

her for some place, or situation, for work of some kind, and then he

began to complain about _us_, about me and my husband, and you,

especially _you_; he said a lot of things.”

“Oh! couldn’t you find out?” muttered Gania, trembling hysterically.

“No—nothing more than that. Why, they couldn’t understand him

themselves; and very likely didn’t tell me all.”

Gania seized his head with both hands and tottered to the window; Varia

sat down at the other window.

“Funny girl, Aglaya,” she observed, after a pause. “When she left me

she said, ‘Give my special and personal respects to your parents; I

shall certainly find an opportunity to see your father one day,’ and so

serious over it. She’s a strange creature.”

“Wasn’t she joking? She was speaking sarcastically!”

“Not a bit of it; that’s just the strange part of it.”

“Does she know about father, do you think—or not?”

“That they do _not_ know about it in the house is quite certain, the

rest of them, I mean; but you have given me an idea. Aglaya perhaps

knows. She alone, though, if anyone; for the sisters were as astonished

as I was to hear her speak so seriously. If she knows, the prince must

have told her.”

“Oh! it’s not a great matter to guess who told her. A thief! A thief in

our family, and the head of the family, too!”

“Oh! nonsense!” cried Varia, angrily. “That was nothing but a

drunkard’s tale. Nonsense! Why, who invented the whole thing—Lebedeff

and the prince—a pretty pair! Both were probably drunk.”

“Father is a drunkard and a thief; I am a beggar, and the husband of my

sister is a usurer,” continued Gania, bitterly. “There was a pretty

list of advantages with which to enchant the heart of Aglaya.”

“That same husband of your sister, the usurer—”

“Feeds me? Go on. Don’t stand on ceremony, pray.”

“Don’t lose your temper. You are just like a schoolboy. You think that

all this sort of thing would harm you in Aglaya’s eyes, do you? You

little know her character. She is capable of refusing the most

brilliant party, and running away and starving in a garret with some

wretched student; that’s the sort of girl she is. You never could or

did understand how interesting you would have seen in her eyes if you

had come firmly and proudly through our misfortunes. The prince has

simply caught her with hook and line; firstly, because he never thought

of fishing for her, and secondly, because he is an idiot in the eyes of

most people. It’s quite enough for her that by accepting him she puts

her family out and annoys them all round—that’s what she likes. You

don’t understand these things.”

“We shall see whether I understand or no!” said Gania, enigmatically.

“But I shouldn’t like her to know all about father, all the same. I

thought the prince would manage to hold his tongue about this, at

least. He prevented Lebedeff spreading the news—he wouldn’t even tell

me all when I asked him—”

“Then you must see that he is not responsible. What does it matter to

you now, in any case? What are you hoping for still? If you _have_ a

hope left, it is that your suffering air may soften her heart towards

you.”

“Oh, she would funk a scandal like anyone else. You are all tarred with

one brush!”

“What! _Aglaya_ would have funked? You are a chicken-hearted fellow,

Gania!” said Varia, looking at her brother with contempt. “Not one of

us is worth much. Aglaya may be a wild sort of a girl, but she is far

nobler than any of us, a thousand times nobler!”

“Well—come! there’s nothing to get cross about,” said Gania.

“All I’m afraid of is—mother. I’m afraid this scandal about father may

come to her ears; perhaps it has already. I am dreadfully afraid.”

“It undoubtedly has already!” observed Gania.

Varia had risen from her place and had started to go upstairs to her

mother; but at this observation of Gania’s she turned and gazed at him

attentively.

“Who could have told her?”

“Hippolyte, probably. He would think it the most delightful amusement

in the world to tell her of it the instant he moved over here; I

haven’t a doubt of it.”

“But how could he know anything of it? Tell me that. Lebedeff and the

prince determined to tell no one—even Colia knows nothing.”

“What, Hippolyte? He found it out himself, of course. Why, you have no

idea what a cunning little animal he is; dirty little gossip! He has

the most extraordinary nose for smelling out other people’s secrets, or

anything approaching to scandal. Believe it or not, but I’m pretty sure

he has got round Aglaya. If he hasn’t, he soon will. Rogojin is

intimate with him, too. How the prince doesn’t notice it, I can’t

understand. The little wretch considers me his enemy now and does his

best to catch me tripping. What on earth does it matter to him, when

he’s dying? However, you’ll see; I shall catch _him_ tripping yet, and

not he me.”

“Why did you get him over here, if you hate him so? And is it really

worth your while to try to score off him?”

“Why, it was yourself who advised me to bring him over!”

“I thought he might be useful. You know he is in love with Aglaya

himself, now, and has written to her; he has even written to Lizabetha

Prokofievna!”

“Oh! he’s not dangerous there!” cried Gania, laughing angrily.

“However, I believe there is something of that sort in the air; he is

very likely to be in love, for he is a mere boy. But he won’t write

anonymous letters to the old lady; that would be too audacious a thing

for him to attempt; but I dare swear the very first thing he did was to

show me up to Aglaya as a base deceiver and intriguer. I confess I was

fool enough to attempt something through him at first. I thought he

would throw himself into my service out of revengeful feelings towards

the prince, the sly little beast! But I know him better now. As for the

theft, he may have heard of it from the widow in Petersburg, for if the

old man committed himself to such an act, he can have done it for no

other object but to give the money to her. Hippolyte said to me,

without any prelude, that the general had promised the widow four

hundred roubles. Of course I understood, and the little wretch looked

at me with a nasty sort of satisfaction. I know him; you may depend

upon it he went and told mother too, for the pleasure of wounding her.

And why doesn’t he die, I should like to know? He undertook to die

within three weeks, and here he is getting fatter. His cough is better,

too. It was only yesterday that he said that was the second day he

hadn’t coughed blood.”

“Well, turn him out!”

“I don’t _hate_, I despise him,” said Gania, grandly. “Well, I do hate

him, if you like!” he added, with a sudden access of rage, “and I’ll

tell him so to his face, even when he’s dying! If you had but read his

confession—good Lord! what refinement of impudence! Oh, but I’d have

liked to whip him then and there, like a schoolboy, just to see how

surprised he would have been! Now he hates everybody because he—Oh, I

say, what on earth are they doing there! Listen to that noise! I really

can’t stand this any longer. Ptitsin!” he cried, as the latter entered

the room, “what in the name of goodness are we coming to? Listen to

that—”

But the noise came rapidly nearer, the door burst open, and old General

Ivolgin, raging, furious, purple-faced, and trembling with anger,

rushed in. He was followed by Nina Alexandrovna, Colia, and behind the

rest, Hippolyte.

II.

Hippolyte had now been five days at the Ptitsins’. His flitting from

the prince’s to these new quarters had been brought about quite

naturally and without many words. He did not quarrel with the prince—in

fact, they seemed to part as friends. Gania, who had been hostile

enough on that eventful evening, had himself come to see him a couple

of days later, probably in obedience to some sudden impulse. For some

reason or other, Rogojin too had begun to visit the sick boy. The

prince thought it might be better for him to move away from his (the

prince’s) house. Hippolyte informed him, as he took his leave, that

Ptitsin “had been kind enough to offer him a corner,” and did not say a

word about Gania, though Gania had procured his invitation, and himself

came to fetch him away. Gania noticed this at the time, and put it to

Hippolyte’s debit on account.

Gania was right when he told his sister that Hippolyte was getting

better; that he was better was clear at the first glance. He entered

the room now last of all, deliberately, and with a disagreeable smile

on his lips.

Nina Alexandrovna came in, looking frightened. She had changed much

since we last saw her, half a year ago, and had grown thin and pale.

Colia looked worried and perplexed. He could not understand the

vagaries of the general, and knew nothing of the last achievement of

that worthy, which had caused so much commotion in the house. But he

could see that his father had of late changed very much, and that he

had begun to behave in so extraordinary a fashion both at home and

abroad that he was not like the same man. What perplexed and disturbed

him as much as anything was that his father had entirely given up

drinking during the last few days. Colia knew that he had quarrelled

with both Lebedeff and the prince, and had just bought a small bottle

of vodka and brought it home for his father.

“Really, mother,” he had assured Nina Alexandrovna upstairs, “really

you had better let him drink. He has not had a drop for three days; he

must be suffering agonies—” The general now entered the room, threw the

door wide open, and stood on the threshold trembling with indignation.

“Look here, my dear sir,” he began, addressing Ptitsin in a very loud

tone of voice; “if you have really made up your mind to sacrifice an

old man—your father too or at all events father of your wife—an old man

who has served his emperor—to a wretched little atheist like this, all

I can say is, sir, my foot shall cease to tread your floors. Make your

choice, sir; make your choice quickly, if you please! Me or this—screw!

Yes, screw, sir; I said it accidentally, but let the word stand—this

screw, for he screws and drills himself into my soul—”

“Hadn’t you better say corkscrew?” said Hippolyte.

“No, sir, _not_ corkscrew. I am a general, not a bottle, sir. Make your

choice, sir—me or him.”

Here Colia handed him a chair, and he subsided into it, breathless with

rage.

“Hadn’t you better—better—take a nap?” murmured the stupefied Ptitsin.

“A nap?” shrieked the general. “I am not drunk, sir; you insult me! I

see,” he continued, rising, “I see that all are against me here.

Enough—I go; but know, sirs—know that—”

He was not allowed to finish his sentence. Somebody pushed him back

into his chair, and begged him to be calm. Nina Alexandrovna trembled,

and cried quietly. Gania retired to the window in disgust.

“But what have I done? What is his grievance?” asked Hippolyte,

grinning.

“What have you done, indeed?” put in Nina Alexandrovna. “You ought to

be ashamed of yourself, teasing an old man like that—and in your

position, too.”

“And pray what _is_ my position, madame? I have the greatest respect

for you, personally; but—”

“He’s a little screw,” cried the general; “he drills holes in my heart

and soul. He wishes me to be a pervert to atheism. Know, you young

greenhorn, that I was covered with honours before ever you were born;

and you are nothing better than a wretched little worm, torn in two

with coughing, and dying slowly of your own malice and unbelief. What

did Gavrila bring you over here for? They’re all against me, even to my

own son—all against me.”

“Oh, come—nonsense!” cried Gania; “if you did not go shaming us all

over the town, things might be better for all parties.”

“What—shame you? I?—what do you mean, you young calf? I shame you? I

can only do you honour, sir; I cannot shame you.”

He jumped up from his chair in a fit of uncontrollable rage. Gania was

very angry too.

“Honour, indeed!” said the latter, with contempt.

“What do you say, sir?” growled the general, taking a step towards him.

“I say that I have but to open my mouth, and you—”

Gania began, but did not finish. The two—father and son—stood before

one another, both unspeakably agitated, especially Gania.

“Gania, Gania, reflect!” cried his mother, hurriedly.

“It’s all nonsense on both sides,” snapped out Varia. “Let them alone,

mother.”

“It’s only for mother’s sake that I spare him,” said Gania, tragically.

“Speak!” said the general, beside himself with rage and excitement;

“speak—under the penalty of a father’s curse!”

“Oh, father’s curse be hanged—you don’t frighten me that way!” said

Gania. “Whose fault is it that you have been as mad as a March hare all

this week? It is just a week—you see, I count the days. Take care now;

don’t provoke me too much, or I’ll tell all. Why did you go to the

Epanchins’ yesterday—tell me that? And you call yourself an old man,

too, with grey hair, and father of a family! H’m—nice sort of a

father.”

“Be quiet, Gania,” cried Colia. “Shut up, you fool!”

“Yes, but how have I offended him?” repeated Hippolyte, still in the

same jeering voice. “Why does he call me a screw? You all heard it. He

came to me himself and began telling me about some Captain Eropegoff. I

don’t wish for your company, general. I always avoided you—you know

that. What have I to do with Captain Eropegoff? All I did was to

express my opinion that probably Captain Eropegoff never existed at

all!”

“Of course he never existed!” Gania interrupted.

But the general only stood stupefied and gazed around in a dazed way.

Gania’s speech had impressed him, with its terrible candour. For the

first moment or two he could find no words to answer him, and it was

only when Hippolyte burst out laughing, and said:

“There, you see! Even your own son supports my statement that there

never was such a person as Captain Eropegoff!” that the old fellow

muttered confusedly:

“Kapiton Eropegoff—not Captain Eropegoff!—Kapiton—major

retired—Eropegoff—Kapiton.”

“Kapiton didn’t exist either!” persisted Gania, maliciously.

“What? Didn’t exist?” cried the poor general, and a deep blush suffused

his face.

“That’ll do, Gania!” cried Varia and Ptitsin.

“Shut up, Gania!” said Colia.

But this intercession seemed to rekindle the general.

“What did you mean, sir, that he didn’t exist? Explain yourself,” he

repeated, angrily.

“Because he _didn’t_ exist—never could and never did—there! You’d

better drop the subject, I warn you!”

“And this is my son—my own son—whom I—oh, gracious Heaven!

Eropegoff—Eroshka Eropegoff didn’t exist!”

“Ha, ha! it’s Eroshka now,” laughed Hippolyte.

“No, sir, Kapitoshka—not Eroshka. I mean, Kapiton Alexeyevitch—retired

major—married Maria Petrovna Lu—Lu—he was my friend and

companion—Lutugoff—from our earliest beginnings. I closed his eyes for

him—he was killed. Kapiton Eropegoff never existed! tfu!”

The general shouted in his fury; but it was to be concluded that his

wrath was not kindled by the expressed doubt as to Kapiton’s existence.

This was his scapegoat; but his excitement was caused by something

quite different. As a rule he would have merely shouted down the doubt

as to Kapiton, told a long yarn about his friend, and eventually

retired upstairs to his room. But today, in the strange uncertainty of

human nature, it seemed to require but so small an offence as this to

make his cup to overflow. The old man grew purple in the face, he

raised his hands. “Enough of this!” he yelled. “My curse—away, out of

the house I go! Colia, bring my bag away!” He left the room hastily and

in a paroxysm of rage.

His wife, Colia, and Ptitsin ran out after him.

“What have you done now?” said Varia to Gania. “He’ll probably be

making off _there_ again! What a disgrace it all is!”

“Well, he shouldn’t steal,” cried Gania, panting with fury. And just at

this moment his eye met Hippolyte’s.

“As for you, sir,” he cried, “you should at least remember that you are

in a strange house and—receiving hospitality; you should not take the

opportunity of tormenting an old man, sir, who is too evidently out of

his mind.”

Hippolyte looked furious, but he restrained himself.

“I don’t quite agree with you that your father is out of his mind,” he

observed, quietly. “On the contrary, I cannot help thinking he has been

less demented of late. Don’t you think so? He has grown so cunning and

careful, and weighs his words so deliberately; he spoke to me about

that Kapiton fellow with an object, you know! Just fancy—he wanted me

to—”

“Oh, devil take what he wanted you to do! Don’t try to be too cunning

with me, young man!” shouted Gania. “If you are aware of the real

reason for my father’s present condition (and you have kept such an

excellent spying watch during these last few days that you are sure to

be aware of it)—you had no right whatever to torment the—unfortunate

man, and to worry my mother by your exaggerations of the affair;

because the whole business is nonsense—simply a drunken freak, and

nothing more, quite unproved by any evidence, and I don’t believe that

much of it!” (he snapped his fingers). “But you must needs spy and

watch over us all, because you are a—a—”

“Screw!” laughed Hippolyte.

“Because you are a humbug, sir; and thought fit to worry people for

half an hour, and tried to frighten them into believing that you would

shoot yourself with your little empty pistol, pirouetting about and

playing at suicide! I gave you hospitality, you have fattened on it,

your cough has left you, and you repay all this—”

“Excuse me—two words! I am Varvara Ardalionovna’s guest, not yours;

_you_ have extended no hospitality to me. On the contrary, if I am not

mistaken, I believe you are yourself indebted to Mr. Ptitsin’s

hospitality. Four days ago I begged my mother to come down here and

find lodgings, because I certainly do feel better here, though I am not

fat, nor have I ceased to cough. I am today informed that my room is

ready for me; therefore, having thanked your sister and mother for

their kindness to me, I intend to leave the house this evening. I beg

your pardon—I interrupted you—I think you were about to add something?”

“Oh—if that is the state of affairs—” began Gania.

“Excuse me—I will take a seat,” interrupted Hippolyte once more,

sitting down deliberately; “for I am not strong yet. Now then, I am

ready to hear you. Especially as this is the last chance we shall have

of a talk, and very likely the last meeting we shall ever have at all.”

Gania felt a little guilty.

“I assure you I did not mean to reckon up debits and credits,” he

began, “and if you—”

“I don’t understand your condescension,” said Hippolyte. “As for me, I

promised myself, on the first day of my arrival in this house, that I

would have the satisfaction of settling accounts with you in a very

thorough manner before I said good-bye to you. I intend to perform this

operation now, if you like; after you, though, of course.”

“May I ask you to be so good as to leave this room?”

“You’d better speak out. You’ll be sorry afterwards if you don’t.”

“Hippolyte, stop, please! It’s so dreadfully undignified,” said Varia.

“Well, only for the sake of a lady,” said Hippolyte, laughing. “I am

ready to put off the reckoning, but only put it off, Varvara

Ardalionovna, because an explanation between your brother and myself

has become an absolute necessity, and I could not think of leaving the

house without clearing up all misunderstandings first.”

“In a word, you are a wretched little scandal-monger,” cried Gania,

“and you cannot go away without a scandal!”

“You see,” said Hippolyte, coolly, “you can’t restrain yourself. You’ll

be dreadfully sorry afterwards if you don’t speak out now. Come, you

shall have the first say. I’ll wait.”

Gania was silent and merely looked contemptuously at him.

“You won’t? Very well. I shall be as short as possible, for my part.

Two or three times to-day I have had the word ‘hospitality’ pushed down

my throat; this is not fair. In inviting me here you yourself entrapped

me for your own use; you thought I wished to revenge myself upon the

prince. You heard that Aglaya Ivanovna had been kind to me and read my

confession. Making sure that I should give myself up to your interests,

you hoped that you might get some assistance out of me. I will not go

into details. I don’t ask either admission or confirmation of this from

yourself; I am quite content to leave you to your conscience, and to

feel that we understand one another capitally.”

“What a history you are weaving out of the most ordinary

circumstances!” cried Varia.

“I told you the fellow was nothing but a scandal-monger,” said Gania.

“Excuse me, Varia Ardalionovna, I will proceed. I can, of course,

neither love nor respect the prince, though he is a good-hearted

fellow, if a little queer. But there is no need whatever for me to hate

him. I quite understood your brother when he first offered me aid

against the prince, though I did not show it; I knew well that your

brother was making a ridiculous mistake in me. I am ready to spare him,

however, even now; but solely out of respect for yourself, Varvara

Ardalionovna.

“Having now shown you that I am not quite such a fool as I look, and

that I have to be fished for with a rod and line for a good long while

before I am caught, I will proceed to explain why I specially wished to

make your brother look a fool. That my motive power is hate, I do not

attempt to conceal. I have felt that before dying (and I am dying,

however much fatter I may appear to you), I must absolutely make a fool

of, at least, one of that class of men which has dogged me all my life,

which I hate so cordially, and which is so prominently represented by

your much esteemed brother. I should not enjoy paradise nearly so much

without having done this first. I hate you, Gavrila Ardalionovitch,

solely (this may seem curious to you, but I repeat)—solely because you

are the type, and incarnation, and head, and crown of the most

impudent, the most self-satisfied, the most vulgar and detestable form

of commonplaceness. You are ordinary of the ordinary; you have no

chance of ever fathering the pettiest idea of your own. And yet you are

as jealous and conceited as you can possibly be; you consider yourself

a great genius; of this you are persuaded, although there are dark

moments of doubt and rage, when even this fact seems uncertain. There

are spots of darkness on your horizon, though they will disappear when

you become completely stupid. But a long and chequered path lies before

you, and of this I am glad. In the first place you will never gain a

certain person.”

“Come, come! This is intolerable! You had better stop, you little

mischief-making wretch!” cried Varia. Gania had grown very pale; he

trembled, but said nothing.

Hippolyte paused, and looked at him intently and with great

gratification. He then turned his gaze upon Varia, bowed, and went out,

without adding another word.

Gania might justly complain of the hardness with which fate treated

him. Varia dared not speak to him for a long while, as he strode past

her, backwards and forwards. At last he went and stood at the window,

looking out, with his back turned towards her. There was a fearful row

going on upstairs again.

“Are you off?” said Gania, suddenly, remarking that she had risen and

was about to leave the room. “Wait a moment—look at this.”

He approached the table and laid a small sheet of paper before her. It

looked like a little note.

“Good heavens!” cried Varia, raising her hands.

This was the note:

“GAVRILA ARDOLIONOVITCH,—persuaded of your kindness of heart, I have

determined to ask your advice on a matter of great importance to

myself. I should like to meet you tomorrow morning at seven o’clock by

the green bench in the park. It is not far from our house. Varvara

Ardalionovna, who must accompany you, knows the place well.

“A. E.”

“What on earth is one to make of a girl like that?” said Varia.

Gania, little as he felt inclined for swagger at this moment, could not

avoid showing his triumph, especially just after such humiliating

remarks as those of Hippolyte. A smile of self-satisfaction beamed on

his face, and Varia too was brimming over with delight.

“And this is the very day that they were to announce the engagement!

What will she do next?”

“What do you suppose she wants to talk about tomorrow?” asked Gania.

“Oh, _that’s_ all the same! The chief thing is that she wants to see

you after six months’ absence. Look here, Gania, this is a _serious_

business. Don’t swagger again and lose the game—play carefully, but

don’t funk, do you understand? As if she could possibly avoid seeing

what I have been working for all this last six months! And just

imagine, I was there this morning and not a word of this! I was there,

you know, on the sly. The old lady did not know, or she would have

kicked me out. I ran some risk for you, you see. I did so want to find

out, at all hazards.”

Here there was a frantic noise upstairs once more; several people

seemed to be rushing downstairs at once.

“Now, Gania,” cried Varia, frightened, “we can’t let him go out! We

can’t afford to have a breath of scandal about the town at this moment.

Run after him and beg his pardon—quick.”

But the father of the family was out in the road already. Colia was

carrying his bag for him; Nina Alexandrovna stood and cried on the

doorstep; she wanted to run after the general, but Ptitsin kept her

back.

“You will only excite him more,” he said. “He has nowhere else to go

to—he’ll be back here in half an hour. I’ve talked it all over with

Colia; let him play the fool a bit, it will do him good.”

“What are you up to? Where are you off to? You’ve nowhere to go to, you

know,” cried Gania, out of the window.

“Come back, father; the neighbours will hear!” cried Varia.

The general stopped, turned round, raised his hands and remarked: “My

curse be upon this house!”

“Which observation should always be made in as theatrical a tone as

possible,” muttered Gania, shutting the window with a bang.

The neighbours undoubtedly did hear. Varia rushed out of the room.

No sooner had his sister left him alone, than Gania took the note out

of his pocket, kissed it, and pirouetted around.

III.

As a general rule, old General Ivolgin’s paroxysms ended in smoke. He

had before this experienced fits of sudden fury, but not very often,

because he was really a man of peaceful and kindly disposition. He had

tried hundreds of times to overcome the dissolute habits which he had

contracted of late years. He would suddenly remember that he was “a

father,” would be reconciled with his wife, and shed genuine tears. His

feeling for Nina Alexandrovna amounted almost to adoration; she had

pardoned so much in silence, and loved him still in spite of the state

of degradation into which he had fallen. But the general’s struggles

with his own weakness never lasted very long. He was, in his way, an

impetuous man, and a quiet life of repentance in the bosom of his

family soon became insupportable to him. In the end he rebelled, and

flew into rages which he regretted, perhaps, even as he gave way to

them, but which were beyond his control. He picked quarrels with

everyone, began to hold forth eloquently, exacted unlimited respect,

and at last disappeared from the house, and sometimes did not return

for a long time. He had given up interfering in the affairs of his

family for two years now, and knew nothing about them but what he

gathered from hearsay.

But on this occasion there was something more serious than usual.

Everyone seemed to know something, but to be afraid to talk about it.

The general had turned up in the bosom of his family two or three days

before, but not, as usual, with the olive branch of peace in his hand,

not in the garb of penitence—in which he was usually clad on such

occasions—but, on the contrary, in an uncommonly bad temper. He had

arrived in a quarrelsome mood, pitching into everyone he came across,

and talking about all sorts and kinds of subjects in the most

unexpected manner, so that it was impossible to discover what it was

that was really putting him out. At moments he would be apparently

quite bright and happy; but as a rule he would sit moody and

thoughtful. He would abruptly commence to hold forth about the

Epanchins, about Lebedeff, or the prince, and equally abruptly would

stop short and refuse to speak another word, answering all further

questions with a stupid smile, unconscious that he was smiling, or that

he had been asked a question. The whole of the previous night he had

spent tossing about and groaning, and poor Nina Alexandrovna had been

busy making cold compresses and warm fomentations and so on, without

being very clear how to apply them. He had fallen asleep after a while,

but not for long, and had awaked in a state of violent hypochondria

which had ended in his quarrel with Hippolyte, and the solemn cursing

of Ptitsin’s establishment generally. It was also observed during those

two or three days that he was in a state of morbid self-esteem, and was

specially touchy on all points of honour. Colia insisted, in discussing

the matter with his mother, that all this was but the outcome of

abstinence from drink, or perhaps of pining after Lebedeff, with whom

up to this time the general had been upon terms of the greatest

friendship; but with whom, for some reason or other, he had quarrelled

a few days since, parting from him in great wrath. There had also been

a scene with the prince. Colia had asked an explanation of the latter,

but had been forced to conclude that he was not told the whole truth.

If Hippolyte and Nina Alexandrovna had, as Gania suspected, had some

special conversation about the general’s actions, it was strange that

the malicious youth, whom Gania had called a scandal-monger to his

face, had not allowed himself a similar satisfaction with Colia.

The fact is that probably Hippolyte was not quite so black as Gania

painted him; and it was hardly likely that he had informed Nina

Alexandrovna of certain events, of which we know, for the mere pleasure

of giving her pain. We must never forget that human motives are

generally far more complicated than we are apt to suppose, and that we

can very rarely accurately describe the motives of another. It is much

better for the writer, as a rule, to content himself with the bare

statement of events; and we shall take this line with regard to the

catastrophe recorded above, and shall state the remaining events

connected with the general’s trouble shortly, because we feel that we

have already given to this secondary character in our story more

attention than we originally intended.

The course of events had marched in the following order. When Lebedeff

returned, in company with the general, after their expedition to town a

few days since, for the purpose of investigation, he brought the prince

no information whatever. If the latter had not himself been occupied

with other thoughts and impressions at the time, he must have observed

that Lebedeff not only was very uncommunicative, but even appeared

anxious to avoid him.

When the prince did give the matter a little attention, he recalled the

fact that during these days he had always found Lebedeff to be in

radiantly good spirits, when they happened to meet; and further, that

the general and Lebedeff were always together. The two friends did not

seem ever to be parted for a moment.

Occasionally the prince heard loud talking and laughing upstairs, and

once he detected the sound of a jolly soldier’s song going on above,

and recognized the unmistakable bass of the general’s voice. But the

sudden outbreak of song did not last; and for an hour afterwards the

animated sound of apparently drunken conversation continued to be heard

from above. At length there was the clearest evidence of a grand mutual

embracing, and someone burst into tears. Shortly after this, however,

there was a violent but short-lived quarrel, with loud talking on both

sides.

All these days Colia had been in a state of great mental preoccupation.

Muishkin was usually out all day, and only came home late at night. On

his return he was invariably informed that Colia had been looking for

him. However, when they did meet, Colia never had anything particular

to tell him, excepting that he was highly dissatisfied with the general

and his present condition of mind and behaviour.

“They drag each other about the place,” he said, “and get drunk

together at the pub close by here, and quarrel in the street on the way

home, and embrace one another after it, and don’t seem to part for a

moment.”

When the prince pointed out that there was nothing new about that, for

that they had always behaved in this manner together, Colia did not

know what to say; in fact he could not explain what it was that

specially worried him, just now, about his father.

On the morning following the bacchanalian songs and quarrels recorded

above, as the prince stepped out of the house at about eleven o’clock,

the general suddenly appeared before him, much agitated.

“I have long sought the honour and opportunity of meeting

you—much-esteemed Lef Nicolaievitch,” he murmured, pressing the

prince’s hand very hard, almost painfully so; “long—very long.”

The prince begged him to step in and sit down.

“No—I will not sit down,—I am keeping you, I see,—another time!—I think

I may be permitted to congratulate you upon the realization of your

heart’s best wishes, is it not so?”

“What best wishes?”

The prince blushed. He thought, as so many in his position do, that

nobody had seen, heard, noticed, or understood anything.

“Oh—be easy, sir, be easy! I shall not wound your tenderest feelings.

I’ve been through it all myself, and I know well how unpleasant it is

when an outsider sticks his nose in where he is not wanted. I

experience this every morning. I came to speak to you about another

matter, though, an important matter. A very important matter, prince.”

The latter requested him to take a seat once more, and sat down

himself.

“Well—just for one second, then. The fact is, I came for advice. Of

course I live now without any very practical objects in life; but,

being full of self-respect, in which quality the ordinary Russian is so

deficient as a rule, and of activity, I am desirous, in a word, prince,

of placing myself and my wife and children in a position of—in fact, I

want advice.”

The prince commended his aspirations with warmth.

“Quite so—quite so! But this is all mere nonsense. I came here to speak

of something quite different, something very important, prince. And I

have determined to come to you as to a man in whose sincerity and

nobility of feeling I can trust like—like—are you surprised at my

words, prince?”

The prince was watching his guest, if not with much surprise, at all

events with great attention and curiosity.

The old man was very pale; every now and then his lips trembled, and

his hands seemed unable to rest quietly, but continually moved from

place to place. He had twice already jumped up from his chair and sat

down again without being in the least aware of it. He would take up a

book from the table and open it—talking all the while,—look at the

heading of a chapter, shut it and put it back again, seizing another

immediately, but holding it unopened in his hand, and waving it in the

air as he spoke.

“But enough!” he cried, suddenly. “I see I have been boring you with

my—”

“Not in the least—not in the least, I assure you. On the contrary, I am

listening most attentively, and am anxious to guess—”

“Prince, I wish to place myself in a respectable position—I wish to

esteem myself—and to—”

“My dear sir, a man of such noble aspirations is worthy of all esteem

by virtue of those aspirations alone.”

The prince brought out his “copy-book sentence” in the firm belief that

it would produce a good effect. He felt instinctively that some such

well-sounding humbug, brought out at the proper moment, would soothe

the old man’s feelings, and would be specially acceptable to such a man

in such a position. At all hazards, his guest must be despatched with

heart relieved and spirit comforted; that was the problem before the

prince at this moment.

The phrase flattered the general, touched him, and pleased him

mightily. He immediately changed his tone, and started off on a long

and solemn explanation. But listen as he would, the prince could make

neither head nor tail of it.

The general spoke hotly and quickly for ten minutes; he spoke as though

his words could not keep pace with his crowding thoughts. Tears stood

in his eyes, and yet his speech was nothing but a collection of

disconnected sentences, without beginning and without end—a string of

unexpected words and unexpected sentiments—colliding with one another,

and jumping over one another, as they burst from his lips.

“Enough!” he concluded at last, “you understand me, and that is the

great thing. A heart like yours cannot help understanding the

sufferings of another. Prince, you are the ideal of generosity; what

are other men beside yourself? But you are young—accept my blessing! My

principal object is to beg you to fix an hour for a most important

conversation—that is my great hope, prince. My heart needs but a little

friendship and sympathy, and yet I cannot always find means to satisfy

it.”

“But why not now? I am ready to listen, and—”

“No, no—prince, not now! Now is a dream! And it is too, too important!

It is to be the hour of Fate to me—_my own_ hour. Our interview is not

to be broken in upon by every chance comer, every impertinent guest—and

there are plenty of such stupid, impertinent fellows”—(he bent over and

whispered mysteriously, with a funny, frightened look on his face)—“who

are unworthy to tie your shoe, prince. I don’t say _mine_, mind—you

will understand me, prince. Only _you_ understand me, prince—no one

else. _He_ doesn’t understand me, he is absolutely—_absolutely_ unable

to sympathize. The first qualification for understanding another is

Heart.”

The prince was rather alarmed at all this, and was obliged to end by

appointing the same hour of the following day for the interview

desired. The general left him much comforted and far less agitated than

when he had arrived.

At seven in the evening, the prince sent to request Lebedeff to pay him

a visit. Lebedeff came at once, and “esteemed it an honour,” as he

observed, the instant he entered the room. He acted as though there had

never been the slightest suspicion of the fact that he had

systematically avoided the prince for the last three days.

He sat down on the edge of his chair, smiling and making faces, and

rubbing his hands, and looking as though he were in delighted

expectation of hearing some important communication, which had been

long guessed by all.

The prince was instantly covered with confusion; for it appeared to be

plain that everyone expected something of him—that everyone looked at

him as though anxious to congratulate him, and greeted him with hints,

and smiles, and knowing looks.

Keller, for instance, had run into the house three times of late, “just

for a moment,” and each time with the air of desiring to offer his

congratulations. Colia, too, in spite of his melancholy, had once or

twice begun sentences in much the same strain of suggestion or

insinuation.

The prince, however, immediately began, with some show of annoyance, to

question Lebedeff categorically, as to the general’s present condition,

and his opinion thereon. He described the morning’s interview in a few

words.

“Everyone has his worries, prince, especially in these strange and

troublous times of ours,” Lebedeff replied, drily, and with the air of

a man disappointed of his reasonable expectations.

“Dear me, what a philosopher you are!” laughed the prince.

“Philosophy is necessary, sir—very necessary—in our day. It is too much

neglected. As for me, much esteemed prince, I am sensible of having

experienced the honour of your confidence in a certain matter up to a

certain point, but never beyond that point. I do not for a moment

complain—”

“Lebedeff, you seem to be angry for some reason!” said the prince.

“Not the least bit in the world, esteemed and revered prince! Not the

least bit in the world!” cried Lebedeff, solemnly, with his hand upon

his heart. “On the contrary, I am too painfully aware that neither by

my position in the world, nor by my gifts of intellect and heart, nor

by my riches, nor by any former conduct of mine, have I in any way

deserved your confidence, which is far above my highest aspirations and

hopes. Oh no, prince; I may serve you, but only as your humble slave! I

am not angry, oh no! Not angry; pained perhaps, but nothing more.

“My dear Lebedeff, I—”

“Oh, nothing more, nothing more! I was saying to myself but now... ‘I

am quite unworthy of friendly relations with him,’ say I; ‘but perhaps

as landlord of this house I may, at some future date, in his good time,

receive information as to certain imminent and much to be desired

changes—’”

So saying Lebedeff fixed the prince with his sharp little eyes, still

in hope that he would get his curiosity satisfied.

The prince looked back at him in amazement.

“I don’t understand what you are driving at!” he cried, almost angrily,

“and, and—what an intriguer you are, Lebedeff!” he added, bursting into

a fit of genuine laughter.

Lebedeff followed suit at once, and it was clear from his radiant face

that he considered his prospects of satisfaction immensely improved.

“And do you know,” the prince continued, “I am amazed at your naive

ways, Lebedeff! Don’t be angry with me—not only yours, everybody else’s

also! You are waiting to hear something from me at this very moment

with such simplicity that I declare I feel quite ashamed of myself for

having nothing whatever to tell you. I swear to you solemnly, that

there is nothing to tell. There! Can you take that in?” The prince

laughed again.

Lebedeff assumed an air of dignity. It was true enough that he was

sometimes naive to a degree in his curiosity; but he was also an

excessively cunning gentleman, and the prince was almost converting him

into an enemy by his repeated rebuffs. The prince did not snub

Lebedeff’s curiosity, however, because he felt any contempt for him;

but simply because the subject was too delicate to talk about. Only a

few days before he had looked upon his own dreams almost as crimes. But

Lebedeff considered the refusal as caused by personal dislike to

himself, and was hurt accordingly. Indeed, there was at this moment a

piece of news, most interesting to the prince, which Lebedeff knew and

even had wished to tell him, but which he now kept obstinately to

himself.

“And what can I do for you, esteemed prince? Since I am told you sent

for me just now,” he said, after a few moments’ silence.

“Oh, it was about the general,” began the prince, waking abruptly from

the fit of musing which he too had indulged in “and—and about the theft

you told me of.”

“That is—er—about—what theft?”

“Oh come! just as if you didn’t understand, Lukian Timofeyovitch! What

are you up to? I can’t make you out! The money, the money, sir! The

four hundred roubles that you lost that day. You came and told me about

it one morning, and then went off to Petersburg. There, _now_ do you

understand?”

“Oh—h—h! You mean the four hundred roubles!” said Lebedeff, dragging

the words out, just as though it had only just dawned upon him what the

prince was talking about. “Thanks very much, prince, for your kind

interest—you do me too much honour. I found the money, long ago!”

“You found it? Thank God for that!”

“Your exclamation proves the generous sympathy of your nature, prince;

for four hundred roubles—to a struggling family man like myself—is no

small matter!”

“I didn’t mean that; at least, of course, I’m glad for your sake, too,”

added the prince, correcting himself, “but—how did you find it?”

“Very simply indeed! I found it under the chair upon which my coat had

hung; so that it is clear the purse simply fell out of the pocket and

on to the floor!”

“Under the chair? Impossible! Why, you told me yourself that you had

searched every corner of the room? How could you not have looked in the

most likely place of all?”

“Of course I looked there,—of course I did! Very much so! I looked and

scrambled about, and felt for it, and wouldn’t believe it was not

there, and looked again and again. It is always so in such cases. One

longs and expects to find a lost article; one sees it is not there, and

the place is as bare as one’s palm; and yet one returns and looks again

and again, fifteen or twenty times, likely enough!”

“Oh, quite so, of course. But how was it in your case?—I don’t quite

understand,” said the bewildered prince. “You say it wasn’t there at

first, and that you searched the place thoroughly, and yet it turned up

on that very spot!”

“Yes, sir—on that very spot.” The prince gazed strangely at Lebedeff.

“And the general?” he asked, abruptly.

“The—the general? How do you mean, the general?” said Lebedeff,

dubiously, as though he had not taken in the drift of the prince’s

remark.

“Oh, good heavens! I mean, what did the general say when the purse

turned up under the chair? You and he had searched for it together

there, hadn’t you?”

“Quite so—together! But the second time I thought better to say nothing

about finding it. I found it alone.”

“But—why in the world—and the money? Was it all there?”

“I opened the purse and counted it myself; right to a single rouble.”

“I think you might have come and told me,” said the prince,

thoughtfully.

“Oh—I didn’t like to disturb you, prince, in the midst of your private

and doubtless most interesting personal reflections. Besides, I wanted

to appear, myself, to have found nothing. I took the purse, and opened

it, and counted the money, and shut it and put it down again under the

chair.”

“What in the world for?”

“Oh, just out of curiosity,” said Lebedeff, rubbing his hands and

sniggering.

“What, it’s still there then, is it? Ever since the day before

yesterday?”

“Oh no! You see, I was half in hopes the general might find it. Because

if I found it, why should not he too observe an object lying before his

very eyes? I moved the chair several times so as to expose the purse to

view, but the general never saw it. He is very absent just now,

evidently. He talks and laughs and tells stories, and suddenly flies

into a rage with me, goodness knows why.”

“Well, but—have you taken the purse away now?”

“No, it disappeared from under the chair in the night.”

“Where is it now, then?”

“Here,” laughed Lebedeff, at last, rising to his full height and

looking pleasantly at the prince, “here, in the lining of my coat.

Look, you can feel it for yourself, if you like!”

Sure enough there was something sticking out of the front of the

coat—something large. It certainly felt as though it might well be the

purse fallen through a hole in the pocket into the lining.

“I took it out and had a look at it; it’s all right. I’ve let it slip

back into the lining now, as you see, and so I have been walking about

ever since yesterday morning; it knocks against my legs when I walk

along.”

“H’m! and you take no notice of it?”

“Quite so, I take no notice of it. Ha, ha! and think of this, prince,

my pockets are always strong and whole, and yet, here in one night, is

a huge hole. I know the phenomenon is unworthy of your notice; but such

is the case. I examined the hole, and I declare it actually looks as

though it had been made with a pen-knife, a most improbable

contingency.”

“And—and—the general?”

“Ah, very angry all day, sir; all yesterday and all today. He shows

decided bacchanalian predilections at one time, and at another is

tearful and sensitive, but at any moment he is liable to paroxysms of

such rage that I assure you, prince, I am quite alarmed. I am not a

military man, you know. Yesterday we were sitting together in the

tavern, and the lining of my coat was—quite accidentally, of

course—sticking out right in front. The general squinted at it, and

flew into a rage. He never looks me quite in the face now, unless he is

very drunk or maudlin; but yesterday he looked at me in such a way that

a shiver went all down my back. I intend to find the purse tomorrow;

but till then I am going to have another night of it with him.”

“What’s the good of tormenting him like this?” cried the prince.

“I don’t torment him, prince, I don’t indeed!” cried Lebedeff, hotly.

“I love him, my dear sir, I esteem him; and believe it or not, I love

him all the better for this business, yes—and value him more.”

Lebedeff said this so seriously that the prince quite lost his temper

with him.

“Nonsense! love him and torment him so! Why, by the very fact that he

put the purse prominently before you, first under the chair and then in

your lining, he shows that he does not wish to deceive you, but is

anxious to beg your forgiveness in this artless way. Do you hear? He is

asking your pardon. He confides in the delicacy of your feelings, and

in your friendship for him. And you can allow yourself to humiliate so

thoroughly honest a man!”

“Thoroughly honest, quite so, prince, thoroughly honest!” said

Lebedeff, with flashing eyes. “And only you, prince, could have found

so very appropriate an expression. I honour you for it, prince. Very

well, that’s settled; I shall find the purse now and not tomorrow.

Here, I find it and take it out before your eyes! And the money is all

right. Take it, prince, and keep it till tomorrow, will you? Tomorrow

or next day I’ll take it back again. I think, prince, that the night

after its disappearance it was buried under a bush in the garden. So I

believe—what do you think of that?”

“Well, take care you don’t tell him to his face that you have found the

purse. Simply let him see that it is no longer in the lining of your

coat, and form his own conclusions.”

“Do you think so? Had I not just better tell him I have found it, and

pretend I never guessed where it was?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said the prince, thoughtfully; “it’s too late

for that—that would be dangerous now. No, no! Better say nothing about

it. Be nice with him, you know, but don’t show him—oh, _you_ know well

enough—”

“I know, prince, of course I know, but I’m afraid I shall not carry it

out; for to do so one needs a heart like your own. He is so very

irritable just now, and so proud. At one moment he will embrace me, and

the next he flies out at me and sneers at me, and then I stick the

lining forward on purpose. Well, _au revoir_, prince, I see I am

keeping you, and boring you, too, interfering with your most

interesting private reflections.”

“Now, do be careful! Secrecy, as before!”

“Oh, silence isn’t the word! Softly, softly!”

But in spite of this conclusion to the episode, the prince remained as

puzzled as ever, if not more so. He awaited next morning’s interview

with the general most impatiently.

IV.

The time appointed was twelve o’clock, and the prince, returning home

unexpectedly late, found the general waiting for him. At the first

glance, he saw that the latter was displeased, perhaps because he had

been kept waiting. The prince apologized, and quickly took a seat. He

seemed strangely timid before the general this morning, for some

reason, and felt as though his visitor were some piece of china which

he was afraid of breaking.

On scrutinizing him, the prince soon saw that the general was quite a

different man from what he had been the day before; he looked like one

who had come to some momentous resolve. His calmness, however, was more

apparent than real. He was courteous, but there was a suggestion of

injured innocence in his manner.

“I’ve brought your book back,” he began, indicating a book lying on the

table. “Much obliged to you for lending it to me.”

“Ah, yes. Well, did you read it, general? It’s curious, isn’t it?” said

the prince, delighted to be able to open up conversation upon an

outside subject.

“Curious enough, yes, but crude, and of course dreadful nonsense;

probably the man lies in every other sentence.”

The general spoke with considerable confidence, and dragged his words

out with a conceited drawl.

“Oh, but it’s only the simple tale of an old soldier who saw the French

enter Moscow. Some of his remarks were wonderfully interesting. Remarks

of an eye-witness are always valuable, whoever he be, don’t you think

so?”

“Had I been the publisher I should not have printed it. As to the

evidence of eye-witnesses, in these days people prefer impudent lies to

the stories of men of worth and long service. I know of some notes of

the year 1812, which—I have determined, prince, to leave this house,

Mr. Lebedeff’s house.”

The general looked significantly at his host.

“Of course you have your own lodging at Pavlofsk at—at your daughter’s

house,” began the prince, quite at a loss what to say. He suddenly

recollected that the general had come for advice on a most important

matter, affecting his destiny.

“At my wife’s; in other words, at my own place, my daughter’s house.”

“I beg your pardon, I—”

“I leave Lebedeff’s house, my dear prince, because I have quarrelled

with this person. I broke with him last night, and am very sorry that I

did not do so before. I expect respect, prince, even from those to whom

I give my heart, so to speak. Prince, I have often given away my heart,

and am nearly always deceived. This person was quite unworthy of the

gift.”

“There is much that might be improved in him,” said the prince,

moderately, “but he has some qualities which—though amid them one

cannot but discern a cunning nature—reveal what is often a diverting

intellect.”

The prince’s tone was so natural and respectful that the general could

not possibly suspect him of any insincerity.

“Oh, that he possesses good traits, I was the first to show, when I

very nearly made him a present of my friendship. I am not dependent

upon his hospitality, and upon his house; I have my own family. I do

not attempt to justify my own weakness. I have drunk with this man, and

perhaps I deplore the fact now, but I did not take him up for the sake

of drink alone (excuse the crudeness of the expression, prince); I did

not make friends with him for that alone. I was attracted by his good

qualities; but when the fellow declares that he was a child in 1812,

and had his left leg cut off, and buried in the Vagarkoff cemetery, in

Moscow, such a cock-and-bull story amounts to disrespect, my dear sir,

to—to impudent exaggeration.”

“Oh, he was very likely joking; he said it for fun.”

“I quite understand you. You mean that an innocent lie for the sake of

a good joke is harmless, and does not offend the human heart. Some

people lie, if you like to put it so, out of pure friendship, in order

to amuse their fellows; but when a man makes use of extravagance in

order to show his disrespect and to make clear how the intimacy bores

him, it is time for a man of honour to break off the said intimacy, and

to teach the offender his place.”

The general flushed with indignation as he spoke.

“Oh, but Lebedeff cannot have been in Moscow in 1812. He is much too

young; it is all nonsense.”

“Very well, but even if we admit that he _was_ alive in 1812, can one

believe that a French chasseur pointed a cannon at him for a lark, and

shot his left leg off? He says he picked his own leg up and took it

away and buried it in the cemetery. He swore he had a stone put up over

it with the inscription: ‘Here lies the leg of Collegiate Secretary

Lebedeff,’ and on the other side, ‘Rest, beloved ashes, till the morn

of joy,’ and that he has a service read over it every year (which is

simply sacrilege), and goes to Moscow once a year on purpose. He

invites me to Moscow in order to prove his assertion, and show me his

leg’s tomb, and the very cannon that shot him; he says it’s the

eleventh from the gate of the Kremlin, an old-fashioned falconet taken

from the French afterwards.”

“And, meanwhile both his legs are still on his body,” said the prince,

laughing. “I assure you, it is only an innocent joke, and you need not

be angry about it.”

“Excuse me—wait a minute—he says that the leg we see is a wooden one,

made by Tchernosvitoff.”

“They do say one can dance with those!”

“Quite so, quite so; and he swears that his wife never found out that

one of his legs was wooden all the while they were married. When I

showed him the ridiculousness of all this, he said, ‘Well, if you were

one of Napoleon’s pages in 1812, you might let me bury my leg in the

Moscow cemetery.’”

“Why, did you say—” began the prince, and paused in confusion.

The general gazed at his host disdainfully.

“Oh, go on,” he said, “finish your sentence, by all means. Say how odd

it appears to you that a man fallen to such a depth of humiliation as

I, can ever have been the actual eye-witness of great events. Go on,

_I_ don’t mind! Has _he_ found time to tell you scandal about me?”

“No, I’ve heard nothing of this from Lebedeff, if you mean Lebedeff.”

“H’m; I thought differently. You see, we were talking over this period

of history. I was criticizing a current report of something which then

happened, and having been myself an eye-witness of the occurrence—you

are smiling, prince—you are looking at my face as if—”

“Oh no! not at all—I—”

“I am rather young-looking, I know; but I am actually older than I

appear to be. I was ten or eleven in the year 1812. I don’t know my age

exactly, but it has always been a weakness of mine to make it out less

than it really is.”

“I assure you, general, I do not in the least doubt your statement. One

of our living autobiographers states that when he was a small baby in

Moscow in 1812 the French soldiers fed him with bread.”

“Well, there you see!” said the general, condescendingly. “There is

nothing whatever unusual about my tale. Truth very often appears to be

impossible. I was a page—it sounds strange, I dare say. Had I been

fifteen years old I should probably have been terribly frightened when

the French arrived, as my mother was (who had been too slow about

clearing out of Moscow); but as I was only just ten I was not in the

least alarmed, and rushed through the crowd to the very door of the

palace when Napoleon alighted from his horse.”

“Undoubtedly, at ten years old you would not have felt the sense of

fear, as you say,” blurted out the prince, horribly uncomfortable in

the sensation that he was just about to blush.

“Of course; and it all happened so easily and naturally. And yet, were

a novelist to describe the episode, he would put in all kinds of

impossible and incredible details.”

“Oh,” cried the prince, “I have often thought that! Why, I know of a

murder, for the sake of a watch. It’s in all the papers now. But if

some writer had invented it, all the critics would have jumped down his

throat and said the thing was too improbable for anything. And yet you

read it in the paper, and you can’t help thinking that out of these

strange disclosures is to be gained the full knowledge of Russian life

and character. You said that well, general; it is so true,” concluded

the prince, warmly, delighted to have found a refuge from the fiery

blushes which had covered his face.

“Yes, it’s quite true, isn’t it?” cried the general, his eyes sparkling

with gratification. “A small boy, a child, would naturally realize no

danger; he would shove his way through the crowds to see the shine and

glitter of the uniforms, and especially the great man of whom everyone

was speaking, for at that time all the world had been talking of no one

but this man for some years past. The world was full of his name; I—so

to speak—drew it in with my mother’s milk. Napoleon, passing a couple

of paces from me, caught sight of me accidentally. I was very well

dressed, and being all alone, in that crowd, as you will easily

imagine...”

“Oh, of course! Naturally the sight impressed him, and proved to him

that not _all_ the aristocracy had left Moscow; that at least some

nobles and their children had remained behind.”

“Just so! just so! He wanted to win over the aristocracy! When his

eagle eye fell on me, mine probably flashed back in response. ‘_Voilà

un garçon bien éveillé! Qui est ton père?_’ I immediately replied,

almost panting with excitement, ‘A general, who died on the

battle-fields of his country!’ ‘_Le fils d’un boyard et d’un brave,

pardessus le marché. J’aime les boyards. M’aimes-tu, petit?_’

“To this keen question I replied as keenly, ‘The Russian heart can

recognize a great man even in the bitter enemy of his country.’ At

least, I don’t remember the exact words, you know, but the idea was as

I say. Napoleon was struck; he thought a minute and then said to his

suite: ‘I like that boy’s pride; if all Russians think like this child,

then—’ he didn’t finish, but went on and entered the palace. I

instantly mixed with his suite, and followed him. I was already in high

favour. I remember when he came into the first hall, the emperor

stopped before a portrait of the Empress Katherine, and after a

thoughtful glance remarked, ‘That was a great woman,’ and passed on.

“Well, in a couple of days I was known all over the palace and the

Kremlin as ‘le petit boyard.’ I only went home to sleep. They were

nearly out of their minds about me at home. A couple of days after

this, Napoleon’s page, De Bazancour, died; he had not been able to

stand the trials of the campaign. Napoleon remembered me; I was taken

away without explanation; the dead page’s uniform was tried on me, and

when I was taken before the emperor, dressed in it, he nodded his head

to me, and I was told that I was appointed to the vacant post of page.

“Well, I was glad enough, for I had long felt the greatest sympathy for

this man; and then the pretty uniform and all that—only a child, you

know—and so on. It was a dark green dress coat with gold buttons—red

facings, white trousers, and a white silk waistcoat—silk stockings,

shoes with buckles, and top-boots if I were riding out with his majesty

or with the suite.

“Though the position of all of us at that time was not particularly

brilliant, and the poverty was dreadful all round, yet the etiquette at

court was strictly preserved, and the more strictly in proportion to

the growth of the forebodings of disaster.”

“Quite so, quite so, of course!” murmured the poor prince, who didn’t

know where to look. “Your memoirs would be most interesting.”

The general was, of course, repeating what he had told Lebedeff the

night before, and thus brought it out glibly enough, but here he looked

suspiciously at the prince out of the corners of his eyes.

“My memoirs!” he began, with redoubled pride and dignity. “Write my

memoirs? The idea has not tempted me. And yet, if you please, my

memoirs have long been written, but they shall not see the light until

dust returns to dust. Then, I doubt not, they will be translated into

all languages, not of course on account of their actual literary merit,

but because of the great events of which I was the actual witness,

though but a child at the time. As a child, I was able to penetrate

into the secrecy of the great man’s private room. At nights I have

heard the groans and wailings of this ‘giant in distress.’ He could

feel no shame in weeping before such a mere child as I was, though I

understood even then that the reason for his suffering was the silence

of the Emperor Alexander.”

“Yes, of course; he had written letters to the latter with proposals of

peace, had he not?” put in the prince.

“We did not know the details of his proposals, but he wrote letter

after letter, all day and every day. He was dreadfully agitated.

Sometimes at night I would throw myself upon his breast with tears (Oh,

how I loved that man!). ‘Ask forgiveness, Oh, ask forgiveness of the

Emperor Alexander!’ I would cry. I should have said, of course, ‘Make

peace with Alexander,’ but as a child I expressed my idea in the naive

way recorded. ‘Oh, my child,’ he would say (he loved to talk to me and

seemed to forget my tender years), ‘Oh, my child, I am ready to kiss

Alexander’s feet, but I hate and abominate the King of Prussia and the

Austrian Emperor, and—and—but you know nothing of politics, my child.’

He would pull up, remembering whom he was speaking to, but his eyes

would sparkle for a long while after this. Well now, if I were to

describe all this, and I have seen greater events than these, all these

critical gentlemen of the press and political parties—Oh, no thanks!

I’m their very humble servant, but no thanks!”

“Quite so—parties—you are very right,” said the prince. “I was reading

a book about Napoleon and the Waterloo campaign only the other day, by

Charasse, in which the author does not attempt to conceal his joy at

Napoleon’s discomfiture at every page. Well now, I don’t like that; it

smells of ‘party,’ you know. You are quite right. And were you much

occupied with your service under Napoleon?”

The general was in ecstasies, for the prince’s remarks, made, as they

evidently were, in all seriousness and simplicity, quite dissipated the

last relics of his suspicion.

“I know Charasse’s book! Oh! I was so angry with his work! I wrote to

him and said—I forget what, at this moment. You ask whether I was very

busy under the Emperor? Oh no! I was called ‘page,’ but hardly took my

duty seriously. Besides, Napoleon very soon lost hope of conciliating

the Russians, and he would have forgotten all about me had he not loved

me—for personal reasons—I don’t mind saying so now. My heart was

greatly drawn to him, too. My duties were light. I merely had to be at

the palace occasionally to escort the Emperor out riding, and that was

about all. I rode very fairly well. He used to have a ride before

dinner, and his suite on those occasions were generally Davoust,

myself, and Roustan.”

“Constant?” said the prince, suddenly, and quite involuntarily.

“No; Constant was away then, taking a letter to the Empress Josephine.

Instead of him there were always a couple of orderlies—and that was

all, excepting, of course, the generals and marshals whom Napoleon

always took with him for the inspection of various localities, and for

the sake of consultation generally. I remember there was

one—Davoust—nearly always with him—a big man with spectacles. They used

to argue and quarrel sometimes. Once they were in the Emperor’s study

together—just those two and myself—I was unobserved—and they argued,

and the Emperor seemed to be agreeing to something under protest.

Suddenly his eye fell on me and an idea seemed to flash across him.

“‘Child,’ he said, abruptly. ‘If I were to recognize the Russian

orthodox religion and emancipate the serfs, do you think Russia would

come over to me?’”

“‘Never!’ I cried, indignantly.”

“The Emperor was much struck.”

“‘In the flashing eyes of this patriotic child I read and accept the

fiat of the Russian people. Enough, Davoust, it is mere phantasy on our

part. Come, let’s hear your other project.’”

“Yes, but that was a great idea,” said the prince, clearly interested.

“You ascribe it to Davoust, do you?”

“Well, at all events, they were consulting together at the time. Of

course it was the idea of an eagle, and must have originated with

Napoleon; but the other project was good too—it was the ‘Conseil du

lion!’ as Napoleon called it. This project consisted in a proposal to

occupy the Kremlin with the whole army; to arm and fortify it

scientifically, to kill as many horses as could be got, and salt their

flesh, and spend the winter there; and in spring to fight their way

out. Napoleon liked the idea—it attracted him. We rode round the

Kremlin walls every day, and Napoleon used to give orders where they

were to be patched, where built up, where pulled down and so on. All

was decided at last. They were alone together—those two and myself.

“Napoleon was walking up and down with folded arms. I could not take my

eyes off his face—my heart beat loudly and painfully.

“‘I’m off,’ said Davoust. ‘Where to?’ asked Napoleon.

“‘To salt horse-flesh,’ said Davoust. Napoleon shuddered—his fate was

being decided.

“‘Child,’ he addressed me suddenly, ‘what do you think of our plan?’ Of

course he only applied to me as a sort of toss-up, you know. I turned

to Davoust and addressed my reply to him. I said, as though inspired:

“‘Escape, general! Go home!—’

“The project was abandoned; Davoust shrugged his shoulders and went

out, whispering to himself—‘_Bah, il devient superstitieux!_’ Next

morning the order to retreat was given.”

“All this is most interesting,” said the prince, very softly, “if it

really was so—that is, I mean—” he hastened to correct himself.

“Oh, my dear prince,” cried the general, who was now so intoxicated

with his own narrative that he probably could not have pulled up at the

most patent indiscretion. “You say, ‘if it really was so!’ There was

more—_much_ more, I assure you! These are merely a few little political

acts. I tell you I was the eye-witness of the nightly sorrow and

groanings of the great man, and of _that_ no one can speak but myself.

Towards the end he wept no more, though he continued to emit an

occasional groan; but his face grew more overcast day by day, as though

Eternity were wrapping its gloomy mantle about him. Occasionally we

passed whole hours of silence together at night, Roustan snoring in the

next room—that fellow slept like a pig. ‘But he’s loyal to me and my

dynasty,’ said Napoleon of him.

“Sometimes it was very painful to me, and once he caught me with tears

in my eyes. He looked at me kindly. ‘You are sorry for me,’ he said,

‘you, my child, and perhaps one other child—my son, the King of

Rome—may grieve for me. All the rest hate me; and my brothers are the

first to betray me in misfortune.’ I sobbed and threw myself into his

arms. He could not resist me—he burst into tears, and our tears mingled

as we folded each other in a close embrace.

“‘Write, oh, write a letter to the Empress Josephine!’ I cried,

sobbing. Napoleon started, reflected, and said, ‘You remind me of a

third heart which loves me. Thank you, my friend;’ and then and there

he sat down and wrote that letter to Josephine, with which Constant was

sent off next day.”

“You did a good action,” said the prince, “for in the midst of his

angry feelings you insinuated a kind thought into his heart.”

“Just so, prince, just so. How well you bring out that fact! Because

your own heart is good!” cried the ecstatic old gentleman, and,

strangely enough, real tears glistened in his eyes. “Yes, prince, it

was a wonderful spectacle. And, do you know, I all but went off to

Paris, and should assuredly have shared his solitary exile with him;

but, alas, our destinies were otherwise ordered! We parted, he to his

island, where I am sure he thought of the weeping child who had

embraced him so affectionately at parting in Moscow; and I was sent off

to the cadet corps, where I found nothing but roughness and harsh

discipline. Alas, my happy days were done!”

“‘I do not wish to deprive your mother of you, and, therefore, I will

not ask you to go with me,’ he said, the morning of his departure, ‘but

I should like to do something for you.’ He was mounting his horse as he

spoke. ‘Write something in my sister’s album for me,’ I said rather

timidly, for he was in a state of great dejection at the moment. He

turned, called for a pen, took the album. ‘How old is your sister?’ he

asked, holding the pen in his hand. ‘Three years old,’ I said. ‘Ah,

_petite fille alors!_’ and he wrote in the album:

“‘Ne mentez jamais! NAPOLÉON (votre ami sincère).’

“Such advice, and at such a moment, you must allow, prince, was—”

“Yes, quite so; very remarkable.”

“This page of the album, framed in gold, hung on the wall of my

sister’s drawing-room all her life, in the most conspicuous place, till

the day of her death; where it is now, I really don’t know. Heavens!

it’s two o’clock! _How_ I have kept you, prince! It is really most

unpardonable of me.”

The general rose.

“Oh, not in the least,” said the prince. “On the contrary, I have been

so much interested, I’m really very much obliged to you.”

“Prince,” said the general, pressing his hand, and looking at him with

flashing eyes, and an expression as though he were under the influence

of a sudden thought which had come upon him with stunning force.

“Prince, you are so kind, so simple-minded, that sometimes I really

feel sorry for you! I gaze at you with a feeling of real affection. Oh,

Heaven bless you! May your life blossom and fructify in love. Mine is

over. Forgive me, forgive me!”

He left the room quickly, covering his face with his hands.

The prince could not doubt the sincerity of his agitation. He

understood, too, that the old man had left the room intoxicated with

his own success. The general belonged to that class of liars, who, in

spite of their transports of lying, invariably suspect that they are

not believed. On this occasion, when he recovered from his exaltation,

he would probably suspect Muishkin of pitying him, and feel insulted.

“Have I been acting rightly in allowing him to develop such vast

resources of imagination?” the prince asked himself. But his answer was

a fit of violent laughter which lasted ten whole minutes. He tried to

reproach himself for the laughing fit, but eventually concluded that he

needn’t do so, since in spite of it he was truly sorry for the old man.

The same evening he received a strange letter, short but decided. The

general informed him that they must part for ever; that he was

grateful, but that even from him he could not accept “signs of sympathy

which were humiliating to the dignity of a man already miserable

enough.”

When the prince heard that the old man had gone to Nina Alexandrovna,

though, he felt almost easy on his account.

We have seen, however, that the general paid a visit to Lizabetha

Prokofievna and caused trouble there, the final upshot being that he

frightened Mrs. Epanchin, and angered her by bitter hints as to his son

Gania.

He had been turned out in disgrace, eventually, and this was the cause

of his bad night and quarrelsome day, which ended in his sudden

departure into the street in a condition approaching insanity, as

recorded before.

Colia did not understand the position. He tried severity with his

father, as they stood in the street after the latter had cursed the

household, hoping to bring him round that way.

“Well, where are we to go to now, father?” he asked. “You don’t want to

go to the prince’s; you have quarrelled with Lebedeff; you have no

money; I never have any; and here we are in the middle of the road, in

a nice sort of mess.”

“Better to be of a mess than in a mess! I remember making a joke

something like that at the mess in eighteen hundred and forty—forty—I

forget. ‘Where is my youth, where is my golden youth?’ Who was it said

that, Colia?”

“It was Gogol, in Dead Souls, father,” cried Colia, glancing at him in

some alarm.

“‘Dead Souls,’ yes, of course, dead. When I die, Colia, you must

engrave on my tomb:

“‘Here lies a Dead Soul,

Shame pursues me.’

“Who said that, Colia?”

“I don’t know, father.”

“There was no Eropegoff? Eroshka Eropegoff?” he cried, suddenly,

stopping in the road in a frenzy. “No Eropegoff! And my own son to say

it! Eropegoff was in the place of a brother to me for eleven months. I

fought a duel for him. He was married afterwards, and then killed on

the field of battle. The bullet struck the cross on my breast and

glanced off straight into his temple. ‘I’ll never forget you,’ he

cried, and expired. I served my country well and honestly, Colia, but

shame, shame has pursued me! You and Nina will come to my grave, Colia;

poor Nina, I always used to call her Nina in the old days, and how she

loved.... Nina, Nina, oh, Nina. What have I ever done to deserve your

forgiveness and long-suffering? Oh, Colia, your mother has an angelic

spirit, an angelic spirit, Colia!”

“I know that, father. Look here, dear old father, come back home! Let’s

go back to mother. Look, she ran after us when we came out. What have

you stopped her for, just as though you didn’t take in what I said? Why

are you crying, father?”

Poor Colia cried himself, and kissed the old man’s hands

“You kiss my hands, _mine?_”

“Yes, yes, yours, yours! What is there to surprise anyone in that?

Come, come, you mustn’t go on like this, crying in the middle of the

road; and you a general too, a military man! Come, let’s go back.”

“God bless you, dear boy, for being respectful to a disgraced man. Yes,

to a poor disgraced old fellow, your father. You shall have such a son

yourself; le roi de Rome. Oh, curses on this house!”

“Come, come, what does all this mean?” cried Colia beside himself at

last. “What is it? What has happened to you? Why don’t you wish to come

back home? Why have you gone out of your mind, like this?”

“I’ll explain it, I’ll explain all to you. Don’t shout! You shall hear.

Le roi de Rome. Oh, I am sad, I am melancholy!

“‘Nurse, where is your tomb?’

“Who said that, Colia?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know who said it. Come home at once; come on!

I’ll punch Gania’s head myself, if you like—only come. Oh, where _are_

you off to again?” The general was dragging him away towards the door

of a house nearby. He sat down on the step, still holding Colia by the

hand.

“Bend down—bend down your ear. I’ll tell you all—disgrace—bend down,

I’ll tell you in your ear.”

“What are you dreaming of?” said poor, frightened Colia, stooping down

towards the old man, all the same.

“Le roi de Rome,” whispered the general, trembling all over.

“What? What _do_ you mean? What roi de Rome?”

“I—I,” the general continued to whisper, clinging more and more tightly

to the boy’s shoulder. “I—wish—to tell you—all—Maria—Maria

Petrovna—Su—Su—Su.......”

Colia broke loose, seized his father by the shoulders, and stared into

his eyes with frenzied gaze. The old man had grown livid—his lips were

shaking, convulsions were passing over his features. Suddenly he leant

over and began to sink slowly into Colia’s arms.

“He’s got a stroke!” cried Colia, loudly, realizing what was the matter

at last.

V.

In point of fact, Varia had rather exaggerated the certainty of her

news as to the prince’s betrothal to Aglaya. Very likely, with the

perspicacity of her sex, she gave out as an accomplished fact what she

felt was pretty sure to become a fact in a few days. Perhaps she could

not resist the satisfaction of pouring one last drop of bitterness into

her brother Gania’s cup, in spite of her love for him. At all events,

she had been unable to obtain any definite news from the Epanchin

girls—the most she could get out of them being hints and surmises, and

so on. Perhaps Aglaya’s sisters had merely been pumping Varia for news

while pretending to impart information; or perhaps, again, they had

been unable to resist the feminine gratification of teasing a

friend—for, after all this time, they could scarcely have helped

divining the aim of her frequent visits.

On the other hand, the prince, although he had told Lebedeff,—as we

know, that nothing had happened, and that he had nothing to impart,—the

prince may have been in error. Something strange seemed to have

happened, without anything definite having actually happened. Varia had

guessed that with her true feminine instinct.

How or why it came about that everyone at the Epanchins’ became imbued

with one conviction—that something very important had happened to

Aglaya, and that her fate was in process of settlement—it would be very

difficult to explain. But no sooner had this idea taken root, than all

at once declared that they had seen and observed it long ago; that they

had remarked it at the time of the “poor knight” joke, and even before,

though they had been unwilling to believe in such nonsense.

So said the sisters. Of course, Lizabetha Prokofievna had foreseen it

long before the rest; her “heart had been sore” for a long while, she

declared, and it was now so sore that she appeared to be quite

overwhelmed, and the very thought of the prince became distasteful to

her.

There was a question to be decided—most important, but most difficult;

so much so, that Mrs. Epanchin did not even see how to put it into

words. Would the prince do or not? Was all this good or bad? If good

(which might be the case, of course), _why_ good? If bad (which was

hardly doubtful), _wherein_, especially, bad? Even the general, the

paterfamilias, though astonished at first, suddenly declared that,

“upon his honour, he really believed he had fancied something of the

kind, after all. At first, it seemed a new idea, and then, somehow, it

looked as familiar as possible.” His wife frowned him down there. This

was in the morning; but in the evening, alone with his wife, he had

given tongue again.

“Well, really, you know”—(silence)—“of course, you know all this is

very strange, if true, which I cannot deny; but”—(silence).—“But, on

the other hand, if one looks things in the face, you know—upon my

honour, the prince is a rare good fellow—and—and—and—well, his name,

you know—your family name—all this looks well, and perpetuates the name

and title and all that—which at this moment is not standing so high as

it might—from one point of view—don’t you know? The world, the world is

the world, of course—and people will talk—and—and—the prince has

property, you know—if it is not very large—and then he—he—” (Continued

silence, and collapse of the general.)

Hearing these words from her husband, Lizabetha Prokofievna was driven

beside herself.

According to her opinion, the whole thing had been one huge,

fantastical, absurd, unpardonable mistake. “First of all, this prince

is an idiot, and, secondly, he is a fool—knows nothing of the world,

and has no place in it. Whom can he be shown to? Where can you take him

to? What will old Bielokonski say? We never thought of such a husband

as _that_ for our Aglaya!”

Of course, the last argument was the chief one. The maternal heart

trembled with indignation to think of such an absurdity, although in

that heart there rose another voice, which said: “And _why_ is not the

prince such a husband as you would have desired for Aglaya?” It was

this voice which annoyed Lizabetha Prokofievna more than anything else.

For some reason or other, the sisters liked the idea of the prince.

They did not even consider it very strange; in a word, they might be

expected at any moment to range themselves strongly on his side. But

both of them decided to say nothing either way. It had always been

noticed in the family that the stronger Mrs. Epanchin’s opposition was

to any project, the nearer she was, in reality, to giving in.

Alexandra, however, found it difficult to keep absolute silence on the

subject. Long since holding, as she did, the post of “confidential

adviser to mamma,” she was now perpetually called in council, and asked

her opinion, and especially her assistance, in order to recollect “how

on earth all this happened?” Why did no one see it? Why did no one say

anything about it? What did all that wretched “poor knight” joke mean?

Why was she, Lizabetha Prokofievna, driven to think, and foresee, and

worry for everybody, while they all sucked their thumbs, and counted

the crows in the garden, and did nothing? At first, Alexandra had been

very careful, and had merely replied that perhaps her father’s remark

was not so far out: that, in the eyes of the world, probably the choice

of the prince as a husband for one of the Epanchin girls would be

considered a very wise one. Warming up, however, she added that the

prince was by no means a fool, and never had been; and that as to

“place in the world,” no one knew what the position of a respectable

person in Russia would imply in a few years—whether it would depend on

successes in the government service, on the old system, or what.

To all this her mother replied that Alexandra was a freethinker, and

that all this was due to that “cursed woman’s rights question.”

Half an hour after this conversation, she went off to town, and thence

to the Kammenny Ostrof, [“Stone Island,” a suburb and park of St.

Petersburg] to see Princess Bielokonski, who had just arrived from

Moscow on a short visit. The princess was Aglaya’s godmother.

“Old Bielokonski” listened to all the fevered and despairing

lamentations of Lizabetha Prokofievna without the least emotion; the

tears of this sorrowful mother did not evoke answering sighs—in fact,

she laughed at her. She was a dreadful old despot, this princess; she

could not allow equality in anything, not even in friendship of the

oldest standing, and she insisted on treating Mrs. Epanchin as her

_protégée_, as she had been thirty-five years ago. She could never put

up with the independence and energy of Lizabetha’s character. She

observed that, as usual, the whole family had gone much too far ahead,

and had converted a fly into an elephant; that, so far as she had heard

their story, she was persuaded that nothing of any seriousness had

occurred; that it would surely be better to wait until something _did_

happen; that the prince, in her opinion, was a very decent young

fellow, though perhaps a little eccentric, through illness, and not

quite as weighty in the world as one could wish. The worst feature was,

she said, Nastasia Philipovna.

Lizabetha Prokofievna well understood that the old lady was angry at

the failure of Evgenie Pavlovitch—her own recommendation. She returned

home to Pavlofsk in a worse humour than when she left, and of course

everybody in the house suffered. She pitched into everyone, because,

she declared, they had ‘gone mad.’ Why were things always mismanaged in

her house? Why had everybody been in such a frantic hurry in this

matter? So far as she could see, nothing whatever had happened. Surely

they had better wait and see what was to happen, instead of making

mountains out of molehills.

And so the conclusion of the matter was that it would be far better to

take it quietly, and wait coolly to see what would turn up. But, alas!

peace did not reign for more than ten minutes. The first blow dealt to

its power was in certain news communicated to Lizabetha Prokofievna as

to events which had happened during her trip to see the princess. (This

trip had taken place the day after that on which the prince had turned

up at the Epanchins at nearly one o’clock at night, thinking it was

nine.)

The sisters replied candidly and fully enough to their mother’s

impatient questions on her return. They said, in the first place, that

nothing particular had happened since her departure; that the prince

had been, and that Aglaya had kept him waiting a long while before she

appeared—half an hour, at least; that she had then come in, and

immediately asked the prince to have a game of chess; that the prince

did not know the game, and Aglaya had beaten him easily; that she had

been in a wonderfully merry mood, and had laughed at the prince, and

chaffed him so unmercifully that one was quite sorry to see his

wretched expression.

She had then asked him to play cards—the game called “little fools.” At

this game the tables were turned completely, for the prince had shown

himself a master at it. Aglaya had cheated and changed cards, and

stolen others, in the most bare-faced way, but, in spite of everything

the prince had beaten her hopelessly five times running, and she had

been left “little fool” each time.

Aglaya then lost her temper, and began to say such awful things to the

prince that he laughed no more, but grew dreadfully pale, especially

when she said that she should not remain in the house with him, and

that he ought to be ashamed of coming to their house at all, especially

at night, “_after all that had happened_.”

So saying, she had left the room, banging the door after her, and the

prince went off, looking as though he were on his way to a funeral, in

spite of all their attempts at consolation.

Suddenly, a quarter of an hour after the prince’s departure, Aglaya had

rushed out of her room in such a hurry that she had not even wiped her

eyes, which were full of tears. She came back because Colia had brought

a hedgehog. Everybody came in to see the hedgehog. In answer to their

questions Colia explained that the hedgehog was not his, and that he

had left another boy, Kostia Lebedeff, waiting for him outside. Kostia

was too shy to come in, because he was carrying a hatchet; they had

bought the hedgehog and the hatchet from a peasant whom they had met on

the road. He had offered to sell them the hedgehog, and they had paid

fifty copecks for it; and the hatchet had so taken their fancy that

they had made up their minds to buy it of their own accord. On hearing

this, Aglaya urged Colia to sell her the hedgehog; she even called him

“dear Colia,” in trying to coax him. He refused for a long time, but at

last he could hold out no more, and went to fetch Kostia Lebedeff. The

latter appeared, carrying his hatchet, and covered with confusion. Then

it came out that the hedgehog was not theirs, but the property of a

schoolmate, one Petroff, who had given them some money to buy

Schlosser’s History for him, from another schoolfellow who at that

moment was driven to raising money by the sale of his books. Colia and

Kostia were about to make this purchase for their friend when chance

brought the hedgehog to their notice, and they had succumbed to the

temptation of buying it. They were now taking Petroff the hedgehog and

hatchet which they had bought with his money, instead of Schlosser’s

History. But Aglaya so entreated them that at last they consented to

sell her the hedgehog. As soon as she had got possession of it, she put

it in a wicker basket with Colia’s help, and covered it with a napkin.

Then she said to Colia: “Go and take this hedgehog to the prince from

me, and ask him to accept it as a token of my profound respect.” Colia

joyfully promised to do the errand, but he demanded explanations. “What

does the hedgehog mean? What is the meaning of such a present?” Aglaya

replied that it was none of his business. “I am sure that there is some

allegory about it,” Colia persisted. Aglaya grew angry, and called him

“a silly boy.” “If I did not respect all women in your person,” replied

Colia, “and if my own principles would permit it, I would soon prove to

you, that I know how to answer such an insult!” But, in the end, Colia

went off with the hedgehog in great delight, followed by Kostia

Lebedeff. Aglaya’s annoyance was soon over, and seeing that Colia was

swinging the hedgehog’s basket violently to and fro, she called out to

him from the verandah, as if they had never quarrelled: “Colia, dear,

please take care not to drop him!” Colia appeared to have no grudge

against her, either, for he stopped, and answered most cordially: “No,

I will not drop him! Don’t be afraid, Aglaya Ivanovna!” After which he

went on his way. Aglaya burst out laughing and ran up to her room,

highly delighted. Her good spirits lasted the whole day.

All this filled poor Lizabetha’s mind with chaotic confusion. What on

earth did it all mean? The most disturbing feature was the hedgehog.

What was the symbolic signification of a hedgehog? What did they

understand by it? What underlay it? Was it a cryptic message?

Poor General Epanchin “put his foot in it” by answering the above

questions in his own way. He said there was no cryptic message at all.

As for the hedgehog, it was just a hedgehog, which meant

nothing—unless, indeed, it was a pledge of friendship,—the sign of

forgetting of offences and so on. At all events, it was a joke, and, of

course, a most pardonable and innocent one.

We may as well remark that the general had guessed perfectly

accurately.

The prince, returning home from the interview with Aglaya, had sat

gloomy and depressed for half an hour. He was almost in despair when

Colia arrived with the hedgehog.

Then the sky cleared in a moment. The prince seemed to arise from the

dead; he asked Colia all about it, made him repeat the story over and

over again, and laughed and shook hands with the boys in his delight.

It seemed clear to the prince that Aglaya forgave him, and that he

might go there again this very evening; and in his eyes that was not

only the main thing, but everything in the world.

“What children we are still, Colia!” he cried at last,

enthusiastically,—“and how delightful it is that we can be children

still!”

“Simply—my dear prince,—simply she is in love with you,—that’s the

whole of the secret!” replied Colia, with authority.

The prince blushed, but this time he said nothing. Colia burst out

laughing and clapped his hands. A minute later the prince laughed too,

and from this moment until the evening he looked at his watch every

other minute to see how much time he had to wait before evening came.

But the situation was becoming rapidly critical.

Mrs. Epanchin could bear her suspense no longer, and in spite of the

opposition of husband and daughters, she sent for Aglaya, determined to

get a straightforward answer out of her, once for all.

“Otherwise,” she observed hysterically, “I shall die before evening.”

It was only now that everyone realized to what a ridiculous dead-lock

the whole matter had been brought. Excepting feigned surprise,

indignation, laughter, and jeering—both at the prince and at everyone

who asked her questions,—nothing could be got out of Aglaya.

Lizabetha Prokofievna went to bed and only rose again in time for tea,

when the prince might be expected.

She awaited him in trembling agitation; and when he at last arrived she

nearly went off into hysterics.

Muishkin himself came in very timidly. He seemed to feel his way, and

looked in each person’s eyes in a questioning way,—for Aglaya was

absent, which fact alarmed him at once.

This evening there were no strangers present—no one but the immediate

members of the family. Prince S. was still in town, occupied with the

affairs of Evgenie Pavlovitch’s uncle.

“I wish at least _he_ would come and say something!” complained poor

Lizabetha Prokofievna.

The general sat still with a most preoccupied air. The sisters were

looking very serious and did not speak a word, and Lizabetha

Prokofievna did not know how to commence the conversation.

At length she plunged into an energetic and hostile criticism of

railways, and glared at the prince defiantly.

Alas Aglaya still did not come—and the prince was quite lost. He had

the greatest difficulty in expressing his opinion that railways were

most useful institutions,—and in the middle of his speech Adelaida

laughed, which threw him into a still worse state of confusion.

At this moment in marched Aglaya, as calm and collected as could be.

She gave the prince a ceremonious bow and solemnly took up a prominent

position near the big round table. She looked at the prince

questioningly.

All present realized that the moment for the settlement of perplexities

had arrived.

“Did you get my hedgehog?” she inquired, firmly and almost angrily.

“Yes, I got it,” said the prince, blushing.

“Tell us now, at once, what you made of the present? I must have you

answer this question for mother’s sake; she needs pacifying, and so do

all the rest of the family!”

“Look here, Aglaya—” began the general.

“This—this is going beyond all limits!” said Lizabetha Prokofievna,

suddenly alarmed.

“It is not in the least beyond all limits, mamma!” said her daughter,

firmly. “I sent the prince a hedgehog this morning, and I wish to hear

his opinion of it. Go on, prince.”

“What—what sort of opinion, Aglaya Ivanovna?”

“About the hedgehog.”

“That is—I suppose you wish to know how I received the hedgehog, Aglaya

Ivanovna,—or, I should say, how I regarded your sending him to me? In

that case, I may tell you—in a word—that I—in fact—”

He paused, breathless.

“Come—you haven’t told us much!” said Aglaya, after waiting some five

seconds. “Very well, I am ready to drop the hedgehog, if you like; but

I am anxious to be able to clear up this accumulation of

misunderstandings. Allow me to ask you, prince,—I wish to hear from

you, personally—are you making me an offer, or not?”

“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Lizabetha Prokofievna. The prince

started. The general stiffened in his chair; the sisters frowned.

“Don’t deceive me now, prince—tell the truth. All these people

persecute me with astounding questions—about you. Is there any ground

for all these questions, or not? Come!”

“I have not asked you to marry me yet, Aglaya Ivanovna,” said the

prince, becoming suddenly animated; “but you know yourself how much I

love you and trust you.”

“No—I asked you this—answer this! Do you intend to ask for my hand, or

not?”

“Yes—I do ask for it!” said the prince, more dead than alive now.

There was a general stir in the room.

“No—no—my dear girl,” began the general. “You cannot proceed like this,

Aglaya, if that’s how the matter stands. It’s impossible. Prince,

forgive it, my dear fellow, but—Lizabetha Prokofievna!”—he appealed to

his spouse for help—“you must really—”

“Not I—not I! I retire from all responsibility,” said Lizabetha

Prokofievna, with a wave of the hand.

“Allow me to speak, please, mamma,” said Aglaya. “I think I ought to

have something to say in the matter. An important moment of my destiny

is about to be decided”—(this is how Aglaya expressed herself)—“and I

wish to find out how the matter stands, for my own sake, though I am

glad you are all here. Allow me to ask you, prince, since you cherish

those intentions, how you consider that you will provide for my

happiness?”

“I—I don’t quite know how to answer your question, Aglaya Ivanovna.

What is there to say to such a question? And—and must I answer?”

“I think you are rather overwhelmed and out of breath. Have a little

rest, and try to recover yourself. Take a glass of water, or—but

they’ll give you some tea directly.”

“I love you, Aglaya Ivanovna,—I love you very much. I love only

you—and—please don’t jest about it, for I do love you very much.”

“Well, this matter is important. We are not children—we must look into

it thoroughly. Now then, kindly tell me—what does your fortune consist

of?”

“No—Aglaya—come, enough of this, you mustn’t behave like this,” said

her father, in dismay.

“It’s disgraceful,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna in a loud whisper.

“She’s mad—quite!” said Alexandra.

“Fortune—money—do you mean?” asked the prince in some surprise.

“Just so.”

“I have now—let’s see—I have a hundred and thirty-five thousand

roubles,” said the prince, blushing violently.

“Is that all, really?” said Aglaya, candidly, without the slightest

show of confusion. “However, it’s not so bad, especially if managed

with economy. Do you intend to serve?”

“I—I intended to try for a certificate as private tutor.”

“Very good. That would increase our income nicely. Have you any

intention of being a Kammer-junker?”

“A Kammer-junker? I had not thought of it, but—”

But here the two sisters could restrain themselves no longer, and both

of them burst into irrepressible laughter.

Adelaida had long since detected in Aglaya’s features the gathering

signs of an approaching storm of laughter, which she restrained with

amazing self-control.

Aglaya looked menacingly at her laughing sisters, but could not contain

herself any longer, and the next minute she too had burst into an

irrepressible, and almost hysterical, fit of mirth. At length she

jumped up, and ran out of the room.

“I knew it was all a joke!” cried Adelaida. “I felt it ever since—since

the hedgehog.”

“No, no! I cannot allow this,—this is a little too much,” cried

Lizabetha Prokofievna, exploding with rage, and she rose from her seat

and followed Aglaya out of the room as quickly as she could.

The two sisters hurriedly went after her.

The prince and the general were the only two persons left in the room.

“It’s—it’s really—now could you have imagined anything like it, Lef

Nicolaievitch?” cried the general. He was evidently so much agitated

that he hardly knew what he wished to say. “Seriously now, seriously I

mean—”

“I only see that Aglaya Ivanovna is laughing at me,” said the poor

prince, sadly.

“Wait a bit, my boy, I’ll just go—you stay here, you know. But do just

explain, if you can, Lef Nicolaievitch, how in the world has all this

come about? And what does it all mean? You must understand, my dear

fellow; I am a father, you see, and I ought to be allowed to understand

the matter—do explain, I beg you!”

“I love Aglaya Ivanovna—she knows it,—and I think she must have long

known it.”

The general shrugged his shoulders.

“Strange—it’s strange,” he said, “and you love her very much?”

“Yes, very much.”

“Well—it’s all most strange to me. That is—my dear fellow, it is such a

surprise—such a blow—that... You see, it is not your financial position

(though I should not object if you were a bit richer)—I am thinking of

my daughter’s happiness, of course, and the thing is—are you able to

give her the happiness she deserves? And then—is all this a joke on her

part, or is she in earnest? I don’t mean on your side, but on hers.”

At this moment Alexandra’s voice was heard outside the door, calling

out “Papa!”

“Wait for me here, my boy—will you? Just wait and think it all over,

and I’ll come back directly,” he said hurriedly, and made off with what

looked like the rapidity of alarm in response to Alexandra’s call.

He found the mother and daughter locked in one another’s arms, mingling

their tears.

These were the tears of joy and peace and reconciliation. Aglaya was

kissing her mother’s lips and cheeks and hands; they were hugging each

other in the most ardent way.

“There, look at her now—Ivan Fedorovitch! Here she is—all of her! This

is our _real_ Aglaya at last!” said Lizabetha Prokofievna.

Aglaya raised her happy, tearful face from her mother’s breast, glanced

at her father, and burst out laughing. She sprang at him and hugged him

too, and kissed him over and over again. She then rushed back to her

mother and hid her face in the maternal bosom, and there indulged in

more tears. Her mother covered her with a corner of her shawl.

“Oh, you cruel little girl! How will you treat us all next, I wonder?”

she said, but she spoke with a ring of joy in her voice, and as though

she breathed at last without the oppression which she had felt so long.

“Cruel?” sobbed Aglaya. “Yes, I _am_ cruel, and worthless, and

spoiled—tell father so,—oh, here he is—I forgot Father, listen!” She

laughed through her tears.

“My darling, my little idol,” cried the general, kissing and fondling

her hands (Aglaya did not draw them away); “so you love this young man,

do you?”

“No, no, no, can’t _bear_ him, I can’t _bear_ your young man!” cried

Aglaya, raising her head. “And if you dare say that _once_ more,

papa—I’m serious, you know, I’m,—do you hear me—I’m serious!”

She certainly did seem to be serious enough. She had flushed up all

over and her eyes were blazing.

The general felt troubled and remained silent, while Lizabetha

Prokofievna telegraphed to him from behind Aglaya to ask no questions.

“If that’s the case, darling—then, of course, you shall do exactly as

you like. He is waiting alone downstairs. Hadn’t I better hint to him

gently that he can go?” The general telegraphed to Lizabetha

Prokofievna in his turn.

“No, no, you needn’t do anything of the sort; you mustn’t hint gently

at all. I’ll go down myself directly. I wish to apologize to this young

man, because I hurt his feelings.”

“Yes, _seriously_,” said the general, gravely.

“Well, you’d better stay here, all of you, for a little, and I’ll go

down to him alone to begin with. I’ll just go in and then you can

follow me almost at once. That’s the best way.”

She had almost reached the door when she turned round again.

“I shall laugh—I know I shall; I shall die of laughing,” she said,

lugubriously.

However, she turned and ran down to the prince as fast as her feet

could carry her.

“Well, what does it all mean? What do you make of it?” asked the

general of his spouse, hurriedly.

“I hardly dare say,” said Lizabetha, as hurriedly, “but I think it’s as

plain as anything can be.”

“I think so too, as clear as day; she loves him.”

“Loves him? She is head over ears in love, that’s what she is,” put in

Alexandra.

“Well, God bless her, God bless her, if such is her destiny,” said

Lizabetha, crossing herself devoutly.

“H’m destiny it is,” said the general, “and there’s no getting out of

destiny.”

With these words they all moved off towards the drawing-room, where

another surprise awaited them. Aglaya had not only not laughed, as she

had feared, but had gone to the prince rather timidly, and said to him:

“Forgive a silly, horrid, spoilt girl”—(she took his hand here)—“and be

quite assured that we all of us esteem you beyond all words. And if I

dared to turn your beautiful, admirable simplicity to ridicule, forgive

me as you would a little child its mischief. Forgive me all my

absurdity of just now, which, of course, meant nothing, and could not

have the slightest consequence.” She spoke these words with great

emphasis.

Her father, mother, and sisters came into the room and were much struck

with the last words, which they just caught as they entered—“absurdity

which of course meant nothing”—and still more so with the emphasis with

which Aglaya had spoken.

They exchanged glances questioningly, but the prince did not seem to

have understood the meaning of Aglaya’s words; he was in the highest

heaven of delight.

“Why do you speak so?” he murmured. “Why do you ask my forgiveness?”

He wished to add that he was unworthy of being asked for forgiveness by

her, but paused. Perhaps he did understand Aglaya’s sentence about

“absurdity which meant nothing,” and like the strange fellow that he

was, rejoiced in the words.

Undoubtedly the fact that he might now come and see Aglaya as much as

he pleased again was quite enough to make him perfectly happy; that he

might come and speak to her, and see her, and sit by her, and walk with

her—who knows, but that all this was quite enough to satisfy him for

the whole of his life, and that he would desire no more to the end of

time?

(Lizabetha Prokofievna felt that this might be the case, and she didn’t

like it; though very probably she could not have put the idea into

words.)

It would be difficult to describe the animation and high spirits which

distinguished the prince for the rest of the evening.

He was so happy that “it made one feel happy to look at him,” as

Aglaya’s sisters expressed it afterwards. He talked, and told stories

just as he had done once before, and never since, namely on the very

first morning of his acquaintance with the Epanchins, six months ago.

Since his return to Petersburg from Moscow, he had been remarkably

silent, and had told Prince S. on one occasion, before everyone, that

he did not think himself justified in degrading any thought by his

unworthy words.

But this evening he did nearly all the talking himself, and told

stories by the dozen, while he answered all questions put to him

clearly, gladly, and with any amount of detail.

There was nothing, however, of love-making in his talk. His ideas were

all of the most serious kind; some were even mystical and profound.

He aired his own views on various matters, some of his most private

opinions and observations, many of which would have seemed rather

funny, so his hearers agreed afterwards, had they not been so well

expressed.

The general liked serious subjects of conversation; but both he and

Lizabetha Prokofievna felt that they were having a little too much of a

good thing tonight, and as the evening advanced, they both grew more or

less melancholy; but towards night, the prince fell to telling funny

stories, and was always the first to burst out laughing himself, which

he invariably did so joyously and simply that the rest laughed just as

much at him as at his stories.

As for Aglaya, she hardly said a word all the evening; but she listened

with all her ears to Lef Nicolaievitch’s talk, and scarcely took her

eyes off him.

“She looked at him, and stared and stared, and hung on every word he

said,” said Lizabetha afterwards, to her husband, “and yet, tell her

that she loves him, and she is furious!”

“What’s to be done? It’s fate,” said the general, shrugging his

shoulders, and, for a long while after, he continued to repeat: “It’s

fate, it’s fate!”

We may add that to a business man like General Epanchin the present

position of affairs was most unsatisfactory. He hated the uncertainty

in which they had been, perforce, left. However, he decided to say no

more about it, and merely to look on, and take his time and tune from

Lizabetha Prokofievna.

The happy state in which the family had spent the evening, as just

recorded, was not of very long duration. Next day Aglaya quarrelled

with the prince again, and so she continued to behave for the next few

days. For whole hours at a time she ridiculed and chaffed the wretched

man, and made him almost a laughing-stock.

It is true that they used to sit in the little summer-house together

for an hour or two at a time, very often, but it was observed that on

these occasions the prince would read the paper, or some book, aloud to

Aglaya.

“Do you know,” Aglaya said to him once, interrupting the reading, “I’ve

remarked that you are dreadfully badly educated. You never know

anything thoroughly, if one asks you; neither anyone’s name, nor dates,

nor about treaties and so on. It’s a great pity, you know!”

“I told you I had not had much of an education,” replied the prince.

“How am I to respect you, if that’s the case? Read on now. No—don’t!

Stop reading!”

And once more, that same evening, Aglaya mystified them all. Prince S.

had returned, and Aglaya was particularly amiable to him, and asked a

great deal after Evgenie Pavlovitch. (Muishkin had not come in as yet.)

Suddenly Prince S. hinted something about “a new and approaching change

in the family.” He was led to this remark by a communication

inadvertently made to him by Lizabetha Prokofievna, that Adelaida’s

marriage must be postponed a little longer, in order that the two

weddings might come off together.

It is impossible to describe Aglaya’s irritation. She flared up, and

said some indignant words about “all these silly insinuations.” She

added that “she had no intentions as yet of replacing anybody’s

mistress.”

These words painfully impressed the whole party; but especially her

parents. Lizabetha Prokofievna summoned a secret council of two, and

insisted upon the general’s demanding from the prince a full

explanation of his relations with Nastasia Philipovna. The general

argued that it was only a whim of Aglaya’s; and that, had not Prince S.

unfortunately made that remark, which had confused the child and made

her blush, she never would have said what she did; and that he was sure

Aglaya knew well that anything she might have heard of the prince and

Nastasia Philipovna was merely the fabrication of malicious tongues,

and that the woman was going to marry Rogojin. He insisted that the

prince had nothing whatever to do with Nastasia Philipovna, so far as

any liaison was concerned; and, if the truth were to be told about it,

he added, never had had.

Meanwhile nothing put the prince out, and he continued to be in the

seventh heaven of bliss. Of course he could not fail to observe some

impatience and ill-temper in Aglaya now and then; but he believed in

something else, and nothing could now shake his conviction. Besides,

Aglaya’s frowns never lasted long; they disappeared of themselves.

Perhaps he was too easy in his mind. So thought Hippolyte, at all

events, who met him in the park one day.

“Didn’t I tell you the truth now, when I said you were in love?” he

said, coming up to Muishkin of his own accord, and stopping him.

The prince gave him his hand and congratulated him upon “looking so

well.”

Hippolyte himself seemed to be hopeful about his state of health, as is

often the case with consumptives.

He had approached the prince with the intention of talking

sarcastically about his happy expression of face, but very soon forgot

his intention and began to talk about himself. He began complaining

about everything, disconnectedly and endlessly, as was his wont.

“You wouldn’t believe,” he concluded, “how irritating they all are

there. They are such wretchedly small, vain, egotistical, _commonplace_

people! Would you believe it, they invited me there under the express

condition that I should die quickly, and they are all as wild as

possible with me for not having died yet, and for being, on the

contrary, a good deal better! Isn’t it a comedy? I don’t mind betting

that you don’t believe me!”

The prince said nothing.

“I sometimes think of coming over to you again,” said Hippolyte,

carelessly. “So you _don’t_ think them capable of inviting a man on the

condition that he is to look sharp and die?”

“I certainly thought they invited you with quite other views.”

“Ho, ho! you are not nearly so simple as they try to make you out! This

is not the time for it, or I would tell you a thing or two about that

beauty, Gania, and his hopes. You are being undermined, pitilessly

undermined, and—and it is really melancholy to see you so calm about

it. But alas! it’s your nature—you can’t help it!”

“My word! what a thing to be melancholy about! Why, do you think I

should be any happier if I were to feel disturbed about the excavations

you tell me of?”

“It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a

fool’s paradise! I suppose you don’t believe that you have a rival in

that quarter?”

“Your insinuations as to rivalry are rather cynical, Hippolyte. I’m

sorry to say I have no right to answer you! As for Gania, I put it to

you, _can_ any man have a happy mind after passing through what he has

had to suffer? I think that is the best way to look at it. He will

change yet, he has lots of time before him, and life is rich;

besides—besides...” the prince hesitated. “As to being undermined, I

don’t know what in the world you are driving at, Hippolyte. I think we

had better drop the subject!”

“Very well, we’ll drop it for a while. You can’t look at anything but

in your exalted, generous way. You must put out your finger and touch a

thing before you’ll believe it, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I suppose you despise

me dreadfully, prince, eh? What do you think?”

“Why? Because you have suffered more than we have?”

“No; because I am unworthy of my sufferings, if you like!”

“Whoever _can_ suffer is worthy to suffer, I should think. Aglaya

Ivanovna wished to see you, after she had read your confession, but—”

“She postponed the pleasure—I see—I quite understand!” said Hippolyte,

hurriedly, as though he wished to banish the subject. “I hear—they tell

me—that you read her all that nonsense aloud? Stupid bosh it

was—written in delirium. And I can’t understand how anyone can be so—I

won’t say _cruel_, because the word would be humiliating to myself, but

we’ll say childishly vain and revengeful, as to _reproach_ me with this

confession, and use it as a weapon against me. Don’t be afraid, I’m not

referring to yourself.”

“Oh, but I’m sorry you repudiate the confession, Hippolyte—it is

sincere; and, do you know, even the absurd parts of it—and these are

many” (here Hippolyte frowned savagely) “are, as it were, redeemed by

suffering—for it must have cost you something to admit what you there

say—great torture, perhaps, for all I know. Your motive must have been

a very noble one all through. Whatever may have appeared to the

contrary, I give you my word, I see this more plainly every day. I do

not judge you; I merely say this to have it off my mind, and I am only

sorry that I did not say it all _then_—”

Hippolyte flushed hotly. He had thought at first that the prince was

“humbugging” him; but on looking at his face he saw that he was

absolutely serious, and had no thought of any deception. Hippolyte

beamed with gratification.

“And yet I must die,” he said, and almost added: “a man like me!

“And imagine how that Gania annoys me! He has developed the idea—or

pretends to believe—that in all probability three or four others who

heard my confession will die before I do. There’s an idea for you—and

all this by way of _consoling_ me! Ha! ha! ha! In the first place they

haven’t died yet; and in the second, if they _did_ die—all of them—what

would be the satisfaction to me in that? He judges me by himself. But

he goes further, he actually pitches into me because, as he declares,

‘any decent fellow’ would die quietly, and that ‘all this’ is mere

egotism on my part. He doesn’t see what refinement of egotism it is on

his own part—and at the same time, what ox-like coarseness! Have you

ever read of the death of one Stepan Gleboff, in the eighteenth

century? I read of it yesterday by chance.”

“Who was he?”

“He was impaled on a stake in the time of Peter.”

“I know, I know! He lay there fifteen hours in the hard frost, and died

with the most extraordinary fortitude—I know—what of him?”

“Only that God gives that sort of dying to some, and not to others.

Perhaps you think, though, that I could not die like Gleboff?”

“Not at all!” said the prince, blushing. “I was only going to say that

you—not that you could not be like Gleboff—but that you would have been

more like—”

“I guess what you mean—I should be an Osterman, not a Gleboff—eh? Is

that what you meant?”

“What Osterman?” asked the prince in some surprise.

“Why, Osterman—the diplomatist. Peter’s Osterman,” muttered Hippolyte,

confused. There was a moment’s pause of mutual confusion.

“Oh, no, no!” said the prince at last, “that was not what I was going

to say—oh no! I don’t think you would ever have been like Osterman.”

Hippolyte frowned gloomily.

“I’ll tell you why I draw the conclusion,” explained the prince,

evidently desirous of clearing up the matter a little. “Because, though

I often think over the men of those times, I cannot for the life of me

imagine them to be like ourselves. It really appears to me that they

were of another race altogether than ourselves of today. At that time

people seemed to stick so to one idea; now, they are more nervous, more

sensitive, more enlightened—people of two or three ideas at once—as it

were. The man of today is a broader man, so to speak—and I declare I

believe that is what prevents him from being so self-contained and

independent a being as his brother of those earlier days. Of course my

remark was only made under this impression, and not in the least—”

“I quite understand. You are trying to comfort me for the naiveness

with which you disagreed with me—eh? Ha! ha! ha! You are a regular

child, prince! However, I cannot help seeing that you always treat me

like—like a fragile china cup. Never mind, never mind, I’m not a bit

angry! At all events we have had a very funny talk. Do you know, all

things considered, I should like to be something better than Osterman!

I wouldn’t take the trouble to rise from the dead to be an Osterman.

However, I see I must make arrangements to die soon, or I myself—.

Well—leave me now! _Au revoir._ Look here—before you go, just give me

your opinion: how do you think I ought to die, now? I mean—the best,

the most virtuous way? Tell me!”

“You should pass us by and forgive us our happiness,” said the prince

in a low voice.

“Ha! ha! ha! I thought so. I thought I should hear something like that.

Well, you are—you really are—oh dear me! Eloquence, eloquence!

Good-bye!”

VI.

As to the evening party at the Epanchins’ at which Princess Bielokonski

was to be present, Varia had reported with accuracy; though she had

perhaps expressed herself too strongly.

The thing was decided in a hurry and with a certain amount of quite

unnecessary excitement, doubtless because “nothing could be done in

this house like anywhere else.”

The impatience of Lizabetha Prokofievna “to get things settled”

explained a good deal, as well as the anxiety of both parents for the

happiness of their beloved daughter. Besides, Princess Bielokonski was

going away soon, and they hoped that she would take an interest in the

prince. They were anxious that he should enter society under the

auspices of this lady, whose patronage was the best of recommendations

for any young man.

Even if there seems something strange about the match, the general and

his wife said to each other, the “world” will accept Aglaya’s fiance

without any question if he is under the patronage of the princess. In

any case, the prince would have to be “shown” sooner or later; that is,

introduced into society, of which he had, so far, not the least idea.

Moreover, it was only a question of a small gathering of a few intimate

friends. Besides Princess Bielokonski, only one other lady was

expected, the wife of a high dignitary. Evgenie Pavlovitch, who was to

escort the princess, was the only young man.

Muishkin was told of the princess’s visit three days beforehand, but

nothing was said to him about the party until the night before it was

to take place.

He could not help observing the excited and agitated condition of all

members of the family, and from certain hints dropped in conversation

he gathered that they were all anxious as to the impression he should

make upon the princess. But the Epanchins, one and all, believed that

Muishkin, in his simplicity of mind, was quite incapable of realizing

that they could be feeling any anxiety on his account, and for this

reason they all looked at him with dread and uneasiness.

In point of fact, he did attach marvellously little importance to the

approaching event. He was occupied with altogether different thoughts.

Aglaya was growing hourly more capricious and gloomy, and this

distressed him. When they told him that Evgenie Pavlovitch was

expected, he evinced great delight, and said that he had long wished to

see him—and somehow these words did not please anyone.

Aglaya left the room in a fit of irritation, and it was not until late

in the evening, past eleven, when the prince was taking his departure,

that she said a word or two to him, privately, as she accompanied him

as far as the front door.

“I should like you,” she said, “not to come here tomorrow until

evening, when the guests are all assembled. You know there are to be

guests, don’t you?”

She spoke impatiently and with severity; this was the first allusion

she had made to the party of tomorrow.

She hated the idea of it, everyone saw that; and she would probably

have liked to quarrel about it with her parents, but pride and modesty

prevented her from broaching the subject.

The prince jumped to the conclusion that Aglaya, too, was nervous about

him, and the impression he would make, and that she did not like to

admit her anxiety; and this thought alarmed him.

“Yes, I am invited,” he replied.

She was evidently in difficulties as to how best to go on. “May I speak

of something serious to you, for once in my life?” she asked, angrily.

She was irritated at she knew not what, and could not restrain her

wrath.

“Of course you may; I am very glad to listen,” replied Muishkin.

Aglaya was silent a moment and then began again with evident dislike of

her subject:

“I do not wish to quarrel with them about this; in some things they

won’t be reasonable. I always did feel a loathing for the laws which

seem to guide mamma’s conduct at times. I don’t speak of father, for he

cannot be expected to be anything but what he is. Mother is a

noble-minded woman, I know; you try to suggest anything mean to her,

and you’ll see! But she is such a slave to these miserable creatures! I

don’t mean old Bielokonski alone. She is a contemptible old thing, but

she is able to twist people round her little finger, and I admire that

in her, at all events! How mean it all is, and how foolish! We were

always middle-class, thoroughly middle-class, people. Why should we

attempt to climb into the giddy heights of the fashionable world? My

sisters are all for it. It’s Prince S. they have to thank for poisoning

their minds. Why are you so glad that Evgenie Pavlovitch is coming?”

“Listen to me, Aglaya,” said the prince, “I do believe you are nervous

lest I shall make a fool of myself tomorrow at your party?”

“Nervous about you?” Aglaya blushed. “Why should I be nervous about

you? What would it matter to me if you were to make ever such a fool of

yourself? How can you say such a thing? What do you mean by ‘making a

fool of yourself’? What a vulgar expression! I suppose you intend to

talk in that sort of way tomorrow evening? Look up a few more such

expressions in your dictionary; do, you’ll make a grand effect! I’m

sorry that you seem to be able to come into a room as gracefully as you

do; where did you learn the art? Do you think you can drink a cup of

tea decently, when you know everybody is looking at you, on purpose to

see how you do it?”

“Yes, I think I can.”

“Can you? I’m sorry for it then, for I should have had a good laugh at

you otherwise. Do break _something_ at least, in the drawing-room!

Upset the Chinese vase, won’t you? It’s a valuable one; _do_ break it.

Mamma values it, and she’ll go out of her mind—it was a present. She’ll

cry before everyone, you’ll see! Wave your hand about, you know, as you

always do, and just smash it. Sit down near it on purpose.”

“On the contrary, I shall sit as far from it as I can. Thanks for the

hint.”

“Ha, ha! Then you are afraid you _will_ wave your arms about! I

wouldn’t mind betting that you’ll talk about some lofty subject,

something serious and learned. How delightful, how tactful that will

be!”

“I should think it would be very foolish indeed, unless it happened to

come in appropriately.”

“Look here, once for all,” cried Aglaya, boiling over, “if I hear you

talking about capital punishment, or the economical condition of

Russia, or about Beauty redeeming the world, or anything of that sort,

I’ll—well, of course I shall laugh and seem very pleased, but I warn

you beforehand, don’t look me in the face again! I’m serious now, mind,

this time I _am really_ serious.” She certainly did say this very

seriously, so much so, that she looked quite different from what she

usually was, and the prince could not help noticing the fact. She did

not seem to be joking in the slightest degree.

“Well, you’ve put me into such a fright that I shall certainly make a

fool of myself, and very likely break something too. I wasn’t a bit

alarmed before, but now I’m as nervous as can be.”

“Then don’t speak at all. Sit still and don’t talk.”

“Oh, I can’t do that, you know! I shall say something foolish out of

pure ‘funk,’ and break something for the same excellent reason; I know

I shall. Perhaps I shall slip and fall on the slippery floor; I’ve done

that before now, you know. I shall dream of it all night now. Why did

you say anything about it?”

Aglaya looked blackly at him.

“Do you know what, I had better not come at all tomorrow! I’ll plead

sick-list and stay away,” said the prince, with decision.

Aglaya stamped her foot, and grew quite pale with anger.

“Oh, my goodness! Just listen to that! ‘Better not come,’ when the

party is on purpose for him! Good Lord! What a delightful thing it is

to have to do with such a—such a stupid as you are!”

“Well, I’ll come, I’ll come,” interrupted the prince, hastily, “and

I’ll give you my word of honour that I will sit the whole evening and

not say a word.”

“I believe that’s the best thing you can do. You said you’d ‘plead

sick-list’ just now; where in the world do you get hold of such

expressions? Why do you talk to me like this? Are you trying to

irritate me, or what?”

“Forgive me, it’s a schoolboy expression. I won’t do it again. I know

quite well, I see it, that you are anxious on my account (now, don’t be

angry), and it makes me very happy to see it. You wouldn’t believe how

frightened I am of misbehaving somehow, and how glad I am of your

instructions. But all this panic is simply nonsense, you know, Aglaya!

I give you my word it is; I am so pleased that you are such a child,

such a dear good child. How _charming_ you can be if you like, Aglaya.”

Aglaya wanted to be angry, of course, but suddenly some quite

unexpected feeling seized upon her heart, all in a moment.

“And you won’t reproach me for all these rude words of mine—some

day—afterwards?” she asked, of a sudden.

“What an idea! Of course not. And what are you blushing for again? And

there comes that frown once more! You’ve taken to looking too gloomy

sometimes, Aglaya, much more than you used to. I know why it is.”

“Be quiet, do be quiet!”

“No, no, I had much better speak out. I have long wished to say it, and

_have_ said it, but that’s not enough, for you didn’t believe me.

Between us two there stands a being who—”

“Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet, be quiet!” Aglaya struck in, suddenly,

seizing his hand in hers, and gazing at him almost in terror.

At this moment she was called by someone. She broke loose from him with

an air of relief and ran away.

The prince was in a fever all night. It was strange, but he had

suffered from fever for several nights in succession. On this

particular night, while in semi-delirium, he had an idea: what if on

the morrow he were to have a fit before everybody? The thought seemed

to freeze his blood within him. All night he fancied himself in some

extraordinary society of strange persons. The worst of it was that he

was talking nonsense; he knew that he ought not to speak at all, and

yet he talked the whole time; he seemed to be trying to persuade them

all to something. Evgenie and Hippolyte were among the guests, and

appeared to be great friends.

He awoke towards nine o’clock with a headache, full of confused ideas

and strange impressions. For some reason or other he felt most anxious

to see Rogojin, to see and talk to him, but what he wished to say he

could not tell. Next, he determined to go and see Hippolyte. His mind

was in a confused state, so much so that the incidents of the morning

seemed to be imperfectly realized, though acutely felt.

One of these incidents was a visit from Lebedeff. Lebedeff came rather

early—before ten—but he was tipsy already. Though the prince was not in

an observant condition, yet he could not avoid seeing that for at least

three days—ever since General Ivolgin had left the house Lebedeff had

been behaving very badly. He looked untidy and dirty at all times of

the day, and it was said that he had begun to rage about in his own

house, and that his temper was very bad. As soon as he arrived this

morning, he began to hold forth, beating his breast and apparently

blaming himself for something.

“I’ve—I’ve had a reward for my meanness—I’ve had a slap in the face,”

he concluded, tragically.

“A slap in the face? From whom? And so early in the morning?”

“Early?” said Lebedeff, sarcastically. “Time counts for nothing, even

in physical chastisement; but my slap in the face was not physical, it

was moral.”

He suddenly took a seat, very unceremoniously, and began his story. It

was very disconnected; the prince frowned, and wished he could get

away; but suddenly a few words struck him. He sat stiff with

wonder—Lebedeff said some extraordinary things.

In the first place he began about some letter; the name of Aglaya

Ivanovna came in. Then suddenly he broke off and began to accuse the

prince of something; he was apparently offended with him. At first he

declared that the prince had trusted him with his confidences as to “a

certain person” (Nastasia Philipovna), but that of late his friendship

had been thrust back into his bosom, and his innocent question as to

“approaching family changes” had been curtly put aside, which Lebedeff

declared, with tipsy tears, he could not bear; especially as he knew so

much already both from Rogojin and Nastasia Philipovna and her friend,

and from Varvara Ardalionovna, and even from Aglaya Ivanovna, through

his daughter Vera. “And who told Lizabetha Prokofievna something in

secret, by letter? Who told her all about the movements of a certain

person called Nastasia Philipovna? Who was the anonymous person, eh?

Tell me!”

“Surely not you?” cried the prince.

“Just so,” said Lebedeff, with dignity; “and only this very morning I

have sent up a letter to the noble lady, stating that I have a matter

of great importance to communicate. She received the letter; I know she

got it; and she received _me_, too.”

“Have you just seen Lizabetha Prokofievna?” asked the prince, scarcely

believing his ears.

“Yes, I saw her, and got the said slap in the face as mentioned. She

chucked the letter back to me unopened, and kicked me out of the house,

morally, not physically, although not far off it.”

“What letter do you mean she returned unopened?”

“What! didn’t I tell you? Ha, ha, ha! I thought I had. Why, I received

a letter, you know, to be handed over—”

“From whom? To whom?”

But it was difficult, if not impossible, to extract anything from

Lebedeff. All the prince could gather was, that the letter had been

received very early, and had a request written on the outside that it

might be sent on to the address given.

“Just as before, sir, just as before! To a certain person, and from a

certain hand. The individual’s name who wrote the letter is to be

represented by the letter A.—”

“What? Impossible! To Nastasia Philipovna? Nonsense!” cried the prince.

“It was, I assure you, and if not to her then to Rogojin, which is the

same thing. Mr. Hippolyte has had letters, too, and all from the

individual whose name begins with an A.,” smirked Lebedeff, with a

hideous grin.

As he kept jumping from subject to subject, and forgetting what he had

begun to talk about, the prince said nothing, but waited, to give him

time.

It was all very vague. Who had taken the letters, if letters there

were? Probably Vera—and how could Lebedeff have got them? In all

probability, he had managed to steal the present letter from Vera, and

had himself gone over to Lizabetha Prokofievna with some idea in his

head. So the prince concluded at last.

“You are mad!” he cried, indignantly.

“Not quite, esteemed prince,” replied Lebedeff, with some acerbity. “I

confess I thought of doing you the service of handing the letter over

to yourself, but I decided that it would pay me better to deliver it up

to the noble lady aforesaid, as I had informed her of everything

hitherto by anonymous letters; so when I sent her up a note from

myself, with the letter, you know, in order to fix a meeting for eight

o’clock this morning, I signed it ‘your secret correspondent.’ They let

me in at once—very quickly—by the back door, and the noble lady

received me.”

“Well? Go on.”

“Oh, well, when I saw her she almost punched my head, as I say; in fact

so nearly that one might almost say she did punch my head. She threw

the letter in my face; she seemed to reflect first, as if she would

have liked to keep it, but thought better of it and threw it in my face

instead. ‘If anybody can have been such a fool as to trust a man like

you to deliver the letter,’ says she, ‘take it and deliver it!’ Hey!

she was grandly indignant. A fierce, fiery lady that, sir!”

“Where’s the letter now?”

“Oh, I’ve still got it, here!”

And he handed the prince the very letter from Aglaya to Gania, which

the latter showed with so much triumph to his sister at a later hour.

“This letter cannot be allowed to remain in your hands.”

“It’s for you—for you! I’ve brought it you on purpose!” cried Lebedeff,

excitedly. “Why, I’m yours again now, heart and hand, your slave; there

was but a momentary pause in the flow of my love and esteem for you.

Mea culpa, mea culpa! as the Pope of Rome says.”

“This letter should be sent on at once,” said the prince, disturbed.

“I’ll hand it over myself.”

“Wouldn’t it be better, esteemed prince, wouldn’t it be better—to—don’t

you know—”

Lebedeff made a strange and very expressive grimace; he twisted about

in his chair, and did something, apparently symbolical, with his hands.

“What do you mean?” said the prince.

“Why, open it, for the time being, don’t you know?” he said, most

confidentially and mysteriously.

The prince jumped up so furiously that Lebedeff ran towards the door;

having gained which strategic position, however, he stopped and looked

back to see if he might hope for pardon.

“Oh, Lebedeff, Lebedeff! Can a man really sink to such depths of

meanness?” said the prince, sadly.

Lebedeff’s face brightened.

“Oh, I’m a mean wretch—a mean wretch!” he said, approaching the prince

once more, and beating his breast, with tears in his eyes.

“It’s abominable dishonesty, you know!”

“Dishonesty—it is, it is! That’s the very word!”

“What in the world induces you to act so? You are nothing but a spy.

Why did you write anonymously to worry so noble and generous a lady?

Why should not Aglaya Ivanovna write a note to whomever she pleases?

What did you mean to complain of today? What did you expect to get by

it? What made you go at all?”

“Pure amiable curiosity,—I assure you—desire to do a service. That’s

all. Now I’m entirely yours again, your slave; hang me if you like!”

“Did you go before Lizabetha Prokofievna in your present condition?”

inquired the prince.

“No—oh no, fresher—more the correct card. I only became this like after

the humiliation I suffered there.”

“Well—that’ll do; now leave me.”

This injunction had to be repeated several times before the man could

be persuaded to move. Even then he turned back at the door, came as far

as the middle of the room, and there went through his mysterious

motions designed to convey the suggestion that the prince should open

the letter. He did not dare put his suggestion into words again.

After this performance, he smiled sweetly and left the room on tiptoe.

All this had been very painful to listen to. One fact stood out certain

and clear, and that was that poor Aglaya must be in a state of great

distress and indecision and mental torment (“from jealousy,” the prince

whispered to himself). Undoubtedly in this inexperienced, but hot and

proud little head, there were all sorts of plans forming, wild and

impossible plans, maybe; and the idea of this so frightened the prince

that he could not make up his mind what to do. Something must be done,

that was clear.

He looked at the address on the letter once more. Oh, he was not in the

least degree alarmed about Aglaya writing such a letter; he could trust

her. What he did not like about it was that he could not trust Gania.

However, he made up his mind that he would himself take the note and

deliver it. Indeed, he went so far as to leave the house and walk up

the road, but changed his mind when he had nearly reached Ptitsin’s

door. However, he there luckily met Colia, and commissioned him to

deliver the letter to his brother as if direct from Aglaya. Colia asked

no questions but simply delivered it, and Gania consequently had no

suspicion that it had passed through so many hands.

Arrived home again, the prince sent for Vera Lebedeff and told her as

much as was necessary, in order to relieve her mind, for she had been

in a dreadful state of anxiety since she had missed the letter. She

heard with horror that her father had taken it. Muishkin learned from

her that she had on several occasions performed secret missions both

for Aglaya and for Rogojin, without, however, having had the slightest

idea that in so doing she might injure the prince in any way.

The latter, with one thing and another, was now so disturbed and

confused, that when, a couple of hours or so later, a message came from

Colia that the general was ill, he could hardly take the news in.

However, when he did master the fact, it acted upon him as a tonic by

completely distracting his attention. He went at once to Nina

Alexandrovna’s, whither the general had been carried, and stayed there

until the evening. He could do no good, but there are people whom to

have near one is a blessing at such times. Colia was in an almost

hysterical state; he cried continuously, but was running about all day,

all the same; fetching doctors, of whom he collected three; going to

the chemist’s, and so on.

The general was brought round to some extent, but the doctors declared

that he could not be said to be out of danger. Varia and Nina

Alexandrovna never left the sick man’s bedside; Gania was excited and

distressed, but would not go upstairs, and seemed afraid to look at the

patient. He wrung his hands when the prince spoke to him, and said that

“such a misfortune at such a moment” was terrible.

The prince thought he knew what Gania meant by “such a moment.”

Hippolyte was not in the house. Lebedeff turned up late in the

afternoon; he had been asleep ever since his interview with the prince

in the morning. He was quite sober now, and cried with real sincerity

over the sick general—mourning for him as though he were his own

brother. He blamed himself aloud, but did not explain why. He repeated

over and over again to Nina Alexandrovna that he alone was to blame—no

one else—but that he had acted out of “pure amiable curiosity,” and

that “the deceased,” as he insisted upon calling the still living

general, had been the greatest of geniuses.

He laid much stress on the genius of the sufferer, as if this idea must

be one of immense solace in the present crisis.

Nina Alexandrovna—seeing his sincerity of feeling—said at last, and

without the faintest suspicion of reproach in her voice: “Come,

come—don’t cry! God will forgive you!”

Lebedeff was so impressed by these words, and the tone in which they

were spoken, that he could not leave Nina Alexandrovna all the

evening—in fact, for several days. Till the general’s death, indeed, he

spent almost all his time at his side.

Twice during the day a messenger came to Nina Alexandrovna from the

Epanchins to inquire after the invalid.

When—late in the evening—the prince made his appearance in Lizabetha

Prokofievna’s drawing-room, he found it full of guests. Mrs. Epanchin

questioned him very fully about the general as soon as he appeared; and

when old Princess Bielokonski wished to know “who this general was, and

who was Nina Alexandrovna,” she proceeded to explain in a manner which

pleased the prince very much.

He himself, when relating the circumstances of the general’s illness to

Lizabetha Prokofievna, “spoke beautifully,” as Aglaya’s sisters

declared afterwards—“modestly, quietly, without gestures or too many

words, and with great dignity.” He had entered the room with propriety

and grace, and he was perfectly dressed; he not only did not “fall down

on the slippery floor,” as he had expressed it, but evidently made a

very favourable impression upon the assembled guests.

As for his own impression on entering the room and taking his seat, he

instantly remarked that the company was not in the least such as

Aglaya’s words had led him to fear, and as he had dreamed of—in

nightmare form—all night.

This was the first time in his life that he had seen a little corner of

what was generally known by the terrible name of “society.” He had long

thirsted, for reasons of his own, to penetrate the mysteries of the

magic circle, and, therefore, this assemblage was of the greatest

possible interest to him.

His first impression was one of fascination. Somehow or other he felt

that all these people must have been born on purpose to be together! It

seemed to him that the Epanchins were not having a party at all; that

these people must have been here always, and that he himself was one of

them—returned among them after a long absence, but one of them,

naturally and indisputably.

It never struck him that all this refined simplicity and nobility and

wit and personal dignity might possibly be no more than an exquisite

artistic polish. The majority of the guests—who were somewhat

empty-headed, after all, in spite of their aristocratic bearing—never

guessed, in their self-satisfied composure, that much of their

superiority was mere veneer, which indeed they had adopted

unconsciously and by inheritance.

The prince would never so much as suspect such a thing in the delight

of his first impression.

He saw, for instance, that one important dignitary, old enough to be

his grandfather, broke off his own conversation in order to listen to

_him_—a young and inexperienced man; and not only listened, but seemed

to attach value to his opinion, and was kind and amiable, and yet they

were strangers and had never seen each other before. Perhaps what most

appealed to the prince’s impressionability was the refinement of the

old man’s courtesy towards him. Perhaps the soil of his susceptible

nature was really predisposed to receive a pleasant impression.

Meanwhile all these people—though friends of the family and of each

other to a certain extent—were very far from being such intimate

friends of the family and of each other as the prince concluded. There

were some present who never would think of considering the Epanchins

their equals. There were even some who hated one another cordially. For

instance, old Princess Bielokonski had all her life despised the wife

of the “dignitary,” while the latter was very far from loving Lizabetha

Prokofievna. The dignitary himself had been General Epanchin’s

protector from his youth up; and the general considered him so majestic

a personage that he would have felt a hearty contempt for himself if he

had even for one moment allowed himself to pose as the great man’s

equal, or to think of him—in his fear and reverence—as anything less

than an Olympic God! There were others present who had not met for

years, and who had no feeling whatever for each other, unless it were

dislike; and yet they met tonight as though they had seen each other

but yesterday in some friendly and intimate assembly of kindred

spirits.

It was not a large party, however. Besides Princess Bielokonski and the

old dignitary (who was really a great man) and his wife, there was an

old military general—a count or baron with a German name, a man reputed

to possess great knowledge and administrative ability. He was one of

those Olympian administrators who know everything except Russia,

pronounce a word of extraordinary wisdom, admired by all, about once in

five years, and, after being an eternity in the service, generally die

full of honour and riches, though they have never done anything great,

and have even been hostile to all greatness. This general was Ivan

Fedorovitch’s immediate superior in the service; and it pleased the

latter to look upon him also as a patron. On the other hand, the great

man did not at all consider himself Epanchin’s patron. He was always

very cool to him, while taking advantage of his ready services, and

would instantly have put another in his place if there had been the

slightest reason for the change.

Another guest was an elderly, important-looking gentleman, a distant

relative of Lizabetha Prokofievna’s. This gentleman was rich, held a

good position, was a great talker, and had the reputation of being “one

of the dissatisfied,” though not belonging to the dangerous sections of

that class. He had the manners, to some extent, of the English

aristocracy, and some of their tastes (especially in the matter of

under-done roast beef, harness, men-servants, etc.). He was a great

friend of the dignitary’s, and Lizabetha Prokofievna, for some reason

or other, had got hold of the idea that this worthy intended at no

distant date to offer the advantages of his hand and heart to

Alexandra.

Besides the elevated and more solid individuals enumerated, there were

present a few younger though not less elegant guests. Besides Prince S.

and Evgenie Pavlovitch, we must name the eminent and fascinating Prince

N.—once the vanquisher of female hearts all over Europe. This gentleman

was no longer in the first bloom of youth—he was forty-five, but still

very handsome. He was well off, and lived, as a rule, abroad, and was

noted as a good teller of stories. Then came a few guests belonging to

a lower stratum of society—people who, like the Epanchins themselves,

moved only occasionally in this exalted sphere. The Epanchins liked to

draft among their more elevated guests a few picked representatives of

this lower stratum, and Lizabetha Prokofievna received much praise for

this practice, which proved, her friends said, that she was a woman of

tact. The Epanchins prided themselves upon the good opinion people held

of them.

One of the representatives of the middle-class present today was a

colonel of engineers, a very serious man and a great friend of Prince

S., who had introduced him to the Epanchins. He was extremely silent in

society, and displayed on the forefinger of his right hand a large

ring, probably bestowed upon him for services of some sort. There was

also a poet, German by name, but a Russian poet; very presentable, and

even handsome—the sort of man one could bring into society with

impunity. This gentleman belonged to a German family of decidedly

bourgeois origin, but he had a knack of acquiring the patronage of

“big-wigs,” and of retaining their favour. He had translated some great

German poem into Russian verse, and claimed to have been a friend of a

famous Russian poet, since dead. (It is strange how great a multitude

of literary people there are who have had the advantages of friendship

with some great man of their own profession who is, unfortunately,

dead.) The dignitary’s wife had introduced this worthy to the

Epanchins. This lady posed as the patroness of literary people, and she

certainly had succeeded in obtaining pensions for a few of them, thanks

to her influence with those in authority on such matters. She was a

lady of weight in her own way. Her age was about forty-five, so that

she was a very young wife for such an elderly husband as the dignitary.

She had been a beauty in her day and still loved, as many ladies of

forty-five do love, to dress a little too smartly. Her intellect was

nothing to boast of, and her literary knowledge very doubtful. Literary

patronage was, however, with her as much a mania as was the love of

gorgeous clothes. Many books and translations were dedicated to her by

her proteges, and a few of these talented individuals had published

some of their own letters to her, upon very weighty subjects.

This, then, was the society that the prince accepted at once as true

coin, as pure gold without alloy.

It so happened, however, that on this particular evening all these good

people were in excellent humour and highly pleased with themselves.

Every one of them felt that they were doing the Epanchins the greatest

possible honour by their presence. But alas! the prince never suspected

any such subtleties! For instance, he had no suspicion of the fact that

the Epanchins, having in their mind so important a step as the marriage

of their daughter, would never think of presuming to take it without

having previously “shown off” the proposed husband to the dignitary—the

recognized patron of the family. The latter, too, though he would

probably have received news of a great disaster to the Epanchin family

with perfect composure, would nevertheless have considered it a

personal offence if they had dared to marry their daughter without his

advice, or we might almost say, his leave.

The amiable and undoubtedly witty Prince N. could not but feel that he

was as a sun, risen for one night only to shine upon the Epanchin

drawing-room. He accounted them immeasurably his inferiors, and it was

this feeling which caused his special amiability and delightful ease

and grace towards them. He knew very well that he must tell some story

this evening for the edification of the company, and led up to it with

the inspiration of anticipatory triumph.

The prince, when he heard the story afterwards, felt that he had never

yet come across so wonderful a humorist, or such remarkable brilliancy

as was shown by this man; and yet if he had only known it, this story

was the oldest, stalest, and most worn-out yarn, and every drawing-room

in town was sick to death of it. It was only in the innocent Epanchin

household that it passed for a new and brilliant tale—as a sudden and

striking reminiscence of a splendid and talented man.

Even the German poet, though as amiable as possible, felt that he was

doing the house the greatest of honours by his presence in it.

But the prince only looked at the bright side; he did not turn the coat

and see the shabby lining.

Aglaya had not foreseen that particular calamity. She herself looked

wonderfully beautiful this evening. All three sisters were dressed very

tastefully, and their hair was done with special care.

Aglaya sat next to Evgenie Pavlovitch, and laughed and talked to him

with an unusual display of friendliness. Evgenie himself behaved rather

more sedately than usual, probably out of respect to the dignitary.

Evgenie had been known in society for a long while. He had appeared at

the Epanchins’ today with crape on his hat, and Princess Bielokonski

had commended this action on his part. Not every society man would have

worn crape for “such an uncle.” Lizabetha Prokofievna had liked it

also, but was too preoccupied to take much notice. The prince remarked

that Aglaya looked attentively at him two or three times, and seemed to

be satisfied with his behaviour.

Little by little he became very happy indeed. All his late anxieties

and apprehensions (after his conversation with Lebedeff) now appeared

like so many bad dreams—impossible, and even laughable.

He did not speak much, only answering such questions as were put to

him, and gradually settled down into unbroken silence, listening to

what went on, and steeped in perfect satisfaction and contentment.

Little by little a sort of inspiration, however, began to stir within

him, ready to spring into life at the right moment. When he did begin

to speak, it was accidentally, in response to a question, and

apparently without any special object.

VII.

While he feasted his eyes upon Aglaya, as she talked merrily with

Evgenie and Prince N., suddenly the old anglomaniac, who was talking to

the dignitary in another corner of the room, apparently telling him a

story about something or other—suddenly this gentleman pronounced the

name of “Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff” aloud. The prince quickly

turned towards him, and listened.

The conversation had been on the subject of land, and the present

disorders, and there must have been something amusing said, for the old

man had begun to laugh at his companion’s heated expressions.

The latter was describing in eloquent words how, in consequence of

recent legislation, he was obliged to sell a beautiful estate in the N.

province, not because he wanted ready money—in fact, he was obliged to

sell it at half its value. “To avoid another lawsuit about the

Pavlicheff estate, I ran away,” he said. “With a few more inheritances

of that kind I should soon be ruined!”

At this point General Epanchin, noticing how interested Muishkin had

become in the conversation, said to him, in a low tone:

“That gentleman—Ivan Petrovitch—is a relation of your late friend, Mr.

Pavlicheff. You wanted to find some of his relations, did you not?”

The general, who had been talking to his chief up to this moment, had

observed the prince’s solitude and silence, and was anxious to draw him

into the conversation, and so introduce him again to the notice of some

of the important personages.

“Lef Nicolaievitch was a ward of Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff, after

the death of his own parents,” he remarked, meeting Ivan Petrovitch’s

eye.

“Very happy to meet him, I’m sure,” remarked the latter. “I remember

Lef Nicolaievitch well. When General Epanchin introduced us just now, I

recognized you at once, prince. You are very little changed, though I

saw you last as a child of some ten or eleven years old. There was

something in your features, I suppose, that—”

“You saw me as a child!” exclaimed the prince, with surprise.

“Oh! yes, long ago,” continued Ivan Petrovitch, “while you were living

with my cousin at Zlatoverhoff. You don’t remember me? No, I dare say

you don’t; you had some malady at the time, I remember. It was so

serious that I was surprised—”

“No; I remember nothing!” said the prince. A few more words of

explanation followed, words which were spoken without the smallest

excitement by his companion, but which evoked the greatest agitation in

the prince; and it was discovered that two old ladies to whose care the

prince had been left by Pavlicheff, and who lived at Zlatoverhoff, were

also relations of Ivan Petrovitch.

The latter had no idea and could give no information as to why

Pavlicheff had taken so great an interest in the little prince, his

ward.

“In point of fact I don’t think I thought much about it,” said the old

fellow. He seemed to have a wonderfully good memory, however, for he

told the prince all about the two old ladies, Pavlicheff’s cousins, who

had taken care of him, and whom, he declared, he had taken to task for

being too severe with the prince as a small sickly boy—the elder

sister, at least; the younger had been kind, he recollected. They both

now lived in another province, on a small estate left to them by

Pavlicheff. The prince listened to all this with eyes sparkling with

emotion and delight.

He declared with unusual warmth that he would never forgive himself for

having travelled about in the central provinces during these last six

months without having hunted up his two old friends.

He declared, further, that he had intended to go every day, but had

always been prevented by circumstances; but that now he would promise

himself the pleasure—however far it was, he would find them out. And so

Ivan Petrovitch _really_ knew Natalia Nikitishna!—what a saintly nature

was hers!—and Martha Nikitishna! Ivan Petrovitch must excuse him, but

really he was not quite fair on dear old Martha. She was severe,

perhaps; but then what else could she be with such a little idiot as he

was then? (Ha, ha.) He really was an idiot then, Ivan Petrovitch must

know, though he might not believe it. (Ha, ha.) So he had really seen

him there! Good heavens! And was he really and truly and actually a

cousin of Pavlicheff’s?

“I assure you of it,” laughed Ivan Petrovitch, gazing amusedly at the

prince.

“Oh! I didn’t say it because I _doubt_ the fact, you know. (Ha, ha.)

How could I doubt such a thing? (Ha, ha, ha.) I made the remark

because—because Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff was such a splendid man,

don’t you see! Such a high-souled man, he really was, I assure you.”

The prince did not exactly pant for breath, but he “seemed almost to

_choke_ out of pure simplicity and goodness of heart,” as Adelaida

expressed it, on talking the party over with her fiance, the Prince S.,

next morning.

“But, my goodness me,” laughed Ivan Petrovitch, “why can’t I be cousin

to even a splendid man?”

“Oh, dear!” cried the prince, confused, trying to hurry his words out,

and growing more and more eager every moment: “I’ve gone and said

another stupid thing. I don’t know what to say. I—I didn’t mean that,

you know—I—I—he really was such a splendid man, wasn’t he?”

The prince trembled all over. Why was he so agitated? Why had he flown

into such transports of delight without any apparent reason? He had far

outshot the measure of joy and emotion consistent with the occasion.

Why this was it would be difficult to say.

He seemed to feel warmly and deeply grateful to someone for something

or other—perhaps to Ivan Petrovitch; but likely enough to all the

guests, individually, and collectively. He was much too happy.

Ivan Petrovitch began to stare at him with some surprise; the

dignitary, too, looked at him with considerable attention; Princess

Bielokonski glared at him angrily, and compressed her lips. Prince N.,

Evgenie, Prince S., and the girls, all broke off their own

conversations and listened. Aglaya seemed a little startled; as for

Lizabetha Prokofievna, her heart sank within her.

This was odd of Lizabetha Prokofievna and her daughters. They had

themselves decided that it would be better if the prince did not talk

all the evening. Yet seeing him sitting silent and alone, but perfectly

happy, they had been on the point of exerting themselves to draw him

into one of the groups of talkers around the room. Now that he was in

the midst of a talk they became more than ever anxious and perturbed.

“That he was a splendid man is perfectly true; you are quite right,”

repeated Ivan Petrovitch, but seriously this time. “He was a fine and a

worthy fellow—worthy, one may say, of the highest respect,” he added,

more and more seriously at each pause; “and it is agreeable to see, on

your part, such—”

“Wasn’t it this same Pavlicheff about whom there was a strange story in

connection with some abbot? I don’t remember who the abbot was, but I

remember at one time everybody was talking about it,” remarked the old

dignitary.

“Yes—Abbot Gurot, a Jesuit,” said Ivan Petrovitch. “Yes, that’s the

sort of thing our best men are apt to do. A man of rank, too, and

rich—a man who, if he had continued to serve, might have done anything;

and then to throw up the service and everything else in order to go

over to Roman Catholicism and turn Jesuit—openly, too—almost

triumphantly. By Jove! it was positively a mercy that he died when he

did—it was indeed—everyone said so at the time.”

The prince was beside himself.

“Pavlicheff?—Pavlicheff turned Roman Catholic? Impossible!” he cried,

in horror.

“H’m! impossible is rather a strong word,” said Ivan Petrovitch. “You

must allow, my dear prince... However, of course you value the memory

of the deceased so very highly; and he certainly was the kindest of

men; to which fact, by the way, I ascribe, more than to anything else,

the success of the abbot in influencing his religious convictions. But

you may ask me, if you please, how much trouble and worry I,

personally, had over that business, and especially with this same

Gurot! Would you believe it,” he continued, addressing the dignitary,

“they actually tried to put in a claim under the deceased’s will, and I

had to resort to the very strongest measures in order to bring them to

their senses? I assure you they knew their cue, did these

gentlemen—wonderful! Thank goodness all this was in Moscow, and I got

the Court, you know, to help me, and we soon brought them to their

senses.”

“You wouldn’t believe how you have pained and astonished me,” cried the

prince.

“Very sorry; but in point of fact, you know, it was all nonsense and

would have ended in smoke, as usual—I’m sure of that. Last year,”—he

turned to the old man again,—“Countess K. joined some Roman Convent

abroad. Our people never seem to be able to offer any resistance so

soon as they get into the hands of these—intriguers—especially abroad.”

“That is all thanks to our lassitude, I think,” replied the old man,

with authority. “And then their way of preaching; they have a skilful

manner of doing it! And they know how to startle one, too. I got quite

a fright myself in ’32, in Vienna, I assure you; but I didn’t cave in

to them, I ran away instead, ha, ha!”

“Come, come, I’ve always heard that you ran away with the beautiful

Countess Levitsky that time—throwing up everything in order to do

it—and not from the Jesuits at all,” said Princess Bielokonski,

suddenly.

“Well, yes—but we call it from the Jesuits, you know; it comes to the

same thing,” laughed the old fellow, delighted with the pleasant

recollection.

“You seem to be very religious,” he continued, kindly, addressing the

prince, “which is a thing one meets so seldom nowadays among young

people.”

The prince was listening open-mouthed, and still in a condition of

excited agitation. The old man was evidently interested in him, and

anxious to study him more closely.

“Pavlicheff was a man of bright intellect and a good Christian, a

sincere Christian,” said the prince, suddenly. “How could he possibly

embrace a faith which is unchristian? Roman Catholicism is, so to

speak, simply the same thing as unchristianity,” he added with flashing

eyes, which seemed to take in everybody in the room.

“Come, that’s a little _too_ strong, isn’t it?” murmured the old man,

glancing at General Epanchin in surprise.

“How do you make out that the Roman Catholic religion is _unchristian?_

What is it, then?” asked Ivan Petrovitch, turning to the prince.

“It is not a Christian religion, in the first place,” said the latter,

in extreme agitation, quite out of proportion to the necessity of the

moment. “And in the second place, Roman Catholicism is, in my opinion,

worse than Atheism itself. Yes—that is my opinion. Atheism only

preaches a negation, but Romanism goes further; it preaches a

disfigured, distorted Christ—it preaches Anti-Christ—I assure you, I

swear it! This is my own personal conviction, and it has long

distressed me. The Roman Catholic believes that the Church on earth

cannot stand without universal temporal Power. He cries ‘non possumus!’

In my opinion the Roman Catholic religion is not a faith at all, but

simply a continuation of the Roman Empire, and everything is

subordinated to this idea—beginning with faith. The Pope has seized

territories and an earthly throne, and has held them with the sword.

And so the thing has gone on, only that to the sword they have added

lying, intrigue, deceit, fanaticism, superstition, swindling;—they have

played fast and loose with the most sacred and sincere feelings of

men;—they have exchanged everything—everything for money, for base

earthly _power!_ And is this not the teaching of Anti-Christ? How could

the upshot of all this be other than Atheism? Atheism is the child of

Roman Catholicism—it proceeded from these Romans themselves, though

perhaps they would not believe it. It grew and fattened on hatred of

its parents; it is the progeny of their lies and spiritual feebleness.

Atheism! In our country it is only among the upper classes that you

find unbelievers; men who have lost the root or spirit of their faith;

but abroad whole masses of the people are beginning to profess

unbelief—at first because of the darkness and lies by which they were

surrounded; but now out of fanaticism, out of loathing for the Church

and Christianity!”

The prince paused to get breath. He had spoken with extraordinary

rapidity, and was very pale.

All present interchanged glances, but at last the old dignitary burst

out laughing frankly. Prince N. took out his eye-glass to have a good

look at the speaker. The German poet came out of his corner and crept

nearer to the table, with a spiteful smile.

“You exaggerate the matter very much,” said Ivan Petrovitch, with

rather a bored air. “There are, in the foreign Churches, many

representatives of their faith who are worthy of respect and esteem.”

“Oh, but I did not speak of individual representatives. I was merely

talking about Roman Catholicism, and its essence—of Rome itself. A

Church can never entirely disappear; I never hinted at that!”

“Agreed that all this may be true; but we need not discuss a subject

which belongs to the domain of theology.”

“Oh, no; oh, no! Not to theology alone, I assure you! Why, Socialism is

the progeny of Romanism and of the Romanistic spirit. It and its

brother Atheism proceed from Despair in opposition to Catholicism. It

seeks to replace in itself the moral power of religion, in order to

appease the spiritual thirst of parched humanity and save it; not by

Christ, but by force. ‘Don’t dare to believe in God, don’t dare to

possess any individuality, any property! _Fraternité ou la Mort_; two

million heads. ‘By their works ye shall know them’—we are told. And we

must not suppose that all this is harmless and without danger to

ourselves. Oh, no; we must resist, and quickly, quickly! We must let

our Christ shine forth upon the Western nations, our Christ whom we

have preserved intact, and whom they have never known. Not as slaves,

allowing ourselves to be caught by the hooks of the Jesuits, but

carrying our Russian civilization to _them_, we must stand before them,

not letting it be said among us that their preaching is ‘skilful,’ as

someone expressed it just now.”

“But excuse me, excuse me;” cried Ivan Petrovitch considerably

disturbed, and looking around uneasily. “Your ideas are, of course,

most praiseworthy, and in the highest degree patriotic; but you

exaggerate the matter terribly. It would be better if we dropped the

subject.”

“No, sir, I do not exaggerate, I understate the matter, if anything,

undoubtedly understate it; simply because I cannot express myself as I

should like, but—”

“Allow me!”

The prince was silent. He sat straight up in his chair and gazed

fervently at Ivan Petrovitch.

“It seems to me that you have been too painfully impressed by the news

of what happened to your good benefactor,” said the old dignitary,

kindly, and with the utmost calmness of demeanour. “You are excitable,

perhaps as the result of your solitary life. If you would make up your

mind to live more among your fellows in society, I trust, I am sure,

that the world would be glad to welcome you, as a remarkable young man;

and you would soon find yourself able to look at things more calmly.

You would see that all these things are much simpler than you think;

and, besides, these rare cases come about, in my opinion, from ennui

and from satiety.”

“Exactly, exactly! That is a true thought!” cried the prince. “From

ennui, from our ennui but not from satiety! Oh, no, you are wrong

there! Say from _thirst_ if you like; the thirst of fever! And please

do not suppose that this is so small a matter that we may have a laugh

at it and dismiss it; we must be able to foresee our disasters and arm

against them. We Russians no sooner arrive at the brink of the water,

and realize that we are really at the brink, than we are so delighted

with the outlook that in we plunge and swim to the farthest point we

can see. Why is this? You say you are surprised at Pavlicheff’s action;

you ascribe it to madness, to kindness of heart, and what not, but it

is not so.

“Our Russian intensity not only astonishes ourselves; all Europe

wonders at our conduct in such cases! For, if one of us goes over to

Roman Catholicism, he is sure to become a Jesuit at once, and a rabid

one into the bargain. If one of us becomes an Atheist, he must needs

begin to insist on the prohibition of faith in God by force, that is,

by the sword. Why is this? Why does he then exceed all bounds at once?

Because he has found land at last, the fatherland that he sought in

vain before; and, because his soul is rejoiced to find it, he throws

himself upon it and kisses it! Oh, it is not from vanity alone, it is

not from feelings of vanity that Russians become Atheists and Jesuits!

But from spiritual thirst, from anguish of longing for higher things,

for dry firm land, for foothold on a fatherland which they never

believed in because they never knew it. It is easier for a Russian to

become an Atheist, than for any other nationality in the world. And not

only does a Russian ‘become an Atheist,’ but he actually _believes in_

Atheism, just as though he had found a new faith, not perceiving that

he has pinned his faith to a negation. Such is our anguish of thirst!

‘Whoso has no country has no God.’ That is not my own expression; it is

the expression of a merchant, one of the Old Believers, whom I once met

while travelling. He did not say exactly these words. I think his

expression was:

“‘Whoso forsakes his country forsakes his God.’

“But let these thirsty Russian souls find, like Columbus’ discoverers,

a new world; let them find the Russian world, let them search and

discover all the gold and treasure that lies hid in the bosom of their

own land! Show them the restitution of lost humanity, in the future, by

Russian thought alone, and by means of the God and of the Christ of our

Russian faith, and you will see how mighty and just and wise and good a

giant will rise up before the eyes of the astonished and frightened

world; astonished because they expect nothing but the sword from us,

because they think they will get nothing out of us but barbarism. This

has been the case up to now, and the longer matters go on as they are

now proceeding, the more clear will be the truth of what I say; and I—”

But at this moment something happened which put a most unexpected end

to the orator’s speech. All this heated tirade, this outflow of

passionate words and ecstatic ideas which seemed to hustle and tumble

over each other as they fell from his lips, bore evidence of some

unusually disturbed mental condition in the young fellow who had

“boiled over” in such a remarkable manner, without any apparent reason.

Of those who were present, such as knew the prince listened to his

outburst in a state of alarm, some with a feeling of mortification. It

was so unlike his usual timid self-constraint; so inconsistent with his

usual taste and tact, and with his instinctive feeling for the higher

proprieties. They could not understand the origin of the outburst; it

could not be simply the news of Pavlicheff’s perversion. By the ladies

the prince was regarded as little better than a lunatic, and Princess

Bielokonski admitted afterwards that “in another minute she would have

bolted.”

The two old gentlemen looked quite alarmed. The old general (Epanchin’s

chief) sat and glared at the prince in severe displeasure. The colonel

sat immovable. Even the German poet grew a little pale, though he wore

his usual artificial smile as he looked around to see what the others

would do.

In point of fact it is quite possible that the matter would have ended

in a very commonplace and natural way in a few minutes. The undoubtedly

astonished, but now more collected, General Epanchin had several times

endeavoured to interrupt the prince, and not having succeeded he was

now preparing to take firmer and more vigorous measures to attain his

end. In another minute or two he would probably have made up his mind

to lead the prince quietly out of the room, on the plea of his being

ill (and it was more than likely that the general was right in his

belief that the prince _was_ actually ill), but it so happened that

destiny had something different in store.

At the beginning of the evening, when the prince first came into the

room, he had sat down as far as possible from the Chinese vase which

Aglaya had spoken of the day before.

Will it be believed that, after Aglaya’s alarming words, an

ineradicable conviction had taken possession of his mind that, however

he might try to avoid this vase next day, he must certainly break it?

But so it was.

During the evening other impressions began to awaken in his mind, as we

have seen, and he forgot his presentiment. But when Pavlicheff was

mentioned and the general introduced him to Ivan Petrovitch, he had

changed his place, and went over nearer to the table; when, it so

happened, he took the chair nearest to the beautiful vase, which stood

on a pedestal behind him, just about on a level with his elbow.

As he spoke his last words he had risen suddenly from his seat with a

wave of his arm, and there was a general cry of horror.

The huge vase swayed backwards and forwards; it seemed to be uncertain

whether or no to topple over on to the head of one of the old men, but

eventually determined to go the other way, and came crashing over

towards the German poet, who darted out of the way in terror.

The crash, the cry, the sight of the fragments of valuable china

covering the carpet, the alarm of the company—what all this meant to

the poor prince it would be difficult to convey to the mind of the

reader, or for him to imagine.

But one very curious fact was that all the shame and vexation and

mortification which he felt over the accident were less powerful than

the deep impression of the almost supernatural truth of his

premonition. He stood still in alarm—in almost superstitious alarm, for

a moment; then all mists seemed to clear away from his eyes; he was

conscious of nothing but light and joy and ecstasy; his breath came and

went; but the moment passed. Thank God it was not that! He drew a long

breath and looked around.

For some minutes he did not seem to comprehend the excitement around

him; that is, he comprehended it and saw everything, but he stood

aside, as it were, like someone invisible in a fairy tale, as though he

had nothing to do with what was going on, though it pleased him to take

an interest in it.

He saw them gather up the broken bits of china; he heard the loud

talking of the guests and observed how pale Aglaya looked, and how very

strangely she was gazing at him. There was no hatred in her expression,

and no anger whatever. It was full of alarm for him, and sympathy and

affection, while she looked around at the others with flashing, angry

eyes. His heart filled with a sweet pain as he gazed at her.

At length he observed, to his amazement, that all had taken their seats

again, and were laughing and talking as though nothing had happened.

Another minute and the laughter grew louder—they were laughing at him,

at his dumb stupor—laughing kindly and merrily. Several of them spoke

to him, and spoke so kindly and cordially, especially Lizabetha

Prokofievna—she was saying the kindest possible things to him.

Suddenly he became aware that General Epanchin was tapping him on the

shoulder; Ivan Petrovitch was laughing too, but still more kind and

sympathizing was the old dignitary. He took the prince by the hand and

pressed it warmly; then he patted it, and quietly urged him to

recollect himself—speaking to him exactly as he would have spoken to a

little frightened child, which pleased the prince wonderfully; and next

seated him beside himself.

The prince gazed into his face with pleasure, but still seemed to have

no power to speak. His breath failed him. The old man’s face pleased

him greatly.

“Do you really forgive me?” he said at last. “And—and Lizabetha

Prokofievna too?” The laugh increased, tears came into the prince’s

eyes, he could not believe in all this kindness—he was enchanted.

“The vase certainly was a very beautiful one. I remember it here for

fifteen years—yes, quite that!” remarked Ivan Petrovitch.

“Oh, what a dreadful calamity! A wretched vase smashed, and a man half

dead with remorse about it,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna, loudly. “What

made you so dreadfully startled, Lef Nicolaievitch?” she added, a

little timidly. “Come, my dear boy! cheer up. You really alarm me,

taking the accident so to heart.”

“Do you forgive me all—_all_, besides the vase, I mean?” said the

prince, rising from his seat once more, but the old gentleman caught

his hand and drew him down again—he seemed unwilling to let him go.

“_C’est très-curieux et c’est très-sérieux_,” he whispered across the

table to Ivan Petrovitch, rather loudly. Probably the prince heard him.

“So that I have not offended any of you? You will not believe how happy

I am to be able to think so. It is as it should be. As if I _could_

offend anyone here! I should offend you again by even suggesting such a

thing.”

“Calm yourself, my dear fellow. You are exaggerating again; you really

have no occasion to be so grateful to us. It is a feeling which does

you great credit, but an exaggeration, for all that.”

“I am not exactly thanking you, I am only feeling a growing admiration

for you—it makes me happy to look at you. I dare say I am speaking very

foolishly, but I must speak—I must explain, if it be out of nothing

better than self-respect.”

All he said and did was abrupt, confused, feverish—very likely the

words he spoke, as often as not, were not those he wished to say. He

seemed to inquire whether he _might_ speak. His eyes lighted on

Princess Bielokonski.

“All right, my friend, talk away, talk away!” she remarked. “Only don’t

lose your breath; you were in such a hurry when you began, and look

what you’ve come to now! Don’t be afraid of speaking—all these ladies

and gentlemen have seen far stranger people than yourself; you don’t

astonish _them_. You are nothing out-of-the-way remarkable, you know.

You’ve done nothing but break a vase, and give us all a fright.”

The prince listened, smiling.

“Wasn’t it you,” he said, suddenly turning to the old gentleman, “who

saved the student Porkunoff and a clerk called Shoabrin from being sent

to Siberia, two or three months since?”

The old dignitary blushed a little, and murmured that the prince had

better not excite himself further.

“And I have heard of _you_,” continued the prince, addressing Ivan

Petrovitch, “that when some of your villagers were burned out you gave

them wood to build up their houses again, though they were no longer

your serfs and had behaved badly towards you.”

“Oh, come, come! You are exaggerating,” said Ivan Petrovitch, beaming

with satisfaction, all the same. He was right, however, in this

instance, for the report had reached the prince’s ears in an incorrect

form.

“And you, princess,” he went on, addressing Princess Bielokonski, “was

it not you who received me in Moscow, six months since, as kindly as

though I had been your own son, in response to a letter from Lizabetha

Prokofievna; and gave me one piece of advice, again as to your own son,

which I shall never forget? Do you remember?”

“What are you making such a fuss about?” said the old lady, with

annoyance. “You are a good fellow, but very silly. One gives you a

halfpenny, and you are as grateful as though one had saved your life.

You think this is praiseworthy on your part, but it is not—it is not,

indeed.”

She seemed to be very angry, but suddenly burst out laughing, quite

good-humouredly.

Lizabetha Prokofievna’s face brightened up, too; so did that of General

Epanchin.

“I told you Lef Nicolaievitch was a man—a man—if only he would not be

in such a hurry, as the princess remarked,” said the latter, with

delight.

Aglaya alone seemed sad and depressed; her face was flushed, perhaps

with indignation.

“He really is very charming,” whispered the old dignitary to Ivan

Petrovitch.

“I came into this room with anguish in my heart,” continued the prince,

with ever-growing agitation, speaking quicker and quicker, and with

increasing strangeness. “I—I was afraid of you all, and afraid of

myself. I was most afraid of myself. When I returned to Petersburg, I

promised myself to make a point of seeing our greatest men, and members

of our oldest families—the old families like my own. I am now among

princes like myself, am I not? I wished to know you, and it was

necessary, very, very necessary. I had always heard so much that was

evil said of you all—more evil than good; as to how small and petty

were your interests, how absurd your habits, how shallow your

education, and so on. There is so much written and said about you! I

came here today with anxious curiosity; I wished to see for myself and

form my own convictions as to whether it were true that the whole of

this upper stratum of Russian society is _worthless_, has outlived its

time, has existed too long, and is only fit to die—and yet is dying

with petty, spiteful warring against that which is destined to

supersede it and take its place—hindering the Coming Men, and knowing

not that itself is in a dying condition. I did not fully believe in

this view even before, for there never was such a class among

us—excepting perhaps at court, by accident—or by uniform; but now there

is not even that, is there? It has vanished, has it not?”

“No, not a bit of it,” said Ivan Petrovitch, with a sarcastic laugh.

“Good Lord, he’s off again!” said Princess Bielokonski, impatiently.

“Laissez-le dire! He is trembling all over,” said the old man, in a

warning whisper.

The prince certainly was beside himself.

“Well? What have I seen?” he continued. “I have seen men of graceful

simplicity of intellect; I have seen an old man who is not above

speaking kindly and even _listening_ to a boy like myself; I see before

me persons who can understand, who can forgive—kind, good Russian

hearts—hearts almost as kind and cordial as I met abroad. Imagine how

delighted I must have been, and how surprised! Oh, let me express this

feeling! I have so often heard, and I have even believed, that in

society there was nothing but empty forms, and that reality had

vanished; but I now see for myself that this can never be the case

_here_, among us—it may be the order elsewhere, but not in Russia.

Surely you are not all Jesuits and deceivers! I heard Prince N.‘s story

just now. Was it not simple-minded, spontaneous humour? Could such

words come from the lips of a man who is dead?—a man whose heart and

talents are dried up? Could dead men and women have treated me so

kindly as you have all been treating me to-day? Is there not material

for the future in all this—for hope? Can such people fail to

_understand?_ Can such men fall away from reality?”

“Once more let us beg you to be calm, my dear boy. We’ll talk of all

this another time—I shall do so with the greatest pleasure, for one,”

said the old dignitary, with a smile.

Ivan Petrovitch grunted and twisted round in his chair. General

Epanchin moved nervously. The latter’s chief had started a conversation

with the wife of the dignitary, and took no notice whatever of the

prince, but the old lady very often glanced at him, and listened to

what he was saying.

“No, I had better speak,” continued the prince, with a new outburst of

feverish emotion, and turning towards the old man with an air of

confidential trustfulness. “Yesterday, Aglaya Ivanovna forbade me to

talk, and even specified the particular subjects I must not touch

upon—she knows well enough that I am odd when I get upon these matters.

I am nearly twenty-seven years old, and yet I know I am little better

than a child. I have no right to express my ideas, and said so long

ago. Only in Moscow, with Rogojin, did I ever speak absolutely freely!

He and I read Pushkin together—all his works. Rogojin knew nothing of

Pushkin, had not even heard his name. I am always afraid of spoiling a

great Thought or Idea by my absurd manner. I have no eloquence, I know.

I always make the wrong gestures—inappropriate gestures—and therefore I

degrade the Thought, and raise a laugh instead of doing my subject

justice. I have no sense of proportion either, and that is the chief

thing. I know it would be much better if I were always to sit still and

say nothing. When I do so, I appear to be quite a sensible sort of a

person, and what’s more, I think about things. But now I must speak; it

is better that I should. I began to speak because you looked so kindly

at me; you have such a beautiful face. I promised Aglaya Ivanovna

yesterday that I would not speak all the evening.”

“Really?” said the old man, smiling.

“But, at times, I can’t help thinking that I am wrong in feeling so

about it, you know. Sincerity is more important than elocution, isn’t

it?”

“Sometimes.”

“I want to explain all to you—everything—everything! I know you think

me Utopian, don’t you—an idealist? Oh, no! I’m not, indeed—my ideas are

all so simple. You don’t believe me? You are smiling. Do you know, I am

sometimes very wicked—for I lose my faith? This evening as I came here,

I thought to myself, ‘What shall I talk about? How am I to begin, so

that they may be able to understand partially, at all events?’ How

afraid I was—dreadfully afraid! And yet, how _could_ I be afraid—was it

not shameful of me? Was I afraid of finding a bottomless abyss of empty

selfishness? Ah! that’s why I am so happy at this moment, because I

find there is no bottomless abyss at all—but good, healthy material,

full of life.

“It is not such a very dreadful circumstance that we are odd people, is

it? For we really are odd, you know—careless, reckless, easily wearied

of anything. We don’t look thoroughly into matters—don’t care to

understand things. We are all like this—you and I, and all of them!

Why, here are you, now—you are not a bit angry with me for calling you

‘odd,’ are you? And, if so, surely there is good material in you? Do

you know, I sometimes think it is a good thing to be odd. We can

forgive one another more easily, and be more humble. No one can begin

by being perfect—there is much one cannot understand in life at first.

In order to attain to perfection, one must begin by failing to

understand much. And if we take in knowledge too quickly, we very

likely are not taking it in at all. I say all this to you—you who by

this time understand so much—and doubtless have failed to understand so

much, also. I am not afraid of you any longer. You are not angry that a

mere boy should say such words to you, are you? Of course not! You know

how to forget and to forgive. You are laughing, Ivan Petrovitch? You

think I am a champion of other classes of people—that I am _their_

advocate, a democrat, and an orator of Equality?” The prince laughed

hysterically; he had several times burst into these little, short

nervous laughs. “Oh, no—it is for you, for myself, and for all of us

together, that I am alarmed. I am a prince of an old family myself, and

I am sitting among my peers; and I am talking like this in the hope of

saving us all; in the hope that our class will not disappear

altogether—into the darkness—unguessing its danger—blaming everything

around it, and losing ground every day. Why should we disappear and

give place to others, when we may still, if we choose, remain in the

front rank and lead the battle? Let us be servants, that we may become

lords in due season!”

He tried to get upon his feet again, but the old man still restrained

him, gazing at him with increasing perturbation as he went on.

“Listen—I know it is best not to speak! It is best simply to give a

good example—simply to begin the work. I have done this—I have begun,

and—and—oh! _can_ anyone be unhappy, really? Oh! what does grief

matter—what does misfortune matter, if one knows how to be happy? Do

you know, I cannot understand how anyone can pass by a green tree, and

not feel happy only to look at it! How anyone can talk to a man and not

feel happy in loving him! Oh, it is my own fault that I cannot express

myself well enough! But there are lovely things at every step I

take—things which even the most miserable man must recognize as

beautiful. Look at a little child—look at God’s day dawn—look at the

grass growing—look at the eyes that love you, as they gaze back into

your eyes!”

He had risen, and was speaking standing up. The old gentleman was

looking at him now in unconcealed alarm. Lizabetha Prokofievna wrung

her hands. “Oh, my God!” she cried. She had guessed the state of the

case before anyone else.

Aglaya rushed quickly up to him, and was just in time to receive him in

her arms, and to hear with dread and horror that awful, wild cry as he

fell writhing to the ground.

There he lay on the carpet, and someone quickly placed a cushion under

his head.

No one had expected this.

In a quarter of an hour or so Prince N. and Evgenie Pavlovitch and the

old dignitary were hard at work endeavouring to restore the harmony of

the evening, but it was of no avail, and very soon after the guests

separated and went their ways.

A great deal of sympathy was expressed; a considerable amount of advice

was volunteered; Ivan Petrovitch expressed his opinion that the young

man was “a Slavophile, or something of that sort”; but that it was not

a dangerous development. The old dignitary said nothing.

True enough, most of the guests, next day and the day after, were not

in very good humour. Ivan Petrovitch was a little offended, but not

seriously so. General Epanchin’s chief was rather cool towards him for

some while after the occurrence. The old dignitary, as patron of the

family, took the opportunity of murmuring some kind of admonition to

the general, and added, in flattering terms, that he was most

interested in Aglaya’s future. He was a man who really did possess a

kind heart, although his interest in the prince, in the earlier part of

the evening, was due, among other reasons, to the latter’s connection

with Nastasia Philipovna, according to popular report. He had heard a

good deal of this story here and there, and was greatly interested in

it, so much so that he longed to ask further questions about it.

Princess Bielokonski, as she drove away on this eventful evening, took

occasion to say to Lizabetha Prokofievna:

“Well—he’s a good match—and a bad one; and if you want my opinion, more

bad than good. You can see for yourself the man is an invalid.”

Lizabetha therefore decided that the prince was impossible as a husband

for Aglaya; and during the ensuing night she made a vow that never

while she lived should he marry Aglaya. With this resolve firmly

impressed upon her mind, she awoke next day; but during the morning,

after her early lunch, she fell into a condition of remarkable

inconsistency.

In reply to a very guarded question of her sisters’, Aglaya had

answered coldly, but exceedingly haughtily:

“I have never given him my word at all, nor have I ever counted him as

my future husband—never in my life. He is just as little to me as all

the rest.”

Lizabetha Prokofievna suddenly flared up.

“I did not expect that of you, Aglaya,” she said. “He is an impossible

husband for you,—I know it; and thank God that we agree upon that

point; but I did not expect to hear such words from you. I thought I

should hear a very different tone from you. I would have turned out

everyone who was in the room last night and kept him,—that’s the sort

of man he is, in my opinion!”

Here she suddenly paused, afraid of what she had just said. But she

little knew how unfair she was to her daughter at that moment. It was

all settled in Aglaya’s mind. She was only waiting for the hour that

would bring the matter to a final climax; and every hint, every

careless probing of her wound, did but further lacerate her heart.

VIII.

This same morning dawned for the prince pregnant with no less painful

presentiments,—which fact his physical state was, of course, quite

enough to account for; but he was so indefinably melancholy,—his

sadness could not attach itself to anything in particular, and this

tormented him more than anything else. Of course certain facts stood

before him, clear and painful, but his sadness went beyond all that he

could remember or imagine; he realized that he was powerless to console

himself unaided. Little by little he began to develop the expectation

that this day something important, something decisive, was to happen to

him.

His attack of yesterday had been a slight one. Excepting some little

heaviness in the head and pain in the limbs, he did not feel any

particular effects. His brain worked all right, though his soul was

heavy within him.

He rose late, and immediately upon waking remembered all about the

previous evening; he also remembered, though not quite so clearly, how,

half an hour after his fit, he had been carried home.

He soon heard that a messenger from the Epanchins’ had already been to

inquire after him. At half-past eleven another arrived; and this

pleased him.

Vera Lebedeff was one of the first to come to see him and offer her

services. No sooner did she catch sight of him than she burst into

tears; but when he tried to soothe her she began to laugh. He was quite

struck by the girl’s deep sympathy for him; he seized her hand and

kissed it. Vera flushed crimson.

“Oh, don’t, don’t!” she exclaimed in alarm, snatching her hand away.

She went hastily out of the room in a state of strange confusion.

Lebedeff also came to see the prince, in a great hurry to get away to

the “deceased,” as he called General Ivolgin, who was alive still, but

very ill. Colia also turned up, and begged the prince for pity’s sake

to tell him all he knew about his father which had been concealed from

him till now. He said he had found out nearly everything since

yesterday; the poor boy was in a state of deep affliction. With all the

sympathy which he could bring into play, the prince told Colia the

whole story without reserve, detailing the facts as clearly as he

could. The tale struck Colia like a thunderbolt. He could not speak. He

listened silently, and cried softly to himself the while. The prince

perceived that this was an impression which would last for the whole of

the boy’s life. He made haste to explain his view of the matter, and

pointed out that the old man’s approaching death was probably brought

on by horror at the thought of his action; and that it was not everyone

who was capable of such a feeling.

Colia’s eyes flashed as he listened.

“Gania and Varia and Ptitsin are a worthless lot! I shall not quarrel

with them; but from this moment our feet shall not travel the same

road. Oh, prince, I have felt much that is quite new to me since

yesterday! It is a lesson for me. I shall now consider my mother as

entirely my responsibility; though she may be safe enough with Varia.

Still, meat and drink is not everything.”

He jumped up and hurried off, remembering suddenly that he was wanted

at his father’s bedside; but before he went out of the room he inquired

hastily after the prince’s health, and receiving the latter’s reply,

added:

“Isn’t there something else, prince? I heard yesterday, but I have no

right to talk about this... If you ever want a true friend and

servant—neither you nor I are so very happy, are we?—come to me. I

won’t ask you questions, though.”

He ran off and left the prince more dejected than ever.

Everyone seemed to be speaking prophetically, hinting at some

misfortune or sorrow to come; they had all looked at him as though they

knew something which he did not know. Lebedeff had asked questions,

Colia had hinted, and Vera had shed tears. What was it?

At last, with a sigh of annoyance, he said to himself that it was

nothing but his own cursed sickly suspicion. His face lighted up with

joy when, at about two o’clock, he espied the Epanchins coming along to

pay him a short visit, “just for a minute.” They really had only come

for a minute.

Lizabetha Prokofievna had announced, directly after lunch, that they

would all take a walk together. The information was given in the form

of a command, without explanation, drily and abruptly. All had issued

forth in obedience to the mandate; that is, the girls, mamma, and

Prince S. Lizabetha Prokofievna went off in a direction exactly

contrary to the usual one, and all understood very well what she was

driving at, but held their peace, fearing to irritate the good lady.

She, as though anxious to avoid any conversation, walked ahead, silent

and alone. At last Adelaida remarked that it was no use racing along at

such a pace, and that she could not keep up with her mother.

“Look here,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna, turning round suddenly; “we

are passing his house. Whatever Aglaya may think, and in spite of

anything that may happen, he is not a stranger to us; besides which, he

is ill and in misfortune. I, for one, shall call in and see him. Let

anyone follow me who cares to.”

Of course every one of them followed her.

The prince hastened to apologize, very properly, for yesterday’s mishap

with the vase, and for the scene generally.

“Oh, that’s nothing,” replied Lizabetha; “I’m not sorry for the vase,

I’m sorry for you. H’m! so you can see that there was a ‘scene,’ can

you? Well, it doesn’t matter much, for everyone must realize now that

it is impossible to be hard on you. Well, _au revoir_. I advise you to

have a walk, and then go to sleep again if you can. Come in as usual,

if you feel inclined; and be assured, once for all, whatever happens,

and whatever may have happened, you shall always remain the friend of

the family—mine, at all events. I can answer for myself.”

In response to this challenge all the others chimed in and re-echoed

mamma’s sentiments.

And so they took their departure; but in this hasty and kindly designed

visit there was hidden a fund of cruelty which Lizabetha Prokofievna

never dreamed of. In the words “as usual,” and again in her added,

“mine, at all events,” there seemed an ominous knell of some evil to

come.

The prince began to think of Aglaya. She had certainly given him a

wonderful smile, both at coming and again at leave-taking, but had not

said a word, not even when the others all professed their friendship

for him. She had looked very intently at him, but that was all. Her

face had been paler than usual; she looked as though she had slept

badly.

The prince made up his mind that he would make a point of going there

“as usual,” tonight, and looked feverishly at his watch.

Vera came in three minutes after the Epanchins had left. “Lef

Nicolaievitch,” she said, “Aglaya Ivanovna has just given me a message

for you.”

The prince trembled.

“Is it a note?”

“No, a verbal message; she had hardly time even for that. She begs you

earnestly not to go out of the house for a single moment all to-day,

until seven o’clock in the evening. It may have been nine; I didn’t

quite hear.”

“But—but, why is this? What does it mean?”

“I don’t know at all; but she said I was to tell you particularly.”

“Did she say that?”

“Not those very words. She only just had time to whisper as she went

by; but by the way she looked at me I knew it was important. She looked

at me in a way that made my heart stop beating.”

The prince asked a few more questions, and though he learned nothing

else, he became more and more agitated.

Left alone, he lay down on the sofa, and began to think.

“Perhaps,” he thought, “someone is to be with them until nine tonight

and she is afraid that I may come and make a fool of myself again, in

public.” So he spent his time longing for the evening and looking at

his watch. But the clearing-up of the mystery came long before the

evening, and came in the form of a new and agonizing riddle.

Half an hour after the Epanchins had gone, Hippolyte arrived, so tired

that, almost unconscious, he sank into a chair, and broke into such a

fit of coughing that he could not stop. He coughed till the blood came.

His eyes glittered, and two red spots on his cheeks grew brighter and

brighter. The prince murmured something to him, but Hippolyte only

signed that he must be left alone for a while, and sat silent. At last

he came to himself.

“I am off,” he said, hoarsely, and with difficulty.

“Shall I see you home?” asked the prince, rising from his seat, but

suddenly stopping short as he remembered Aglaya’s prohibition against

leaving the house. Hippolyte laughed.

“I don’t mean that I am going to leave your house,” he continued, still

gasping and coughing. “On the contrary, I thought it absolutely

necessary to come and see you; otherwise I should not have troubled

you. I am off there, you know, and this time I believe, seriously, that

I am off! It’s all over. I did not come here for sympathy, believe me.

I lay down this morning at ten o’clock with the intention of not rising

again before that time; but I thought it over and rose just once more

in order to come here; from which you may deduce that I had some reason

for wishing to come.”

“It grieves me to see you so, Hippolyte. Why didn’t you send me a

message? I would have come up and saved you this trouble.”

“Well, well! Enough! You’ve pitied me, and that’s all that good manners

exact. I forgot, how are you?”

“I’m all right; yesterday I was a little—”

“I know, I heard; the china vase caught it! I’m sorry I wasn’t there.

I’ve come about something important. In the first place I had, the

pleasure of seeing Gavrila Ardalionovitch and Aglaya Ivanovna enjoying

a rendezvous on the green bench in the park. I was astonished to see

what a fool a man can look. I remarked upon the fact to Aglaya Ivanovna

when he had gone. I don’t think anything ever surprises you, prince!”

added Hippolyte, gazing incredulously at the prince’s calm demeanour.

“To be astonished by nothing is a sign, they say, of a great intellect.

In my opinion it would serve equally well as a sign of great

foolishness. I am not hinting about you; pardon me! I am very

unfortunate today in my expressions.”

“I knew yesterday that Gavrila Ardalionovitch—” began the prince, and

paused in evident confusion, though Hippolyte had shown annoyance at

his betraying no surprise.

“You knew it? Come, that’s news! But no—perhaps better not tell me. And

were you a witness of the meeting?”

“If you were there yourself you must have known that I was _not_

there!”

“Oh! but you may have been sitting behind the bushes somewhere.

However, I am very glad, on your account, of course. I was beginning to

be afraid that Mr. Gania—might have the preference!”

“May I ask you, Hippolyte, not to talk of this subject? And not to use

such expressions?”

“Especially as you know all, eh?”

“You are wrong. I know scarcely anything, and Aglaya Ivanovna is aware

that I know nothing. I knew nothing whatever about this meeting. You

say there was a meeting. Very well; let’s leave it so—”

“Why, what do you mean? You said you knew, and now suddenly you know

nothing! You say ‘very well; let’s leave it so.’ But I say, don’t be so

confiding, especially as you know nothing. You are confiding simply

_because_ you know nothing. But do you know what these good people have

in their minds’ eye—Gania and his sister? Perhaps you are suspicious?

Well, well, I’ll drop the subject!” he added, hastily, observing the

prince’s impatient gesture. “But I’ve come to you on my own business; I

wish to make you a clear explanation. What a nuisance it is that one

cannot die without explanations! I have made such a quantity of them

already. Do you wish to hear what I have to say?”

“Speak away, I am listening.”

“Very well, but I’ll change my mind, and begin about Gania. Just fancy

to begin with, if you can, that I, too, was given an appointment at the

green bench today! However, I won’t deceive you; I asked for the

appointment. I said I had a secret to disclose. I don’t know whether I

came there too early, I think I must have; but scarcely had I sat down

beside Aglaya Ivanovna than I saw Gavrila Ardalionovitch and his sister

Varia coming along, arm in arm, just as though they were enjoying a

morning walk together. Both of them seemed very much astonished, not to

say disturbed, at seeing me; they evidently had not expected the

pleasure. Aglaya Ivanovna blushed up, and was actually a little

confused. I don’t know whether it was merely because I was there, or

whether Gania’s beauty was too much for her! But anyway, she turned

crimson, and then finished up the business in a very funny manner. She

jumped up from her seat, bowed back to Gania, smiled to Varia, and

suddenly observed: ‘I only came here to express my gratitude for all

your kind wishes on my behalf, and to say that if I find I need your

services, believe me—’ Here she bowed them away, as it were, and they

both marched off again, looking very foolish. Gania evidently could not

make head nor tail of the matter, and turned as red as a lobster; but

Varia understood at once that they must get away as quickly as they

could, so she dragged Gania away; she is a great deal cleverer than he

is. As for myself, I went there to arrange a meeting to be held between

Aglaya Ivanovna and Nastasia Philipovna.”

“Nastasia Philipovna!” cried the prince.

“Aha! I think you are growing less cool, my friend, and are beginning

to be a trifle surprised, aren’t you? I’m glad that you are not above

ordinary human feelings, for once. I’ll console you a little now, after

your consternation. See what I get for serving a young and high-souled

maiden! This morning I received a slap in the face from the lady!”

“A—a moral one?” asked the prince, involuntarily.

“Yes—not a physical one! I don’t suppose anyone—even a woman—would

raise a hand against me now. Even Gania would hesitate! I did think at

one time yesterday, that he would fly at me, though. I bet anything

that I know what you are thinking of now! You are thinking: ‘Of course

one can’t strike the little wretch, but one could suffocate him with a

pillow, or a wet towel, when he is asleep! One _ought_ to get rid of

him somehow.’ I can see in your face that you are thinking that at this

very second.”

“I never thought of such a thing for a moment,” said the prince, with

disgust.

“I don’t know—I dreamed last night that I was being suffocated with a

wet cloth by—somebody. I’ll tell you who it was—Rogojin! What do you

think, can a man be suffocated with a wet cloth?”

“I don’t know.”

“I’ve heard so. Well, we’ll leave that question just now. Why am I a

scandal-monger? Why did she call me a scandal-monger? And mind, _after_

she had heard every word I had to tell her, and had asked all sorts of

questions besides—but such is the way of women. For _her_ sake I

entered into relations with Rogojin—an interesting man! At _her_

request I arranged a personal interview between herself and Nastasia

Philipovna. Could she have been angry because I hinted that she was

enjoying Nastasia Philipovna’s ‘leavings’? Why, I have been impressing

it upon her all this while for her own good. Two letters have I written

her in that strain, and I began straight off today about its being

humiliating for her. Besides, the word ‘leavings’ is not my invention.

At all events, they all used it at Gania’s, and she used it herself. So

why am I a scandal-monger? I see—I see you are tremendously amused, at

this moment! Probably you are laughing at me and fitting those silly

lines to my case—

“‘Maybe sad Love upon his setting smiles, And with vain hopes his

farewell hour beguiles.’

“Ha, ha, ha!”

Hippolyte suddenly burst into a fit of hysterical laughter, which

turned into a choking cough.

“Observe,” he gasped, through his coughing, “what a fellow Gania is! He

talks about Nastasia’s ‘leavings,’ but what does he want to take

himself?”

The prince sat silent for a long while. His mind was filled with dread

and horror.

“You spoke of a meeting with Nastasia Philipovna,” he said at last, in

a low voice.

“Oh—come! Surely you must know that there is to be a meeting today

between Nastasia and Aglaya Ivanovna, and that Nastasia has been sent

for on purpose, through Rogojin, from St. Petersburg? It has been

brought about by invitation of Aglaya Ivanovna and my own efforts, and

Nastasia is at this moment with Rogojin, not far from here—at Dana

Alexeyevna’s—that curious friend of hers; and to this questionable

house Aglaya Ivanovna is to proceed for a friendly chat with Nastasia

Philipovna, and for the settlement of several problems. They are going

to play at arithmetic—didn’t you know about it? Word of honour?”

“It’s a most improbable story.”

“Oh, very well! if it’s improbable—it is—that’s all! And yet—where

should you have heard it? Though I must say, if a fly crosses the room

it’s known all over the place here. However, I’ve warned you, and you

may be grateful to me. Well—_au revoir_—probably in the next world! One

more thing—don’t think that I am telling you all this for your sake.

Oh, dear, no! Do you know that I dedicated my confession to Aglaya

Ivanovna? I did though, and how she took it, ha, ha! Oh, no! I am not

acting from any high, exalted motives. But though I may have behaved

like a cad to you, I have not done _her_ any harm. I don’t apologize

for my words about ‘leavings’ and all that. I am atoning for that, you

see, by telling you the place and time of the meeting. Goodbye! You had

better take your measures, if you are worthy the name of a man! The

meeting is fixed for this evening—that’s certain.”

Hippolyte walked towards the door, but the prince called him back and

he stopped.

“Then you think Aglaya Ivanovna herself intends to go to Nastasia

Philipovna’s tonight?” he asked, and bright hectic spots came out on

his cheeks and forehead.

“I don’t know absolutely for certain; but in all probability it is so,”

replied Hippolyte, looking round. “Nastasia would hardly go to her; and

they can’t meet at Gania’s, with a man nearly dead in the house.”

“It’s impossible, for that very reason,” said the prince. “How would

she get out if she wished to? You don’t know the habits of that

house—she _could_ not get away alone to Nastasia Philipovna’s! It’s all

nonsense!”

“Look here, my dear prince, no one jumps out of the window if they can

help it; but when there’s a fire, the dandiest gentleman or the finest

lady in the world will skip out! When the moment comes, and there’s

nothing else to be done—our young lady will go to Nastasia

Philipovna’s! Don’t they let the young ladies out of the house alone,

then?”

“I didn’t mean that exactly.”

“If you didn’t mean that, then she has only to go down the steps and

walk off, and she need never come back unless she chooses: Ships are

burned behind one sometimes, and one doesn’t care to return whence one

came. Life need not consist only of lunches, and dinners, and Prince

S’s. It strikes me you take Aglaya Ivanovna for some conventional

boarding-school girl. I said so to her, and she quite agreed with me.

Wait till seven or eight o’clock. In your place I would send someone

there to keep watch, so as to seize the exact moment when she steps out

of the house. Send Colia. He’ll play the spy with pleasure—for you at

least. Ha, ha, ha!”

Hippolyte went out.

There was no reason for the prince to set anyone to watch, even if he

had been capable of such a thing. Aglaya’s command that he should stay

at home all day seemed almost explained now. Perhaps she meant to call

for him, herself, or it might be, of course, that she was anxious to

make sure of his not coming there, and therefore bade him remain at

home. His head whirled; the whole room seemed to be turning round. He

lay down on the sofa, and closed his eyes.

One way or the other the question was to be decided at last—finally.

Oh, no, he did not think of Aglaya as a boarding-school miss, or a

young lady of the conventional type! He had long since feared that she

might take some such step as this. But why did she wish to see

Nastasia?

He shivered all over as he lay; he was in high fever again.

No! he did not account her a child. Certain of her looks, certain of

her words, of late, had filled him with apprehension. At times it had

struck him that she was putting too great a restraint upon herself, and

he remembered that he had been alarmed to observe this. He had tried,

all these days, to drive away the heavy thoughts that oppressed him;

but what was the hidden mystery of that soul? The question had long

tormented him, although he implicitly trusted that soul. And now it was

all to be cleared up. It was a dreadful thought. And “that woman”

again! Why did he always feel as though “that woman” were fated to

appear at each critical moment of his life, and tear the thread of his

destiny like a bit of rotten string? That he always _had_ felt this he

was ready to swear, although he was half delirious at the moment. If he

had tried to forget her, all this time, it was simply because he was

afraid of her. Did he love the woman or hate her? This question he did

not once ask himself today; his heart was quite pure. He knew whom he

loved. He was not so much afraid of this meeting, nor of its

strangeness, nor of any reasons there might be for it, unknown to

himself; he was afraid of the woman herself, Nastasia Philipovna. He

remembered, some days afterwards, how during all those fevered hours he

had seen but _her_ eyes, _her_ look, had heard _her_ voice, strange

words of hers; he remembered that this was so, although he could not

recollect the details of his thoughts.

He could remember that Vera brought him some dinner, and that he took

it; but whether he slept after dinner, or no, he could not recollect.

He only knew that he began to distinguish things clearly from the

moment when Aglaya suddenly appeared, and he jumped up from the sofa

and went to meet her. It was just a quarter past seven then.

Aglaya was quite alone, and dressed, apparently hastily, in a light

mantle. Her face was pale, as it had been in the morning, and her eyes

were ablaze with bright but subdued fire. He had never seen that

expression in her eyes before.

She gazed attentively at him.

“You are quite ready, I observe,” she said, with absolute composure,

“dressed, and your hat in your hand. I see somebody has thought fit to

warn you, and I know who. Hippolyte?”

“Yes, he told me,” said the prince, feeling only half alive.

“Come then. You know, I suppose, that you must escort me there? You are

well enough to go out, aren’t you?”

“I am well enough; but is it really possible?—”

He broke off abruptly, and could not add another word. This was his one

attempt to stop the mad child, and, after he had made it, he followed

her as though he had no will of his own. Confused as his thoughts were,

he was, nevertheless, capable of realizing the fact that if he did not

go with her, she would go alone, and so he must go with her at all

hazards. He guessed the strength of her determination; it was beyond

him to check it.

They walked silently, and said scarcely a word all the way. He only

noticed that she seemed to know the road very well; and once, when he

thought it better to go by a certain lane, and remarked to her that it

would be quieter and less public, she only said, “it’s all the same,”

and went on.

When they were almost arrived at Daria Alexeyevna’s house (it was a

large wooden structure of ancient date), a gorgeously-dressed lady and

a young girl came out of it. Both these ladies took their seats in a

carriage, which was waiting at the door, talking and laughing loudly

the while, and drove away without appearing to notice the approaching

couple.

No sooner had the carriage driven off than the door opened once more;

and Rogojin, who had apparently been awaiting them, let them in and

closed it after them.

“There is not another soul in the house now excepting our four selves,”

he said aloud, looking at the prince in a strange way.

Nastasia Philipovna was waiting for them in the first room they went

into. She was dressed very simply, in black.

She rose at their entrance, but did not smile or give her hand, even to

the prince. Her anxious eyes were fixed upon Aglaya. Both sat down, at

a little distance from one another—Aglaya on the sofa, in the corner of

the room, Nastasia by the window. The prince and Rogojin remained

standing, and were not invited to sit.

Muishkin glanced at Rogojin in perplexity, but the latter only smiled

disagreeably, and said nothing. The silence continued for some few

moments.

An ominous expression passed over Nastasia Philipovna’s face, of a

sudden. It became obstinate-looking, hard, and full of hatred; but she

did not take her eyes off her visitors for a moment.

Aglaya was clearly confused, but not frightened. On entering she had

merely glanced momentarily at her rival, and then had sat still, with

her eyes on the ground, apparently in thought. Once or twice she

glanced casually round the room. A shade of disgust was visible in her

expression; she looked as though she were afraid of contamination in

this place.

She mechanically arranged her dress, and fidgeted uncomfortably,

eventually changing her seat to the other end of the sofa. Probably she

was unconscious of her own movements; but this very unconsciousness

added to the offensiveness of their suggested meaning.

At length she looked straight into Nastasia’s eyes, and instantly read

all there was to read in her rival’s expression. Woman understood

woman! Aglaya shuddered.

“You know of course why I requested this meeting?” she said at last,

quietly, and pausing twice in the delivery of this very short sentence.

“No—I know nothing about it,” said Nastasia, drily and abruptly.

Aglaya blushed. Perhaps it struck her as very strange and impossible

that she should really be sitting here and waiting for “that woman’s”

reply to her question.

At the first sound of Nastasia’s voice a shudder ran through her frame.

Of course “that woman” observed and took in all this.

“You know quite well, but you are pretending to be ignorant,” said

Aglaya, very low, with her eyes on the ground.

“Why should I?” asked Nastasia Philipovna, smiling slightly.

“You want to take advantage of my position, now that I am in your

house,” continued Aglaya, awkwardly.

“For that position _you_ are to blame and not I,” said Nastasia,

flaring up suddenly. “_I_ did not invite _you_, but you me; and to this

moment I am quite ignorant as to why I am thus honoured.”

Aglaya raised her head haughtily.

“Restrain your tongue!” she said. “I did not come here to fight you

with your own weapons.

“Oh! then you did come ‘to fight,’ I may conclude? Dear me!—and I

thought you were cleverer—”

They looked at one another with undisguised malice. One of these women

had written to the other, so lately, such letters as we have seen; and

it all was dispersed at their first meeting. Yet it appeared that not

one of the four persons in the room considered this in any degree

strange.

The prince who, up to yesterday, would not have believed that he could

even dream of such an impossible scene as this, stood and listened and

looked on, and felt as though he had long foreseen it all. The most

fantastic dream seemed suddenly to have been metamorphosed into the

most vivid reality.

One of these women so despised the other, and so longed to express her

contempt for her (perhaps she had only come for that very purpose, as

Rogojin said next day), that howsoever fantastical was the other woman,

howsoever afflicted her spirit and disturbed her understanding, no

preconceived idea of hers could possibly stand up against that deadly

feminine contempt of her rival. The prince felt sure that Nastasia

would say nothing about the letters herself; but he could judge by her

flashing eyes and the expression of her face what the thought of those

letters must be costing her at this moment. He would have given half

his life to prevent Aglaya from speaking of them. But Aglaya suddenly

braced herself up, and seemed to master herself fully, all in an

instant.

“You have not quite understood,” she said. “I did not come to quarrel

with you, though I do not like you. I came to speak to you as... as one

human being to another. I came with my mind made up as to what I had to

say to you, and I shall not change my intention, although you may

misunderstand me. So much the worse for you, not for myself! I wished

to reply to all you have written to me and to reply personally, because

I think that is the more convenient way. Listen to my reply to all your

letters. I began to be sorry for Prince Lef Nicolaievitch on the very

day I made his acquaintance, and when I heard—afterwards—of all that

took place at your house in the evening, I was sorry for him because he

was such a simple-minded man, and because he, in the simplicity of his

soul, believed that he could be happy with a woman of your character.

What I feared actually took place; you could not love him, you tortured

him, and threw him over. You could not love him because you are too

proud—no, not proud, that is an error; because you are too vain—no, not

quite that either; too self-loving; you are self-loving to madness.

Your letters to me are a proof of it. You could not love so simple a

soul as his, and perhaps in your heart you despised him and laughed at

him. All you could love was your shame and the perpetual thought that

you were disgraced and insulted. If you were less shameful, or had no

cause at all for shame, you would be still more unhappy than you are

now.”

Aglaya brought out these thronging words with great satisfaction. They

came from her lips hurriedly and impetuously, and had been prepared and

thought out long ago, even before she had ever dreamed of the present

meeting. She watched with eagerness the effect of her speech as shown

in Nastasia’s face, which was distorted with agitation.

“You remember,” she continued, “he wrote me a letter at that time; he

says you know all about that letter and that you even read it. I

understand all by means of this letter, and understand it correctly. He

has since confirmed it all to me—what I now say to you, word for word.

After receiving his letter I waited; I guessed that you would soon come

back here, because you could never do without Petersburg; you are still

too young and lovely for the provinces. However, this is not my own

idea,” she added, blushing dreadfully; and from this moment the colour

never left her cheeks to the end of her speech. “When I next saw the

prince I began to feel terribly pained and hurt on his account. Do not

laugh; if you laugh you are unworthy of understanding what I say.”

“Surely you see that I am not laughing,” said Nastasia, sadly and

sternly.

“However, it’s all the same to me; laugh or not, just as you please.

When I asked him about you, he told me that he had long since ceased to

love you, that the very recollection of you was a torture to him, but

that he was sorry for you; and that when he thought of you his heart

was pierced. I ought to tell you that I never in my life met a man

anything like him for noble simplicity of mind and for boundless

trustfulness. I guessed that anyone who liked could deceive him, and

that he would immediately forgive anyone who did deceive him; and it

was for this that I grew to love him—”

Aglaya paused for a moment, as though suddenly brought up in

astonishment that she could have said these words, but at the same time

a great pride shone in her eyes, like a defiant assertion that it would

not matter to her if “this woman” laughed in her face for the admission

just made.

“I have told you all now, and of course you understand what I wish of

you.”

“Perhaps I do; but tell me yourself,” said Nastasia Philipovna,

quietly.

Aglaya flushed up angrily.

“I wished to find out from you,” she said, firmly, “by what right you

dare to meddle with his feelings for me? By what right you dared send

me those letters? By what right do you continually remind both me and

him that you love him, after you yourself threw him over and ran away

from him in so insulting and shameful a way?”

“I never told either him or you that I loved him!” replied Nastasia

Philipovna, with an effort. “And—and I did run away from him—you are

right there,” she added, scarcely audibly.

“Never told either him or me?” cried Aglaya. “How about your letters?

Who asked you to try to persuade me to marry him? Was not that a

declaration from you? Why do you force yourself upon us in this way? I

confess I thought at first that you were anxious to arouse an aversion

for him in my heart by your meddling, in order that I might give him

up; and it was only afterwards that I guessed the truth. You imagined

that you were doing an heroic action! How could you spare any love for

him, when you love your own vanity to such an extent? Why could you not

simply go away from here, instead of writing me those absurd letters?

Why do you not _now_ marry that generous man who loves you, and has

done you the honour of offering you his hand? It is plain enough why;

if you marry Rogojin you lose your grievance; you will have nothing

more to complain of. You will be receiving too much honour. Evgenie

Pavlovitch was saying the other day that you had read too many poems

and are too well educated for—your position; and that you live in

idleness. Add to this your vanity, and, there you have reason enough—”

“And do you not live in idleness?”

Things had come to this unexpected point too quickly. Unexpected

because Nastasia Philipovna, on her way to Pavlofsk, had thought and

considered a good deal, and had expected something different, though

perhaps not altogether good, from this interview; but Aglaya had been

carried away by her own outburst, just as a rolling stone gathers

impetus as it careers downhill, and could not restrain herself in the

satisfaction of revenge.

It was strange, Nastasia Philipovna felt, to see Aglaya like this. She

gazed at her, and could hardly believe her eyes and ears for a moment

or two.

Whether she were a woman who had read too many poems, as Evgenie

Pavlovitch supposed, or whether she were mad, as the prince had assured

Aglaya, at all events, this was a woman who, in spite of her

occasionally cynical and audacious manner, was far more refined and

trustful and sensitive than appeared. There was a certain amount of

romantic dreaminess and caprice in her, but with the fantastic was

mingled much that was strong and deep.

The prince realized this, and great suffering expressed itself in his

face.

Aglaya observed it, and trembled with anger.

“How dare you speak so to me?” she said, with a haughtiness which was

quite indescribable, replying to Nastasia’s last remark.

“You must have misunderstood what I said,” said Nastasia, in some

surprise.

“If you wished to preserve your good name, why did you not give up

your—your ‘guardian,’ Totski, without all that theatrical posturing?”

said Aglaya, suddenly a propos of nothing.

“What do you know of my position, that you dare to judge me?” cried

Nastasia, quivering with rage, and growing terribly white.

“I know this much, that you did not go out to honest work, but went

away with a rich man, Rogojin, in order to pose as a fallen angel. I

don’t wonder that Totski was nearly driven to suicide by such a fallen

angel.”

“Silence!” cried Nastasia Philipovna. “You are about as fit to

understand me as the housemaid here, who bore witness against her lover

in court the other day. She would understand me better than you do.”

“Probably an honest girl living by her own toil. Why do you speak of a

housemaid so contemptuously?”

“I do not despise toil; I despise you when you speak of toil.”

“If you had cared to be an honest woman, you would have gone out as a

laundress.”

Both had risen, and were gazing at one another with pallid faces.

“Aglaya, don’t! This is unfair,” cried the prince, deeply distressed.

Rogojin was not smiling now; he sat and listened with folded arms, and

lips tight compressed.

“There, look at her,” cried Nastasia, trembling with passion. “Look at

this young lady! And I imagined her an angel! Did you come to me

without your governess, Aglaya Ivanovna? Oh, fie, now shall I just tell

you why you came here today? Shall I tell you without any

embellishments? You came because you were afraid of me!”

“Afraid of _you?_” asked Aglaya, beside herself with naive amazement

that the other should dare talk to her like this.

“Yes, me, of course! Of course you were afraid of me, or you would not

have decided to come. You cannot despise one you fear. And to think

that I have actually esteemed you up to this very moment! Do you know

why you are afraid of me, and what is your object now? You wished to

satisfy yourself with your own eyes as to which he loves best, myself

or you, because you are fearfully jealous.”

“He has told me already that he hates you,” murmured Aglaya, scarcely

audibly.

“Perhaps, perhaps! I am not worthy of him, I know. But I think you are

lying, all the same. He cannot hate me, and he cannot have said so. I

am ready to forgive you, in consideration of your position; but I

confess I thought better of you. I thought you were wiser, and more

beautiful, too; I did, indeed! Well, take your treasure! See, he is

gazing at you, he can’t recollect himself. Take him, but on one

condition; go away at once, this instant!”

She fell back into a chair, and burst into tears. But suddenly some new

expression blazed in her eyes. She stared fixedly at Aglaya, and rose

from her seat.

“Or would you like me to bid him, _bid him_, do you hear, _command

him_, now, at once, to throw you up, and remain mine for ever? Shall I?

He will stay, and he will marry me too, and you shall trot home all

alone. Shall I?—shall I say the word?” she screamed like a madwoman,

scarcely believing herself that she could really pronounce such wild

words.

Aglaya had made for the door in terror, but she stopped at the

threshold, and listened. “Shall I turn Rogojin off? Ha! ha! you thought

I would marry him for your benefit, did you? Why, I’ll call out _now_,

if you like, in your presence, ‘Rogojin, get out!’ and say to the

prince, ‘Do you remember what you promised me?’ Heavens! what a fool I

have been to humiliate myself before them! Why, prince, you yourself

gave me your word that you would marry me whatever happened, and would

never abandon me. You said you loved me and would forgive me all,

and—and resp—yes, you even said that! I only ran away from you in order

to set you free, and now I don’t care to let you go again. Why does she

treat me so—so shamefully? I am not a loose woman—ask Rogojin there!

He’ll tell you. Will you go again now that she has insulted me, before

your eyes, too; turn away from me and lead her away, arm-in-arm? May

you be accursed too, for you were the only one I trusted among them

all! Go away, Rogojin, I don’t want you,” she continued, blind with

fury, and forcing the words out with dry lips and distorted features,

evidently not believing a single word of her own tirade, but, at the

same time, doing her utmost to prolong the moment of self-deception.

The outburst was so terribly violent that the prince thought it would

have killed her.

“There he is!” she shrieked again, pointing to the prince and

addressing Aglaya. “There he is! and if he does not approach me at once

and take _me_ and throw you over, then have him for your own—I give him

up to you! I don’t want him!”

Both she and Aglaya stood and waited as though in expectation, and both

looked at the prince like madwomen.

But he, perhaps, did not understand the full force of this challenge;

in fact, it is certain he did not. All he could see was the poor

despairing face which, as he had said to Aglaya, “had pierced his heart

for ever.”

He could bear it no longer, and with a look of entreaty, mingled with

reproach, he addressed Aglaya, pointing to Nastasia the while:

“How can you?” he murmured; “she is so unhappy.”

But he had no time to say another word before Aglaya’s terrible look

bereft him of speech. In that look was embodied so dreadful a suffering

and so deadly a hatred, that he gave a cry and flew to her; but it was

too late.

She could not hold out long enough even to witness his movement in her

direction. She had hidden her face in her hands, cried once “Oh, my

God!” and rushed out of the room. Rogojin followed her to undo the

bolts of the door and let her out into the street.

The prince made a rush after her, but he was caught and held back. The

distorted, livid face of Nastasia gazed at him reproachfully, and her

blue lips whispered:

“What? Would you go to her—to her?”

She fell senseless into his arms.

He raised her, carried her into the room, placed her in an arm-chair,

and stood over her, stupefied. On the table stood a tumbler of water.

Rogojin, who now returned, took this and sprinkled a little in her

face. She opened her eyes, but for a moment she understood nothing.

Suddenly she looked around, shuddered, gave a loud cry, and threw

herself in the prince’s arms.

“Mine, mine!” she cried. “Has the proud young lady gone? Ha, ha, ha!”

she laughed hysterically. “And I had given him up to her! Why—why did

I? Mad—mad! Get away, Rogojin! Ha, ha, ha!”

Rogojin stared intently at them; then he took his hat, and without a

word, left the room.

A few moments later, the prince was seated by Nastasia on the sofa,

gazing into her eyes and stroking her face and hair, as he would a

little child’s. He laughed when she laughed, and was ready to cry when

she cried. He did not speak, but listened to her excited, disconnected

chatter, hardly understanding a word of it the while. No sooner did he

detect the slightest appearance of complaining, or weeping, or

reproaching, than he would smile at her kindly, and begin stroking her

hair and her cheeks, soothing and consoling her once more, as if she

were a child.

IX.

A fortnight had passed since the events recorded in the last chapter,

and the position of the actors in our story had become so changed that

it is almost impossible for us to continue the tale without some few

explanations. Yet we feel that we ought to limit ourselves to the

simple record of facts, without much attempt at explanation, for a very

patent reason: because we ourselves have the greatest possible

difficulty in accounting for the facts to be recorded. Such a statement

on our part may appear strange to the reader. How is anyone to tell a

story which he cannot understand himself? In order to keep clear of a

false position, we had perhaps better give an example of what we mean;

and probably the intelligent reader will soon understand the

difficulty. More especially are we inclined to take this course since

the example will constitute a distinct march forward of our story, and

will not hinder the progress of the events remaining to be recorded.

During the next fortnight—that is, through the early part of July—the

history of our hero was circulated in the form of strange, diverting,

most unlikely-sounding stories, which passed from mouth to mouth,

through the streets and villas adjoining those inhabited by Lebedeff,

Ptitsin, Nastasia Philipovna and the Epanchins; in fact, pretty well

through the whole town and its environs. All society—both the

inhabitants of the place and those who came down of an evening for the

music—had got hold of one and the same story, in a thousand varieties

of detail—as to how a certain young prince had raised a terrible

scandal in a most respectable household, had thrown over a daughter of

the family, to whom he was engaged, and had been captured by a woman of

shady reputation whom he was determined to marry at once—breaking off

all old ties for the satisfaction of his insane idea; and, in spite of

the public indignation roused by his action, the marriage was to take

place in Pavlofsk openly and publicly, and the prince had announced his

intention of going through with it with head erect and looking the

whole world in the face. The story was so artfully adorned with

scandalous details, and persons of so great eminence and importance

were apparently mixed up in it, while, at the same time, the evidence

was so circumstantial, that it was no wonder the matter gave food for

plenty of curiosity and gossip.

According to the reports of the most talented gossip-mongers—those who,

in every class of society, are always in haste to explain every event

to their neighbours—the young gentleman concerned was of good family—a

prince—fairly rich—weak of intellect, but a democrat and a dabbler in

the Nihilism of the period, as exposed by Mr. Turgenieff. He could

hardly talk Russian, but had fallen in love with one of the Miss

Epanchins, and his suit met with so much encouragement that he had been

received in the house as the recognized bridegroom-to-be of the young

lady. But like the Frenchman of whom the story is told that he studied

for holy orders, took all the oaths, was ordained priest, and next

morning wrote to his bishop informing him that, as he did not believe

in God and considered it wrong to deceive the people and live upon

their pockets, he begged to surrender the orders conferred upon him the

day before, and to inform his lordship that he was sending this letter

to the public press,—like this Frenchman, the prince played a false

game. It was rumoured that he had purposely waited for the solemn

occasion of a large evening party at the house of his future bride, at

which he was introduced to several eminent persons, in order publicly

to make known his ideas and opinions, and thereby insult the

“big-wigs,” and to throw over his bride as offensively as possible; and

that, resisting the servants who were told off to turn him out of the

house, he had seized and thrown down a magnificent china vase. As a

characteristic addition to the above, it was currently reported that

the young prince really loved the lady to whom he was engaged, and had

thrown her over out of purely Nihilistic motives, with the intention of

giving himself the satisfaction of marrying a fallen woman in the face

of all the world, thereby publishing his opinion that there is no

distinction between virtuous and disreputable women, but that all women

are alike, free; and a “fallen” woman, indeed, somewhat superior to a

virtuous one.

It was declared that he believed in no classes or anything else,

excepting “the woman question.”

All this looked likely enough, and was accepted as fact by most of the

inhabitants of the place, especially as it was borne out, more or less,

by daily occurrences.

Of course much was said that could not be determined absolutely. For

instance, it was reported that the poor girl had so loved her future

husband that she had followed him to the house of the other woman, the

day after she had been thrown over; others said that he had insisted on

her coming, himself, in order to shame and insult her by his taunts and

Nihilistic confessions when she reached the house. However all these

things might be, the public interest in the matter grew daily,

especially as it became clear that the scandalous wedding was

undoubtedly to take place.

So that if our readers were to ask an explanation, not of the wild

reports about the prince’s Nihilistic opinions, but simply as to how

such a marriage could possibly satisfy his real aspirations, or as to

the spiritual condition of our hero at this time, we confess that we

should have great difficulty in giving the required information.

All we know is, that the marriage really was arranged, and that the

prince had commissioned Lebedeff and Keller to look after all the

necessary business connected with it; that he had requested them to

spare no expense; that Nastasia herself was hurrying on the wedding;

that Keller was to be the prince’s best man, at his own earnest

request; and that Burdovsky was to give Nastasia away, to his great

delight. The wedding was to take place before the middle of July.

But, besides the above, we are cognizant of certain other undoubted

facts, which puzzle us a good deal because they seem flatly to

contradict the foregoing.

We suspect, for instance, that having commissioned Lebedeff and the

others, as above, the prince immediately forgot all about masters of

ceremonies and even the ceremony itself; and we feel quite certain that

in making these arrangements he did so in order that he might

absolutely escape all thought of the wedding, and even forget its

approach if he could, by detailing all business concerning it to

others.

What did he think of all this time, then? What did he wish for? There

is no doubt that he was a perfectly free agent all through, and that as

far as Nastasia was concerned, there was no force of any kind brought

to bear on him. Nastasia wished for a speedy marriage, true!—but the

prince agreed at once to her proposals; he agreed, in fact, so casually

that anyone might suppose he was but acceding to the most simple and

ordinary suggestion.

There are many strange circumstances such as this before us; but in our

opinion they do but deepen the mystery, and do not in the smallest

degree help us to understand the case.

However, let us take one more example. Thus, we know for a fact that

during the whole of this fortnight the prince spent all his days and

evenings with Nastasia; he walked with her, drove with her; he began to

be restless whenever he passed an hour without seeing her—in fact, to

all appearances, he sincerely loved her. He would listen to her for

hours at a time with a quiet smile on his face, scarcely saying a word

himself. And yet we know, equally certainly, that during this period he

several times set off, suddenly, to the Epanchins’, not concealing the

fact from Nastasia Philipovna, and driving the latter to absolute

despair. We know also that he was not received at the Epanchins’ so

long as they remained at Pavlofsk, and that he was not allowed an

interview with Aglaya;—but next day he would set off once more on the

same errand, apparently quite oblivious of the fact of yesterday’s

visit having been a failure,—and, of course, meeting with another

refusal. We know, too, that exactly an hour after Aglaya had fled from

Nastasia Philipovna’s house on that fateful evening, the prince was at

the Epanchins’,—and that his appearance there had been the cause of the

greatest consternation and dismay; for Aglaya had not been home, and

the family only discovered then, for the first time, that the two of

them had been to Nastasia’s house together.

It was said that Elizabetha Prokofievna and her daughters had there and

then denounced the prince in the strongest terms, and had refused any

further acquaintance and friendship with him; their rage and

denunciations being redoubled when Varia Ardalionovna suddenly arrived

and stated that Aglaya had been at her house in a terrible state of

mind for the last hour, and that she refused to come home.

This last item of news, which disturbed Lizabetha Prokofievna more than

anything else, was perfectly true. On leaving Nastasia’s, Aglaya had

felt that she would rather die than face her people, and had therefore

gone straight to Nina Alexandrovna’s. On receiving the news, Lizabetha

and her daughters and the general all rushed off to Aglaya, followed by

Prince Lef Nicolaievitch—undeterred by his recent dismissal; but

through Varia he was refused a sight of Aglaya here also. The end of

the episode was that when Aglaya saw her mother and sisters crying over

her and not uttering a word of reproach, she had flung herself into

their arms and gone straight home with them.

It was said that Gania managed to make a fool of himself even on this

occasion; for, finding himself alone with Aglaya for a minute or two

when Varia had gone to the Epanchins’, he had thought it a fitting

opportunity to make a declaration of his love, and on hearing this

Aglaya, in spite of her state of mind at the time, had suddenly burst

out laughing, and had put a strange question to him. She asked him

whether he would consent to hold his finger to a lighted candle in

proof of his devotion! Gania—it was said—looked so comically bewildered

that Aglaya had almost laughed herself into hysterics, and had rushed

out of the room and upstairs,—where her parents had found her.

Hippolyte told the prince this last story, sending for him on purpose.

When Muishkin heard about the candle and Gania’s finger he had laughed

so that he had quite astonished Hippolyte,—and then shuddered and burst

into tears. The prince’s condition during those days was strange and

perturbed. Hippolyte plainly declared that he thought he was out of his

mind;—this, however, was hardly to be relied upon.

Offering all these facts to our readers and refusing to explain them,

we do not for a moment desire to justify our hero’s conduct. On the

contrary, we are quite prepared to feel our share of the indignation

which his behaviour aroused in the hearts of his friends. Even Vera

Lebedeff was angry with him for a while; so was Colia; so was Keller,

until he was selected for best man; so was Lebedeff himself,—who began

to intrigue against him out of pure irritation;—but of this anon. In

fact we are in full accord with certain forcible words spoken to the

prince by Evgenie Pavlovitch, quite unceremoniously, during the course

of a friendly conversation, six or seven days after the events at

Nastasia Philipovna’s house.

We may remark here that not only the Epanchins themselves, but all who

had anything to do with them, thought it right to break with the prince

in consequence of his conduct. Prince S. even went so far as to turn

away and cut him dead in the street. But Evgenie Pavlovitch was not

afraid to compromise himself by paying the prince a visit, and did so,

in spite of the fact that he had recommenced to visit at the

Epanchins’, where he was received with redoubled hospitality and

kindness after the temporary estrangement.

Evgenie called upon the prince the day after that on which the

Epanchins left Pavlofsk. He knew of all the current rumours,—in fact,

he had probably contributed to them himself. The prince was delighted

to see him, and immediately began to speak of the Epanchins;—which

simple and straightforward opening quite took Evgenie’s fancy, so that

he melted at once, and plunged _in medias res_ without ceremony.

The prince did not know, up to this, that the Epanchins had left the

place. He grew very pale on hearing the news; but a moment later he

nodded his head, and said thoughtfully:

“I knew it was bound to be so.” Then he added quickly:

“Where have they gone to?”

Evgenie meanwhile observed him attentively, and the rapidity of the

questions, their simplicity, the prince’s candour, and at the same

time, his evident perplexity and mental agitation, surprised him

considerably. However, he told Muishkin all he could, kindly and in

detail. The prince hardly knew anything, for this was the first

informant from the household whom he had met since the estrangement.

Evgenie reported that Aglaya had been really ill, and that for two

nights she had not slept at all, owing to high fever; that now she was

better and out of serious danger, but still in a nervous, hysterical

state.

“It’s a good thing that there is peace in the house, at all events,” he

continued. “They never utter a hint about the past, not only in

Aglaya’s presence, but even among themselves. The old people are

talking of a trip abroad in the autumn, immediately after Adelaida’s

wedding; Aglaya received the news in silence.”

Evgenie himself was very likely going abroad also; so were Prince S.

and his wife, if affairs allowed of it; the general was to stay at

home. They were all at their estate of Colmina now, about twenty miles

or so from St. Petersburg. Princess Bielokonski had not returned to

Moscow yet, and was apparently staying on for reasons of her own.

Lizabetha Prokofievna had insisted that it was quite impossible to

remain in Pavlofsk after what had happened. Evgenie had told her of all

the rumours current in town about the affair; so that there could be no

talk of their going to their house on the Yelagin as yet.

“And in point of fact, prince,” added Evgenie Pavlovitch, “you must

allow that they could hardly have stayed here, considering that they

knew of all that went on at your place, and in the face of your daily

visits to their house, visits which you insisted upon making in spite

of their refusal to see you.”

“Yes—yes, quite so; you are quite right. I wished to see Aglaya

Ivanovna, you know!” said the prince, nodding his head.

“Oh, my dear fellow,” cried Evgenie, warmly, with real sorrow in his

voice, “how could you permit all that to come about as it has? Of

course, of course, I know it was all so unexpected. I admit that you,

only naturally, lost your head, and—and could not stop the foolish

girl; that was not in your power. I quite see so much; but you really

should have understood how seriously she cared for you. She could not

bear to share you with another; and you could bring yourself to throw

away and shatter such a treasure! Oh, prince, prince!”

“Yes, yes, you are quite right again,” said the poor prince, in anguish

of mind. “I was wrong, I know. But it was only Aglaya who looked on

Nastasia Philipovna so; no one else did, you know.”

“But that’s just the worst of it all, don’t you see, that there was

absolutely nothing serious about the matter in reality!” cried Evgenie,

beside himself: “Excuse me, prince, but I have thought over all this; I

have thought a great deal over it; I know all that had happened before;

I know all that took place six months since; and I know there was

_nothing_ serious about the matter, it was but fancy, smoke, fantasy,

distorted by agitation, and only the alarmed jealousy of an absolutely

inexperienced girl could possibly have mistaken it for serious

reality.”

Here Evgenie Pavlovitch quite let himself go, and gave the reins to his

indignation.

Clearly and reasonably, and with great psychological insight, he drew a

picture of the prince’s past relations with Nastasia Philipovna.

Evgenie Pavlovitch always had a ready tongue, but on this occasion his

eloquence, surprised himself. “From the very beginning,” he said, “you

began with a lie; what began with a lie was bound to end with a lie;

such is the law of nature. I do not agree, in fact I am angry, when I

hear you called an idiot; you are far too intelligent to deserve such

an epithet; but you are so far _strange_ as to be unlike others; that

you must allow, yourself. Now, I have come to the conclusion that the

basis of all that has happened, has been first of all your innate

inexperience (remark the expression ‘innate,’ prince). Then follows

your unheard-of simplicity of heart; then comes your absolute want of

sense of proportion (to this want you have several times confessed);

and lastly, a mass, an accumulation, of intellectual convictions which

you, in your unexampled honesty of soul, accept unquestionably as also

innate and natural and true. Admit, prince, that in your relations with

Nastasia Philipovna there has existed, from the very first, something

democratic, and the fascination, so to speak, of the ‘woman question’?

I know all about that scandalous scene at Nastasia Philipovna’s house

when Rogojin brought the money, six months ago. I’ll show you yourself

as in a looking-glass, if you like. I know exactly all that went on, in

every detail, and why things have turned out as they have. You

thirsted, while in Switzerland, for your home-country, for Russia; you

read, doubtless, many books about Russia, excellent books, I dare say,

but hurtful to _you_; and you arrived here; as it were, on fire with

the longing to be of service. Then, on the very day of your arrival,

they tell you a sad story of an ill-used woman; they tell _you_, a

knight, pure and without reproach, this tale of a poor woman! The same

day you actually _see_ her; you are attracted by her beauty, her

fantastic, almost demoniacal, beauty—(I admit her beauty, of course).

“Add to all this your nervous nature, your epilepsy, and your sudden

arrival in a strange town—the day of meetings and of exciting scenes,

the day of unexpected acquaintanceships, the day of sudden actions, the

day of meeting with the three lovely Epanchin girls, and among them

Aglaya—add your fatigue, your excitement; add Nastasia’ s evening

party, and the tone of that party, and—what were you to expect of

yourself at such a moment as that?”

“Yes, yes, yes!” said the prince, once more, nodding his head, and

blushing slightly. “Yes, it was so, or nearly so—I know it. And

besides, you see, I had not slept the night before, in the train, or

the night before that, either, and I was very tired.”

“Of course, of course, quite so; that’s what I am driving at!”

continued Evgenie, excitedly. “It is as clear as possible, and most

comprehensible, that you, in your enthusiasm, should plunge headlong

into the first chance that came of publicly airing your great idea that

you, a prince, and a pure-living man, did not consider a woman

disgraced if the sin were not her own, but that of a disgusting social

libertine! Oh, heavens! it’s comprehensible enough, my dear prince, but

that is not the question, unfortunately! The question is, was there any

reality and truth in your feelings? Was it nature, or nothing but

intellectual enthusiasm? What do you think yourself? We are told, of

course, that a far worse woman was _forgiven_, but we don’t find that

she was told that she had done well, or that she was worthy of honour

and respect! Did not your common-sense show you what was the real state

of the case, a few months later? The question is now, not whether she

is an innocent woman (I do not insist one way or the other—I do not

wish to); but can her whole career justify such intolerable pride, such

insolent, rapacious egotism as she has shown? Forgive me, I am too

violent, perhaps, but—”

“Yes—I dare say it is all as you say; I dare say you are quite right,”

muttered the prince once more. “She is very sensitive and easily put

out, of course; but still, she...”

“She is worthy of sympathy? Is that what you wished to say, my good

fellow? But then, for the mere sake of vindicating her worthiness of

sympathy, you should not have insulted and offended a noble and

generous girl in her presence! This is a terrible exaggeration of

sympathy! How can you love a girl, and yet so humiliate her as to throw

her over for the sake of another woman, before the very eyes of that

other woman, when you have already made her a formal proposal of

marriage? And you _did_ propose to her, you know; you did so before her

parents and sisters. Can you be an honest man, prince, if you act so? I

ask you! And did you not deceive that beautiful girl when you assured

her of your love?”

“Yes, you are quite right. Oh! I feel that I am very guilty!” said

Muishkin, in deepest distress.

“But as if that is enough!” cried Evgenie, indignantly. “As if it is

enough simply to say: ‘I know I am very guilty!’ You are to blame, and

yet you persevere in evil-doing. Where was your heart, I should like to

know, your _christian heart_, all that time? Did she look as though she

were suffering less, at that moment? You saw her face—was she suffering

less than the other woman? How could you see her suffering and allow it

to continue? How could you?”

“But I did not allow it,” murmured the wretched prince.

“How—what do you mean you didn’t allow?”

“Upon my word, I didn’t! To this moment I don’t know how it all

happened. I—I ran after Aglaya Ivanovna, but Nastasia Philipovna fell

down in a faint; and since that day they won’t let me see Aglaya—that’s

all I know.”

“It’s all the same; you ought to have run after Aglaya though the other

was fainting.”

“Yes, yes, I ought—but I couldn’t! She would have died—she would have

killed herself. You don’t know her; and I should have told Aglaya

everything afterwards—but I see, Evgenie Pavlovitch, you don’t know

all. Tell me now, why am I not allowed to see Aglaya? I should have

cleared it all up, you know. Neither of them kept to the real point,

you see. I could never explain what I mean to you, but I think I could

to Aglaya. Oh! my God, my God! You spoke just now of Aglaya’s face at

the moment when she ran away. Oh, my God! I remember it! Come along,

come along—quick!” He pulled at Evgenie’s coat-sleeve nervously and

excitedly, and rose from his chair.

“Where to?”

“Come to Aglaya—quick, quick!”

“But I told you she is not at Pavlofsk. And what would be the use if

she were?”

“Oh, she’ll understand, she’ll understand!” cried the prince, clasping

his hands. “She would understand that all this is not the point—not a

bit the real point—it is quite foreign to the real question.”

“How can it be foreign? You _are_ going to be married, are you not?

Very well, then you are persisting in your course. _Are_ you going to

marry her or not?”

“Yes, I shall marry her—yes.”

“Then why is it ‘not the point’?”

“Oh, no, it is not the point, not a bit. It makes no difference, my

marrying her—it means nothing.”

“How ‘means nothing’? You are talking nonsense, my friend. You are

marrying the woman you love in order to secure her happiness, and

Aglaya sees and knows it. How can you say that it’s ‘not the point’?”

“Her happiness? Oh, no! I am only marrying her—well, because she wished

it. It means nothing—it’s all the same. She would certainly have died.

I see now that that marriage with Rogojin was an insane idea. I

understand all now that I did not understand before; and, do you know,

when those two stood opposite to one another, I could not bear Nastasia

Philipovna’s face! You must know, Evgenie Pavlovitch, I have never told

anyone before—not even Aglaya—that I cannot bear Nastasia Philipovna’s

face.” (He lowered his voice mysteriously as he said this.) “You

described that evening at Nastasia Philipovna’s (six months since) very

accurately just now; but there is one thing which you did not mention,

and of which you took no account, because you do not know. I mean her

_face_—I looked at her face, you see. Even in the morning when I saw

her portrait, I felt that I could not _bear_ to look at it. Now,

there’s Vera Lebedeff, for instance, her eyes are quite different, you

know. I’m _afraid_ of her face!” he added, with real alarm.

“You are _afraid_ of it?”

“Yes—she’s mad!” he whispered, growing pale.

“Do you know this for certain?” asked Evgenie, with the greatest

curiosity.

“Yes, for certain—quite for certain, now! I have discovered it

_absolutely_ for certain, these last few days.”

“What are you doing, then?” cried Evgenie, in horror. “You must be

marrying her solely out of _fear_, then! I can’t make head or tail of

it, prince. Perhaps you don’t even love her?”

“Oh, no; I love her with all my soul. Why, she is a child! She’s a

child now—a real child. Oh! you know nothing about it at all, I see.”

“And are you assured, at the same time, that you love Aglaya too?”

“Yes—yes—oh; yes!”

“How so? Do you want to make out that you love them _both?_”

“Yes—yes—both! I do!”

“Excuse me, prince, but think what you are saying! Recollect yourself!”

“Without Aglaya—I—I _must_ see Aglaya!—I shall die in my sleep very

soon—I thought I was dying in my sleep last night. Oh! if Aglaya only

knew all—I mean really, _really_ all! Because she must know

_all_—that’s the first condition towards understanding. Why cannot we

ever know all about another, especially when that other has been

guilty? But I don’t know what I’m talking about—I’m so confused. You

pained me so dreadfully. Surely—surely Aglaya has not the same

expression now as she had at the moment when she ran away? Oh, yes! I

am guilty and I know it—I know it! Probably I am in fault all round—I

don’t quite know how—but I am in fault, no doubt. There is something

else, but I cannot explain it to you, Evgenie Pavlovitch. I have no

words; but Aglaya will understand. I have always believed Aglaya will

understand—I am assured she will.”

“No, prince, she will not. Aglaya loved like a woman, like a human

being, not like an abstract spirit. Do you know what, my poor prince?

The most probable explanation of the matter is that you never loved

either the one or the other in reality.”

“I don’t know—perhaps you are right in much that you have said, Evgenie

Pavlovitch. You are very wise, Evgenie Pavlovitch—oh! how my head is

beginning to ache again! Come to her, quick—for God’s sake, come!”

“But I tell you she is not in Pavlofsk! She’s in Colmina.”

“Oh, come to Colmina, then! Come—let us go at once!”

“No—no, impossible!” said Evgenie, rising.

“Look here—I’ll write a letter—take a letter for me!”

“No—no, prince; you must forgive me, but I can’t undertake any such

commissions! I really can’t.”

And so they parted.

Evgenie Pavlovitch left the house with strange convictions. He, too,

felt that the prince must be out of his mind.

“And what did he mean by that _face_—a face which he so fears, and yet

so loves? And meanwhile he really may die, as he says, without seeing

Aglaya, and she will never know how devotedly he loves her! Ha, ha, ha!

How does the fellow manage to love two of them? Two different kinds of

love, I suppose! This is very interesting—poor idiot! What on earth

will become of him now?”

X.

The prince did not die before his wedding—either by day or night, as he

had foretold that he might. Very probably he passed disturbed nights,

and was afflicted with bad dreams; but, during the daytime, among his

fellow-men, he seemed as kind as ever, and even contented; only a

little thoughtful when alone.

The wedding was hurried on. The day was fixed for exactly a week after

Evgenie’s visit to the prince. In the face of such haste as this, even

the prince’s best friends (if he had had any) would have felt the

hopelessness of any attempt to save “the poor madman.” Rumour said that

in the visit of Evgenie Pavlovitch was to be discerned the influence of

Lizabetha Prokofievna and her husband... But if those good souls, in

the boundless kindness of their hearts, were desirous of saving the

eccentric young fellow from ruin, they were unable to take any stronger

measures to attain that end. Neither their position, nor their private

inclination, perhaps (and only naturally), would allow them to use any

more pronounced means.

We have observed before that even some of the prince’s nearest

neighbours had begun to oppose him. Vera Lebedeff’s passive

disagreement was limited to the shedding of a few solitary tears; to

more frequent sitting alone at home, and to a diminished frequency in

her visits to the prince’s apartments.

Colia was occupied with his father at this time. The old man died

during a second stroke, which took place just eight days after the

first. The prince showed great sympathy in the grief of the family, and

during the first days of their mourning he was at the house a great

deal with Nina Alexandrovna. He went to the funeral, and it was

observable that the public assembled in church greeted his arrival and

departure with whisperings, and watched him closely.

The same thing happened in the park and in the street, wherever he

went. He was pointed out when he drove by, and he often overheard the

name of Nastasia Philipovna coupled with his own as he passed. People

looked out for her at the funeral, too, but she was not there; and

another conspicuous absentee was the captain’s widow, whom Lebedeff had

prevented from coming.

The funeral service produced a great effect on the prince. He whispered

to Lebedeff that this was the first time he had ever heard a Russian

funeral service since he was a little boy. Observing that he was

looking about him uneasily, Lebedeff asked him whom he was seeking.

“Nothing. I only thought I—”

“Is it Rogojin?”

“Why—is he here?”

“Yes, he’s in church.”

“I thought I caught sight of his eyes!” muttered the prince, in

confusion. “But what of it!—Why is he here? Was he asked?”

“Oh, dear, no! Why, they don’t even know him! Anyone can come in, you

know. Why do you look so amazed? I often meet him; I’ve seen him at

least four times, here at Pavlofsk, within the last week.”

“I haven’t seen him once—since that day!” the prince murmured.

As Nastasia Philipovna had not said a word about having met Rogojin

since “that day,” the prince concluded that the latter had his own

reasons for wishing to keep out of sight. All the day of the funeral

our hero was in a deeply thoughtful state, while Nastasia Philipovna

was particularly merry, both in the daytime and in the evening.

Colia had made it up with the prince before his father’s death, and it

was he who urged him to make use of Keller and Burdovsky, promising to

answer himself for the former’s behaviour. Nina Alexandrovna and

Lebedeff tried to persuade him to have the wedding in St. Petersburg,

instead of in the public fashion contemplated, down here at Pavlofsk in

the height of the season. But the prince only said that Nastasia

Philipovna desired to have it so, though he saw well enough what

prompted their arguments.

The next day Keller came to visit the prince. He was in a high state of

delight with the post of honour assigned to him at the wedding.

Before entering he stopped on the threshold, raised his hand as if

making a solemn vow, and cried:

“I won’t drink!”

Then he went up to the prince, seized both his hands, shook them

warmly, and declared that he had at first felt hostile towards the

project of this marriage, and had openly said so in the billiard-rooms,

but that the reason simply was that, with the impatience of a friend,

he had hoped to see the prince marry at least a Princess de Rohan or de

Chabot; but that now he saw that the prince’s way of thinking was ten

times more noble than that of “all the rest put together.” For he

desired neither pomp nor wealth nor honour, but only the truth! The

sympathies of exalted personages were well known, and the prince was

too highly placed by his education, and so on, not to be in some sense

an exalted personage!

“But all the common herd judge differently; in the town, at the

meetings, in the villas, at the band, in the inns and the

billiard-rooms, the coming event has only to be mentioned and there are

shouts and cries from everybody. I have even heard talk of getting up a

‘charivari’ under the windows on the wedding-night. So if ‘you have

need of the pistol’ of an honest man, prince, I am ready to fire half a

dozen shots even before you rise from your nuptial couch!”

Keller also advised, in anticipation of the crowd making a rush after

the ceremony, that a fire-hose should be placed at the entrance to the

house; but Lebedeff was opposed to this measure, which he said might

result in the place being pulled down.

“I assure you, prince, that Lebedeff is intriguing against you. He

wants to put you under control. Imagine that! To take ‘from you the use

of your free-will and your money’—that is to say, the two things that

distinguish us from the animals! I have heard it said positively. It is

the sober truth.”

The prince recollected that somebody had told him something of the kind

before, and he had, of course, scoffed at it. He only laughed now, and

forgot the hint at once.

Lebedeff really had been busy for some little while; but, as usual, his

plans had become too complex to succeed, through sheer excess of

ardour. When he came to the prince—the very day before the wedding—to

confess (for he always confessed to the persons against whom he

intrigued, especially when the plan failed), he informed our hero that

he himself was a born Talleyrand, but for some unknown reason had

become simple Lebedeff. He then proceeded to explain his whole game to

the prince, interesting the latter exceedingly.

According to Lebedeff’s account, he had first tried what he could do

with General Epanchin. The latter informed him that he wished well to

the unfortunate young man, and would gladly do what he could to “save

him,” but that he did not think it would be seemly for him to interfere

in this matter. Lizabetha Prokofievna would neither hear nor see him.

Prince S. and Evgenie Pavlovitch only shrugged their shoulders, and

implied that it was no business of theirs. However, Lebedeff had not

lost heart, and went off to a clever lawyer,—a worthy and respectable

man, whom he knew well. This old gentleman informed him that the thing

was perfectly feasible if he could get hold of competent witnesses as

to Muishkin’s mental incapacity. Then, with the assistance of a few

influential persons, he would soon see the matter arranged.

Lebedeff immediately procured the services of an old doctor, and

carried the latter away to Pavlofsk to see the prince, by way of

viewing the ground, as it were, and to give him (Lebedeff) counsel as

to whether the thing was to be done or not. The visit was not to be

official, but merely friendly.

Muishkin remembered the doctor’s visit quite well. He remembered that

Lebedeff had said that he looked ill, and had better see a doctor; and

although the prince scouted the idea, Lebedeff had turned up almost

immediately with his old friend, explaining that they had just met at

the bedside of Hippolyte, who was very ill, and that the doctor had

something to tell the prince about the sick man.

The prince had, of course, at once received him, and had plunged into a

conversation about Hippolyte. He had given the doctor an account of

Hippolyte’s attempted suicide; and had proceeded thereafter to talk of

his own malady,—of Switzerland, of Schneider, and so on; and so deeply

was the old man interested by the prince’s conversation and his

description of Schneider’s system, that he sat on for two hours.

Muishkin gave him excellent cigars to smoke, and Lebedeff, for his

part, regaled him with liqueurs, brought in by Vera, to whom the

doctor—a married man and the father of a family—addressed such

compliments that she was filled with indignation. They parted friends,

and, after leaving the prince, the doctor said to Lebedeff: “If all

such people were put under restraint, there would be no one left for

keepers.” Lebedeff then, in tragic tones, told of the approaching

marriage, whereupon the other nodded his head and replied that, after

all, marriages like that were not so rare; that he had heard that the

lady was very fascinating and of extraordinary beauty, which was enough

to explain the infatuation of a wealthy man; that, further, thanks to

the liberality of Totski and of Rogojin, she possessed—so he had

heard—not only money, but pearls, diamonds, shawls, and furniture, and

consequently she could not be considered a bad match. In brief, it

seemed to the doctor that the prince’s choice, far from being a sign of

foolishness, denoted, on the contrary, a shrewd, calculating, and

practical mind. Lebedeff had been much struck by this point of view,

and he terminated his confession by assuring the prince that he was

ready, if need be, to shed his very life’s blood for him.

Hippolyte, too, was a source of some distraction to the prince at this

time; he would send for him at any and every hour of the day. They

lived,—Hippolyte and his mother and the children,—in a small house not

far off, and the little ones were happy, if only because they were able

to escape from the invalid into the garden. The prince had enough to do

in keeping the peace between the irritable Hippolyte and his mother,

and eventually the former became so malicious and sarcastic on the

subject of the approaching wedding, that Muishkin took offence at last,

and refused to continue his visits.

A couple of days later, however, Hippolyte’s mother came with tears in

her eyes, and begged the prince to come back, “or _he_ would eat her up

bodily.” She added that Hippolyte had a great secret to disclose. Of

course the prince went. There was no secret, however, unless we reckon

certain pantings and agitated glances around (probably all put on) as

the invalid begged his visitor to “beware of Rogojin.”

“He is the sort of man,” he continued, “who won’t give up his object,

you know; he is not like you and me, prince—he belongs to quite a

different order of beings. If he sets his heart on a thing he won’t be

afraid of anything—” and so on.

Hippolyte was very ill, and looked as though he could not long survive.

He was tearful at first, but grew more and more sarcastic and malicious

as the interview proceeded.

The prince questioned him in detail as to his hints about Rogojin. He

was anxious to seize upon some facts which might confirm Hippolyte’s

vague warnings; but there were none; only Hippolyte’s own private

impressions and feelings.

However, the invalid—to his immense satisfaction—ended by seriously

alarming the prince.

At first Muishkin had not cared to make any reply to his sundry

questions, and only smiled in response to Hippolyte’s advice to “run

for his life—abroad, if necessary. There are Russian priests

everywhere, and one can get married all over the world.”

But it was Hippolyte’s last idea which upset him.

“What I am really alarmed about, though,” he said, “is Aglaya Ivanovna.

Rogojin knows how you love her. Love for love. You took Nastasia

Philipovna from him. He will murder Aglaya Ivanovna; for though she is

not yours, of course, now, still such an act would pain you,—wouldn’t

it?”

He had attained his end. The prince left the house beside himself with

terror.

These warnings about Rogojin were expressed on the day before the

wedding. That evening the prince saw Nastasia Philipovna for the last

time before they were to meet at the altar; but Nastasia was not in a

position to give him any comfort or consolation. On the contrary, she

only added to his mental perturbation as the evening went on. Up to

this time she had invariably done her best to cheer him—she was afraid

of his looking melancholy; she would try singing to him, and telling

him every sort of funny story or reminiscence that she could recall.

The prince nearly always pretended to be amused, whether he were so

actually or no; but often enough he laughed sincerely, delighted by the

brilliancy of her wit when she was carried away by her narrative, as

she very often was. Nastasia would be wild with joy to see the

impression she had made, and to hear his laugh of real amusement; and

she would remain the whole evening in a state of pride and happiness.

But this evening her melancholy and thoughtfulness grew with every

hour.

The prince had told Evgenie Pavlovitch with perfect sincerity that he

loved Nastasia Philipovna with all his soul. In his love for her there

was the sort of tenderness one feels for a sick, unhappy child which

cannot be left alone. He never spoke of his feelings for Nastasia to

anyone, not even to herself. When they were together they never

discussed their “feelings,” and there was nothing in their cheerful,

animated conversation which an outsider could not have heard. Daria

Alexeyevna, with whom Nastasia was staying, told afterwards how she had

been filled with joy and delight only to look at them, all this time.

Thanks to the manner in which he regarded Nastasia’s mental and moral

condition, the prince was to some extent freed from other perplexities.

She was now quite different from the woman he had known three months

before. He was not astonished, for instance, to see her now so

impatient to marry him—she who formerly had wept with rage and hurled

curses and reproaches at him if he mentioned marriage! “It shows that

she no longer fears, as she did then, that she would make me unhappy by

marrying me,” he thought. And he felt sure that so sudden a change

could not be a natural one. This rapid growth of self-confidence could

not be due only to her hatred for Aglaya. To suppose that would be to

suspect the depth of her feelings. Nor could it arise from dread of the

fate that awaited her if she married Rogojin. These causes, indeed, as

well as others, might have played a part in it, but the true reason,

Muishkin decided, was the one he had long suspected—that the poor sick

soul had come to the end of its forces. Yet this was an explanation

that did not procure him any peace of mind. At times he seemed to be

making violent efforts to think of nothing, and one would have said

that he looked on his marriage as an unimportant formality, and on his

future happiness as a thing not worth considering. As to conversations

such as the one held with Evgenie Pavlovitch, he avoided them as far as

possible, feeling that there were certain objections to which he could

make no answer.

The prince had observed that Nastasia knew well enough what Aglaya was

to him. He never spoke of it, but he had seen her face when she had

caught him starting off for the Epanchins’ house on several occasions.

When the Epanchins left Pavlofsk, she had beamed with radiance and

happiness. Unsuspicious and unobservant as he was, he had feared at

that time that Nastasia might have some scheme in her mind for a scene

or scandal which would drive Aglaya out of Pavlofsk. She had encouraged

the rumours and excitement among the inhabitants of the place as to her

marriage with the prince, in order to annoy her rival; and, finding it

difficult to meet the Epanchins anywhere, she had, on one occasion,

taken him for a drive past their house. He did not observe what was

happening until they were almost passing the windows, when it was too

late to do anything. He said nothing, but for two days afterwards he

was ill.

Nastasia did not try that particular experiment again. A few days

before that fixed for the wedding, she grew grave and thoughtful. She

always ended by getting the better of her melancholy, and becoming

merry and cheerful again, but not quite so unaffectedly happy as she

had been some days earlier.

The prince redoubled his attentive study of her symptoms. It was a most

curious circumstance, in his opinion, that she never spoke of Rogojin.

But once, about five days before the wedding, when the prince was at

home, a messenger arrived begging him to come at once, as Nastasia

Philipovna was very ill.

He had found her in a condition approaching to absolute madness. She

screamed, and trembled, and cried out that Rogojin was hiding out there

in the garden—that she had seen him herself—and that he would murder

her in the night—that he would cut her throat. She was terribly

agitated all day. But it so happened that the prince called at

Hippolyte’s house later on, and heard from his mother that she had been

in town all day, and had there received a visit from Rogojin, who had

made inquiries about Pavlofsk. On inquiry, it turned out that Rogojin

visited the old lady in town at almost the same moment when Nastasia

declared that she had seen him in the garden; so that the whole thing

turned out to be an illusion on her part. Nastasia immediately went

across to Hippolyte’s to inquire more accurately, and returned

immensely relieved and comforted.

On the day before the wedding, the prince left Nastasia in a state of

great animation. Her wedding-dress and all sorts of finery had just

arrived from town. Muishkin had not imagined that she would be so

excited over it, but he praised everything, and his praise rendered her

doubly happy.

But Nastasia could not hide the cause of her intense interest in her

wedding splendour. She had heard of the indignation in the town, and

knew that some of the populace was getting up a sort of charivari with

music, that verses had been composed for the occasion, and that the

rest of Pavlofsk society more or less encouraged these preparations.

So, since attempts were being made to humiliate her, she wanted to hold

her head even higher than usual, and to overwhelm them all with the

beauty and taste of her toilette. “Let them shout and whistle, if they

dare!” Her eyes flashed at the thought. But, underneath this, she had

another motive, of which she did not speak. She thought that possibly

Aglaya, or at any rate someone sent by her, would be present incognito

at the ceremony, or in the crowd, and she wished to be prepared for

this eventuality.

The prince left her at eleven, full of these thoughts, and went home.

But it was not twelve o’clock when a messenger came to say that

Nastasia was very bad, and he must come at once.

On hurrying back he found his bride locked up in her own room and could

hear her hysterical cries and sobs. It was some time before she could

be made to hear that the prince had come, and then she opened the door

only just sufficiently to let him in, and immediately locked it behind

him. She then fell on her knees at his feet. (So at least Dana

Alexeyevna reported.)

“What am I doing? What am I doing to you?” she sobbed convulsively,

embracing his knees.

The prince was a whole hour soothing and comforting her, and left her,

at length, pacified and composed. He sent another messenger during the

night to inquire after her, and two more next morning. The last brought

back a message that Nastasia was surrounded by a whole army of

dressmakers and maids, and was as happy and as busy as such a beauty

should be on her wedding morning, and that there was not a vestige of

yesterday’s agitation remaining. The message concluded with the news

that at the moment of the bearer’s departure there was a great

confabulation in progress as to which diamonds were to be worn, and

how.

This message entirely calmed the prince’s mind.

The following report of the proceedings on the wedding day may be

depended upon, as coming from eye-witnesses.

The wedding was fixed for eight o’clock in the evening. Nastasia

Philipovna was ready at seven. From six o’clock groups of people began

to gather at Nastasia’s house, at the prince’s, and at the church door,

but more especially at the former place. The church began to fill at

seven.

Colia and Vera Lebedeff were very anxious on the prince’s account, but

they were so busy over the arrangements for receiving the guests after

the wedding, that they had not much time for the indulgence of personal

feelings.

There were to be very few guests besides the best men and so on; only

Dana Alexeyevna, the Ptitsins, Gania, and the doctor. When the prince

asked Lebedeff why he had invited the doctor, who was almost a

stranger, Lebedeff replied:

“Why, he wears an ‘order,’ and it looks so well!”

This idea amused the prince.

Keller and Burdovsky looked wonderfully correct in their dress-coats

and white kid gloves, although Keller caused the bridegroom some alarm

by his undisguisedly hostile glances at the gathering crowd of

sight-seers outside.

At about half-past seven the prince started for the church in his

carriage.

We may remark here that he seemed anxious not to omit a single one of

the recognized customs and traditions observed at weddings. He wished

all to be done as openly as possible, and “in due order.”

Arrived at the church, Muishkin, under Keller’s guidance, passed

through the crowd of spectators, amid continuous whispering and excited

exclamations. The prince stayed near the altar, while Keller made off

once more to fetch the bride.

On reaching the gate of Daria Alexeyevna’s house, Keller found a far

denser crowd than he had encountered at the prince’s. The remarks and

exclamations of the spectators here were of so irritating a nature that

Keller was very near making them a speech on the impropriety of their

conduct, but was luckily caught by Burdovsky, in the act of turning to

address them, and hurried indoors.

Nastasia Philipovna was ready. She rose from her seat, looked into the

glass and remarked, as Keller told the tale afterwards, that she was

“as pale as a corpse.” She then bent her head reverently, before the

ikon in the corner, and left the room.

A torrent of voices greeted her appearance at the front door. The crowd

whistled, clapped its hands, and laughed and shouted; but in a moment

or two isolated voices were distinguishable.

“What a beauty!” cried one.

“Well, she isn’t the first in the world, nor the last,” said another.

“Marriage covers everything,” observed a third.

“I defy you to find another beauty like that,” said a fourth.

“She’s a real princess! I’d sell my soul for such a princess as that!”

Nastasia came out of the house looking as white as any handkerchief;

but her large dark eyes shone upon the vulgar crowd like blazing coals.

The spectators’ cries were redoubled, and became more exultant and

triumphant every moment. The door of the carriage was open, and Keller

had given his hand to the bride to help her in, when suddenly with a

loud cry she rushed from him, straight into the surging crowd. Her

friends about her were stupefied with amazement; the crowd parted as

she rushed through it, and suddenly, at a distance of five or six yards

from the carriage, appeared Rogojin. It was his look that had caught

her eyes.

Nastasia rushed to him like a madwoman, and seized both his hands.

“Save me!” she cried. “Take me away, anywhere you like, quick!”

Rogojin seized her in his arms and almost carried her to the carriage.

Then, in a flash, he tore a hundred-rouble note out of his pocket and

held it to the coachman.

“To the station, quick! If you catch the train you shall have another.

Quick!”

He leaped into the carriage after Nastasia and banged the door. The

coachman did not hesitate a moment; he whipped up the horses, and they

were off.

“One more second and I should have stopped him,” said Keller,

afterwards. In fact, he and Burdovsky jumped into another carriage and

set off in pursuit; but it struck them as they drove along that it was

not much use trying to bring Nastasia back by force.

“Besides,” said Burdovsky, “the prince would not like it, would he?” So

they gave up the pursuit.

Rogojin and Nastasia Philipovna reached the station just in time for

the train. As he jumped out of the carriage and was almost on the point

of entering the train, Rogojin accosted a young girl standing on the

platform and wearing an old-fashioned, but respectable-looking, black

cloak and a silk handkerchief over her head.

“Take fifty roubles for your cloak?” he shouted, holding the money out

to the girl. Before the astonished young woman could collect her

scattered senses, he pushed the money into her hand, seized the mantle,

and threw it and the handkerchief over Nastasia’s head and shoulders.

The latter’s wedding-array would have attracted too much attention, and

it was not until some time later that the girl understood why her old

cloak and kerchief had been bought at such a price.

The news of what had happened reached the church with extraordinary

rapidity. When Keller arrived, a host of people whom he did not know

thronged around to ask him questions. There was much excited talking,

and shaking of heads, even some laughter; but no one left the church,

all being anxious to observe how the now celebrated bridegroom would

take the news. He grew very pale upon hearing it, but took it quite

quietly.

“I was afraid,” he muttered, scarcely audibly, “but I hardly thought it

would come to this.” Then after a short silence, he added: “However, in

her state, it is quite consistent with the natural order of things.”

Even Keller admitted afterwards that this was “extraordinarily

philosophical” on the prince’s part. He left the church quite calm, to

all appearances, as many witnesses were found to declare afterwards. He

seemed anxious to reach home and be left alone as quickly as possible;

but this was not to be. He was accompanied by nearly all the invited

guests, and besides this, the house was almost besieged by excited

bands of people, who insisted upon being allowed to enter the verandah.

The prince heard Keller and Lebedeff remonstrating and quarrelling with

these unknown individuals, and soon went out himself. He approached the

disturbers of his peace, requested courteously to be told what was

desired; then politely putting Lebedeff and Keller aside, he addressed

an old gentleman who was standing on the verandah steps at the head of

the band of would-be guests, and courteously requested him to honour

him with a visit. The old fellow was quite taken aback by this, but

entered, followed by a few more, who tried to appear at their ease. The

rest remained outside, and presently the whole crowd was censuring

those who had accepted the invitation. The prince offered seats to his

strange visitors, tea was served, and a general conversation sprang up.

Everything was done most decorously, to the considerable surprise of

the intruders. A few tentative attempts were made to turn the

conversation to the events of the day, and a few indiscreet questions

were asked; but Muishkin replied to everybody with such simplicity and

good-humour, and at the same time with so much dignity, and showed such

confidence in the good breeding of his guests, that the indiscreet

talkers were quickly silenced. By degrees the conversation became

almost serious. One gentleman suddenly exclaimed, with great vehemence:

“Whatever happens, I shall not sell my property; I shall wait.

Enterprise is better than money, and there, sir, you have my whole

system of economy, if you wish!” He addressed the prince, who warmly

commended his sentiments, though Lebedeff whispered in his ear that

this gentleman, who talked so much of his “property,” had never had

either house or home.

Nearly an hour passed thus, and when tea was over the visitors seemed

to think that it was time to go. As they went out, the doctor and the

old gentleman bade Muishkin a warm farewell, and all the rest took

their leave with hearty protestations of good-will, dropping remarks to

the effect that “it was no use worrying,” and that “perhaps all would

turn out for the best,” and so on. Some of the younger intruders would

have asked for champagne, but they were checked by the older ones. When

all had departed, Keller leaned over to Lebedeff, and said:

“With you and me there would have been a scene. We should have shouted

and fought, and called in the police. But he has simply made some new

friends—and such friends, too! I know them!”

Lebedeff, who was slightly intoxicated, answered with a sigh:

“Things are hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed unto babes.

I have applied those words to him before, but now I add that God has

preserved the babe himself from the abyss, He and all His saints.”

At last, about half-past ten, the prince was left alone. His head

ached. Colia was the last to go, after having helped him to change his

wedding clothes. They parted on affectionate terms, and, without

speaking of what had happened, Colia promised to come very early the

next day. He said later that the prince had given no hint of his

intentions when they said good-bye, but had hidden them even from him.

Soon there was hardly anyone left in the house. Burdovsky had gone to

see Hippolyte; Keller and Lebedeff had wandered off together somewhere.

Only Vera Lebedeff remained hurriedly rearranging the furniture in the

rooms. As she left the verandah, she glanced at the prince. He was

seated at the table, with both elbows upon it, and his head resting on

his hands. She approached him, and touched his shoulder gently. The

prince started and looked at her in perplexity; he seemed to be

collecting his senses for a minute or so, before he could remember

where he was. As recollection dawned upon him, he became violently

agitated. All he did, however, was to ask Vera very earnestly to knock

at his door and awake him in time for the first train to Petersburg

next morning. Vera promised, and the prince entreated her not to tell

anyone of his intention. She promised this, too; and at last, when she

had half-closed the door, he called her back a third time, took her

hands in his, kissed them, then kissed her forehead, and in a rather

peculiar manner said to her, “Until tomorrow!”

Such was Vera’s story afterwards.

She went away in great anxiety about him, but when she saw him in the

morning, he seemed to be quite himself again, greeted her with a smile,

and told her that he would very likely be back by the evening. It

appears that he did not consider it necessary to inform anyone

excepting Vera of his departure for town.

XI.

An hour later he was in St. Petersburg, and by ten o’clock he had rung

the bell at Rogojin’s.

He had gone to the front door, and was kept waiting a long while before

anyone came. At last the door of old Mrs. Rogojin’s flat was opened,

and an aged servant appeared.

“Parfen Semionovitch is not at home,” she announced from the doorway.

“Whom do you want?”

“Parfen Semionovitch.”

“He is not in.”

The old woman examined the prince from head to foot with great

curiosity.

“At all events tell me whether he slept at home last night, and whether

he came alone?”

The old woman continued to stare at him, but said nothing.

“Was not Nastasia Philipovna here with him, yesterday evening?”

“And, pray, who are you yourself?”

“Prince Lef Nicolaievitch Muishkin; he knows me well.”

“He is not at home.”

The woman lowered her eyes.

“And Nastasia Philipovna?”

“I know nothing about it.”

“Stop a minute! When will he come back?”

“I don’t know that either.”

The door was shut with these words, and the old woman disappeared. The

prince decided to come back within an hour. Passing out of the house,

he met the porter.

“Is Parfen Semionovitch at home?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Why did they tell me he was not at home, then?”

“Where did they tell you so,—at his door?”

“No, at his mother’s flat; I rang at Parfen Semionovitch’s door and

nobody came.”

“Well, he may have gone out. I can’t tell. Sometimes he takes the keys

with him, and leaves the rooms empty for two or three days.”

“Do you know for certain that he was at home last night?”

“Yes, he was.”

“Was Nastasia Philipovna with him?”

“I don’t know; she doesn’t come often. I think I should have known if

she had come.”

The prince went out deep in thought, and walked up and down the

pavement for some time. The windows of all the rooms occupied by

Rogojin were closed, those of his mother’s apartments were open. It was

a hot, bright day. The prince crossed the road in order to have a good

look at the windows again; not only were Rogojin’s closed, but the

white blinds were all down as well.

He stood there for a minute and then, suddenly and strangely enough, it

seemed to him that a little corner of one of the blinds was lifted, and

Rogojin’s face appeared for an instant and then vanished. He waited

another minute, and decided to go and ring the bell once more; however,

he thought better of it again and put it off for an hour.

The chief object in his mind at this moment was to get as quickly as he

could to Nastasia Philipovna’s lodging. He remembered that, not long

since, when she had left Pavlofsk at his request, he had begged her to

put up in town at the house of a respectable widow, who had

well-furnished rooms to let, near the Ismailofsky barracks. Probably

Nastasia had kept the rooms when she came down to Pavlofsk this last

time; and most likely she would have spent the night in them, Rogojin

having taken her straight there from the station.

The prince took a droshky. It struck him as he drove on that he ought

to have begun by coming here, since it was most improbable that Rogojin

should have taken Nastasia to his own house last night. He remembered

that the porter said she very rarely came at all, so that it was still

less likely that she would have gone there so late at night.

Vainly trying to comfort himself with these reflections, the prince

reached the Ismailofsky barracks more dead than alive.

To his consternation the good people at the lodgings had not only heard

nothing of Nastasia, but all came out to look at him as if he were a

marvel of some sort. The whole family, of all ages, surrounded him, and

he was begged to enter. He guessed at once that they knew perfectly

well who he was, and that yesterday ought to have been his wedding-day;

and further that they were dying to ask about the wedding, and

especially about why he should be here now, inquiring for the woman who

in all reasonable human probability might have been expected to be with

him in Pavlofsk.

He satisfied their curiosity, in as few words as possible, with regard

to the wedding, but their exclamations and sighs were so numerous and

sincere that he was obliged to tell the whole story—in a short form, of

course. The advice of all these agitated ladies was that the prince

should go at once and knock at Rogojin’s until he was let in: and when

let in insist upon a substantial explanation of everything. If Rogojin

was really not at home, the prince was advised to go to a certain

house, the address of which was given, where lived a German lady, a

friend of Nastasia Philipovna’s. It was possible that she might have

spent the night there in her anxiety to conceal herself.

The prince rose from his seat in a condition of mental collapse. The

good ladies reported afterwards that “his pallor was terrible to see,

and his legs seemed to give way underneath him.” With difficulty he was

made to understand that his new friends would be glad of his address,

in order to act with him if possible. After a moment’s thought he gave

the address of the small hotel, on the stairs of which he had had a fit

some five weeks since. He then set off once more for Rogojin’s.

This time they neither opened the door at Rogojin’s flat nor at the one

opposite. The prince found the porter with difficulty, but when found,

the man would hardly look at him or answer his questions, pretending to

be busy. Eventually, however, he was persuaded to reply so far as to

state that Rogojin had left the house early in the morning and gone to

Pavlofsk, and that he would not return today at all.

“I shall wait; he may come back this evening.”

“He may not be home for a week.”

“Then, at all events, he _did_ sleep here, did he?”

“Well—he did sleep here, yes.”

All this was suspicious and unsatisfactory. Very likely the porter had

received new instructions during the interval of the prince’s absence;

his manner was so different now. He had been obliging—now he was as

obstinate and silent as a mule. However, the prince decided to call

again in a couple of hours, and after that to watch the house, in case

of need. His hope was that he might yet find Nastasia at the address

which he had just received. To that address he now set off at full

speed.

But alas! at the German lady’s house they did not even appear to

understand what he wanted. After a while, by means of certain hints, he

was able to gather that Nastasia must have had a quarrel with her

friend two or three weeks ago, since which date the latter had neither

heard nor seen anything of her. He was given to understand that the

subject of Nastasia’s present whereabouts was not of the slightest

interest to her; and that Nastasia might marry all the princes in the

world for all she cared! So Muishkin took his leave hurriedly. It

struck him now that she might have gone away to Moscow just as she had

done the last time, and that Rogojin had perhaps gone after her, or

even _with_ her. If only he could find some trace!

However, he must take his room at the hotel; and he started off in that

direction. Having engaged his room, he was asked by the waiter whether

he would take dinner; replying mechanically in the affirmative, he sat

down and waited; but it was not long before it struck him that dining

would delay him. Enraged at this idea, he started up, crossed the dark

passage (which filled him with horrible impressions and gloomy

forebodings), and set out once more for Rogojin’s. Rogojin had not

returned, and no one came to the door. He rang at the old lady’s door

opposite, and was informed that Parfen Semionovitch would not return

for three days. The curiosity with which the old servant stared at him

again impressed the prince disagreeably. He could not find the porter

this time at all.

As before, he crossed the street and watched the windows from the other

side, walking up and down in anguish of soul for half an hour or so in

the stifling heat. Nothing stirred; the blinds were motionless; indeed,

the prince began to think that the apparition of Rogojin’s face could

have been nothing but fancy. Soothed by this thought, he drove off once

more to his friends at the Ismailofsky barracks. He was expected there.

The mother had already been to three or four places to look for

Nastasia, but had not found a trace of any kind.

The prince said nothing, but entered the room, sat down silently, and

stared at them, one after the other, with the air of a man who cannot

understand what is being said to him. It was strange—one moment he

seemed to be so observant, the next so absent; his behaviour struck all

the family as most remarkable. At length he rose from his seat, and

begged to be shown Nastasia’s rooms. The ladies reported afterwards how

he had examined everything in the apartments. He observed an open book

on the table, Madam Bovary, and requested the leave of the lady of the

house to take it with him. He had turned down the leaf at the open

page, and pocketed it before they could explain that it was a library

book. He had then seated himself by the open window, and seeing a

card-table, he asked who played cards.

He was informed that Nastasia used to play with Rogojin every evening,

either at “preference” or “little fool,” or “whist”; that this had been

their practice since her last return from Pavlofsk; that she had taken

to this amusement because she did not like to see Rogojin sitting

silent and dull for whole evenings at a time; that the day after

Nastasia had made a remark to this effect, Rogojin had whipped a pack

of cards out of his pocket. Nastasia had laughed, but soon they began

playing. The prince asked where were the cards, but was told that

Rogojin used to bring a new pack every day, and always carried it away

in his pocket.

The good ladies recommended the prince to try knocking at Rogojin’s

once more—not at once, but in the evening. Meanwhile, the mother would

go to Pavlofsk to inquire at Dana Alexeyevna’s whether anything had

been heard of Nastasia there. The prince was to come back at ten

o’clock and meet her, to hear her news and arrange plans for the

morrow.

In spite of the kindly-meant consolations of his new friends, the

prince walked to his hotel in inexpressible anguish of spirit, through

the hot, dusty streets, aimlessly staring at the faces of those who

passed him. Arrived at his destination, he determined to rest awhile in

his room before he started for Rogojin’s once more. He sat down, rested

his elbows on the table and his head on his hands, and fell to

thinking.

Heaven knows how long and upon what subjects he thought. He thought of

many things—of Vera Lebedeff, and of her father; of Hippolyte; of

Rogojin himself, first at the funeral, then as he had met him in the

park, then, suddenly, as they had met in this very passage, outside,

when Rogojin had watched in the darkness and awaited him with uplifted

knife. The prince remembered his enemy’s eyes as they had glared at him

in the darkness. He shuddered, as a sudden idea struck him.

This idea was, that if Rogojin were in Petersburg, though he might hide

for a time, yet he was quite sure to come to him—the prince—before

long, with either good or evil intentions, but probably with the same

intention as on that other occasion. At all events, if Rogojin were to

come at all he would be sure to seek the prince here—he had no other

town address—perhaps in this same corridor; he might well seek him here

if he needed him. And perhaps he did need him. This idea seemed quite

natural to the prince, though he could not have explained why he should

so suddenly have become necessary to Rogojin. Rogojin would not come if

all were well with him, that was part of the thought; he would come if

all were not well; and certainly, undoubtedly, all would not be well

with him. The prince could not bear this new idea; he took his hat and

rushed out towards the street. It was almost dark in the passage.

“What if he were to come out of that corner as I go by and—and stop

me?” thought the prince, as he approached the familiar spot. But no one

came out.

He passed under the gateway and into the street. The crowds of people

walking about—as is always the case at sunset in Petersburg, during the

summer—surprised him, but he walked on in the direction of Rogojin’s

house.

About fifty yards from the hotel, at the first cross-road, as he passed

through the crowd of foot-passengers sauntering along, someone touched

his shoulder, and said in a whisper into his ear:

“Lef Nicolaievitch, my friend, come along with me.” It was Rogojin.

The prince immediately began to tell him, eagerly and joyfully, how he

had but the moment before expected to see him in the dark passage of

the hotel.

“I was there,” said Rogojin, unexpectedly. “Come along.” The prince was

surprised at this answer; but his astonishment increased a couple of

minutes afterwards, when he began to consider it. Having thought it

over, he glanced at Rogojin in alarm. The latter was striding along a

yard or so ahead, looking straight in front of him, and mechanically

making way for anyone he met.

“Why did you not ask for me at my room if you were in the hotel?” asked

the prince, suddenly.

Rogojin stopped and looked at him; then reflected, and replied as

though he had not heard the question:

“Look here, Lef Nicolaievitch, you go straight on to the house; I shall

walk on the other side. See that we keep together.”

So saying, Rogojin crossed the road.

Arrived on the opposite pavement, he looked back to see whether the

prince were moving, waved his hand in the direction of the Gorohovaya,

and strode on, looking across every moment to see whether Muishkin

understood his instructions. The prince supposed that Rogojin desired

to look out for someone whom he was afraid to miss; but if so, why had

he not told _him_ whom to look out for? So the two proceeded for half a

mile or so. Suddenly the prince began to tremble from some unknown

cause. He could not bear it, and signalled to Rogojin across the road.

The latter came at once.

“Is Nastasia Philipovna at your house?”

“Yes.”

“And was it you looked out of the window under the blind this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Then why did—”

But the prince could not finish his question; he did not know what to

say. Besides this, his heart was beating so that he found it difficult

to speak at all. Rogojin was silent also and looked at him as before,

with an expression of deep thoughtfulness.

“Well, I’m going,” he said, at last, preparing to recross the road.

“You go along here as before; we will keep to different sides of the

road; it’s better so, you’ll see.”

When they reached the Gorohovaya, and came near the house, the prince’s

legs were trembling so that he could hardly walk. It was about ten

o’clock. The old lady’s windows were open, as before; Rogojin’s were

all shut, and in the darkness the white blinds showed whiter than ever.

Rogojin and the prince each approached the house on his respective side

of the road; Rogojin, who was on the near side, beckoned the prince

across. He went over to the doorway.

“Even the porter does not know that I have come home now. I told him,

and told them at my mother’s too, that I was off to Pavlofsk,” said

Rogojin, with a cunning and almost satisfied smile. “We’ll go in

quietly and nobody will hear us.”

He had the key in his hand. Mounting the staircase he turned and

signalled to the prince to go more softly; he opened the door very

quietly, let the prince in, followed him, locked the door behind him,

and put the key in his pocket.

“Come along,” he whispered.

He had spoken in a whisper all the way. In spite of his apparent

outward composure, he was evidently in a state of great mental

agitation. Arrived in a large salon, next to the study, he went to the

window and cautiously beckoned the prince up to him.

“When you rang the bell this morning I thought it must be you. I went

to the door on tip-toe and heard you talking to the servant opposite. I

had told her before that if anyone came and rang—especially you, and I

gave her your name—she was not to tell about me. Then I thought, what

if he goes and stands opposite and looks up, or waits about to watch

the house? So I came to this very window, looked out, and there you

were staring straight at me. That’s how it came about.”

“Where is Nastasia Philipovna?” asked the prince, breathlessly.

“She’s here,” replied Rogojin, slowly, after a slight pause.

“Where?”

Rogojin raised his eyes and gazed intently at the prince.

“Come,” he said.

He continued to speak in a whisper, very deliberately as before, and

looked strangely thoughtful and dreamy. Even while he told the story of

how he had peeped through the blind, he gave the impression of wishing

to say something else. They entered the study. In this room some

changes had taken place since the prince last saw it. It was now

divided into two equal parts by a heavy green silk curtain stretched

across it, separating the alcove beyond, where stood Rogojin’s bed,

from the rest of the room.

The heavy curtain was drawn now, and it was very dark. The bright

Petersburg summer nights were already beginning to close in, and but

for the full moon, it would have been difficult to distinguish anything

in Rogojin’s dismal room, with the drawn blinds. They could just see

one anothers faces, however, though not in detail. Rogojin’s face was

white, as usual. His glittering eyes watched the prince with an intent

stare.

“Had you not better light a candle?” said Muishkin.

“No, I needn’t,” replied Rogojin, and taking the other by the hand he

drew him down to a chair. He himself took a chair opposite and drew it

up so close that he almost pressed against the prince’s knees. At their

side was a little round table.

“Sit down,” said Rogojin; “let’s rest a bit.” There was silence for a

moment.

“I knew you would be at that hotel,” he continued, just as men

sometimes commence a serious conversation by discussing any outside

subject before leading up to the main point. “As I entered the passage

it struck me that perhaps you were sitting and waiting for me, just as

I was waiting for you. Have you been to the old lady at Ismailofsky

barracks?”

“Yes,” said the prince, squeezing the word out with difficulty owing to

the dreadful beating of his heart.

“I thought you would. ‘They’ll talk about it,’ I thought; so I

determined to go and fetch you to spend the night here—‘We will be

together,’ I thought, ‘for this one night—’”

“Rogojin, _where_ is Nastasia Philipovna?” said the prince, suddenly

rising from his seat. He was quaking in all his limbs, and his words

came in a scarcely audible whisper. Rogojin rose also.

“There,” he whispered, nodding his head towards the curtain.

“Asleep?” whispered the prince.

Rogojin looked intently at him again, as before.

“Let’s go in—but you mustn’t—well—let’s go in.”

He lifted the curtain, paused—and turned to the prince. “Go in,” he

said, motioning him to pass behind the curtain. Muishkin went in.

“It’s so dark,” he said.

“You can see quite enough,” muttered Rogojin.

“I can just see there’s a bed—”

“Go nearer,” suggested Rogojin, softly.

The prince took a step forward—then another—and paused. He stood and

stared for a minute or two.

Neither of the men spoke a word while at the bedside. The prince’s

heart beat so loud that its knocking seemed to be distinctly audible in

the deathly silence.

But now his eyes had become so far accustomed to the darkness that he

could distinguish the whole of the bed. Someone was asleep upon it—in

an absolutely motionless sleep. Not the slightest movement was

perceptible, not the faintest breathing could be heard. The sleeper was

covered with a white sheet; the outline of the limbs was hardly

distinguishable. He could only just make out that a human being lay

outstretched there.

All around, on the bed, on a chair beside it, on the floor, were

scattered the different portions of a magnificent white silk dress,

bits of lace, ribbons and flowers. On a small table at the bedside

glittered a mass of diamonds, torn off and thrown down anyhow. From

under a heap of lace at the end of the bed peeped a small white foot,

which looked as though it had been chiselled out of marble; it was

terribly still.

The prince gazed and gazed, and felt that the more he gazed the more

death-like became the silence. Suddenly a fly awoke somewhere, buzzed

across the room, and settled on the pillow. The prince shuddered.

“Let’s go,” said Rogojin, touching his shoulder. They left the alcove

and sat down in the two chairs they had occupied before, opposite to

one another. The prince trembled more and more violently, and never

took his questioning eyes off Rogojin’s face.

“I see you are shuddering, Lef Nicolaievitch,” said the latter, at

length, “almost as you did once in Moscow, before your fit; don’t you

remember? I don’t know what I shall do with you—”

The prince bent forward to listen, putting all the strain he could

muster upon his understanding in order to take in what Rogojin said,

and continuing to gaze at the latter’s face.

“Was it you?” he muttered, at last, motioning with his head towards the

curtain.

“Yes, it was I,” whispered Rogojin, looking down.

Neither spoke for five minutes.

“Because, you know,” Rogojin recommenced, as though continuing a former

sentence, “if you were ill now, or had a fit, or screamed, or anything,

they might hear it in the yard, or even in the street, and guess that

someone was passing the night in the house. They would all come and

knock and want to come in, because they know I am not at home. I didn’t

light a candle for the same reason. When I am not here—for two or three

days at a time, now and then—no one comes in to tidy the house or

anything; those are my orders. So that I want them to not know we are

spending the night here—”

“Wait,” interrupted the prince. “I asked both the porter and the woman

whether Nastasia Philipovna had spent last night in the house; so they

knew—”

“I know you asked. I told them that she had called in for ten minutes,

and then gone straight back to Pavlofsk. No one knows she slept here.

Last night we came in just as carefully as you and I did today. I

thought as I came along with her that she would not like to creep in so

secretly, but I was quite wrong. She whispered, and walked on tip-toe;

she carried her skirt over her arm, so that it shouldn’t rustle, and

she held up her finger at me on the stairs, so that I shouldn’t make a

noise—it was you she was afraid of. She was mad with terror in the

train, and she begged me to bring her to this house. I thought of

taking her to her rooms at the Ismailofsky barracks first; but she

wouldn’t hear of it. She said, ‘No—not there; he’ll find me out at once

there. Take me to your own house, where you can hide me, and tomorrow

we’ll set off for Moscow.’ Thence she would go to Orel, she said. When

she went to bed, she was still talking about going to Orel.”

“Wait! What do you intend to do now, Parfen?”

“Well, I’m afraid of you. You shudder and tremble so. We’ll pass the

night here together. There are no other beds besides that one; but I’ve

thought how we’ll manage. I’ll take the cushions off all the sofas, and

lay them down on the floor, up against the curtain here—for you and

me—so that we shall be together. For if they come in and look about

now, you know, they’ll find her, and carry her away, and they’ll be

asking me questions, and I shall say I did it, and then they’ll take me

away, too, don’t you see? So let her lie close to us—close to you and

me.”

“Yes, yes,” agreed the prince, warmly.

“So we will not say anything about it, or let them take her away?”

“Not for anything!” cried the other; “no, no, no!”

“So I had decided, my friend; not to give her up to anyone,” continued

Rogojin. “We’ll be very quiet. I have only been out of the house one

hour all day, all the rest of the time I have been with her. I dare say

the air is very bad here. It is so hot. Do you find it bad?”

“I don’t know—perhaps—by morning it will be.”

“I’ve covered her with oilcloth—best American oilcloth, and put the

sheet over that, and four jars of disinfectant, on account of the

smell—as they did at Moscow—you remember? And she’s lying so still; you

shall see, in the morning, when it’s light. What! can’t you get up?”

asked Rogojin, seeing the other was trembling so that he could not rise

from his seat.

“My legs won’t move,” said the prince; “it’s fear, I know. When my fear

is over, I’ll get up—”

“Wait a bit—I’ll make the bed, and you can lie down. I’ll lie down,

too, and we’ll listen and watch, for I don’t know yet what I shall

do... I tell you beforehand, so that you may be ready in case I—”

Muttering these disconnected words, Rogojin began to make up the beds.

It was clear that he had devised these beds long before; last night he

slept on the sofa. But there was no room for two on the sofa, and he

seemed anxious that he and the prince should be close to one another;

therefore, he now dragged cushions of all sizes and shapes from the

sofas, and made a sort of bed of them close by the curtain. He then

approached the prince, and gently helped him to rise, and led him

towards the bed. But the prince could now walk by himself, so that his

fear must have passed; for all that, however, he continued to shudder.

“It’s hot weather, you see,” continued Rogojin, as he lay down on the

cushions beside Muishkin, “and, naturally, there will be a smell. I

daren’t open the window. My mother has some beautiful flowers in pots;

they have a delicious scent; I thought of fetching them in, but that

old servant will find out, she’s very inquisitive.”

“Yes, she is inquisitive,” assented the prince.

“I thought of buying flowers, and putting them all round her; but I was

afraid it would make us sad to see her with flowers round her.”

“Look here,” said the prince; he was bewildered, and his brain

wandered. He seemed to be continually groping for the questions he

wished to ask, and then losing them. “Listen—tell me—how did you—with a

knife?—That same one?”

“Yes, that same one.”

“Wait a minute, I want to ask you something else, Parfen; all sorts of

things; but tell me first, did you intend to kill her before my

wedding, at the church door, with your knife?”

“I don’t know whether I did or not,” said Rogojin, drily, seeming to be

a little astonished at the question, and not quite taking it in.

“Did you never take your knife to Pavlofsk with you?”

“No. As to the knife,” he added, “this is all I can tell you about it.”

He was silent for a moment, and then said, “I took it out of the locked

drawer this morning about three, for it was in the early morning all

this—happened. It has been inside the book ever since—and—and—this is

what is such a marvel to me, the knife only went in a couple of inches

at most, just under her left breast, and there wasn’t more than half a

tablespoonful of blood altogether, not more.”

“Yes—yes—yes—” The prince jumped up in extraordinary agitation. “I

know, I know, I’ve read of that sort of thing—it’s internal

haemorrhage, you know. Sometimes there isn’t a drop—if the blow goes

straight to the heart—”

“Wait—listen!” cried Rogojin, suddenly, starting up. “Somebody’s

walking about, do you hear? In the hall.” Both sat up to listen.

“I hear,” said the prince in a whisper, his eyes fixed on Rogojin.

“Footsteps?”

“Yes.”

“Shall we shut the door, and lock it, or not?”

“Yes, lock it.”

They locked the door, and both lay down again. There was a long

silence.

“Yes, by-the-by,” whispered the prince, hurriedly and excitedly as

before, as though he had just seized hold of an idea and was afraid of

losing it again. “I—I wanted those cards! They say you played cards

with her?”

“Yes, I played with her,” said Rogojin, after a short silence.

“Where are the cards?”

“Here they are,” said Rogojin, after a still longer pause.

He pulled out a pack of cards, wrapped in a bit of paper, from his

pocket, and handed them to the prince. The latter took them, with a

sort of perplexity. A new, sad, helpless feeling weighed on his heart;

he had suddenly realized that not only at this moment, but for a long

while, he had not been saying what he wanted to say, had not been

acting as he wanted to act; and that these cards which he held in his

hand, and which he had been so delighted to have at first, were now of

no use—no use... He rose, and wrung his hands. Rogojin lay motionless,

and seemed neither to hear nor see his movements; but his eyes blazed

in the darkness, and were fixed in a wild stare.

The prince sat down on a chair, and watched him in alarm. Half an hour

went by.

Suddenly Rogojin burst into a loud abrupt laugh, as though he had quite

forgotten that they must speak in whispers.

“That officer, eh!—that young officer—don’t you remember that fellow at

the band? Eh? Ha, ha, ha! Didn’t she whip him smartly, eh?”

The prince jumped up from his seat in renewed terror. When Rogojin

quieted down (which he did at once) the prince bent over him, sat down

beside him, and with painfully beating heart and still more painful

breath, watched his face intently. Rogojin never turned his head, and

seemed to have forgotten all about him. The prince watched and waited.

Time went on—it began to grow light.

Rogojin began to wander—muttering disconnectedly; then he took to

shouting and laughing. The prince stretched out a trembling hand and

gently stroked his hair and his cheeks—he could do nothing more. His

legs trembled again and he seemed to have lost the use of them. A new

sensation came over him, filling his heart and soul with infinite

anguish.

Meanwhile the daylight grew full and strong; and at last the prince lay

down, as though overcome by despair, and laid his face against the

white, motionless face of Rogojin. His tears flowed on to Rogojin’s

cheek, though he was perhaps not aware of them himself.

At all events when, after many hours, the door was opened and people

thronged in, they found the murderer unconscious and in a raging fever.

The prince was sitting by him, motionless, and each time that the sick

man gave a laugh, or a shout, he hastened to pass his own trembling

hand over his companion’s hair and cheeks, as though trying to soothe

and quiet him. But alas! he understood nothing of what was said to him,

and recognized none of those who surrounded him.

If Schneider himself had arrived then and seen his former pupil and

patient, remembering the prince’s condition during the first year in

Switzerland, he would have flung up his hands, despairingly, and cried,

as he did then:

“An idiot!”

XII.

When the widow hurried away to Pavlofsk, she went straight to Daria

Alexeyevna’s house, and telling all she knew, threw her into a state of

great alarm. Both ladies decided to communicate at once with Lebedeff,

who, as the friend and landlord of the prince, was also much agitated.

Vera Lebedeff told all she knew, and by Lebedeff’s advice it was

decided that all three should go to Petersburg as quickly as possible,

in order to avert “what might so easily happen.”

This is how it came about that at eleven o’clock next morning Rogojin’s

flat was opened by the police in the presence of Lebedeff, the two

ladies, and Rogojin’s own brother, who lived in the wing.

The evidence of the porter went further than anything else towards the

success of Lebedeff in gaining the assistance of the police. He

declared that he had seen Rogojin return to the house last night,

accompanied by a friend, and that both had gone upstairs very secretly

and cautiously. After this there was no hesitation about breaking open

the door, since it could not be got open in any other way.

Rogojin suffered from brain fever for two months. When he recovered

from the attack he was at once brought up on trial for murder.

He gave full, satisfactory, and direct evidence on every point; and the

prince’s name was, thanks to this, not brought into the proceedings.

Rogojin was very quiet during the progress of the trial. He did not

contradict his clever and eloquent counsel, who argued that the brain

fever, or inflammation of the brain, was the cause of the crime;

clearly proving that this malady had existed long before the murder was

perpetrated, and had been brought on by the sufferings of the accused.

But Rogojin added no words of his own in confirmation of this view, and

as before, he recounted with marvellous exactness the details of his

crime. He was convicted, but with extenuating circumstances, and

condemned to hard labour in Siberia for fifteen years. He heard his

sentence grimly, silently, and thoughtfully. His colossal fortune, with

the exception of the comparatively small portion wasted in the first

wanton period of his inheritance, went to his brother, to the great

satisfaction of the latter.

The old lady, Rogojin’s mother, is still alive, and remembers her

favourite son Parfen sometimes, but not clearly. God spared her the

knowledge of this dreadful calamity which had overtaken her house.

Lebedeff, Keller, Gania, Ptitsin, and many other friends of ours

continue to live as before. There is scarcely any change in them, so

that there is no need to tell of their subsequent doings.

Hippolyte died in great agitation, and rather sooner than he expected,

about a fortnight after Nastasia Philipovna’s death. Colia was much

affected by these events, and drew nearer to his mother in heart and

sympathy. Nina Alexandrovna is anxious, because he is “thoughtful

beyond his years,” but he will, we think, make a useful and active man.

The prince’s further fate was more or less decided by Colia, who

selected, out of all the persons he had met during the last six or

seven months, Evgenie Pavlovitch, as friend and confidant. To him he

made over all that he knew as to the events above recorded, and as to

the present condition of the prince. He was not far wrong in his

choice. Evgenie Pavlovitch took the deepest interest in the fate of the

unfortunate “idiot,” and, thanks to his influence, the prince found

himself once more with Dr. Schneider, in Switzerland.

Evgenie Pavlovitch, who went abroad at this time, intending to live a

long while on the continent, being, as he often said, quite superfluous

in Russia, visits his sick friend at Schneider’s every few months.

But Dr. Schneider frowns ever more and more and shakes his head; he

hints that the brain is fatally injured; he does not as yet declare

that his patient is incurable, but he allows himself to express the

gravest fears.

Evgenie takes this much to heart, and he has a heart, as is proved by

the fact that he receives and even answers letters from Colia. But

besides this, another trait in his character has become apparent, and

as it is a good trait we will make haste to reveal it. After each visit

to Schneider’s establishment, Evgenie Pavlovitch writes another letter,

besides that to Colia, giving the most minute particulars concerning

the invalid’s condition. In these letters is to be detected, and in

each one more than the last, a growing feeling of friendship and

sympathy.

The individual who corresponds thus with Evgenie Pavlovitch, and who

engages so much of his attention and respect, is Vera Lebedeff. We have

never been able to discover clearly how such relations sprang up. Of

course the root of them was in the events which we have already

recorded, and which so filled Vera with grief on the prince’s account

that she fell seriously ill. But exactly how the acquaintance and

friendship came about, we cannot say.

We have spoken of these letters chiefly because in them is often to be

found some news of the Epanchin family, and of Aglaya in particular.

Evgenie Pavlovitch wrote of her from Paris, that after a short and

sudden attachment to a certain Polish count, an exile, she had suddenly

married him, quite against the wishes of her parents, though they had

eventually given their consent through fear of a terrible scandal.

Then, after a six months’ silence, Evgenie Pavlovitch informed his

correspondent, in a long letter, full of detail, that while paying his

last visit to Dr. Schneider’s establishment, he had there come across

the whole Epanchin family (excepting the general, who had remained in

St. Petersburg) and Prince S. The meeting was a strange one. They all

received Evgenie Pavlovitch with effusive delight; Adelaida and

Alexandra were deeply grateful to him for his “angelic kindness to the

unhappy prince.”

Lizabetha Prokofievna, when she saw poor Muishkin, in his enfeebled and

humiliated condition, had wept bitterly. Apparently all was forgiven

him.

Prince S. had made a few just and sensible remarks. It seemed to

Evgenie Pavlovitch that there was not yet perfect harmony between

Adelaida and her fiance, but he thought that in time the impulsive

young girl would let herself be guided by his reason and experience.

Besides, the recent events that had befallen her family had given

Adelaida much to think about, especially the sad experiences of her

younger sister. Within six months, everything that the family had

dreaded from the marriage with the Polish count had come to pass. He

turned out to be neither count nor exile—at least, in the political

sense of the word—but had had to leave his native land owing to some

rather dubious affair of the past. It was his noble patriotism, of

which he made a great display, that had rendered him so interesting in

Aglaya’s eyes. She was so fascinated that, even before marrying him,

she joined a committee that had been organized abroad to work for the

restoration of Poland; and further, she visited the confessional of a

celebrated Jesuit priest, who made an absolute fanatic of her. The

supposed fortune of the count had dwindled to a mere nothing, although

he had given almost irrefutable evidence of its existence to Lizabetha

Prokofievna and Prince S.

Besides this, before they had been married half a year, the count and

his friend the priest managed to bring about a quarrel between Aglaya

and her family, so that it was now several months since they had seen

her. In a word, there was a great deal to say; but Mrs. Epanchin, and

her daughters, and even Prince S., were still so much distressed by

Aglaya’s latest infatuations and adventures, that they did not care to

talk of them, though they must have known that Evgenie knew much of the

story already.

Poor Lizabetha Prokofievna was most anxious to get home, and, according

to Evgenie’s account, she criticized everything foreign with much

hostility.

“They can’t bake bread anywhere, decently; and they all freeze in their

houses, during winter, like a lot of mice in a cellar. At all events,

I’ve had a good Russian cry over this poor fellow,” she added, pointing

to the prince, who had not recognized her in the slightest degree. “So

enough of this nonsense; it’s time we faced the truth. All this

continental life, all this Europe of yours, and all the trash about

‘going abroad’ is simply foolery, and it is mere foolery on our part to

come. Remember what I say, my friend; you’ll live to agree with me

yourself.”

So spoke the good lady, almost angrily, as she took leave of Evgenie

Pavlovitch.