"Aglaya Epanchin."

Mrs. Epanchin reflected a moment. The next minute she flew at the

prince, seized his hand, and dragged him after her to the door.

"Quick--come along!" she cried, breathless with agitation and

impatience. "Come along with me this moment!"

"But you declared I wasn't--"

"Don't be a simpleton. You behave just as though you weren't a

man at all. Come on! I shall see, now, with my own eyes. I shall

see all."

"Well, let me get my hat, at least."

"Here's your miserable hat He couldn't even choose a respectable

shape for his hat! Come on! She did that because I took your part

and said you ought to have come--little vixen!--else she would

never have sent you that silly note. It's a most improper note, I

call it; most improper for such an intelligent, well-brought-up

girl to write. H'm! I dare say she was annoyed that you didn't

come; but she ought to have known that one can't write like that

to an idiot like you, for you'd be sure to take it literally."

Mrs. Epanchin was dragging the prince along with her all the

time, and never let go of his hand for an instant. "What are you

listening for?" she added, seeing that she had committed herself

a little. "She wants a clown like you--she hasn't seen one for

some time--to play with. That's why she is anxious for you to

come to the house. And right glad I am that she'll make a

thorough good fool of you. You deserve it; and she can do it--oh!

she can, indeed!--as well as most people."

PART III

I.

THE Epanchin family, or at least the more serious members of it,

were sometimes grieved because they seemed so unlike the rest of

the world. They were not quite certain, but had at times a strong

suspicion that things did not happen to them as they did to other

people. Others led a quiet, uneventful life, while they were

subject to continual upheavals. Others kept on the rails without

difficulty; they ran off at the slightest obstacle. Other houses

were governed by a timid routine; theirs was somehow different.

Perhaps Lizabetha Prokofievna was alone in making these fretful

observations; the girls, though not wanting in intelligence, were

still young; the general was intelligent, too, but narrow, and in

any difficulty he was content to say, "H'm!" and leave the matter

to his wife. Consequently, on her fell the responsibility. It was

not that they distinguished themselves as a family by any

particular originality, or that their excursions off the track

led to any breach of the proprieties. Oh no.

There was nothing premeditated, there was not even any conscious

purpose in it all, and yet, in spite of everything, the family,

although highly respected, was not quite what every highly

respected family ought to be. For a long time now Lizabetha

Prokofievna had had it in her mind that all the trouble was owing

to her "unfortunate character, "and this added to her distress.

She blamed her own stupid unconventional "eccentricity." Always

restless, always on the go, she constantly seemed to lose her

way, and to get into trouble over the simplest and more ordinary

affairs of life.

We said at the beginning of our story, that the Epanchins were

liked and esteemed by their neighbours. In spite of his humble

origin, Ivan Fedorovitch himself was received everywhere with

respect. He deserved this, partly on account of his wealth and

position, partly because, though limited, he was really a very

good fellow. But a certain limitation of mind seems to be an

indispensable asset, if not to all public personages, at least to

all serious financiers. Added to this, his manner was modest and

unassuming; he knew when to be silent, yet never allowed himself

to be trampled upon. Also--and this was more important than all--

he had the advantage of being under exalted patronage.

As to Lizabetha Prokofievna, she, as the reader knows, belonged

to an aristocratic family. True, Russians think more of

influential friends than of birth, but she had both. She was

esteemed and even loved by people of consequence in society,

whose example in receiving her was therefore followed by others.

It seems hardly necessary to remark that her family worries and

anxieties had little or no foundation, or that her imagination

increased them to an absurd degree; but if you have a wart on

your forehead or nose, you imagine that all the world is looking

at it, and that people would make fun of you because of it, even

if you had discovered America! Doubtless Lizabetha Prokofievna

was considered "eccentric" in society, but she was none the less

esteemed: the pity was that she was ceasing to believe in that

esteem. When she thought of her daughters, she said to herself

sorrowfully that she was a hindrance rather than a help to their

future, that her character and temper were absurd, ridiculous,

insupportable. Naturally, she put the blame on her surroundings,

and from morning to night was quarrelling with her husband and

children, whom she really loved to the point of self-sacrifice,

even, one might say, of passion.

She was, above all distressed by the idea that her daughters

might grow up "eccentric," like herself; she believed that no

other society girls were like them. "They are growing into

Nihilists!" she repeated over and over again. For years she had

tormented herself with this idea, and with the question: "Why

don't they get married?"

"It is to annoy their mother; that is their one aim in life; it

can be nothing else. The fact is it is all of a piece with these

modern ideas, that wretched woman's question! Six months ago

Aglaya took a fancy to cut off her magnificent hair. Why, even I,

when I was young, had nothing like it! The scissors were in her

hand, and I had to go down on my knees and implore her... She

did it, I know, from sheer mischief, to spite her mother, for she

is a naughty, capricious girl, a real spoiled child spiteful and

mischievous to a degree! And then Alexandra wanted to shave her

head, not from caprice or mischief, but, like a little fool,

simply because Aglaya persuaded her she would sleep better

without her hair, and not suffer from headache! And how many

suitors have they not had during the last five years! Excellent

offers, too! What more do they want? Why don't they get married?

For no other reason than to vex their mother--none--none!"

But Lizabetha Prokofievna felt somewhat consoled when she could

say that one of her girls, Adelaida, was settled at last. "It

will be one off our hands!" she declared aloud, though in private

she expressed herself with greater tenderness. The engagement was

both happy and suitable, and was therefore approved in society.

Prince S. was a distinguished man, he had money, and his future

wife was devoted to him; what more could be desired? Lizabetha

Prokofievna had felt less anxious about this daughter, however,

although she considered her artistic tastes suspicious. But to

make up for them she was, as her mother expressed it, "merry,"

and had plenty of "common-sense." It was Aglaya's future which

disturbed her most. With regard to her eldest daughter,

Alexandra, the mother never quite knew whether there was cause

for anxiety or not. Sometimes she felt as if there was nothing to

be expected from her. She was twenty-five now, and must be fated

to be an old maid, and "with such beauty, too!" The mother spent

whole nights in weeping and lamenting, while all the time the

cause of her grief slumbered peacefully. "What is the matter with

her? Is she a Nihilist, or simply a fool?"

But Lizabetha Prokofievna knew perfectly well how unnecessary was

the last question. She set a high value on Alexandra Ivanovna's

judgment, and often consulted her in difficulties; but that she

was a 'wet hen' she never for a moment doubted. "She is so calm;

nothing rouses her--though wet hens are not always calm! Oh! I

can't understand it!" Her eldest daughter inspired Lizabetha with

a kind of puzzled compassion. She did not feel this in Aglaya's

case, though the latter was her idol. It may be said that these

outbursts and epithets, such as "wet hen "(in which the maternal

solicitude usually showed itself), only made Alexandra laugh.

Sometimes the most trivial thing annoyed Mrs. Epanchin, and drove

her into a frenzy. For instance, Alexandra Ivanovna liked to

sleep late, and was always dreaming, though her dreams had the

peculiarity of being as innocent and naive as those of a child of

seven; and the very innocence of her dreams annoyed her mother.

Once she dreamt of nine hens, and this was the cause of quite a

serious quarrel--no one knew why. Another time she had--it was

most unusual--a dream with a spark of originality in it. She

dreamt of a monk in a dark room, into which she was too

frightened to go. Adelaida and Aglaya rushed off with shrieks of

laughter to relate this to their mother, but she was quite angry,

and said her daughters were all fools.

"H'm! she is as stupid as a fool! A veritable 'wet hen'! Nothing

excites her; and yet she is not happy; some days it makes one

miserable only to look at her! Why is she unhappy, I wonder?" At

times Lizabetha Prokofievna put this question to her husband, and

as usual she spoke in the threatening tone of one who demands an

immediate answer. Ivan Fedorovitch would frown, shrug his

shoulders, and at last give his opinion: "She needs a husband!"

"God forbid that he should share your ideas, Ivan Fedorovitch!"

his wife flashed back. "Or that he should be as gross and

churlish as you!"

The general promptly made his escape, and Lizabetha Prokofievna

after a while grew calm again. That evening, of course, she would

be unusually attentive, gentle, and respectful to her "gross and

churlish" husband, her "dear, kind Ivan Fedorovitch," for she had

never left off loving him. She was even still "in love" with him.

He knew it well, and for his part held her in the greatest

esteem.

But the mother's great and continual anxiety was Aglaya. "She is

exactly like me--my image in everything," said Mrs. Epanchin to

herself. "A tyrant! A real little demon! A Nihilist! Eccentric,

senseless and mischievous! Good Lord, how unhappy she will be!"

But as we said before, the fact of Adelaida's approaching

marriage was balm to the mother. For a whole month she forgot her

fears and worries.

Adelaida's fate was settled; and with her name that of Aglaya's

was linked, in society gossip. People whispered that Aglaya, too,

was "as good as engaged;" and Aglaya always looked so sweet and

behaved so well (during this period), that the mother's heart was

full of joy. Of course, Evgenie Pavlovitch must be thoroughly

studied first, before the final step should be taken; but,

really, how lovely dear Aglaya had become--she actually grew more

beautiful every day! And then--Yes, and then--this abominable

prince showed his face again, and everything went topsy-turvy at

once, and everyone seemed as mad as March hares.

What had really happened?

If it had been any other family than the Epanchins', nothing

particular would have happened. But, thanks to Mrs. Epanchin's

invariable fussiness and anxiety, there could not be the

slightest hitch in the simplest matters of everyday life, but she

immediately foresaw the most dreadful and alarming consequences,

and suffered accordingly.

What then must have been her condition, when, among all the

imaginary anxieties and calamities which so constantly beset her,

she now saw looming ahead a serious cause for annoyance--

something really likely to arouse doubts and suspicions!

"How dared they, how DARED they write that hateful anonymous

letter informing me that Aglaya is in communication with Nastasia

Philipovna?" she thought, as she dragged the prince along towards

her own house, and again when she sat him down at the round table

where the family was already assembled. "How dared they so much

as THINK of such a thing? I should DIE with shame if I thought

there was a particle of truth in it, or if I were to show the

letter to Aglaya herself! Who dares play these jokes upon US, the

Epanchins? WHY didn't we go to the Yelagin instead of coming down

here? I TOLD you we had better go to the Yelagin this summer,

Ivan Fedorovitch. It's all your fault. I dare say it was that

Varia who sent the letter. It's all Ivan Fedorovitch. THAT woman

is doing it all for him, I know she is, to show she can make a

fool of him now just as she did when he used to give her pearls.

"But after all is said, we are mixed up in it. Your daughters are

mixed up in it, Ivan Fedorovitch; young ladies in society, young

ladies at an age to be married; they were present, they heard

everything there was to hear. They were mixed up with that other

scene, too, with those dreadful youths. You must be pleased to

remember they heard it all. I cannot forgive that wretched

prince. I never shall forgive him! And why, if you please, has

Aglaya had an attack of nerves for these last three days? Why has

she all but quarrelled with her sisters, even with Alexandra--

whom she respects so much that she always kisses her hands as

though she were her mother? What are all these riddles of hers

that we have to guess? What has Gavrila Ardalionovitch to do with

it? Why did she take upon herself to champion him this morning,

and burst into tears over it? Why is there an allusion to that

cursed 'poor knight' in the anonymous letter? And why did I rush

off to him just now like a lunatic, and drag him back here? I do

believe I've gone mad at last. What on earth have I done now? To

talk to a young man about my daughter's secrets--and secrets

having to do with himself, too! Thank goodness, he's an idiot,

and a friend of the house! Surely Aglaya hasn't fallen in love

with such a gaby! What an idea! Pfu! we ought all to be put under

glass cases--myself first of all--and be shown off as

curiosities, at ten copecks a peep!"

"I shall never forgive you for all this, Ivan Fedorovitch--never!

Look at her now. Why doesn't she make fun of him? She said she

would, and she doesn't. Look there! She stares at him with all

her eyes, and doesn't move; and yet she told him not to come. He

looks pale enough; and that abominable chatterbox, Evgenie

Pavlovitch, monopolizes the whole of the conversation. Nobody

else can get a word in. I could soon find out all about

everything if I could only change the subject."

The prince certainly was very pale. He sat at the table and

seemed to be feeling, by turns, sensations of alarm and rapture.

Oh, how frightened he was of looking to one side--one particular

corner--whence he knew very well that a pair of dark eyes were

watching him intently, and how happy he was to think that he was

once more among them, and occasionally hearing that well-known

voice, although she had written and forbidden him to come again!

"What on earth will she say to me, I wonder?" he thought to

himself.

He had not said a word yet; he sat silent and listened to Evgenie

Pavlovitch's eloquence. The latter had never appeared so happy

and excited as on this evening. The prince listened to him, but

for a long time did not take in a word he said.

Excepting Ivan Fedorovitch, who had not as yet returned from

town, the whole family was present. Prince S. was there; and they

all intended to go out to hear the band very soon.

Colia arrived presently and joined the circle. "So he is received

as usual, after all," thought the prince.

The Epanchins' country-house was a charming building, built after

the model of a Swiss chalet, and covered with creepers. It was

surrounded on all sides by a flower garden, and the family sat,

as a rule, on the open verandah as at the prince's house.

The subject under discussion did not appear to be very popular

with the assembly, and some would have been delighted to change

it; but Evgenie would not stop holding forth, and the prince's

arrival seemed to spur him on to still further oratorical

efforts.

Lizabetha Prokofievna frowned, but had not as yet grasped the

subject, which seemed to have arisen out of a heated argument.

Aglaya sat apart, almost in the corner, listening in stubborn

silence.

"Excuse me," continued Evgenie Pavlovitch hotly, "I don't say a

word against liberalism. Liberalism is not a sin, it is a

necessary part of a great whole, which whole would collapse and

fall to pieces without it. Liberalism has just as much right to

exist as has the most moral conservatism; but I am attacking

RUSSIAN liberalism; and I attack it for the simple reason that a

Russian liberal is not a Russian liberal, he is a non-Russian

liberal. Show me a real Russian liberal, and I'll kiss him before

you all, with pleasure."

"If he cared to kiss you, that is," said Alexandra, whose cheeks

were red with irritation and excitement.

"Look at that, now," thought the mother to herself, "she does

nothing but sleep and eat for a year at a time, and then suddenly

flies out in the most incomprehensible way!"

The prince observed that Alexandra appeared to be angry with

Evgenie, because he spoke on a serious subject in a frivolous

manner, pretending to be in earnest, but with an under-current of

irony.

"I was saying just now, before you came in, prince, that there

has been nothing national up to now, about our liberalism, and

nothing the liberals do, or have done, is in the least degree

national. They are drawn from two classes only, the old

landowning class, and clerical families--"

"How, nothing that they have done is Russian?" asked Prince S.

"It may be Russian, but it is not national. Our liberals are not

Russian, nor are our conservatives, and you may be sure that the

nation does not recognize anything that has been done by the

landed gentry, or by the seminarists, or what is to be done

either."

"Come, that's good! How can you maintain such a paradox? If you

are serious, that is. I cannot allow such a statement about the

landed proprietors to pass unchallenged. Why, you are a landed

proprietor yourself!" cried Prince S. hotly.

"I suppose you'll say there is nothing national about our

literature either?" said Alexandra.

"Well, I am not a great authority on literary questions, but I

certainly do hold that Russian literature is not Russian, except

perhaps Lomonosoff, Pouschkin and Gogol."

"In the first place, that is a considerable admission, and in the

second place, one of the above was a peasant, and the other two

were both landed proprietors!"

"Quite so, but don't be in such a hurry! For since it has been

the part of these three men, and only these three, to say

something absolutely their own, not borrowed, so by this very

fact these three men become really national. If any Russian shall

have done or said anything really and absolutely original, he is

to be called national from that moment, though he may not be able

to talk the Russian language; still he is a national Russian. I

consider that an axiom. But we were not speaking of literature;

we began by discussing the socialists. Very well then, I insist

that there does not exist one single Russian socialist. There

does not, and there has never existed such a one, because all

socialists are derived from the two classes--the landed

proprietors, and the seminarists. All our eminent socialists are

merely old liberals of the class of landed proprietors, men who

were liberals in the days of serfdom. Why do you laugh? Give me

their books, give me their studies, their memoirs, and though I

am not a literary critic, yet I will prove as clear as day that

every chapter and every word of their writings has been the work

of a former landed proprietor of the old school. You'll find that

all their raptures, all their generous transports are

proprietary, all their woes and their tears, proprietary; all

proprietary or seminarist! You are laughing again, and you,

prince, are smiling too. Don't you agree with me?"

It was true enough that everybody was laughing, the prince among

them.

"I cannot tell you on the instant whether I agree with you or

not," said the latter, suddenly stopping his laughter, and

starting like a schoolboy caught at mischief. "But, I assure you,

I am listening to you with extreme gratification."

So saying, he almost panted with agitation, and a cold sweat

stood upon his forehead. These were his first words since he had

entered the house; he tried to lift his eyes, and look around,

but dared not; Evgenie Pavlovitch noticed his confusion, and

smiled.

"I'll just tell you one fact, ladies and gentlemen," continued

the latter, with apparent seriousness and even exaltation of

manner, but with a suggestion of "chaff" behind every word, as

though he were laughing in his sleeve at his own nonsense--"a

fact, the discovery of which, I believe, I may claim to have made

by myself alone. At all events, no other has ever said or written

a word about it; and in this fact is expressed the whole essence

of Russian liberalism of the sort which I am now considering.

"In the first place, what is liberalism, speaking generally, but

an attack (whether mistaken or reasonable, is quite another

question) upon the existing order of things? Is this so? Yes.

Very well. Then my 'fact' consists in this, that RUSSIAN

liberalism is not an attack upon the existing order of things,

but an attack upon the very essence of things themselves--indeed,

on the things themselves; not an attack on the Russian order of

things, but on Russia itself. My Russian liberal goes so far as

to reject Russia; that is, he hates and strikes his own mother.

Every misfortune and mishap of the mother-country fills him with

mirth, and even with ecstasy. He hates the national customs,

Russian history, and everything. If he has a justification, it is

that he does not know what he is doing, and believes that his

hatred of Russia is the grandest and most profitable kind of

liberalism. (You will often find a liberal who is applauded and

esteemed by his fellows, but who is in reality the dreariest,

blindest, dullest of conservatives, and is not aware of the

fact.) This hatred for Russia has been mistaken by some of our

'Russian liberals' for sincere love of their country, and they

boast that they see better than their neighbours what real love

of one's country should consist in. But of late they have grown,

more candid and are ashamed of the expression 'love of country,'

and have annihilated the very spirit of the words as something

injurious and petty and undignified. This is the truth, and I

hold by it; but at the same time it is a phenomenon which has not

been repeated at any other time or place; and therefore, though I

hold to it as a fact, yet I recognize that it is an accidental

phenomenon, and may likely enough pass away. There can be no such

thing anywhere else as a liberal who really hates his country;

and how is this fact to be explained among US? By my original

statement that a Russian liberal is NOT a RUSSIAN liberal--that's

the only explanation that I can see."

"I take all that you have said as a joke," said Prince S.

seriously.

"I have not seen all kinds of liberals, and cannot, therefore,

set myself up as a judge," said Alexandra, "but I have heard all

you have said with indignation. You have taken some accidental

case and twisted it into a universal law, which is unjust."

"Accidental case!" said Evgenie Pavlovitch. "Do you consider it

an accidental case, prince?"

"I must also admit," said the prince, "that I have not seen much,

or been very far into the question; but I cannot help thinking

that you are more or less right, and that Russian liberalism--

that phase of it which you are considering, at least--really is

sometimes inclined to hate Russia itself, and not only its

existing order of things in general. Of course this is only

PARTIALLY the truth; you cannot lay down the law for all..."

The prince blushed and broke off, without finishing what he meant

to say.

In spite of his shyness and agitation, he could not help being

greatly interested in the conversation. A special characteristic

of his was the naive candour with which he always listened to

arguments which interested him, and with which he answered any

questions put to him on the subject at issue. In the very

expression of his face this naivete was unmistakably evident,

this disbelief in the insincerity of others, and unsuspecting

disregard of irony or humour in their words.

But though Evgenie Pavlovitch had put his questions to the prince

with no other purpose but to enjoy the joke of his simple-minded

seriousness, yet now, at his answer, he was surprised into some

seriousness himself, and looked gravely at Muishkin as though he

had not expected that sort of answer at all.

"Why, how strange!" he ejaculated. "You didn't answer me

seriously, surely, did you?"

"Did not you ask me the question seriously" inquired the prince,

in amazement.

Everybody laughed.

"Oh, trust HIM for that!" said Adelaida. "Evgenie Pavlovitch

turns everything and everybody he can lay hold of to ridicule.

You should hear the things he says sometimes, apparently in

perfect seriousness."

"In my opinion the conversation has been a painful one

throughout, and we ought never to have begun it," said Alexandra.

"We were all going for a walk--"

"Come along then," said Evgenie; "it's a glorious evening. But,

to prove that this time I was speaking absolutely seriously, and

especially to prove this to the prince (for you, prince, have

interested me exceedingly, and I swear to you that I am not quite

such an ass as I like to appear sometimes, although I am rather

an ass, I admit), and--well, ladies and gentlemen, will you allow

me to put just one more question to the prince, out of pure

curiosity? It shall be the last. This question came into my mind

a couple of hours since (you see, prince, I do think seriously at

times), and I made my own decision upon it; now I wish to hear

what the prince will say to it."

"We have just used the expression 'accidental case.' This is a

significant phrase; we often hear it. Well, not long since

everyone was talking and reading about that terrible murder of

six people on the part of a--young fellow, and of the

extraordinary speech of the counsel for the defence, who observed

that in the poverty-stricken condition of the criminal it must

have come NATURALLY into his head to kill these six people. I do

not quote his words, but that is the sense of them, or something

very like it. Now, in my opinion, the barrister who put forward

this extraordinary plea was probably absolutely convinced that he

was stating the most liberal, the most humane, the most

enlightened view of the case that could possibly be brought

forward in these days. Now, was this distortion, this capacity

for a perverted way of viewing things, a special or accidental

case, or is such a general rule?"

Everyone laughed at this.

"A special case--accidental, of course!" cried Alexandra and

Adelaida.

"Let me remind you once more, Evgenie," said Prince S., "that

your joke is getting a little threadbare."

"What do you think about it, prince?" asked Evgenie, taking no

notice of the last remark, and observing Muishkin's serious eyes

fixed upon his face. "What do you think--was it a special or a

usual case--the rule, or an exception? I confess I put the

question especially for you."

"No, I don't think it was a special case," said the prince,

quietly, but firmly.

"My dear fellow!" cried Prince S., with some annoyance, "don't

you see that he is chaffing you? He is simply laughing at you,

and wants to make game of you."

"I thought Evgenie Pavlovitch was talking seriously," said the

prince, blushing and dropping his eyes.

"My dear prince," continued Prince S. "remember what you and I

were saying two or three months ago. We spoke of the fact that in

our newly opened Law Courts one could already lay one's finger

upon so many talented and remarkable young barristers. How

pleased you were with the state of things as we found it, and how

glad I was to observe your delight! We both said it was a matter

to be proud of; but this clumsy defence that Evgenie mentions,

this strange argument CAN, of course, only be an accidental case

--one in a thousand!"

The prince reflected a little, but very soon he replied, with

absolute conviction in his tone, though he still spoke somewhat

shyly and timidly:

"I only wished to say that this 'distortion,' as Evgenie

Pavlovitch expressed it, is met with very often, and is far more

the general rule than the exception, unfortunately for Russia. So

much so, that if this distortion were not the general rule,

perhaps these dreadful crimes would be less frequent."

"Dreadful crimes? But I can assure you that crimes just as

dreadful, and probably more horrible, have occurred before our

times, and at all times, and not only here in Russia, but

everywhere else as well. And in my opinion it is not at all

likely that such murders will cease to occur for a very long time

to come. The only difference is that in former times there was

less publicity, while now everyone talks and writes freely about

such things--which fact gives the impression that such crimes

have only now sprung into existence. That is where your mistake

lies--an extremely natural mistake, I assure you, my dear

fellow!" said Prince S.

"I know that there were just as many, and just as terrible,

crimes before our times. Not long since I visited a convict

prison and made acquaintance with some of the criminals. There

were some even more dreadful criminals than this one we have been

speaking of--men who have murdered a dozen of their fellow-

creatures, and feel no remorse whatever. But what I especially

noticed was this, that the very most hopeless and remorseless

murderer--however hardened a criminal he may be--still KNOWS THAT

HE IS A CRIMINAL; that is, he is conscious that he has acted

wickedly, though he may feel no remorse whatever. And they were

all like this. Those of whom Evgenie Pavlovitch has spoken, do

not admit that they are criminals at all; they think they had a

right to do what they did, and that they were even doing a good

deed, perhaps. I consider there is the greatest difference

between the two cases. And recollect--it was a YOUTH, at the

particular age which is most helplessly susceptible to the

distortion of ideas!"

Prince S. was now no longer smiling; he gazed at the prince in

bewilderment.

Alexandra, who had seemed to wish to put in her word when the

prince began, now sat silent, as though some sudden thought had

caused her to change her mind about speaking.

Evgenie Pavlovitch gazed at him in real surprise, and this time

his expression of face had no mockery in it whatever.

"What are you looking so surprised about, my friend?" asked Mrs.

Epanchin, suddenly. "Did you suppose he was stupider than

yourself, and was incapable of forming his own opinions, or

what?"

"No! Oh no! Not at all!" said Evgenie. "But--how is it, prince,

that you--(excuse the question, will you?)--if you are capable of

observing and seeing things as you evidently do, how is it that

you saw nothing distorted or perverted in that claim upon your

property, which you acknowledged a day or two since; and which

was full of arguments founded upon the most distorted views of

right and wrong?"

"I'll tell you what, my friend," cried Mrs. Epanchin, of a

sudden, "here are we all sitting here and imagining we are very

clever, and perhaps laughing at the prince, some of us, and

meanwhile he has received a letter this very day in which that

same claimant renounces his claim, and begs the prince's pardon.

There I we don't often get that sort of letter; and yet we are

not ashamed to walk with our noses in the air before him."

"And Hippolyte has come down here to stay," said Colia, suddenly.

"What! has he arrived?" said the prince, starting up.

"Yes, I brought him down from town just after you had left the

house."

"There now! It's just like him," cried Lizabetha Prokofievna,

boiling over once more, and entirely oblivious of the fact that

she had just taken the prince's part. "I dare swear that you went

up to town yesterday on purpose to get the little wretch to do

you the great honour of coming to stay at your house. You did go

up to town, you know you did--you said so yourself! Now then, did

you, or did you not, go down on your knees and beg him to come,

confess!"

"No, he didn't, for I saw it all myself," said Colia. "On the

contrary, Hippolyte kissed his hand twice and thanked him; and

all the prince said was that he thought Hippolyte might feel

better here in the country!"

"Don't, Colia,--what is the use of saying all that?" cried the

prince, rising and taking his hat.

"Where are you going to now?" cried Mrs. Epanchin.

"Never mind about him now, prince," said Colia. "He is all right

and taking a nap after the journey. He is very happy to be here;

but I think perhaps it would be better if you let him alone for

today,--he is very sensitive now that he is so ill--and he might

be embarrassed if you show him too much attention at first. He is

decidedly better today, and says he has not felt so well for the

last six months, and has coughed much less, too."

The prince observed that Aglaya came out of her corner and

approached the table at this point.

He did not dare look at her, but he was conscious, to the very

tips of his fingers, that she was gazing at him, perhaps angrily;

and that she had probably flushed up with a look of fiery

indignation in her black eyes.

"It seems to me, Mr. Colia, that you were very foolish to bring

your young friend down--if he is the same consumptive boy who wept

so profusely, and invited us all to his own funeral," remarked

Evgenie Pavlovitch. "He talked so eloquently about the blank wall

outside his bedroom window, that I'm sure he will never support

life here without it. "

"I think so too," said Mrs. Epanchin; "he will quarrel with you,

and be off," and she drew her workbox towards her with an air of

dignity, quite oblivious of the fact that the family was about to

start for a walk in the park.

"Yes, I remember he boasted about the blank wall in an

extraordinary way," continued Evgenie, "and I feel that without

that blank wall he will never be able to die eloquently; and he

does so long to die eloquently!"

"Oh, you must forgive him the blank wall," said the prince,

quietly. "He has come down to see a few trees now, poor fellow."

"Oh, I forgive him with all my heart; you may tell him so if

you like," laughed Evgenie.

"I don't think you should take it quite like that," said the

prince, quietly, and without removing his eyes from the carpet.

"I think it is more a case of his forgiving you "

"Forgiving me! why so? What have I done to need his forgiveness?"

"If you don't understand, then--but of course, you do understand.

He wished--he wished to bless you all round and to have your

blessing--before he died--that's all."

"My dear prince," began Prince S., hurriedly, exchanging glances

with some of those present, "you will not easily find heaven on

earth, and yet you seem to expect to. Heaven is a difficult thing

to find anywhere, prince; far more difficult than appears to that

good heart of yours. Better stop this conversation, or we shall

all be growing quite disturbed in our minds, and--"

"Let's go and hear the band, then," said Lizabetha Prokofievna,

angrily rising from her place.

The rest of the company followed her example.

II.

THE prince suddenly approached Evgenie Pavlovitch.

"Evgenie Pavlovitch," he said, with strange excitement and

seizing the latter's hand in his own, "be assured that I esteem

you as a generous and honourable man, in spite of everything. Be

assured of that."

Evgenie Pavlovitch fell back a step in astonishment. For one

moment it was all he could do to restrain himself from bursting

out laughing; but, looking closer, he observed that the prince

did not seem to be quite himself; at all events, he was in a very

curious state.

"I wouldn't mind betting, prince," he cried, "that you did not in

the least mean to say that, and very likely you meant to address

someone else altogether. What is it? Are you feeling unwell or

anything?"

"Very likely, extremely likely, and you must be a very close

observer to detect the fact that perhaps I did not intend to come

up to YOU at all."

So saying he smiled strangely; but suddenly and excitedly he

began again:

"Don't remind me of what I have done or said. Don't! I am very

much ashamed of myself, I--"

"Why, what have you done? I don't understand you."

"I see you are ashamed of me, Evgenie Pavlovitch; you are

blushing for me; that's a sign of a good heart. Don't be afraid;

I shall go away directly."

"What's the matter with him? Do his fits begin like that?" said

Lizabetha Prokofievna, in a high state of alarm, addressing

Colia.

"No, no, Lizabetha Prokofievna, take no notice of me. I am not

going to have a fit. I will go away directly; but I know I am

afflicted. I was twenty-four years an invalid, you see--the first

twenty-four years of my life--so take all I do and say as the

sayings and actions of an invalid. I'm going away directly, I

really am--don't be afraid. I am not blushing, for I don't think I

need blush about it, need I? But I see that I am out of place in

society--society is better without me. It's not vanity, I assure

you. I have thought over it all these last three days, and I have

made up my mind that I ought to unbosom myself candidly before

you at the first opportunity. There are certain things, certain

great ideas, which I must not so much as approach, as Prince S.

has just reminded me, or I shall make you all laugh. I have no

sense of proportion, I know; my words and gestures do not express

my ideas--they are a humiliation and abasement of the ideas, and

therefore, I have no right--and I am too sensitive. Still, I

believe I am beloved in this household, and esteemed far more

than I deserve. But I can't help knowing that after twenty-four

years of illness there must be some trace left, so that it is

impossible for people to refrain from laughing at me sometimes;

don't you think so?"

He seemed to pause for a reply, for some verdict, as it were, and

looked humbly around him.

All present stood rooted to the earth with amazement at this

unexpected and apparently uncalled-for outbreak; but the poor

prince's painful and rambling speech gave rise to a strange

episode.

"Why do you say all this here?" cried Aglaya, suddenly. "Why do

you talk like this to THEM?"

She appeared to be in the last stages of wrath and irritation;

her eyes flashed. The prince stood dumbly and blindly before her,

and suddenly grew pale.

"There is not one of them all who is worthy of these words of

yours," continued Aglaya. "Not one of them is worth your little

finger, not one of them has heart or head to compare with yours!

You are more honest than all, and better, nobler, kinder, wiser

than all. There are some here who are unworthy to bend and pick

up the handkerchief you have just dropped. Why do you humiliate

yourself like this, and place yourself lower than these people?

Why do you debase yourself before them? Why have you no pride?"

"My God! Who would ever have believed this?" cried Mrs. Epanchin,

wringing her hands.

"Hurrah for the 'poor knight'!" cried Colia.

"Be quiet! How dare they laugh at me in your house?" said Aglaya,

turning sharply on her mother in that hysterical frame of mind

that rides recklessly over every obstacle and plunges blindly

through proprieties. "Why does everyone, everyone worry and

torment me? Why have they all been bullying me these three days

about you, prince? I will not marry you--never, and under no

circumstances! Know that once and for all; as if anyone could

marry an absurd creature like you! Just look in the glass and see

what you look like, this very moment! Why, WHY do they torment me

and say I am going to marry you? You must know it; you are in the

plot with them!"

"No one ever tormented you on the subject," murmured Adelaida,

aghast.

"No one ever thought of such a thing! There has never been a word

said about it!" cried Alexandra.

"Who has been annoying her? Who has been tormenting the child? Who

could have said such a thing to her? Is she raving?" cried

Lizabetha Prokofievna, trembling with rage, to the company in

general.

"Every one of them has been saying it--every one of them--all

these three days! And I will never, never marry him!"

So saying, Aglaya burst into bitter tears, and, hiding her face

in her handkerchief, sank back into a chair.

"But he has never even--"

"I have never asked you to marry me, Aglaya Ivanovna!" said the

prince, of a sudden.

"WHAT?" cried Mrs. Epanchin, raising her hands in horror. "WHAT'S

that?"

She could not believe her ears.

"I meant to say--I only meant to say," said the prince,

faltering, "I merely meant to explain to Aglaya Ivanovna--to have

the honour to explain, as it were--that I had no intention--never

had--to ask the honour of her hand. I assure you I am not guilty,

Aglaya Ivanovna, I am not, indeed. I never did wish to--I never

thought of it at all--and never shall--you'll see it yourself--

you may be quite assured of it. Some wicked person has been

maligning me to you; but it's all right. Don't worry about it."

So saying, the prince approached Aglaya.

She took the handkerchief from her face, glanced keenly at him,

took in what he had said, and burst out laughing--such a merry,

unrestrained laugh, so hearty and gay, that. Adelaida could not

contain herself. She, too, glanced at the prince's panic-stricken

countenance, then rushed at her sister, threw her arms round her

neck, and burst into as merry a fit of laughter as Aglaya's own.

They laughed together like a couple of school-girls. Hearing and

seeing this, the prince smiled happily, and in accents of relief

and joy, he exclaimed "Well, thank God--thank God!"

Alexandra now joined in, and it looked as though the three

sisters were going to laugh on for ever.

"They are insane," muttered Lizabetha Prokofievna. "Either they

frighten one out of one's wits, or else--"

But Prince S. was laughing now, too, so was Evgenie Pavlovitch,

so was Colia, and so was the prince himself, who caught the

infection as he looked round radiantly upon the others.

"Come along, let's go out for a walk!" cried Adelaida. "We'll all

go together, and the prince must absolutely go with us. You

needn't go away, you dear good fellow! ISN'T he a dear, Aglaya?

Isn't he, mother? I must really give him a kiss for--for his

explanation to Aglaya just now. Mother, dear, I may kiss him,

mayn't I? Aglaya, may I kiss YOUR prince?" cried the young rogue,

and sure enough she skipped up to the prince and kissed his

forehead.

He seized her hands, and pressed them so hard that Adelaida

nearly cried out; he then gazed with delight into her eyes, and

raising her right hand to his lips with enthusiasm, kissed it

three times.

"Come along," said Aglaya. "Prince, you must walk with me. May

he, mother? This young cavalier, who won't have me? You said you

would NEVER have me, didn't you, prince? No-no, not like that;

THAT'S not the way to give your arm. Don't you know how to give

your arm to a lady yet? There--so. Now, come along, you and I

will lead the way. Would you like to lead the way with me alone,

tete-a-tete?"

She went on talking and chatting without a pause, with occasional

little bursts of laughter between.

"Thank God--thank God!" said Lizabetha Prokofievna to herself,

without quite knowing why she felt so relieved.

"What extraordinary people they are!" thought Prince S., for

perhaps the hundredth time since he had entered into intimate

relations with the family; but--he liked these "extraordinary

people," all the same. As for Prince Lef Nicolaievitch himself,

Prince S. did not seem quite to like him, somehow. He was

decidedly preoccupied and a little disturbed as they all started

off.

Evgenie Pavlovitch seemed to be in a lively humour. He made

Adelaida and Alexandra laugh all the way to the Vauxhall; but

they both laughed so very really and promptly that the worthy

Evgenie began at last to suspect that they were not listening to

him at all.

At this idea, he burst out laughing all at once, in quite

unaffected mirth, and without giving any explanation.

The sisters, who also appeared to be in high spirits, never tired

of glancing at Aglaya and the prince, who were walking in front.

It was evident that their younger sister was a thorough puzzle to

them both.

Prince S. tried hard to get up a conversation with Mrs. Epanchin

upon outside subjects, probably with the good intention of

distracting and amusing her; but he bored her dreadfully. She was

absent-minded to a degree, and answered at cross purposes, and

sometimes not at all.

But the puzzle and mystery of Aglaya was not yet over for the

evening. The last exhibition fell to the lot of the prince alone.

When they had proceeded some hundred paces or so from the house,

Aglaya said to her obstinately silent cavalier in a quick half-

whisper:

"Look to the right!"

The prince glanced in the direction indicated.

"Look closer. Do you see that bench, in the park there, just by

those three big trees--that green bench?"

The prince replied that he saw it.

"Do you like the position of it? Sometimes of a morning early, at

seven o'clock, when all the rest are still asleep, I come out and

sit there alone."

The prince muttered that the spot was a lovely one.

"Now, go away, I don't wish to have your arm any longer; or

perhaps, better, continue to give me your arm, and walk along

beside me, but don't speak a word to me. I wish to think by

myself."

The warning was certainly unnecessary; for the prince would not

have said a word all the rest of the time whether forbidden to

speak or not. His heart beat loud and painfully when Aglaya spoke

of the bench; could she--but no! he banished the thought, after

an instant's deliberation.

At Pavlofsk, on weekdays, the public is more select than it is on

Sundays and Saturdays, when the townsfolk come down to walk about

and enjoy the park.

The ladies dress elegantly, on these days, and it is the fashion

to gather round the band, which is probably the best of our

pleasure-garden bands, and plays the newest pieces. The behaviour

of the public is most correct and proper, and there is an

appearance of friendly intimacy among the usual frequenters. Many

come for nothing but to look at their acquaintances, but there

are others who come for the sake of the music. It is very seldom

that anything happens to break the harmony of the proceedings,

though, of course, accidents will happen everywhere.

On this particular evening the weather was lovely, and there were

a large number of people present. All the places anywhere near

the orchestra were occupied.

Our friends took chairs near the side exit. The crowd and the

music cheered Mrs. Epanchin a little, and amused the girls; they

bowed and shook hands with some of their friends and nodded at a

distance to others; they examined the ladies' dresses, noticed

comicalities and eccentricities among the people, and laughed and

talked among themselves. Evgenie Pavlovitch, too, found plenty of

friends to bow to. Several people noticed Aglaya and the prince,

who were still together.

Before very long two or three young men had come up, and one or

two remained to talk; all of these young men appeared to be on

intimate terms with Evgenie Pavlovitch. Among them was a young

officer, a remarkably handsome fellow--very good-natured and a

great chatterbox. He tried to get up a conversation with Aglaya,

and did his best to secure her attention. Aglaya behaved very

graciously to him, and chatted and laughed merrily. Evgenie

Pavlovitch begged the prince's leave to introduce their friend to

him. The prince hardly realized what was wanted of him, but the

introduction came off; the two men bowed and shook hands.

Evgenie Pavlovitch's friend asked the prince some question, but

the latter did not reply, or if he did, he muttered something so

strangely indistinct that there was nothing to be made of it. The

officer stared intently at him, then glanced at Evgenie, divined

why the latter had introduced him, and gave his undivided

attention to Aglaya again. Only Evgenie Pavlovitch observed that

Aglaya flushed up for a moment at this.

The prince did not notice that others were talking and making

themselves agreeable to Aglaya; in fact, at moments, he almost

forgot that he was sitting by her himself. At other moments he

felt a longing to go away somewhere and be alone with his

thoughts, and to feel that no one knew where he was.

Or if that were impossible he would like to be alone at home, on

the terrace-without either Lebedeff or his children, or anyone

else about him, and to lie there and think--a day and night and

another day again! He thought of the mountains-and especially of

a certain spot which he used to frequent, whence he would look

down upon the distant valleys and fields, and see the waterfall,

far off, like a little silver thread, and the old ruined castle

in the distance. Oh! how he longed to be there now--alone with

his thoughts--to think of one thing all his life--one thing! A

thousand years would not be too much time! And let everyone here

forget him--forget him utterly! How much better it would have

been if they had never known him--if all this could but prove to

be a dream. Perhaps it was a dream!

Now and then he looked at Aglaya for five minutes at a time,

without taking his eyes off her face; but his expression was very

strange; he would gaze at her as though she were an object a

couple of miles distant, or as though he were looking at her

portrait and not at herself at all.

"Why do you look at me like that, prince?" she asked suddenly,

breaking off her merry conversation and laughter with those about

her. "I'm afraid of you! You look as though you were just going

to put out your hand and touch my face to see if it's real!

Doesn't he, Evgenie Pavlovitch--doesn't he look like that?"

The prince seemed surprised that he should have been addressed

at all; he reflected a moment, but did not seem to take in what

had been said to him; at all events, he did not answer. But

observing that she and the others had begun to laugh, he too

opened his mouth and laughed with them.

The laughter became general, and the young officer, who seemed a

particularly lively sort of person, simply shook with mirth.

Aglaya suddenly whispered angrily to herself the word--

"Idiot!"

"My goodness--surely she is not in love with such a--surely she

isn't mad!" groaned Mrs. Epanchin, under her breath.

"It's all a joke, mamma; it's just a joke like the 'poor knight'

--nothing more whatever, I assure you!" Alexandra whispered in her

ear. "She is chaffing him--making a fool of him, after her own

private fashion, that's all! But she carries it just a little too

far--she is a regular little actress. How she frightened us just

now--didn't she?--and all for a lark!"

"Well, it's lucky she has happened upon an idiot, then, that's

all I can say!" whispered Lizabetha Prokofievna, who was somewhat

comforted, however, by her daughter's remark.

The prince had heard himself referred to as "idiot," and had

shuddered at the moment; but his shudder, it so happened, was not

caused by the word applied to him. The fact was that in the

crowd, not far from where lie was sitting, a pale familiar face,

with curly black hair, and a well-known smile and expression, had

flashed across his vision for a moment, and disappeared again.

Very likely he had imagined it! There only remained to him the

impression of a strange smile, two eyes, and a bright green tie.

Whether the man had disappeared among the crowd, or whether he

had turned towards the Vauxhall, the prince could not say.

But a moment or two afterwards he began to glance keenly about

him. That first vision might only too likely be the forerunner of

a second; it was almost certain to be so. Surely he had not

forgotten the possibility of such a meeting when he came to the

Vauxhall? True enough, he had not remarked where he was coming to

when he set out with Aglaya; he had not been in a condition to

remark anything at all.

Had he been more careful to observe his companion, he would have

seen that for the last quarter of an hour Aglaya had also been

glancing around in apparent anxiety, as though she expected to

see someone, or something particular, among the crowd of people.

Now, at the moment when his own anxiety became so marked, her

excitement also increased visibly, and when he looked about him,

she did the same.

The reason for their anxiety soon became apparent. From that very

side entrance to the Vauxhall, near which the prince and all the

Epanchin party were seated, there suddenly appeared quite a large

knot of persons, at least a dozen.

Heading this little band walked three ladies, two of whom were

remarkably lovely; and there was nothing surprising in the fact

that they should have had a large troop of admirers following in

their wake.

But there was something in the appearance of both the ladies and

their admirers which was peculiar, quite different for that of

the rest of the public assembled around the orchestra.

Nearly everyone observed the little band advancing, and all

pretended not to see or notice them, except a few young fellows

who exchanged glances and smiled, saying something to one another

in whispers.

It was impossible to avoid noticing them, however, in reality,

for they made their presence only too conspicuous by laughing and

talking loudly. It was to be supposed that some of them were more

than half drunk, although they were well enough dressed, some

even particularly well. There were one or two, however, who were

very strange-looking creatures, with flushed faces and

extraordinary clothes; some were military men; not all were quite

young; one or two were middle-aged gentlemen of decidedly

disagreeable appearance, men who are avoided in society like the

plague, decked out in large gold studs and rings, and

magnificently "got up," generally.

Among our suburban resorts there are some which enjoy a specially

high reputation for respectability and fashion; but the most

careful individual is not absolutely exempt from the danger of a

tile falling suddenly upon his head from his neighbour's roof.

Such a tile was about to descend upon the elegant and decorous

public now assembled to hear the music.

In order to pass from the Vauxhall to the band-stand, the visitor

has to descend two or three steps. Just at these steps the group

paused, as though it feared to proceed further; but very quickly

one of the three ladies, who formed its apex, stepped forward

into the charmed circle, followed by two members of her suite.

One of these was a middle-aged man of very respectable

appearance, but with the stamp of parvenu upon him, a man whom

nobody knew, and who evidently knew nobody. The other follower

was younger and far less respectable-looking.

No one else followed the eccentric lady; but as she descended the

steps she did not even look behind her, as though it were

absolutely the same to her whether anyone were following or not.

She laughed and talked loudly, however, just as before. She was

dressed with great taste, but with rather more magnificence than

was needed for the occasion, perhaps.

She walked past the orchestra, to where an open carriage was

waiting, near the road.

The prince had not seen HER for more than three months. All these

days since his arrival from Petersburg he had intended to pay her

a visit, but some mysterious presentiment had restrained him. He

could not picture to himself what impression this meeting with

her would make upon him, though he had often tried to imagine it,

with fear and trembling. One fact was quite certain, and that was

that the meeting would be painful.

Several times during the last six months he had recalled the

effect which the first sight of this face had had upon him, when

he only saw its portrait. He recollected well that even the

portrait face had left but too painful an impression.

That month in the provinces, when he had seen this woman nearly

every day, had affected him so deeply that he could not now look

back upon it calmly. In the very look of this woman there was

something which tortured him. In conversation with Rogojin he had

attributed this sensation to pity--immeasurable pity, and this

was the truth. The sight of the portrait face alone had filled

his heart full of the agony of real sympathy; and this feeling of

sympathy, nay, of actual SUFFERING, for her, had never left his

heart since that hour, and was still in full force. Oh yes, and

more powerful than ever!

But the prince was not satisfied with what he had said to

Rogojin. Only at this moment, when she suddenly made her

appearance before him, did he realize to the full the exact

emotion which she called up in him, and which he had not

described correctly to Rogojin.

And, indeed, there were no words in which he could have expressed

his horror, yes, HORROR, for he was now fully convinced from his

own private knowledge of her, that the woman was mad.

If, loving a woman above everything in the world, or at least

having a foretaste of the possibility of such love for her, one

were suddenly to behold her on a chain, behind bars and under the

lash of a keeper, one would feel something like what the poor

prince now felt.

"What's the matter?" asked Aglaya, in a whisper, giving his

sleeve a little tug.

He turned his head towards her and glanced at her black and (for

some reason) flashing eyes, tried to smile, and then, apparently

forgetting her in an instant, turned to the right once more, and

continued to watch the startling apparition before him.

Nastasia Philipovna was at this moment passing the young ladies'

chairs.

Evgenie Pavlovitch continued some apparently extremely funny and

interesting anecdote to Alexandra, speaking quickly and with much

animation. The prince remembered that at this moment Aglaya

remarked in a half-whisper:

"WHAT a--"

She did not finish her indefinite sentence; she restrained

herself in a moment; but it was enough.

Nastasia Philipovna, who up to now had been walking along as

though she had not noticed the Epanchin party, suddenly turned

her head in their direction, as though she had just observed

Evgenie Pavlovitch sitting there for the first time.

"Why, I declare, here he is!" she cried, stopping suddenly. "The

man one can't find with all one's messengers sent about the

place, sitting just under one's nose, exactly where one never

thought of looking! I thought you were sure to be at your uncle's

by this time."

Evgenie Pavlovitch flushed up and looked angrily at Nastasia

Philipovna, then turned his back on her.

"What I don't you know about it yet? He doesn't know--imagine

that! Why, he's shot himself. Your uncle shot himself this very

morning. I was told at two this afternoon. Half the town must

know it by now. They say there are three hundred and fifty

thousand roubles, government money, missing; some say five

hundred thousand. And I was under the impression that he would

leave you a fortune! He's whistled it all away. A most depraved

old gentleman, really! Well, ta, ta!--bonne chance! Surely you

intend to be off there, don't you? Ha, ha! You've retired from

the army in good time, I see! Plain clothes! Well done, sly

rogue! Nonsense! I see--you knew it all before--I dare say you

knew all about it yesterday-"

Although the impudence of this attack, this public proclamation

of intimacy, as it were, was doubtless premeditated, and had its

special object, yet Evgenie Pavlovitch at first seemed to intend

to make no show of observing either his tormentor or her words.

But Nastasia's communication struck him with the force of a

thunderclap. On hearing of his uncle's death he suddenly grew as

white as a sheet, and turned towards his informant.

At this moment, Lizabetha Prokofievna rose swiftly from her seat,

beckoned her companions, and left the place almost at a run.

Only the prince stopped behind for a moment, as though in

indecision; and Evgenie Pavlovitch lingered too, for he had not

collected his scattered wits. But the Epanchins had not had time

to get more than twenty paces away when a scandalous episode

occurred. The young officer, Evgenie Pavlovitch's friend who had

been conversing with Aglaya, said aloud in a great state of

indignation:

"She ought to be whipped--that's the only way to deal with

creatures like that--she ought to be whipped!"

This gentleman was a confidant of Evgenie's, and had doubtless

heard of the carriage episode.

Nastasia turned to him. Her eyes flashed; she rushed up to a

young man standing near, whom she did not know in the least, but

who happened to have in his hand a thin cane. Seizing this from

him, she brought it with all her force across the face of her

insulter.

All this occurred, of course, in one instant of time.

The young officer, forgetting himself, sprang towards her.

Nastasia's followers were not by her at the moment (the elderly

gentleman having disappeared altogether, and the younger man

simply standing aside and roaring with laughter).

In another moment, of course, the police would have been on the

spot, and it would have gone hard with Nastasia Philipovna had

not unexpected aid appeared.

Muishkin, who was but a couple of steps away, had time to spring

forward and seize the officer's arms from behind.

The officer, tearing himself from the prince's grasp, pushed him

so violently backwards that he staggered a few steps and then

subsided into a chair.

But there were other defenders for Nastasia on the spot by this

time. The gentleman known as the "boxer" now confronted the

enraged officer.

"Keller is my name, sir; ex-lieutenant," he said, very loud. "If

you will accept me as champion of the fair sex, I am at your

disposal. English boxing has no secrets from me. I sympathize

with you for the insult you have received, but I can't permit you

to raise your hand against a woman in public. If you prefer to

meet me--as would be more fitting to your rank--in some other

manner, of course you understand me, captain."

But the young officer had recovered himself, and was no longer

listening. At this moment Rogojin appeared, elbowing through the

crowd; he took Nastasia's hand, drew it through his arm, and

quickly led her away. He appeared to be terribly excited; he was

trembling all over, and was as pale as a corpse.

As he carried Nastasia off, he turned and grinned horribly in the

officer's face, and with low malice observed:

"Tfu! look what the fellow got! Look at the blood on his cheek!

Ha, ha!"

Recollecting himself, however, and seeing at a glance the sort of

people he had to deal with, the officer turned his back on both

his opponents, and courteously, but concealing his face with his

handkerchief, approached the prince, who was now rising from the

chair into which he had fallen.

"Prince Muishkin, I believe? The gentleman to whom I had the

honour of being introduced?"

"She is mad, insane--I assure you, she is mad," replied the

prince in trembling tones, holding out both his hands

mechanically towards the officer.

"I cannot boast of any such knowledge, of course, but I wished to

know your name."

He bowed and retired without waiting for an answer.

Five seconds after the disappearance of the last actor in this

scene, the police arrived. The whole episode had not lasted more

than a couple of minutes. Some of the spectators had risen from

their places, and departed altogether; some merely exchanged

their seats for others a little further off; some were delighted

with the occurrence, and talked and laughed over it for a long

time.

In a word, the incident closed as such incidents do, and the band

began to play again. The prince walked away after the Epanchin

party. Had he thought of looking round to the left after he had

been pushed so unceremoniously into the chair, he would have

observed Aglaya standing some twenty yards away. She had stayed

to watch the scandalous scene in spite of her mother's and

sisters' anxious cries to her to come away.

Prince S. ran up to her and persuaded her, at last, to come home

with them.

Lizabetha Prokofievna saw that she returned in such a state of

agitation that it was doubtful whether she had even heard their

calls. But only a couple of minutes later, when they had reached

the park, Aglaya suddenly remarked, in her usual calm,

indifferent voice:

"I wanted to see how the farce would end."

III.

THE occurrence at the Vauxhall had filled both mother and

daughters with something like horror. In their excitement

Lizabetha Prokofievna and the girls were nearly running all the

way home.

In her opinion there was so much disclosed and laid bare by the

episode, that, in spite of the chaotic condition of her mind, she

was able to feel more or less decided on certain points which, up

to now, had been in a cloudy condition.

However, one and all of the party realized that something

important had happened, and that, perhaps fortunately enough,

something which had hitherto been enveloped in the obscurity of

guess-work had now begun to come forth a little from the mists.

In spite of Prince S.'s assurances and explanations, Evgenie

Pavlovitch's real character and position were at last coming to

light. He was publicly convicted of intimacy with "that

creature." So thought Lizabetha Prokofievna and her two elder

daughters.

But the real upshot of the business was that the number of

riddles to be solved was augmented. The two girls, though rather

irritated at their mother's exaggerated alarm and haste to depart

from the scene, had been unwilling to worry her at first with

questions.

Besides, they could not help thinking that their sister Aglaya

probably knew more about the whole matter than both they and

their mother put together.

Prince S. looked as black as night, and was silent and moody.

Mrs. Epanchin did not say a word to him all the way home, and he

did not seem to observe the fact. Adelaida tried to pump him a

little by asking, "who was the uncle they were talking about, and

what was it that had happened in Petersburg?" But he had merely

muttered something disconnected about "making inquiries," and

that "of course it was all nonsense." "Oh, of course," replied

Adelaida, and asked no more questions. Aglaya, too, was very

quiet; and the only remark she made on the way home was that they

were "walking much too fast to be pleasant."

Once she turned and observed the prince hurrying after them.

Noticing his anxiety to catch them up, she smiled ironically, and

then looked back no more. At length, just as they neared the

house, General Epanchin came out and met them; he had only just

arrived from town.

His first word was to inquire after Evgenie Pavlovitch. But

Lizabetha stalked past him, and neither looked at him nor

answered his question.

He immediately judged from the faces of his daughters and Prince

S. that there was a thunderstorm brewing, and he himself already

bore evidences of unusual perturbation of mind.

He immediately button-holed Prince S., and standing at the front

door, engaged in a whispered conversation with him. By the

troubled aspect of both of them, when they entered the house, and

approached Mrs. Epanchin, it was evident that they had been

discussing very disturbing news.

Little by little the family gathered together upstairs in

Lizabetha Prokofievna's apartments, and Prince Muishkin found

himself alone on the verandah when he arrived. He settled himself

in a corner and sat waiting, though he knew not what he expected.

It never struck him that he had better go away, with all this

disturbance in the house. He seemed to have forgotten all the

world, and to be ready to sit on where he was for years on end.

From upstairs he caught sounds of excited conversation every now

and then.

He could not say how long he sat there. It grew late and became

quite dark.

Suddenly Aglaya entered the verandah. She seemed to be quite

calm, though a little pale.

Observing the prince, whom she evidently did not expect to see

there, alone in the corner, she smiled, and approached him:

"What are you doing there?" she asked.

The prince muttered something, blushed, and jumped up; but Aglaya

immediately sat down beside him; so he reseated himself.

She looked suddenly, but attentively into his face, then at the

window, as though thinking of something else, and then again at

him.

"Perhaps she wants to laugh at me," thought the prince, "but no;

for if she did she certainly would do so."

"Would you like some tea? I'll order some," she said, after a

minute or two of silence.

"N-no thanks, I don't know--"

"Don't know! How can you not know? By-the-by, look here--if

someone were to challenge you to a duel, what should you do? I

wished to ask you this--some time ago--"

"Why? Nobody would ever challenge me to a duel!"

"But if they were to, would you be dreadfully frightened?"

"I dare say I should be--much alarmed!"

"Seriously? Then are you a coward?"

"N-no!--I don't think so. A coward is a man who is afraid and

runs away; the man who is frightened but does not run away, is

not quite a coward," said the prince with a smile, after a

moment's thought.

"And you wouldn't run away?"

"No--I don't think I should run away," replied the prince,

laughing outright at last at Aglaya's questions.

"Though I am a woman, I should certainly not run away for

anything," said Aglaya, in a slightly pained voice. "However, I

see you are laughing at me and twisting your face up as usual in

order to make yourself look more interesting. Now tell me, they

generally shoot at twenty paces, don't they? At ten, sometimes? I

suppose if at ten they must be either wounded or killed, mustn't

they?"

"I don't think they often kill each other at duels."

"They killed Pushkin that way."

"That may have been an accident."

"Not a bit of it; it was a duel to the death, and he was killed."

"The bullet struck so low down that probably his antagonist would

never have aimed at that part of him--people never do; he would

have aimed at his chest or head; so that probably the bullet hit

him accidentally. I have been told this by competent

authorities."

"Well, a soldier once told me that they were always ordered to

aim at the middle of the body. So you see they don't aim at the

chest or head; they aim lower on purpose. I asked some officer

about this afterwards, and he said it was perfectly true."

"That is probably when they fire from a long distance."

"Can you shoot at all?"

"No, I have never shot in my life."

"Can't you even load a pistol?"

"No! That is, I understand how it's done, of course, but I have

never done it."

"Then, you don't know how, for it is a matter that needs

practice. Now listen and learn; in the first place buy good

powder, not damp (they say it mustn't be at all damp, but very

dry), some fine kind it is--you must ask for PISTOL powder, not

the stuff they load cannons with. They say one makes the bullets

oneself, somehow or other. Have you got a pistol?"

"No--and I don't want one," said the prince, laughing.

"Oh, what NONSENSE! You must buy one. French or English are the

best, they say. Then take a little powder, about a thimbleful, or

perhaps two, and pour it into the barrel. Better put plenty. Then

push in a bit of felt (it MUST be felt, for some reason or

other); you can easily get a bit off some old mattress, or off a

door; it's used to keep the cold out. Well, when you have pushed

the felt down, put the bullet in; do you hear now? The bullet

last and the powder first, not the other way, or the pistol won't

shoot. What are you laughing at? I wish you to buy a pistol and

practise every day, and you must learn to hit a mark for CERTAIN;

will you?"

The prince only laughed. Aglaya stamped her foot with annoyance.

Her serious air, however, during this conversation had surprised

him considerably. He had a feeling that he ought to be asking her

something, that there was something he wanted to find out far

more important than how to load a pistol; but his thoughts had

all scattered, and he was only aware that she was sitting by,

him, and talking to him, and that he was looking at her; as to

what she happened to be saying to him, that did not matter in the

least.

The general now appeared on the verandah, coming from upstairs.

He was on his way out, with an expression of determination on his

face, and of preoccupation and worry also.

"Ah! Lef Nicolaievitch, it's you, is it? Where are you off to

now?" he asked, oblivious of the fact that the prince had not

showed the least sign of moving. "Come along with me; I want to

say a word or two to you."

"Au revoir, then!" said Aglaya, holding out her hand to the

prince.

It was quite dark now, and Muishkin could not see her face

clearly, but a minute or two later, when he and the general had

left the villa, he suddenly flushed up, and squeezed his right

hand tightly.

It appeared that he and the general were going in the same

direction. In spite of the lateness of the hour, the general was

hurrying away to talk to someone upon some important subject.

Meanwhile he talked incessantly but disconnectedly to the prince,

and continually brought in the name of Lizabetha Prokofievna.

If the prince had been in a condition to pay more attention to

what the general was saying, he would have discovered that the

latter was desirous of drawing some information out of him, or

indeed of asking him some question outright; but that he could

not make up his mind to come to the point.

Muishkin was so absent, that from the very first he could not

attend to a word the other was saying; and when the general

suddenly stopped before him with some excited question, he was

obliged to confess, ignominiously, that he did not know in the

least what he had been talking about.

The general shrugged his shoulders.

"How strange everyone, yourself included, has become of late,"

said he. "I was telling you that I cannot in the least understand

Lizabetha Prokofievna's ideas and agitations. She is in hysterics

up there, and moans and says that we have been 'shamed and

disgraced.' How? Why? When? By whom? I confess that I am very

much to blame myself; I do not conceal the fact; but the conduct,

the outrageous behaviour of this woman, must really be kept

within limits, by the police if necessary, and I am just on my

way now to talk the question over and make some arrangements. It

can all be managed quietly and gently, even kindly, and without

the slightest fuss or scandal. I foresee that the future is

pregnant with events, and that there is much that needs

explanation. There is intrigue in the wind; but if on one side

nothing is known, on the other side nothing will be explained. If

I have heard nothing about it, nor have YOU, nor HE, nor SHE--

who HAS heard about it, I should like to know? How CAN all this

be explained except by the fact that half of it is mirage or

moonshine, or some hallucination of that sort?"

"SHE is insane," muttered the prince, suddenly recollecting all

that had passed, with a spasm of pain at his heart.

"I too had that idea, and I slept in peace. But now I see that

their opinion is more correct. I do not believe in the theory of

madness! The woman has no common sense; but she is not only not

insane, she is artful to a degree. Her outburst of this evening

about Evgenie's uncle proves that conclusively. It was VILLAINOUS,

simply jesuitical, and it was all for some special purpose."

"What about Evgenie's uncle?"

"My goodness, Lef Nicolaievitch, why, you can't have heard a

single word I said! Look at me, I'm still trembling all over with

the dreadful shock! It is that that kept me in town so late.

Evgenie Pavlovitch's uncle--"

Well?" cried the prince.

"Shot himself this morning, at seven o'clock. A respected,

eminent old man of seventy; and exactly point for point as she

described it; a sum of money, a considerable sum of government

money, missing!"

"Why, how could she--"

"What, know of it? Ha, ha, ha! Why, there was a whole crowd round

her the moment she appeared on the scenes here. You know what

sort of people surround her nowadays, and solicit the honour of

her 'acquaintance.' Of course she might easily have heard the

news from someone coming from town. All Petersburg, if not all

Pavlofsk, knows it by now. Look at the slyness of her observation

about Evgenie's uniform! I mean, her remark that he had retired

just in time! There's a venomous hint for you, if you like! No,

no! there's no insanity there! Of course I refuse to believe that

Evgenie Pavlovitch could have known beforehand of the

catastrophe; that is, that at such and such a day at seven

o'clock, and all that; but he might well have had a presentiment

of the truth. And I--all of us--Prince S. and everybody, believed

that he was to inherit a large fortune from this uncle. It's

dreadful, horrible! Mind, I don't suspect Evgenie of anything, be

quite clear on that point; but the thing is a little suspicious,

nevertheless. Prince S. can't get over it. Altogether it is a

very extraordinary combination of circumstances."

"What suspicion attaches to Evgenie Pavlovitch?"

"Oh, none at all! He has behaved very well indeed. I didn't mean

to drop any sort of hint. His own fortune is intact, I believe.

Lizabetha Prokofievna, of course, refuses to listen to anything.

That's the worst of it all, these family catastrophes or

quarrels, or whatever you like to call them. You know, prince,

you are a friend of the family, so I don't mind telling you; it

now appears that Evgenie Pavlovitch proposed to Aglaya a month

ago, and was refused."

"Impossible!" cried the prince.

"Why? Do you know anything about it? Look here," continued the

general, more agitated than ever, and trembling with excitement,

"maybe I have been letting the cat out of the bag too freely with

you, if so, it is because you are--that sort of man, you know!

Perhaps you have some special information?"

"I know nothing about Evgenie Pavlovitch!" said the prince.

"Nor do I! They always try to bury me underground when there's

anything going on; they don't seem to reflect that it is

unpleasant to a man to be treated so! I won't stand it! We have

just had a terrible scene!--mind, I speak to you as I would to my

own son! Aglaya laughs at her mother. Her sisters guessed about

Evgenie having proposed and been rejected, and told Lizabetha.

"I tell you, my dear fellow, Aglaya is such an extraordinary,

such a self-willed, fantastical little creature, you wouldn't

believe it! Every high quality, every brilliant trait of heart

and mind, are to be found in her, and, with it all, so much

caprice and mockery, such wild fancies--indeed, a little devil!

She has just been laughing at her mother to her very face, and at

her sisters, and at Prince S., and everybody--and of course she

always laughs at me! You know I love the child--I love her even

when she laughs at me, and I believe the wild little creature has

a special fondness for me for that very reason. She is fonder of

me than any of the others. I dare swear she has had a good laugh

at YOU before now! You were having a quiet talk just now, I

observed, after all the thunder and lightning upstairs. She was

sitting with you just as though there had been no row at all."

The prince blushed painfully in the darkness, and closed his

right hand tightly, but he said nothing.

"My dear good Prince Lef Nicolaievitch," began the general again,

suddenly, "both I and Lizabetha Prokofievna--(who has begun to

respect you once more, and me through you, goodness knows why!)--

we both love you very sincerely, and esteem you, in spite of any

appearances to the contrary. But you'll admit what a riddle it

must have been for us when that calm, cold, little spitfire,

Aglaya--(for she stood up to her mother and answered her

questions with inexpressible contempt, and mine still more so,

because, like a fool, I thought it my duty to assert myself as

head of the family)--when Aglaya stood up of a sudden and

informed us that 'that madwoman' (strangely enough, she used

exactly the same expression as you did) 'has taken it into her

head to marry me to Prince Lef Nicolaievitch, and therefore is

doing her best to choke Evgenie Pavlovitch off, and rid the house

of him.' That's what she said. She would not give the slightest

explanation; she burst out laughing, banged the door, and went

away. We all stood there with our mouths open. Well, I was told

afterwards of your little passage with Aglaya this afternoon,

and-and--dear prince--you are a good, sensible fellow, don't be

angry if I speak out--she is laughing at you, my boy! She is

enjoying herself like a child, at your expense, and therefore,

since she is a child, don't be angry with her, and don't think

anything of it. I assure you, she is simply making a fool of you,

just as she does with one and all of us out of pure lack of

something better to do. Well--good-bye! You know our feelings,

don't you--our sincere feelings for yourself? They are

unalterable, you know, dear boy, under all circumstances, but--

Well, here we part; I must go down to the right. Rarely have I

sat so uncomfortably in my saddle, as they say, as I now sit. And

people talk of the charms of a country holiday!"

Left to himself at the cross-roads, the prince glanced around

him, quickly crossed the road towards the lighted window of a

neighbouring house, and unfolded a tiny scrap of paper which he

had held clasped in his right hand during the whole of his

conversation with the general.

He read the note in the uncertain rays that fell from the window.

It was as follows:

"Tomorrow morning, I shall be at the green bench in the park at

seven, and shall wait there for you. I have made up my mind to

speak to you about a most important matter which closely concerns

yourself.

"P.S.--I trust that you will not show this note to anyone. Though

I am ashamed of giving you such instructions, I feel that I must

do so, considering what you are. I therefore write the words, and

blush for your simple character.

"P.P.S.--It is the same green bench that I showed you before.

There! aren't you ashamed of yourself? I felt that it was

necessary to repeat even that information."

The note was written and folded anyhow, evidently in a great

hurry, and probably just before Aglaya had come down to the

verandah.

In inexpressible agitation, amounting almost to fear, the prince

slipped quickly away from the window, away from the light, like a

frightened thief, but as he did so he collided violently with

some gentleman who seemed to spring from the earth at his feet.

"I was watching for you, prince," said the individual.

"Is that you, Keller?" said the prince, in surprise.

"Yes, I've been looking for you. I waited for you at the

Epanchins' house, but of course I could not come in. I dogged you

from behind as you walked along with the general. Well, prince,

here is Keller, absolutely at your service--command him!--ready

to sacrifice himself--even to die in case of need."

"But-why?"

"Oh, why?--Of course you'll be challenged! That was young

Lieutenant Moloftsoff. I know him, or rather of him; he won't

pass an insult. He will take no notice of Rogojin and myself,

and, therefore, you are the only one left to account for. You'll

have to pay the piper, prince. He has been asking about you, and

undoubtedly his friend will call on you tomorrow--perhaps he is

at your house already. If you would do me the honour to have me

for a second, prince, I should be happy. That's why I have been

looking for you now."

"Duel! You've come to talk about a duel, too!" The prince burst

out laughing, to the great astonishment of Keller. He laughed

unrestrainedly, and Keller, who had been on pins and needles, and

in a fever of excitement to offer himself as "second," was very

near being offended.

"You caught him by the arms, you know, prince. No man of proper

pride can stand that sort of treatment in public."

"Yes, and he gave me a fearful dig in the chest," cried the

prince, still laughing. "What are we to fight about? I shall beg

his pardon, that's all. But if we must fight--we'll fight! Let

him have a shot at me, by all means; I should rather like it. Ha,

ha, ha! I know how to load a pistol now; do you know how to load

a pistol, Keller? First, you have to buy the powder, you know; it

mustn't be wet, and it mustn't be that coarse stuff that they

load cannons with--it must be pistol powder. Then you pour the

powder in, and get hold of a bit of felt from some door, and then

shove the bullet in. But don't shove the bullet in before the

powder, because the thing wouldn't go off--do you hear, Keller,

the thing wouldn't go off! Ha, ha, ha! Isn't that a grand reason,

Keller, my friend, eh? Do you know, my dear fellow, I really must

kiss you, and embrace you, this very moment. Ha, ha! How was it

you so suddenly popped up in front of me as you did? Come to my

house as soon as you can, and we'll have some champagne. We'll

all get drunk! Do you know I have a dozen of champagne in

Lebedeff's cellar? Lebedeff sold them to me the day after I

arrived. I took the lot. We'll invite everybody! Are you going to

do any sleeping tonight?"

"As much as usual, prince--why?"

"Pleasant dreams then--ha, ha!"

The prince crossed the road, and disappeared into the park,

leaving the astonished Keller in a state of ludicrous wonder. He

had never before seen the prince in such a strange condition of

mind, and could not have imagined the possibility of it.

"Fever, probably," he said to himself, "for the man is all

nerves, and this business has been a little too much for him. He

is not AFRAID, that's clear; that sort never funks! H'm!

champagne! That was an interesting item of news, at all events!--

Twelve bottles! Dear me, that's a very respectable little stock

indeed! I bet anything Lebedeff lent somebody money on deposit of

this dozen of champagne. Hum! he's a nice fellow, is this prince!

I like this sort of man. Well, I needn't be wasting time here,

and if it's a case of champagne, why--there's no time like the

present!"

That the prince was almost in a fever was no more than the truth.

He wandered about the park for a long while, and at last came to

himself in a lonely avenue. He was vaguely conscious that he had

already paced this particular walk--from that large, dark tree to

the bench at the other end--about a hundred yards altogether--at

least thirty times backwards and forwards.

As to recollecting what he had been thinking of all that time, he

could not. He caught himself, however, indulging in one thought

which made him roar with laughter, though there was nothing

really to laugh at in it; but he felt that he must laugh, and go

on laughing.

It struck him that the idea of the duel might not have occurred

to Keller alone, but that his lesson in the art of pistol-loading

might have been not altogether accidental! "Pooh! nonsense!" he

said to himself, struck by another thought, of a sudden. "Why,

she was immensely surprised to find me there on the verandah, and

laughed and talked about TEA! And yet she had this little note in

her hand, therefore she must have known that I was sitting there.

So why was she surprised? Ha, ha, ha!"

He pulled the note out and kissed it; then paused and reflected.

"How strange it all is! how strange!" he muttered, melancholy

enough now. In moments of great joy, he invariably felt a

sensation of melancholy come over him--he could not tell why.

He looked intently around him, and wondered why he had come here;

he was very tired, so he approached the bench and sat down on it.

Around him was profound silence; the music in the Vauxhall was

over. The park seemed quite empty, though it was not, in reality,

later than half-past eleven. It was a quiet, warm, clear night--a

real Petersburg night of early June; but in the dense avenue,

where he was sitting, it was almost pitch dark.

If anyone had come up at this moment and told him that he was in

love, passionately in love, he would have rejected the idea with

astonishment, and, perhaps, with irritation. And if anyone had

added that Aglaya's note was a love-letter, and that it contained

an appointment to a lover's rendezvous, he would have blushed

with shame for the speaker, and, probably, have challenged him to

a duel.

All this would have been perfectly sincere on his part. He had

never for a moment entertained the idea of the possibility of

this girl loving him, or even of such a thing as himself falling

in love with her. The possibility of being loved himself, "a man

like me," as he put it, he ranked among ridiculous suppositions.

It appeared to him that it was simply a joke on Aglaya's part, if

there really were anything in it at all; but that seemed to him

quite natural. His preoccupation was caused by something

different.

As to the few words which the general had let slip about Aglaya

laughing at everybody, and at himself most of all--he entirely

believed them. He did not feel the slightest sensation of

offence; on the contrary, he was quite certain that it was as it

should be.

His whole thoughts were now as to next morning early; he would

see her; he would sit by her on that little green bench, and

listen to how pistols were loaded, and look at her. He wanted

nothing more.

The question as to what she might have to say of special interest

to himself occurred to him once or twice. He did not doubt, for a

moment, that she really had some such subject of conversation in

store, but so very little interested in the matter was he that it

did not strike him to wonder what it could be. The crunch of

gravel on the path suddenly caused him to raise his head.

A man, whose face it was difficult to see in the gloom,

approached the bench, and sat down beside him. The prince peered

into his face, and recognized the livid features of Rogojin.

"I knew you'd be wandering about somewhere here. I didn't have to

look for you very long," muttered the latter between his teeth.

It was the first time they had met since the encounter on the

staircase at the hotel.

Painfully surprised as he was at this sudden apparition of

Rogojin, the prince, for some little while, was unable to collect

his thoughts. Rogojin, evidently, saw and understood the

impression he had made; and though he seemed more or less

confused at first, yet he began talking with what looked like

assumed ease and freedom. However, the prince soon changed his

mind on this score, and thought that there was not only no

affectation of indifference, but that Rogojin was not even

particularly agitated. If there were a little apparent

awkwardness, it was only in his words and gestures. The man could

not change his heart.

"How did you--find me here?" asked the prince for the sake of

saying something.

"Keller told me (I found him at your place) that you were in the

park. 'Of course he is!' I thought."

"Why so?" asked the prince uneasily.

Rogojin smiled, but did not explain.

"I received your letter, Lef Nicolaievitch--what's the good of

all that?--It's no use, you know. I've come to you from HER,--she

bade me tell you that she must see you, she has something to say

to you. She told me to find you today."

"I'll come tomorrow. Now I'm going home--are you coming to my

house?"

"Why should I? I've given you the message.--Goodbye!"

"Won't you come?" asked the prince in a gentle voice.

"What an extraordinary man you are! I wonder at you!" Rogojin

laughed sarcastically.

"Why do you hate me so?" asked the prince, sadly. "You know

yourself that all you suspected is quite unfounded. I felt you

were still angry with me, though. Do you know why? Because you

tried to kill me--that's why you can't shake off your wrath

against me. I tell you that I only remember the Parfen Rogojin

with whom I exchanged crosses, and vowed brotherhood. I wrote you

this in yesterday's letter, in order that you might forget all

that madness on your part, and that you might not feel called to

talk about it when we met. Why do you avoid me? Why do you hold

your hand back from me? I tell you again, I consider all that has

passed a delirium, an insane dream. I can understand all you did,

and all you felt that day, as if it were myself. What you were

then imagining was not the case, and could never be the case.

Why, then, should there be anger between us?"

"You don't know what anger is!" laughed Rogojin, in reply to the

prince's heated words.

He had moved a pace or two away, and was hiding his hands behind

him.

"No, it is impossible for me to come to your house again," he

added slowly.

"Why? Do you hate me so much as all that?"

"I don't love you, Lef Nicolaievitch, and, therefore, what would

be the use of my coming to see you? You are just like a child--

you want a plaything, and it must be taken out and given you--and

then you don't know how to work it. You are simply repeating all

you said in your letter, and what's the use? Of course I believe

every word you say, and I know perfectly well that you neither

did or ever can deceive me in any way, and yet, I don't love you.

You write that you've forgotten everything, and only remember

your brother Parfen, with whom you exchanged crosses, and that

you don't remember anything about the Rogojin who aimed a knife

at your throat. What do you know about my feelings, eh?" (Rogojin

laughed disagreeably.) "Here you are holding out your brotherly

forgiveness to me for a thing that I have perhaps never repented

of in the slightest degree. I did not think of it again all that

evening; all my thoughts were centred on something else--"

"Not think of it again? Of course you didn't!" cried the prince.

"And I dare swear that you came straight away down here to

Pavlofsk to listen to the music and dog her about in the crowd,

and stare at her, just as you did today. There's nothing

surprising in that! If you hadn't been in that condition of mind

that you could think of nothing but one subject, you would,

probably, never have raised your knife against me. I had a

presentiment of what you would do, that day, ever since I saw you

first in the morning. Do you know yourself what you looked like?

I knew you would try to murder me even at the very moment when we

exchanged crosses. What did you take me to your mother for? Did

you think to stay your hand by doing so? Perhaps you did not put

your thoughts into words, but you and I were thinking the same

thing, or feeling the same thing looming over us, at the same

moment. What should you think of me now if you had not raised

your knife to me--the knife which God averted from my throat? I

would have been guilty of suspecting you all the same--and you

would have intended the murder all the same; therefore we should

have been mutually guilty in any case. Come, don't frown; you

needn't laugh at me, either. You say you haven't 'repented.'

Repented! You probably couldn't, if you were to try; you dislike

me too much for that. Why, if I were an angel of light, and as

innocent before you as a babe, you would still loathe me if you

believed that SHE loved me, instead of loving yourself. That's

jealousy--that is the real jealousy.

"But do you know what I have been thinking out during this last

week, Parfen? I'll tell you. What if she loves you now better

than anyone? And what if she torments you BECAUSE she loves you,

and in proportion to her love for you, so she torments you the

more? She won't tell you this, of course; you must have eyes to

see. Why do you suppose she consents to marry you? She must have

a reason, and that reason she will tell you some day. Some women

desire the kind of love you give her, and she is probably one of

these. Your love and your wild nature impress her. Do you know

that a woman is capable of driving a man crazy almost, with her

cruelties and mockeries, and feels not one single pang of regret,

because she looks at him and says to herself, 'There! I'll

torment this man nearly into his grave, and then, oh! how I'll

compensate him for it all with my love!'"

Rogojin listened to the end, and then burst out laughing:

"Why, prince, I declare you must have had a taste of this sort of

thing yourself--haven't you? I have heard tell of something of

the kind, you know; is it true?"

"What? What can you have heard?" said the prince, stammering.

Rogojin continued to laugh loudly. He had listened to the

prince's speech with curiosity and some satisfaction. The

speaker's impulsive warmth had surprised and even comforted him.

"Why, I've not only heard of it; I see it for myself," he said.

"When have you ever spoken like that before? It wasn't like

yourself, prince. Why, if I hadn't heard this report about you, I

should never have come all this way into the park--at midnight,

too!"

"I don't understand you in the least, Parfen."

"Oh, SHE told me all about it long ago, and tonight I saw for

myself. I saw you at the music, you know, and whom you were

sitting with. She swore to me yesterday, and again today, that

you are madly in love with Aglaya Ivanovna. But that's all the

same to me, prince, and it's not my affair at all; for if you

have ceased to love HER, SHE has not ceased to love YOU. You

know, of course, that she wants to marry you to that girl? She's

sworn to it! Ha, ha! She says to me, 'Until then I won't marry

you. When they go to church, we'll go too-and not before.' What

on earth does she mean by it? I don't know, and I never did.

Either she loves you without limits or--yet, if she loves you,

why does she wish to marry you to another girl? She says, 'I want

to see him happy,' which is to say--she loves you."

"I wrote, and I say to you once more, that she is not in her

right mind," said the prince, who had listened with anguish to

what Rogojin said.

"Goodness knows--you may be wrong there! At all events, she named

the day this evening, as we left the gardens. 'In three weeks,'

says she, 'and perhaps sooner, we shall be married.' She swore to

it, took off her cross and kissed it. So it all depends upon you

now, prince, You see! Ha, ha!"

"That's all madness. What you say about me, Parfen, never can and

never will be. Tomorrow, I shall come and see you--"

"How can she be mad," Rogojin interrupted, "when she is sane

enough for other people and only mad for you? How can she write

letters to HER, if she's mad? If she were insane they would

observe it in her letters."

"What letters?" said the prince, alarmed.

"She writes to HER--and the girl reads the letters. Haven't you

heard?--You are sure to hear; she's sure to show you the letters

herself."

"I won't believe this!" cried the prince.

"Why, prince, you've only gone a few steps along this road, I

perceive. You are evidently a mere beginner. Wait a bit! Before

long, you'll have your own detectives, you'll watch day and

night, and you'll know every little thing that goes on there--

that is, if--"

"Drop that subject, Rogojin, and never mention it again. And

listen: as I have sat here, and talked, and listened, it has

suddenly struck me that tomorrow is my birthday. It must be

about twelve o'clock, now; come home with me--do, and we'll see

the day in! We'll have some wine, and you shall wish me--I don't

know what--but you, especially you, must wish me a good wish, and

I shall wish you full happiness in return. Otherwise, hand me my

cross back again. You didn't return it to me next day. Haven't

you got it on now?"

"Yes, I have," said Rogojin.

"Come along, then. I don't wish to meet my new year without you--

my new life, I should say, for a new life is beginning for me.

Did you know, Parfen, that a new life had begun for me?"

"I see for myself that it is so--and I shall tell HER. But you

are not quite yourself, Lef Nicolaievitch."

IV.

THE prince observed with great surprise, as he approached his

villa, accompanied by Rogojin, that a large number of people were

assembled on his verandah, which was brilliantly lighted up. The

company seemed merry and were noisily laughing and talking--even

quarrelling, to judge from the sounds. At all events they were

clearly enjoying themselves, and the prince observed further on

closer investigation--that all had been drinking champagne. To

judge from the lively condition of some of the party, it was to

be supposed that a considerable quantity of champagne had been

consumed already.

All the guests were known to the prince; but the curious part of

the matter was that they had all arrived on the same evening, as

though with one accord, although he had only himself recollected

the fact that it was his birthday a few moments since.

"You must have told somebody you were going to trot out the

champagne, and that's why they are all come!" muttered Rogojin,

as the two entered the verandah. "We know all about that! You've

only to whistle and they come up in shoals!" he continued, almost

angrily. He was doubtless thinking of his own late experiences

with his boon companions.

All surrounded the prince with exclamations of welcome, and, on

hearing that it was his birthday, with cries of congratulation

and delight; many of them were very noisy.

The presence of certain of those in the room surprised the prince

vastly, but the guest whose advent filled him with the greatest

wonder--almost amounting to alarm--was Evgenie Pavlovitch. The

prince could not believe his eyes when he beheld the latter, and

could not help thinking that something was wrong.

Lebedeff ran up promptly to explain the arrival of all these

gentlemen. He was himself somewhat intoxicated, but the prince

gathered from his long-winded periods that the party had

assembled quite naturally, and accidentally.

First of all Hippolyte had arrived, early in the evening, and

feeling decidedly better, had determined to await the prince on

the verandah. There Lebedeff had joined him, and his household

had followed--that is, his daughters and General Ivolgin.

Burdovsky had brought Hippolyte, and stayed on with him. Gania

and Ptitsin had dropped in accidentally later on; then came

Keller, and he and Colia insisted on having champagne. Evgenie

Pavlovitch had only dropped in half an hour or so ago. Lebedeff

had served the champagne readily.

"My own though, prince, my own, mind," he said, "and there'll be

some supper later on; my daughter is getting it ready now. Come

and sit down, prince, we are all waiting for you, we want you

with us. Fancy what we have been discussing! You know the

question, 'to be or not to be,'--out of Hamlet! A contemporary

theme! Quite up-to-date! Mr. Hippolyte has been eloquent to a

degree. He won't go to bed, but he has only drunk a little

champagne, and that can't do him any harm. Come along, prince,

and settle the question. Everyone is waiting for you, sighing for

the light of your luminous intelligence..."

The prince noticed the sweet, welcoming look on Vera Lebedeff's

face, as she made her way towards him through the crowd. He held

out his hand to her. She took it, blushing with delight, and

wished him "a happy life from that day forward." Then she ran off

to the kitchen, where. her presence was necessary to help in the

preparations for supper. Before the prince's arrival she had

spent some time on the terrace, listening eagerly to the

conversation, though the visitors, mostly under the influence of

wine, were discussing abstract subjects far beyond her

comprehension. In the next room her younger sister lay on a

wooden chest, sound asleep, with her mouth wide open; but the

boy, Lebedeff's son, had taken up his position close beside Colia

and Hippolyte, his face lit up with interest in the conversation

of his father and the rest, to which he would willingly have

listened for ten hours at a stretch.

"I have waited for you on purpose, and am very glad to see you

arrive so happy," said Hippolyte, when the prince came forward to

press his hand, immediately after greeting Vera.

"And how do you know that I am 'so happy'?

"I can see it by your face! Say 'how do you do' to the others,

and come and sit down here, quick--I've been waiting for you!" he

added, accentuating the fact that he had waited. On the prince's

asking, "Will it not be injurious to you to sit out so late?" he

replied that he could not believe that he had thought himself

dying three days or so ago, for he never had felt better than

this evening.

Burdovsky next jumped up and explained that he had come in by

accident, having escorted Hippolyte from town. He murmured that

he was glad he had "written nonsense" in his letter, and then

pressed the prince's hand warmly and sat down again.

The prince approached Evgenie Pavlovitch last of all. The latter

immediately took his arm.

"I have a couple of words to say to you," he began, "and those on

a very important matter; let's go aside for a minute or two."

"Just a couple of words!" whispered another voice in the prince's

other ear, and another hand took his other arm. Muishkin turned,

and to his great surprise observed a red, flushed face and a

droll-looking figure which he recognized at once as that of

Ferdishenko. Goodness knows where he had turned up from!

"Do you remember Ferdishenko?" he asked.

"Where have you dropped from?" cried the prince.

"He is sorry for his sins now, prince," cried Keller. "He did not

want to let you know he was here; he was hidden over there in the

corner,--but he repents now, he feels his guilt."

"Why, what has he done?"

"I met him outside and brought him in--he's a gentleman who

doesn't often allow his friends to see him, of late--but he's

sorry now."

"Delighted, I'm sure!--I'll come back directly, gentlemen,--sit

down there with the others, please,--excuse me one moment," said

the host, getting away with difficulty in order to follow

Evgenie.

"You are very gay here," began the latter, "and I have had quite

a pleasant half-hour while I waited for you. Now then, my dear

Lef Nicolaievitch, this is what's the matter. I've arranged it

all with Moloftsoff, and have just come in to relieve your mind

on that score. You need be under no apprehensions. He was very

sensible, as he should be, of course, for I think he was entirely

to blame himself."

"What Moloftsoff?"

"The young fellow whose arms you held, don't you know? He was so

wild with you that he was going to send a friend to you tomorrow

morning."

"What nonsense!"

"Of course it is nonsense, and in nonsense it would have ended,

doubtless; but you know these fellows, they--"

"Excuse me, but I think you must have something else that you

wished to speak about, Evgenie Pavlovitch?"

"Of course, I have!" said the other, laughing. "You see, my dear

fellow, tomorrow, very early in the morning, I must be off to

town about this unfortunate business(my uncle, you know!). Just

imagine, my dear sir, it is all true--word for word--and, of

course, everybody knew it excepting myself. All this has been

such a blow to me that I have not managed to call in at the

Epanchins'. Tomorrow I shall not see them either, because I

shall be in town. I may not be here for three days or more; in a

word, my affairs are a little out of gear. But though my town

business is, of course, most pressing, still I determined not to go

away until I had seen you, and had a clear understanding with you

upon certain points; and that without loss of time. I will wait now,

if you will allow me, until the company departs; I may just as

well, for I have nowhere else to go to, and I shall certainly not

do any sleeping tonight; I'm far too excited. And finally, I must

confess that, though I know it is bad form to pursue a man in

this way, I have come to beg your friendship, my dear prince. You

are an unusual sort of a person; you don't lie at every step, as

some men do; in fact, you don't lie at all, and there is a matter

in which I need a true and sincere friend, for I really may claim

to be among the number of bona fide unfortunates just now."

He laughed again.

"But the trouble is," said the prince, after a slight pause for

reflection, "that goodness only knows when this party will break

up. Hadn't we better stroll into the park? I'll excuse myself,

there's no danger of their going away."

"No, no! I have my reasons for wishing them not to suspect us of

being engaged in any specially important conversation. There are

gentry present who are a little too much interested in us. You

are not aware of that perhaps, prince? It will be a great deal

better if they see that we are friendly just in an ordinary way.

They'll all go in a couple of hours, and then I'll ask you to

give me twenty minutes-half an hour at most."

"By all means! I assure you I am delighted--you need not have

entered into all these explanations. As for your remarks about

friendship with me--thanks, very much indeed. You must excuse my

being a little absent this evening. Do you know, I cannot somehow

be attentive to anything just now?"

"I see, I see," said Evgenie, smiling gently. His mirth seemed

very near the surface this evening.

"What do you see?" said the prince, startled.

"I don't want you to suspect that I have simply come here to

deceive you and pump information out of you!" said Evgenie, still

smiling, and without making any direct reply to the question.

"Oh, but I haven't the slightest doubt that you did come to pump

me," said the prince, laughing himself, at last; "and I dare say

you are quite prepared to deceive me too, so far as that goes.

But what of that? I'm not afraid of you; besides, you'll hardly

believe it, I feel as though I really didn't care a scrap one way

or the other, just now!--And-and-and as you are a capital fellow,

I am convinced of that, I dare say we really shall end by being

good friends. I like you very much Evgenie Pavlovitch; I consider

you a very good fellow indeed."

"Well, in any case, you are a most delightful man to have to deal

with, be the business what it may," concluded Evgenie. "Come

along now, I'll drink a glass to your health. I'm charmed to have

entered into alliance with you. By-the-by," he added suddenly,

has this young Hippolyte come down to stay with you

"Yes."

"He's not going to die at once, I should think, is he?"

"Why?"

"Oh, I don't know. I've been half an hour here with him, and he--"

Hippolyte had been waiting for the prince all this time, and had

never ceased looking at him and Evgenie Pavlovitch as they

conversed in the corner. He became much excited when they

approached the table once more. He was disturbed in his mind, it

seemed; perspiration stood in large drops on his forehead; in his

gleaming eyes it was easy to read impatience and agitation; his

gaze wandered from face to face of those present, and from object

to object in the room, apparently without aim. He had taken a

part, and an animated one, in the noisy conversation of the

company; but his animation was clearly the outcome of fever. His

talk was almost incoherent; he would break off in the middle of a

sentence which he had begun with great interest, and forget what

he had been saying. The prince discovered to his dismay that

Hippolyte had been allowed to drink two large glasses of

champagne; the one now standing by him being the third. All this

he found out afterwards; at the moment he did not notice

anything, very particularly.

"Do you know I am specially glad that today is your birthday!"

cried Hippolyte.

"Why?"

"You'll soon see. D'you know I had a feeling that there would be

a lot of people here tonight? It's not the first time that my

presentiments have been fulfilled. I wish I had known it was your

birthday, I'd have brought you a present--perhaps I have got a

present for you! Who knows? Ha, ha! How long is it now before

daylight?"

"Not a couple of hours," said Ptitsin, looking at his watch.

What's the good of daylight now? One can read all night in the

open air without it," said someone.

"The good of it! Well, I want just to see a ray of the sun," said

Hippolyte. Can one drink to the sun's health, do you think,

prince?"

"Oh, I dare say one can; but you had better be calm and lie down,

Hippolyte--that's much more important.

"You are always preaching about resting; you are a regular nurse

to me, prince. As soon as the sun begins to 'resound' in the sky

--what poet said that? 'The sun resounded in the sky.' It is

beautiful, though there's no sense in it!--then we will go to

bed. Lebedeff, tell me, is the sun the source of life? What does

the source, or 'spring,' of life really mean in the Apocalypse?

You have heard of the 'Star that is called Wormwood,' prince?"

"I have heard that Lebedeff explains it as the railroads that

cover Europe like a net."

Everybody laughed, and Lebedeff got up abruptly.

"No! Allow me, that is not what we are discussing!" he cried,

waving his hand to impose silence. "Allow me! With these

gentlemen... all these gentlemen," he added, suddenly addressing

the prince, "on certain points... that is..." He thumped

the table repeatedly, and the laughter increased. Lebedeff was in

his usual evening condition, and had just ended a long and

scientific argument, which had left him excited and irritable. On

such occasions he was apt to evince a supreme contempt for his

opponents.

"It is not right! Half an hour ago, prince, it was agreed among

us that no one should interrupt, no one should laugh, that each

person was to express his thoughts freely; and then at the end,

when everyone had spoken, objections might be made, even by the

atheists. We chose the general as president. Now without some

such rule and order, anyone might be shouted down, even in the

loftiest and most profound thought...."

"Go on! Go on! Nobody is going to interrupt you!" cried several

voices.

"Speak, but keep to the point!"

"What is this 'star'?" asked another.

I have no idea," replied General Ivolgin, who presided with much

gravity.

"I love these arguments, prince," said Keller, also more than

half intoxicated, moving restlessly in his chair. "Scientific and

political." Then, turning suddenly towards Evgenie Pavlovitch,

who was seated near him: "Do you know, I simply adore reading the

accounts of the debates in the English parliament. Not that the

discussions themselves interest me; I am not a politician, you

know; but it delights me to see how they address each other 'the

noble lord who agrees with me,' 'my honourable opponent who

astonished Europe with his proposal,' 'the noble viscount sitting

opposite'--all these expressions, all this parliamentarism of a

free people, has an enormous attraction for me. It fascinates me,

prince. I have always been an artist in the depths of my soul, I

assure you, Evgenie Pavlovitch."

"Do you mean to say," cried Gania, from the other corner, "do you

mean to say that railways are accursed inventions, that they are

a source of ruin to humanity, a poison poured upon the earth to

corrupt the springs of life?"

Gavrila Ardalionovitch was in high spirits that evening, and it

seemed to the prince that his gaiety was mingled with triumph. Of

course he was only joking with Lebedeff, meaning to egg him on,

but he grew excited himself at the same time.

"Not the railways, oh dear, no!" replied Lebedeff, with a mixture

of violent anger and extreme enjoyment. "Considered alone, the

railways will not pollute the springs of life, but as a whole

they are accursed. The whole tendency of our latest centuries, in

its scientific and materialistic aspect, is most probably

accursed."

"Is it certainly accursed?... or do you only mean it might be?

That is an important point," said Evgenie Pavlovitch.

"It is accursed, certainly accursed!" replied the clerk,

vehemently.

"Don't go so fast, Lebedeff; you are much milder in the morning,"

said Ptitsin, smiling.

"But, on the other hand, more frank in the evening! In the

evening sincere and frank," repeated Lebedeff, earnestly. "More

candid, more exact, more honest, more honourable, and...

although I may show you my weak side, I challenge you all; you

atheists, for instance! How are you going to save the world? How

find a straight road of progress, you men of science, of

industry, of cooperation, of trades unions, and all the rest?

How are you going to save it, I say? By what? By credit? What is

credit? To what will credit lead you?"

"You are too inquisitive," remarked Evgenie Pavlovitch.

"Well, anyone who does not interest himself in questions such as

this is, in my opinion, a mere fashionable dummy."

"But it will lead at least to solidarity, and balance of

interests," said Ptitsin.

"You will reach that with nothing to help you but credit? Without

recourse to any moral principle, having for your foundation only

individual selfishness, and the satisfaction of material desires?

Universal peace, and the happiness of mankind as a whole, being

the result! Is it really so that I may understand you, sir?"

"But the universal necessity of living, of drinking, of eating--

in short, the whole scientific conviction that this necessity can

only be satisfied by universal co-operation and the solidarity of

interests--is, it seems to me, a strong enough idea to serve as a

basis, so to speak, and a 'spring of life,' for humanity in

future centuries," said Gavrila Ardalionovitch, now thoroughly

roused.

"The necessity of eating and drinking, that is to say, solely the

instinct of self-preservation..."

"Is not that enough? The instinct of self-preservation is the

normal law of humanity..."

"Who told you that?" broke in Evgenie Pavlovitch.

"It is a law, doubtless, but a law neither more nor less normal

than that of destruction, even self-destruction. Is it possible

that the whole normal law of humanity is contained in this

sentiment of self-preservation?"

"Ah!" cried Hippolyte, turning towards Evgenie Pavlovitch, and

looking at him with a queer sort of curiosity.

Then seeing that Radomski was laughing, he began to laugh

himself, nudged Colia, who was sitting beside him, with his

elbow, and again asked what time it was. He even pulled Colia's

silver watch out of his hand, and looked at it eagerly. Then, as

if he had forgotten everything, he stretched himself out on the

sofa, put his hands behind his head, and looked up at the sky.

After a minute or two he got up and came back to the table to

listen to Lebedeff's outpourings, as the latter passionately

commentated on Evgenie Pavlovitch's paradox.

"That is an artful and traitorous idea. A smart notion,"

vociferated the clerk, "thrown out as an apple of discord. But it

is just. You are a scoffer, a man of the world, a cavalry

officer, and, though not without brains, you do not realize how

profound is your thought, nor how true. Yes, the laws of self-

preservation and of self-destruction are equally powerful in this

world. The devil will hold his empire over humanity until a limit

of time which is still unknown. You laugh? You do not believe in

the devil? Scepticism as to the devil is a French idea, and it is

also a frivolous idea. Do you know who the devil is? Do you know

his name? Although you don't know his name you make a mockery of

his form, following the example of Voltaire. You sneer at his

hoofs, at his tail, at his horns--all of them the produce of your

imagination! In reality the devil is a great and terrible spirit,

with neither hoofs, nor tail, nor horns; it is you who have

endowed him with these attributes! But... he is not the

question just now!"

"How do you know he is not the question now?" cried Hippolyte,

laughing hysterically.

"Another excellent idea, and worth considering!" replied

Lebedeff. "But, again, that is not the question. The question at

this moment is whether we have not weakened 'the springs of life'

by the extension..."

"Of railways?" put in Colia eagerly.

"Not railways, properly speaking, presumptuous youth, but the

general tendency of which railways may be considered as the

outward expression and symbol. We hurry and push and hustle, for

the good of humanity! 'The world is becoming too noisy, too

commercial!' groans some solitary thinker. 'Undoubtedly it is,

but the noise of waggons bearing bread to starving humanity is of

more value than tranquillity of soul,' replies another

triumphantly, and passes on with an air of pride. As for me, I

don't believe in these waggons bringing bread to humanity. For,

founded on no moral principle, these may well, even in the act

of carrying bread to humanity, coldly exclude a considerable

portion of humanity from enjoying it; that has been seen more

than once.

"What, these waggons may coldly exclude?" repeated someone.

"That has been seen already," continued Lebedeff, not deigning to

notice the interruption. "Malthus was a friend of humanity, but,

with ill-founded moral principles, the friend of humanity is the

devourer of humanity, without mentioning his pride; for, touch

the vanity of one of these numberless philanthropists, and to

avenge his self-esteem, he will be ready at once to set fire to

the whole globe; and to tell the truth, we are all more or less

like that. I, perhaps, might be the first to set a light to the

fuel, and then run away. But, again, I must repeat, that is not

the question."

"What is it then, for goodness' sake?"

"He is boring us!"

"The question is connected with the following anecdote of past

times; for I am obliged to relate a story. In our times, and in

our country, which I hope you love as much as I do, for as far as

I am concerned, I am ready to shed the last drop of my blood...

"Go on! Go on!"

"In our dear country, as indeed in the whole of Europe, a famine

visits humanity about four times a century, as far as I can

remember; once in every twenty-five years. I won't swear to this

being the exact figure, but anyhow they have become comparatively

rare."

"Comparatively to what?"

"To the twelfth century, and those immediately preceding and

following it. We are told by historians that widespread famines

occurred in those days every two or three years, and such was the

condition of things that men actually had recourse to

cannibalism, in secret, of course. One of these cannibals, who

had reached a good age, declared of his own free will that during

the course of his long and miserable life he had personally

killed and eaten, in the most profound secrecy, sixty monks, not

to mention several children; the number of the latter he thought

was about six, an insignificant total when compared with the

enormous mass of ecclesiastics consumed by him. As to adults,

laymen that is to say, he had never touched them."

The president joined in the general outcry.

"That's impossible!" said he in an aggrieved tone. "I am often

discussing subjects of this nature with him, gentlemen, but for

the most part he talks nonsense enough to make one deaf: this

story has no pretence of being true."

"General, remember the siege of Kars! And you, gentlemen, I

assure you my anecdote is the naked truth. I may remark that

reality, although it is governed by invariable law, has at times

a resemblance to falsehood. In fact, the truer a thing is the

less true it sounds."

"But could anyone possibly eat sixty monks?" objected the

scoffing listeners.

"It is quite clear that he did not eat them all at once, but in a

space of fifteen or twenty years: from that point of view the

thing is comprehensible and natural..."

"Natural?"

"And natural," repeated Lebedeff with pedantic obstinacy.

"Besides, a Catholic monk is by nature excessively curious; it

would be quite easy therefore to entice him into a wood, or some

secret place, on false pretences, and there to deal with him as

said. But I do not dispute in the least that the number of

persons consumed appears to denote a spice of greediness."

"It is perhaps true, gentlemen," said the prince, quietly. He had

been listening in silence up to that moment without taking part

in the conversation, but laughing heartily with the others from

time to time. Evidently he was delighted to see that everybody

was amused, that everybody was talking at once, and even that

everybody was drinking. It seemed as if he were not intending to

speak at all, when suddenly he intervened in such a serious

voice that everyone looked at him with interest.

"It is true that there were frequent famines at that time,

gentlemen. I have often heard of them, though I do not know much

history. But it seems to me that it must have been so. When I was

in Switzerland I used to look with astonishment at the many ruins

of feudal castles perched on the top of steep and rocky heights,

half a mile at least above sea-level, so that to reach them one

had to climb many miles of stony tracks. A castle, as you know,

is, a kind of mountain of stones--a dreadful, almost an

impossible, labour! Doubtless the builders were all poor men,

vassals, and had to pay heavy taxes, and to keep up the

priesthood. How, then, could they provide for themselves, and

when had they time to plough and sow their fields? The greater

number must, literally, have died of starvation. I have sometimes

asked myself how it was that these communities were not utterly

swept off the face of the earth, and how they could possibly

survive. Lebedeff is not mistaken, in my opinion, when he says

that there were cannibals in those days, perhaps in considerable

numbers; but I do not understand why he should have dragged in

the monks, nor what he means by that."

"It is undoubtedly because, in the twelfth century, monks were

the only people one could eat; they were the fat, among many

lean," said Gavrila Ardalionovitch.

"A brilliant idea, and most true!" cried Lebedeff, "for he never

even touched the laity. Sixty monks, and not a single layman! It

is a terrible idea, but it is historic, it is statistic; it is

indeed one of those facts which enables an intelligent historian

to reconstruct the physiognomy of a special epoch, for it brings

out this further point with mathematical accuracy, that the

clergy were in those days sixty times richer and more flourishing

than the rest of humanity. and perhaps sixty times fatter

also..."

"You are exaggerating, you are exaggerating, Lebedeff!" cried his

hearers, amid laughter.

"I admit that it is an historic thought, but what is your

conclusion?" asked the prince.

He spoke so seriously in addressing Lebedeff, that his tone

contrasted quite comically with that of the others. They were

very nearly laughing at him, too, but he did not notice it.

"Don't you see he is a lunatic, prince?" whispered Evgenie

Pavlovitch in his ear. "Someone told me just now that he is a bit

touched on the subject of lawyers, that he has a mania for making

speeches and intends to pass the examinations. I am expecting a

splendid burlesque now."

"My conclusion is vast," replied Lebedeff, in a voice like

thunder. "Let us examine first the psychological and legal

position of the criminal. We see that in spite of the difficulty

of finding other food, the accused, or, as we may say, my client,

has often during his peculiar life exhibited signs of repentance,

and of wishing to give up this clerical diet. Incontrovertible

facts prove this assertion. He has eaten five or six children, a

relatively insignificant number, no doubt, but remarkable enough

from another point of view. It is manifest that, pricked by

remorse--for my client is religious, in his way, and has a

conscience, as I shall prove later--and desiring to extenuate his

sin as far as possible, he has tried six times at least to

substitute lay nourishment for clerical. That this was merely an

experiment we can hardly doubt: for if it had been only a

question of gastronomic variety, six would have been too few; why

only six? Why not thirty? But if we regard it as an experiment,

inspired by the fear of committing new sacrilege, then this

number six becomes intelligible. Six attempts to calm his

remorse, and the pricking of his conscience, would amply suffice,

for these attempts could scarcely have been happy ones. In my

humble opinion, a child is too small; I should say, not

sufficient; which would result in four or five times more lay

children than monks being required in a given time. The sin,

lessened on the one hand, would therefore be increased on the

other, in quantity, not in quality. Please understand, gentlemen,

that in reasoning thus, I am taking the point of view which might

have been taken by a criminal of the middle ages. As for myself,

a man of the late nineteenth century, I, of course, should reason

differently; I say so plainly, and therefore you need not jeer at

me nor mock me, gentlemen. As for you, general, it is still more

unbecoming on your part. In the second place, and giving my own

personal opinion, a child's flesh is not a satisfying diet; it is

too insipid, too sweet; and the criminal, in making these

experiments, could have satisfied neither his conscience nor his

appetite. I am about to conclude, gentlemen; and my conclusion

contains a reply to one of the most important questions of that

day and of our own! This criminal ended at last by denouncing

himself to the clergy, and giving himself up to justice. We

cannot but ask, remembering the penal system of that day, and the

tortures that awaited him--the wheel, the stake, the fire!--we

cannot but ask, I repeat, what induced him to accuse himself of

this crime? Why did he not simply stop short at the number sixty,

and keep his secret until his last breath? Why could he not

simply leave the monks alone, and go into the desert to repent?

Or why not become a monk himself? That is where the puzzle comes

in! There must have been something stronger than the stake or the

fire, or even than the habits of twenty years! There must have

been an idea more powerful than all the calamities and sorrows of

this world, famine or torture, leprosy or plague--an idea which

entered into the heart, directed and enlarged the springs of

life, and made even that hell supportable to humanity! Show me a

force, a power like that, in this our century of vices and

railways! I might say, perhaps, in our century of steamboats and

railways, but I repeat in our century of vices and railways,

because I am drunk but truthful! Show me a single idea which

unites men nowadays with half the strength that it had in those

centuries, and dare to maintain that the 'springs of life' have

not been polluted and weakened beneath this 'star,' beneath this

network in which men are entangled! Don't talk to me about your

prosperity, your riches, the rarity of famine, the rapidity of

the means of transport! There is more of riches, but less of

force. The idea uniting heart and soul to heart and soul exists

no more. All is loose, soft, limp--we are all of us limp....

Enough, gentlemen! I have done. That is not the question. No, the

question is now, excellency, I believe, to sit down to the

banquet you are about to provide for us!"

Lebedeff had roused great indignation in some of his auditors (it

should be remarked that the bottles were constantly uncorked

during his speech); but this unexpected conclusion calmed even

the most turbulent spirits. "That's how a clever barrister makes

a good point!" said he, when speaking of his peroration later on.

The visitors began to laugh and chatter once again; the committee

left their seats, and stretched their legs on the terrace. Keller

alone was still disgusted with Lebedeff and his speech; he turned

from one to another, saying in a loud voice:

"He attacks education, he boasts of the fanaticism of the twelfth

century, he makes absurd grimaces, and added to that he is by no

means the innocent he makes himself out to be. How did he get the

money to buy this house, allow me to ask?"

In another corner was the general, holding forth to a group of

hearers, among them Ptitsin, whom he had buttonholed. "I have

known," said he, "a real interpreter of the Apocalypse, the late

Gregory Semeonovitch Burmistroff, and he--he pierced the heart

like a fiery flash! He began by putting on his spectacles, then

he opened a large black book; his white beard, and his two medals

on his breast, recalling acts of charity, all added to his

impressiveness. He began in a stern voice, and before him

generals, hard men of the world, bowed down, and ladies fell to

the ground fainting. But this one here--he ends by announcing a

banquet! That is not the real thing!"

Ptitsin listened and smiled, then turned as if to get his hat;

but if he had intended to leave, he changed his mind. Before the

others had risen from the table, Gania had suddenly left off

drinking, and pushed away his glass, a dark shadow seemed to come

over his face. When they all rose, he went and sat down by

Rogojin. It might have been believed that quite friendly

relations existed between them. Rogojin, who had also seemed on

the point of going away now sat motionless, his head bent,

seeming to have forgotten his intention. He had drunk no wine,

and appeared absorbed in reflection. From time to time he raised

his eyes, and examined everyone present; one might have imagined

that he was expecting something very important to himself, and

that he had decided to wait for it. The prince had taken two or

three glasses of champagne, and seemed cheerful. As he rose he

noticed Evgenie Pavlovitch, and, remembering the appointment he

had made with him, smiled pleasantly. Evgenie Pavlovitch made a

sign with his head towards Hippolyte, whom he was attentively

watching. The invalid was fast asleep, stretched out on the sofa.

"Tell me, prince, why on earth did this boy intrude himself upon

you?" he asked, with such annoyance and irritation in his voice

that the prince was quite surprised. "I wouldn't mind laying odds

that he is up to some mischief."

"I have observed," said the prince, "that he seems to be an

object of very singular interest to you, Evgenie Pavlovitch. Why

is it?"

"You may add that I have surely enough to think of, on my own

account, without him; and therefore it is all the more surprising

that I cannot tear my eyes and thoughts away from his detestable

physiognomy."

"Oh, come! He has a handsome face."

"Why, look at him--look at him now!"

The prince glanced again at Evgenie Pavlovitch with considerable

surprise.

V.

HIPPOLYTE, who had fallen asleep during Lebedeff's discourse, now

suddenly woke up, just as though someone had jogged him in the

side. He shuddered, raised himself on his arm, gazed around, and

grew very pale. A look almost of terror crossed his face as he

recollected.

"What! are they all off? Is it all over? Is the sun up?" He

trembled, and caught at the prince's hand. "What time is it? Tell

me, quick, for goodness' sake! How long have I slept?" he added,

almost in despair, just as though he had overslept something upon

which his whole fate depended.

"You have slept seven or perhaps eight minutes," said Evgenie

Pavlovitch.

Hippolyte gazed eagerly at the latter, and mused for a few

moments.

"Oh, is that all?" he said at last. "Then I--"

He drew a long, deep breath of relief, as it seemed. He realized

that all was not over as yet, that the sun had not risen, and

that the guests had merely gone to supper. He smiled, and two

hectic spots appeared on his cheeks.

"So you counted the minutes while I slept, did you, Evgenie

Pavlovitch?" he said, ironically. "You have not taken your eyes

off me all the evening--I have noticed that much, you see! Ah,

Rogojin! I've just been dreaming about him, prince," he added,

frowning. "Yes, by the by," starting up, "where's the orator?

Where's Lebedeff? Has he finished? What did he talk about? Is it

true, prince, that you once declared that 'beauty would save the

world'? Great Heaven! The prince says that beauty saves the

world! And I declare that he only has such playful ideas because

he's in love! Gentlemen, the prince is in love. I guessed it the

moment he came in. Don't blush, prince; you make me sorry for

you. What beauty saves the world? Colia told me that you are a

zealous Christian; is it so? Colia says you call yourself a

Christian."

The prince regarded him attentively, but said nothing.

"You don't answer me; perhaps you think I am very fond of you?"

added Hippolyte, as though the words had been drawn from him.

"No, I don't think that. I know you don't love me."

"What, after yesterday? Wasn't I honest with you?"

"I knew yesterday that you didn't love me."

"Why so? why so? Because I envy you, eh? You always think that, I

know. But do you know why I am saying all this? Look here! I must

have some more champagne--pour me out some, Keller, will you?"

"No, you're not to drink any more, Hippolyte. I won't let you."

The prince moved the glass away.

"Well perhaps you're right," said Hippolyte, musing. They might

say--yet, devil take them! what does it matter?--prince, what can

it matter what people will say of us THEN, eh? I believe I'm half

asleep. I've had such a dreadful dream--I've only just remembered

it. Prince, I don't wish you such dreams as that, though sure

enough, perhaps, I DON'T love you. Why wish a man evil, though

you do not love him, eh? Give me your hand--let me press it

sincerely. There--you've given me your hand--you must feel that I

DO press it sincerely, don't you? I don't think I shall drink any

more. What time is it? Never mind, I know the time. The time has

come, at all events. What! they are laying supper over there, are

they? Then this table is free? Capital, gentlemen! I--hem! these

gentlemen are not listening. Prince, I will just read over an

article I have here. Supper is more interesting, of course, but--"

Here Hippolyte suddenly, and most unexpectedly, pulled out of his

breast-pocket a large sealed paper. This imposing-looking

document he placed upon the table before him.

The effect of this sudden action upon the company was

instantaneous. Evgenie Pavlovitch almost bounded off his chair in

excitement. Rogojin drew nearer to the table with a look on his

face as if he knew what was coming. Gania came nearer too; so did

Lebedeff and the others--the paper seemed to be an object of

great interest to the company in general.

"What have you got there?" asked the prince, with some anxiety.

"At the first glimpse of the rising sun, prince, I will go to

bed. I told you I would, word of honour! You shall see!" cried

Hippolyte. "You think I'm not capable of opening this packet, do

you?" He glared defiantly round at the audience in general.

The prince observed that he was trembling all over.

"None of us ever thought such a thing!" Muishkin replied for all.

"Why should you suppose it of us? And what are you going to read,

Hippolyte? What is it?"

"Yes, what is it?" asked others. The packet sealed with red wax

seemed to attract everyone, as though it were a magnet.

"I wrote this yesterday, myself, just after I saw you, prince,

and told you I would come down here. I wrote all day and all

night, and finished it this morning early. Afterwards I had a

dream."

"Hadn't we better hear it tomorrow?" asked the prince timidly.

"Tomorrow 'there will be no more time!'" laughed Hippolyte,

hysterically. "You needn't be afraid; I shall get through the

whole thing in forty minutes, at most an hour! Look how

interested everybody is! Everybody has drawn near. Look! look at

them all staring at my sealed packet! If I hadn't sealed it up it

wouldn't have been half so effective! Ha, ha! that's mystery,

that is! Now then, gentlemen, shall I break the seal or not? Say

the word; it's a mystery, I tell you--a secret! Prince, you know

who said there would be 'no more time'? It was the great and

powerful angel in the Apocalypse."

"Better not read it now," said the prince, putting his hand on

the packet.

"No, don't read it!" cried Evgenie suddenly. He appeared so

strangely disturbed that many of those present could not help

wondering.

"Reading? None of your reading now!" said somebody; "it's supper-

time." "What sort of an article is it? For a paper? Probably it's

very dull," said another. But the prince's timid gesture had

impressed even Hippolyte.

"Then I'm not to read it?" he whispered, nervously. "Am I not to

read it?" he repeated, gazing around at each face in turn. "What

are you afraid of, prince?" he turned and asked the latter

suddenly.

"What should I be afraid of?"

"Has anyone a coin about them? Give me a twenty-copeck piece,

somebody!" And Hippolyte leapt from his chair.

"Here you are," said Lebedeff, handing him one; he thought the

boy had gone mad.

"Vera Lukianovna," said Hippolyte, "toss it, will you? Heads, I

read, tails, I don't."

Vera Lebedeff tossed the coin into the air and let it fall on the

table.

It was "heads."

"Then I read it," said Hippolyte, in the tone of one bowing to

the fiat of destiny. He could not have grown paler if a verdict

of death had suddenly been presented to him.

"But after all, what is it? Is it possible that I should have

just risked my fate by tossing up?" he went on, shuddering; and

looked round him again. His eyes had a curious expression of

sincerity. "That is an astonishing psychological fact," he cried,

suddenly addressing the prince, in a tone of the most intense

surprise. "It is... it is something quite inconceivable,

prince," he repeated with growing animation, like a man regaining

consciousness. "Take note of it, prince, remember it; you

collect, I am told, facts concerning capital punishment... They

told me so. Ha, ha! My God, how absurd!" He sat down on the sofa,

put his elbows on the table, and laid his head on his hands. "It

is shameful--though what does it matter to me if it is shameful?

"Gentlemen, gentlemen! I am about to break the seal," he

continued, with determination. "I-I--of course I don't insist

upon anyone listening if they do not wish to."

With trembling fingers he broke the seal and drew out several

sheets of paper, smoothed them out before him, and began sorting

them.

"What on earth does all this mean? What's he going to read?"

muttered several voices. Others said nothing; but one and all sat

down and watched with curiosity. They began to think something

strange might really be about to happen. Vera stood and trembled

behind her father's chair, almost in tears with fright; Colia was

nearly as much alarmed as she was. Lebedeff jumped up and put a

couple of candles nearer to Hippolyte, so that he might see

better.

"Gentlemen, this--you'll soon see what this is," began Hippolyte,

and suddenly commenced his reading.

"It's headed, 'A Necessary Explanation,' with the motto, 'Apres

moi le deluge!' Oh, deuce take it all! Surely I can never have

seriously written such a silly motto as that? Look here,

gentlemen, I beg to give notice that all this is very likely

terrible nonsense. It is only a few ideas of mine. If you think

that there is anything mysterious coming--or in a word--"

"Better read on without any more beating about the bush," said

Gania.

"Affectation!" remarked someone else.

"Too much talk," said Rogojin, breaking the silence for the first

time.

Hippolyte glanced at him suddenly, and when their eye, met

Rogojin showed his teeth in a disagreeable smile, and said the

following strange words: "That's not the way to settle this

business, my friend; that's not the way at all."

Of course nobody knew what Rogojin meant by this; but his words

made a deep impression upon all. Everyone seemed to see in a

flash the same idea.

As for Hippolyte, their effect upon him was astounding. He

trembled so that the prince was obliged to support him, and would

certainly have cried out, but that his voice seemed to have

entirely left him for the moment. For a minute or two he could

not speak at all, but panted and stared at Rogojin. At last he

managed to ejaculate:

"Then it was YOU who came--YOU--YOU?"

"Came where? What do you mean?" asked Rogojin, amazed. But

Hippolyte, panting and choking with excitement, interrupted him

violently.

"YOU came to me last week, in the night, at two o'clock, the day

I was with you in the morning! Confess it was you!"

"Last week? In the night? Have you gone cracked, my good friend?"

Hippolyte paused and considered a moment. Then a smile of

cunning--almost triumph--crossed his lips.

"It was you," he murmured, almost in a whisper, but with absolute

conviction. "Yes, it was you who came to my room and sat silently

on a chair at my window for a whole hour--more! It was between

one and two at night; you rose and went out at about three. It

was you, you! Why you should have frightened me so, why you

should have wished to torment me like that, I cannot tell--but you

it was."

There was absolute hatred in his eyes as he said this, but his

look of fear and his trembling had not left him.

"You shall hear all this directly, gentlemen. I-I--listen!"

He seized his paper in a desperate hurry; he fidgeted with it,

and tried to sort it, but for a long while his trembling hands

could not collect the sheets together. "He's either mad or

delirious," murmured Rogojin. At last he began.

For the first five minutes the reader's voice continued to

tremble, and he read disconnectedly and unevenly; but gradually

his voice strengthened. Occasionally a violent fit of coughing

stopped him, but his animation grew with the progress of the

reading--as did also the disagreeable impression which it made

upon his audience,--until it reached the highest pitch of

excitement.

Here is the article.