"Apres moi le deluge.
"Yesterday morning the prince came to see me. Among other things
he asked me to come down to his villa. I knew he would come and
persuade me to this step, and that he would adduce the argument
that it would be easier for me to die' among people and green
trees,'--as he expressed it. But today he did not say 'die,' he
said 'live.' It is pretty much the same to me, in my position,
which he says. When I asked him why he made such a point of his
'green trees,' he told me, to my astonishment, that he had heard
that last time I was in Pavlofsk I had said that I had come 'to
have a last look at the trees.'
"When I observed that it was all the same whether one died among
trees or in front of a blank brick wall, as here, and that it was
not worth making any fuss over a fortnight, he agreed at once.
But he insisted that the good air at Pavlofsk and the greenness
would certainly cause a physical change for the better, and that
my excitement, and my DREAMS, would be perhaps relieved. I
remarked to him, with a smile, that he spoke like a materialist,
and he answered that he had always been one. As he never tells a
lie, there must be something in his words. His smile is a
pleasant one. I have had a good look at him. I don't know whether
I like him or not; and I have no time to waste over the question.
The hatred which I felt for him for five months has become
considerably modified, I may say, during the last month. Who
knows, perhaps I am going to Pavlofsk on purpose to see him! But
why do I leave my chamber? Those who are sentenced to death
should not leave their cells. If I had not formed a final
resolve, but had decided to wait until the last minute, I should
not leave my room, or accept his invitation to come and die at
Pavlofsk. I must be quick and finish this explanation before
tomorrow. I shall have no time to read it over and correct it, for
I must read it tomorrow to the prince and two or three witnesses
whom I shall probably find there.
"As it will be absolutely true, without a touch of falsehood, I
am curious to see what impression it will make upon me myself at
the moment when I read it out. This is my 'last and solemn'--but
why need I call it that? There is no question about the truth of
it, for it is not worthwhile lying for a fortnight; a fortnight
of life is not itself worth having, which is a proof that I write
nothing here but pure truth.
("N.B.--Let me remember to consider; am I mad at this moment, or
not? or rather at these moments? I have been told that
consumptives sometimes do go out of their minds for a while in
the last stages of the malady. I can prove this tomorrow when I
read it out, by the impression it makes upon the audience. I must
settle this question once and for all, otherwise I can't go on
with anything.)
"I believe I have just written dreadful nonsense; but there's no
time for correcting, as I said before. Besides that, I have made
myself a promise not to alter a single word of what I write in
this paper, even though I find that I am contradicting myself
every five lines. I wish to verify the working of the natural
logic of my ideas tomorrow during the reading--whether I am
capable of detecting logical errors, and whether all that I have
meditated over during the last six months be true, or nothing but
delirium.
"If two months since I had been called upon to leave my room and
the view of Meyer's wall opposite, I verily believe I should have
been sorry. But now I have no such feeling, and yet I am leaving
this room and Meyer's brick wall FOR EVER. So that my conclusion,
that it is not worth while indulging in grief, or any other
emotion, for a fortnight, has proved stronger than my very
nature, and has taken over the direction of my feelings. But is
it so? Is it the case that my nature is conquered entirely? If I
were to be put on the rack now, I should certainly cry out. I
should not say that it is not worth while to yell and feel pain
because I have but a fortnight to live.
"But is it true that I have but a fortnight of life left to me? I
know I told some of my friends that Doctor B. had informed me
that this was the case; but I now confess that I lied; B. has not
even seen me. However, a week ago, I called in a medical student,
Kislorodoff, who is a Nationalist, an Atheist, and a Nihilist, by
conviction, and that is why I had him. I needed a man who would
tell me the bare truth without any humbug or ceremony--and so he
did--indeed, almost with pleasure (which I thought was going a
little too far).
"Well, he plumped out that I had about a month left me; it might
be a little more, he said, under favourable circumstances, but
it might also be considerably less. According to his opinion I
might die quite suddenly--tomorrow, for instance--there had been
such cases. Only a day or two since a young lady at Colomna who
suffered from consumption, and was about on a par with myself in
the march of the disease, was going out to market to buy
provisions, when she suddenly felt faint, lay down on the sofa,
gasped once, and died.
"Kislorodoff told me all this with a sort of exaggerated devil-
may-care negligence, and as though he did me great honour by
talking to me so, because it showed that he considered me the
same sort of exalted Nihilistic being as himself, to whom death
was a matter of no consequence whatever, either way.
"At all events, the fact remained--a month of life and no more!
That he is right in his estimation I am absolutely persuaded.
"It puzzles me much to think how on earth the prince guessed
yesterday that I have had bad dreams. He said to me, 'Your
excitement and dreams will find relief at Pavlofsk.' Why did he
say 'dreams'? Either he is a doctor, or else he is a man of
exceptional intelligence and wonderful powers of observation.
(But that he is an 'idiot,' at bottom there can be no doubt
whatever.) It so happened that just before he arrived I had a
delightful little dream; one of a kind that I have hundreds of
just now. I had fallen asleep about an hour before he came in,
and dreamed that I was in some room, not my own. It was a large
room, well furnished, with a cupboard, chest of drawers, sofa,
and my bed, a fine wide bed covered with a silken counterpane.
But I observed in the room a dreadful-looking creature, a sort of
monster. It was a little like a scorpion, but was not a scorpion,
but far more horrible, and especially so, because there are no
creatures anything like it in nature, and because it had appeared
to me for a purpose, and bore some mysterious signification. I
looked at the beast well; it was brown in colour and had a shell;
it was a crawling kind of reptile, about eight inches long, and
narrowed down from the head, which was about a couple of fingers
in width, to the end of the tail, which came to a fine point. Out
of its trunk, about a couple of inches below its head, came two
legs at an angle of forty-five degrees, each about three inches
long, so that the beast looked like a trident from above. It had
eight hard needle-like whiskers coming out from different parts
of its body; it went along like a snake, bending its body about
in spite of the shell it wore, and its motion was very quick and
very horrible to look at. I was dreadfully afraid it would sting
me; somebody had told me, I thought, that it was venomous; but
what tormented me most of all was the wondering and wondering as
to who had sent it into my room, and what was the mystery which I
felt it contained.
"It hid itself under the cupboard and under the chest of drawers,
and crawled into the corners. I sat on a chair and kept my legs
tucked under me. Then the beast crawled quietly across the room
and disappeared somewhere near my chair. I looked about for it in
terror, but I still hoped that as my feet were safely tucked away
it would not be able to touch me.
"Suddenly I heard behind me, and about on a level with my head, a
sort of rattling sound. I turned sharp round and saw that the
brute had crawled up the wall as high as the level of my face,
and that its horrible tail, which was moving incredibly fast from
side to side, was actually touching my hair! I jumped up--and it
disappeared. I did not dare lie down on my bed for fear it should
creep under my pillow. My mother came into the room, and some
friends of hers. They began to hunt for the reptile and were more
composed than I was; they did not seem to be afraid of it. But
they did not understand as I did.
"Suddenly the monster reappeared; it crawled slowly across the
room and made for the door, as though with some fixed intention,
and with a slow movement that was more horrible than ever.
"Then my mother opened the door and called my dog, Norma. Norma
was a great Newfoundland, and died five years ago.
"She sprang forward and stood still in front of the reptile as if
she had been turned to stone. The beast stopped too, but its tail
and claws still moved about. I believe animals are incapable of
feeling supernatural fright--if I have been rightly informed,--but
at this moment there appeared to me to be something more than
ordinary about Norma's terror, as though it must be supernatural;
and as though she felt, just as I did myself, that this reptile
was connected with some mysterious secret, some fatal omen.
"Norma backed slowly and carefully away from the brute, which
followed her, creeping deliberately after her as though it
intended to make a sudden dart and sting her.
"In spite of Norma's terror she looked furious, though she
trembled in all her limbs. At length she slowly bared her
terrible teeth, opened her great red jaws, hesitated--took
courage, and seized the beast in her mouth. It seemed to try to
dart out of her jaws twice, but Norma caught at it and half
swallowed it as it was escaping. The shell cracked in her teeth;
and the tail and legs stuck out of her mouth and shook about in a
horrible manner. Suddenly Norma gave a piteous whine; the reptile
had bitten her tongue. She opened her mouth wide with the pain,
and I saw the beast lying across her tongue, and out of its body,
which was almost bitten in two, came a hideous white-looking
substance, oozing out into Norma's mouth; it was of the
consistency of a crushed black-beetle. just then I awoke and the
prince entered the room."
"Gentlemen!" said Hippolyte, breaking off here, "I have not done
yet, but it seems to me that I have written down a great deal
here that is unnecessary,--this dream--"
"You have indeed!" said Gania.
"There is too much about myself, I know, but--" As Hippolyte said
this his face wore a tired, pained look, and he wiped the sweat
off his brow.
"Yes," said Lebedeff, "you certainly think a great deal too much
about yourself."
"Well--gentlemen--I do not force anyone to listen! If any of you
are unwilling to sit it out, please go away, by all means!"
"He turns people out of a house that isn't his own," muttered
Rogojin.
"Suppose we all go away?" said Ferdishenko suddenly.
Hippolyte clutched his manuscript, and gazing at the last speaker
with glittering eyes, said: "You don't like me at all!" A few
laughed at this, but not all.
"Hippolyte," said the prince, "give me the papers, and go to bed
like a sensible fellow. We'll have a good talk tomorrow, but you
really mustn't go on with this reading; it is not good for you!"
"How can I? How can I?" cried Hippolyte, looking at him in
amazement. "Gentlemen! I was a fool! I won't break off again.
Listen, everyone who wants to!"
He gulped down some water out of a glass standing near, bent over
the table, in order to hide his face from the audience, and
recommenced.
"The idea that it is not worth while living for a few weeks took
possession of me a month ago, when I was told that I had four
weeks to live, but only partially so at that time. The idea quite
overmastered me three days since, that evening at Pavlofsk. The
first time that I felt really impressed with this thought was on
the terrace at the prince's, at the very moment when I had taken
it into my head to make a last trial of life. I wanted to see
people and trees (I believe I said so myself), I got excited, I
maintained Burdovsky's rights, 'my neighbour!'--I dreamt that one
and all would open their arms, and embrace me, that there would
be an indescribable exchange of forgiveness between us all! In a
word, I behaved like a fool, and then, at that very same instant,
I felt my 'last conviction.' I ask myself now how I could have
waited six months for that conviction! I knew that I had a
disease that spares no one, and I really had no illusions; but
the more I realized my condition, the more I clung to life; I
wanted to live at any price. I confess I might well have resented
that blind, deaf fate, which, with no apparent reason, seemed to
have decided to crush me like a fly; but why did I not stop at
resentment? Why did I begin to live, knowing that it was not
worthwhile to begin? Why did I attempt to do what I knew to be
an impossibility? And yet I could not even read a book to the
end; I had given up reading. What is the good of reading, what is
the good of learning anything, for just six months? That thought
has made me throw aside a book more than once.
"Yes, that wall of Meyer's could tell a tale if it liked. There
was no spot on its dirty surface that I did not know by heart.
Accursed wall! and yet it is dearer to me than all the Pavlofsk
trees!--That is--it WOULD be dearer if it were not all the same
to me, now!
"I remember now with what hungry interest I began to watch the
lives of other people--interest that I had never felt before! I
used to wait for Colia's arrival impatiently, for I was so ill
myself, then, that I could not leave the house. I so threw myself
into every little detail of news, and took so much interest in
every report and rumour, that I believe I became a regular
gossip! I could not understand, among other things, how all these
people--with so much life in and before them--do not become RICH--
and I don't understand it now. I remember being told of a poor
wretch I once knew, who had died of hunger. I was almost beside
myself with rage! I believe if I could have resuscitated him I
would have done so for the sole purpose of murdering him!
"Occasionally I was so much better that I could go out; but the
streets used to put me in such a rage that I would lock myself up
for days rather than go out, even if I were well enough to do so!
I could not bear to see all those preoccupied, anxious-looking
creatures continuously surging along the streets past me! Why are
they always anxious? What is the meaning of their eternal care
and worry? It is their wickedness, their perpetual detestable
malice--that's what it is--they are all full of malice, malice!
"Whose fault is it that they are all miserable, that they don't
know how to live, though they have fifty or sixty years of life
before them? Why did that fool allow himself to die of hunger
with sixty years of unlived life before him?
"And everyone of them shows his rags, his toil-worn hands, and
yells in his wrath: 'Here are we, working like cattle all our
lives, and always as hungry as dogs, and there are others who do
not work, and are fat and rich!' The eternal refrain! And side by
side with them trots along some wretched fellow who has known
better days, doing light porter's work from morn to night for a
living, always blubbering and saying that 'his wife died because
he had no money to buy medicine with,' and his children dying of
cold and hunger, and his eldest daughter gone to the bad, and so
on. Oh! I have no pity and no patience for these fools of people.
Why can't they be Rothschilds? Whose fault is it that a man has
not got millions of money like Rothschild? If he has life, all
this must be in his power! Whose fault is it that he does not
know how to live his life?
"Oh! it's all the same to me now--NOW! But at that time I would
soak my pillow at night with tears of mortification, and tear at
my blanket in my rage and fury. Oh, how I longed at that time to
be turned out--ME, eighteen years old, poor, half-clothed, turned
out into the street, quite alone, without lodging, without work,
without a crust of bread, without relations, without a single
acquaintance, in some large town--hungry, beaten (if you like),
but in good health--and THEN I would show them--
"What would I show them?
"Oh, don't think that I have no sense of my own humiliation! I
have suffered already in reading so far. Which of you all does
not think me a fool at this moment--a young fool who knows
nothing of life--forgetting that to live as I have lived these
last six months is to live longer than grey-haired old men. Well,
let them laugh, and say it is all nonsense, if they please. They
may say it is all fairy-tales, if they like; and I have spent
whole nights telling myself fairy-tales. I remember them all. But
how can I tell fairy-tales now? The time for them is over. They
amused me when I found that there was not even time for me to
learn the Greek grammar, as I wanted to do. 'I shall die before I
get to the syntax,' I thought at the first page--and threw the
book under the table. It is there still, for I forbade anyone to
pick it up.
"If this 'Explanation' gets into anybody's hands, and they have
patience to read it through, they may consider me a madman, or a
schoolboy, or, more likely, a man condemned to die, who thought
it only natural to conclude that all men, excepting himself,
esteem life far too lightly, live it far too carelessly and
lazily, and are, therefore, one and all, unworthy of it. Well, I
affirm that my reader is wrong again, for my convictions have
nothing to do with my sentence of death. Ask them, ask any one of
them, or all of them, what they mean by happiness! Oh, you may be
perfectly sure that if Columbus was happy, it was not after he
had discovered America, but when he was discovering it! You may
be quite sure that he reached the culminating point of his
happiness three days before he saw the New World with his actual
eves, when his mutinous sailors wanted to tack about, and return
to Europe! What did the New World matter after all? Columbus had
hardly seen it when he died, and in reality he was entirely
ignorant of what he had discovered. The important thing is life--
life and nothing else! What is any 'discovery' whatever compared
with the incessant, eternal discovery of life?
"But what is the use of talking? I'm afraid all this is so
commonplace that my confession will be taken for a schoolboy
exercise--the work of some ambitious lad writing in the hope of
his work 'seeing the light'; or perhaps my readers will say that
'I had perhaps something to say, but did not know how to express
it.'
"Let me add to this that in every idea emanating from genius, or
even in every serious human idea--born in the human brain--there
always remains something--some sediment--which cannot be expressed
to others, though one wrote volumes and lectured upon it for
five-and-thirty years. There is always a something, a remnant,
which will never come out from your brain, but will remain there
with you, and you alone, for ever and ever, and you will die,
perhaps, without having imparted what may be the very essence of
your idea to a single living soul.
"So that if I cannot now impart all that has tormented me for
the last six months, at all events you will understand that,
having reached my 'last convictions,' I must have paid a very
dear price for them. That is what I wished, for reasons of my
own, to make a point of in this my 'Explanation.'
"But let me resume.
VI.
"I WILL not deceive you. 'Reality' got me so entrapped in its
meshes now and again during the past six months, that I forgot my
'sentence' (or perhaps I did not wish to think of it), and
actually busied myself with affairs.
"A word as to my circumstances. When, eight months since, I
became very ill, I threw up all my old connections and dropped
all my old companions. As I was always a gloomy, morose sort of
individual, my friends easily forgot me; of course, they would
have forgotten me all the same, without that excuse. My position
at home was solitary enough. Five months ago I separated myself
entirely from the family, and no one dared enter my room except
at stated times, to clean and tidy it, and so on, and to bring me
my meals. My mother dared not disobey me; she kept the children
quiet, for my sake, and beat them if they dared to make any noise
and disturb me. I so often complained of them that I should think
they must be very fond, indeed, of me by this time. I think I
must have tormented 'my faithful Colia' (as I called him) a
good deal too. He tormented me of late; I could see that he
always bore my tempers as though he had determined to 'spare the
poor invalid.' This annoyed me, naturally. He seemed to have
taken it into his head to imitate the prince in Christian
meekness! Surikoff, who lived above us, annoyed me, too. He was
so miserably poor, and I used to prove to him that he had no one
to blame but himself for his poverty. I used to be so angry that
I think I frightened him eventually, for he stopped coming to see
me. He was a most meek and humble fellow, was Surikoff. (N.B.--
They say that meekness is a great power. I must ask the prince
about this, for the expression is his.) But I remember one day in
March, when I went up to his lodgings to see whether it was true
that one of his children had been starved and frozen to death, I
began to hold forth to him about his poverty being his own fault,
and, in the course of my remarks, I accidentally smiled at the
corpse of his child. Well, the poor wretch's lips began to
tremble, and he caught me by the shoulder, and pushed me to the
door. 'Go out,' he said, in a whisper. I went out, of course, and
I declare I LIKED it. I liked it at the very moment when I was
turned out. But his words filled me with a strange sort of
feeling of disdainful pity for him whenever I thought of them--a
feeling which I did not in the least desire to entertain. At the
very moment of the insult (for I admit that I did insult him,
though I did not mean to), this man could not lose his temper.
His lips had trembled, but I swear it was not with rage. He had
taken me by the arm, and said, 'Go out,' without the least anger.
There was dignity, a great deal of dignity, about him, and it was
so inconsistent with the look of him that, I assure you, it was
quite comical. But there was no anger. Perhaps he merely began to
despise me at that moment.
"Since that time he has always taken off his hat to me on the
stairs, whenever I met him, which is a thing he never did before;
but he always gets away from me as quickly as he can, as though
he felt confused. If he did despise me, he despised me 'meekly,'
after his own fashion.
"I dare say he only took his hat off out of fear, as it were, to
the son of his creditor; for he always owed my mother money. I
thought of having an explanation with him, but I knew that if I
did, he would begin to apologize in a minute or two, so I decided
to let him alone.
"Just about that time, that is, the middle of March, I suddenly
felt very much better; this continued for a couple of weeks. I
used to go out at dusk. I like the dusk, especially in March,
when the night frost begins to harden the day's puddles, and the
gas is burning.
"Well, one night in the Shestilavochnaya, a man passed me with a
paper parcel under his arm. I did not take stock of him very
carefully, but he seemed to be dressed in some shabby summer
dust-coat, much too light for the season. When he was opposite
the lamp-post, some ten yards away, I observed something fall out
of his pocket. I hurried forward to pick it up, just in time, for
an old wretch in a long kaftan rushed up too. He did not dispute
the matter, but glanced at what was in my hand and disappeared.
"It was a large old-fashioned pocket-book, stuffed full; but I
guessed, at a glance, that it had anything in the world inside
it, except money.
"The owner was now some forty yards ahead of me, and was very
soon lost in the crowd. I ran after him, and began calling out;
but as I knew nothing to say excepting 'hey!' he did not turn
round. Suddenly he turned into the gate of a house to the left;
and when I darted in after him, the gateway was so dark that I
could see nothing whatever. It was one of those large houses
built in small tenements, of which there must have been at least
a hundred.
"When I entered the yard I thought I saw a man going along on the
far side of it; but it was so dark I could not make out his
figure.
"I crossed to that corner and found a dirty dark staircase. I
heard a man mounting up above me, some way higher than I was, and
thinking I should catch him before his door would be opened to
him, I rushed after him. I heard a door open and shut on the
fifth storey, as I panted along; the stairs were narrow, and the
steps innumerable, but at last I reached the door I thought the
right one. Some moments passed before I found the bell and got it
to ring.
"An old peasant woman opened the door; she was busy lighting the
'samovar' in a tiny kitchen. She listened silently to my
questions, did not understand a word, of course, and opened
another door leading into a little bit of a room, low and
scarcely furnished at all, but with a large, wide bed in it, hung
with curtains. On this bed lay one Terentich, as the woman called
him, drunk, it appeared to me. On the table was an end of candle
in an iron candlestick, and a half-bottle of vodka, nearly
finished. Terentich muttered something to me, and signed towards
the next room. The old woman had disappeared, so there was
nothing for me to do but to open the door indicated. I did so,
and entered the next room.
"This was still smaller than the other, so cramped that I could
scarcely turn round; a narrow single bed at one side took up
nearly all the room. Besides the bed there were only three common
chairs, and a wretched old kitchen-table standing before a small
sofa. One could hardly squeeze through between the table and the
bed.
"On the table, as in the other room, burned a tallow candle-end
in an iron candlestick; and on the bed there whined a baby of
scarcely three weeks old. A pale-looking woman was dressing the
child, probably the mother; she looked as though she had not as
yet got over the trouble of childbirth, she seemed so weak and
was so carelessly dressed. Another child, a little girl of about
three years old, lay on the sofa, covered over with what looked
like a man's old dress-coat.
"At the table stood a man in his shirt sleeves; he had thrown off
his coat; it lay upon the bed; and he was unfolding a blue paper
parcel in which were a couple of pounds of bread, and some little
sausages.
"On the table along with these things were a few old bits of
black bread, and some tea in a pot. From under the bed there
protruded an open portmanteau full of bundles of rags. In a word,
the confusion and untidiness of the room were indescribable.
"It appeared to me, at the first glance, that both the man and
the woman were respectable people, but brought to that pitch of
poverty where untidiness seems to get the better of every effort
to cope with it, till at last they take a sort of bitter
satisfaction in it. When I entered the room, the man, who had
entered but a moment before me, and was still unpacking his
parcels, was saying something to his wife in an excited manner.
The news was apparently bad, as usual, for the woman began
whimpering. The man's face seemed tome to be refined and even
pleasant. He was dark-complexioned, and about twenty-eight years
of age; he wore black whiskers, and his lip and chin were shaved.
He looked morose, but with a sort of pride of expression. A
curious scene followed.
"There are people who find satisfaction in their own touchy
feelings, especially when they have just taken the deepest
offence; at such moments they feel that they would rather be
offended than not. These easily-ignited natures, if they are
wise, are always full of remorse afterwards, when they reflect
that they have been ten times as angry as they need have been.
"The gentleman before me gazed at me for some seconds in
amazement, and his wife in terror; as though there was something
alarmingly extraordinary in the fact that anyone could come to
see them. But suddenly he fell upon me almost with fury; I had
had no time to mutter more than a couple of words; but he had
doubtless observed that I was decently dressed and, therefore,
took deep offence because I had dared enter his den so
unceremoniously, and spy out the squalor and untidiness of it.
"Of course he was delighted to get hold of someone upon whom to
vent his rage against things in general.
"For a moment I thought he would assault me; he grew so pale that
he looked like a woman about to have hysterics; his wife was
dreadfully alarmed.
"'How dare you come in so? Be off!' he shouted, trembling all
over with rage and scarcely able to articulate the words.
Suddenly, however, he observed his pocketbook in my hand.
"'I think you dropped this,' I remarked, as quietly and drily as
I could. (I thought it best to treat him so.) For some while he
stood before me in downright terror, and seemed unable to
understand. He then suddenly grabbed at his side-pocket, opened
his mouth in alarm, and beat his forehead with his hand.
"'My God!' he cried, 'where did you find it? How?' I explained in
as few words as I could, and as drily as possible, how I had seen
it and picked it up; how I had run after him, and called out to
him, and how I had followed him upstairs and groped my way to his
door.
"'Gracious Heaven!' he cried, 'all our papers are in it! My dear
sir, you little know what you have done for us. I should have
been lost--lost!'
"I had taken hold of the door-handle meanwhile, intending to
leave the room without reply; but I was panting with my run
upstairs, and my exhaustion came to a climax in a violent fit of
coughing, so bad that I could hardly stand.
"I saw how the man dashed about the room to find me an empty
chair, how he kicked the rags off a chair which was covered up by
them, brought it to me, and helped me to sit down; but my cough
went on for another three minutes or so. When I came to myself he
was sitting by me on another chair, which he had also cleared of
the rubbish by throwing it all over the floor, and was watching
me intently.
"'I'm afraid you are ill?' he remarked, in the tone which doctors
use when they address a patient. 'I am myself a medical man' (he
did not say 'doctor'), with which words he waved his hands
towards the room and its contents as though in protest at his
present condition. 'I see that you--'
"'I'm in consumption,' I said laconically, rising from my seat.
He jumped up, too.
"'Perhaps you are exaggerating--if you were to take proper
measures perhaps--"
"He was terribly confused and did not seem able to collect his
scattered senses; the pocket-book was still in his left hand.
"'Oh, don't mind me,' I said. 'Dr. B-- saw me last week' (I
lugged him in again), 'and my hash is quite settled; pardon me-'
I took hold of the door-handle again. I was on the point of
opening the door and leaving my grateful but confused medical
friend to himself and his shame, when my damnable cough got hold
of me again.
"My doctor insisted on my sitting down again to get my breath. He
now said something to his wife who, without leaving her place,
addressed a few words of gratitude and courtesy to me. She seemed
very shy over it, and her sickly face flushed up with confusion.
I remained, but with the air of a man who knows he is intruding
and is anxious to get away. The doctor's remorse at last seemed
to need a vent, I could see.
"'If I--' he began, breaking off abruptly every other moment, and
starting another sentence. 'I-I am so very grateful to you, and I
am so much to blame in your eyes, I feel sure, I--you see--' (he
pointed to the room again) 'at this moment I am in such a
position-'
"'Oh!' I said, 'there's nothing to see; it's quite a clear case--
you've lost your post and have come up to make explanations and
get another, if you can!'
"'How do you know that?' he asked in amazement.
"'Oh, it was evident at the first glance,' I said ironically, but
not intentionally so. 'There are lots of people who come up from
the provinces full of hope, and run about town, and have to live
as best they can.'
"He began to talk at once excitedly and with trembling lips; he
began complaining and telling me his story. He interested me, I
confess; I sat there nearly an hour. His story was a very
ordinary one. He had been a provincial doctor; he had a civil
appointment, and had no sooner taken it up than intrigues began.
Even his wife was dragged into these. He was proud, and flew into
a passion; there was a change of local government which acted in
favour of his opponents; his position was undermined, complaints
were made against him; he lost his post and came up to Petersburg
with his last remaining money, in order to appeal to higher
authorities. Of course nobody would listen to him for a long
time; he would come and tell his story one day and be refused
promptly; another day he would be fed on false promises; again he
would be treated harshly; then he would be told to sign some
documents; then he would sign the paper and hand it in, and they
would refuse to receive it, and tell him to file a formal
petition. In a word he had been driven about from office to
office for five months and had spent every farthing he had; his
wife's last rags had just been pawned; and meanwhile a child had
been born to them and--and today I have a final refusal to my
petition, and I have hardly a crumb of bread left--I have nothing
left; my wife has had a baby lately--and I-I--'
"He sprang up from his chair and turned away. His wife was crying
in the corner; the child had begun to moan again. I pulled out my
note-book and began writing in it. When I had finished and rose
from my chair he was standing before me with an expression of
alarmed curiosity.
"'I have jotted down your name,' I told him, 'and all the rest of
it--the place you served at, the district, the date, and all. I
have a friend, Bachmatoff, whose uncle is a councillor of state
and has to do with these matters, one Peter Matveyevitch
Bachmatoff.'
"'Peter Matveyevitch Bachmatoff!' he cried, trembling all over
with excitement. 'Why, nearly everything depends on that very
man!'
"It is very curious, this story of the medical man, and my visit,
and the happy termination to which I contributed by accident!
Everything fitted in, as in a novel. I told the poor people not
to put much hope in me, because I was but a poor schoolboy myself--
(I am not really, but I humiliated myself as much as possible in
order to make them less hopeful)--but that I would go at once
to the Vassili Ostroff and see my friend; and that as I knew
for certain that his uncle adored him, and was absolutely devoted
to him as the last hope and branch of the family, perhaps the old
man might do something to oblige his nephew.
"'If only they would allow me to explain all to his excellency!
If I could but be permitted to tell my tale to him!" he cried,
trembling with feverish agitation, and his eyes flashing with
excitement. I repeated once more that I could not hold out much
hope--that it would probably end in smoke, and if I did not turn
up next morning they must make up their minds that there was no
more to be done in the matter.
"They showed me out with bows and every kind of respect; they
seemed quite beside themselves. I shall never forget the
expression of their faces!
"I took a droshky and drove over to the Vassili Ostroff at once.
For some years I had been at enmity with this young Bachmatoff,
at school. We considered him an aristocrat; at all events I
called him one. He used to dress smartly, and always drove to
school in a private trap. He was a good companion, and was always
merry and jolly, sometimes even witty, though he was not very
intellectual, in spite of the fact that he was always top of the
class; I myself was never top in anything! All his companions
were very fond of him, excepting myself. He had several times
during those years come up to me and tried to make friends; but I
had always turned sulkily away and refused to have anything to do
with him. I had not seen him for a whole year now; he was at the
university. When, at nine o'clock, or so, this evening, I arrived
and was shown up to him with great ceremony, he first received me
with astonishment, and not too affably, but he soon cheered up,
and suddenly gazed intently at me and burst out laughing.
"'Why, what on earth can have possessed you to come and see ME,
Terentieff?' he cried, with his usual pleasant, sometimes
audacious, but never offensive familiarity, which I liked in
reality, but for which I also detested him. 'Why what's the
matter?' he cried in alarm. 'Are you ill?'
"That confounded cough of mine had come on again; I fell into a
chair, and with difficulty recovered my breath. 'It's all right,
it's only consumption' I said. 'I have come to you with a
petition!'
"He sat down in amazement, and I lost no time in telling him the
medical man's history; and explained that he, with the influence
which he possessed over his uncle, might do some good to the poor
fellow.
"'I'll do it--I'll do it, of course!' he said. 'I shall attack my
uncle about it tomorrow morning, and I'm very glad you told me
the story. But how was it that you thought of coming to me about
it, Terentieff?'
"'So much depends upon your uncle,' I said. 'And besides we have
always been enemies, Bachmatoff; and as you are a generous sort
of fellow, I thought you would not refuse my request because I
was your enemy!' I added with irony.
"'Like Napoleon going to England, eh?' cried he, laughing. 'I'll
do it though--of course, and at once, if I can!' he added, seeing
that I rose seriously from my chair at this point.
"And sure enough the matter ended as satisfactorily as possible.
A month or so later my medical friend was appointed to another
post. He got his travelling expenses paid, and something to help
him to start life with once more. I think Bachmatoff must have
persuaded the doctor to accept a loan from himself. I saw
Bachmatoff two or three times, about this period, the third time
being when he gave a farewell dinner to the doctor and his wife
before their departure, a champagne dinner.
"Bachmatoff saw me home after the dinner and we crossed the
Nicolai bridge. We were both a little drunk. He told me of his
joy, the joyful feeling of having done a good action; he said
that it was all thanks to myself that he could feel this
satisfaction; and held forth about the foolishness of the theory
that individual charity is useless
"I, too, was burning to have my say!
"'In Moscow,' I said, 'there was an old state counsellor, a civil
general, who, all his life, had been in the habit of visiting the
prisons and speaking to criminals. Every party of convicts on its
way to Siberia knew beforehand that on the Vorobeef Hills the
"old general" would pay them a visit. He did all he undertook
seriously and devotedly. He would walk down the rows of the
unfortunate prisoners, stop before each individual and ask after
his needs--he never sermonized them; he spoke kindly to them--he gave
them money; he brought them all sorts of necessaries for the
journey, and gave them devotional books, choosing those who could
read, under the firm conviction that they would read to those who
could not, as they went along.
"'He scarcely ever talked about the particular crimes of any of
them, but listened if any volunteered information on that point.
All the convicts were equal for him, and he made no distinction.
He spoke to all as to brothers, and every one of them looked upon
him as a father. When he observed among the exiles some poor
woman with a child, he would always come forward and fondle the
little one, and make it laugh. He continued these acts of mercy
up to his very death; and by that time all the criminals, all
over Russia and Siberia, knew him!
"'A man I knew who had been to Siberia and returned, told me that
he himself had been a witness of how the very most hardened
criminals remembered the old general, though, in point of fact,
he could never, of course, have distributed more than a few pence
to each member of a party. Their recollection of him was not
sentimental or particularly devoted. Some wretch, for instance,
who had been a murderer--cutting the throat of a dozen fellow-
creatures, for instance; or stabbing six little children for his
own amusement (there have been such men!)--would perhaps, without
rhyme or reason, suddenly give a sigh and say, "I wonder whether
that old general is alive still!" Although perhaps he had not
thought of mentioning him for a dozen years before! How can one
say what seed of good may have been dropped into his soul, never
to die?'
"I continued in that strain for a long while, pointing out to
Bachmatoff how impossible it is to follow up the effects of any
isolated good deed one may do, in all its influences and subtle
workings upon the heart and after-actions of others.
"'And to think that you are to be cut off from life!' remarked
Bachmatoff, in a tone of reproach, as though he would like to
find someone to pitch into on my account.
"We were leaning over the balustrade of the bridge, looking into
the Neva at this moment.
"'Do you know what has suddenly come into my head?' said I,
suddenly--leaning further and further over the rail.
"'Surely not to throw yourself into the river?' cried Bachmatoff
in alarm. Perhaps he read my thought in my face.
"'No, not yet. At present nothing but the following
consideration. You see I have some two or three months left me to
live--perhaps four; well, supposing that when I have but a month
or two more, I take a fancy for some "good deed" that needs both
trouble and time, like this business of our doctor friend, for
instance: why, I shall have to give up the idea of it and take to
something else--some LITTLE good deed, MORE WITHIN MY MEANS, eh?
Isn't that an amusing idea!'
"Poor Bachmatoff was much impressed--painfully so. He took me all
the way home; not attempting to console me, but behaving with the
greatest delicacy. On taking leave he pressed my hand warmly and
asked permission to come and see me. I replied that if he came to
me as a 'comforter,' so to speak (for he would be in that
capacity whether he spoke to me in a soothing manner or only kept
silence, as I pointed out to him), he would but remind me each
time of my approaching death! He shrugged his shoulders, but
quite agreed with me; and we parted better friends than I had
expected.
"But that evening and that night were sown the first seeds of my
'last conviction.' I seized greedily on my new idea; I thirstily
drank in all its different aspects (I did not sleep a wink that
night!), and the deeper I went into it the more my being seemed
to merge itself in it, and the more alarmed I became. A dreadful
terror came over me at last, and did not leave me all next day.
"Sometimes, thinking over this, I became quite numb with the
terror of it; and I might well have deduced from this fact, that
my 'last conviction' was eating into my being too fast and too
seriously, and would undoubtedly come to its climax before long.
And for the climax I needed greater determination than I yet
possessed.
"However, within three weeks my determination was taken, owing to
a very strange circumstance.
"Here on my paper, I make a note of all the figures and dates
that come into my explanation. Of course, it is all the same to
me, but just now--and perhaps only at this moment--I desire that
all those who are to judge of my action should see clearly out of
how logical a sequence of deductions has at length proceeded my
'last conviction.'
"I have said above that the determination needed by me for the
accomplishment of my final resolve, came to hand not through any
sequence of causes, but thanks to a certain strange circumstance
which had perhaps no connection whatever with the matter at
issue. Ten days ago Rogojin called upon me about certain business
of his own with which I have nothing to do at present. I had
never seen Rogojin before, but had often heard about him.
"I gave him all the information he needed, and he very soon took
his departure; so that, since he only came for the purpose of
gaining the information, the matter might have been expected to
end there.
"But he interested me too much, and all that day I was under the
influence of strange thoughts connected with him, and I
determined to return his visit the next day.
"Rogojin was evidently by no means pleased to see me, and hinted,
delicately, that he saw no reason why our acquaintance should
continue. For all that, however, I spent a very interesting hour,
and so, I dare say, did he. There was so great a contrast between
us that I am sure we must both have felt it; anyhow, I felt it
acutely. Here was I, with my days numbered, and he, a man in the
full vigour of life, living in the present, without the slightest
thought for 'final convictions,' or numbers, or days, or, in
fact, for anything but that which-which--well, which he was mad
about, if he will excuse me the expression--as a feeble author who
cannot express his ideas properly.
"In spite of his lack of amiability, I could not help seeing, in
Rogojin a man of intellect and sense; and although, perhaps,
there was little in the outside world which was of. interest to
him, still he was clearly a man with eyes to see.
"I hinted nothing to him about my 'final conviction,' but it
appeared to me that he had guessed it from my words. He remained
silent--he is a terribly silent man. I remarked to him, as I rose
to depart, that, in spite of the contrast and the wide
differences between us two, les extremites se touchent ('extremes
meet,' as I explained to him in Russian); so that maybe he was
not so far from my final conviction as appeared.
"His only reply to this was a sour grimace. He rose and looked
for my cap, and placed it in my hand, and led me out of the
house--that dreadful gloomy house of his--to all appearances, of
course, as though I were leaving of my own accord, and he were
simply seeing me to the door out of politeness. His house
impressed me much; it is like a burial-ground, he seems to like
it, which is, however, quite natural. Such a full life as he
leads is so overflowing with absorbing interests that he has
little need of assistance from his surroundings.
"The visit to Rogojin exhausted me terribly. Besides, I had felt
ill since the morning; and by evening I was so weak that I took
to my bed, and was in high fever at intervals, and even
delirious. Colia sat with me until eleven o'clock.
"Yet I remember all he talked about, and every word we said,
though whenever my eyes closed for a moment I could picture
nothing but the image of Surikoff just in the act of finding a
million roubles. He could not make up his mind what to do with
the money, and tore his hair over it. He trembled with fear that
somebody would rob him, and at last he decided to bury it in the
ground. I persuaded him that, instead of putting it all away
uselessly underground, he had better melt it down and make a
golden coffin out of it for his starved child, and then dig up
the little one and put her into the golden coffin. Surikoff
accepted this suggestion, I thought, with tears of gratitude, and
immediately commenced to carry out my design.
"I thought I spat on the ground and left him in disgust. Colia
told me, when I quite recovered my senses, that I had not been
asleep for a moment, but that I had spoken to him about Surikoff
the whole while.
"At moments I was in a state of dreadful weakness and misery, so
that Colia was greatly disturbed when he left me.
"When I arose to lock the door after him, I suddenly called to
mind a picture I had noticed at Rogojin's in one of his gloomiest
rooms, over the door. He had pointed it out to me himself as we
walked past it, and I believe I must have stood a good five
minutes in front of it. There was nothing artistic about it, but
the picture made me feel strangely uncomfortable. It represented
Christ just taken down from the cross. It seems to me that
painters as a rule represent the Saviour, both on the cross and
taken down from it, with great beauty still upon His face. This
marvellous beauty they strive to preserve even in His moments of
deepest agony and passion. But there was no such beauty in
Rogojin's picture. This was the presentment of a poor mangled
body which had evidently suffered unbearable anguish even before
its crucifixion, full of wounds and bruises, marks of the
violence of soldiers and people, and of the bitterness of the
moment when He had fallen with the cross--all this combined with
the anguish of the actual crucifixion.
"The face was depicted as though still suffering; as though the
body, only just dead, was still almost quivering with agony. The
picture was one of pure nature, for the face was not beautified
by the artist, but was left as it would naturally be, whosoever
the sufferer, after such anguish.
"I know that the earliest Christian faith taught that the Saviour
suffered actually and not figuratively, and that nature was
allowed her own way even while His body was on the cross.
"It is strange to look on this dreadful picture of the mangled
corpse of the Saviour, and to put this question to oneself:
'Supposing that the disciples, the future apostles, the women who
had followed Him and stood by the cross, all of whom believed in
and worshipped Him--supposing that they saw this tortured body,
this face so mangled and bleeding and bruised (and they MUST have
so seen it)--how could they have gazed upon the dreadful sight
and yet have believed that He would rise again?'
"The thought steps in, whether one likes it or no, that death is
so terrible and so powerful, that even He who conquered it in His
miracles during life was unable to triumph over it at the last.
He who called to Lazarus, 'Lazarus, come forth!' and the dead
man lived--He was now Himself a prey to nature and death. Nature
appears to one, looking at this picture, as some huge,
implacable, dumb monster; or still better--a stranger simile--some
enormous mechanical engine of modern days which has seized and
crushed and swallowed up a great and invaluable Being, a Being
worth nature and all her laws, worth the whole earth, which was
perhaps created merely for the sake of the advent of that Being.
"This blind, dumb, implacable, eternal, unreasoning force is well
shown in the picture, and the absolute subordination of all men
and things to it is so well expressed that the idea unconsciously
arises in the mind of anyone who looks at it. All those faithful
people who were gazing at the cross and its mutilated occupant
must have suffered agony of mind that evening; for they must have
felt that all their hopes and almost all their faith had been
shattered at a blow. They must have separated in terror and dread that
night, though each perhaps carried away with him one great
thought which was never eradicated from his mind for ever
afterwards. If this great Teacher of theirs could have seen
Himself after the Crucifixion, how could He have consented to
mount the Cross and to die as He did? This thought also comes
into the mind of the man who gazes at this picture. I thought of
all this by snatches probably between my attacks of delirium--for
an hour and a half or so before Colia's departure.
"Can there be an appearance of that which has no form? And yet it
seemed to me, at certain moments, that I beheld in some strange
and impossible form, that dark, dumb, irresistibly powerful,
eternal force.
"I thought someone led me by the hand and showed me, by the light
of a candle, a huge, loathsome insect, which he assured me was
that very force, that very almighty, dumb, irresistible Power,
and laughed at the indignation with which I received this
information. In my room they always light the little lamp before
my icon for the night; it gives a feeble flicker of light, but it
is strong enough to see by dimly, and if you sit just under it
you can even read by it. I think it was about twelve or a little
past that night. I had not slept a wink, and was lying with my
eyes wide open, when suddenly the door opened, and in came
Rogojin.
"He entered, and shut the door behind him. Then he silently gazed
at me and went quickly to the corner of the room where the lamp
was burning and sat down underneath it.
"I was much surprised, and looked at him expectantly.
"Rogojin only leaned his elbow on the table and silently stared
at me. So passed two or three minutes, and I recollect that his
silence hurt and offended me very much. Why did he not speak?
"That his arrival at this time of night struck me as more or less
strange may possibly be the case; but I remember I was by no
means amazed at it. On the contrary, though I had not actually
told him my thought in the morning, yet I know he understood it;
and this thought was of such a character that it would not be
anything very remarkable, if one were to come for further talk
about it at any hour of night, however late.
"I thought he must have come for this purpose.
"In the morning we had parted not the best of friends; I remember
he looked at me with disagreeable sarcasm once or twice; and this
same look I observed in his eyes now--which was the cause of the
annoyance I felt.
"I did not for a moment suspect that I was delirious and that
this Rogojin was but the result of fever and excitement. I had
not the slightest idea of such a theory at first.
"Meanwhile he continued to sit and stare jeeringly at me.
"I angrily turned round in bed and made up my mind that I would
not say a word unless he did; so I rested silently on my pillow
determined to remain dumb, if it were to last till morning. I
felt resolved that he should speak first. Probably twenty minutes
or so passed in this way. Suddenly the idea struck me--what if
this is an apparition and not Rogojin himself?
"Neither during my illness nor at any previous time had I ever
seen an apparition;--but I had always thought, both when I was a
little boy, and even now, that if I were to see one I should die
on the spot--though I don't believe in ghosts. And yet NOW, when
the idea struck me that this was a ghost and not Rogojin at all,
I was not in the least alarmed. Nay--the thought actually
irritated me. Strangely enough, the decision of the question as
to whether this were a ghost or Rogojin did not, for some reason
or other, interest me nearly so much as it ought to have done;--I
think I began to muse about something altogether different. For
instance, I began to wonder why Rogojin, who had been in
dressing--gown and slippers when I saw him at home, had now put on
a dress-coat and white waistcoat and tie? I also thought to
myself, I remember--'if this is a ghost, and I am not afraid of
it, why don't I approach it and verify my suspicions? Perhaps I
am afraid--' And no sooner did this last idea enter my head than
an icy blast blew over me; I felt a chill down my backbone and my
knees shook.
"At this very moment, as though divining my thoughts, Rogojin
raised his head from his arm and began to part his lips as though
he were going to laugh--but he continued to stare at me as
persistently as before.
"I felt so furious with him at this moment that I longed to rush
at him; but as I had sworn that he should speak first, I
continued to lie still--and the more willingly, as I was still by
no means satisfied as to whether it really was Rogojin or not.
"I cannot remember how long this lasted; I cannot recollect,
either, whether consciousness forsook me at intervals, or not.
But at last Rogojin rose, staring at me as intently as ever, but
not smiling any longer,--and walking very softly, almost on tip-
toes, to the door, he opened it, went out, and shut it behind
him.
"I did not rise from my bed, and I don't know how long I lay with
my eyes open, thinking. I don't know what I thought about, nor
how I fell asleep or became insensible; but I awoke next morning
after nine o'clock when they knocked at my door. My general
orders are that if I don't open the door and call, by nine
o'clock, Matreona is to come and bring my tea. When I now opened
the door to her, the thought suddenly struck me--how could he have
come in, since the door was locked? I made inquiries and found
that Rogojin himself could not possibly have come in, because all
our doors were locked for the night.
"Well, this strange circumstance--which I have described with so
much detail--was the ultimate cause which led me to taking my
final determination. So that no logic, or logical deductions, had
anything to do with my resolve;--it was simply a matter of
disgust.
"It was impossible for me to go on living when life was full of
such detestable, strange, tormenting forms. This ghost had
humiliated me;--nor could I bear to be subordinate to that dark,
horrible force which was embodied in the form of the loathsome
insect. It was only towards evening, when I had quite made up my
mind on this point, that I began to feel easier.
VII.
"I HAD a small pocket pistol. I had procured it while still a
boy, at that droll age when the stories of duels and highwaymen
begin to delight one, and when one imagines oneself nobly
standing fire at some future day, in a duel.
"There were a couple of old bullets in the bag which contained
the pistol, and powder enough in an old flask for two or three
charges.
"The pistol was a wretched thing, very crooked and wouldn't carry
farther than fifteen paces at the most. However, it would send
your skull flying well enough if you pressed the muzzle of it
against your temple.
"I determined to die at Pavlofsk at sunrise, in the park--so as
to make no commotion in the house.
"This 'explanation' will make the matter clear enough to the
police. Students of psychology, and anyone else who likes, may
make what they please of it. I should not like this paper,
however, to be made public. I request the prince to keep a copy
himself, and to give a copy to Aglaya Ivanovna Epanchin. This is
my last will and testament. As for my skeleton, I bequeath it to
the Medical Academy for the benefit of science.
"I recognize no jurisdiction over myself, and I know that I am
now beyond the power of laws and judges.
"A little while ago a very amusing idea struck me. What if I were
now to commit some terrible crime--murder ten fellow-creatures,
for instance, or anything else that is thought most shocking and
dreadful in this world--what a dilemma my judges would be in,
with a criminal who only has a fortnight to live in any case, now
that the rack and other forms of torture are abolished! Why, I
should die comfortably in their own hospital--in a warm, clean
room, with an attentive doctor--probably much more comfortably
than I should at home.
"I don't understand why people in my position do not oftener
indulge in such ideas--if only for a joke! Perhaps they do! Who
knows! There are plenty of merry souls among us!
"But though I do not recognize any jurisdiction over myself,
still I know that I shall be judged, when I am nothing but a
voiceless lump of clay; therefore I do not wish to go before I
have left a word of reply--the reply of a free man--not one
forced to justify himself--oh no! I have no need to ask
forgiveness of anyone. I wish to say a word merely because I
happen to desire it of my own free will.
"Here, in the first place, comes a strange thought!
"Who, in the name of what Law, would think of disputing my full
personal right over the fortnight of life left to me? What
jurisdiction can be brought to bear upon the case? Who would wish
me, not only to be sentenced, but to endure the sentence to the
end? Surely there exists no man who would wish such a thing--why
should anyone desire it? For the sake of morality? Well, I can
understand that if I were to make an attempt upon my own life
while in the enjoyment of full health and vigour--my life which
might have been 'useful,' etc., etc.--morality might reproach me,
according to the old routine, for disposing of my life without
permission--or whatever its tenet may be. But now, NOW, when my
sentence is out and my days numbered! How can morality have need
of my last breaths, and why should I die listening to the
consolations offered by the prince, who, without doubt, would not
omit to demonstrate that death is actually a benefactor to me?
(Christians like him always end up with that--it is their pet
theory.) And what do they want with their ridiculous 'Pavlofsk
trees'? To sweeten my last hours? Cannot they understand that the
more I forget myself, the more I let myself become attached to
these last illusions of life and love, by means of which they try
to hide from me Meyer's wall, and all that is so plainly written
on it--the more unhappy they make me? What is the use of all your
nature to me--all your parks and trees, your sunsets and
sunrises, your blue skies and your self-satisfied faces--when all
this wealth of beauty and happiness begins with the fact that it
accounts me--only me--one too many! What is the good of all this
beauty and glory to me, when every second, every moment, I cannot
but be aware that this little fly which buzzes around my head in
the sun's rays--even this little fly is a sharer and participator
in all the glory of the universe, and knows its place and is
happy in it;--while I--only I, am an outcast, and have been blind
to the fact hitherto, thanks to my simplicity! Oh! I know well
how the prince and others would like me, instead of indulging in
all these wicked words of my own, to sing, to the glory and
triumph of morality, that well-known verse of Gilbert's:
"'0, puissent voir longtemps votre beaute sacree
Tant d'amis, sourds a mes adieux!
Qu'ils meurent pleins de jours, que leur mort soit pleuree,
Qu'un ami leur ferme les yeux!'
"But believe me, believe me, my simple-hearted friends, that in
this highly moral verse, in this academical blessing to the world
in general in the French language, is hidden the intensest gall
and bitterness; but so well concealed is the venom, that I dare
say the poet actually persuaded himself that his words were full
of the tears of pardon and peace, instead of the bitterness of
disappointment and malice, and so died in the delusion.
"Do you know there is a limit of ignominy, beyond which man's
consciousness of shame cannot go, and after which begins
satisfaction in shame? Well, of course humility is a great force
in that sense, I admit that--though not in the sense in which
religion accounts humility to be strength!
"Religion!--I admit eternal life--and perhaps I always did admit
it.
"Admitted that consciousness is called into existence by the will
of a Higher Power; admitted that this consciousness looks out
upon the world and says 'I am;' and admitted that the Higher
Power wills that the consciousness so called into existence, be
suddenly extinguished (for so--for some unexplained reason--it is
and must be)--still there comes the eternal question--why must I
be humble through all this? Is it not enough that I am devoured,
without my being expected to bless the power that devours me?
Surely--surely I need not suppose that Somebody--there--will be
offended because I do not wish to live out the fortnight allowed
me? I don't believe it.
"It is much simpler, and far more likely, to believe that my
death is needed--the death of an insignificant atom--in order to
fulfil the general harmony of the universe--in order to make even
some plus or minus in the sum of existence. Just as every day the
death of numbers of beings is necessary because without their
annihilation the rest cannot live on--(although we must admit
that the idea is not a particularly grand one in itself!)
"However--admit the fact! Admit that without such perpetual
devouring of one another the world cannot continue to exist, or
could never have been organized--I am ever ready to confess that
I cannot understand why this is so--but I'll tell you what I DO
know, for certain. If I have once been given to understand and
realize that I AM--what does it matter to me that the world is
organized on a system full of errors and that otherwise it cannot
be organized at all? Who will or can judge me after this? Say
what you like--the thing is impossible and unjust!
"And meanwhile I have never been able, in spite of my great
desire to do so, to persuade myself that there is no future
existence, and no Providence.
"The fact of the matter is that all this DOES exist, but that we
know absolutely nothing about the future life and its laws!
"But it is so difficult, and even impossible to understand, that
surely I am not to be blamed because I could not fathom the
incomprehensible?
"Of course I know they say that one must be obedient, and of
course, too, the prince is one of those who say so: that one must
be obedient without questions, out of pure goodness of heart, and
that for my worthy conduct in this matter I shall meet with
reward in another world. We degrade God when we attribute our own
ideas to Him, out of annoyance that we cannot fathom His ways.
"Again, I repeat, I cannot be blamed because I am unable to
understand that which it is not given to mankind to fathom. Why
am I to be judged because I could not comprehend the Will and
Laws of Providence? No, we had better drop religion.
"And enough of this. By the time I have got so far in the reading
of my document the sun will be up and the huge force of his rays
will be acting upon the living world. So be it. I shall die
gazing straight at the great Fountain of life and power; I do not
want this life!
"If I had had the power to prevent my own birth I should
certainly never have consented to accept existence under such
ridiculous conditions. However, I have the power to end my
existence, although I do but give back days that are already
numbered. It is an insignificant gift, and my revolt is equally
insignificant.
"Final explanation: I die, not in the least because I am unable
to support these next three weeks. Oh no, I should find strength
enough, and if I wished it I could obtain consolation from the
thought of the injury that is done me. But I am not a French
poet, and I do not desire such consolation. And finally, nature
has so limited my capacity for work or activity of any kind, in
allotting me but three weeks of time, that suicide is about the
only thing left that I can begin and end in the time of my own
free will.
"Perhaps then I am anxious to take advantage of my last chance of
doing something for myself. A protest is sometimes no small
thing."
The explanation was finished; Hippolyte paused at last.
There is, in extreme cases, a final stage of cynical candour when
a nervous man, excited, and beside himself with emotion, will be
afraid of nothing and ready for any sort of scandal, nay, glad of
it. The extraordinary, almost unnatural, tension of the nerves
which upheld Hippolyte up to this point, had now arrived at this
final stage. This poor feeble boy of eighteen--exhausted by
disease--looked for all the world as weak and frail as a leaflet
torn from its parent tree and trembling in the breeze; but no
sooner had his eye swept over his audience, for the first time
during the whole of the last hour, than the most contemptuous,
the most haughty expression of repugnance lighted up his face. He
defied them all, as it were. But his hearers were indignant, too;
they rose to their feet with annoyance. Fatigue, the wine
consumed, the strain of listening so long, all added to the
disagreeable impression which the reading had made upon them.
Suddenly Hippolyte jumped up as though he had been shot.
"The sun is rising," he cried, seeing the gilded tops of the
trees, and pointing to them as to a miracle. "See, it is rising
now!"
"Well, what then? Did you suppose it wasn't going to rise?" asked
Ferdishenko.
"It's going to be atrociously hot again all day," said Gania,
with an air of annoyance, taking his hat. "A month of this... Are
you coming home, Ptitsin?" Hippolyte listened to this in
amazement, almost amounting to stupefaction. Suddenly he became
deadly pale and shuddered.
"You manage your composure too awkwardly. I see you wish to
insult me," he cried to Gania. "You--you are a cur!" He looked at
Gania with an expression of malice.
"What on earth is the matter with the boy? What phenomenal
feeble-mindedness!" exclaimed Ferdishenko.
"Oh, he's simply a fool," said Gania.
Hippolyte braced himself up a little.
"I understand, gentlemen," he began, trembling as before, and
stumbling over every word," that I have deserved your resentment,
and--and am sorry that I should have troubled you with this
raving nonsense" (pointing to his article),"or rather, I am sorry
that I have not troubled you enough." He smiled feebly. "Have I
troubled you, Evgenie Pavlovitch?" He suddenly turned on Evgenie
with this question. "Tell me now, have I troubled you or not?"
"Well, it was a little drawn out, perhaps; but--"
"Come, speak out! Don't lie, for once in your life--speak out!"
continued Hippolyte, quivering with agitation.
"Oh, my good sir, I assure you it's entirely the same to me.
Please leave me in peace," said Evgenie, angrily, turning his
back on him.
"Good-night, prince," said Ptitsin, approaching his host.
"What are you thinking of? Don't go, he'll blow his brains out in
a minute!" cried Vera Lebedeff, rushing up to Hippolyte and
catching hold of his hands in a torment of alarm. "What are you
thinking of? He said he would blow his brains out at sunrise."
"Oh, he won't shoot himself!" cried several voices,
sarcastically.
"Gentlemen, you'd better look out," cried Colia, also seizing
Hippolyte by the hand. "Just look at him! Prince, what are you
thinking of?" Vera and Colia, and Keller, and Burdovsky were all
crowding round Hippolyte now and holding him down.
"He has the right--the right--"-murmured Burdovsky. "Excuse me,
prince, but what are your arrangements?" asked Lebedeff, tipsy
and exasperated, going up to Muishkin.
"What do you mean by 'arrangements'?"
"No, no, excuse me! I'm master of this house, though I do not
wish to lack respect towards you. You are master of the house
too, in a way; but I can't allow this sort of thing--"
"He won't shoot himself; the boy is only playing the fool," said
General Ivolgin, suddenly and unexpectedly, with indignation.
"I know he won't, I know he won't, general; but I--I'm master
here!"
"Listen, Mr. Terentieff," said Ptitsin, who had bidden the prince
good-night, and was now holding out his hand to Hippolyte; "I
think you remark in that manuscript of yours, that you bequeath
your skeleton to the Academy. Are you referring to your own
skeleton--I mean, your very bones?"
"Yes, my bones, I--"
"Quite so, I see; because, you know, little mistakes have
occurred now and then. There was a case--"
Why do you tease him?" cried the prince, suddenly.
"You've moved him to tears," added Ferdishenko. But Hippolyte was
by no means weeping. He was about to move from his place, when
his four guards rushed at him and seized him once more. There was
a laugh at this.
"He led up to this on purpose. He took the trouble of writing all
that so that people should come and grab him by the arm,"
observed Rogojin. "Good-night, prince. What a time we've sat
here, my very bones ache!"
"If you really intended to shoot yourself, Terentieff," said
Evgenie Pavlovitch, laughing, "if I were you, after all these
compliments, I should just not shoot myself in order to vex them
all."
"They are very anxious to see me blow my brains out," said
Hippolyte, bitterly.
"Yes, they'll be awfully annoyed if they don't see it."
"Then you think they won't see it?"
"I am not trying to egg you on. On the contrary, I think it very
likely that you may shoot yourself; but the principal thing is to
keep cool," said Evgenie with a drawl, and with great
condescension.
"I only now perceive what a terrible mistake I made in reading
this article to them," said Hippolyte, suddenly, addressing
Evgenie, and looking at him with an expression of trust and
confidence, as though he were applying to a friend for counsel.
"Yes, it's a droll situation; I really don't know what advice to
give you," replied Evgenie, laughing. Hippolyte gazed steadfastly
at him, but said nothing. To look at him one might have supposed
that he was unconscious at intervals.
"Excuse me," said Lebedeff, "but did you observe the young
gentleman's style? 'I'll go and blow my brains out in the park,'
says he,' so as not to disturb anyone.' He thinks he won't
disturb anybody if he goes three yards away, into the park, and
blows his brains out there."
"Gentlemen--" began the prince.
"No, no, excuse me, most revered prince," Lebedeff interrupted,
excitedly. "Since you must have observed yourself that this is no
joke, and since at least half your guests must also have
concluded that after all that has been said this youth MUST blow
his brains out for honour's sake--I--as master of this house, and
before these witnesses, now call upon you to take steps."
"Yes, but what am I to do, Lebedeff? What steps am I to take? I
am ready."
"I'll tell you. In the first place he must immediately deliver up
the pistol which he boasted of, with all its appurtenances. If he
does this I shall consent to his being allowed to spend the night
in this house--considering his feeble state of health, and of
course conditionally upon his being under proper supervision. But
tomorrow he must go elsewhere. Excuse me, prince! Should he
refuse to deliver up his weapon, then I shall instantly seize one
of his arms and General Ivolgin the other, and we shall hold him
until the police arrive and take the matter into their own hands.
Mr. Ferdishenko will kindly fetch them."
At this there was a dreadful noise; Lebedeff danced about in his
excitement; Ferdishenko prepared to go for the police; Gania
frantically insisted that it was all nonsense, "for nobody was
going to shoot themselves." Evgenie Pavlovitch said nothing.
"Prince," whispered Hippolyte, suddenly, his eyes all ablaze,
"you don't suppose that I did not foresee all this hatred?" He
looked at the prince as though he expected him to reply, for a
moment. "Enough!" he added at length, and addressing the whole
company, he cried: "It's all my fault, gentlemen! Lebedeff,
here's the key," (he took out a small bunch of keys); "this one,
the last but one--Colia will show you--Colia, where's Colia?" he
cried, looking straight at Colia and not seeing him. "Yes, he'll
show you; he packed the bag with me this morning. Take him up,
Colia; my bag is upstairs in the prince's study, under the table.
Here's the key, and in the little case you'll find my pistol and
the powder, and all. Colia packed it himself, Mr. Lebedeff; he'll
show you; but it's on condition that tomorrow morning, when I
leave for Petersburg, you will give me back my pistol, do you
hear? I do this for the prince's sake, not yours."
"Capital, that's much better!" cried Lebedeff, and seizing the
key he made off in haste.
Colia stopped a moment as though he wished to say something; but
Lebedeff dragged him away.
Hippolyte looked around at the laughing guests. The prince
observed that his teeth were chattering as though in a violent
attack of ague.
"What brutes they all are!" he whispered to the prince. Whenever
he addressed him he lowered his voice.
"Let them alone, you're too weak now--"
Yes, directly; I'll go away directly. I'll--"
Suddenly he embraced Muishkin.
"Perhaps you think I am mad, eh?" he asked him, laughing very
strangely.
"No, but you--"
"Directly, directly! Stand still a moment, I wish to look in your
eyes; don't speak--stand so--let me look at you! I am bidding
farewell to mankind."
He stood so for ten seconds, gazing at the prince, motionless,
deadly pale, his temples wet with perspiration; he held the
prince's hand in a strange grip, as though afraid to let him go.
"Hippolyte, Hippolyte, what is the matter with you?" cried
Muishkin.
"Directly! There, that's enough. I'll lie down directly. I must
drink to the sun's health. I wish to--I insist upon it! Let go!"
He seized a glass from the table, broke away from the prince, and
in a moment had reached the terrace steps.
The prince made after him, but it so happened that at this moment
Evgenie Pavlovitch stretched out his hand to say good-night. The
next instant there was a general outcry, and then followed a few
moments of indescribable excitement.
Reaching the steps, Hippolyte had paused, holding the glass in
his left hand while he put his right hand into his coat pocket.
Keller insisted afterwards that he had held his right hand in his
pocket all the while, when he was speaking to the prince, and
that he had held the latter's shoulder with his left hand only.
This circumstance, Keller affirmed, had led him to feel some
suspicion from the first. However this may be, Keller ran after
Hippolyte, but he was too late.
He caught sight of something flashing in Hippolyte's right hand,
and saw that it was a pistol. He rushed at him, but at that very
instant Hippolyte raised the pistol to his temple and pulled the
trigger. There followed a sharp metallic click, but no report.
When Keller seized the would-be suicide, the latter fell forward
into his arms, probably actually believing that he was shot.
Keller had hold of the pistol now. Hippolyte was immediately
placed in a chair, while the whole company thronged around
excitedly, talking and asking each other questions. Every one of
them had heard the snap of the trigger, and yet they saw a live
and apparently unharmed man before them.
Hippolyte himself sat quite unconscious of what was going on, and
gazed around with a senseless expression.
Lebedeff and Colia came rushing up at this moment.
"What is it?" someone asked, breathlessly--"A misfire?"
"Perhaps it wasn't loaded," said several voices.
"It's loaded all right," said Keller, examining the pistol, "but--"
"What! did it miss fire?"
"There was no cap in it," Keller announced.
It would be difficult to describe the pitiable scene that now
followed. The first sensation of alarm soon gave place to
amusement; some burst out laughing loud and heartily, and seemed
to find a malicious satisfaction in the joke. Poor Hippolyte
sobbed hysterically; he wrung his hands; he approached everyone
in turn--even Ferdishenko--and took them by both hands, and swore
solemnly that he had forgotten--absolutely forgotten--
"accidentally, and not on purpose,"--to put a cap in--that he
"had ten of them, at least, in his pocket." He pulled them out
and showed them to everyone; he protested that he had not liked
to put one in beforehand for fear of an accidental explosion in
his pocket. That he had thought he would have lots of time to put
it in afterwards--when required--and, that, in the heat of the
moment, he had forgotten all about it. He threw himself upon the
prince, then on Evgenie Pavlovitch. He entreated Keller to give
him back the pistol, and he'd soon show them all that "his
honour--his honour,"--but he was "dishonoured, now, for ever!"
He fell senseless at last--and was carried into the prince's
study.
Lebedeff, now quite sobered down, sent for a doctor; and he and
his daughter, with Burdovsky and General Ivolgin, remained by the
sick man's couch.
When he was carried away unconscious, Keller stood in the middle
of the room, and made the following declaration to the company in
general, in a loud tone of voice, with emphasis upon each word.
"Gentlemen, if any one of you casts any doubt again, before me,
upon Hippolyte's good faith, or hints that the cap was forgotten
intentionally, or suggests that this unhappy boy was acting a
part before us, I beg to announce that the person so speaking
shall account to me for his words."
No one replied.
The company departed very quickly, in a mass. Ptitsin, Gania, and
Rogojin went away together.
The prince was much astonished that Evgenie Pavlovitch changed
his mind, and took his departure without the conversation he had
requested.
"Why, you wished to have a talk with me when the others left?" he
said.
"Quite so," said Evgenie, sitting down suddenly beside him, "but
I have changed my mind for the time being. I confess, I am too
disturbed, and so, I think, are you; and the matter as to which I
wished to consult you is too serious to tackle with one's mind
even a little disturbed; too serious both for myself and for you.
You see, prince, for once in my life I wish to perform an
absolutely honest action, that is, an action with no ulterior
motive; and I think I am hardly in a condition to talk of it just
at this moment, and--and--well, we'll discuss it another time.
Perhaps the matter may gain in clearness if we wait for two or
three days--just the two or three days which I must spend in
Petersburg."
Here he rose again from his chair, so that it seemed strange that
he should have thought it worth while to sit down at all.
The prince thought, too, that he looked vexed and annoyed, and
not nearly so friendly towards himself as he had been earlier in
the night.
"I suppose you will go to the sufferer's bedside now?" he added.
"Yes, I am afraid..." began the prince.
"Oh, you needn't fear! He'll live another six weeks all right.
Very likely he will recover altogether; but I strongly advise you
to pack him off tomorrow."
"I think I may have offended him by saying nothing just now. I am
afraid he may suspect that I doubted his good faith,--about
shooting himself, you know. What do you think, Evgenie
Pavlovitch?"
"Not a bit of it! You are much too good to him; you shouldn't
care a hang about what he thinks. I have heard of such things
before, but never came across, till tonight, a man who would
actually shoot himself in order to gain a vulgar notoriety, or
blow out his brains for spite, if he finds that people don't care
to pat him on the back for his sanguinary intentions. But what
astonishes me more than anything is the fellow's candid
confession of weakness. You'd better get rid of him tomorrow, in
any case.
"Do you think he will make another attempt?"
"Oh no, not he, not now! But you have to be very careful with
this sort of gentleman. Crime is too often the last resource of
these petty nonentities. This young fellow is quite capable of
cutting the throats of ten people, simply for a lark, as he told
us in his 'explanation.' I assure you those confounded words of
his will not let me sleep."
"I think you disturb yourself too much."
"What an extraordinary person you are, prince! Do you mean to say
that you doubt the fact that he is capable of murdering ten men?"
"I daren't say, one way or the other; all this is very strange--
but--"
"Well, as you like, just as you like," said Evgenie Pavlovitch,
irritably. "Only you are such a plucky fellow, take care you
don't get included among the ten victims!"
"Oh, he is much more likely not to kill anyone at all," said the
prince, gazing thoughtfully at Evgenie. The latter laughed
disagreeably.
"Well, au revoir! Did you observe that he 'willed' a copy of his
confession to Aglaya Ivanovna?"
"Yes, I did; I am thinking of it."
"In connection with 'the ten,' eh?" laughed Evgenie, as he left
the room.
An hour later, towards four o'clock, the prince went into the
park. He had endeavoured to fall asleep, but could not, owing to
the painful beating of his heart.
He had left things quiet and peaceful; the invalid was fast
asleep, and the doctor, who had been called in, had stated that
there was no special danger. Lebedeff, Colia, and Burdovsky were
lying down in the sick-room, ready to take it in turns to watch.
There was nothing to fear, therefore, at home.
But the prince's mental perturbation increased every moment. He
wandered about the park, looking absently around him, and paused
in astonishment when he suddenly found himself in the empty space
with the rows of chairs round it, near the Vauxhall. The look of
the place struck him as dreadful now: so he turned round and went
by the path which he had followed with the Epanchins on the way
to the band, until he reached the green bench which Aglaya had
pointed out for their rendezvous. He sat down on it and suddenly
burst into a loud fit of laughter, immediately followed by a
feeling of irritation. His disturbance of mind continued; he felt
that he must go away somewhere, anywhere.
Above his head some little bird sang out, of a sudden; he began
to peer about for it among the leaves. Suddenly the bird darted
out of the tree and away, and instantly he thought of the "fly
buzzing about in the sun's rays" that Hippolyte had talked of;
how that it knew its place and was a participator in the
universal life, while he alone was an "outcast." This picture had
impressed him at the time, and he meditated upon it now. An old,
forgotten memory awoke in his brain, and suddenly burst into
clearness and light. It was a recollection of Switzerland, during
the first year of his cure, the very first months. At that time
he had been pretty nearly an idiot still; he could not speak
properly, and had difficulty in understanding when others spoke
to him. He climbed the mountain-side, one sunny morning, and
wandered long and aimlessly with a certain thought in his brain,
which would not become clear. Above him was the blazing sky,
below, the lake; all around was the horizon, clear and infinite.
He looked out upon this, long and anxiously. He remembered how he
had stretched out his arms towards the beautiful, boundless blue
of the horizon, and wept, and wept. What had so tormented him was
the idea that he was a stranger to all this, that he was outside
this glorious festival.
What was this universe? What was this grand, eternal pageant to
which he had yearned from his childhood up, and in which he could
never take part? Every morning the same magnificent sun; every
morning the same rainbow in the waterfall; every evening the same
glow on the snow-mountains.
Every little fly that buzzed in the sun's rays was a singer in
the universal chorus, "knew its place, and was happy in it.
"Every blade of grass grew and was happy. Everything knew its
path and loved it, went forth with a song and returned with a
song; only he knew nothing, understood nothing, neither men nor
words, nor any of nature's voices; he was a stranger and an
outcast.
Oh, he could not then speak these words, or express all he felt!
He had been tormented dumbly; but now it appeared to him that he
must have said these very words--even then--and that Hippolyte
must have taken his picture of the little fly from his tears and
words of that time.
He was sure of it, and his heart beat excitedly at the thought,
he knew not why.
He fell asleep on the bench; but his mental disquiet continued
through his slumbers.
Just before he dozed off, the idea of Hippolyte murdering ten men
flitted through his brain, and he smiled at the absurdity of such
a thought.
Around him all was quiet; only the flutter and whisper of the
leaves broke the silence, but broke it only to cause it to appear
yet more deep and still.
He dreamed many dreams as he sat there, and all were full of
disquiet, so that he shuddered every moment.
At length a woman seemed to approach him. He knew her, oh! he
knew her only too well. He could always name her and recognize her
anywhere; but, strange, she seemed to have quite a different face
from hers, as he had known it, and he felt a tormenting desire to
be able to say she was not the same woman. In the face before him
there was such dreadful remorse and horror that he thought she
must be a criminal, that she must have just committed some awful
crime.
Tears were trembling on her white cheek. She beckoned him, but
placed her finger on her lip as though to warn him that he must
follow her very quietly. His heart froze within him. He wouldn't,
he COULDN'T confess her to be a criminal, and yet he felt that
something dreadful would happen the next moment, something which
would blast his whole life.
She seemed to wish to show him something, not far off, in the
park.
He rose from his seat in order to follow her, when a bright,
clear peal of laughter rang out by his side. He felt somebody's
hand suddenly in his own, seized it, pressed it hard, and awoke.
Before him stood Aglaya, laughing aloud.
VIII.
SHE laughed, but she was rather angry too.
"He's asleep! You were asleep," she said, with contemptuous
surprise.
"Is it really you?" muttered the prince, not quite himself as
yet, and recognizing her with a start of amazement. "Oh yes, of
course," he added, "this is our rendezvous. I fell asleep here."
"So I saw."
"Did no one awake me besides yourself? Was there no one else
here? I thought there was another woman."
"There was another woman here?"
At last he was wide awake.
"It was a dream, of course," he said, musingly. "Strange that I
should have a dream like that at such a moment. Sit down--"
He took her hand and seated her on the bench; then sat down
beside her and reflected.
Aglaya did not begin the conversation, but contented herself with
watching her companion intently.
He looked back at her, but at times it was clear that he did not
see her and was not thinking of her.
Aglaya began to flush up.
"Oh yes!" cried the prince, starting. "Hippolyte's suicide--"
"What? At your house?" she asked, but without much surprise. "He
was alive yesterday evening, wasn't he? How could you sleep here
after that?" she cried, growing suddenly animated.
"Oh, but he didn't kill himself; the pistol didn't go off."
Aglaya insisted on hearing the whole story. She hurried the
prince along, but interrupted him with all sorts of questions,
nearly all of which were irrelevant. Among other things, she
seemed greatly interested in every word that Evgenie Pavlovitch
had said, and made the prince repeat that part of the story over
and over again.
"Well, that'll do; we must be quick," she concluded, after
hearing all. "We have only an hour here, till eight; I must be
home by then without fail, so that they may not find out that I
came and sat here with you; but I've come on business. I have a
great deal to say to you. But you have bowled me over
considerably with your news. As to Hippolyte, I think his pistol
was bound not to go off; it was more consistent with the whole
affair. Are you sure he really wished to blow his brains out, and
that there was no humbug about the matter?"
"No humbug at all."
"Very likely. So he wrote that you were to bring me a copy of his
confession, did he? Why didn't you bring it?"
"Why, he didn't die! I'll ask him for it, if you like."
"Bring it by all means; you needn't ask him. He will be
delighted, you may be sure; for, in all probability, he shot at
himself simply in order that I might read his confession. Don't
laugh at what I say, please, Lef Nicolaievitch, because it may
very well be the case."
"I'm not laughing. I am convinced, myself, that that may have
been partly the reason.
"You are convinced? You don't really mean to say you think that
honestly?" asked Aglaya, extremely surprised.
She put her questions very quickly and talked fast, every now and
then forgetting what she had begun to say, and not finishing her
sentence. She seemed to be impatient to warn the prince about
something or other. She was in a state of unusual excitement, and
though she put on a brave and even defiant air, she seemed to be
rather alarmed. She was dressed very simply, but this suited her
well. She continually trembled and blushed, and she sat on the
very edge of the seat.
The fact that the prince confirmed her idea, about Hippolyte
shooting himself that she might read his confession, surprised
her greatly.
"Of course," added the prince, "he wished us all to applaud his
conduct--besides yourself."
"How do you mean--applaud?"
"Well--how am I to explain? He was very anxious that we should
all come around him, and say we were so sorry for him, and that
we loved him very much, and all that; and that we hoped he
wouldn't kill himself, but remain alive. Very likely he thought
more of you than the rest of us, because he mentioned you at such
a moment, though perhaps he did not know himself that he had you
in his mind's eye."
"I don't understand you. How could he have me in view, and not be
aware of it himself? And yet, I don't know--perhaps I do. Do you
know I have intended to poison myself at least thirty times--ever
since I was thirteen or so--and to write to my parents before I
did it? I used to think how nice it would be to lie in my coffin,
and have them all weeping over me and saying it was all their
fault for being so cruel, and all that--what are you smiling at?"
she added, knitting her brow. "What do YOU think of when you go
mooning about alone? I suppose you imagine yourself a field-
marshal, and think you have conquered Napoleon?"
"Well, I really have thought something of the sort now and then,
especially when just dozing off," laughed the prince. "Only it is
the Austrians whom I conquer--not Napoleon."
"I don't wish to joke with you, Lef Nicolaievitch. I shall see
Hippolyte myself. Tell him so. As for you, I think you are
behaving very badly, because it is not right to judge a man's
soul as you are judging Hippolyte's. You have no gentleness, but
only justice--so you are unjust."
The prince reflected.
"I think you are unfair towards me," he said. "There is nothing
wrong in the thoughts I ascribe to Hippolyte; they are only
natural. But of course I don't know for certain what he thought.
Perhaps he thought nothing, but simply longed to see human faces
once more, and to hear human praise and feel human affection. Who
knows? Only it all came out wrong, somehow. Some people have
luck, and everything comes out right with them; others have none,
and never a thing turns out fortunately."
"I suppose you have felt that in your own case," said Aglaya.
"Yes, I have," replied the prince, quite unsuspicious of any
irony in the remark.
"H'm--well, at all events, I shouldn't have fallen asleep here,
in your place. It wasn't nice of you, that. I suppose you fall
asleep wherever you sit down?"
"But I didn't sleep a wink all night. I walked and walked about,
and went to where the music was--"
"What music?"
"Where they played last night. Then I found this bench and sat
down, and thought and thought--and at last I fell fast asleep."
"Oh, is that it? That makes a difference, perhaps. What did you
go to the bandstand for?"
"I don't know; I---"
"Very well--afterwards. You are always interrupting me. What
woman was it you were dreaming about?"
"It was--about--you saw her--"
"Quite so; I understand. I understand quite well. You are very--
Well, how did she appear to you? What did she look like? No, I
don't want to know anything about her," said Aglaya, angrily;
"don't interrupt me--"
She paused a moment as though getting breath, or trying to master
her feeling of annoyance.
"Look here; this is what I called you here for. I wish to make
you a--to ask you to be my friend. What do you stare at me like
that for?" she added, almost angrily.
The prince certainly had darted a rather piercing look at her,
and now observed that she had begun to blush violently. At such
moments, the more Aglaya blushed, the angrier she grew with
herself; and this was clearly expressed in her eyes, which
flashed like fire. As a rule, she vented her wrath on her
unfortunate companion, be it who it might. She was very conscious
of her own shyness, and was not nearly so talkative as her
sisters for this reason--in fact, at times she was much too
quiet. When, therefore, she was bound to talk, especially at such
delicate moments as this, she invariably did so with an air of
haughty defiance. She always knew beforehand when she was going
to blush, long before the blush came.
"Perhaps you do not wish to accept my proposition?" she asked,
gazing haughtily at the prince.
"Oh yes, I do; but it is so unnecessary. I mean, I did not think
you need make such a proposition," said the prince, looking
confused.
"What did you suppose, then? Why did you think I invited you out
here? I suppose you think me a 'little fool,' as they all call me
at home?"
"I didn't know they called you a fool. I certainly don't think
you one."
"You don't think me one! Oh, dear me!--that's very clever of you;
you put it so neatly, too."
"In my opinion, you are far from a fool sometimes--in fact, you
are very intelligent. You said a very clever thing just now about
my being unjust because I had ONLY justice. I shall remember
that, and think about it."
Aglaya blushed with pleasure. All these changes in her expression
came about so naturally and so rapidly--they delighted the
prince; he watched her, and laughed.
"Listen," she began again; "I have long waited to tell you all
this, ever since the time when you sent me that letter--even
before that. Half of what I have to say you heard yesterday. I
consider you the most honest and upright of men--more honest and
upright than any other man; and if anybody says that your mind
is--is sometimes affected, you know--it is unfair. I always say
so and uphold it, because even if your surface mind be a little
affected (of course you will not feel angry with me for talking
so--I am speaking from a higher point of view) yet your real mind
is far better than all theirs put together. Such a mind as they
have never even DREAMED of; because really, there are TWO minds--
the kind that matters, and the kind that doesn't matter. Isn't it
so?"
"May be! may be so!" said the prince, faintly; his heart was
beating painfully.
"I knew you would not misunderstand me," she said, triumphantly.
"Prince S. and Evgenie Pavlovitch and Alexandra don't understand
anything about these two kinds of mind, but, just fancy, mamma
does!"
"You are very like Lizabetha Prokofievna."
"What! surely not?" said Aglaya.
"Yes, you are, indeed."
"Thank you; I am glad to be like mamma," she said, thoughtfully.
"You respect her very much, don't you?" she added, quite
unconscious of the naiveness of the question.
"VERY much; and I am so glad that you have realized the fact."
"I am very glad, too, because she is often laughed at by people.
But listen to the chief point. I have long thought over the
matter, and at last I have chosen you. I don't wish people to
laugh at me; I don't wish people to think me a 'little fool.' I
don't want to be chaffed. I felt all this of a sudden, and I
refused Evgenie Pavlovitch flatly, because I am not going to be
forever thrown at people's heads to be married. I want--I want--
well, I'll tell you, I wish to run away from home, and I have
chosen you to help me."
"Run away from home?" cried the prince.
"Yes--yes--yes! Run away from home!" she repeated, in a transport
of rage. "I won't, I won't be made to blush every minute by them
all! I don't want to blush before Prince S. or Evgenie
Pavlovitch, or anyone, and therefore I have chosen you. I shall
tell you everything, EVERYTHING, even the most important things
of all, whenever I like, and you are to hide nothing from me on
your side. I want to speak to at least one person, as I would to
myself. They have suddenly begun to say that I am waiting for
you, and in love with you. They began this before you arrived
here, and so I didn't show them the letter, and now they all say
it, every one of them. I want to be brave, and be afraid of
nobody. I don't want to go to their balls and things--I want to
do good. I have long desired to run away, for I have been kept
shut up for twenty years, and they are always trying to marry me
off. I wanted to run away when I was fourteen years old--I was a
little fool then, I know--but now I have worked it all out, and I
have waited for you to tell me about foreign countries. I have
never seen a single Gothic cathedral. I must go to Rome; I must
see all the museums; I must study in Paris. All this last year I
have been preparing and reading forbidden books. Alexandra and
Adelaida are allowed to read anything they like, but I mayn't. I
don't want to quarrel with my sisters, but I told my parents long
ago that I wish to change my social position. I have decided to
take up teaching, and I count on you because you said you loved
children. Can we go in for education together--if not at once,
then afterwards? We could do good together. I won't be a
general's daughter any more! Tell me, are you a very learned
man?"
"Oh no; not at all."
"Oh-h-h! I'm sorry for that. I thought you were. I wonder why I
always thought so--but at all events you'll help me, won't you?
Because I've chosen you, you know."
"Aglaya Ivanovna, it's absurd."
But I will, I WILL run away!" she cried--and her eyes flashed
again with anger--"and if you don't agree I shall go and marry
Gavrila Ardalionovitch! I won't be considered a horrible girl,
and accused of goodness knows what."
"Are you out of your mind?" cried the prince, almost starting
from his seat. "What do they accuse you of? Who accuses you?"
"At home, everybody, mother, my sisters, Prince S., even that
detestable Colia! If they don't say it, they think it. I told
them all so to their faces. I told mother and father and
everybody. Mamma was ill all the day after it, and next day
father and Alexandra told me that I didn't understand what
nonsense I was talking. I informed them that they little knew me--
I was not a small child--I understood every word in the language--
that I had read a couple of Paul de Kok's novels two years since
on purpose, so as to know all about everything. No sooner did
mamma hear me say this than she nearly fainted!"
A strange thought passed through the prince's brain; he gazed
intently at Aglaya and smiled.
He could not believe that this was the same haughty young girl
who had once so proudly shown him Gania's letter. He could not
understand how that proud and austere beauty could show herself
to be such an utter child--a child who probably did not even now
understand some words.
"Have you always lived at home, Aglaya Ivanovna?" he asked. "I
mean, have you never been to school, or college, or anything?"
"No--never--nowhere! I've been at home all my life, corked up in
a bottle; and they expect me to be married straight out of it.
What are you laughing at again? I observe that you, too, have
taken to laughing at me, and range yourself on their side against
me," she added, frowning angrily. "Don't irritate me--I'm bad
enough without that--I don't know what I am doing sometimes. I am
persuaded that you came here today in the full belief that I am
in love with you, and that I arranged this meeting because of
that," she cried, with annoyance.
"I admit I was afraid that that was the case, yesterday,"
blundered the prince (he was rather confused), "but today I am
quite convinced that "
"How?" cried Aglaya--and her lower lip trembled violently. "You
were AFRAID that I--you dared to think that I--good gracious! you
suspected, perhaps, that I sent for you to come here in order to
catch you in a trap, so that they should find us here together,
and make you marry me--"
"Aglaya Ivanovna, aren't you ashamed of saying such a thing? How
could such a horrible idea enter your sweet, innocent heart? I am
certain you don't believe a word of what you say, and probably
you don't even know what you are talking about."
Aglaya sat with her eyes on the ground; she seemed to have
alarmed even herself by what she had said.
"No, I'm not; I'm not a bit ashamed!" she murmured. "And how do
you know my heart is innocent? And how dared you send me a love--
letter that time?"
"LOVE-LETTER? My letter a love-letter? That letter was the most
respectful of letters; it went straight from my heart, at what
was perhaps the most painful moment of my life! I thought of you
at the time as a kind of light. I--"
"Well, very well, very well!" she said, but quite in a different
tone. She was remorseful now, and bent forward to touch his
shoulder, though still trying not to look him in the face, as if
the more persuasively to beg him not to be angry with her. "Very
well," she continued, looking thoroughly ashamed of herself, "I
feel that I said a very foolish thing. I only did it just to try
you. Take it as unsaid, and if I offended you, forgive me. Don't
look straight at me like that, please; turn your head away. You
called it a 'horrible idea'; I only said it to shock you. Very
often I am myself afraid of saying what I intend to say, and out
it comes all the same. You have just told me that you wrote that
letter at the most painful moment of your life. I know what
moment that was!" she added softly, looking at the ground again.
"Oh, if you could know all!"
"I DO know all!" she cried, with another burst of indignation.
"You were living in the same house as that horrible woman with
whom you ran away." She did not blush as she said this; on the
contrary, she grew pale, and started from her seat, apparently
oblivious of what she did, and immediately sat down again. Her
lip continued to tremble for a long time.
There was silence for a moment. The prince was taken aback by the
suddenness of this last reply, and did not know to what he should
attribute it.
"I don't love you a bit!" she said suddenly, just as though the
words had exploded from her mouth.
The prince did not answer, and there was silence again. "I love
Gavrila Ardalionovitch," she said, quickly; but hardly audibly,
and with her head bent lower than ever.
"That is NOT true," said the prince, in an equally low voice.
"What! I tell stories, do I? It is true! I gave him my promise a
couple of days ago on this very seat."
The prince was startled, and reflected for a moment.
"It is not true," he repeated, decidedly; "you have just invented
it!"
"You are wonderfully polite. You know he is greatly improved. He
loves me better than his life. He let his hand burn before my
very eyes in order to prove to me that he loved me better than
his life!"
"He burned his hand!"
"Yes, believe it or not! It's all the same to me!"
The prince sat silent once more. Aglaya did not seem to be
joking; she was too angry for that.
"What! he brought a candle with him to this place? That is, if
the episode happened here; otherwise I can't "
"Yes, a candle! What's there improbable about that?"
"A whole one, and in a candlestick?"
"Yes--no-half a candle--an end, you know--no, it was a whole
candle; it's all the same. Be quiet, can't you! He brought a box
of matches too, if you like, and then lighted the candle and held
his finger in it for half an hour and more!--There! Can't that
be?"
"I saw him yesterday, and his fingers were all right!"
Aglaya suddenly burst out laughing, as simply as a child.
"Do you know why I have just told you these lies?" She appealed
to the prince, of a sudden, with the most childlike candour, and
with the laugh still trembling on her lips. "Because when one
tells a lie, if one insists on something unusual and eccentric--
something too 'out of the way” for anything, you know--the more
impossible the thing is, the more plausible does the lie sound.
I've noticed this. But I managed it badly; I didn't know how to
work it." She suddenly frowned again at this point as though at
some sudden unpleasant recollection.
"If"--she began, looking seriously and even sadly at him-- "if
when I read you all that about the 'poor knight,' I wished to-to
praise you for one thing--I also wished to show you that I knew
all--and did not approve of your conduct."
"You are very unfair to me, and to that unfortunate woman of whom
you spoke just now in such dreadful terms, Aglaya."
"Because I know all, all--and that is why I speak so. I know very
well how you--half a year since--offered her your hand before
everybody. Don't interrupt me. You see, I am merely stating facts
without any comment upon them. After that she ran away with
Rogojin. Then you lived with her at some village or town, and she
ran away from you." (Aglaya blushed dreadfully.) "Then she
returned to Rogojin again, who loves her like a madman. Then you
--like a wise man as you are--came back here after her as soon as
ever you heard that she had returned to Petersburg. Yesterday
evening you sprang forward to protect her, and just now you
dreamed about her. You see, I know all. You did come back here
for her, for her--now didn't you?"
"Yes--for her!" said the prince softly and sadly, and bending his
head down, quite unconscious of the fact that Aglaya was gazing
at him with eyes which burned like live coals. "I came to find
out something--I don't believe in her future happiness as
Rogojin's wife, although--in a word, I did not know how to help
her or what to do for her--but I came, on the chance."
He glanced at Aglaya, who was listening with a look of hatred on
her face.
"If you came without knowing why, I suppose you love her very
much indeed!" she said at last.
"No," said the prince, "no, I do not love her. Oh! if you only
knew with what horror I recall the time I spent with her!"
A shudder seemed to sweep over his whole body at the
recollection.
"Tell me about it," said Aglaya.
"There is nothing which you might not hear. Why I should wish to
tell you, and only you, this experience of mine, I really cannot
say; perhaps it really is because I love you very much. This
unhappy woman is persuaded that she is the most hopeless, fallen
creature in the world. Oh, do not condemn her! Do not cast stones
at her! She has suffered too much already in the consciousness of
her own undeserved shame.
"And she is not guilty--oh God!--Every moment she bemoans and
bewails herself, and cries out that she does not admit any guilt,
that she is the victim of circumstances--the victim of a wicked
libertine.
"But whatever she may say, remember that she does not believe it
herself,--remember that she will believe nothing but that she is
a guilty creature.
"When I tried to rid her soul of this gloomy fallacy, she
suffered so terribly that my heart will never be quite at peace
so long as I can remember that dreadful time!--Do you know why
she left me? Simply to prove to me what is not true--that she is
base. But the worst of it is, she did not realize herself that
that was all she wanted to prove by her departure! She went away
in response to some inner prompting to do something disgraceful,
in order that she might say to herself--'There--you've done a new
act of shame--you degraded creature!'
"Oh, Aglaya--perhaps you cannot understand all this. Try to
realize that in the perpetual admission of guilt she probably
finds some dreadful unnatural satisfaction--as though she were
revenging herself upon someone.
"Now and then I was able to persuade her almost to see light
around her again; but she would soon fall, once more, into her
old tormenting delusions, and would go so far as to reproach me
for placing myself on a pedestal above her (I never had an idea
of such a thing!), and informed me, in reply to my proposal of
marriage, that she 'did not want condescending sympathy or help
from anybody.' You saw her last night. You don't suppose she can
be happy among such people as those--you cannot suppose that such
society is fit for her? You have no idea how well-educated she
is, and what an intellect she has! She astonished me sometimes."
"And you preached her sermons there, did you?"
"Oh no," continued the prince thoughtfully, not noticing Aglaya's
mocking tone, "I was almost always silent there. I often wished
to speak, but I really did not know what to say. In some cases it
is best to say nothing, I think. I loved her, yes, I loved her
very much indeed; but afterwards--afterwards she guessed all."
"What did she guess?"
"That I only PITIED her--and--and loved her no longer!"
"How do you know that? How do you know that she is not really in
love with that--that rich cad--the man she eloped with?"
"Oh no! I know she only laughs at him; she has made a fool of him
all along."
"Has she never laughed at you?"
"No--in anger, perhaps. Oh yes! she reproached me dreadfully in
anger; and suffered herself, too! But afterwards--oh! don't
remind me--don't remind me of that!"
He hid his face in his hands.
"Are you aware that she writes to me almost every day?"
"So that is true, is it?" cried the prince, greatly agitated.
"I had heard a report of it, but would not believe it."
"Whom did you hear it from?" asked Aglaya, alarmed. "Rogojin said
something about it yesterday, but nothing definite."
"Yesterday! Morning or evening? Before the music or after?"
"After--it was about twelve o'clock."
"Ah! Well, if it was Rogojin--but do you know what she writes to
me about?"
"I should not be surprised by anything. She is mad!"
"There are the letters." (Aglaya took three letters out of her
pocket and threw them down before the prince.) "For a whole week
she has been entreating and worrying and persuading me to marry
you. She--well, she is clever, though she may be mad--much
cleverer than I am, as you say. Well, she writes that she is in
love with me herself, and tries to see me every day, if only from
a distance. She writes that you love me, and that she has long
known it and seen it, and that you and she talked about me--
there. She wishes to see you happy, and she says that she is
certain only I can ensure you the happiness you deserve. She
writes such strange, wild letters--I haven't shown them to
anyone. Now, do you know what all this means? Can you guess
anything?"
"It is madness--it is merely another proof of her insanity!" said
the prince, and his lips trembled.
"You are crying, aren't you?"
"No, Aglaya. No, I'm not crying." The prince looked at her.
"Well, what am I to do? What do you advise me? I cannot go on
receiving these letters, you know."
"Oh, let her alone, I entreat you!" cried the prince. What can
you do in this dark, gloomy mystery? Let her alone, and I'll use
all my power to prevent her writing you any more letters."
"If so, you are a heartless man!" cried Aglaya. As if you can't
see that it is not myself she loves, but you, you, and only you!
Surely you have not remarked everything else in her, and only not
THIS? Do you know what these letters mean? They mean jealousy,
sir--nothing but pure jealousy! She--do you think she will ever
really marry this Rogojin, as she says here she will? She would
take her own life the day after you and I were married."
The prince shuddered; his heart seemed to freeze within him. He
gazed at Aglaya in wonderment; it was difficult for him to
realize that this child was also a woman.
"God knows, Aglaya, that to restore her peace of mind and make
her happy I would willingly give up my life. But I cannot love
her, and she knows that."
"Oh, make a sacrifice of yourself! That sort of thing becomes you
well, you know. Why not do it? And don't call me 'Aglaya'; you
have done it several times lately. You are bound, it is your DUTY
to 'raise' her; you must go off somewhere again to soothe and
pacify her. Why, you love her, you know!"
"I cannot sacrifice myself so, though I admit I did wish to do so
once. Who knows, perhaps I still wish to! But I know for CERTAIN,
that if she married me it would be her ruin; I know this and
therefore I leave her alone. I ought to go to see her today; now
I shall probably not go. She is proud, she would never forgive me
the nature of the love I bear her, and we should both be ruined.
This may be unnatural, I don't know; but everything seems
unnatural. You say she loves me, as if this were LOVE! As if she
could love ME, after what I have been through! No, no, it is not
love."
"How pale you have grown!" cried Aglaya in alarm.
Oh, it's nothing. I haven't slept, that's all, and I'm rather
tired. I--we certainly did talk about you, Aglaya."
"Oh, indeed, it is true then! YOU COULD ACTUALLY TALK ABOUT ME
WITH HER; and--and how could you have been fond of me when you
had only seen me once?"
"I don't know. Perhaps it was that I seemed to come upon light in
the midst of my gloom. I told you the truth when I said I did not
know why I thought of you before all others. Of course it was all
a sort of dream, a dream amidst the horrors of reality.
Afterwards I began to work. I did not intend to come back here
for two or three years--"
"Then you came for her sake?" Aglaya's voice trembled.
"Yes, I came for her sake."
There was a moment or two of gloomy silence. Aglaya rose from her
seat.
"If you say," she began in shaky tones, "if you say that this
woman of yours is mad--at all events I have nothing to do with
her insane fancies. Kindly take these three letters, Lef
Nicolaievitch, and throw them back to her, from me. And if she
dares," cried Aglaya suddenly, much louder than before, "if she
dares so much as write me one word again, tell her I shall tell
my father, and that she shall be taken to a lunatic asylum."
The prince jumped up in alarm at Aglaya's sudden wrath, and a
mist seemed to come before his eyes.
"You cannot really feel like that! You don't mean what you say.
It is not true," he murmured.
"It IS true, it IS true," cried Aglaya, almost beside herself
with rage.
"What's true? What's all this? What's true?" said an alarmed
voice just beside them.
Before them stood Lizabetha Prokofievna.
"Why, it's true that I am going to marry Gavrila Ardalionovitch,
that I love him and intend to elope with him tomorrow," cried
Aglaya, turning upon her mother. "Do you hear? Is your curiosity
satisfied? Are you pleased with what you have heard?"
Aglaya rushed away homewards with these words.
"H'm! well, YOU are not going away just yet, my friend, at all
events," said Lizabetha, stopping the prince. "Kindly step home
with me, and let me have a little explanation of the mystery.
Nice goings on, these! I haven't slept a wink all night as it
is."
The prince followed her.
IX.
ARRIVED at her house, Lizabetha Prokofievna paused in the first
room. She could go no farther, and subsided on to a couch quite
exhausted; too feeble to remember so much as to ask the prince to
take a seat. This was a large reception-room, full of flowers,
and with a glass door leading into the garden.
Alexandra and Adelaida came in almost immediately, and looked
inquiringly at the prince and their mother.
The girls generally rose at about nine in the morning in the
country; Aglaya, of late, had been in the habit of getting up
rather earlier and having a walk in the garden, but not at seven
o'clock; about eight or a little later was her usual time.
Lizabetha Prokofievna, who really had not slept all night, rose
at about eight on purpose to meet Aglaya in the garden and walk
with her; but she could not find her either in the garden or in
her own room.
This agitated the old lady considerably; and she awoke her other
daughters. Next, she learned from the maid that Aglaya had gone
into the park before seven o'clock. The sisters made a joke of
Aglaya's last freak, and told their mother that if she went into
the park to look for her, Aglaya would probably be very angry
with her, and that she was pretty sure to be sitting reading on
the green bench that she had talked of two or three days since,
and about which she had nearly quarrelled with Prince S., who did
not see anything particularly lovely in it.
Arrived at the rendezvous of the prince and her daughter, and
hearing the strange words of the latter, Lizabetha Prokofievna
had been dreadfully alarmed, for many reasons. However, now that
she had dragged the prince home with her, she began to feel a
little frightened at what she had undertaken. Why should not
Aglaya meet the prince in the park and have a talk with him, even
if such a meeting should be by appointment?
"Don't suppose, prince," she began, bracing herself up for the
effort, "don't suppose that I have brought you here to ask
questions. After last night, I assure you, I am not so
exceedingly anxious to see you at all; I could have postponed the
pleasure for a long while." She paused.
"But at the same time you would be very glad to know how I
happened to meet Aglaya Ivanovna this morning?" The prince
finished her speech for her with the utmost composure.
"Well, what then? Supposing I should like to know?" cried
Lizabetha Prokofievna, blushing. "I'm sure I am not afraid of
plain speaking. I'm not offending anyone, and I never wish to,
and--"
"Pardon me, it is no offence to wish to know this; you are her
mother. We met at the green bench this morning, punctually at
seven o'clock,--according to an agreement made by Aglaya Ivanovna
with myself yesterday. She said that she wished to see me and
speak to me about something important. We met and conversed for
an hour about matters concerning Aglaya Ivanovna herself, and
that's all."
"Of course it is all, my friend. I don't doubt you for a moment,"
said Lizabetha Prokofievna with dignity.
"Well done, prince, capital!" cried Aglaya, who entered the room
at this moment. "Thank you for assuming that I would not demean
myself with lies. Come, is that enough, mamma, or do you intend
to put any more questions?"
"You know I have never needed to blush before you, up to this
day, though perhaps you would have been glad enough to make me,"
said Lizabetha Prokofievna,--with majesty. "Good-bye, prince;
forgive me for bothering you. I trust you will rest assured of my
unalterable esteem for you."
The prince made his bows and retired at once. Alexandra and
Adelaida smiled and whispered to each other, while Lizabetha
Prokofievna glared severely at them. "We are only laughing at the
prince's beautiful bows, mamma," said Adelaida. "Sometimes he
bows just like a meal-sack, but to-day he was like--like Evgenie
Pavlovitch!"
"It is the HEART which is the best teacher of refinement and
dignity, not the dancing-master," said her mother, sententiously,
and departed upstairs to her own room, not so much as glancing at
Aglaya.
When the prince reached home, about nine o'clock, he found Vera
Lebedeff and the maid on the verandah. They were both busy trying
to tidy up the place after last night's disorderly party.
"Thank goodness, we've just managed to finish it before you came
in!" said Vera, joyfully.
"Good-morning! My head whirls so; I didn't sleep all night. I
should like to have a nap now."
"Here, on the verandah? Very well, I'll tell them all not to come
and wake you. Papa has gone out somewhere."
The servant left the room. Vera was about to follow her, but
returned and approached the prince with a preoccupied air.
"Prince!" she said, "have pity on that poor boy; don't turn him
out today."
"Not for the world; he shall do just as he likes."
"He won't do any harm now; and--and don't be too severe with
him,"
"Oh dear no! Why--"
"And--and you won't LAUGH at him? That's the chief thing."
"Oh no! Never."
"How foolish I am to speak of such things to a man like you,"
said Vera, blushing. "Though you DO look tired," she added, half
turning away," your eyes are so splendid at this moment--so full
of happiness."
"Really?" asked the prince, gleefully, and he laughed in delight.
But Vera, simple-minded little girl that she was (just like a
boy, in fact), here became dreadfully confused, of a sudden, and
ran hastily out of the room, laughing and blushing.
"What a dear little thing she is," thought the prince, and
immediately forgot all about her.
He walked to the far end of the verandah, where the sofa stood,
with a table in front of it. Here he sat down and covered his
face with his hands, and so remained for ten minutes. Suddenly he
put his hand in his coat-pocket and hurriedly produced three
letters.
But the door opened again, and out came Colia.
The prince actually felt glad that he had been interrupted,--and
might return the letters to his pocket. He was glad of the
respite.
"Well," said Colia, plunging in medias res, as he always did,
"here's a go! What do you think of Hippolyte now? Don't respect
him any longer, eh?"
"Why not? But look here, Colia, I'm tired; besides, the subject
is too melancholy to begin upon again. How is he, though?"
"Asleep--he'll sleep for a couple of hours yet. I quite
understand--you haven't slept--you walked about the park, I know.
Agitation--excitement--all that sort of thing--quite natural,
too!"
"How do you know I walked in the park and didn't sleep at home?"
"Vera just told me. She tried to persuade me not to come, but I
couldn't help myself, just for one minute. I have been having my
turn at the bedside for the last two hours; Kostia Lebedeff is
there now. Burdovsky has gone. Now, lie down, prince, make
yourself comfortable, and sleep well! I'm awfully impressed, you
know."
"Naturally, all this--"
"No, no, I mean with the 'explanation,' especially that part of
it where he talks about Providence and a future life. There is a
gigantic thought there."
The prince gazed affectionately at Colia, who, of course, had
come in solely for the purpose of talking about this "gigantic
thought."
"But it is not any one particular thought, only; it is the
general circumstances of the case. If Voltaire had written this
now, or Rousseau, I should have just read it and thought it
remarkable, but should not have been so IMPRESSED by it. But a
man who knows for certain that he has but ten minutes to live and
can talk like that--why--it's--it's PRIDE, that is! It is really
a most extraordinary, exalted assertion of personal dignity,
it's--it's DEFIANT! What a GIGANTIC strength of will, eh? And to
accuse a fellow like that of not putting in the cap on purpose;
it's base and mean! You know he deceived us last night, the
cunning rascal. I never packed his bag for him, and I never saw
his pistol. He packed it himself. But he put me off my guard like
that, you see. Vera says you are going to let him stay on; I
swear there's no danger, especially as we are always with him."
"Who was by him at night?"
"I, and Burdovsky, and Kostia Lebedeff. Keller stayed a little
while, and then went over to Lebedeff's to sleep. Ferdishenko
slept at Lebedeff's, too; but he went away at seven o'clock. My
father is always at Lebedeff's; but he has gone out just now. I
dare say Lebedeff will be coming in here directly; he has been
looking for you; I don't know what he wants. Shall we let him in
or not, if you are asleep? I'm going to have a nap, too. By-the-
by, such a curious thing happened. Burdovsky woke me at seven,
and I met my father just outside the room, so drunk, he didn't
even know me. He stood before me like a log, and when he
recovered himself, asked hurriedly how Hippolyte was. 'Yes,' he
said, when I told him, 'that's all very well, but I REALLY came
to warn you that you must be very careful what you say before
Ferdishenko.' Do you follow me, prince?"
"Yes. Is it really so? However, it's all the same to us, of
course."
"Of course it is; we are not a secret society; and that being the
case, it is all the more curious that the general should have
been on his way to wake me up in order to tell me this."
"Ferdishenko has gone, you say?"
"Yes, he went at seven o'clock. He came into the room on his way
out; I was watching just then. He said he was going to spend 'the
rest of the night' at Wilkin's; there's a tipsy fellow, a friend
of his, of that name. Well, I'm off. Oh, here's Lebedeff himself!
The prince wants to go to sleep, Lukian Timofeyovitch, so you may
just go away again."
"One moment, my dear prince, just one. I must absolutely speak to
you about something which is most grave," said Lebedeff,
mysteriously and solemnly, entering the room with a bow and
looking extremely important. He had but just returned, and
carried his hat in his hand. He looked preoccupied and most
unusually dignified.
The prince begged him to take a chair.
"I hear you have called twice; I suppose you are still worried
about yesterday's affair."
"What, about that boy, you mean? Oh dear no, yesterday my ideas
were a little--well--mixed. Today, I assure you, I shall not
oppose in the slightest degree any suggestions it may please you
to make."
"What's up with you this morning, Lebedeff? You look so important
and dignified, and you choose your words so carefully," said the
prince, smiling.
"Nicolai Ardalionovitch!" said Lebedeff, in a most amiable tone
of voice, addressing the boy. "As I have a communication to make
to the prince which concerns only myself--"
"Of course, of course, not my affair. All right," said Colia, and
away he went.
"I love that boy for his perception," said Lebedeff, looking
after him. "My dear prince," he continued, "I have had a terrible
misfortune, either last night or early this morning. I cannot
tell the exact time."
"What is it?"
"I have lost four hundred roubles out of my side pocket! They're
gone!" said Lebedeff, with a sour smile.
"You've lost four hundred roubles? Oh! I'm sorry for that."
"Yes, it is serious for a poor man who lives by his toil."
"Of course, of course! How was it?"
"Oh, the wine is to blame, of course. I confess to you, prince,
as I would to Providence itself. Yesterday I received four
hundred roubles from a debtor at about five in the afternoon, and
came down here by train. I had my purse in my pocket. When I
changed, I put the money into the pocket of my plain clothes,
intending to keep it by me, as I expected to have an applicant
for it in the evening."
"It's true then, Lebedeff, that you advertise to lend money on
gold or silver articles?"
"Yes, through an agent. My own name doesn't appear. I have a
large family, you see, and at a small percentage--"
"Quite so, quite so. I only asked for information--excuse the
question. Go on."
"Well, meanwhile that sick boy was brought here, and those guests
came in, and we had tea, and--well, we made merry--to my ruin!
Hearing of your birthday afterwards, and excited with the
circumstances of the evening, I ran upstairs and changed my plain
clothes once more for my uniform [Civil Service clerks in Russia
wear uniform.]--you must have noticed I had my uniform on all the
evening? Well, I forgot the money in the pocket of my old coat--
you know when God will ruin a man he first of all bereaves him of
his senses--and it was only this morning at half-past seven that
I woke up and grabbed at my coat pocket, first thing. The pocket
was empty--the purse gone, and not a trace to be found!"
"Dear me! This is very unpleasant!"
"Unpleasant! Indeed it is. You have found a very appropriate
expression," said Lebedeff, politely, but with sarcasm.
"But what's to be done? It's a serious matter," said the prince,
thoughtfully. "Don't you think you may have dropped it out of
your pocket whilst intoxicated?"
"Certainly. Anything is possible when one is intoxicated, as you
neatly express it, prince. But consider--if I, intoxicated or
not, dropped an object out of my pocket on to the ground, that
object ought to remain on the ground. Where is the object, then?"
"Didn't you put it away in some drawer, perhaps?"
"I've looked everywhere, and turned out everything."
"I confess this disturbs me a good deal. Someone must have picked
it up, then."
"Or taken it out of my pocket--two alternatives."
"It is very distressing, because WHO--? That's the question!"
"Most undoubtedly, excellent prince, you have hit it--that is the
very question. How wonderfully you express the exact situation in
a few words!"
"Come, come, Lebedeff, no sarcasm! It's a serious--"
"Sarcasm!" cried Lebedeff, wringing his hands.
"All right, all right, I'm not angry. I'm only put out about
this. Whom do you suspect?"
"That is a very difficult and complicated question. I cannot
suspect the servant, for she was in the kitchen the whole
evening, nor do I suspect any of my children."
"I should think not. Go on."
"Then it must be one of the guests."
"Is such a thing possible?"
"Absolutely and utterly impossible--and yet, so it must be. But
one thing I am sure of, if it be a theft, it was committed, not
in the evening when we were all together, but either at night or
early in the morning; therefore, by one of those who slept here.
Burdovsky and Colia I except, of course. They did not even come
into my room."
"Yes, or even if they had! But who did sleep with you?" "Four of
us, including myself, in two rooms. The general, myself, Keller,
and Ferdishenko. One of us four it must have been. I don't
suspect myself, though such cases have been known."
"Oh! DO go on, Lebedeff! Don't drag it out so."
"Well, there are three left, then--Keller firstly. He is a
drunkard to begin with, and a liberal (in the sense of other
people's pockets), otherwise with more of the ancient knight
about him than of the modern liberal. He was with the sick man at
first, but came over afterwards because there was no place to lie
down in the room and the floor was so hard."
"You suspect him?"
"I DID suspect him. When I woke up at half-past seven and tore my
hair in despair for my loss and carelessness, I awoke the
general, who was sleeping the sleep of innocence near me. Taking
into consideration the sudden disappearance of Ferdishenko, which
was suspicious in itself, we decided to search Keller, who was
lying there sleeping like a top. Well, we searched his clothes
thoroughly, and not a farthing did we find; in fact, his pockets
all had holes in them. We found a dirty handkerchief, and a love-
letter from some scullery-maid. The general decided that he was
innocent. We awoke him for further inquiries, and had the
greatest difficulty in making him understand what was up. He
opened his mouth and stared--he looked so stupid and so absurdly
innocent. It wasn't Keller."
"Oh, I'm so glad!" said the prince, joyfully. "I was so afraid."
"Afraid! Then you had some grounds for supposing he might be the
culprit?" said Lebedeff, frowning.
"Oh no--not a bit! It was foolish of me to say I was afraid!
Don't repeat it please, Lebedeff, don't tell anyone I said that!"
"My dear prince! your words lie in the lowest depth of my heart--
it is their tomb!" said Lebedeff, solemnly, pressing his hat to
the region of his heart.
"Thanks; very well. Then I suppose it's Ferdishenko; that is, I
mean, you suspect Ferdishenko?"
"Whom else?" said Lebedeff, softly, gazing intently into the
prince s face.
"Of course--quite so, whom else? But what are the proofs?"
"We have evidence. In the first place, his mysterious
disappearance at seven o'clock, or even earlier."
"I know, Colia told me that he had said he was off to--I forget
the name, some friend of his, to finish the night."
"H'm! then Colia has spoken to you already?"
"Not about the theft."
"He does not know of it; I have kept it a secret. Very well,
Ferdishenko went off to Wilkin's. That is not so curious in
itself, but here the evidence opens out further. He left his
address, you see, when he went. Now prince, consider, why did he
leave his address? Why do you suppose he went out of his way to
tell Colia that he had gone to Wilkin's? Who cared to know that
he was going to Wilkin's? No, no! prince, this is finesse,
thieves' finesse! This is as good as saying, 'There, how can I be
a thief when I leave my address? I'm not concealing my movements
as a thief would.' Do you understand, prince?"
"Oh yes, but that is not enough."
"Second proof. The scent turns out to be false, and the address
given is a sham. An hour after--that is at about eight, I went to
Wilkin's myself, and there was no trace of Ferdishenko. The maid
did tell me, certainly, that an hour or so since someone had been
hammering at the door, and had smashed the bell; she said she
would not open the door because she didn't want to wake her
master; probably she was too lazy to get up herself. Such
phenomena are met with occasionally!"
"But is that all your evidence? It is not enough!"
"Well, prince, whom are we to suspect, then? Consider!" said
Lebedeff with almost servile amiability, smiling at the prince.
There was a look of cunning in his eyes, however.
"You should search your room and all the cupboards again," said
the prince, after a moment or two of silent reflection.
"But I have done so, my dear prince!" said Lebedeff, more sweetly
than ever.
"H'm! why must you needs go up and change your coat like that?"
asked the prince, banging the table with his fist, in annoyance.
"Oh, don't be so worried on my account, prince! I assure you I am
not worth it! At least, not I alone. But I see you are suffering
on behalf of the criminal too, for wretched Ferdishenko, in
fact!"
"Of course you have given me a disagreeable enough thing to think
about," said the prince, irritably, "but what are you going to
do, since you are so sure it was Ferdishenko?"
"But who else COULD it be, my very dear prince?" repeated
Lebedeff, as sweet as sugar again. "If you don't wish me to
suspect Mr. Burdovsky?"
"Of course not."
"Nor the general? Ha, ha, ha!"
"Nonsense!" said the prince, angrily, turning round upon him.
"Quite so, nonsense! Ha, ha, ha! dear me! He did amuse me, did
the general! We went off on the hot scent to Wilkin's together,
you know; but I must first observe that the general was even more
thunderstruck than I myself this morning, when I awoke him after
discovering the theft; so much so that his very face changed--he
grew red and then pale, and at length flew into a paroxysm of
such noble wrath that I assure you I was quite surprised! He is a
most generous-hearted man! He tells lies by the thousands, I
know, but it is merely a weakness; he is a man of the highest
feelings; a simple-minded man too, and a man who carries the
conviction of innocence in his very appearance. I love that man,
sir; I may have told you so before; it is a weakness of mine.
Well--he suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, opened out
his coat and bared his breast. "Search me," he says, "you
searched Keller; why don't you search me too? It is only fair!"
says he. And all the while his legs and hands were trembling with
anger, and he as white as a sheet all over! So I said to him,
"Nonsense, general; if anybody but yourself had said that to me,
I'd have taken my head, my own head, and put it on a large dish
and carried it round to anyone who suspected you; and I should
have said: 'There, you see that head? It's my head, and I'll go
bail with that head for him! Yes, and walk through the fire for
him, too. There,' says I, 'that's how I'd answer for you,
general!' Then he embraced me, in the middle of the street, and
hugged me so tight (crying over me all the while) that I coughed
fit to choke! 'You are the one friend left to me amid all my
misfortunes,' says he. Oh, he's a man of sentiment, that! He went
on to tell me a story of how he had been accused, or suspected,
of stealing five hundred thousand roubles once, as a young man;
and how, the very next day, he had rushed into a burning, blazing
house and saved the very count who suspected him, and Nina
Alexandrovna (who was then a young girl), from a fiery death. The
count embraced him, and that was how he came to marry Nina
Alexandrovna, he said. As for the money, it was found among the
ruins next day in an English iron box with a secret lock; it had
got under the floor somehow, and if it had not been for the fire
it would never have been found! The whole thing is, of course, an
absolute fabrication, though when he spoke of Nina Alexandrovna
he wept! She's a grand woman, is Nina Alexandrovna, though she is
very angry with me!"
"Are you acquainted with her?"
"Well, hardly at all. I wish I were, if only for the sake of
justifying myself in her eyes. Nina Alexandrovna has a grudge
against me for, as she thinks, encouraging her husband in
drinking; whereas in reality I not only do not encourage him, but
I actually keep him out of harm's way, and out of bad company.
Besides, he's my friend, prince, so that I shall not lose sight
of him, again. Where he goes, I go. He's quite given up visiting
the captain's widow, though sometimes he thinks sadly of her,
especially in the morning, when he's putting on his boots. I
don't know why it's at that time. But he has no money, and it's
no use his going to see her without. Has he borrowed any money
from you, prince?"
"No, he has not."
"Ah, he's ashamed to! He MEANT to ask you, I know, for he said
so. I suppose he thinks that as you gave him some once (you
remember), you would probably refuse if he asked you again."
"Do you ever give him money?"
"Prince! Money! Why I would give that man not only my money, but
my very life, if he wanted it. Well, perhaps that's exaggeration;
not life, we'll say, but some illness, a boil or a bad cough, or
anything of that sort, I would stand with pleasure, for his sake;
for I consider him a great man fallen--money, indeed!"
"H'm, then you DO give him money?"
"N-no, I have never given him money, and he knows well that I
will never give him any; because I am anxious to keep him out of
intemperate ways. He is going to town with me now; for you must
know I am off to Petersburg after Ferdishenko, while the scent is
hot; I'm certain he is there. I shall let the general go one way,
while I go the other; we have so arranged matters in order to pop
out upon Ferdishenko, you see, from different sides. But I am
going to follow that naughty old general and catch him, I know
where, at a certain widow's house; for I think it will be a good
lesson, to put him to shame by catching him with the widow."
"Oh, Lebedeff, don't, don't make any scandal about it!" said the
prince, much agitated, and speaking in a low voice.
"Not for the world, not for the world! I merely wish to make him
ashamed of himself. Oh, prince, great though this misfortune be
to myself, I cannot help thinking of his morals! I have a great
favour to ask of you, esteemed prince; I confess that it is the
chief object of my visit. You know the Ivolgins, you have even
lived in their house; so if you would lend me your help, honoured
prince, in the general's own interest and for his good."
Lebedeff clasped his hands in supplication.
"What help do you want from me? You may be certain that I am most
anxious to understand you, Lebedeff."
"I felt sure of that, or I should not have come to you. We might
manage it with the help of Nina Alexandrovna, so that he might be
closely watched in his own house. Unfortunately I am not on
terms... otherwise... but Nicolai Ardalionovitch, who
adores you with all his youthful soul, might help, too."
"No, no! Heaven forbid that we should bring Nina Alexandrovna
into this business! Or Colia, either. But perhaps I have not yet
quite understood you, Lebedeff?"
Lebedeff made an impatient movement.
"But there is nothing to understand! Sympathy and tenderness,
that is all--that is all our poor invalid requires! You will
permit me to consider him an invalid?"
"Yes, it shows delicacy and intelligence on your part."
"I will explain my idea by a practical example, to make it
clearer. You know the sort of man he is. At present his only
failing is that he is crazy about that captain's widow, and he
cannot go to her without money, and I mean to catch him at her
house today--for his own good; but supposing it was not only the
widow, but that he had committed a real crime, or at least some
very dishonourable action (of which he is, of course, incapable),
I repeat that even in that case, if he were treated with what I
may call generous tenderness, one could get at the whole truth,
for he is very soft-hearted! Believe me, he would betray himself
before five days were out; he would burst into tears, and make a
clean breast of the matter; especially if managed with tact, and
if you and his family watched his every step, so to speak. Oh, my
dear prince," Lebedeff added most emphatically, "I do not
positively assert that he has... I am ready, as the saying is,
to shed my last drop of blood for him this instant; but you will
admit that debauchery, drunkenness, and the captain's widow, all
these together may lead him very far."
"I am, of course, quite ready to add my efforts to yours in such
a case," said the prince, rising; "but I confess, Lebedeff, that
I am terribly perplexed. Tell me, do you still think...
plainly, you say yourself that you suspect Mr. Ferdishenko?"
Lebedeff clasped his hands once more.
"Why, who else could I possibly suspect? Who else, most outspoken
prince?" he replied, with an unctuous smile.
Muishkin frowned, and rose from his seat.
"You see, Lebedeff, a mistake here would be a dreadful thing.
This Ferdishenko, I would not say a word against him, of course;
but, who knows? Perhaps it really was he? I mean he really does
seem to be a more likely man than... than any other."
Lebedeff strained his eyes and ears to take in what the prince
was saying. The latter was frowning more and more, and walking
excitedly up and down, trying not to look at Lebedeff.
"You see," he said, "I was given to understand that Ferdishenko
was that sort of man,--that one can't say everything before him.
One has to take care not to say too much, you understand? I say
this to prove that he really is, so to speak, more likely to have
done this than anyone else, eh? You understand? The important
thing is, not to make a mistake."
"And who told you this about Ferdishenko?"
"Oh, I was told. Of course I don't altogether believe it. I am
very sorry that I should have had to say this, because I assure
you I don't believe it myself; it is all nonsense, of course. It
was stupid of me to say anything about it."
"You see, it is very important, it is most important to know
where you got this report from," said Lebedeff, excitedly. He had
risen from his seat, and was trying to keep step with the prince,
running after him, up and down. "Because look here, prince, I
don't mind telling you now that as we were going along to
Wilkin's this morning, after telling me what you know about the
fire, and saving the count and all that, the general was pleased
to drop certain hints to the same effect about Ferdishenko, but
so vaguely and clumsily that I thought better to put a few
questions to him on the matter, with the result that I found the
whole thing was an invention of his excellency's own mind. Of
course, he only lies with the best intentions; still, he lies.
But, such being the case, where could you have heard the same
report? It was the inspiration of the moment with him, you
understand, so who could have told YOU? It is an important
question, you see!"
"It was Colia told me, and his father told HIM at about six this
morning. They met at the threshold, when Colia was leaving the
room for something or other." The prince told Lebedeff all that
Colia had made known to himself, in detail.
"There now, that's what we may call SCENT!" said Lebedeff,
rubbing his hands and laughing silently. "I thought it must be
so, you see. The general interrupted his innocent slumbers, at
six o'clock, in order to go and wake his beloved son, and warn
him of the dreadful danger of companionship with Ferdishenko.
Dear me! what a dreadfully dangerous man Ferdishenko must be, and
what touching paternal solicitude, on the part of his
excellency, ha! ha! ha!"
"Listen, Lebedeff," began the prince, quite overwhelmed; "DO act
quietly--don't make a scandal, Lebedeff, I ask you--I entreat
you! No one must know--NO ONE, mind! In that case only, I will
help you."
"Be assured, most honourable, most worthy of princes--be assured
that the whole matter shall be buried within my heart!" cried
Lebedeff, in a paroxysm of exaltation. "I'd give every drop of my
blood... Illustrious prince, I am a poor wretch in soul and
spirit, but ask the veriest scoundrel whether he would prefer to
deal with one like himself, or with a noble-hearted man like you,
and there is no doubt as to his choice! He'll answer that he
prefers the noble-hearted man--and there you have the triumph of
virtue! Au revoir, honoured prince! You and I together--softly!
softly!"
X.
THE prince understood at last why he shivered with dread every
time he thought of the three letters in his pocket, and why he
had put off reading them until the evening.
When he fell into a heavy sleep on the sofa on the verandah,
without having had the courage to open a single one of the three
envelopes, he again dreamed a painful dream, and once more that
poor, "sinful" woman appeared to him. Again she gazed at him with
tears sparkling on her long lashes, and beckoned him after her;
and again he awoke, as before, with the picture of her face
haunting him.
He longed to get up and go to her at once--but he COULD NOT. At
length, almost in despair, he unfolded the letters, and began to
read them.
These letters, too, were like a dream. We sometimes have strange,
impossible dreams, contrary to all the laws of nature. When we
awake we remember them and wonder at their strangeness. You
remember, perhaps, that you were in full possession of your
reason during this succession of fantastic images; even that you
acted with extraordinary logic and cunning while surrounded by
murderers who hid their intentions and made great demonstrations
of friendship, while waiting for an opportunity to cut your
throat. You remember how you escaped them by some ingenious
stratagem; then you doubted if they were really deceived, or
whether they were only pretending not to know your hiding-place;
then you thought of another plan and hoodwinked them once again.
You remember all this quite clearly, but how is it that your
reason calmly accepted all the manifest absurdities and
impossibilities that crowded into your dream? One of the
murderers suddenly changed into a woman before your very eyes;
then the woman was transformed into a hideous, cunning little
dwarf; and you believed it, and accepted it all almost as a
matter of course--while at the same time your intelligence seemed
unusually keen, and accomplished miracles of cunning, sagacity,
and logic! Why is it that when you awake to the world of
realities you nearly always feel, sometimes very vividly, that
the vanished dream has carried with it some enigma which you have
failed to solve? You smile at the extravagance of your dream, and
yet you feel that this tissue of absurdity contained some real
idea, something that belongs to your true life,--something that
exists, and has always existed, in your heart. You search your
dream for some prophecy that you were expecting. It has left a
deep impression upon you, joyful or cruel, but what it means, or
what has been predicted to you in it, you can neither understand
nor remember.
The reading of these letters produced some such effect upon the
prince. He felt, before he even opened the envelopes, that the
very fact of their existence was like a nightmare. How could she
ever have made up her mind to write to her? he asked himself. How
could she write about that at all? And how could such a wild idea
have entered her head? And yet, the strangest part of the matter
was, that while he read the letters, he himself almost believed
in the possibility, and even in the justification, of the idea he
had thought so wild. Of course it was a mad dream, a nightmare,
and yet there was something cruelly real about it. For hours he
was haunted by what he had read. Several passages returned again
and again to his mind, and as he brooded over them, he felt
inclined to say to himself that he had foreseen and known all
that was written here; it even seemed to him that he had read the
whole of this some time or other, long, long ago; and all that
had tormented and grieved him up to now was to be found in these
old, long since read, letters.
"When you open this letter" (so the first began), "look first at
the signature. The signature will tell you all, so that I need
explain nothing, nor attempt to justify myself. Were I in any way
on a footing with you, you might be offended at my audacity; but
who am I, and who are you? We are at such extremes, and I am so
far removed from you, that I could not offend you if I wished to
do so."
Farther on, in another place, she wrote: "Do not consider my
words as the sickly ecstasies of a diseased mind, but you are, in
my opinion--perfection! I have seen you--I see you every day. I
do not judge you; I have not weighed you in the scales of Reason
and found you Perfection--it is simply an article of faith. But I
must confess one sin against you--I love you. One should not love
perfection. One should only look on it as perfection--yet I am in
love with you. Though love equalizes, do not fear. I have not
lowered you to my level, even in my most secret thoughts. I have
written 'Do not fear,' as if you could fear. I would kiss your
footprints if I could; but, oh! I am not putting myself on a
level with you!--Look at the signature--quick, look at the
signature!"
"However, observe" (she wrote in another of the letters), "that
although I couple you with him, yet I have not once asked you
whether you love him. He fell in love with you, though he saw you
but once. He spoke of you as of 'the light.' These are his own
words--I heard him use them. But I understood without his saying
it that you were all that light is to him. I lived near him for a
whole month, and I understood then that you, too, must love him.
I think of you and him as one."
"What was the matter yesterday?" (she wrote on another sheet). "I
passed by you, and you seemed to me to BLUSH. Perhaps it was only
my fancy. If I were to bring you to the most loathsome den, and
show you the revelation of undisguised vice--you should not
blush. You can never feel the sense of personal affront. You may
hate all who are mean, or base, or unworthy--but not for
yourself--only for those whom they wrong. No one can wrong YOU.
Do you know, I think you ought to love me--for you are the same
in my eyes as in his-you are as light. An angel cannot hate,
perhaps cannot love, either. I often ask myself--is it possible
to love everybody? Indeed it is not; it is not in nature.
Abstract love of humanity is nearly always love of self. But you
are different. You cannot help loving all, since you can compare
with none, and are above all personal offence or anger. Oh! how
bitter it would be to me to know that you felt anger or shame on
my account, for that would be your fall--you would become
comparable at once with such as me.
"Yesterday, after seeing you, I went home and thought out a
picture.
"Artists always draw the Saviour as an actor in one of the Gospel
stories. I should do differently. I should represent Christ
alone--the disciples did leave Him alone occasionally. I should
paint one little child left with Him. This child has been playing
about near Him, and had probably just been telling the Saviour
something in its pretty baby prattle. Christ had listened to it,
but was now musing--one hand reposing on the child's bright head.
His eyes have a far-away expression. Thought, great as the
Universe, is in them--His face is sad. The little one leans its
elbow upon Christ's knee, and with its cheek resting on its hand,
gazes up at Him, pondering as children sometimes do ponder. The
sun is setting. There you have my picture.
"You are innocent--and in your innocence lies all your
perfection--oh, remember that! What is my passion to you?--you
are mine now; I shall be near you all my life--I shall not live
long!"
At length, in the last letter of all, he found:
"For Heaven's sake, don't misunderstand me! Do not think that I
humiliate myself by writing thus to you, or that I belong to that
class of people who take a satisfaction in humiliating
themselves--from pride. I have my consolation, though it would be
difficult to explain it--but I do not humiliate myself.
"Why do I wish to unite you two? For your sakes or my own? For my
own sake, naturally. All the problems of my life would thus be
solved; I have thought so for a long time. I know that once when
your sister Adelaida saw my portrait she said that such beauty
could overthrow the world. But I have renounced the world. You
think it strange that I should say so, for you saw me decked with
lace and diamonds, in the company of drunkards and wastrels. Take
no notice of that; I know that I have almost ceased to exist. God
knows what it is dwelling within me now--it is not myself. I can
see it every day in two dreadful eyes which are always looking at
me, even when not present. These eyes are silent now, they say
nothing; but I know their secret. His house is gloomy, and there
is a secret in it. I am convinced that in some box he has a razor
hidden, tied round with silk, just like the one that Moscow
murderer had. This man also lived with his mother, and had a
razor hidden away, tied round with white silk, and with this
razor he intended to cut a throat.
"All the while I was in their house I felt sure that somewhere
beneath the floor there was hidden away some dreadful corpse,
wrapped in oil-cloth, perhaps buried there by his father, who
knows? Just as in the Moscow case. I could have shown you the
very spot!
"He is always silent, but I know well that he loves me so much
that he must hate me. My wedding and yours are to be on the same
day; so I have arranged with him. I have no secrets from him. I
would kill him from very fright, but he will kill me first. He
has just burst out laughing, and says that I am raving. He knows
I am writing to you."
There was much more of this delirious wandering in the letters--
one of them was very long.
At last the prince came out of the dark, gloomy park, in which he
had wandered about for hours just as yesterday. The bright night
seemed to him to be lighter than ever. "It must be quite early,"
he thought. (He had forgotten his watch.) There was a sound of
distant music somewhere. "Ah," he thought, "the Vauxhall! They
won't be there today, of course!" At this moment he noticed that
he was close to their house; he had felt that he must gravitate
to this spot eventually, and, with a beating heart, he mounted
the verandah steps.
No one met him; the verandah was empty, and nearly pitch dark. He
opened the door into the room, but it, too, was dark and empty.
He stood in the middle of the room in perplexity. Suddenly the
door opened, and in came Alexandra, candle in hand. Seeing the
prince she stopped before him in surprise, looking at him
questioningly.
It was clear that she had been merely passing through the room
from door to door, and had not had the remotest notion that she
would meet anyone.
"How did you come here?" she asked, at last.
"I-I--came in--"
"Mamma is not very well, nor is Aglaya. Adelaida has gone to bed,
and I am just going. We were alone the whole evening. Father and
Prince S. have gone to town."
"I have come to you--now--to--"
"Do you know what time it is?"
"N--no!"
"Half-past twelve. We are always in bed by one."
"I-I thought it was half-past nine!"
"Never mind!" she laughed, "but why didn't you come earlier?
Perhaps you were expected!"
"I thought" he stammered, making for the door.
"Au revoir! I shall amuse them all with this story tomorrow!"
He walked along the road towards his own house. His heart was
beating, his thoughts were confused, everything around seemed to
be part of a dream.
And suddenly, just as twice already he had awaked from sleep with
the same vision, that very apparition now seemed to rise up
before him. The woman appeared to step out from the park, and
stand in the path in front of him, as though she had been waiting
for him there.
He shuddered and stopped; she seized his hand and pressed it
frenziedly.
No, this was no apparition!
There she stood at last, face to face with him, for the first
time since their parting.
She said something, but he looked silently back at her. His heart
ached with anguish. Oh! never would he banish the recollection of
this meeting with her, and he never remembered it but with the
same pain and agony of mind.
She went on her knees before him--there in the open road--like a
madwoman. He retreated a step, but she caught his hand and kissed
it, and, just as in his dream, the tears were sparkling on her
long, beautiful lashes.
"Get up!" he said, in a frightened whisper, raising her. "Get up
at once!"
"Are you happy--are you happy?" she asked. "Say this one word.
Are you happy now? Today, this moment? Have you just been with
her? What did she say?"
She did not rise from her knees; she would not listen to him; she
put her questions hurriedly, as though she were pursued.
"I am going away tomorrow, as you bade me--I won't write--so
that this is the last time I shall see you, the last time! This
is really the LAST TIME!"
"Oh, be calm--be calm! Get up!" he entreated, in despair.
She gazed thirstily at him and clutched his hands.
"Good-bye!" she said at last, and rose and left him, very
quickly.
The prince noticed that Rogojin had suddenly appeared at her
side, and had taken her arm and was leading her away.
"Wait a minute, prince," shouted the latter, as he went. "I shall
be back in five minutes."
He reappeared in five minutes as he had said. The prince was
waiting for him.
"I've put her in the carriage," he said; "it has been waiting
round the corner there since ten o'clock. She expected that you
would be with THEM all the evening. I told her exactly what you
wrote me. She won't write to the girl any more, she promises; and
tomorrow she will be off, as you wish. She desired to see you
for the last time, although you refused, so we've been sitting
and waiting on that bench till you should pass on your way home."
"Did she bring you with her of her own accord?"
"Of course she did!" said Rogojin, showing his teeth; "and I saw
for myself what I knew before. You've read her letters, I
suppose?"
"Did you read them?" asked the prince, struck by the thought.
"Of course--she showed them to me herself. You are thinking of
the razor, eh? Ha, ha, ha!"
"Oh, she is mad!" cried the prince, wringing his hands. "Who
knows? Perhaps she is not so mad after all," said Rogojin,
softly, as though thinking aloud.
The prince made no reply.
"Well, good-bye," said Rogojin. "I'm off tomorrow too, you know.
Remember me kindly! By-the-by," he added, turning round sharply
again, "did you answer her question just now? Are you happy, or
not?"
"No, no, no!" cried the prince, with unspeakable sadness.
"Ha, ha! I never supposed you would say 'yes,'" cried Rogojin,
laughing sardonically.
And he disappeared, without looking round again.
PART IV
I.
A WEEK had elapsed since the rendezvous of our two friends on the
green bench in the park, when, one fine morning at about half-
past ten o'clock, Varvara Ardalionovna, otherwise Mrs. Ptitsin,
who had been out to visit a friend, returned home in a state of
considerable mental depression.
There are certain people of whom it is difficult to say anything
which will at once throw them into relief--in other words,
describe them graphically in their typical characteristics. These
are they who are generally known as "commonplace people," and this
class comprises, of course, the immense majority of mankind.
Authors, as a rule, attempt to select and portray types rarely
met with in their entirety, but these types are nevertheless more
real than real life itself.
"Podkoleosin" [A character in Gogol's comedy, The Wedding.] was
perhaps an exaggeration, but he was by no means a non-existent
character; on the contrary, how many intelligent people, after
hearing of this Podkoleosin from Gogol, immediately began to find
that scores of their friends were exactly like him! They knew,
perhaps, before Gogol told them, that their friends were like
Podkoleosin, but they did not know what name to give them. In
real life, young fellows seldom jump out of the window just
before their weddings, because such a feat, not to speak of its
other aspects, must be a decidedly unpleasant mode of escape; and
yet there are plenty of bridegrooms, intelligent fellows too, who
would be ready to confess themselves Podkoleosins in the depths
of their consciousness, just before marriage. Nor does every
husband feel bound to repeat at every step, "Tu l'as voulu,
Georges Dandin!" like another typical personage; and yet how many
millions and billions of Georges Dandins there are in real life
who feel inclined to utter this soul-drawn cry after their
honeymoon, if not the day after the wedding! Therefore, without
entering into any more serious examination of the question, I
will content myself with remarking that in real life typical
characters are "watered down," so to speak; and all these Dandins
and Podkoleosins actually exist among us every day, but in a
diluted form. I will just add, however, that Georges Dandin might
have existed exactly as Moliere presented him, and probably does
exist now and then, though rarely; and so I will end this
scientific examination, which is beginning to look like a
newspaper criticism. But for all this, the question remains,--
what are the novelists to do with commonplace people, and how are
they to be presented to the reader in such a form as to be in the
least degree interesting? They cannot be left out altogether, for
commonplace people meet one at every turn of life, and to leave
them out would be to destroy the whole reality and probability of
the story. To fill a novel with typical characters only, or with
merely strange and uncommon people, would render the book unreal
and improbable, and would very likely destroy the interest. In my
opinion, the duty of the novelist is to seek out points of
interest and instruction even in the characters of commonplace
people.
For instance, when the whole essence of an ordinary person's
nature lies in his perpetual and unchangeable commonplaceness;
and when in spite of all his endeavours to do something out of
the common, this person ends, eventually, by remaining in his
unbroken line of routine--. I think such an individual really
does become a type of his own--a type of commonplaceness which
will not for the world, if it can help it, be contented, but
strains and yearns to be something original and independent,
without the slightest possibility of being so. To this class of
commonplace people belong several characters in this novel;--
characters which--I admit--I have not drawn very vividly up to
now for my reader's benefit.
Such were, for instance, Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsin, her
husband, and her brother, Gania.
There is nothing so annoying as to be fairly rich, of a fairly
good family, pleasing presence, average education, to be "not
stupid," kind-hearted, and yet to have no talent at all, no
originality, not a single idea of one's own--to be, in fact,
"just like everyone else."
Of such people there are countless numbers in this world--far
more even than appear. They can be divided into two classes as
all men can--that is, those of limited intellect, and those who
are much cleverer. The former of these classes is the happier.
To a commonplace man of limited intellect, for instance, nothing
is simpler than to imagine himself an original character, and to
revel in that belief without the slightest misgiving.
Many of our young women have thought fit to cut their hair short,
put on blue spectacles, and call themselves Nihilists. By doing
this they have been able to persuade themselves, without further
trouble, that they have acquired new convictions of their own.
Some men have but felt some little qualm of kindness towards
their fellow-men, and the fact has been quite enough to persuade
them that they stand alone in the van of enlightenment and that
no one has such humanitarian feelings as they. Others have but to
read an idea of somebody else's, and they can immediately
assimilate it and believe that it was a child of their own brain.
The "impudence of ignorance," if I may use the expression, is
developed to a wonderful extent in such cases;--unlikely as it
appears, it is met with at every turn.
This confidence of a stupid man in his own talents has been
wonderfully depicted by Gogol in the amazing character of
Pirogoff. Pirogoff has not the slightest doubt of his own
genius,--nay, of his SUPERIORITY of genius,--so certain is he of
it that he never questions it. How many Pirogoffs have there not
been among our writers--scholars--propagandists? I say "have
been," but indeed there are plenty of them at this very day.
Our friend, Gania, belonged to the other class--to the "much
cleverer" persons, though he was from head to foot permeated and
saturated with the longing to be original. This class, as I have
said above, is far less happy. For the "clever commonplace"
person, though he may possibly imagine himself a man of genius
and originality, none the less has within his heart the deathless
worm of suspicion and doubt; and this doubt sometimes brings a
clever man to despair. (As a rule, however, nothing tragic
happens;--his liver becomes a little damaged in the course of
time, nothing more serious. Such men do not give up their
aspirations after originality without a severe struggle,--and
there have been men who, though good fellows in themselves, and
even benefactors to humanity, have sunk to the level of base
criminals for the sake of originality.
Gania was a beginner, as it were, upon this road. A deep and
unchangeable consciousness of his own lack of talent, combined
with a vast longing to be able to persuade himself that he was
original, had rankled in his heart, even from childhood.
He seemed to have been born with overwrought nerves, and in his
passionate desire to excel, he was often led to the brink of some
rash step; and yet, having resolved upon such a step, when the
moment arrived, he invariably proved too sensible to take it. He
was ready, in the same way, to do a base action in order to
obtain his wished-for object; and yet, when the moment came to do
it, he found that he was too honest for any great baseness. (Not
that he objected to acts of petty meanness--he was always ready
for THEM.) He looked with hate and loathing on the poverty and
downfall of his family, and treated his mother with haughty
contempt, although he knew that his whole future depended on her
character and reputation.
Aglaya had simply frightened him; yet he did not give up all
thoughts of her--though he never seriously hoped that she would
condescend to him. At the time of his "adventure" with Nastasia
Philipovna he had come to the conclusion that money was his only
hope--money should do all for him.
At the moment when he lost Aglaya, and after the scene with
Nastasia, he had felt so low in his own eyes that he actually
brought the money back to the prince. Of this returning of the
money given to him by a madwoman who had received it from a
madman, he had often repented since--though he never ceased to be
proud of his action. During the short time that Muishkin remained
in Petersburg Gania had had time to come to hate him for his
sympathy, though the prince told him that it was "not everyone
who would have acted so nobly" as to return the money. He had
long pondered, too, over his relations with Aglaya, and had
persuaded himself that with such a strange, childish, innocent
character as hers, things might have ended very differently.
Remorse then seized him; he threw up his post, and buried himself
in self-torment and reproach.
He lived at Ptitsin's, and openly showed contempt for the latter,
though he always listened to his advice, and was sensible enough
to ask for it when he wanted it. Gavrila Ardalionovitch was angry
with Ptitsin because the latter did not care to become a
Rothschild. "If you are to be a Jew," he said, "do it properly--
squeeze people right and left, show some character; be the King
of the Jews while you are about it."
Ptitsin was quiet and not easily offended--he only laughed. But
on one occasion he explained seriously to Gania that he was no
Jew, that he did nothing dishonest, that he could not help the
market price of money, that, thanks to his accurate habits, he
had already a good footing and was respected, and that his
business was flourishing.
"I shan't ever be a Rothschild, and there is no reason why I
should," he added, smiling; "but I shall have a house in the
Liteynaya, perhaps two, and that will be enough for me." "Who
knows but what I may have three!" he concluded to himself; but
this dream, cherished inwardly, he never confided to a soul.
Nature loves and favours such people. Ptitsin will certainly have
his reward, not three houses, but four, precisely because from
childhood up he had realized that he would never be a Rothschild.
That will be the limit of Ptitsin's fortune, and, come what may,
he will never have more than four houses.
Varvara Ardalionovna was not like her brother. She too, had
passionate desires, but they were persistent rather than
impetuous. Her plans were as wise as her methods of carrying them
out. No doubt she also belonged to the category of ordinary
people who dream of being original, but she soon discovered that
she had not a grain of true originality, and she did not let it
trouble her too much. Perhaps a certain kind of pride came to her
help. She made her first concession to the demands of practical
life with great resolution when she consented to marry Ptitsin.
However, when she married she did not say to herself, "Never mind
a mean action if it leads to the end in view," as her brother
would certainly have said in such a case; it is quite probable
that he may have said it when he expressed his elder-brotherly
satisfaction at her decision. Far from this; Varvara Ardalionovna
did not marry until she felt convinced that her future husband
was unassuming, agreeable, almost cultured, and that nothing on
earth would tempt him to a really dishonourable deed. As to small
meannesses, such trifles did not trouble her. Indeed, who is free
from them? It is absurd to expect the ideal! Besides, she knew
that her marriage would provide a refuge for all her family.
Seeing Gania unhappy, she was anxious to help him, in spite of
their former disputes and misunderstandings. Ptitsin, in a
friendly way, would press his brother-in-law to enter the army.
"You know," he said sometimes, jokingly, "you despise generals
and generaldom, but you will see that 'they' will all end by
being generals in their turn. You will see it if you live long
enough!"
"But why should they suppose that I despise generals?" Gania
thought sarcastically to himself.
To serve her brother's interests, Varvara Ardalionovna was
constantly at the Epanchins' house, helped by the fact that in
childhood she and Gania had played with General Ivan
Fedorovitch's daughters. It would have been inconsistent with her
character if in these visits she had been pursuing a chimera; her
project was not chimerical at all; she was building on a firm
basis--on her knowledge of the character of the Epanchin family,
especially Aglaya, whom she studied closely. All Varvara's
efforts were directed towards bringing Aglaya and Gania together.
Perhaps she achieved some result; perhaps, also, she made the
mistake of depending too much upon her brother, and expecting
more from him than he would ever be capable of giving. However
this may be, her manoeuvres were skilful enough. For weeks at a
time she would never mention Gania. Her attitude was modest but
dignified, and she was always extremely truthful and sincere.
Examining the depths of her conscience, she found nothing to
reproach herself with, and this still further strengthened her in
her designs. But Varvara Ardalionovna sometimes remarked that she
felt spiteful; that there was a good deal of vanity in her,
perhaps even of wounded vanity. She noticed this at certain times
more than at others, and especially after her visits to the
Epanchins.
Today, as I have said, she returned from their house with a
heavy feeling of dejection. There was a sensation of bitterness,
a sort of mocking contempt, mingled with it.
Arrived at her own house, Varia heard a considerable commotion
going on in the upper storey, and distinguished the voices of her
father and brother. On entering the salon she found Gania pacing
up and down at frantic speed, pale with rage and almost tearing
his hair. She frowned, and subsided on to the sofa with a tired
air, and without taking the trouble to remove her hat. She very
well knew that if she kept quiet and asked her brother nothing
about his reason for tearing up and down the room, his wrath
would fall upon her head. So she hastened to put the question:
"The old story, eh?"
"Old story? No! Heaven knows what's up now--I don't! Father has
simply gone mad; mother's in floods of tears. Upon my word,
Varia, I must kick him out of the house; or else go myself," he
added, probably remembering that he could not well turn people
out of a house which was not his own.
"You must make allowances," murmured Varia.
"Make allowances? For whom? Him--the old blackguard? No, no,
Varia--that won't do! It won't do, I tell you! And look at the
swagger of the man! He's all to blame himself, and yet he puts on
so much 'side' that you'd think--my word!--'It's too much
trouble to go through the gate, you must break the fence for me!'
That's the sort of air he puts on; but what's the matter with
you, Varia? What a curious expression you have!"
"I'm all right," said Varia, in a tone that sounded as though she
were all wrong.
Gania looked more intently at her.
"You've been THERE?" he asked, suddenly.
"Yes."
"Did you find out anything?"
"Nothing unexpected. I discovered that it's all true. My husband
was wiser than either of us. Just as he suspected from the
beginning, so it has fallen out. Where is he?"
"Out. Well--what has happened?--go on."
"The prince is formally engaged to her--that's settled. The elder
sisters told me about it. Aglaya has agreed. They don't attempt
to conceal it any longer; you know how mysterious and secret they
have all been up to now. Adelaida's wedding is put off again, so
that both can be married on one day. Isn't that delightfully
romantic? Somebody ought to write a poem on it. Sit down and
write an ode instead of tearing up and down like that. This
evening Princess Bielokonski is to arrive; she comes just in
time--they have a party tonight. He is to be presented to old
Bielokonski, though I believe he knows her already; probably the
engagement will be openly announced. They are only afraid that he
may knock something down, or trip over something when he comes
into the room. It would be just like him."
Gania listened attentively, but to his sister's astonishment he
was by no means so impressed by this news (which should, she
thought, have been so important to him) as she had expected.
"Well, it was clear enough all along," he said, after a moment's
reflection. "So that's the end," he added, with a disagreeable
smile, continuing to walk up and down the room, but much slower
than before, and glancing slyly into his sister's face.
"It's a good thing that you take it philosophically, at all
events," said Varia. "I'm really very glad of it."
"Yes, it's off our hands--off YOURS, I should say."
"I think I have served you faithfully. I never even asked you
what happiness you expected to find with Aglaya."
"Did I ever expect to find happiness with Aglaya?"
"Come, come, don't overdo your philosophy. Of course you did. Now
it's all over, and a good thing, too; pair of fools that we have
been! I confess I have never been able to look at it seriously. I
busied myself in it for your sake, thinking that there was no
knowing what might happen with a funny girl like that to deal
with. There were ninety to one chances against it. To this moment
I can't make out why you wished for it."
"H'm! now, I suppose, you and your husband will never weary of
egging me on to work again. You'll begin your lectures about
perseverance and strength of will, and all that. I know it all by
heart," said Gania, laughing.
"He's got some new idea in his head," thought Varia. "Are they
pleased over there--the parents?" asked Gania, suddenly.
"N--no, I don't think they are. You can judge for yourself. I
think the general is pleased enough; her mother is a little
uneasy. She always loathed the idea of the prince as a HUSBAND;
everybody knows that."
"Of course, naturally. The bridegroom is an impossible and
ridiculous one. I mean, has SHE given her formal consent?"
"She has not said 'no,' up to now, and that's all. It was sure to
be so with her. You know what she is like. You know how absurdly
shy she is. You remember how she used to hide in a cupboard as a
child, so as to avoid seeing visitors, for hours at a time. She
is just the same now; but, do you know, I think there is
something serious in the matter, even from her side; I feel it,
somehow. She laughs at the prince, they say, from morn to night
in order to hide her real feelings; but you may be sure she finds
occasion to say something or other to him on the sly, for he
himself is in a state of radiant happiness. He walks in the
clouds; they say he is extremely funny just now; I heard it from
themselves. They seemed to be laughing at me in their sleeves--
those elder girls--I don't know why."
Gania had begun to frown, and probably Varia added this last
sentence in order to probe his thought. However, at this moment,
the noise began again upstairs.
"I'll turn him out!" shouted Gania, glad of the opportunity of
venting his vexation. "I shall just turn him out--we can't have
this."
"Yes, and then he'll go about the place and disgrace us as he did
yesterday."
"How 'as he did yesterday'? What do you mean? What did he do
yesterday?" asked Gania, in alarm.
"Why, goodness me, don't you know?" Varia stopped short.
"What? You don't mean to say that he went there yesterday!" cried
Gania, flushing red with shame and anger. "Good heavens, Varia!
Speak! You have just been there. WAS he there or not, QUICK?" And
Gania rushed for the door. Varia followed and caught him by both
hands.
"What are you doing? Where are you going to? You can't let him go
now; if you do he'll go and do something worse."
"What did he do there? What did he say?" "They couldn't tell me
themselves; they couldn't make head or tail of it; but he
frightened them all. He came to see the general, who was not at
home; so he asked for Lizabetha Prokofievna. First of all, he
begged her for some place, or situation, for work of some kind,
and then he began to complain about US, about me and my husband,
and you, especially YOU; he said a lot of things."
"Oh! couldn't you find out?" muttered Gania, trembling
hysterically.
"No--nothing more than that. Why, they couldn't understand him
themselves; and very likely didn't tell me all."
Gania seized his head with both hands and tottered to the window;
Varia sat down at the other window.
"Funny girl, Aglaya," she observed, after a pause. "When she left
me she said, 'Give my special and personal respects to your
parents; I shall certainly find an opportunity to see your father
one day,' and so serious over it. She's a strange creature."
"Wasn't she joking? She was speaking sarcastically!" "Not a bit of
it; that's just the strange part of it."
"Does she know about father, do you think--or not?"
"That they do NOT know about it in the house is quite certain,
the rest of them, I mean; but you have given me an idea. Aglaya
perhaps knows. She alone, though, if anyone; for the sisters were
as astonished as I was to hear her speak so seriously. If she
knows, the prince must have told her."
"Oh! it's not a great matter to guess who told her. A thief! A
thief in our family, and the head of the family, too!"
"Oh! nonsense!" cried Varia, angrily. "That was nothing but a
drunkard's tale. Nonsense! Why, who invented the whole thing--
Lebedeff and the prince--a pretty pair! Both were probably
drunk."
"Father is a drunkard and a thief; I am a beggar, and the husband
of my sister is a usurer," continued Gania, bitterly. "There was
a pretty list of advantages with which to enchant the heart of
Aglaya."
"That same husband of your sister, the usurer--"
"Feeds me? Go on. Don't stand on ceremony, pray."
"Don't lose your temper. You are just like a schoolboy. You think
that all this sort of thing would harm you in Aglaya's eyes, do
you? You little know her character. She is capable of refusing
the most brilliant party, and running away and starving in a
garret with some wretched student; that's the sort of girl she
is. You never could or did understand how interesting you would
have seen in her eyes if you had come firmly and proudly through
our misfortunes. The prince has simply caught her with hook and
line; firstly, because he never thought of fishing for her, and
secondly, because he is an idiot in the eyes of most people. It's
quite enough for her that by accepting him she puts her family
out and annoys them all round--that's what she likes. You don't
understand these things."
"We shall see whether I understand or no!" said Gania,
enigmatically. "But I shouldn't like her to know all about
father, all the same. I thought the prince would manage to hold
his tongue about this, at least. He prevented Lebedeff spreading
the news--he wouldn't even tell me all when I asked him--"
"Then you must see that he is not responsible. What does it
matter to you now, in any case? What are you hoping for still? If
you HAVE a hope left, it is that your suffering air may soften
her heart towards you."
"Oh, she would funk a scandal like anyone else. You are all
tarred with one brush!"
"What! AGLAYA would have funked? You are a chicken-hearted
fellow, Gania!" said Varia, looking at her brother with contempt.
"Not one of us is worth much. Aglaya may be a wild sort of a
girl, but she is far nobler than any of us, a thousand times
nobler!"
"Well--come! there's nothing to get cross about," said Gania.
"All I'm afraid of is--mother. I'm afraid this scandal about
father may come to her ears; perhaps it has already. I am
dreadfully afraid."
"It undoubtedly has already!" observed Gania.
Varia had risen from her place and had started to go upstairs to
her mother; but at this observation of Gania's she turned and
gazed at him attentively.
"Who could have told her?"
"Hippolyte, probably. He would think it the most delightful
amusement in the world to tell her of it the instant he moved
over here; I haven't a doubt of it."
"But how could he know anything of it? Tell me that. Lebedeff and
the prince determined to tell no one--even Colia knows nothing."
"What, Hippolyte? He found it out himself, of course. Why, you
have no idea what a cunning little animal he is; dirty little
gossip! He has the most extraordinary nose for smelling out other
people's secrets, or anything approaching to scandal. Believe it
or not, but I'm pretty sure he has got round Aglaya. If he
hasn't, he soon will. Rogojin is intimate with him, too. How the
prince doesn't notice it, I can't understand. The little wretch
considers me his enemy now and does his best to catch me
tripping. What on earth does it matter to him, when he's dying?
However, you'll see; I shall catch HIM tripping yet, and not he
me."
"Why did you get him over here, if you hate him so? And is it
really worth your while to try to score off him?"
"Why, it was yourself who advised me to bring him over!"
"I thought he might be useful. You know he is in love with Aglaya
himself, now, and has written to her; he has even written to
Lizabetha Prokofievna!"
"Oh! he's not dangerous there!" cried Gania, laughing angrily.
"However, I believe there is something of that sort in the air;
he is very likely to be in love, for he is a mere boy. But he
won't write anonymous letters to the old lady; that would be too
audacious a thing for him to attempt; but I dare swear the very
first thing he did was to show me up to Aglaya as a base deceiver
and intriguer. I confess I was fool enough to attempt something
through him at first. I thought he would throw himself into my
service out of revengeful feelings towards the prince, the sly
little beast! But I know him better now. As for the theft, he may
have heard of it from the widow in Petersburg, for if the old man
committed himself to such an act, he can have done it for no
other object but to give the money to her. Hippolyte said to me,
without any prelude, that the general had promised the widow four
hundred roubles. Of course I understood, and the little wretch
looked at me with a nasty sort of satisfaction. I know him; you
may depend upon it he went and told mother too, for the pleasure
of wounding her. And why doesn't he die, I should like to know?
He undertook to die within three weeks, and here he is getting
fatter. His cough is better, too. It was only yesterday that he
said that was the second day he hadn't coughed blood."
"Well, turn him out!"
"I don't HATE, I despise him," said Gania, grandly. "Well, I do
hate him, if you like!" he added, with a sudden access of rage,
"and I'll tell him so to his face, even when he's dying! If you
had but read his confession--good Lord! what refinement of
impudence! Oh, but I'd have liked to whip him then and there,
like a schoolboy, just to see how surprised he would have been!
Now he hates everybody because he--Oh, I say, what on earth are
they doing there! Listen to that noise! I really can't stand this
any longer. Ptitsin!" he cried, as the latter entered the room,
"what in the name of goodness are we coming to? Listen to that--"
But the noise came rapidly nearer, the door burst open, and old
General Ivolgin, raging, furious, purple-faced, and trembling
with anger, rushed in. He was followed by Nina Alexandrovna,
Colia, and behind the rest, Hippolyte.
II.
HIPPOLYTE had now been five days at the Ptitsins'. His flitting
from the prince's to these new quarters had been brought about
quite naturally and without many words. He did not quarrel with
the prince--in fact, they seemed to part as friends. Gania, who
had been hostile enough on that eventful evening, had himself
come to see him a couple of days later, probably in obedience to
some sudden impulse. For some reason or other, Rogojin too had
begun to visit the sick boy. The prince thought it might be
better for him to move away from his (the prince's) house.
Hippolyte informed him, as he took his leave, that Ptitsin "had
been kind enough to offer him a corner," and did not say a word
about Gania, though Gania had procured his invitation, and
himself came to fetch him away. Gania noticed this at the time,
and put it to Hippolyte's debit on account.
Gania was right when he told his sister that Hippolyte was
getting better; that he was better was clear at the first glance.
He entered the room now last of all, deliberately, and with a
disagreeable smile on his lips.
Nina Alexandrovna came in, looking frightened. She had changed
much since we last saw her, half a year ago, and had grown thin
and pale. Colia looked worried and perplexed. He could not
understand the vagaries of the general, and knew nothing of the
last achievement of that worthy, which had caused so much
commotion in the house. But he could see that his father had of
late changed very much, and that he had begun to behave in so
extraordinary a fashion both at home and abroad that he was not
like the same man. What perplexed and disturbed him as much as
anything was that his father had entirely given up drinking
during the last few days. Colia knew that he had quarrelled with
both Lebedeff and the prince, and had just bought a small bottle
of vodka and brought it home for his father.
"Really, mother," he had assured Nina Alexandrovna upstairs,
"really you had better let him drink. He has not had a drop for
three days; he must be suffering agonies--The general now entered
the room, threw the door wide open, and stood on the threshold
trembling with indignation.
"Look here, my dear sir," he began, addressing Ptitsin in a very
loud tone of voice; "if you have really made up your mind to
sacrifice an old man--your father too or at all events father of
your wife--an old man who has served his emperor--to a wretched
little atheist like this, all I can say is, sir, my foot shall
cease to tread your floors. Make your choice, sir; make your
choice quickly, if you please! Me or this--screw! Yes, screw,
sir; I said it accidentally, but let the word stand--this screw,
for he screws and drills himself into my soul--"
"Hadn't you better say corkscrew?" said Hippolyte.
"No, sir, NOT corkscrew. I am a general, not a bottle, sir. Make
your choice, sir--me or him."
Here Colia handed him a chair, and he subsided into it,
breathless with rage.
"Hadn't you better--better--take a nap?" murmured the stupefied
Ptitsin.
"A nap?" shrieked the general. "I am not drunk, sir; you insult
me! I see," he continued, rising, "I see that all are against me
here. Enough--I go; but know, sirs--know that--"
He was not allowed to finish his sentence. Somebody pushed him
back into his chair, and begged him to be calm. Nina Alexandrovna
trembled, and cried quietly. Gania retired to the window in
disgust.
"But what have I done? What is his grievance?" asked Hippolyte,
grinning.
"What have you done, indeed?" put in Nina Alexandrovna. "You
ought to be ashamed of yourself, teasing an old man like that--
and in your position, too."
"And pray what IS my position, madame? I have the greatest
respect for you, personally; but--"
"He's a little screw," cried the general; "he drills holes my
heart and soul. He wishes me to be a pervert to atheism. Know,
you young greenhorn, that I was covered with honours before ever
you were born; and you are nothing better than a wretched little
worm, torn in two with coughing, and dying slowly of your own
malice and unbelief. What did Gavrila bring you over here for?
They're all against me, even to my own son--all against me."
"Oh, come--nonsense!" cried Gania; "if you did not go shaming us
all over the town, things might be better for all parties."
"What--shame you? I?--what do you mean, you young calf? I shame
you? I can only do you honour, sir; I cannot shame you."
He jumped up from his chair in a fit of uncontrollable rage.
Gania was very angry too.
"Honour, indeed!" said the latter, with contempt.
"What do you say, sir?" growled the general, taking a step
towards him.
"I say that I have but to open my mouth, and you--"
Gania began, but did not finish. The two--father and son--stood
before one another, both unspeakably agitated, especially Gania.
"Gania, Gania, reflect!" cried his mother, hurriedly.
"It's all nonsense on both sides," snapped out Varia. "Let them
alone, mother."
"It's only for mother's sake that I spare him," said Gania,
tragically.
"Speak!" said the general, beside himself with rage and
excitement; "speak--under the penalty of a father's curse
"Oh, father's curse be hanged--you don't frighten me that way!"
said Gania. "Whose fault is it that you have been as mad as a
March hare all this week? It is just a week--you see, I count the
days. Take care now; don't provoke me too much, or I'll tell all.
Why did you go to the Epanchins' yesterday--tell me that? And you
call yourself an old man, too, with grey hair, and father of a
family! H'm--nice sort of a father."
"Be quiet, Gania," cried Colia. "Shut up, you fool!"
"Yes, but how have I offended him?" repeated Hippolyte, still
in the same jeering voice. " Why does he call me a screw? You all
heard it. He came to me himself and began telling me about some
Captain Eropegoff. I don't wish for your company, general. I
always avoided you--you know that. What have I to do with
Captain Eropegoff? All I did was to express my opinion that
probably Captain Eropegoff never existed at all!"
"Of course he never existed!" Gania interrupted.
But the general only stood stupefied and gazed around in a dazed
way. Gania's speech had impressed him, with its terrible candour.
For the first moment or two he could find no words to answer him,
and it was only when Hippolyte burst out laughing, and said:
"There, you see! Even your own son supports my statement that
there never was such a person as Captain Eropegoff!" that the old
fellow muttered confusedly:
"Kapiton Eropegoff--not Captain Eropegoff!--Kapiton--major
retired--Eropegoff--Kapiton."
"Kapiton didn't exist either!" persisted Gania, maliciously.
"What? Didn't exist?" cried the poor general, and a deep blush
suffused his face.
"That'll do, Gania!" cried Varia and Ptitsin.
"Shut up, Gania!" said Colia.
But this intercession seemed to rekindle the general.
"What did you mean, sir, that he didn't exist? Explain yourself,"
he repeated, angrily.
"Because he DIDN'T exist--never could and never did--there! You'd
better drop the subject, I warn you!"
"And this is my son--my own son--whom I--oh, gracious Heaven!
Eropegoff--Eroshka Eropegoff didn't exist!"
"Ha, ha! it's Eroshka now," laughed Hippolyte.
"No, sir, Kapitoshka--not Eroshka. I mean, Kapiton Alexeyevitch--
retired major--married Maria Petrovna Lu--Lu--he was my friend
and companion--Lutugoff--from our earliest beginnings. I closed
his eyes for him--he was killed. Kapiton Eropegoff never existed!
tfu!"
The general shouted in his fury; but it was to be concluded that
his wrath was not kindled by the expressed doubt as to Kapiton's
existence. This was his scapegoat; but his excitement was caused
by something quite different. As a rule he would have merely
shouted down the doubt as to Kapiton, told a long yarn about his
friend, and eventually retired upstairs to his room. But today,
in the strange uncertainty of human nature, it seemed to require
but so small an offence as this to make his cup to overflow. The
old man grew purple in the face, he raised his hands. "Enough of
this!" he yelled. "My curse--away, out of the house I go! Colia,
bring my bag away!" He left the room hastily and in a paroxysm of
rage.
His wife, Colia, and Ptitsin ran out after him.
"What have you done now?" said Varia to Gania. "He'll probably be
making off THERE again! What a disgrace it all is!"
"Well, he shouldn't steal," cried Gania, panting with fury. And
just at this moment his eye met Hippolyte's.
"As for you, sir," he cried, "you should at least remember that
you are in a strange house and--receiving hospitality; you should
not take the opportunity of tormenting an old man, sir, who is
too evidently out of his mind."
Hippolyte looked furious, but he restrained himself.
"I don't quite agree with you that your father is out of his
mind," he observed, quietly. "On the contrary, I cannot help
thinking he has been less demented of late. Don't you think so?
He has grown so cunning and careful, and weighs his words so
deliberately; he spoke to me about that Kapiton fellow with an
object, you know! Just fancy--he wanted me to--"
"Oh, devil take what he wanted you to do! Don't try to be too
cunning with me, young man!" shouted Gania. "If you are aware of
the real reason for my father's present condition (and you have
kept such an excellent spying watch during these last few days
that you are sure to be aware of it)--you had no right whatever
to torment the--unfortunate man, and to worry my mother by your
exaggerations of the affair; because the whole business is
nonsense--simply a drunken freak, and nothing more, quite
unproved by any evidence, and I don't believe that much of it!"
(he snapped his fingers). "But you must needs spy and watch over
us all, because you are a-a--"
"Screw!" laughed Hippolyte.
"Because you are a humbug, sir; and thought fit to worry people
for half an hour, and tried to frighten them into believing that
you would shoot yourself with your little empty pistol,
pirouetting about and playing at suicide! I gave you hospitality,
you have fattened on it, your cough has left you, and you repay
all this--"
"Excuse me--two words! I am Varvara Ardalionovna's guest, not
yours; YOU have extended no hospitality to me. On the contrary,
if I am not mistaken, I believe you are yourself indebted to Mr.
Ptitsin's hospitality. Four days ago I begged my mother to come
down here and find lodgings, because I certainly do feel better
here, though I am not fat, nor have I ceased to cough. I am
today informed that my room is ready for me; therefore, having
thanked your sister and mother for their kindness to me, I intend
to leave the house this evening. I beg your pardon--I interrupted
you--I think you were about to add something?"
"Oh--if that is the state of affairs--" began Gania.
"Excuse me--I will take a seat," interrupted Hippolyte once more,
sitting down deliberately; "for I am not strong yet. Now then, I
am ready to hear you. Especially as this is the last chance we
shall have of a talk, and very likely the last meeting we shall
ever have at all."
Gania felt a little guilty.
"I assure you I did not mean to reckon up debits and credits," he
began, "and if you--"
"I don't understand your condescension," said Hippolyte. "As for
me, I promised myself, on the first day of my arrival in this
house, that I would have the satisfaction of settling accounts
with you in a very thorough manner before I said good-bye to you.
I intend to perform this operation now, if you like; after you,
though, of course."
"May I ask you to be so good as to leave this room?"
"You'd better speak out. You'll be sorry afterwards if you
don't."
"Hippolyte, stop, please! It's so dreadfully undignified," said
Varia.
"Well, only for the sake of a lady," said Hippolyte, laughing. "I
am ready to put off the reckoning, but only put it off, Varvara
Ardalionovna, because an explanation between your brother and
myself has become an absolute necessity, and I could not think of
leaving the house without clearing up all misunderstandings
first."
"In a word, you are a wretched little scandal-monger," cried
Gania, "and you cannot go away without a scandal!"
"You see," said Hippolyte, coolly, " you can't restrain yourself.
You'll be dreadfully sorry afterwards if you don't speak out now.
Come, you shall have the first say. I'll wait."
Gania was silent and merely looked contemptuously at him.
"You won't? Very well. I shall be as short as possible, for my
part. Two or three times to-day I have had the word 'hospitality'
pushed down my throat; this is not fair. In inviting me here you
yourself entrapped me for your own use; you thought I wished to
revenge myself upon the prince. You heard that Aglaya Ivanovna
had been kind to me and read my confession. Making sure that I
should give myself up to your interests, you hoped that you might
get some assistance out of me. I will not go into details. I
don't ask either admission or confirmation of this from yourself;
I am quite content to leave you to your conscience, and to feel
that we understand one another capitally."
"What a history you are weaving out of the most ordinary
circumstances!" cried Varia.
"I told you the fellow was nothing but a scandalmonger," said
Gania.
"Excuse me, Varia Ardalionovna, I will proceed. I can, of course,
neither love nor respect the prince, though he is a good-hearted
fellow, if a little queer. But there is no need whatever for me
to hate him. I quite understood your brother when he first
offered me aid against the prince, though I did not show it; I
knew well that your brother was making a ridiculous mistake in
me. I am ready to spare him, however, even now; but solely out of
respect for yourself, Varvara Ardalionovna.
"Having now shown you that I am not quite such a fool as I look,
and that I have to be fished for with a rod and line for a good
long while before I am caught, I will proceed to explain why I
specially wished to make your brother look a fool. That my motive
power is hate, I do not attempt to conceal. I have felt that
before dying (and I am dying, however much fatter I may appear to
you), I must absolutely make a fool of, at least, one of that
class of men which has dogged me all my life, which I hate so
cordially, and which is so prominently represented by your much
esteemed brother. I should not enjoy paradise nearly so much
without having done this first. I hate you, Gavrila
Ardalionovitch, solely (this may seem curious to you, but I
repeat)--solely because you are the type, and incarnation, and
head, and crown of the most impudent, the most self-satisfied,
the most vulgar and detestable form of commonplaceness. You are
ordinary of the ordinary; you have no chance of ever fathering
the pettiest idea of your own. And yet you are as jealous and
conceited as you can possibly be; you consider yourself a great
genius; of this you are persuaded, although there are dark
moments of doubt and rage, when even this fact seems uncertain.
There are spots of darkness on your horizon, though they will
disappear when you become completely stupid. But a long and
chequered path lies before you, and of this I am glad. In the
first place you will never gain a certain person."
"Come, come! This is intolerable! You had better stop, you little
mischief-making wretch!" cried Varia. Gania had grown very pale;
he trembled, but said nothing.
Hippolyte paused, and looked at him intently and with great
gratification. He then turned his gaze upon Varia, bowed, and
went out, without adding another word.
Gania might justly complain of the hardness with which fate
treated him. Varia dared not speak to him for a long while, as he
strode past her, backwards and forwards. At last he went and
stood at the window, looking out, with his back turned towards
her. There was a fearful row going on upstairs again.
"Are you off?" said Gania, suddenly, remarking that she had risen
and was about to leave the room. "Wait a moment--look at this."
He approached the table and laid a small sheet of paper before
her. It looked like a little note.
"Good heavens!" cried Varia, raising her hands.
This was the note:
"GAVRILA ARDOLIONOVITCH,--persuaded of your kindness of heart, I
have determined to ask your advice on a matter of great
importance to myself. I should like to meet you tomorrow morning
at seven o'clock by the green bench in the park. It is not far
from our house. Varvara Ardalionovna, who must accompany you,
knows the place well.
"A. E."
"What on earth is one to make of a girl like that?" said Varia.
Gania, little as he felt inclined for swagger at this moment,
could not avoid showing his triumph, especially just after such
humiliating remarks as those of Hippolyte. A smile of self-
satisfaction beamed on his face, and Varia too was brimming over
with delight.
"And this is the very day that they were to announce the
engagement! What will she do next?"
"What do you suppose she wants to talk about tomorrow?" asked
Gania.
"Oh, THAT'S all the same! The chief thing is that she wants to
see you after six months' absence. Look here, Gania, this is a
SERIOUS business. Don't swagger again and lose the game--play
carefully, but don't funk, do you understand? As if she could
possibly avoid seeing what I have been working for all this last
six months! And just imagine, I was there this morning and not a
word of this! I was there, you know, on the sly. The old lady did
not know, or she would have kicked me out. I ran some risk for
you, you see. I did so want to find out, at all hazards."
Here there was a frantic noise upstairs once more; several people
seemed to be rushing downstairs at once.
"Now, Gania," cried Varia, frightened, "we can't let him go out!
We can't afford to have a breath of scandal about the town at
this moment. Run after him and beg his pardon--quick."
But the father of the family was out in the road already. Colia
was carrying his bag for him; Nina Alexandrovna stood and cried
on the doorstep; she wanted to run after the general, but Ptitsin
kept her back.
"You will only excite him more," he said. "He has nowhere else to
go to--he'll be back here in half an hour. I've talked it all
over with Colia; let him play the fool a bit, it will do him
good."
"What are you up to? Where are you off to? You've nowhere to go
to, you know," cried Gania, out of the window.
"Come back, father; the neighbours will hear!" cried Varia.
The general stopped, turned round, raised his hands and remarked:
"My curse be upon this house!"
"Which observation should always be made in as theatrical a tone
as possible," muttered Gania, shutting the window with a bang.
The neighbours undoubtedly did hear. Varia rushed out of the
room.
No sooner had his sister left him alone, than Gania took the note
out of his pocket, kissed it, and pirouetted around.
III.
As a general rule, old General Ivolgin's paroxysms ended in
smoke. He had before this experienced fits of sudden fury, but
not very often, because he was really a man of peaceful and
kindly disposition. He had tried hundreds of times to overcome
the dissolute habits which he had contracted of late years. He
would suddenly remember that he was "a father," would be
reconciled with his wife, and shed genuine tears. His feeling for
Nina Alexandrovna amounted almost to adoration; she had pardoned
so much in silence, and loved him still in spite of the state of
degradation into which he had fallen. But the general's struggles
with his own weakness never lasted very long. He was, in his way,
an impetuous man, and a quiet life of repentance in the bosom of
his family soon became insupportable to him. In the end he
rebelled, and flew into rages which he regretted, perhaps, even
as he gave way to them, but which were beyond his control. He
picked quarrels with everyone, began to hold forth eloquently,
exacted unlimited respect, and at last disappeared from the
house, and sometimes did not return for a long time. He had given
up interfering in the affairs of his family for two years now,
and knew nothing about them but what he gathered from hearsay.
But on this occasion there was something more serious than usual.
Everyone seemed to know something, but to be afraid to talk about
it.
The general had turned up in the bosom of his family two or three
days before, but not, as usual, with the olive branch of peace in
his hand, not in the garb of penitence--in which he was usually
clad on such occasions--but, on the contrary, in an uncommonly
bad temper. He had arrived in a quarrelsome mood, pitching into
everyone he came across, and talking about all sorts and kinds of
subjects in the most unexpected manner, so that it was impossible
to discover what it was that was really putting him out. At
moments he would be apparently quite bright and happy; but as a
rule he would sit moody and thoughtful. He would abruptly
commence to hold forth about the Epanchins, about Lebedeff, or
the prince, and equally abruptly would stop short and refuse to
speak another word, answering all further questions with a stupid
smile, unconscious that he was smiling, or that he had been asked
a question. The whole of the previous night he had spent tossing
about and groaning, and poor Nina Alexandrovna had been busy
making cold compresses and warm fomentations and so on, without
being very clear how to apply them. He had fallen asleep after a
while, but not for long, and had awaked in a state of violent
hypochondria which had ended in his quarrel with Hippolyte, and
the solemn cursing of Ptitsin's establishment generally. It was
also observed during those two or three days that he was in a
state of morbid self-esteem, and was specially touchy on all
points of honour. Colia insisted, in discussing the matter with
his mother, that all this was but the outcome of abstinence from
drink, or perhaps of pining after Lebedeff, with whom up to this
time the general had been upon terms of the greatest friendship;
but with whom, for some reason or other, he had quarrelled a few
days since, parting from him in great wrath. There had also been
a scene with the prince. Colia had asked an explanation of the
latter, but had been forced to conclude that he was not told the
whole truth.
If Hippolyte and Nina Alexandrovna had, as Gania suspected, had
some special conversation about the general's actions, it was
strange that the malicious youth, whom Gania had called a
scandal-monger to his face, had not allowed himself a similar
satisfaction with Colia.
The fact is that probably Hippolyte was not quite so black as
Gania painted him; and it was hardly likely that he had informed
Nina Alexandrovna of certain events, of which we know, for the
mere pleasure of giving her pain. We must never forget that human
motives are generally far more complicated than we are apt to
suppose, and that we can very rarely accurately describe the
motives of another. It is much better for the writer, as a rule,
to content himself with the bare statement of events; and we
shall take this line with regard to the catastrophe recorded
above, and shall state the remaining events connected with the
general's trouble shortly, because we feel that we have already
given to this secondary character in our story more attention
than we originally intended.
The course of events had marched in the following order. When
Lebedeff returned, in company with the general, after their
expedition to town a few days since, for the purpose of
investigation, he brought the prince no information whatever. If
the latter had not himself been occupied with other thoughts and
impressions at the time, he must have observed that Lebedeff not
only was very uncommunicative, but even appeared anxious to avoid
him.
When the prince did give the matter a little attention, he
recalled the fact that during these days he had always found
Lebedeff to be in radiantly good spirits, when they happened to
meet; and further, that the general and Lebedeff were always
together. The two friends did not seem ever to be parted for a
moment.
Occasionally the prince heard loud talking and laughing upstairs,
and once he detected the sound of a jolly soldier's song going on
above, and recognized the unmistakable bass of the general's
voice. But the sudden outbreak of song did not last; and for an
hour afterwards the animated sound of apparently drunken
conversation continued to be heard from above. At length there
was the clearest evidence of a grand mutual embracing, and
someone burst into tears. Shortly after this, however, there was
a violent but short-lived quarrel, with loud talking on both
sides.
All these days Colia had been in a state of great mental
preoccupation. Muishkin was usually out all day, and only came
home late at night. On his return he was invariably informed that
Colia had been looking for him. However, when they did meet,
Colia never had anything particular to tell him, excepting that
he was highly dissatisfied with the general and his present
condition of mind and behaviour.
"They drag each other about the place," he said, and get drunk
together at the pub close by here, and quarrel in the street
on the way home, and embrace one another after it, and don't seem
to part for a moment."
When the prince pointed out that there was nothing new about
that, for that they had always behaved in this manner together,
Colia did not know what to say; in fact he could not explain what
it was that specially worried him, just now, about his father.
On the morning following the bacchanalian songs and quarrels
recorded above, as the prince stepped out of the house at about
eleven o'clock, the general suddenly appeared before him, much
agitated.
"I have long sought the honour and opportunity of meeting you--
much-esteemed Lef Nicolaievitch," he murmured, pressing the
prince's hand very hard, almost painfully so; "long--very long."
The prince begged him to step in and sit down.
"No--I will not sit down,--I am keeping you, I see,--another
time!--I think I may be permitted to congratulate you upon the
realization of your heart's best wishes, is it not so?"
"What best wishes?"
The prince blushed. He thought, as so many in his position do,
that nobody had seen, heard, noticed, or understood anything.
"Oh--be easy, sir, be easy! I shall not wound your tenderest
feelings. I've been through it all myself, and I know well how
unpleasant it is when an outsider sticks his nose in where he is
not wanted. I experience this every morning. I came to speak to
you about another matter, though, an important matter. A very
important matter, prince."
The latter requested him to take a seat once more, and sat down
himself.
"Well--just for one second, then. The fact is, I came for advice.
Of course I live now without any very practical objects in life;
but, being full of self-respect, in which quality the ordinary
Russian is so deficient as a rule, and of activity, I am
desirous, in a word, prince, of placing myself and my wife and
children in a position of--in fact, I want advice."
The prince commended his aspirations with warmth.
"Quite so--quite so! But this is all mere nonsense. I came here
to speak of something quite different, something very important,
prince. And I have determined to come to you as to a man in whose
sincerity and nobility of feeling I can trust like--like--are you
surprised at my words, prince?"
The prince was watching his guest, if not with much surprise, at
all events with great attention and curiosity.
The old man was very pale; every now and then his lips trembled,
and his hands seemed unable to rest quietly, but continually
moved from place to place. He had twice already jumped up from
his chair and sat down again without being in the least aware of
it. He would take up a hook from the table and open it--talking
all the while,--look at the heading of a chapter, shut it and put
it back again, seizing another immediately, but holding it
unopened in his hand, and waving it in the air as he spoke.
"But enough!" he cried, suddenly. "I see I have been boring you
with my--"
"Not in the least--not in the least, I assure you. On the
contrary, I am listening most attentively, and am anxious to
guess-"
"Prince, I wish to place myself in a respectable position--I wish
to esteem myself--and to--"
"My dear sir, a man of such noble aspirations is worthy of all
esteem by virtue of those aspirations alone."
The prince brought out his "copy-book sentence" in the firm
belief that it would produce a good effect. He felt instinctively
that some such well-sounding humbug, brought out at the proper
moment, would soothe the old man's feelings, and would be
specially acceptable to such a man in such a position. At all
hazards, his guest must be despatched with heart relieved and
spirit comforted; that was the problem before the prince at this
moment.
The phrase flattered the general, touched him, and pleased him
mightily. He immediately changed his tone, and started off on a
long and solemn explanation. But listen as he would, the prince
could make neither head nor tail of it.
The general spoke hotly and quickly for ten minutes; he spoke as
though his words could not keep pace with his crowding thoughts.
Tears stood in his eyes, and yet his speech was nothing but a
collection of disconnected sentences, without beginning and
without end--a string of unexpected words and unexpected
sentiments--colliding with one another, and jumping over one
another, as they burst from his lips.
"Enough!" he concluded at last, "you understand me, and that is
the great thing. A heart like yours cannot help understanding the
sufferings of another. Prince, you are the ideal of generosity;
what are other men beside yourself? But you are young--accept my
blessing! My principal object is to beg you to fix an hour for a
most important conversation--that is my great hope, prince. My
heart needs but a little friendship and sympathy, and yet I
cannot always find means to satisfy it."
"But why not now? I am ready to listen, and--"
"No, no--prince, not now! Now is a dream! And it is too, too
important! It is to be the hour of Fate to me--MY OWN hour. Our
interview is not to be broken in upon by every chance comer,
every impertinent guest--and there are plenty of such stupid,
impertinent fellows"--(he bent over and whispered mysteriously,
with a funny, frightened look on his face)--"who are unworthy to
tie your shoe, prince. I don't say MINE, mind--you will
understand me, prince. Only YOU understand me, prince--no one
else. HE doesn't understand me, he is absolutely--ABSOLUTELY
unable to sympathize. The first qualification for understanding
another is Heart."
The prince was rather alarmed at all this, and was obliged to end
by appointing the same hour of the following day for the
interview desired. The general left him much comforted and far
less agitated than when he had arrived.
At seven in the evening, the prince sent to request Lebedeff to
pay him a visit. Lebedeff came at once, and "esteemed it an
honour," as he observed, the instant he entered the room. He
acted as though there had never been the slightest suspicion of
the fact that he had systematically avoided the prince for the
last three days.
He sat down on the edge of his chair, smiling and making faces,
and rubbing his hands, and looking as though he were in delighted
expectation of hearing some important communication, which had
been long guessed by all.
The prince was instantly covered with confusion; for it appeared
to be plain that everyone expected something of him--that
everyone looked at him as though anxious to congratulate him, and
greeted him with hints, and smiles, and knowing looks.
Keller, for instance, had run into the house three times of late,
"just for a moment," and each time with the air of desiring to
offer his congratulations. Colia, too, in spite of his
melancholy, had once or twice begun sentences in much the same
strain of suggestion or insinuation.
The prince, however, immediately began, with some show of
annoyance, to question Lebedeff categorically, as to the
general's present condition, and his opinion thereon. He
described the morning's interview in a few words.
"Everyone has his worries, prince, especially in these strange
and troublous times of ours," Lebedeff replied, drily, and with
the air of a man disappointed of his reasonable expectations.
"Dear me, what a philosopher you are!" laughed the prince.
Philosophy is necessary, sir--very necessary--in our day. It is
too much neglected. As for me, much esteemed prince, I am
sensible of having experienced the honour of your confidence in a
certain matter up to a certain point, but never beyond that
point. I do not for a moment complain--"
"Lebedeff, you seem to be angry for some reason!" said the
prince.
"Not the least bit in the world, esteemed and revered prince! Not
the least bit in the world!" cried Lebedeff, solemnly, with his
hand upon his heart. "On the contrary, I am too painfully aware
that neither by my position in the world, nor by my gifts of
intellect and heart, nor by my riches, nor by any former conduct
of mine, have I in any way deserved your confidence, which is far
above my highest aspirations and hopes. Oh no, prince; I may
serve you, but only as your humble slave! I am not angry, oh no!
Not angry; pained perhaps, but nothing more.
"My dear Lebedeff, I--"
"Oh, nothing more, nothing more! I was saying to myself but now...
'I am quite unworthy of friendly relations with him,' say I;
'but perhaps as landlord of this house I may, at some future date,
in his good time, receive information as to certain imminent and
much to be desired changes--'"
So saying Lebedeff fixed the prince with his sharp little eyes,
still in hope that he would get his curiosity satisfied.
The prince looked back at him in amazement.
"I don't understand what you are driving at!" he cried, almost
angrily, "and, and--what an intriguer you are, Lebedeff!" he
added, bursting into a fit of genuine laughter.
Lebedeff followed suit at once, and it was clear from his radiant
face that he considered his prospects of satisfaction immensely
improved.
"And do you know," the prince continued, "I am amazed at your
naive ways, Lebedeff! Don't he angry with me--not only yours,
everybody else's also! You are waiting to hear something from me
at this very moment with such simplicity that I declare I feel
quite ashamed of myself for having nothing whatever to tell you.
I swear to you solemnly, that there is nothing to tell. There!
Can you take that in?" The prince laughed again.
Lebedeff assumed an air of dignity. It was true enough that he
was sometimes naive to a degree in his curiosity; but he was also
an excessively cunning gentleman, and the prince was almost
converting him into an enemy by his repeated rebuffs. The prince
did not snub Lebedeff's curiosity, however, because he felt any
contempt for him; but simply because the subject was too delicate
to talk about. Only a few days before he had looked upon his own
dreams almost as crimes. But Lebedeff considered the refusal as
caused by personal dislike to himself, and was hurt accordingly.
Indeed, there was at this moment a piece of news, most
interesting to the prince, which Lebedeff knew and even had
wished to tell him, but which he now kept obstinately to himself.
"And what can I do for you, esteemed prince? Since I am told you
sent for me just now," he said, after a few moments' silence.
"Oh, it was about the general," began the prince, waking abruptly
from the fit of musing which he too had indulged in "and-and
about the theft you told me of."
"That is--er--about--what theft?"
"Oh come! just as if you didn't understand, Lukian Timofeyovitch!
What are you up to? I can't make you out! The money, the money,
sir! The four hundred roubles that you lost that day. You came
and told me about it one morning, and then went off to
Petersburg. There, NOW do you understand?"
"Oh--h--h! You mean the four hundred roubles!" said Lebedeff,
dragging the words out, just as though it had only just dawned
upon him what the prince was talking about. "Thanks very much,
prince, for your kind interest--you do me too much honour. I
found the money, long ago!"
"You found it? Thank God for that!"
"Your exclamation proves the generous sympathy of your nature,
prince; for four hundred roubles--to a struggling family man like
myself--is no small matter!"
"I didn't mean that; at least, of course, I'm glad for your sake,
too," added the prince, correcting himself, " but--how did you
find it?"
"Very simply indeed! I found it under the chair upon which my
coat had hung; so that it is clear the purse simply fell out of
the pocket and on to the floor!"
"Under the chair? Impossible! Why, you told me yourself that you
had searched every corner of the room? How could you not have
looked in the most likely place of all?"
"Of course I looked there,--of course I did! Very much so! I
looked and scrambled about, and felt for it, and wouldn't believe
it was not there, and looked again and again. It is always so in
such cases. One longs and expects to find a lost article; one
sees it is not there, and the place is as hare as one's palm; and
yet one returns and looks again and again, fifteen or twenty
times, likely enough!"
"Oh, quite so, of course. But how was it in your case?--I don't
quite understand," said the bewildered prince. "You say it wasn't
there at first, and that you searched the place thoroughly, and
yet it turned up on that very spot!"
"Yes, sir--on that very spot." The prince gazed strangely at
Lebedeff. "And the general?" he asked, abruptly.
"The--the general? How do you mean, the general?" said Lebedeff,
dubiously, as though he had not taken in the drift of the
prince's remark.
"Oh, good heavens! I mean, what did the general say when the
purse turned up under the chair? You and he had searched for it
together there, hadn't you?"
"Quite so--together! But the second time I thought better to say
nothing about finding it. I found it alone."
"But--why in the world--and the money? Was it all there?"
"I opened the purse and counted it myself; right to a single
rouble."
"I think you might have come and told me," said the prince,
thoughtfully.
"Oh--I didn't like to disturb you, prince, in the midst of your
private and doubtless most interesting personal reflections.
Besides, I wanted to appear, myself, to have found nothing. I
took the purse, and opened it, and counted the money, and shut it
and put it down again under the chair."
"What in the world for?"
"Oh, just out of curiosity," said Lebedeff, rubbing his hands and
sniggering.
"What, it's still there then, is it? Ever since the day before
yesterday?"
"Oh no! You see, I was half in hopes the general might find it.
Because if I found it, why should not he too observe an object
lying before his very eyes? I moved the chair several times so as
to expose the purse to view, but the general never saw it. He is
very absent just now, evidently. He talks and laughs and tells
stories, and suddenly flies into a rage with me, goodness knows
why."
"Well, but--have you taken the purse away now?"
"No, it disappeared from under the chair in the night."
"Where is it now, then?"
"Here," laughed Lebedeff, at last, rising to his full height and
looking pleasantly at the prince, "here, in the lining of my
coat. Look, you can feel it for yourself, if you like!"
Sure enough there was something sticking out of the front of the
coat--something large. It certainly felt as though it might well
be the purse fallen through a hole in the pocket into the lining.
"I took it out and had a look at it; it's all right. I've let it
slip back into the lining now, as you see, and so I have been
walking about ever since yesterday morning; it knocks against my
legs when I walk along."
"H'm! and you take no notice of it?"
"Quite so, I take no notice of it. Ha, ha! and think of this,
prince, my pockets are always strong and whole, and yet, here in
one night, is a huge hole. I know the phenomenon is unworthy of
your notice; but such is the case. I examined the hole, and I
declare it actually looks as though it had been made with a pen-
knife, a most improbable contingency."
"And--and--the general?"
"Ah, very angry all day, sir; all yesterday and all today. He
shows decided bacchanalian predilections at one time, and at
another is tearful and sensitive, but at any moment he is liable
to paroxysms of such rage that I assure you, prince, I am quite
alarmed. I am not a military man, you know. Yesterday we were
sitting together in the tavern, and the lining of my coat was--
quite accidentally, of course--sticking out right in front. The
general squinted at it, and flew into a rage. He never looks me
quite in the face now, unless he is very drunk or maudlin; but
yesterday he looked at me in such a way that a shiver went all
down my back. I intend to find the purse tomorrow; but till then
I am going to have another night of it with him."
"What's the good of tormenting him like this?" cried the prince.
"I don't torment him, prince, I don't indeed!" cried Lebedeff,
hotly. "I love him, my dear sir, I esteem him; and believe it or
not, I love him all the better for this business, yes--and value
him more."
Lebedeff said this so seriously that the prince quite lost his
temper with him.
"Nonsense! love him and torment him so! Why, by the very fact
that he put the purse prominently before you, first under the
chair and then in your lining, he shows that he does not wish to
deceive you, but is anxious to beg your forgiveness in this
artless way. Do you hear? He is asking your pardon. He confides
in the delicacy of your feelings, and in your friendship for him.
And you can allow yourself to humiliate so thoroughly honest a
man!"
"Thoroughly honest, quite so, prince, thoroughly honest!" said
Lebedeff, with flashing eyes. "And only you, prince, could have
found so very appropriate an expression. I honour you for it,
prince. Very well, that's settled; I shall find the purse now and
not tomorrow. Here, I find it and take it out before your eyes!
And the money is all right. Take it, prince, and keep it till
tomorrow, will you? Tomorrow or next day I'll take it back again.
I think, prince, that the night after its disappearance it was
buried under a bush in the garden. So I believe--what do you
think of that?"
"Well, take care you don't tell him to his face that you have
found the purse. Simply let him see that it is no longer in the
lining of your coat, and form his own conclusions."
"Do you think so? Had I not just better tell him I have found it,
and pretend I never guessed where it was?"
"No, I don't think so," said the prince, thoughtfully; "it's too
late for that--that would be dangerous now. No, no! Better say
nothing about it. Be nice with him, you know, but don't show him
--oh, YOU know well enough--"
"I know, prince, of course I know, but I'm afraid I shall not
carry it out; for to do so one needs a heart like your own. He is
so very irritable just now, and so proud. At one moment he will
embrace me, and the next he flies out at me and sneers at me, and
then I stick the lining forward on purpose. Well, au revoir,
prince, I see I am keeping you, and boring you, too, interfering
with your most interesting private reflections."
"Now, do be careful! Secrecy, as before!"
"Oh, silence isn't the word! Softly, softly!"
But in spite of this conclusion to the episode, the prince
remained as puzzled as ever, if not more so. He awaited next
morning's interview with the general most impatiently.
IV.
THE time appointed was twelve o'clock, and the prince, returning
home unexpectedly late, found the general waiting for him. At the
first glance, he saw that the latter was displeased, perhaps
because he had been kept waiting. The prince apologized, and
quickly took a seat. He seemed strangely timid before the general
this morning, for some reason, and felt as though his visitor
were some piece of china which he was afraid of breaking.
On scrutinizing him, the prince soon saw that the general was
quite a different man from what he had been the day before; he
looked like one who had come to some momentous resolve. His
calmness, however, was more apparent than real. He was courteous,
but there was a suggestion of injured innocence in his manner.
"I've brought your book back," he began, indicating a book lying
on the table. "Much obliged to you for lending it to me."
"Ah, yes. Well, did you read it, general? It's curious, isn't
it?" said the prince, delighted to be able to open up
conversation upon an outside subject.
"Curious enough, yes, but crude, and of course dreadful nonsense;
probably the man lies in every other sentence."
The general spoke with considerable confidence, and dragged his
words out with a conceited drawl.
"Oh, but it's only the simple tale of an old soldier who saw the
French enter Moscow. Some of his remarks were wonderfully
interesting. Remarks of an eye-witness are always valuable,
whoever he be, don't you think so
"Had I been the publisher I should not have printed it. As to the
evidence of eye-witnesses, in these days people prefer impudent
lies to the stories of men of worth and long service. I know of
some notes of the year 1812, which--I have determined, prince, to
leave this house, Mr. Lebedeff's house."
The general looked significantly at his host.
"Of course you have your own lodging at Pavlofsk at--at your
daughter's house," began the prince, quite at a loss what to say.
He suddenly recollected that the general had come for advice on a
most important matter, affecting his destiny.
"At my wife's; in other words, at my own place, my daughter's
house."
"I beg your pardon, I--"
"I leave Lebedeff's house, my dear prince, because I have
quarrelled with this person. I broke with him last night, and am
very sorry that I did not do so before. I expect respect, prince,
even from those to whom I give my heart, so to speak. Prince, I
have often given away my heart, and am nearly always deceived.
This person was quite unworthy of the gift."
"There is much that might be improved in him," said the prince,
moderately, "but he has some qualities which--though amid them
one cannot but discern a cunning nature--reveal what is often a
diverting intellect."
The prince's tone was so natural and respectful that the general
could not possibly suspect him of any insincerity.
"Oh, that he possesses good traits, I was the first to show, when
I very nearly made him a present of my friendship. I am not
dependent upon his hospitality, and upon his house; I have my own
family. I do not attempt to justify my own weakness. I have drunk
with this man, and perhaps I deplore the fact now, but I did not
take him up for the sake of drink alone (excuse the crudeness of
the expression, prince); I did not make friends with him for that
alone. I was attracted by his good qualities; but when the fellow
declares that he was a child in 1812, and had his left leg cut
off, and buried in the Vagarkoff cemetery, in Moscow, such a
cock-and-bull story amounts to disrespect, my dear sir, to--to
impudent exaggeration."
"Oh, he was very likely joking; he said it for fun."
"I quite understand you. You mean that an innocent lie for the
sake of a good joke is harmless, and does not offend the human
heart. Some people lie, if you like to put it so, out of pure
friendship, in order to amuse their fellows; but when a man makes
use of extravagance in order to show his disrespect and to make
clear how the intimacy bores him, it is time for a man of honour
to break off the said intimacy., and to teach the offender his
place."
The general flushed with indignation as he spoke.
"Oh, but Lebedeff cannot have been in Moscow in 1812. He is much
too young; it is all nonsense."
"Very well, but even if we admit that he was alive in 1812, can
one believe that a French chasseur pointed a cannon at him for a
lark, and shot his left leg off? He says he picked his own leg up
and took it away and buried it in the cemetery. He swore he had a
stone put up over it with the inscription: 'Here lies the leg of
Collegiate Secretary Lebedeff,' and on the other side, 'Rest,
beloved ashes, till the morn of joy,' and that he has a service
read over it every year (which is simply sacrilege), and goes to
Moscow once a year on purpose. He invites me to Moscow in order
to prove his assertion, and show me his leg's tomb, and the very
cannon that shot him; he says it's the eleventh from the gate of
the Kremlin, an old-fashioned falconet taken from the French
afterwards."
"And, meanwhile both his legs are still on his body," said the
prince, laughing. "I assure you, it is only an innocent joke, and
you need not be angry about it."
"Excuse me--wait a minute--he says that the leg we see is a
wooden one, made by Tchernosvitoff."
"They do say one can dance with those!"
"Quite so, quite so; and he swears that his wife never found out
that one of his legs was wooden all the while they were married.
When I showed him the ridiculousness of all this, he said, 'Well,
if you were one of Napoleon's pages in 1812, you might let me
bury my leg in the Moscow cemetery.'
"Why, did you say--" began the prince, and paused in confusion.
The general gazed at his host disdainfully.
"Oh, go on," he said, "finish your sentence, by all means. Say
how odd it appears to you that a man fallen to such a depth of
humiliation as I, can ever have been the actual eye-witness of
great events. Go on, I don't mind! Has he found time to tell you
scandal about me?"
"No, I've heard nothing of this from Lebedeff, if you mean
Lebedeff."
"H'm; I thought differently. You see, we were talking over this
period of history. I was criticizing a current report of
something which then happened, and having been myself an eye-
witness of the occurrence--you are smiling, prince--you are
looking at my face as if--"
"Oh no! not at all--I--"
"I am rather young-looking, I know; but I am actually older than
I appear to be. I was ten or eleven in the year 1812. I don't
know my age exactly, but it has always been a weakness of mine to
make it out less than it really is.
"I assure you, general, I do not in the least doubt your
statement. One of our living autobiographers states that when he
was a small baby in Moscow in 1812 the French soldiers fed him
with bread."
"Well, there you see!" said the general, condescendingly. "There
is nothing whatever unusual about my tale. Truth very often
appears to be impossible. I was a page--it sounds strange, I dare
say. Had I been fifteen years old I should probably have been
terribly frightened when the French arrived, as my mother was
(who had been too slow about clearing out of Moscow); but as I
was only just ten I was not in the least alarmed, and rushed
through the crowd to the very door of the palace when Napoleon
alighted from his horse."
"Undoubtedly, at ten years old you would not have felt the sense
of fear, as you say," blurted out the prince, horribly
uncomfortable in the sensation that he was just about to blush.
"Of course; and it all happened so easily and naturally. And yet,
were a novelist to describe the episode, he would put in all
kinds of impossible and incredible details."
"Oh," cried the prince, "I have often thought that! Why, I know
of a murder, for the sake of a watch. It's in all the papers now.
But if some writer had invented it, all the critics would have
jumped down his throat and said the thing was too improbable for
anything. And yet you read it in the paper, and you can't help
thinking that out of these strange disclosures is to be gained
the full knowledge of Russian life and character. You said that
well, general; it is so true," concluded the prince, warmly,
delighted to have found a refuge from the fiery blushes which had
covered his face.
"Yes, it's quite true, isn't it?" cried the general, his eyes
sparkling with gratification. "A small boy, a child, would
naturally realize no danger; he would shove his way through the
crowds to see the shine and glitter of the uniforms, and
especially the great man of whom everyone was speaking, for at
that time all the world had been talking of no one but this man
for some years past. The world was full of his name; I--so to
speak--drew it in with my mother's milk. Napoleon, passing a
couple of paces from me, caught sight of me accidentally. I was
very well dressed, and being all alone, in that crowd, as you
will easily imagine...
"Oh, of course! Naturally the sight impressed him, and proved to
him that not ALL the aristocracy had left Moscow; that at least
some nobles and their children had remained behind."
Just so just so! He wanted to win over the aristocracy! When his
eagle eye fell on me, mine probably flashed back in response.'
Voila un garcon bien eveille! Qui est ton pere?' I immediately
replied, almost panting with excitement, 'A general, who died on
the battle-fields of his country! "Le fils d'un boyard et d'un
brave, pardessus le marche. J'aime les boyards. M'aimes-tu,
petit?' To this keen question I replied as keenly, 'The Russian
heart can recognize a great man even in the bitter enemy of his
country.' At least, I don't remember the exact words, you know,
but the idea was as I say. Napoleon was struck; he thought a
minute and then said to his suite: 'I like that boy's pride; if
all Russians think like this child', then he didn't finish, hut
went on and entered the palace. I instantly mixed with his suite,
and followed him. I was already in high favour. I remember when
he came into the first hall, the emperor stopped before a
portrait of the Empress Katherine, and after a thoughtful glance
remarked, 'That was a great woman,' and passed on.
"Well, in a couple of days I was known all over the palace and
the Kremlin as 'le petit boyard.' I only went home to sleep. They
were nearly out of their minds about me at home. A couple of days
after this, Napoleon's page, De Bazancour, died; he had not been
able to stand the trials of the campaign. Napoleon remembered me;
I was taken away without explanation; the dead page's uniform was
tried on me, and when I was taken before the emperor, dressed in
it, he nodded his head to me, and I was told that I was appointed
to the vacant post of page.
"Well, I was glad enough, for I had long felt the greatest
sympathy for this man; and then the pretty uniform and all that--
only a child, you know--and so on. It was a dark green dress coat
with gold buttons--red facings, white trousers, and a white silk
waistcoat--silk stockings, shoes with buckles, and top-boots if I
were riding out with his majesty or with the suite.
"Though the position of all of us at that time was not
particularly brilliant, and the poverty was dreadful all round,
yet the etiquette at court was strictly preserved, and the more
strictly in proportion to the growth of the forebodings of
disaster."
"Quite so, quite so, of course!" murmured the poor prince, who
didn't know where to look. "Your memoirs would be most
interesting."
The general was, of course, repeating what he had told Lebedeff
the night before, and thus brought it out glibly enough, but here
he looked suspiciously at the prince out of the corners of his
eyes.
"My memoirs!" he began, with redoubled pride and dignity. "Write
my memoirs? The idea has not tempted me. And yet, if you please,
my memoirs have long been written, but they shall not see the
light until dust returns to dust. Then, I doubt not, they will be
translated into all languages, not of course on account of their
actual literary merit, but because of the great events of which I
was the actual witness, though but a child at the time. As a
child, I was able to penetrate into the secrecy of the great
man's private room. At nights I have heard the groans and
wailings of this 'giant in distress.' He could feel no shame in
weeping before such a mere child as I was, though I understood
even then that the reason for his suffering was the silence of
the Emperor Alexander."
"Yes, of course; he had written letters to the latter with
proposals of peace, had he not?" put in the prince.
"We did not know the details of his proposals, but he wrote
letter after letter, all day and every day. He was dreadfully
agitated. Sometimes at night I would throw myself upon his breast
with tears (Oh, how I loved that man!). 'Ask forgiveness, Oh, ask
forgiveness of the Emperor Alexander!' I would cry. I should have
said, of course, 'Make peace with Alexander,' but as a child I
expressed my idea in the naive way recorded. 'Oh, my child,' he
would say (he loved to talk to me and seemed to forget my tender
years), 'Oh, my child, I am ready to kiss Alexander's feet, but I
hate and abominate the King of Prussia and the Austrian Emperor,
and--and--but you know nothing of politics, my child.' He would
pull up, remembering whom he was speaking to, but his eyes would
sparkle for a long while after this. Well now, if I were to
describe all this, and I have seen greater events than these, all
these critical gentlemen of the press and political parties--Oh,
no thanks! I'm their very humble servant, but no thanks!"
"Quite so--parties--you are very right," said the prince. "I was
reading a book about Napoleon and the Waterloo campaign only the
other day, by Charasse, in which the author does not attempt to
conceal his joy at Napoleon's discomfiture at every page. Well
now, I don't like that; it smells of 'party,' you know. You are
quite right. And were you much occupied with your service under
Napoleon?"
The general was in ecstasies, for the prince's remarks, made, as
they evidently were, in all seriousness and simplicity, quite
dissipated the last relics of his suspicion.
"I know Charasse's book! Oh! I was so angry with his work! I
wrote to him and said--I forget what, at this moment. You ask
whether I was very busy under the Emperor? Oh no! I was called
'page,' but hardly took my duty seriously. Besides, Napoleon very
soon lost hope of conciliating the Russians, and he would have
forgotten all about me had he not loved me--for personal reasons--
I don't mind saying so now. My heart was greatly drawn to him,
too. My duties were light. I merely had to be at the palace
occasionally to escort the Emperor out riding, and that was about
all. I rode very fairly well. He used to have a ride before
dinner, and his suite on those occasions were generally Davoust,
myself, and Roustan."
"Constant?" said the prince, suddenly, and quite involuntarily.
"No; Constant was away then, taking a letter to the Empress
Josephine. Instead of him there were always a couple of
orderlies--and that was all, excepting, of course, the generals
and marshals whom Napoleon always took with him for the
inspection of various localities, and for the sake of
consultation generally. I remember there was one--Davoust--nearly
always with him--a big man with spectacles. They used to argue
and quarrel sometimes. Once they were in the Emperor's study
together--just those two and myself--I was unobserved--and they
argued, and the Emperor seemed to be agreeing to something under
protest. Suddenly his eye fell on me and an idea seemed to flash
across him.
"'Child,' he said, abruptly. 'If I were to recognize the Russian
orthodox religion and emancipate the serfs, do you think Russia
would come over to me?'"
"'Never!' I cried, indignantly."
"The Emperor was much struck."
"'In the flashing eyes of this patriotic child I read and accept
the fiat of the Russian people. Enough, Davoust, it is mere
phantasy on our part. Come, let's hear your other project.'"
"'Yes, but that was a great idea," said the prince, clearly
interested. "You ascribe it to Davoust, do you?"
"Well, at all events, they were consulting together at the time.
Of course it was the idea of an eagle, and must have originated
with Napoleon; but the other project was good too--it was the
'Conseil du lion!' as Napoleon called it. This project consisted
in a proposal to occupy the Kremlin with the whole army; to arm
and fortify it scientifically, to kill as many horses as could be
got, and salt their flesh, and spend the winter there; and in
spring to fight their way out. Napoleon liked the idea--it
attracted him. We rode round the Kremlin walls every day, and
Napoleon used to give orders where they were to be patched, where
built up, where pulled down and so on. All was decided at last.
They were alone together--those two and myself.
"Napoleon was walking up and down with folded arms. I could not
take my eyes off his face--my heart beat loudly and painfully.
"'I'm off,' said Davoust. 'Where to?' asked Napoleon.
"'To salt horse-flesh,' said Davoust. Napoleon shuddered--his
fate was being decided.
"'Child,' he addressed me suddenly, 'what do you think of our
plan?' Of course he only applied to me as a sort of toss-up, you
know. I turned to Davoust and addressed my reply to him. I said,
as though inspired:
"'Escape, general! Go home!--'
"The project was abandoned; Davoust shrugged his shoulders and
went out, whispering to himself--'Bah, il devient superstitieux!'
Next morning the order to retreat was given."
"All this is most interesting," said the prince, very softly, "if
it really was so--that is, I mean--" he hastened to correct
himself.
"Oh, my dear prince," cried the general, who was now so
intoxicated with his own narrative that he probably could not
have pulled up at the most patent indiscretion.
"You say, if it really was so!' There was more--much more, I
assure you! These are merely a few little political acts. I tell
you I was the eye-witness of the nightly sorrow and groanings of
the great man, and of that no one can speak but myself. Towards
the end he wept no more, though he continued to emit an
occasional groan; but his face grew more overcast day by day, as
though Eternity were wrapping its gloomy mantle about him.
Occasionally we passed whole hours of silence together at night,
Roustan snoring in the next room--that fellow slept like a pig.
'But he's loyal to me and my dynasty,' said Napoleon of him.
"Sometimes it was very painful to me, and once he caught me with
tears in my eyes. He looked at me kindly. 'You are sorry for me,'
he said, 'you, my child, and perhaps one other child--my son,
the King of Rome--may grieve for me. All the rest hate me; and my
brothers are the first to betray me in misfortune.' I sobbed and
threw myself into his arms. He could not resist me--he burst into
tears, and our tears mingled as we folded each other in a close
embrace.
"'Write, oh, write a letter to the Empress Josephine!' I cried,
sobbing. Napoleon started, reflected, and said, 'You remind me of
a third heart which loves me. Thank you, my friend;' and then and
there he sat down and wrote that letter to Josephine, with which
Constant was sent off next day."
"You did a good action," said the prince, "for in the midst of
his angry feelings you insinuated a kind thought into his heart."
"Just so, prince, just so. How well you bring out that fact!
Because your own heart is good!" cried the ecstatic old
gentleman, and, strangely enough, real tears glistened in his
eyes." Yes, prince, it was a wonderful spectacle. And, do you
know, I all but went off to Paris, and should assuredly have
shared his solitary exile with him; but, alas, our destinies were
otherwise ordered! We parted, he to his island, where I am sure
he thought of the weeping child who had embraced him so
affectionately at parting in Moscow; and I was sent off to the
cadet corps, where I found nothing but roughness and harsh
discipline. Alas, my happy days were done!
"'I do not wish to deprive your mother of you, and, therefore, I
will not ask you to go with me,' he said, the morning of his
departure, 'but I should like to do something for you.' He was
mounting his horse as he spoke. 'Write something in my sister's
album for me,' I said rather timidly, for he was in a state of
great dejection at the moment. He turned, called for a pen, took
the album. 'How old is your sister?' he asked, holding the pen in
his hand. 'Three years old,' I said. 'Ah, petite fille alors!'
and he wrote in the album:
'Ne mentes jamais!
NAPOLEON (votre ami sincere).'
"Such advice, and at such a moment, you must allow, prince, was--"
"Yes, quite so; very remarkable."
"This page of the album, framed in gold, hung on the wall of my
sister's drawing-room all her life, in the most conspicuous place,
till the day of her death; where it is now, I really don't know.
Heavens! it's two o'clock! HOW I have kept you, prince! It is
really most unpardonable of me.
The general rose.
"Oh, not in the least," said the prince. " On the contrary, I
have been so much interested, I'm really very much obliged to
you."
"Prince,", said the general, pressing his hand, and looking at
him with flashing eyes, and an expression as though he were under
the influence of a sudden thought which had come upon him with
stunning force. "Prince, you are so kind, so simple-minded, that
sometimes I really feel sorry for you! I gaze at you with a
feeling of real affection. Oh, Heaven bless you! May your life
blossom and fructify in love. Mine is over. Forgive me, forgive
me!"
He left the room quickly, covering his face with his hands.
The prince could not doubt the sincerity of his agitation. He
understood, too, that the old man had left the room intoxicated
with his own success. The general belonged to that class of
liars, who, in spite of their transports of lying, invariably
suspect that they are not believed. On this occasion, when he
recovered from his exaltation, he would probably suspect Muishkin
of pitying him, and feel insulted.
"Have I been acting rightly in allowing him to develop such vast
resources of imagination?" the prince asked himself. But his
answer was a fit of violent laughter which lasted ten whole
minutes. He tried to reproach himself for the laughing fit, but
eventually concluded that he needn't do so, since in spite of it
he was truly sorry for the old man. The same evening he received
a strange letter, short but decided. The general informed him
that they must part for ever; that he was grateful, but that even
from him he could not accept "signs of sympathy which were
humiliating to the dignity of a man already miserable enough."
When the prince heard that the old man had gone to Nina
Alexandrovna, though, he felt almost easy on his account.
We have seen, however, that the general paid a visit to Lizabetha
Prokofievna and caused trouble there, the final upshot being that
he frightened Mrs. Epanchin, and angered her by bitter hints as
to his son Gania.
He had been turned out in disgrace, eventually, and this was the
cause of his bad night and quarrelsome day, which ended in his
sudden departure into the street in a condition approaching
insanity, as recorded before.
Colia did not understand the position. He tried severity with his
father, as they stood in the street after the latter had cursed
the household, hoping to bring him round that way.
"Well, where are we to go to now, father?" he asked. "You don't
want to go to the prince's; you have quarrelled with Lebedeff;
you have no money; I never have any; and here we are in the
middle of the road, in a nice sort of mess."
"Better to be of a mess than in a mess! I remember making a joke
something like that at the mess in eighteen hundred and forty--
forty--I forget. 'Where is my youth, where is my golden youth?'
Who was it said that, Colia?"
"It was Gogol, in Dead Souls, father," cried Colia, glancing at
him in some alarm.
"'Dead Souls,' yes, of course, dead. When I die, Colia, you must
engrave on my tomb:
"'Here lies a Dead Soul,
Shame pursues me.'
"Who said that, Colia?"
"I don't know, father."
"There was no Eropegoff? Eroshka Eropegoff?" he cried, suddenly,
stopping in the road in a frenzy. "No Eropegoff! And my own son
to say it! Eropegoff was in the place of a brother to me for
eleven months. I fought a duel for him. He was married
afterwards, and then killed on the field of battle. The bullet
struck the cross on my breast and glanced off straight into his
temple. 'I'll never forget you,' he cried, and expired. I served
my country well and honestly, Colia, but shame, shame has pursued
me! You and Nina will come to my grave, Colia; poor Nina, I
always used to call her Nina in the old days, and how she
loved.... Nina, Nina, oh, Nina. What have I ever done to deserve
your forgiveness and long-suffering? Oh, Colia, your mother has an
angelic spirit, an angelic spirit, Colia!"
"I know that, father. Look here, dear old father, come back home!
Let's go back to mother. Look, she ran after us when we came out.
What have you stopped her for, just as though you didn't take in
what I said? Why are you crying, father?"
Poor Colia cried himself, and kissed the old man's hands
"You kiss my hands, MINE?"
"Yes, yes, yours, yours! What is there to surprise anyone in that?
Come, come, you mustn't go on like this, crying in the middle of
the road; and you a general too, a military man! Come, let's go
back."
"God bless you, dear boy, for being respectful to a disgraced
man. Yes, to a poor disgraced old fellow, your father. You shall
have such a son yourself; le roi de Rome. Oh, curses on this
house!"
"Come, come, what does all this mean?" cried Colia beside himself
at last. "What is it? What has happened to you? Why don't you
wish to come back home? Why have you gone out of your mind, like
this?"
"I'll explain it, I'll explain all to you. Don't shout! You shall
hear. Le roi de Rome. Oh, I am sad, I am melancholy!
"'Nurse, where is your tomb?'"
"Who said that, Colia?"
"I don't know, I don't know who said it. Come home at once; come
on! I'll punch Gania's head myself, if you like--only come. Oh,
where are you off to again?" The general was dragging him away
towards the door a house near. He sat down on the step, still
holding Colia by the hand.
"Bend down--bend down your ear. I'll tell you all--disgrace--bend
down, I'll tell you in your ear."
"What are you dreaming of?" said poor, frightened Colia, stooping
down towards the old man, all the same.
"Le roi de Rome," whispered the general, trembling all over.
"What? What DO you mean? What roi de Rome?"
"I-I," the general continued to whisper, clinging more and more
tightly to the boy's shoulder. "I--wish--to tell you--all--Maria-
-Maria Petrovna--Su--Su--Su......."
Colia broke loose, seized his father by the shoulders, and stared
into his eyes with frenzied gaze. The old man had grown livid--
his lips were shaking, convulsions were passing over his
features. Suddenly he leant over and began to sink slowly into
Colia's arms.
"He's got a stroke!" cried Colia, loudly, realizing what was the
matter at last.
V.
IN point of fact, Varia had rather exaggerated the certainty of
her news as to the prince's betrothal to Aglaya. Very likely,
with the perspicacity of her sex, she gave out as an accomplished
fact what she felt was pretty sure to become a fact in a few
days. Perhaps she could not resist the satisfaction of pouring
one last drop of bitterness into her brother Gania's cup, in
spite of her love for him. At all events, she had been unable to
obtain any definite news from the Epanchin girls--the most she
could get out of them being hints and surmises, and so on.
Perhaps Aglaya's sisters had merely been pumping Varia for news
while pretending to impart information; or perhaps, again, they
had been unable to resist the feminine gratification of teasing a
friend--for, after all this time, they could scarcely have helped
divining the aim of her frequent visits.
On the other hand, the prince, although he had told Lebedeff,--as
we know, that nothing had happened, and that he had nothing to
impart,--the prince may have been in error. Something strange
seemed to have happened, without anything definite having
actually happened. Varia had guessed that with her true feminine
instinct.
How or why it came about that everyone at the Epanchins' became
imbued with one conviction--that something very important had
happened to Aglaya, and that her fate was in process of
settlement--it would be very difficult to explain. But no sooner
had this idea taken root, than all at once declared that they had
seen and observed it long ago; that they had remarked it at the
time of the "poor knight" joke, and even before, though they had
been unwilling to believe in such nonsense.
So said the sisters. Of course, Lizabetha Prokofievna had
foreseen it long before the rest; her "heart had been sore" for a
long while, she declared, and it was now so sore that she
appeared to be quite overwhelmed, and the very thought of the
prince became distasteful to her.
There was a question to be decided--most important, but most
difficult; so much so, that Mrs. Epanchin did not even see how to
put it into words. Would the prince do or not? Was all this good
or bad? If good (which might be the case, of course), WHY good?
If bad (which was hardly doubtful), WHEREIN, especially, bad?
Even the general, the paterfamilias, though astonished at first,
suddenly declared that, "upon his honour, he really believed he
had fancied something of the kind, after all. At first, it seemed
a new idea, and then, somehow, it looked as familiar as
possible." His wife frowned him down there. This was in the
morning; but in the evening, alone with his wife, he had given
tongue again.
"Well, really, you know"--(silence)--"of course, you know all
this is very strange, if true, which I cannot deny; but"--
(silence).--" But, on the other hand, if one looks things in the
face, you know--upon my honour, the prince is a rare good fellow--
and--and--and--well, his name, you know--your family name--all
this looks well, and perpetuates the name and title and all that--
which at this moment is not standing so high as it might--from
one point of view--don't you know? The world, the world is the
world, of course--and people will talk--and--and--the prince has
property, you know--if it is not very large--and then he--he--"
(Continued silence, and collapse of the general.)
Hearing these words from her husband, Lizabetha Prokofievna was
driven beside herself.
According to her opinion, the whole thing had been one huge,
fantastical, absurd, unpardonable mistake. "First of all, this
prince is an idiot, and, secondly, he is a fool--knows nothing of
the world, and has no place in it. Whom can he be shown to? Where
can you take him to? What will old Bielokonski say? We never
thought of such a husband as THAT for our Aglaya!"
Of course, the last argument was the chief one. The maternal
heart trembled with indignation to think of such an absurdity,
although in that heart there rose another voice, which said: "And
WHY is not the prince such a husband as you would have desired
for Aglaya?" It was this voice which annoyed Lizabetha
Prokofievna more than anything else.
For some reason or other, the sisters liked the idea of the
prince. They did not even consider it very strange; in a word,
they might be expected at any moment to range themselves strongly
on his side. But both of them decided to say nothing either way.
It had always been noticed in the family that the stronger Mrs.
Epanchin's opposition was to any project, the nearer she was, in
reality, to giving in.
Alexandra, however, found it difficult to keep absolute silence
on the subject. Long since holding, as she did, the post of
"confidential adviser to mamma," she was now perpetually called
in council, and asked her opinion, and especially her assistance,
in order to recollect "how on earth all this happened?" Why did
no one see it? Why did no one say anything about it? What did all
that wretched "poor knight" joke mean? Why was she, Lizabetha
Prokofievna, driven to think, and foresee, and worry for
everybody, while they all sucked their thumbs, and counted the
crows in the garden, and did nothing? At first, Alexandra had
been very careful, and had merely replied that perhaps her
father's remark was not so far out: that, in the eyes of the
world, probably the choice of the prince as a husband for one of
the Epanchin girls would be considered a very wise one. Warming
up, however, she added that the prince was by no means a fool,
and never had been; and that as to "place in the world," no one
knew what the position of a respectable person in Russia would
imply in a few years--whether it would depend on successes in the
government service, on the old system, or what.
To all this her mother replied that Alexandra was a freethinker,
and that all this was due to that "cursed woman's rights
question."
Half an hour after this conversation, she went off to town, and
thence to the Kammenny Ostrof, ["Stone Island," a suburb and park
of St. Petersburg] to see Princess Bielokonski, who had just
arrived from Moscow on a short visit. The princess was Aglaya's
godmother.
"Old Bielokonski"listened to all the fevered and despairing
lamentations of Lizabetha Prokofievna without the least emotion;
the tears of this sorrowful mother did not evoke answering sighs--
in fact, she laughed at her. She was a dreadful old despot, this
princess; she could not allow equality in anything, not even in
friendship of the oldest standing, and she insisted on treating
Mrs. Epanchin as her protegee, as she had been thirty-five years
ago. She could never put up with the independence and energy of
Lizabetha's character. She observed that, as usual, the whole
family had gone much too far ahead, and had converted a fly into
an elephant; that, so far as she had heard their story, she was
persuaded that nothing of any seriousness had occurred; that it
would surely be better to wait until something DID happen; that
the prince, in her opinion, was a very decent young fellow,
though perhaps a little eccentric, through illness, and not quite
as weighty in the world as one could wish. The worst feature was,
she said, Nastasia Philipovna.
Lizabetha Prokofievna well understood that the old lady was angry
at the failure of Evgenie Pavlovitch--her own recommendation. She
returned home to Pavlofsk in a worse humour than when she left,
and of course everybody in the house suffered. She pitched into
everyone, because, she declared, they had 'gone mad.' Why were
things always mismanaged in her house? Why had everybody been in
such a frantic hurry in this matter? So far as she could see,
nothing whatever had happened. Surely they had better wait and
see what was to happen, instead of making mountains out of
molehills.
And so the conclusion of the matter was that it would be far
better to take it quietly, and wait coolly to see what would turn
up. But, alas! peace did not reign for more than ten minutes. The
first blow dealt to its power was in certain news communicated to
Lizabetha Prokofievna as to events which bad happened during her
trip to see the princess. (This trip had taken place the day
after that on which the prince had turned up at the Epanchins at
nearly one o'clock at night, thinking it was nine.)
The sisters replied candidly and fully enough to their mother's
impatient questions on her return. They said, in the first place,
that nothing particular had happened since her departure; that
the prince had been, and that Aglaya had kept him waiting a long
while before she appeared--half an hour, at least; that she had
then come in, and immediately asked the prince to have a game of
chess; that the prince did not know the game, and Aglaya had
beaten him easily; that she had been in a wonderfully merry mood,
and had laughed at the prince, and chaffed him so unmercifully
that one was quite sorry to see his wretched expression.
She had then asked him to play cards--the game called "little
fools." At this game the tables were turned completely, for the
prince had shown himself a master at it. Aglaya had cheated and
changed cards, and stolen others, in the most bare-faced way,
but, in spite of everything the prince had beaten her hopelessly
five times running, and she had been left "little fool" each
time.
Aglaya then lost her temper, and began to say such awful things
to the prince that he laughed no more, but grew dreadfully pale,
especially when she said that she should not remain in the house
with him, and that he ought to be ashamed of coming to their
house at all, especially at night, "AFTER ALL THAT HAD HAPPENED."
So saying, she had left the room, banging the door after her, and
the prince went off, looking as though he were on his way to a
funeral, in spite of all their attempts at consolation.
Suddenly, a quarter of an hour after the prince's departure,
Aglaya had rushed out of her room in such a hurry that she had
not even wiped her eyes, which were full of tears. She came back
because Colia had brought a hedgehog. Everybody came in to see
the hedgehog. In answer to their questions Colia explained that
the hedgehog was not his, and that he had left another boy,
Kostia Lebedeff, waiting for him outside. Kostia was too shy to
come in, because he was carrying a hatchet; they had bought the
hedgehog and the hatchet from a peasant whom they had met on the
road. He had offered to sell them the hedgehog, and they had paid
fifty copecks for it; and the hatchet had so taken their fancy
that they had made up their minds to buy it of their own accord.
On hearing this, Aglaya urged Colia to sell her the hedgehog; she
even called him "dear Colia," in trying to coax him. He refused
for a long time, but at last he could hold out no more, and went
to fetch Kostia Lebedeff. The latter appeared, carrying his
hatchet, and covered with confusion. Then it came out that the
hedgehog was not theirs, but the property of a schoolmate, one
Petroff, who had given them some money to buy Schlosser's History
for him, from another schoolfellow who at that moment was driven
to raising money by the sale of his books. Colia and Kostia were
about to make this purchase for their friend when chance brought
the hedgehog to their notice, and they had succumbed to the
temptation of buying it. They were now taking Petroff the
hedgehog and hatchet which they had bought with his money,
instead of Schiosser's History. But Aglaya so entreated them that
at last they consented to sell her the hedgehog. As soon as she
had got possession of it, she put it in a wicker basket with
Colia's help, and covered it with a napkin. Then she said to
Colia: "Go and take this hedgehog to the prince from me, and ask
him to accept it as a token of my profound respect." Colia
joyfully promised to do the errand, but he demanded explanations.
"What does the hedgehog mean? What is the meaning of such a
present?" Aglaya replied that it was none of his business. " I am
sure that there is some allegory about it," Colia persisted.
Aglaya grew angry, and called him "a silly boy." "If I did not
respect all women in your person," replied Colia, "and if my own
principles would permit it, I would soon prove to you, that I
know how to answer such an insult!" But, in the end, Colia went
off with the hedgehog in great delight, followed by Kostia
Lebedeff. Aglaya's annoyance was soon over, and seeing that Colia
was swinging the hedgehog's basket violently to and fro, she
called out to him from the verandah, as if they had never
quarrelled: "Colia, dear, please take care not to drop him!"
Colia appeared to have no grudge against her, either, for he
stopped, and answered most cordially: "No, I will not drop him!
Don't be afraid, Aglaya Ivanovna!" After which he went on his
way. Aglaya burst out laughing and ran up to her room, highly
delighted. Her good spirits lasted the whole day.
All this filled poor Lizabetha's mind with chaotic confusion.
What on earth did it all mean? The most disturbing feature was
the hedgehog. What was the symbolic signification of a hedgehog?
What did they understand by it? What underlay it? Was it a
cryptic message?
Poor General Epanchin "put his foot in it" by answering the above
questions in his own way. He said there was no cryptic message at
all. As for the hedgehog, it was just a hedgehog, which meant
nothing--unless, indeed, it was a pledge of friendship,--the sign
of forgetting of offences and so on. At all events, it was a
joke, and, of course, a most pardonable and innocent one.
We may as well remark that the general had guessed perfectly
accurately.
The prince, returning home from the interview with Aglaya, had
sat gloomy and depressed for half an hour. He was almost in
despair when Colia arrived with the hedgehog.
Then the sky cleared in a moment. The prince seemed to arise from
the dead; he asked Colia all about it, made him repeat the story
over and over again, and laughed and shook hands with the boys in
his delight.
It seemed clear to the prince that Aglaya forgave him, and that
he might go there again this very evening; and in his eyes that
was not only the main thing, but everything in the world.
"What children we are still, Colia!" he cried at last,
enthusiastically,--"and how delightful it is that we can be
children still!"
"Simply--my dear prince,--simply she is in love with you,--that's
the whole of the secret!" replied Colia, with authority.
The prince blushed, but this time he said nothing. Colia burst
out laughing and clapped his hands. A minute later the prince
laughed too, and from this moment until the evening he looked at
his watch every other minute to see how much time he had to wait
before evening came.
But the situation was becoming rapidly critical.
Mrs. Epanchin could bear her suspense no longer, and in spite of
the opposition of husband and daughters, she sent for Aglaya,
determined to get a straightforward answer out of her, once for
all.
"Otherwise," she observed hysterically, "I shall die before
evening."
It was only now that everyone realized to what a ridiculous dead-
lock the whole matter had been brought. Excepting feigned
surprise, indignation, laughter, and jeering--both at the prince
and at everyone who asked her questions,--nothing could be got
out of Aglaya.
Lizabetha Prokofievna went to bed and only rose again in time for
tea, when the prince might be expected.
She awaited him in trembling agitation; and when he at last
arrived she nearly went off into hysterics.
Muishkin himself came in very timidly. He seemed to feel his way,
and looked in each person's eyes in a questioning way,--for
Aglaya was absent, which fact alarmed him at once.
This evening there were no strangers present--no one but the
immediate members of the family. Prince S. was still in town,
occupied with the affairs of Evgenie Pavlovitch's uncle.
"I wish at least HE would come and say something!" complained
poor Lizabetha Prokofievna.
The general sat still with a most preoccupied air. The sisters
were looking very serious and did not speak a word, and Lizabetha
Prokofievna did not know how to commence the conversation.
At length she plunged into an energetic and hostile criticism of
railways, and glared at the prince defiantly.
Alas Aglaya still did not come--and the prince was quite lost. He
had the greatest difficulty in expressing his opinion that
railways were most useful institutions,--and in the middle of his
speech Adelaida laughed, which threw him into a still worse state
of confusion.
At this moment in marched Aglaya, as calm and collected as could
be. She gave the prince a ceremonious bow and solemnly took up a
prominent position near the big round table. She looked at the
prince questioningly.
All present realized that the moment for the settlement of
perplexities had arrived.
"Did you get my hedgehog?" she inquired, firmly and almost
angrily.
Yes, I got it," said the prince, blushing.
"Tell us now, at once, what you made of the present? I must have
you answer this question for mother's sake; she needs pacifying,
and so do all the rest of the family!"
"Look here, Aglaya--" began the general.
"This--this is going beyond all limits!" said Lizabetha
Prokofievna, suddenly alarmed.
"It is not in the least beyond all limits, mamma!" said her
daughter, firmly. "I sent the prince a hedgehog this morning, and
I wish to hear his opinion of it. Go on, prince."
"What--what sort of opinion, Aglaya Ivanovna?"
"About the hedgehog."
"That is--I suppose you wish to know how I received the hedgehog,
Aglaya Ivanovna,--or, I should say, how I regarded your sending
him to me? In that case, I may tell you--in a word--that I--in
fact--"
He paused, breathless.
"Come--you haven't told us much!" said Aglaya, after waiting some
five seconds. "Very well, I am ready to drop the hedgehog, if you
like; but I am anxious to be able to clear up this accumulation
of misunderstandings. Allow me to ask you, prince,--I wish to
hear from you, personally--are you making me an offer, or not?"
"Gracious heavens!" exclaimed Lizabetha Prokofievna. The prince
started. The general stiffened in his chair; the sisters frowned.
"Don't deceive me now, prince--tell the truth. All these people
persecute me with astounding questions--about you. Is there any
ground for all these questions, or not? Come!"
"I have not asked you to marry me yet, Aglaya Ivanovna," said the
prince, becoming suddenly animated; "but you know yourself how
much I love you and trust you."
"No--I asked you this--answer this! Do you intend to ask for my
band, or not?"
"Yes--I do ask for it!" said the prince, more dead than alive
now.
There was a general stir in the room.
"No--no--my dear girl," began the general. "You cannot proceed
like this, Aglaya, if that's how the matter stands. It's
impossible. Prince, forgive it, my dear fellow, but--Lizabetha
Prokofievna!"--he appealed to his spouse for help--"you must
really--"
"Not I--not I! I retire from all responsibility," said Lizabetha
Prokofievna, with a wave of the hand.
"Allow me to speak, please, mamma," said Aglaya. "I think I ought
to have something to say in the matter. An important moment of my
destiny is about to be decided"--(this is how Aglaya expressed
herself)--"and I wish to find out how the matter stands, for my
own sake, though I am glad you are all here. Allow me to ask you,
prince, since you cherish those intentions, how you consider that
you will provide for my happiness?"
"I--I don't quite know how to answer your question, Aglaya
Ivanovna. What is there to say to such a question? And--and must
I answer?"
"I think you are rather overwhelmed and out of breath. Have a
little rest, and try to recover yourself. Take a glass of water,
or--but they'll give you some tea directly."
"I love you, Aglaya Ivanovna,--I love you very much. I love only
you--and--please don't jest about it, for I do love you very
much."
"Well, this matter is important. We are not children--we must look
into it thoroughly. Now then, kindly tell me--what does your
fortune consist of?"
"No--Aglaya--come, enough of this, you mustn't behave like this,"
said her father, in dismay.
"It's disgraceful," said Lizabetha Prokofievna in a loud whisper.
"She's mad--quite!" said Alexandra.
"Fortune--money--do you mean?" asked the prince in some surprise.
"Just so."
"I have now--let's see--I have a hundred and thirty-five thousand
roubles," said the prince, blushing violently.
"Is that all, really?" said Aglaya, candidly, without the
slightest show of confusion. "However, it's not so bad,
especially if managed with economy. Do you intend to serve?"
"I--I intended to try for a certificate as private tutor."
"Very good. That would increase our income nicely. Have you any
intention of being a Kammer-junker?"
"A Kammer-junker? I had not thought of it, but--"
But here the two sisters could restrain themselves no longer, and
both of them burst into irrepressible laughter.
Adelaida had long since detected in Aglaya's features the
gathering signs of an approaching storm of laughter, which she
restrained with amazing self-control.
Aglaya looked menacingly at her laughing sisters, but could not
contain herself any longer, and the next minute she too had burst
into an irrepressible, and almost hysterical, fit of mirth. At
length she jumped up, and ran out of the room.
"I knew it was all a joke!" cried Adelaida. "I felt it ever
since--since the hedgehog."
"No, no! I cannot allow this,--this is a little too much," cried
Lizabetha Prokofievna, exploding with rage, and she rose from her
seat and followed Aglaya out of the room as quickly as she could.
The two sisters hurriedly went after her.
The prince and the general were the only two persons left in the
room.
"It's--it's really--now could you have imagined anything like it,
Lef Nicolaievitch?" cried the general. He was evidently so much
agitated that he hardly knew what he wished to say. "Seriously
now, seriously I mean--"
"I only see that Aglaya Ivanovna is laughing at me," said the
poor prince, sadly.
"Wait a bit, my boy, I'll just go--you stay here, you know. But
do just explain, if you can, Lef Nicolaievitch, how in the world
has all this come about? And what does it all mean? You must
understand, my dear fellow; I am a father, you see, and I ought
to be allowed to understand the matter--do explain, I beg you!"
"I love Aglaya Ivanovna--she knows it,--and I think she must have
long known it."
The general shrugged his shoulders.
"Strange--it's strange," he said, "and you love her very much?"
"Yes, very much."
"Well--it's all most strange to me. That is--my dear fellow, it
is such a surprise--such a blow--that... You see, it is not
your financial position (though I should not object if you were a
bit richer)--I am thinking of my daughter's happiness, of course,
and the thing is--are you able to give her the happiness she
deserves? And then--is all this a joke on her part, or is she in
earnest? I don't mean on your side, but on hers."
At this moment Alexandra's voice was heard outside the door,
calling out "Papa!"
"Wait for me here, my boy--will you? Just wait and think it all
over, and I'll come back directly," he said hurriedly, and made
off with what looked like the rapidity of alarm in response to
Alexandra's call.
He found the mother and daughter locked in one another's arms,
mingling their tears.
These were the tears of joy and peace and reconciliation. Aglaya
was kissing her mother's lips and cheeks and hands; they were
hugging each other in the most ardent way.
"There, look at her now--Ivan Fedorovitch! Here she is--all of
her! This is our REAL Aglaya at last!" said Lizabetha
Prokofievna.
Aglaya raised her happy, tearful face from her mother's breast,
glanced at her father, and burst out laughing. She sprang at him
and hugged him too, and kissed him over and over again. She then
rushed back to her mother and hid her face in the maternal bosom,
and there indulged in more tears. Her mother covered her with a
corner of her shawl.
"Oh, you cruel little girl! How will you treat us all next, I
wonder?" she said, but she spoke with a ring of joy in her voice,
and as though she breathed at last without the oppression which
she had felt so long.
"Cruel?" sobbed Aglaya. "Yes, I AM cruel, and worthless, and
spoiled--tell father so,--oh, here he is--I forgot Father,
listen!" She laughed through her tears.
"My darling, my little idol," cried the general, kissing and
fondling her hands (Aglaya did not draw them away); "so you love
this young man, do you?"
"No, no, no, can't BEAR him, I can't BEAR your young man!" cried
Aglaya, raising her head. "And if you dare say that ONCE more,
papa--I'm serious, you know, I'm,--do you hear me--I'm serious!"
She certainly did seem to be serious enough. She had flushed up
all over and her eyes were blazing.
The general felt troubled and remained silent, while Lizabetha
Prokofievna telegraphed to him from behind Aglaya to ask no
questions.
"If that's the case, darling--then, of course, you shall do
exactly as you like. He is waiting alone downstairs. Hadn't I
better hint to him gently that he can go?" The general
telegraphed to Lizabetha Prokofievna in his turn.
"No, no, you needn't do anything of the sort; you mustn't hint
gently at all. I'll go down myself directly. I wish to apologize
to this young man, because I hurt his feelings."
"Yes, SERIOUSLY," said the general, gravely.
"Well, you'd better stay here, all of you, for a little, and I'll
go down to him alone to begin with. I'll just go in and then you
can follow me almost at once. That's the best way."
She had almost reached the door when she turned round again.
"I shall laugh--I know I shall; I shall die of laughing," she
said, lugubriously.
However, she turned and ran down to the prince as fast as her
feet could carry her.
"Well, what does it all mean? What do you make of it?" asked the
general of his spouse, hurriedly.
"I hardly dare say," said Lizabetha, as hurriedly, "but I think
it's as plain as anything can be."
"I think so too, as clear as day; she loves him."
"Loves him? She is head over ears in love, that's what she is,"
put in Alexandra.
"Well, God bless her, God bless her, if such is her destiny,"
said Lizabetha, crossing herself devoutly.
"H'm destiny it is," said the general, "and there's no getting
out of destiny."
With these words they all moved off towards the drawing-room,
where another surprise awaited them. Aglaya had not only not
laughed, as she had feared, but had gone to the prince rather
timidly, and said to him:
"Forgive a silly, horrid, spoilt girl"--(she took his hand here)--
"and be quite assured that we all of us esteem you beyond all
words. And if I dared to turn your beautiful, admirable
simplicity to ridicule, forgive me as you would a little child
its mischief. Forgive me all my absurdity of just now, which, of
course, meant nothing, and could not have the slightest
consequence." She spoke these words with great emphasis.
Her father, mother, and sisters came into the room and were much
struck with the last words, which they just caught as they
entered--"absurdity which of course meant nothing"--and still
more so with the emphasis with which Aglaya had spoken.
They exchanged glances questioningly, but the prince did not seem
to have understood the meaning of Aglaya's words; he was in the
highest heaven of delight.
"Why do you speak so?" he murmured. "Why do you ask my
forgiveness?"
He wished to add that he was unworthy of being asked for
forgiveness by her, but paused. Perhaps he did understand
Aglaya's sentence about "absurdity which meant nothing," and like
the strange fellow that he was, rejoiced in the words.
Undoubtedly the fact that he might now come and see Aglaya as
much as he pleased again was quite enough to make him perfectly
happy; that he might come and speak to her, and see her, and sit
by her, and walk with her--who knows, but that all this was quite
enough to satisfy him for the whole of his life, and that he
would desire no more to the end of time?
(Lizabetha Prokofievna felt that this might be the case, and she
didn't like it; though very probably she could not have put the
idea into words.)
It would be difficult to describe the animation and high spirits
which distinguished the prince for the rest of the evening.
He was so happy that "it made one feel happy to look at him," as
Aglaya's sisters expressed it afterwards. He talked, and told
stories just as he had done once before, and never since, namely
on the very first morning of his acquaintance with the Epanchins,
six months ago. Since his return to Petersburg from Moscow, he
had been remarkably silent, and had told Prince S. on one
occasion, before everyone, that he did not think himself
justified in degrading any thought by his unworthy words.
But this evening he did nearly all the talking himself, and told
stories by the dozen, while he answered all questions put to him
clearly, gladly, and with any amount of detail.
There was nothing, however, of love-making in his talk. His ideas
were all of the most serious kind; some were even mystical and
profound.
He aired his own views on various matters, some of his most
private opinions and observations, many of which would have
seemed rather funny, so his hearers agreed afterwards, had they
not been so well expressed.
The general liked serious subjects of conversation; but both he
and Lizabetha Prokofievna felt that they were having a little too
much of a good thing tonight, and as the evening advanced, they
both grew more or less melancholy; but towards night, the prince
fell to telling funny stories, and was always the first to burst
out laughing himself, which he invariably did so joyously and
simply that the rest laughed just as much at him as at his
stories.
As for Aglaya, she hardly said a word all the evening; but she
listened with all her ears to Lef Nicolaievitch's talk, and
scarcely took her eyes off him.
"She looked at him, and stared and stared, and hung on every word
he said," said Lizabetha afterwards, to her husband, "and yet,
tell her that she loves him, and she is furious!"
"What's to be done? It's fate," said the general, shrugging his
shoulders, and, for a long while after, he continued to repeat:
"It's fate, it's fate!"
We may add that to a business man like General Epanchin the
present position of affairs was most unsatisfactory. He hated the
uncertainty in which they had been, perforce, left. However, he
decided to say no more about it, and merely to look on, and take
his time and tune from Lizabetha Prokofievna.
The happy state in which the family had spent the evening, as
just recorded, was not of very long duration. Next day Aglaya
quarrelled with the prince again, and so she continued to behave
for the next few days. For whole hours at a time she ridiculed
and chaffed the wretched man, and made him almost a laughing-
stock.
It is true that they used to sit in the little summer-house
together for an hour or two at a time, very often, but it was
observed that on these occasions the prince would read the paper,
or some book, aloud to Aglaya.
"Do you know," Aglaya said to him once, interrupting the reading,
"I've remarked that you are dreadfully badly educated. You never
know anything thoroughly, if one asks you; neither anyone's name,
nor dates, nor about treaties and so on. It's a great pity, you
know!"
"I told you I had not had much of an education," replied the
prince.
"How am I to respect you, if that's the case? Read on now. No--
don't! Stop reading!"
And once more, that same evening, Aglaya mystified them all.
Prince S. had returned, and Aglaya was particularly amiable to
him, and asked a great deal after Evgenie Pavlovitch. (Muishkin
had not come in as yet.)
Suddenly Prince S. hinted something about "a new and approaching
change in the family." He was led to this remark by a
communication inadvertently made to him by Lizabetha Prokofievna,
that Adelaida's marriage must be postponed a little longer, in
order that the two weddings might come off together.
It is impossible to describe Aglaya's irritation. She flared up,
and said some indignant words about "all these silly
insinuations." She added that "she had no intentions as yet of
replacing anybody's mistress."
These words painfully impressed the whole party; but especially
her parents. Lizabetha Prokofievna summoned a secret council of
two, and insisted upon the general's demanding from the prince a
full explanation of his relations with Nastasia Philipovna. The
general argued that it was only a whim of Aglaya's; and that, had
not Prince S. unfortunately made that remark, which had confused
the child and made her blush, she never would have said what she
did; and that he was sure Aglaya knew well that anything she
might have heard of the prince and Nastasia Philipovna was merely
the fabrication of malicious tongues, and that the woman was
going to marry Rogojin. He insisted that the prince had nothing
whatever to do with Nastasia Philipovna, so far as any liaison
was concerned; and, if the truth were to be told about it, he
added, never had had.
Meanwhile nothing put the prince out, and he continued to be in
the seventh heaven of bliss. Of course he could not fail to
observe some impatience and ill-temper in Aglaya now and then;
but he believed in something else, and nothing could now shake
his conviction. Besides, Aglaya's frowns never lasted long; they
disappeared of themselves.
Perhaps he was too easy in his mind. So thought Hippolyte, at all
events, who met him in the park one day.
"Didn't I tell you the truth now, when I said you were in love?"
he said, coming up to Muishkin of his own accord, and stopping
him.
The prince gave him his hand and congratulated him upon "looking
so well."
Hippolyte himself seemed to be hopeful about his state of health,
as is often the case with consumptives.
He had approached the prince with the intention of talking
sarcastically about his happy expression of face, but very soon
forgot his intention and began to talk about himself. He began
complaining about everything, disconnectedly and endlessly, as
was his wont.
"You wouldn't believe," he concluded, "how irritating they all
are there. They are such wretchedly small, vain, egotistical,
COMMONPLACE people! Would you believe it, they invited me there
under the express condition that I should die quickly, and they
are all as wild as possible with me for not having died yet, and
for being, on the contrary, a good deal better! Isn't it a
comedy? I don't mind betting that you don't believe me!"
The prince said nothing.
"I sometimes think of coming over to you again," said Hippolyte,
carelessly. "So you DON'T think them capable of inviting a man on
the condition that he is to look sharp and die?"
"I certainly thought they invited you with quite other views."
"Ho, ho! you are not nearly so simple as they try to make you
out! This is not the time for it, or I would tell you a thing or
two about that beauty, Gania, and his hopes. You are being
undermined, pitilessly undermined, and--and it is really
melancholy to see you so calm about it. But alas! it's your
nature--you can't help it!"
"My word! what a thing to be melancholy about! Why, do you think
I should be any happier if I were to feel disturbed about the
excavations you tell me of?"
"It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy
in a fool's paradise! I suppose you don't believe that you have a
rival in that quarter?"
"Your insinuations as to rivalry are rather cynical, Hippolyte.
I'm sorry to say I have no right to answer you! As for Gania, I
put it to you, CAN any man have a happy mind after passing
through what he has had to suffer? I think that is the best way
to look at it. He will change yet, he has lots of time before
him, and life is rich; besides--besides..." the prince
hesitated. "As to being undermined, I don't know what in the
world you are driving at, Hippolyte. I think we had better drop
the subject!"
"Very well, we'll drop it for a while. You can't look at anything
but in your exalted, generous way. You must put out your finger
and touch a thing before you'll believe it, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I
suppose you despise me dreadfully, prince, eh? What do you
think?"
"Why? Because you have suffered more than we have?"
"No; because I am unworthy of my sufferings, if you like!"
"Whoever CAN suffer is worthy to suffer, I should think. Aglaya
Ivanovna wished to see you, after she had read your confession,
but--"
"She postponed the pleasure--I see--I quite understand!" said
Hippolyte, hurriedly, as though he wished to banish the subject.
"I hear--they tell me--that you read her all that nonsense aloud?
Stupid @ bosh it was--written in delirium. And I can't understand
how anyone can be so I won't say CRUEL, because the word would be
humiliating to myself, but we'll say childishly vain and
revengeful, as to REPROACH me with this confession, and use it as
a weapon against me. Don't be afraid, I'm not referring to
yourself."
"Oh, but I'm sorry you repudiate the confession, Hippolyte--it is
sincere; and, do you know, even the absurd parts of it--and these
are many" (here Hippolyte frowned savagely) "are, as it were,
redeemed by suffering--for it must have cost you something to
admit what you there say--great torture, perhaps, for all I know.
Your motive must have been a very noble one all through. Whatever
may have appeared to the contrary, I give you my word, I see this
more plainly every day. I do not judge you; I merely say this to
have it off my mind, and I am only sorry that I did not say it
all THEN--"
Hippolyte flushed hotly. He had thought at first that the prince
was "humbugging" him; but on looking at his face he saw that he
was absolutely serious, and had no thought of any deception.
Hippolyte beamed with gratification.
"And yet I must die," he said, and almost added: "a man like me @
"And imagine how that Gania annoys me! He has developed the idea
--or pretends to believe--that in all probability three or four
others who heard my confession will die before I do. There's an
idea for you--and all this by way of CONSOLING me! Ha! ha! ha! In
the first place they haven't died yet; and in the second, if they
DID die--all of them--what would be the satisfaction to me in
that? He judges me by himself. But he goes further, he actually
pitches into me because, as he declares, 'any decent fellow'
would die quietly, and that 'all this' is mere egotism on my
part. He doesn't see what refinement of egotism it is on his own
part--and at the same time, what ox-like coarseness! Have you
ever read of the death of one Stepan Gleboff, in the eighteenth
century? I read of it yesterday by chance."
"Who was he?"
He was impaled on a stake in the time of Peter."
"I know, I know! He lay there fifteen hours in the hard frost,
and died with the most extraordinary fortitude--I know--what of
him?"
"Only that God gives that sort of dying to some, and not to
others. Perhaps you think, though, that I could not die like
Gleboff?"
"Not at all!" said the prince, blushing. "I was only going to
say that you--not that you could not be like Gleboff--but that
you would have been more like @
"I guess what you mean--I should be an Osterman, not a Gleboff--
eh? Is that what you meant?"
"What Osterman?" asked the prince in some surprise.
"Why, Osterman--the diplomatist. Peter's Osterman," muttered
Hippolyte, confused. There was a moment's pause of mutual
confusion.
Oh, no, no!" said the prince at last, "that was not what I was
going to say--oh no! I don't think you would ever have been like
Osterman."
Hippolyte frowned gloomily.
"I'll tell you why I draw the conclusion," explained the prince,
evidently desirous of clearing up the matter a little. "Because,
though I often think over the men of those times, I cannot for
the life of me imagine them to be like ourselves. It really
appears to me that they were of another race altogether than
ourselves of today. At that time people seemed to stick so to
one idea; now, they are more nervous, more sensitive, more
enlightened--people of two or three ideas at once--as it were.
The man of today is a broader man, so to speak--and I declare I
believe that is what prevents him from being so self-contained
and independent a being as his brother of those earlier days. Of
course my remark was only made under this impression, and not in
the least @
"I quite understand. You are trying to comfort me for the
naiveness with which you disagreed with me--eh? Ha! ha! ha! You
are a regular child, prince! However, I cannot help seeing that
you always treat me like--like a fragile china cup. Never mind,
never mind, I'm not a bit angry! At all events we have had a very
funny talk. Do you know, all things considered, I should like to
be something better than Osterman! I wouldn't take the trouble to
rise from the dead to be an Osterman. However, I see I must make
arrangements to die soon, or I myself--. Well--leave me now! Au
revoir. Look here--before you go, just give me your opinion: how
do you think I ought to die, now? I mean--the best, the most
virtuous way? Tell me!"
"You should pass us by and forgive us our happiness," said the
prince in a low voice.
"Ha! ha! ha! I thought so. I thought I should hear something like
that. Well, you are--you really are--oh dear me! Eloquence,
eloquence! Good-bye!"
VI.
As to the evening party at the Epanchins' at which Princess
Bielokonski was to be present, Varia had reported with accuracy;
though she had perhaps expressed herself too strongly.
The thing was decided in a hurry and with a certain amount of
quite unnecessary excitement, doubtless because "nothing could be
done in this house like anywhere else."
The impatience of Lizabetha Prokofievna "to get things settled"
explained a good deal, as well as the anxiety of both parents for
the happiness of their beloved daughter. Besides, Princess
Bielokonski was going away soon, and they hoped that she would
take an interest in the prince. They were anxious that he should
enter society under the auspices of this lady, whose patronage
was the best of recommendations for any young man.
Even if there seems something strange about the match, the
general and his wife said to each other, the "world" will accept
Aglaya's fiance without any question if he is under the patronage
of the princess. In any case, the prince would have to be "shown"
sooner or later; that is, introduced into society, of which he
had, so far, not the least idea. Moreover, it was only a question
of a small gathering of a few intimate friends. Besides Princess
Bielokonski, only one other lady was expected, the wife of a high
dignitary. Evgenie Pavlovitch, who was to escort the princess,
was the only young man.
Muishkin was told of the princess's visit three days beforehand,
but nothing was said to him about the party until the night
before it was to take place.
He could not help observing the excited and agitated condition of
all members of the family, and from certain hints dropped in
conversation he gathered that they were all anxious as to the
impression he should make upon the princess. But the Epanchins,
one and all, believed that Muishkin, in his simplicity of mind,
was quite incapable of realizing that they could be feeling any
anxiety on his account, and for this reason they all looked at
him with dread and uneasiness.
In point of fact, he did attach marvellously little importance to
the approaching event. He was occupied with altogether different
thoughts. Aglaya was growing hourly more capricious and gloomy,
and this distressed him. When they told him that Evgenie
Pavlovitch was expected, he evinced great delight, and said that
he had long wished to see him--and somehow these words did not
please anyone.
Aglaya left the room in a fit of irritation, and it was not until
late in the evening, past eleven, when the prince was taking his
departure, that she said a word or two to him, privately, as she
accompanied him as far as the front door.
"I should like you," she said, "not to come here tomorrow until
evening, when the guests are all assembled. You know there are to
be guests, don't you?"
She spoke impatiently and with severity; this was the first
allusion she had made to the party of tomorrow.
She hated the idea of it, everyone saw that; and she would
probably have liked to quarrel about it with her parents, but
pride and modesty prevented her from broaching the subject.
The prince jumped to the conclusion that Aglaya, too, was nervous
about him, and the impression he would make, and that she did not
like to admit her anxiety; and this thought alarmed him.
"Yes, I am invited," he replied.
She was evidently in difficulties as to how best to go on. "May I
speak of something serious to you, for once in my life?" she
asked, angrily. She was irritated at she knew not what, and could
not restrain her wrath.
"Of course you may; I am very glad to listen," replied Muishkin.
Aglaya was silent a moment and then began again with evident
dislike of her subject:
"I do not wish to quarrel with them about this; in some things
they won't be reasonable. I always did feel a loathing for the
laws which seem to guide mamma's conduct at times. I don't speak
of father, for he cannot be expected to be anything but what he
is. Mother is a noble-minded woman, I know; you try to suggest
anything mean to her, and you'll see! But she is such a slave to
these miserable creatures! I don't mean old Bielokonski alone.
She is a contemptible old thing, but she is able to twist people
round her little finger, and I admire that in her, at all events!
How mean it all is, and how foolish! We were always middle-class,
thoroughly middle-class, people. Why should we attempt to climb
into the giddy heights of the fashionable world? My sisters are
all for it. It's Prince S. they have to thank for poisoning their
minds. Why are you so glad that Evgenie Pavlovitch is coming?"
"Listen to me, Aglaya," said the prince, "I do believe you are
nervous lest I shall make a fool of myself tomorrow at your
party?"
"Nervous about you?" Aglaya blushed. "Why should I be nervous
about you? What would it matter to me if you were to make ever
such a fool of yourself? How can you say such a thing? What do
you mean by 'making a fool of yourself'? What a vulgar
expression! I suppose you intend to talk in that sort of way
tomorrow evening? Look up a few more such expressions in your
dictionary; do, you'll make a grand effect! I'm sorry that you
seem to be able to come into a room as gracefully as you do;
where did you learn the art? Do you think you can drink a cup of
tea decently, when you know everybody is looking at you, on
purpose to see how you do it?"
"Yes, I think I can."
"Can you? I'm sorry for it then, for I should have had a good
laugh at you otherwise. Do break SOMETHING at least, in the
drawing-room! Upset the Chinese vase, won't you? It's a valuable
one; DO break it. Mamma values it, and she'll go out of her
mind--it was a present. She'll cry before everyone, you'll see! Wave
your hand about, you know, as you always do, and just smash it.
Sit down near it on purpose."
"On the contrary, I shall sit as far from it as I can. Thanks for
the hint."
"Ha, ha! Then you are afraid you WILL wave your arms about! I
wouldn't mind betting that you'll talk about some lofty subject,
something serious and learned. How delightful, how tactful that
will be!"
"I should think it would be very foolish indeed, unless it
happened to come in appropriately."
"Look here, once for all," cried Aglaya, boiling over, "if I hear
you talking about capital punishment, or the economical condition
of Russia, or about Beauty redeeming the world, or anything of
that sort, I'll--well, of course I shall laugh and seem very
pleased, but I warn you beforehand, don't look me in the face
again! I'm serious now, mind, this time I AM REALLY serious." She
certainly did say this very seriously, so much so, that she
looked quite different from what she usually was, and the prince
could not help noticing the fact. She did not seem to be joking
in the slightest degree.
"Well, you've put me into such a fright that I shall certainly
make a fool of myself, and very likely break something too. I
wasn't a bit alarmed before, but now I'm as nervous as can be."
"Then don't speak at all. Sit still and don't talk."
"Oh, I can't do that, you know! I shall say something foolish out
of pure 'funk,' and break something for the same excellent
reason; I know I shall. Perhaps I shall slip and fall on the
slippery floor; I've done that before now, you know. I shall
dream of it all night now. Why did you say anything about it?"
Aglaya looked blackly at him.
"Do you know what, I had better not come at all tomorrow! I'll
plead sick-list and stay away," said the prince, with decision.
Aglaya stamped her foot, and grew quite pale with anger.
Oh, my goodness! Just listen to that! 'Better not come,' when the
party is on purpose for him! Good Lord! What a delightful thing
it is to have to do with such a--such a stupid as you are!"
"Well, I'll come, I'll come," interrupted the prince, hastily,
"and I'll give you my word of honour that I will sit the whole
evening and not say a word."
"I believe that's the best thing you can do. You said you'd
'plead sick-list' just now; where in the world do you get hold of
such expressions? Why do you talk to me like this? Are you trying
to irritate me, or what?"
"Forgive me, it's a schoolboy expression. I won't do it again. I
know quite well, I see it, that you are anxious on my account
(now, don't be angry), and it makes me very happy to see it. You
wouldn't believe how frightened I am of misbehaving somehow, and
how glad I am of your instructions. But all this panic is simply
nonsense, you know, Aglaya! I give you my word it is; I am so
pleased that you are such a child, such a dear good child. How
CHARMING you can be if you like, Aglaya."
Aglaya wanted to be angry, of course, but suddenly some quite
unexpected feeling seized upon her heart, all in a moment.
"And you won't reproach me for all these rude words of mine--some
day--afterwards?" she asked, of a sudden.
"What an idea! Of course not. And what are you blushing for
again? And there comes that frown once more! You've taken to
looking too gloomy sometimes, Aglaya, much more than you used to.
I know why it is."
"Be quiet, do be quiet!"
"No, no, I had much better speak out. I have long wished to say
it, and HAVE said it, but that's not enough, for you didn't
believe me. Between us two there stands a being who--"
"Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet, be quiet!" Aglaya struck in,
suddenly, seizing his hand in hers, and gazing at him almost in
terror.
At this moment she was called by someone. She broke loose from
him with an air of relief and ran away.
The prince was in a fever all night. It was strange, but he had
suffered from fever for several nights in succession. On this
particular night, while in semi-delirium, he had an idea: what if
on the morrow he were to have a fit before everybody? The thought
seemed to freeze his blood within him. All night he fancied
himself in some extraordinary society of strange persons. The
worst of it was that he was talking nonsense; he knew that he
ought not to speak at all, and yet he talked the whole time; he
seemed to be trying to persuade them all to something. Evgenie
and Hippolyte were among the guests, and appeared to be great
friends.
He awoke towards nine o'clock with a headache, full of confused
ideas and strange impressions. For some reason or other he felt
most anxious to see Rogojin, to see and talk to him, but what he
wished to say he could not tell. Next, he determined to go and
see Hippolyte. His mind was in a confused state, so much so that
the incidents of the morning seemed to be imperfectly realized,
though acutely felt.
One of these incidents was a visit from Lebedeff. Lebedeff came
rather early--before ten--but he was tipsy already. Though the
prince was not in an observant condition, yet he could not avoid
seeing that for at least three days--ever since General Ivolgin
had left the house Lebedeff had been behaving very badly. He
looked untidy and dirty at all times of the day, and it was said
that he had begun to rage about in his own house, and that his
temper was very bad. As soon as he arrived this morning, he began
to hold forth, beating his breast and apparently blaming himself
for something.
"I've--I've had a reward for my meanness--I've had a slap in the
face," he concluded, tragically.
"A slap in the face? From whom? And so early in the morning?"
"Early?" said Lebedeff, sarcastically. "Time counts for nothing,
even in physical chastisement; but my slap in the face was not
physical, it was moral."
He suddenly took a seat, very unceremoniously, and began his
story. It was very disconnected; the prince frowned, and wished
he could get away; but suddenly a few words struck him. He sat
stiff with wonder--Lebedeff said some extraordinary things.
In the first place he began about some letter; the name of Aglaya
Ivanovna came in. Then suddenly he broke off and began to accuse
the prince of something; he was apparently offended with him. At
first he declared that the prince had trusted him with his
confidences as to "a certain person" (Nastasia Philipovna), but
that of late his friendship had been thrust back into his bosom,
and his innocent question as to "approaching family changes" had
been curtly put aside, which Lebedeff declared, with tipsy tears,
he could not bear; especially as he knew so much already both
from Rogojin and Nastasia Philipovna and her friend, and from
Varvara Ardalionovna, and even from Aglaya Ivanovna, through his
daughter Vera. "And who told Lizabetha Prokofievna something in
secret, by letter? Who told her all about the movements of a
certain person called Nastasia Philipovna? Who was the anonymous
person, eh? Tell me!"
"Surely not you?" cried the prince.
"Just so," said Lebedeff, with dignity; "and only this very
morning I have sent up a letter to the noble lady, stating that I
have a matter of great importance to communicate. She received
the letter; I know she got it; and she received ME, too."
"Have you just seen Lizabetha Prokofievna?" asked the prince,
scarcely believing his ears.
"Yes, I saw her, and got the said slap in the face as mentioned.
She chucked the letter back to me unopened, and kicked me out of
the house, morally, not physically, although not far off it."
"What letter do you mean she returned unopened?"
"What! didn't I tell you? Ha, ha, ha! I thought I had. Why, I
received a letter, you know, to be handed over--"From whom? To
whom?"
But it was difficult, if not impossible, to extract anything from
Lebedeff. All the prince could gather was, that the letter had
been received very early, and had a request written on the
outside that it might be sent on to the address given.
"Just as before, sir, just as before! To a certain person, and
from a certain hand. The individual's name who wrote the letter
is to be represented by the letter A.--"
"What? Impossible! To Nastasia Philipovna? Nonsense!" cried the
prince.
"It was, I assure you, and if not to her then to Rogojin, which
is the same thing. Mr. Hippolyte has had letters, too, and all
from the individual whose name begins with an A.," smirked
Lebedeff, with a hideous grin.
As he kept jumping from subject to subject, and forgetting what
he had begun to talk about, the prince said nothing, but waited,
to give him time.
It was all very vague. Who had taken the letters, if letters
there were? Probably Vera--and how could Lebedeff have got them?
In all probability, he had managed to steal the present letter
from Vera, and had himself gone over to Lizabetha Prokofievna
with some idea in his head. So the prince concluded at last.
"You are mad!" he cried, indignantly.
"Not quite, esteemed prince," replied Lebedeff, with some
acerbity. "I confess I thought of doing you the service of
handing the letter over to yourself, but I decided that it would
pay me better to deliver it up to the noble lady aforesaid, as I
had informed her of everything hitherto by anonymous letters; so
when I sent her up a note from myself, with the letter, you know,
in order to fix a meeting for eight o'clock this morning, I
signed it 'your secret correspondent.' They let me in at once--
very quickly--by the back door, and the noble lady received me."
"Well? Go on."
"Oh, well, when I saw her she almost punched my head, as I say;
in fact so nearly that one might almost say she did punch my
head. She threw the letter in my face; she seemed to reflect
first, as if she would have liked to keep it, but thought better
of it and threw it in my face instead. 'If anybody can have been
such a fool as to trust a man like you to deliver the letter,'
says she,' take it and deliver it! 'Hey! she was grandly
indignant. A fierce, fiery lady that, sir!"
"Where's the letter now?"
"Oh, I've still got it, here!"
And he handed the prince the very letter from Aglaya to Gania,
which the latter showed with so much triumph to his Sister at a
later hour.
"This letter cannot be allowed to remain in your hands."
"It's for you--for you! I've brought it you on purpose!" cried
Lebedeff, excitedly. "Why, I'm yours again now, heart and hand,
your slave; there was but a momentary pause in the flow of my
love and esteem for you. Mea culpa, mea culpa! as the Pope of
Rome says.
"This letter should be sent on at once," said the prince,
disturbed. "I'll hand it over myself."
"Wouldn't it be better, esteemed prince, wouldn't it be better--
to--don't you know--"
Lebedeff made a strange and very expressive grimace; he twisted
about in his chair, and did something, apparently symbolical,
with his hands.
"What do you mean?" said the prince.
"Why, open it, for the time being, don't you know?" he said, most
confidentially and mysteriously.
The prince jumped up so furiously that Lebedeff ran towards the
door; having gained which strategic position, however, he stopped
and looked back to see if he might hope for pardon.
"Oh, Lebedeff, Lebedeff! Can a man really sink to such depths of
meanness?" said the prince, sadly.
Lebedeff's face brightened.
"Oh, I'm a mean wretch--a mean wretch!" he said, approaching the
prince once more, and beating his breast, with tears in his eyes.
"It's abominable dishonesty, you know!"
"Dishonesty--it is, it is! That's the very word!"
"What in the world induces you to act so? You are nothing but a
spy. Why did you write anonymously to worry so noble and generous
a lady? Why should not Aglaya Ivanovna write a note to whomever
she pleases? What did you mean to complain of today? What did
you expect to get by it? What made you go at all?"
"Pure amiable curiosity,--I assure you--desire to do a service.
That's all. Now I'm entirely yours again, your slave; hang me if
you like!"
"Did you go before Lizabetha Prokofievna in your present
condition?" inquired the prince.
"No--oh no, fresher--more the correct card. I only became this
like after the humiliation I suffered there,
"Well--that'll do; now leave me."
This injunction had to be repeated several times before the man
could be persuaded to move. Even then he turned back at the door,
came as far as the middle of the room, and there went through his
mysterious motions designed to convey the suggestion that the
prince should open the letter. He did not dare put his suggestion
into words again.
After this performance, he smiled sweetly and left the room on
tiptoe.
All this had been very painful to listen to. One fact stood out
certain and clear, and that was that poor Aglaya must be in a
state of great distress and indecision and mental torment ("from
jealousy," the prince whispered to himself). Undoubtedly in this
inexperienced, but hot and proud little head, there were all
sorts of plans forming, wild and impossible plans, maybe; and the
idea of this so frightened the prince that he could not make up
his mind what to do. Something must be done, that was clear.
He looked at the address on the letter once more. Oh, he was not
in the least degree alarmed about Aglaya writing such a letter;
he could trust her. What he did not like about it was that he
could not trust Gania.
However, he made up his mind that he would himself take the note
and deliver it. Indeed, he went so far as to leave the house and
walk up the road, but changed his mind when he had nearly reached
Ptitsin's door. However, he there luckily met Colia, and
commissioned him to deliver the letter to his brother as if
direct from Aglaya. Colia asked no questions but simply delivered
it, and Gania consequently had no suspicion that it had passed
through so many hands.
Arrived home again, the prince sent for Vera Lebedeff and told
her as much as was necessary, in order to relieve her mind, for
she had been in a dreadful state of anxiety since she had missed
the letter. She heard with horror that her father had taken it.
Muishkin learned from her that she had on several occasions
performed secret missions both for Aglaya and for Rogojin,
without, however, having had the slightest idea that in so doing
she might injure the prince in any way.
The latter, with one thing and another, was now so disturbed and
confused, that when, a couple of hours or so later, a message
came from Colia that the general was ill, he could hardly take
the news in.
However, when he did master the fact, it acted upon him as a
tonic by completely distracting his attention. He went at once to
Nina Alexandrovna's, whither the general had been carried, and
stayed there until the evening. He could do no good, but there
are people whom to have near one is a blessing at such times.
Colia was in an almost hysterical state; he cried continuously,
but was running about all day, all the same; fetching doctors, of
whom he collected three; going to the chemist's, and so on.
The general was brought round to some extent, but the doctors
declared that he could not be said to be out of danger. Varia and
Nina Alexandrovna never left the sick man's bedside; Gania was
excited and distressed, but would not go upstairs, and seemed
afraid to look at the patient. He wrung his hands when the prince
spoke to him, and said that "such a misfortune at such a moment"
was terrible.
The prince thought he knew what Gania meant by "such a moment."
Hippolyte was not in the house. Lebedeff turned up late in the
afternoon; he had been asleep ever since his interview with the
prince in the morning. He was quite sober now, and cried with
real sincerity over the sick general--mourning for him as though
he were his own brother. He blamed himself aloud, but did not
explain why. He repeated over and over again to Nina Alexandrovna
that he alone was to blame--no one else--but that he had acted
out of "pure amiable curiosity," and that "the deceased," as he
insisted upon calling the still living general, had been the
greatest of geniuses.
He laid much stress on the genius of the sufferer, as if this
idea must be one of immense solace in the present crisis.
Nina Alexandrovna--seeing his sincerity of feeling--said at last,
and without the faintest suspicion of reproach in her voice:
"Come, come--don't cry! God will forgive you!"
Lebedeff was so impressed by these words, and the tone in which
they were spoken, that he could not leave Nina Alexandrovna all
the evening--in fact, for several days. Till the general's death,
indeed, he spent almost all his time at his side.
Twice during the day a messenger came to Nina Alexandrovna from
the Epanchins to inquire after the invalid.
When--late in the evening--the prince made his appearance in
Lizabetha Prokofievna's drawing-room, he found it full of guests.
Mrs. Epanchin questioned him very fully about the general as soon
as he appeared; and when old Princess Bielokonski wished to know
"who this general was, and who was Nina Alexandrovna," she
proceeded to explain in a manner which pleased the prince very
much.
He himself, when relating the circumstances of the general's
illness to Lizabetha Prokofievna, "spoke beautifully," as
Aglaya's sisters declared afterwards--"modestly, quietly, without
gestures or too many words, and with great dignity." He had
entered the room with propriety and grace, and he was perfectly
dressed; he not only did not "fall down on the slippery floor,"
as he had expressed it, but evidently made a very favourable
impression upon the assembled guests.
As for his own impression on entering the room and taking his
seat, he instantly remarked that the company was not in the least
such as Aglaya's words had led him to fear, and as he had dreamed
of--in nightmare form--all night.
This was the first time in his life that he had seen a little
corner of what was generally known by the terrible name of
"society." He had long thirsted, for reasons of his own, to
penetrate the mysteries of the magic circle, and, therefore, this
assemblage was of the greatest possible interest to him.
His first impression was one of fascination. Somehow or other he
felt that all these people must have been born on purpose to be
together! It seemed to him that the Epanchins were not having a
party at all; that these people must have been here always, and
that he himself was one of them--returned among them after a long
absence, but one of them, naturally and indisputably.
It never struck him that all this refined simplicity and nobility
and wit and personal dignity might possibly be no more than an
exquisite artistic polish. The majority of the guests--who were
somewhat empty-headed, after all, in spite of their aristocratic
bearing--never guessed, in their self-satisfied composure, that
much of their superiority was mere veneer, which indeed they had
adopted unconsciously and by inheritance.
The prince would never so much as suspect such a thing in the
delight of his first impression.
He saw, for instance, that one important dignitary, old enough to
be his grandfather, broke off his own conversation in order to
listen to HIM--a young and inexperienced man; and not only
listened, but seemed to attach value to his opinion, and was kind
and amiable, and yet they were strangers and had never seen each
other before. Perhaps what most appealed to the prince's
impressionability was the refinement of the old man's courtesy
towards him. Perhaps the soil of his susceptible nature was
really predisposed to receive a pleasant impression.
Meanwhile all these people-though friends of the family and of
each other to a certain extent--were very far from being such
intimate friends of the family and of each other as the prince
concluded. There were some present who never would think of
considering the Epanchins their equals. There were even some who
hated one another cordially. For instance, old Princess
Bielokonski had all her life despised the wife of the
"dignitary," while the latter was very far from loving Lizabetha
Prokofievna. The dignitary himself had been General Epanchin's
protector from his youth up; and the general considered him so
majestic a personage that he would have felt a hearty contempt
for himself if he had even for one moment allowed himself to pose
as the great man's equal, or to think of him--in his fear and
reverence-as anything less than an Olympic God! There were others
present who had not met for years, and who had no feeling
whatever for each other, unless it were dislike; and yet they met
tonight as though they had seen each other but yesterday in some
friendly and intimate assembly of kindred spirits.
It was not a large party, however. Besides Princess Bielokonski
and the old dignitary (who was really a great man) and his wife,
there was an old military general--a count or baron with a German
name, a man reputed to possess great knowledge and administrative
ability. He was one of those Olympian administrators who know
everything except Russia, pronounce a word of extraordinary
wisdom, admired by all, about once in five years, and, after
being an eternity in the service, generally die full of honour
and riches, though they have never done anything great, and have
even been hostile to all greatness. This general was Ivan
Fedorovitch's immediate superior in the service; and it pleased
the latter to look upon him also as a patron. On the other hand,
the great man did not at all consider himself Epanchin's patron.
He was always very cool to him, while taking advantage of his
ready services, and would instantly have put another in his place
if there had been the slightest reason for the change.
Another guest was an elderly, important-looking gentleman, a
distant relative of Lizabetha Prokofievna's. This gentleman was
rich, held a good position, was a great talker, and had the
reputation of being "one of the dissatisfied," though not
belonging to the dangerous sections of that class. He had the
manners, to some extent, of the English aristocracy, and some of
their tastes (especially in the matter of under-done roast beef,
harness, men-servants, etc.). He was a great friend of the
dignitary's, and Lizabetha Prokofievna, for some reason or other,
had got hold of the idea that this worthy intended at no distant
date to offer the advantages of his hand and heart to Alexandra.
Besides the elevated and more solid individuals enumerated, there
were present a few younger though not less elegant guests.
Besides Prince S. and Evgenie Pavlovitch, we must name the
eminent and fascinating Prince N.--once the vanquisher of female
hearts all over Europe. This gentleman was no longer in the first
bloom of youth--he was forty-five, but still very handsome. He
was well off, and lived, as a rule, abroad, and was noted as a
good teller of stories. Then came a few guests belonging to a
lower stratum of society--people who, like the Epanchins
themselves, moved only occasionally in this exalted sphere. The
Epanchins liked to draft among their more elevated guests a few
picked representatives of this lower stratum, and Lizabetha
Prokofievna received much praise for this practice, which proved,
her friends said, that she was a woman of tact. The Epanchins
prided themselves upon the good opinion people held of them.
One of the representatives of the middle-class present today was
a colonel of engineers, a very serious man and a great friend of
Prince S., who had introduced him to the Epanchins. He was
extremely silent in society, and displayed on the forefinger of
his right hand a large ring, probably bestowed upon him for
services of some sort. There was also a poet, German by name, but
a Russian poet; very presentable, and even handsome-the sort of
man one could bring into society with impunity. This gentleman
belonged to a German family of decidedly bourgeois origin, but he
had a knack of acquiring the patronage of "big-wigs," and of
retaining their favour. He had translated some great German poem
into Russian verse, and claimed to have been a friend of a famous
Russian poet, since dead. (It is strange how great a multitude of
literary people there are who have had the advantages of
friendship with some great man of their own profession who is,
unfortunately, dead.) The dignitary's wife had introduced this
worthy to the Epanchins. This lady posed as the patroness of
literary people, and she certainly had succeeded in obtaining
pensions for a few of them, thanks to her influence with those in
authority on such matters. She was a lady of weight in her own
way. Her age was about forty-five, so that she was a very young
wife for such an elderly husband as the dignitary. She had been a
beauty in her day and still loved, as many ladies of forty-five
do love, to dress a little too smartly. Her intellect was nothing
to boast of, and her literary knowledge very doubtful. Literary
patronage was, however, with her as much a mania as was the love
of gorgeous clothes. Many books and translations were dedicated
to her by her proteges, and a few of these talented individuals
had published some of their own letters to her, upon very weighty
subjects.
This, then, was the society that the prince accepted at once as
true coin, as pure gold without alloy.
It so happened, however, that on this particular evening all
these good people were in excellent humour and highly pleased
with themselves. Every one of them felt that they were doing the
Epanchins the greatest possible honour by their presence. But
alas! the prince never suspected any such subtleties! For
instance, he had no suspicion of the fact that the Epanchins,
having in their mind so important a step as the marriage of their
daughter, would never think of presuming to take it without
having previously "shown off" the proposed husband to the
dignitary--the recognized patron of the family. The latter, too,
though he would probably have received news of a great disaster
to the Epanchin family with perfect composure, would nevertheless
have considered it a personal offence if they had dared to marry
their daughter without his advice, or we might almost say, his
leave.
The amiable and undoubtedly witty Prince N. could not but feel
that he was as a sun, risen for one night only to shine upon the
Epanchin drawing-room. He accounted them immeasurably his
inferiors, and it was this feeling which caused his special
amiability and delightful ease and grace towards them. He knew
very well that he must tell some story this evening for the
edification of the company, and led up to it with the inspiration
of anticipatory triumph.
The prince, when he heard the story afterwards, felt that he had
never yet come across so wonderful a humorist, or such remarkable
brilliancy as was shown by this man; and yet if he had only known
it, this story was the oldest, stalest, and most worn-out yarn,
and every drawing-room in town was sick to death of it. It was
only in the innocent Epanchin household that it passed for a new
and brilliant tale--as a sudden and striking reminiscence of a
splendid and talented man.
Even the German poet, though as amiable as possible, felt that he
was doing the house the greatest of honours by his presence in
it.
But the prince only looked at the bright side; he did not turn
the coat and see the shabby lining.
Aglaya had not foreseen that particular calamity. She herself
looked wonderfully beautiful this evening. All three sisters were
dressed very tastefully, and their hair was done with special
care.
Aglaya sat next to Evgenie Pavlovitch, and laughed and talked to
him with an unusual display of friendliness. Evgenie himself
behaved rather more sedately than usual, probably out of respect
to the dignitary. Evgenie had been known in society for a long
while. He had appeared at the Epanchins' today with crape on his
hat, and Princess Bielokonski had commended this action on his
part. Not every society man would have worn crape for "such an
uncle." Lizabetha Prokofievna had liked it also, but was too
preoccupied to take much notice. The prince remarked that Aglaya
looked attentively at him two or three times, and seemed to be
satisfied with his behaviour.
Little by little he became very happy indeed. All his late
anxieties and apprehensions (after his conversation with
Lebedeff) now appeared like so many bad dreams--impossible, and
even laughable.
He did not speak much, only answering such questions as were put
to him, and gradually settled down into unbroken silence,
listening to what went on, and steeped in perfect satisfaction
and contentment.
Little by little a sort of inspiration, however, began to stir
within him, ready to spring into life at the right moment. When
he did begin to speak, it was accidentally, in response to a
question, and apparently without any special object.
VII.
WHILE he feasted his eyes upon Aglaya, as she talked merrily with
Evgenie and Prince N., suddenly the old anglomaniac, who was
talking to the dignitary in another corner of the room,
apparently telling him a story about something or other--suddenly
this gentleman pronounced the name of "Nicolai Andreevitch
Pavlicheff" aloud. The prince quickly turned towards him, and
listened.
The conversation had been on the subject of land, and the present
disorders, and there must have been something amusing said, for
the old man had begun to laugh at his companion's heated
expressions.
The latter was describing in eloquent words how, in consequence
of recent legislation, he was obliged to sell a beautiful estate
in the N. province, not because he wanted ready money--in
fact, he was obliged to sell it at half its value. "To avoid
another lawsuit about the Pavlicheff estate, I ran away," he
said. "With a few more inheritances of that kind I should soon be
ruined!"
At this point General Epanchin, noticing how interested Muishkin
had become in the conversation, said to him, in a low tone:
"That gentleman--Ivan Petrovitch--is a relation of your late
friend, Mr. Pavlicheff. You wanted to find some of his relations,
did you not?"
The general, who had been talking to his chief up to this moment,
had observed the prince's solitude and silence, and was anxious
to draw him into the conversation, and so introduce him again to
the notice of some of the important personages.
"Lef Nicolaievitch was a ward of Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff,
after the death of his own parents," he remarked, meeting Ivan
Petrovitch's eye.
"Very happy to meet him, I'm sure," remarked the latter. "I
remember Lef Nicolaievitch well. When General Epanchin introduced
us just now, I recognized you at once, prince. You are very
little changed, though I saw you last as a child of some ten or
eleven years old. There was something in your features, I
suppose, that--"
"You saw me as a child!" exclaimed the prince, with surprise.
"Oh! yes, long ago," continued Ivan Petrovitch, "while you were
living with my cousin at Zlatoverhoff. You don't remember me? No,
I dare say you don't; you had some malady at the time, I
remember. It was so serious that I was surprised--"
"No; I remember nothing!" said the prince. A few more words of
explanation followed, words which were spoken without the
smallest excitement by his companion, but which evoked the
greatest agitation in the prince; and it was discovered that two
old ladies to whose care the prince had been left by Pavlicheff,
and who lived at Zlatoverhoff, were also relations of Ivan
Petrovitch.
The latter had no idea and could give no information as to why
Pavlicheff had taken so great an interest in the little prince,
his ward.
"In point of fact I don't think I thought much about it," said
the old fellow. He seemed to have a wonderfully good memory,
however, for he told the prince all about the two old ladies,
Pavlicheff's cousins, who had taken care of him, and whom, he
declared, he had taken to task for being too severe with the
prince as a small sickly boy--the elder sister, at least; the
younger had been kind, he recollected. They both now lived in
another province, on a small estate left to them by Pavlicheff.
The prince listened to all this with eyes sparkling with emotion
and delight.
He declared with unusual warmth that he would never forgive
himself for having travelled about in the central provinces
during these last six months without having hunted up his two old
friends.
He declared, further, that he had intended to go every day, but
had always been prevented by circumstances; but that now he would
promise himself the pleasure--however far it was, he would find
them out. And so Ivan Petrovitch REALLY knew Natalia Nikitishna!-
-what a saintly nature was hers!--and Martha Nikitishna! Ivan
Petrovitch must excuse him, but really he was not quite fair on
dear old Martha. She was severe, perhaps; but then what else
could she be with such a little idiot as he was then? (Ha, ha.)
He really was an idiot then, Ivan Petrovitch must know, though he
might not believe it. (Ha, ha.) So he had really seen him there!
Good heavens! And was he really and truly and actually a cousin
of Pavlicheff's?
"I assure you of it," laughed Ivan Petrovitch, gazing amusedly at
the prince.
"Oh! I didn't say it because I DOUBT the fact, you know. (Ha,
ha.) How could I doubt such a thing? (Ha, ha, ha.) I made the
remark because--because Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff was such a
splendid man, don't you see! Such a high-souled man, he really
was, I assure you."
The prince did not exactly pant for breath, but he "seemed almost
to CHOKE out of pure simplicity and goodness of heart," as
Adelaida expressed it, on talking the party over with her fiance,
the Prince S., next morning.
"But, my goodness me," laughed Ivan Petrovitch, "why can't I be
cousin to even a splendid man?"
"Oh, dear!" cried the prince, confused, trying to hurry his words
out, and growing more and more eager every moment: "I've gone and
said another stupid thing. I don't know what to say. I--I didn't
mean that, you know--I--I--he really was such a splendid man,
wasn't he?"
The prince trembled all over. Why was he so agitated? Why had he
flown into such transports of delight without any apparent
reason? He had far outshot the measure of joy and emotion
consistent with the occasion. Why this was it would be difficult
to say.
He seemed to feel warmly and deeply grateful to someone for
something or other--perhaps to Ivan Petrovitch; but likely enough
to all the guests, individually, and collectively. He was much
too happy.
Ivan Petrovitch began to stare at him with some surprise; the
dignitary, too, looked at him with considerable attention;
Princess Bielokonski glared at him angrily, and compressed her
lips. Prince N., Evgenie, Prince S., and the girls, all broke off
their own conversations and listened. Aglaya seemed a little
startled; as for Lizabetha Prokofievna, her heart sank within
her.
This was odd of Lizabetha Prokofievna and her daughters. They had
themselves decided that it would be better if the prince did not
talk all the evening. Yet seeing him sitting silent and alone,
but perfectly happy, they had been on the point of exerting
themselves to draw him into one of the groups of talkers around
the room. Now that he was in the midst of a talk they became more
than ever anxious and perturbed.
"That he was a splendid man is perfectly true; you are quite
right," repeated Ivan Petrovitch, but seriously this time. "He
was a fine and a worthy fellow--worthy, one may say, of the
highest respect," he added, more and more seriously at each
pause; " and it is agreeable to see, on your part, such--"
"Wasn't it this same Pavlicheff about whom there was a strange
story in connection with some abbot? I don't remember who the
abbot was, but I remember at one time everybody was talking about
it," remarked the old dignitary.
"Yes--Abbot Gurot, a Jesuit," said Ivan Petrovitch. "Yes, that's
the sort of thing our best men are apt to do. A man of rank, too,
and rich--a man who, if he had continued to serve, might have
done anything; and then to throw up the service and everything
else in order to go over to Roman Catholicism and turn Jesuit--
openly, too--almost triumphantly. By Jove! it was positively a
mercy that he died when he did--it was indeed--everyone said so
at the time."
The prince was beside himself.
"Pavlicheff?--Pavlicheff turned Roman Catholic? Impossible!" he
cried, in horror.
"H'm! impossible is rather a strong word," said Ivan Petrovitch.
"You must allow, my dear prince... However, of course you
value the memory of the deceased so very highly; and he certainly
was the kindest of men; to which fact, by the way, I ascribe,
more than to anything else, the success of the abbot in
influencing his religious convictions. But you may ask me, if you
please, how much trouble and worry I, personally, had over that
business, and especially with this same Gurot! Would you believe
it," he continued, addressing the dignitary, "they actually tried
to put in a claim under the deceased's will, and I had to resort
to the very strongest measures in order to bring them to their
senses? I assure you they knew their cue, did these gentlemen--
wonderful! Thank goodness all this was in Moscow, and I got the
Court, you know, to help me, and we soon brought them to their
senses.
"You wouldn't believe how you have pained and astonished me,"
cried the prince.
"Very sorry; but in point of fact, you know, it was all nonsense
and would have ended in smoke, as usual--I'm sure of that. Last
year,"--he turned to the old man again,--"Countess K. joined some
Roman Convent abroad. Our people never seem to be able to offer
any resistance so soon as they get into the hands of these--
intriguers--especially abroad."
"That is all thanks to our lassitude, I think," replied the old
man, with authority. "And then their way of preaching; they have
a skilful manner of doing it! And they know how to startle one,
too. I got quite a fright myself in '32, in Vienna, I assure you;
but I didn't cave in to them, I ran away instead, ha, ha!"
"Come, come, I've always heard that you ran away with the
beautiful Countess Levitsky that time--throwing up everything in
order to do it--and not from the Jesuits at all," said Princess
Bielokonski, suddenly.
"Well, yes--but we call it from the Jesuits, you know; it comes
to the same thing," laughed the old fellow, delighted with the
pleasant recollection.
"You seem to be very religious," he continued, kindly, addressing
the prince," which is a thing one meets so seldom nowadays among
young people."
The prince was listening open-mouthed, and still in a condition
of excited agitation. The old man was evidently interested in
him, and anxious to study him more closely.
"Pavlicheff was a man of bright intellect and a good Christian, a
sincere Christian," said the prince, suddenly. "How could he
possibly embrace a faith which is unchristian? Roman Catholicism
is, so to speak, simply the same thing as unchristianity," he
added with flashing eyes, which seemed to take in everybody in
the room.
"Come, that's a little TOO strong, isn't it?" murmured the old
man, glancing at General Epanchin in surprise.
"How do you make out that the Roman Catholic religion is
UNCHRISTIAN? What is it, then?" asked Ivan Petrovitch, turning to
the prince.
"It is not a Christian religion, in the first place," said the
latter, in extreme agitation, quite out of proportion to the
necessity of the moment. "And in the second place, Roman
Catholicism is, in my opinion, worse than Atheism itself. Yes--
that is my opinion. Atheism only preaches a negation, but
Romanism goes further; it preaches a disfigured, distorted
Christ--it preaches Anti-Christ--I assure you, I swear it! This
is my own personal conviction, and it has long distressed me. The
Roman Catholic believes that the Church on earth cannot stand
without universal temporal Power. He cries 'non possumus!' In my
opinion the Roman Catholic religion is not a faith at all, but
simply a continuation of the Roman Empire, and everything is
subordinated to this idea--beginning with faith. The Pope has
seized territories and an earthly throne, and has held them with
the sword. And so the thing has gone on, only that to the sword
they have added lying, intrigue, deceit, fanaticism,
superstition, swindling;--they have played fast and loose with
the most sacred and sincere feelings of men;--they have exchanged
everything--everything for money, for base earthly POWER! And is
this not the teaching of Anti-Christ? How could the upshot of all
this be other than Atheism? Atheism is the child of Roman
Catholicism--it proceeded from these Romans themselves, though
perhaps they would not believe it. It grew and fattened on hatred
of its parents; it is the progeny of their lies and spiritual
feebleness. Atheism! In our country it is only among the upper
classes that you find unbelievers; men who have lost the root or
spirit of their faith; but abroad whole masses of the people are
beginning to profess unbelief--at first because of the darkness
and lies by which they were surrounded; but now out of
fanaticism, out of loathing for the Church and Christianity!"
The prince paused to get breath. He had spoken with extraordinary
rapidity, and was very pale.
All present interchanged glances, but at last the old dignitary
burst out laughing frankly. Prince N. took out his eye-glass to
have a good look at the speaker. The German poet came out of his
corner and crept nearer to the table, with a spiteful smile.
"You exaggerate the matter very much," said Ivan Petrovitch, with
rather a bored air. "There are, in the foreign Churches, many
representatives of their faith who are worthy of respect and
esteem."
"Oh, but I did not speak of individual representatives. I was
merely talking about Roman Catholicism, and its essence--of Rome
itself. A Church can never entirely disappear; I never hinted at
that!"
"Agreed that all this may be true; but we need not discuss a
subject which belongs to the domain of theology."
"Oh, no; oh, no! Not to theology alone, I assure you! Why,
Socialism is the progeny of Romanism and of the Romanistic
spirit. It and its brother Atheism proceed from Despair in
opposition to Catholicism. It seeks to replace in itself the
moral power of religion, in order to appease the spiritual thirst
of parched humanity and save it; not by Christ, but by force.
'Don't dare to believe in God, don't dare to possess any
individuality, any property! Fraternite ou la Mort; two million
heads. 'By their works ye shall know them'--we are told. And we
must not suppose that all this is harmless and without danger to
ourselves. Oh, no; we must resist, and quickly, quickly! We must
let out Christ shine forth upon the Western nations, our Christ
whom we have preserved intact, and whom they have never known.
Not as slaves, allowing ourselves to be caught by the hooks of
the Jesuits, but carrying our Russian civilization to THEM, we
must stand before them, not letting it be said among us that
their preaching is 'skilful,' as someone expressed it just now."
"But excuse me, excuse me;" cried Ivan Petrovitch considerably
disturbed, and looking around uneasily. "Your ideas are, of
course, most praiseworthy, and in the highest degree patriotic;
but you exaggerate the matter terribly. It would be better if we
dropped the subject."
"No, sir, I do not exaggerate, I understate the matter, if
anything, undoubtedly understate it; simply because I cannot
express myself as I should like, but--"
"Allow me!"
The prince was silent. He sat straight up in his chair and gazed
fervently at Ivan Petrovitch.
"It seems to me that you have been too painfully impressed by the
news of what happened to your good benefactor," said the old
dignitary, kindly, and with the utmost calmness of demeanour.
"You are excitable, perhaps as the result of your solitary life.
If you would make up your mind to live more among your fellows in
society, I trust, I am sure, that the world would be glad to
welcome you, as a remarkable young man; and you would soon find
yourself able to look at things more calmly. You would see that
all these things are much simpler than you think; and, besides,
these rare cases come about, in my opinion, from ennui and from
satiety."
"Exactly, exactly! That is a true thought!" cried the prince.
"From ennui, from our ennui but not from satiety! Oh, no, you are
wrong there! Say from THIRST if you like; the thirst of fever!
And please do not suppose that this is so small a matter that we
may have a laugh at it and dismiss it; we must be able to foresee
our disasters and arm against them. We Russians no sooner arrive
at the brink of the water, and realize that we are really at the
brink, than we are so delighted with the outlook that in we
plunge and swim to the farthest point we can see. Why is this?
You say you are surprised at Pavlicheff's action; you ascribe it
to madness, to kindness of heart, and what not, but it is not so.
"Our Russian intensity not only astonishes ourselves; all Europe
wonders at our conduct in such cases! For, if one of us goes over
to Roman Catholicism, he is sure to become a Jesuit at once, and
a rabid one into the bargain. If one of us becomes an Atheist, he
must needs begin to insist on the prohibition of faith in God by
force, that is, by the sword. Why is this? Why does he then
exceed all bounds at once? Because he has found land at last, the
fatherland that he sought in vain before; and, because his soul
is rejoiced to find it, he throws himself upon it and kisses it!
Oh, it is not from vanity alone, it is not from feelings of
vanity that Russians become Atheists and Jesuits! But from
spiritual thirst, from anguish of longing for higher things, for
dry firm land, for foothold on a fatherland which they never
believed in because they never knew it. It is easier for a
Russian to become an Atheist, than for any other nationality in
the world. And not only does a Russian 'become an Atheist,' but
he actually BELIEVES IN Atheism, just as though he had found a
new faith, not perceiving that he has pinned his faith to a
negation. Such is our anguish of thirst! 'Whoso has no country
has no God.' That is not my own expression; it is the expression
of a merchant, one of the Old Believers, whom I once met while
travelling. He did not say exactly these words. I think his
expression was:
"'Whoso forsakes his country forsakes his God.'
"But let these thirsty Russian souls find, like Columbus'
discoverers, a new world; let them find the Russian world, let
them search and discover all the gold and treasure that lies hid
in the bosom of their own land! Show them the restitution of lost
humanity, in the future, by Russian thought alone, and by means
of the God and of the Christ of our Russian faith, and you will
see how mighty and just and wise and good a giant will rise up
before the eyes of the astonished and frightened world;
astonished because they expect nothing but the sword from us,
because they think they will get nothing out of us but barbarism.
This has been the case up to now, and the longer matters go on as
they are now proceeding, the more clear will be the truth of what
I say; and I--"
But at this moment something happened which put a most unexpected
end to the orator's speech. All this heated tirade, this outflow
of passionate words and ecstatic ideas which seemed to hustle and
tumble over each other as they fell from his lips, bore evidence
of some unusually disturbed mental condition in the young fellow
who had "boiled over" in such a remarkable manner, without any
apparent reason.
Of those who were present, such as knew the prince listened to
his outburst in a state of alarm, some with a feeling of
mortification. It was so unlike his usual timid self-constraint;
so inconsistent with his usual taste and tact, and with his
instinctive feeling for the higher proprieties. They could not
understand the origin of the outburst; it could not be simply the
news of Pavlicheff's perversion. By the ladies the prince was
regarded as little better than a lunatic, and Princess
Bielokonski admitted afterwards that "in another minute she would
have bolted."
The two old gentlemen looked quite alarmed. The old general
(Epanchin's chief) sat and glared at the prince in severe
displeasure. The colonel sat immovable. Even the German poet grew
a little pale, though he wore his usual artificial smile as he
looked around to see what the others would do.
In point of fact it is quite possible that the matter would have
ended in a very commonplace and natural way in a few minutes. The
undoubtedly astonished, but now more collected, General Epanchin
had several times endeavoured to interrupt the prince, and not
having succeeded he was now preparing to take firmer and more
vigorous measures to attain his end. In another minute or two he
would probably have made up his mind to lead the prince quietly
out of the room, on the plea of his being ill (and it was more
than likely that the general was right in his belief that the
prince WAS actually ill), but it so happened that destiny had
something different in store.
At the beginning of the evening, when the prince first came into
the room, he had sat down as far as possible from the Chinese
vase which Aglaya had spoken of the day before.
Will it be believed that, after Aglaya's alarming words, an
ineradicable conviction had taken possession of his mind that,
however he might try to avoid this vase next day, he must
certainly break it? But so it was.
During the evening other impressions began to awaken in his mind,
as we have seen, and he forgot his presentiment. But when
Pavlicheff was mentioned and the general introduced him to Ivan
Petrovitch, he had changed his place, and went over nearer to the
table; when, it so happened, he took the chair nearest to the
beautiful vase, which stood on a pedestal behind him, just about
on a level with his elbow.
As he spoke his last words he had risen suddenly from his seat
with a wave of his arm, and there was a general cry of horror.
The huge vase swayed backwards and forwards; it seemed to be
uncertain whether or no to topple over on to the head of one of
the old men, but eventually determined to go the other way, and
came crashing over towards the German poet, who darted out of the
way in terror.
The crash, the cry, the sight of the fragments of valuable china
covering the carpet, the alarm of the company--what all this
meant to the poor prince it would be difficult to convey to the
mind of the reader, or for him to imagine.
But one very curious fact was that all the shame and vexation and
mortification which he felt over the accident were less powerful
than the deep impression of the almost supernatural truth of his
premonition. He stood still in alarm--in almost superstitious
alarm, for a moment; then all mists seemed to clear away from his
eyes; he was conscious of nothing but light and joy and ecstasy;
his breath came and went; but the moment passed. Thank God it was
not that! He drew a long breath and looked around.
For some minutes he did not seem to comprehend the excitement
around him; that is, he comprehended it and saw everything, but
he stood aside, as it were, like someone invisible in a fairy
tale, as though he had nothing to do with what was going on,
though it pleased him to take an interest in it.
He saw them gather up the broken bits of china; he heard the loud
talking of the guests and observed how pale Aglaya looked, and
how very strangely she was gazing at him. There was no hatred in
her expression, and no anger whatever. It was full of alarm for
him, and sympathy and affection, while she looked around at the
others with flashing, angry eyes. His heart filled with a sweet
pain as he gazed at her.
At length he observed, to his amazement, that all had taken their
seats again, and were laughing and talking as though nothing had
happened. Another minute and the laughter grew louder--they were
laughing at him, at his dumb stupor--laughing kindly and merrily.
Several of them spoke to him, and spoke so kindly and cordially,
especially Lizabetha Prokofievna--she was saying the kindest
possible things to him.
Suddenly he became aware that General Epanchin was tapping him on
the shoulder; Ivan Petrovitch was laughing too, but still more
kind and sympathizing was the old dignitary. He took the prince
by the hand and pressed it warmly; then he patted it, and quietly
urged him to recollect himself--speaking to him exactly as he
would have spoken to a little frightened child, which pleased the
prince wonderfully; and next seated him beside himself.
The prince gazed into his face with pleasure, but still seemed to
have no power to speak. His breath failed him. The old man's face
pleased him greatly.
"Do you really forgive me?" he said at last. "And--and Lizabetha
Prokofievna too?" The laugh increased, tears came into the
prince's eyes, he could not believe in all this kindness--he was
enchanted.
"The vase certainly was a very beautiful one. I remember it here
for fifteen years--yes, quite that!" remarked Ivan Petrovitch.
"Oh, what a dreadful calamity! A wretched vase smashed, and a man
half dead with remorse about it," said Lizabetha Prokofievna,
loudly. "What made you so dreadfully startled, Lef
Nicolaievitch?" she added, a little timidly. "Come, my dear boy!
cheer up. You really alarm me, taking the accident so to heart."
"Do you forgive me all--ALL, besides the vase, I mean?" said the
prince, rising from his seat once more, but the old gentleman
caught his hand and drew him down again--he seemed unwilling to
let him go.
"C'est tres-curieux et c'est tres-serieux," he whispered across
the table to Ivan Petrovitch, rather loudly. Probably the prince
heard him.
"So that I have not offended any of you? You will not believe how
happy I am to be able to think so. It is as it should be. As if I
COULD offend anyone here! I should offend you again by even
suggesting such a thing."
"Calm yourself, my dear fellow. You are exaggerating again; you
really have no occasion to be so grateful to us. It is a feeling
which does you great credit, but an exaggeration, for all that."
"I am not exactly thanking you, I am only feeling a growing
admiration for you--it makes me happy to look at you. I dare say
I am speaking very foolishly, but I must speak--I must explain,
if it be out of nothing better than self-respect."
All he said and did was abrupt, confused, feverish--very likely
the words he spoke, as often as not, were not those he wished to
say. He seemed to inquire whether he MIGHT speak. His eyes
lighted on Princess Bielokonski.
"All right, my friend, talk away, talk away!" she remarked. "Only
don't lose your breath; you were in such a hurry when you began,
and look what you've come to now! Don't be afraid of speaking--
all these ladies and gentlemen have seen far stranger people than
yourself; you don't astonish THEM. You are nothing out-of-the-way
remarkable, you know. You've done nothing but break a vase, and
give us all a fright."
The prince listened, smiling.
"Wasn't it you," he said, suddenly turning to the old gentleman,
"who saved the student Porkunoff and a clerk called Shoabrin from
being sent to Siberia, two or three months since?"
The old dignitary blushed a little, and murmured that the prince
had better not excite himself further.
"And I have heard of YOU," continued the prince, addressing Ivan
Petrovitch, "that when some of your villagers were burned out you
gave them wood to build up their houses again, though they were
no longer your serfs and had behaved badly towards you."
"Oh, come, come! You are exaggerating," said Ivan Petrovitch,
beaming with satisfaction, all the same. He was right, however,
in this instance, for the report had reached the prince's ears in
an incorrect form.
"And you, princess," he went on, addressing Princess Bielokonski,
"was it not you who received me in Moscow, six months since, as
kindly as though I had been your own son, in response to a letter
from Lizabetha Prokofievna; and gave me one piece of advice,
again as to your own son, which I shall never forget? Do you
remember?"
"What are you making such a fuss about?" said the old lady, with
annoyance. "You are a good fellow, but very silly. One gives you
a halfpenny, and you are as grateful as though one had saved your
life. You think this is praiseworthy on your part, but it is not
--it is not, indeed."
She seemed to be very angry, but suddenly burst out laughing,
quite good-humouredly.
Lizabetha Prokofievna's face brightened up, too; so did that of
General Epanchin.
"I told you Lef Nicolaievitch was a man--a man--if only he would
not be in such a hurry, as the princess remarked," said the
latter, with delight.
Aglaya alone seemed sad and depressed; her face was flushed,
perhaps with indignation.
"He really is very charming," whispered the old dignitary to Ivan
Petrovitch.
"I came into this room with anguish in my heart," continued the
prince, with ever-growing agitation, speaking quicker and
quicker, and with increasing strangeness. "I--I was afraid of you
all, and afraid of myself. I was most afraid of myself. When I
returned to Petersburg, I promised myself to make a point of
seeing our greatest men, and members of our oldest families--the
old families like my own. I am now among princes like myself, am
I not? I wished to know you, and it was necessary, very, very
necessary. I had always heard so much that was evil said of you
all--more evil than good; as to how small and petty were your
interests, how absurd your habits, how shallow your education,
and so on. There is so much written and said about you! I came
here today with anxious curiosity; I wished to see for myself
and form my own convictions as to whether it were true that the
whole of this upper stratum of Russian society is WORTHLESS, has
outlived its time, has existed too long, and is only fit to die--
and yet is dying with petty, spiteful warring against that which
is destined to supersede it and take its place--hindering the
Coming Men, and knowing not that itself is in a dying condition.
I did not fully believe in this view even before, for there never
was such a class among us--excepting perhaps at court, by
accident--or by uniform; but now there is not even that, is
there? It has vanished, has it not?"
"No, not a bit of it," said Ivan Petrovitch, with a sarcastic
laugh.
"Good Lord, he's off again!" said Princess Bielokonski,
impatiently.
"Laissez-le dire! He is trembling all over," said the old man, in
a warning whisper.
The prince certainly was beside himself.
"Well? What have I seen?" he continued. "I have seen men of
graceful simplicity of intellect; I have seen an old man who is
not above speaking kindly and even LISTENING to a boy like
myself; I see before me persons who can understand, who can
forgive--kind, good Russian hearts--hearts almost as kind and
cordial as I met abroad. Imagine how delighted I must have been,
and how surprised! Oh, let me express this feeling! I have so
often heard, and I have even believed, that in society there was
nothing but empty forms, and that reality had vanished; but I now
see for myself that this can never be the case HERE, among us--it
may be the order elsewhere, but not in Russia. Surely you are not
all Jesuits and deceivers! I heard Prince N.'s story just now.
Was it not simple-minded, spontaneous humour? Could such words
come from the lips of a man who is dead?--a man whose heart and
talents are dried up? Could dead men and women have treated me so
kindly as you have all been treating me to-day? Is there not
material for the future in all this--for hope? Can such people
fail to UNDERSTAND? Can such men fall away from reality?"
"Once more let us beg you to be calm, my dear boy. We'll talk of
all this another time--I shall do so with the greatest pleasure,
for one," said the old dignitary, with a smile.
Ivan Petrovitch grunted and twisted round in his chair. General
Epanchin moved nervously. The latter's chief had started a
conversation with the wife of the dignitary, and took no notice
whatever of the prince, but the old lady very often glanced at
him, and listened to what he was saying.
"No, I had better speak," continued the prince, with a new
outburst of feverish emotion, and turning towards the old man
with an air of confidential trustfulness." Yesterday, Aglaya
Ivanovna forbade me to talk, and even specified the particular
subjects I must not touch upon--she knows well enough that I am
odd when I get upon these matters. I am nearly twenty-seven years
old, and yet I know I am little better than a child. I have no
right to express my ideas, and said so long ago. Only in Moscow,
with Rogojin, did I ever speak absolutely freely! He and I read
Pushkin together--all his works. Rogojin knew nothing of
Pushkin, had not even heard his name. I am always afraid of
spoiling a great Thought or Idea by my absurd manner. I have no
eloquence, I know. I always make the wrong gestures--
inappropriate gestures--and therefore I degrade the Thought, and
raise a laugh instead of doing my subject justice. I have no
sense of proportion either, and that is the chief thing. I know
it would be much better if I were always to sit still and say
nothing. When I do so, I appear to be quite a sensible sort of a
person, and what's more, I think about things. But now I must
speak; it is better that I should. I began to speak because you
looked so kindly at me; you have such a beautiful face. I
promised Aglaya Ivanovna yesterday that I would not speak all the
evening."
"Really?" said the old man, smiling.
"But, at times, I can't help thinking that I am. wrong in feeling
so about it, you know. Sincerity is more important than
elocution, isn't it?"
"Sometimes."
"I want to explain all to you--everything--everything! I know you
think me Utopian, don't you--an idealist? Oh, no! I'm not,
indeed--my ideas are all so simple. You don't believe me? You are
smiling. Do you know, I am sometimes very wicked--for I lose my
faith? This evening as I came here, I thought to myself, 'What
shall I talk about? How am I to begin, so that they may be able
to understand partially, at all events?' How afraid I was--
dreadfully afraid! And yet, how COULD I be afraid--was it not
shameful of me? Was I afraid of finding a bottomless abyss of
empty selfishness? Ah! that's why I am so happy at this moment,
because I find there is no bottomless abyss at all--but good,
healthy material, full of life.
"It is not such a very dreadful circumstance that we are odd
people, is it? For we really are odd, you know--careless,
reckless, easily wearied of anything. We don't look thoroughly
into matters--don't care to understand things. We are all like
this--you and I, and all of them! Why, here are you, now--you are
not a bit angry with me for calling you odd,' are you? And, if
so, surely there is good material in you? Do you know, I
sometimes think it is a good thing to be odd. We can forgive one
another more easily, and be more humble. No one can begin by
being perfect--there is much one cannot understand in life at
first. In order to attain to perfection, one must begin by
failing to understand much. And if we take in knowledge too
quickly, we very likely are not taking it in at all. I say all
this to you--you who by this time understand so much--and
doubtless have failed to understand so much, also. I am not
afraid of you any longer. You are not angry that a mere boy
should say such words to you, are you? Of course not! You know
how to forget and to forgive. You are laughing, Ivan Petrovitch?
You think I am a champion of other classes of people--that I am
THEIR advocate, a democrat, and an orator of Equality?" The
prince laughed hysterically; he had several times burst into
these little, short nervous laughs. "Oh, no--it is for you, for
myself, and for all of us together, that I am alarmed. I am a
prince of an old family myself, and I am sitting among my peers;
and I am talking like this in the hope of saving us all; in the
hope that our class will not disappear altogether--into the
darkness--unguessing its danger--blaming everything around it,
and losing ground every day. Why should we disappear and give
place to others, when we may still, if we choose, remain in the
front rank and lead the battle? Let us be servants, that we may
become lords in due season!"
He tried to get upon his feet again, but the old man still
restrained him, gazing at him with increasing perturbation as he
went on.
"Listen--I know it is best not to speak! It is best simply to
give a good example--simply to begin the work. I have done this--
I have begun, and--and--oh! CAN anyone be unhappy, really? Oh!
what does grief matter--what does misfortune matter, if one knows
how to be happy? Do you know, I cannot understand how anyone can
pass by a green tree, and not feel happy only to look at it! How
anyone can talk to a man and not feel happy in loving him! Oh, it
is my own fault that I cannot express myself well enough! But
there are lovely things at every step I take--things which even
the most miserable man must recognize as beautiful. Look at a
little child--look at God's day-dawn--look at the grass growing--
look at the eyes that love you, as they gaze back into your
eyes!"
He had risen, and was speaking standing up. The old gentleman was
looking at him now in unconcealed alarm. Lizabetha Prokofievna
wrung her hands. "Oh, my God!" she cried. She had guessed the
state of the case before anyone else.
Aglaya rushed quickly up to him, and was just in time to receive
him in her arms, and to hear with dread and horror that awful,
wild cry as he fell writhing to the ground.
There he lay on the carpet, and someone quickly placed a cushion
under his head.
No one had expected this.
In a quarter of an hour or so Prince N. and Evgenie Pavlovitch
and the old dignitary were hard at work endeavouring to restore
the harmony of the evening, but it was of no avail, and very soon
after the guests separated and went their ways.
A great deal of sympathy was expressed; a considerable amount of
advice was volunteered; Ivan Petrovitch expressed his opinion
that the young man was "a Slavophile, or something of that sort";
but that it was not a dangerous development. The old dignitary
said nothing.
True enough, most of the guests, next day and the day after, were
not in very good humour. Ivan Petrovitch was a little offended,
but not seriously so. General Epanchin's chief was rather cool
towards him for some while after the occurrence. The old
dignitary, as patron of the family, took the opportunity of
murmuring some kind of admonition to the general, and added, in
flattering terms, that he was most interested in Aglaya's future.
He was a man who really did possess a kind heart, although his
interest in the prince, in the earlier part of the evening, was
due, among other reasons, to the latter's connection with
Nastasia Philipovna, according to popular report. He had heard a
good deal of this story here and there, and was greatly
interested in it, so much so that he longed to ask further
questions about it.
Princess Bielokonski, as she drove away on this eventful evening,
took occasion to say to Lizabetha Prokofievna:
"Well--he's a good match--and a bad one; and if you want my
opinion, more bad than good. You can see for yourself the man is
an invalid."
Lizabetha therefore decided that the prince was impossible as a
husband for Aglaya; and during the ensuing night she made a vow
that never while she lived should he marry Aglaya. With this
resolve firmly impressed upon her mind, she awoke next day; but
during the morning, after her early lunch, she fell into a
condition of remarkable inconsistency.
In reply to a very guarded question of her sisters', Aglaya had
answered coldly, but exceedingly haughtily:
"I have never given him my word at all, nor have I ever counted
him as my future husband--never in my life. He is just as little
to me as all the rest."
Lizabetha Prokofievna suddenly flared up.
"I did not expect that of you, Aglaya," she said. "He is an
impossible husband for you,--I know it; and thank God that we
agree upon that point; but I did not expect to hear such words
from you. I thought I should hear a very different tone from you.
I would have turned out everyone who was in the room last night
and kept him,--that's the sort of man he is, in my opinion!"
Here she suddenly paused, afraid of what she had just said. But
she little knew how unfair she was to her daughter at that
moment. It was all settled in Aglaya's mind. She was only waiting
for the hour that would bring the matter to a final climax; and
every hint, every careless probing of her wound, did but further
lacerate her heart.
VIII.
THIS same morning dawned for the prince pregnant with no less
painful presentiments,--which fact his physical state was, of
course, quite enough to account for; but he was so indefinably
melancholy,--his sadness could not attach itself to anything in
particular, and this tormented him more than anything else. Of
course certain facts stood before him, clear and painful, but his
sadness went beyond all that he could remember or imagine; he
realized that he was powerless to console himself unaided. Little
by little he began to develop the expectation that this day
something important, something decisive, was to happen to him.
His attack of yesterday had been a slight one. Excepting some
little heaviness in the head and pain in the limbs, he did not
feel any particular effects. His brain worked all right, though
his soul was heavy within him.
He rose late, and immediately upon waking remembered all about
the previous evening; he also remembered, though not quite so
clearly, how, half an hour after his fit, he had been carried
home.
He soon heard that a messenger from the Epanchins' had already
been to inquire after him. At half-past eleven another arrived;
and this pleased him.
Vera Lebedeff was one of the first to come to see him and offer
her services. No sooner did she catch sight of him than she burst
into tears; but when he tried to soothe her she began to laugh.
He was quite struck by the girl's deep sympathy for him; he
seized her hand and kissed it. Vera flushed crimson.
"Oh, don't, don't!" she exclaimed in alarm, snatching her hand
away. She went hastily out of the room in a state of strange
confusion.
Lebedeff also came to see the prince, in a great hurry to get
away to the "deceased," as he called General Ivolgin, who was
alive still, but very ill. Colia also turned up, and begged the
prince for pity's sake to tell him all he knew about his father
which had been concealed from him till now. He said he had found
out nearly everything since yesterday; the poor boy was in a
state of deep affliction. With all the sympathy which he could
bring into play, the prince told Colia the whole story without
reserve, detailing the facts as clearly as he could. The tale
struck Colia like a thunderbolt. He could not speak. He listened
silently, and cried softly to himself the while. The prince
perceived that this was an impression which would last for the
whole of the boy's life. He made haste to explain his view of the
matter, and pointed out that the old man's approaching death was
probably brought on by horror at the thought of his action; and
that it was not everyone who was capable of such a feeling.
Colia's eyes flashed as he listened.
"Gania and Varia and Ptitsin are a worthless lot! I shall not
quarrel with them; but from this moment our feet shall not travel
the same road. Oh, prince, I have felt much that is quite new to
me since yesterday! It is a lesson for me. I shall now consider
my mother as entirely my responsibility; though she may be safe
enough with Varia. Still, meat and drink is not everything."
He jumped up and hurried off, remembering suddenly that he was
wanted at his father's bedside; but before he went out of the
room he inquired hastily after the prince's health, and receiving
the latter's reply, added:
"Isn't there something else, prince? I heard yesterday, but I
have no right to talk about this... If you ever want a true
friend and servant--neither you nor I are so very happy, are we?
--come to me. I won't ask you questions, though."
He ran off and left the prince more dejected than ever.
Everyone seemed to be speaking prophetically, hinting at some
misfortune or sorrow to come; they had all looked at him as
though they knew something which he did not know. Lebedeff had
asked questions, Colia had hinted, and Vera had shed tears. What
was it?
At last, with a sigh of annoyance, he said to himself that it was
nothing but his own cursed sickly suspicion. His face lighted up
with joy when, at about two o'clock, he espied the Epanchins
coming along to pay him a short visit, "just for a minute." They
really had only come for a minute.
Lizabetha Prokofievna had announced, directly after lunch, that
they would all take a walk together. The information was given in
the form of a command, without explanation, drily and abruptly.
All had issued forth in obedience to the mandate; that is, the
girls, mamma, and Prince S. Lizabetha Prokofievna went off in a
direction exactly contrary to the usual one, and all understood
very well what she was driving at, but held their peace, fearing
to irritate the good lady. She, as though anxious to avoid any
conversation, walked ahead, silent and alone. At last Adelaida
remarked that it was no use racing along at such a pace, and
that she could not keep up with her mother.
"Look here," said Lizabetha Prokofievna, turning round suddenly;
"we are passing his house. Whatever Aglaya may think, and in
spite of anything that may happen, he is not a stranger to us;
besides which, he is ill and in misfortune. I, for one, shall
call in and see him. Let anyone follow me who cares to."
Of course every one of them followed her.
The prince hastened to apologize, very properly, for yesterday's
mishap with the vase, and for the scene generally.
"Oh, that's nothing," replied Lizabetha; "I'm not sorry for the
vase, I'm sorry for you. H'm! so you can see that there was a
'scene,' can you? Well, it doesn't matter much, for everyone must
realize now that it is impossible to be hard on you. Well, au
revoir. I advise you to have a walk, and then go to sleep again
if you can. Come in as usual, if you feel inclined; and be
assured, once for all, whatever happens, and whatever may have
happened, you shall always remain the friend of the family--mine,
at all events. I can answer for myself."
In response to this challenge all the others chimed in and re-
echoed mamma's sentiments.
And so they took their departure; but in this hasty and kindly
designed visit there was hidden a fund of cruelty which Lizabetha
Prokofievna never dreamed of. In the words "as usual," and again
in her added, "mine, at all events," there seemed an ominous
knell of some evil to come.
The prince began to think of Aglaya. She had certainly given him
a wonderful smile, both at coming and again at leave-taking, but
had not said a word, not even when the others all professed their
friendship for him. She had looked very intently at him, but that
was all. Her face had been paler than usual; she looked as though
she had slept badly.
The prince made up his mind that he would make a point of going
there "as usual," tonight, and looked feverishly at his watch.
Vera came in three minutes after the Epanchins had left. "Lef
Nicolaievitch," she said, "Aglaya Ivanovna has just given me a
message for you."
The prince trembled.
"Is it a note?"
"No, a verbal message; she had hardly time even for that. She
begs you earnestly not to go out of the house for a single moment
all to-day, until seven o'clock in the evening. It may have been
nine; I didn't quite hear."
"But--but, why is this? What does it mean?"
"I don't know at all; but she said I was to tell you
particularly."
"Did she say that?"
"Not those very words. She only just had time to whisper as she
went by; but by the way she looked at me I knew it was important.
She looked at me in a way that made my heart stop beating."
The prince asked a few more questions, and though he learned
nothing else, he became more and more agitated.
Left alone, he lay down on the sofa, and began to think.
"Perhaps," he thought, "someone is to be with them until nine
tonight and she is afraid that I may come and make a fool of myself
again, in public." So he spent his time longing for the evening
and looking at his watch. But the clearing-up of the mystery came
long before the evening, and came in the form of a new and
agonizing riddle.
Half an hour after the Epanchins had gone, Hippolyte arrived, so
tired that, almost unconscious, he sank into a chair, and broke
into such a fit of coughing that he could not stop. He coughed
till the blood came. His eyes glittered, and two red spots on his
cheeks grew brighter and brighter. The prince murmured something
to him, but Hippolyte only signed that he must be left alone for
a while, and sat silent. At last he came to himself.
"I am off," he said, hoarsely, and with difficulty.
"Shall I see you home?" asked the prince, rising from his seat,
but suddenly stopping short as he remembered Aglaya's prohibition
against leaving the house. Hippolyte laughed.
"I don't mean that I am going to leave your house," he continued,
still gasping and coughing. "On the contrary, I thought it
absolutely necessary to come and see you; otherwise I should not
have troubled you. I am off there, you know, and this time I
believe, seriously, that I am off! It's all over. I did not come
here for sympathy, believe me. I lay down this morning at ten
o'clock with the intention of not rising again before that time;
but I thought it over and rose just once more in order to come
here; from which you may deduce that I had some reason for
wishing to come."
"It grieves me to see you so, Hippolyte. Why didn't you send me a
message? I would have come up and saved you this trouble."
"Well, well! Enough! You've pitied me, and that's all that good
manners exact. I forgot, how are you?"
"I'm all right; yesterday I was a little--"
"I know, I heard; the china vase caught it! I'm sorry I wasn't
there. I've come about something important. In the first place I
had, the pleasure of seeing Gavrila Ardalionovitch and Aglaya
Ivanovna enjoying a rendezvous on the green bench in the park. I
was astonished to see what a fool a man can look. I remarked upon
the fact to Aglaya Ivanovna when he had gone. I don't think
anything ever surprises you, prince!" added Hippolyte, gazing
incredulously at the prince's calm demeanour. "To be astonished
by nothing is a sign, they say, of a great intellect. In my
opinion it would serve equally well as a sign of great
foolishness. I am not hinting about you; pardon me! I am very
unfortunate today in my expressions.
"I knew yesterday that Gavrila Ardalionovitch--" began the
prince, and paused in evident confusion, though Hippolyte had
shown annoyance at his betraying no surprise.
"You knew it? Come, that's news! But no--perhaps better not tell
me. And were you a witness of the meeting?"
"If you were there yourself you must have known that I was NOT
there!"
"Oh! but you may have been sitting behind the bushes somewhere.
However, I am very glad, on your account, of course. I was
beginning to be afraid that Mr. Gania--might have the
preference!"
"May I ask you, Hippolyte, not to talk of this subject? And not
to use such expressions?"
"Especially as you know all, eh?"
"You are wrong. I know scarcely anything, and Aglaya Ivanovna is
aware that I know nothing. I knew nothing whatever about this
meeting. You say there was a meeting. Very well; let's leave it
so--"
"Why, what do you mean? You said you knew, and now suddenly you
know nothing! You say 'very well; let's leave it so.' But I say,
don't be so confiding, especially as you know nothing. You are
confiding simply BECAUSE you know nothing. But do you know what
these good people have in their minds' eye--Gania and his sister?
Perhaps you are suspicious? Well, well, I'll drop the subject!"
he added, hastily, observing the prince's impatient gesture. "But
I've come to you on my own business; I wish to make you a clear
explanation. What a nuisance it is that one cannot die without
explanations! I have made such a quantity of them already. Do you
wish to hear what I have to say?"
"Speak away, I am listening."
"Very well, but I'll change my mind, and begin about Gania. Just
fancy to begin with, if you can, that I, too, was given an
appointment at the green bench today! However, I won't deceive
you; I asked for the appointment. I said I had a secret to
disclose. I don't know whether I came there too early, I think I
must have; but scarcely had I sat down beside Aglaya Ivanovna
than I saw Gavrila Ardalionovitch and his sister Varia coming
along, arm in arm, just as though they were enjoying a morning
walk together. Both of them seemed very much astonished, not to
say disturbed, at seeing me; they evidently had not expected the
pleasure. Aglaya Ivanovna blushed up, and was actually a little
confused. I don't know whether it was merely because I was there,
or whether Gania's beauty was too much for her! But anyway, she
turned crimson, and then finished up the business in a very funny
manner. She jumped up from her seat, bowed back to Gania, smiled
to Varia, and suddenly observed: 'I only came here to express my
gratitude for all your kind wishes on my behalf, and to say that
if I find I need your services, believe me--' Here she bowed them
away, as it were, and they both marched off again, looking very
foolish. Gania evidently could not make head nor tail of the
matter, and turned as red as a lobster; but Varia understood at
once that they must get away as quickly as they could, so she
dragged Gania away; she is a great deal cleverer than he is. As
for myself, I went there to arrange a meeting to be held between
Aglaya Ivanovna and Nastasia Philipovna."
"Nastasia Philipovna!" cried the prince.
"Aha! I think you are growing less cool, my friend, and are
beginning to be a trifle surprised, aren't you? I'm glad that you
are not above ordinary human feelings, for once. I'll console you
a little now, after your consternation. See what I get for
serving a young and high-souled maiden! This morning I received a
slap in the face from the lady!"
"A--a moral one?" asked the prince, involuntarily.
"Yes--not a physical one! I don't suppose anyone--even a woman--
would raise a hand against me now. Even Gania would hesitate! I
did think at one time yesterday, that he would fly at me, though.
I bet anything that I know what you are thinking of now! You are
thinking: 'Of course one can't strike the little wretch, but one
could suffocate him with a pillow, or a wet towel, when he is
asleep! One OUGHT to get rid of him somehow.' I can see in your
face that you are thinking that at this very second."
"I never thought of such a thing for a moment," said the prince,
with disgust.
"I don't know--I dreamed last night that I was being suffocated
with a wet cloth by--somebody. I'll tell you who it was--Rogojin!
What do you think, can a man be suffocated with a wet cloth?"
"I don't know."
"I've heard so. Well, we'll leave that question just now. Why am
I a scandal-monger? Why did she call me a scandal-monger? And
mind, AFTER she had heard every word I had to tell her, and had
asked all sorts of questions besides--but such is the way of
women. For HER sake I entered into relations with Rogojin--an
interesting man! At HER request I arranged a personal interview
between herself and Nastasia Philipovna. Could she have been
angry because I hinted that she was enjoying Nastasia
Philipovna's 'leavings'? Why, I have been impressing it upon her
all this while for her own good. Two letters have I written her
in that strain, and I began straight off today about its being
humiliating for her. Besides, the word 'leavings' is not my
invention. At all events, they all used it at Gania's, and she
used it herself. So why am I a scandal-monger? I see--I see you
are tremendously amused, at this moment! Probably you are
laughing at me and fitting those silly lines to my case--
"'Maybe sad Love upon his setting smiles,
And with vain hopes his farewell hour beguiles.
"Ha, ha, ha!"
Hippolyte suddenly burst into a fit of hysterical laughter, which
turned into a choking cough.
"Observe," he gasped, through his coughing, "what a fellow Gania
is! He talks about Nastasia's 'leavings,' but what does he want
to take himself?"
The prince sat silent for a long while. His mind was filled with
dread and horror.
"You spoke of a meeting with Nastasia Philipovna," he said at
last, in a low voice.
"Oh--come! Surely you must know that there is to be a meeting
today between Nastasia and Aglaya Ivanovna, and that Nastasia has
been sent for on purpose, through Rogojin, from St. Petersburg?
It has been brought about by invitation of Aglaya Ivanovna and my
own efforts, and Nastasia is at this moment with Rogojin, not far
from here--at Dana Alexeyevna's--that curious friend of hers; and
to this questionable house Aglaya Ivanovna is to proceed for a
friendly chat with Nastasia Philipovna, and for the settlement of
several problems. They are going to play at arithmetic--didn't
you know about it? Word of honour?"
"It's a most improbable story."
"Oh, very well! if it's improbable--it is--that's all! And yet--
where should you have heard it? Though I must say, if a fly
crosses the room it's known all over the place here. However,
I've warned you, and you may be grateful to me. Well--au revoir--
probably in the next world! One more thing--don't think that I am
telling you all this for your sake. Oh, dear, no! Do you know
that I dedicated my confession to Aglaya Ivanovna? I did though,
and how she took it, ha, ha! Oh, no! I am not acting from any
high, exalted motives. But though I may have behaved like a cad
to you, I have not done HER any harm. I don't apologize for my
words about 'leavings' and all that. I am atoning for that, you
see, by telling you the place and time of the meeting. Goodbye!
You had better take your measures, if you are worthy the name of
a man! The meeting is fixed for this evening--that's certain."
Hippolyte walked towards the door, but the prince called him back
and he stopped.
"Then you think Aglaya Ivanovna herself intends to go to Nastasia
Philipovna's tonight?" he asked, and bright hectic spots came
out on his cheeks and forehead.
"I don't know absolutely for certain; but in all probability it
is so," replied Hippolyte, looking round. "Nastasia would hardly
go to her; and they can't meet at Gania's, with a man nearly dead
in the house."
"It's impossible, for that very reason," said the prince. "How
would she get out if she wished to? You don't know the habits of
that house--she COULD not get away alone to Nastasia
Philipovna's! It's all nonsense!"
"Look here, my dear prince, no one jumps out of the window if
they can help it; but when there's a fire, the dandiest gentleman
or the finest lady in the world will skip out! When the moment
comes, and there's nothing else to be done--our young lady will
go to Nastasia Philipovna's! Don't they let the young ladies out
of the house alone, then?"
"I didn't mean that exactly."
"If you didn't mean that, then she has only to go down the steps
and walk off, and she need never come back unless she chooses:
Ships are burned behind one sometimes, and one doesn't care to
return whence one came. Life need not consist only of lunches,
and dinners, and Prince S's. It strikes me you take Aglaya
Ivanovna for some conventional boarding-school girl. I said so to
her, and she quite agreed with me. Wait till seven or eight
o'clock. In your place I would send someone there to keep watch,
so as to seize the exact moment when she steps out of the house.
Send Colia. He'll play the spy with pleasure--for you at least.
Ha, ha, ha!"
Hippolyte went out.
There was no reason for the prince to set anyone to watch, even
if he had been capable of such a thing. Aglaya's command that he
should stay at home all day seemed almost explained now. Perhaps
she meant to call for him, herself, or it might be, of course,
that she was anxious to make sure of his not coming there, and
therefore bade him remain at home. His head whirled; the whole
room seemed to be turning round. He lay down on the sofa, and
closed his eyes.
One way or the other the question was to be decided at last--
finally.
Oh, no, he did not think of Aglaya as a boarding-school miss, or
a young lady of the conventional type! He had long since feared
that she might take some such step as this. But why did she wish
to see Nastasia?
He shivered all over as he lay; he was in high fever again.
No! he did not account her a child. Certain of her looks, certain
of her words, of late, had filled him with apprehension. At times
it had struck him that she was putting too great a restraint upon
herself, and he remembered that he had been alarmed to observe
this. He had tried, all these days, to drive away the heavy
thoughts that oppressed him; but what was the hidden mystery of
that soul? The question had long tormented him, although he
implicitly trusted that soul. And now it was all to be cleared
up. It was a dreadful thought. And "that woman" again! Why did he
always feel as though "that woman" were fated to appear at each
critical moment of his life, and tear the thread of his destiny
like a bit of rotten string? That he always HAD felt this he was
ready to swear, although he was half delirious at the moment. If
he had tried to forget her, all this time, it was simply because
he was afraid of her. Did he love the woman or hate her? This
question he did not once ask himself today; his heart was quite
pure. He knew whom he loved. He was not so much afraid of this
meeting, nor of its strangeness, nor of any reasons there might
be for it, unknown to himself; he was afraid of the woman
herself, Nastasia Philipovna. He remembered, some days
afterwards, how during all those fevered hours he had seen but
HER eyes, HER look, had heard HER voice, strange words of hers;
he remembered that this was so, although he could not recollect
the details of his thoughts.
He could remember that Vera brought him some dinner, and that he
took it; but whether he slept after dinner, or no, he could not
recollect.
He only knew that he began to distinguish things clearly from the
moment when Aglaya suddenly appeared, and he jumped up from the
sofa and went to meet her. It was just a quarter past seven then.
Aglaya was quite alone, and dressed, apparently hastily, in a
light mantle. Her face was pale, as it had been in the morning,
and her eyes were ablaze with bright but subdued fire. He had
never seen that expression in her eyes before.
She gazed attentively at him.
"You are quite ready, I observe," she said, with absolute
composure, "dressed, and your hat in your hand. I see somebody
has thought fit to warn you, and I know who. Hippolyte?"
"Yes, he told me," said the prince, feeling only half alive.
"Come then. You know, I suppose, that you must escort me there?
You are well enough to go out, aren't you?"
"I am well enough; but is it really possible?--"
He broke off abruptly, and could not add another word. This was
his one attempt to stop the mad child, and, after he had made it,
he followed her as though he had no will of his own. Confused as
his thoughts were, he was, nevertheless, capable of realizing the
fact that if he did not go with her, she would go alone, and so
he must go with her at all hazards. He guessed the strength of
her determination; it was beyond him to check it.
They walked silently, and said scarcely a word all the way. He
only noticed that she seemed to know the road very well; and
once, when he thought it better to go by a certain lane, and
remarked to her that it would be quieter and less public, she
only said, "it's all the same," and went on.
When they were almost arrived at Daria Alexeyevna's house (it was
a large wooden structure of ancient date), a gorgeously-dressed
lady and a young girl came out of it. Both these ladies took
their seats in a carriage, which was waiting at the door, talking
and laughing loudly the while, and drove away without appearing
to notice the approaching couple.
No sooner had the carriage driven off than the door opened once
more; and Rogojin, who had apparently been awaiting them, let
them in and closed it after them.
"There is not another soul in the house now excepting our four
selves," he said aloud, looking at the prince in a strange way.
Nastasia Philipovna was waiting for them in the first room they
went into. She was dressed very simply, in black.
She rose at their entrance, but did not smile or give her hand,
even to the prince. Her anxious eyes were fixed upon Aglaya. Both
sat down, at a little distance from one another--Aglaya on the
sofa, in the corner of the room, Nastasia by the window. The
prince and Rogojin remained standing, and were not invited to
sit.
Muishkin glanced at Rogojin in perplexity, but the latter only
smiled disagreeably, and said nothing. The silence continued for
some few moments.
An ominous expression passed over Nastasia Philipovna's face, of
a sudden. It became obstinate-looking, hard, and full of hatred;
but she did not take her eyes off her visitors for a moment.
Aglaya was clearly confused, but not frightened. On entering she
had merely glanced momentarily at her rival, and then had sat
still, with her eyes on the ground, apparently in thought. Once
or twice she glanced casually round the room. A shade of disgust
was visible in her expression; she looked as though she were
afraid of contamination in this place.
She mechanically arranged her dress, and fidgeted uncomfortably,
eventually changing her seat to the other end of the sofa.
Probably she was unconscious of her own movements; but this very
unconsciousness added to the offensiveness of their suggested
meaning.
At length she looked straight into Nastasia's eyes, and instantly
read all there was to read in her rival's expression. Woman
understood woman! Aglaya shuddered.
"You know of course why I requested this meeting?" she said at
last, quietly, and pausing twice in the delivery of this very
short sentence.
"No--I know nothing about it," said Nastasia, drily and abruptly.
Aglaya blushed. Perhaps it struck her as very strange and
impossible that she should really be sitting here and waiting for
"that woman's" reply to her question.
At the first sound of Nastasia's voice a shudder ran through her
frame. Of course "that woman" observed and took in all this.
"You know quite well, but you are pretending to be ignorant,"
said Aglaya, very low, with her eyes on the ground.
"Why should I?" asked Nastasia Philipovna, smiling slightly.
"You want to take advantage of my position, now that I am in your
house," continued Aglaya, awkwardly.
"For that position YOU are to blame and not I," said Nastasia,
flaring up suddenly. "_I_ did not invite YOU, but you me; and to
this moment I am quite ignorant as to why I am thus honoured."
Aglaya raised her head haughtily.
"Restrain your tongue!" she said. "I did not come here to fight
you with your own weapons.
"Oh! then you did come 'to fight,' I may conclude? Dear me!--and
I thought you were cleverer--"
They looked at one another with undisguised malice. One of these
women had written to the other, so lately, such letters as we
have seen; and it all was dispersed at their first meeting. Yet
it appeared that not one of the four persons in the room
considered this in any degree strange.
The prince who, up to yesterday, would not have believed that he
could even dream of such an impossible scene as this, stood and
listened and looked on, and felt as though he had long foreseen
it all. The most fantastic dream seemed suddenly to have been
metamorphosed into the most vivid reality.
One of these women so despised the other, and so longed to
express her contempt for her (perhaps she had only come for that
very purpose, as Rogojin said next day), that howsoever
fantastical was the other woman, howsoever afflicted her spirit
and disturbed her understanding, no preconceived idea of hers
could possibly stand up against that deadly feminine contempt of
her rival. The prince felt sure that Nastasia would say nothing
about the letters herself; but he could judge by her flashing
eyes and the expression of her face what the thought of those
letters must be costing her at this moment. He would have given
half his life to prevent Aglaya from speaking of them. But Aglaya
suddenly braced herself up, and seemed to master herself fully,
all in an instant.
"You have not quite understood," she said. "I did not come to
quarrel with you, though I do not like you. I came to speak to
you as... as one human being to another. I came with my mind made
up as to what I had to say to you, and I shall not change my
intention, although you may misunderstand me. So much the worse
for you, not for myself! I wished to reply to all you have
written to me and to reply personally, because I think that is
the more convenient way. Listen to my reply to all your letters.
I began to be sorry for Prince Lef Nicolaievitch on the very day
I made his acquaintance, and when I heard--afterwards--of all
that took place at your house in the evening, I was sorry for him
because he was such a simple-minded man, and because he, in the
simplicity of his soul, believed that he could be happy with a
woman of your character. What I feared actually took place; you
could not love him, you tortured him, and threw him over. You
could not love him because you are too proud--no, not proud, that
is an error; because you are too vain--no, not quite that either;
too self-loving; you are self-loving to madness. Your letters to
me are a proof of it. You could not love so simple a soul as his,
and perhaps in your heart you despised him and laughed at him.
All you could love was your shame and the perpetual thought that
you were disgraced and insulted. If you were less shameful, or
had no cause at all for shame, you would be still more unhappy
than you are now.
Aglaya brought out these thronging words with great satisfaction.
They came from her lips hurriedly and impetuously, and had been
prepared and thought out long ago, even before she had ever
dreamed of the present meeting. She watched with eagerness the
effect of her speech as shown in Nastasia's face, which was
distorted with agitation.
"You remember," she continued, "he wrote me a letter at that
time; he says you know all about that letter and that you even
read it. I understand all by means of this letter, and understand
it correctly. He has since confirmed it all to me--what I now say
to you, word for word. After receiving his letter I waited; I
guessed that you would soon come back here, because you could
never do without Petersburg; you are still too young and lovely
for the provinces. However, this is not my own idea," she added,
blushing dreadfully; and from this moment the colour never left
her cheeks to the end of her speech. When I next saw the prince I
began to feel terribly pained and hurt on his account. Do not
laugh; if you laugh you are unworthy of understanding what I
say."
"Surely you see that I am not laughing," said Nastasia, sadly and
sternly.
"However, it's all the same to me; laugh or not, just as you
please. When I asked him about you, he told me that he had long
since ceased to love you, that the very recollection of you was a
torture to him, but that he was sorry for you; and that when he
thought of you his heart was pierced. I ought to tell you that I
never in my life met a man anything like him for noble simplicity
of mind and for boundless trustfulness. I guessed that anyone who
liked could deceive him, and that he would immediately forgive
anyone who did deceive him; and it was for this that I grew to
love him--"
Aglaya paused for a moment, as though suddenly brought up in
astonishment that she could have said these words, but at the
same time a great pride shone in her eyes, like a defiant
assertion that it would not matter to her if "this woman" laughed
in her face for the admission just made.
"I have told you all now, and of course you understand what I
wish of you."
"Perhaps I do; but tell me yourself," said Nastasia Philipovna,
quietly.
Aglaya flushed up angrily.
"I wished to find out from you," she said, firmly, "by what right
you dare to meddle with his feelings for me? By what right you
dared send me those letters? By what right do you continually
remind both me and him that you love him, after you yourself
threw him over and ran away from him in so insulting and shameful
a way?"
"I never told either him or you that I loved him!" replied
Nastasia Philipovna, with an effort. "And--and I did run away
from him--you are right there," she added, scarcely audibly.
"Never told either him or me?" cried Aglaya. "How about your
letters? Who asked you to try to persuade me to marry him? Was
not that a declaration from you? Why do you force yourself upon
us in this way? I confess I thought at first that you were
anxious to arouse an aversion for him in my heart by your
meddling, in order that I might give him up; and it was only
afterwards that I guessed the truth. You imagined that you were
doing an heroic action! How could you spare any love for him,
when you love your own vanity to such an extent? Why could you
not simply go away from here, instead of writing me those absurd
letters? Why do you not NOW marry that generous man who loves
you, and has done you the honour of offering you his hand? It is
plain enough why; if you marry Rogojin you lose your grievance;
you will have nothing more to complain of. You will be receiving
too much honour. Evgenie Pavlovitch was saying the other day that
you had read too many poems and are too well educated for--your
position; and that you live in idleness. Add to this your vanity,
and, there you have reason enough--"
"And do you not live in idleness?"
Things had come to this unexpected point too quickly. Unexpected
because Nastasia Philipovna, on her way to Pavlofsk, had thought
and considered a good deal, and had expected something different,
though perhaps not altogether good, from this interview; but
Aglaya had been carried away by her own outburst, just as a
rolling stone gathers impetus as it careers downhill, and could
not restrain herself in the satisfaction of revenge.
It was strange, Nastasia Philipovna felt, to see Aglaya like
this. She gazed at her, and could hardly believe her eyes and
ears for a moment or two.
Whether she were a woman who had read too many poems, as Evgenie
Pavlovitch supposed, or whether she were mad, as the prince had
assured Aglaya, at all events, this was a woman who, in spite of
her occasionally cynical and audacious manner, was far more
refined and trustful and sensitive than appeared. There was a
certain amount of romantic dreaminess and caprice in her, but
with the fantastic was mingled much that was strong and deep.
The prince realized this, and great suffering expressed itself in
his face.
Aglaya observed it, and trembled with anger.
"How dare you speak so to me?" she said, with a haughtiness which
was quite indescribable, replying to Nastasia's last remark.
"You must have misunderstood what I said," said Nastasia, in some
surprise.
"If you wished to preserve your good name, why did you not give
up your--your 'guardian,' Totski, without all that theatrical
posturing?" said Aglaya, suddenly a propos of nothing.
"What do you know of my position, that you dare to judge me?"
cried Nastasia, quivering with rage, and growing terribly white.
"I know this much, that you did not go out to honest work, but
went away with a rich man, Rogojin, in order to pose as a fallen
angel. I don't wonder that Totski was nearly driven to suicide by
such a fallen angel."
"Silence!" cried Nastasia Philipovna. "You are about as fit to
understand me as the housemaid here, who bore witness against her
lover in court the other day. She would understand me better than
you do."
"Probably an honest girl living by her own toil. Why do you speak
of a housemaid so contemptuously?"
"I do not despise toil; I despise you when you speak of toil."
"If you had cared to be an honest woman, you would have gone out
as a laundress."
Both had risen, and were gazing at one another with pallid faces.
"Aglaya, don't! This is unfair," cried the prince, deeply
distressed.
Rogojin was not smiling now; he sat and listened with folded
arms, and lips tight compressed.
"There, look at her," cried Nastasia, trembling with passion.
"Look at this young lady! And I imagined her an angel! Did you
come to me without your governess, Aglaya Ivanovna? Oh, fie, now
shall I just tell you why you came here today? Shall I tell you
without any embellishments? You came because you were afraid of
me!"
"Afraid of YOU?" asked Aglaya, beside herself with naive
amazement that the other should dare talk to her like this.
"Yes, me, of course! Of course you were afraid of me, or you
would not have decided to come. You cannot despise one you fear.
And to think that I have actually esteemed you up to this very
moment! Do you know why you are afraid of me, and what is your
object now? You wished to satisfy yourself with your own eyes as
to which he loves best, myself or you, because you are fearfully
jealous."
"He has told me already that he hates you," murmured Aglaya,
scarcely audibly.
"Perhaps, perhaps! I am not worthy of him, I know. But I think
you are lying, all the same. He cannot hate me, and he cannot
have said so. I am ready to forgive you, in consideration of your
position; but I confess I thought better of you. I thought you
were wiser, and more beautiful, too; I did, indeed! Well, take
your treasure! See, he is gazing at you, he can't recollect
himself. Take him, but on one condition; go away at once, this
instant!"
She fell back into a chair, and burst into tears. But suddenly
some new expression blazed in her eyes. She stared fixedly at
Aglaya, and rose from her seat.
"Or would you like me to bid him, BID HIM, do you hear, COMMAND
HIM, now, at once, to throw you up, and remain mine for ever?
Shall I? He will stay, and he will marry me too, and you shall
trot home all alone. Shall I?--shall I say the word?" she
screamed like a madwoman, scarcely believing herself that she
could really pronounce such wild words.
Aglaya had made for the door in terror, but she stopped at the
threshold, and listened. "Shall I turn Rogojin off? Ha! ha! you
thought I would marry him for your benefit, did you? Why, I'll
call out NOW, if you like, in your presence, 'Rogojin, get out!'
and say to the prince, 'Do you remember what you promised me?'
Heavens! what a fool I have been to humiliate myself before them!
Why, prince, you yourself gave me your word that you would marry
me whatever happened, and would never abandon me. You said you
loved me and would forgive me all, and--and resp--yes, you even
said that! I only ran away from you in order to set you free, and
now I don't care to let you go again. Why does she treat me so--
so shamefully? I am not a loose woman--ask Rogojin there! He'll
tell you. Will you go again now that she has insulted me, before
your eyes, too; turn away from me and lead her away, arm-in-arm?
May you be accursed too, for you were the only one I trusted
among them all! Go away, Rogojin, I don't want you," she
continued, blind with fury, and forcing the words out with dry
lips and distorted features, evidently not believing a single
word of her own tirade, but, at the same time, doing her utmost
to prolong the moment of self-deception.
The outburst was so terribly violent that the prince thought it
would have killed her.
"There he is!" she shrieked again, pointing to the prince and
addressing Aglaya. "There he is! and if he does not approach me
at once and take ME and throw you over, then have him for your
own--I give him up to you! I don't want him!"
Both she and Aglaya stood and waited as though in expectation,
and both looked at the prince like madwomen.
But he, perhaps, did not understand the full force of this
challenge; in fact, it is certain he did not. All he could see
was the poor despairing face which, as he had said to Aglaya,
"had pierced his heart for ever."
He could bear it no longer, and with a look of entreaty, mingled
with reproach, he addressed Aglaya, pointing to Nastasia the
while:
"How can you?" he murmured; "she is so unhappy."
But he had no time to say another word before. Aglaya's terrible
look bereft him of speech. In that look was embodied so dreadful
a suffering and so deadly a hatred, that he gave a cry and flew
to her; but it was too late.
She could not hold out long enough even to witness his movement
in her direction. She had hidden her face in her hands, cried
once " Oh, my God!" and rushed out of the room. Rogojin followed
her to undo the bolts of the door and let her out into the
street.
The prince made a rush after her, but he, was caught and held
back. The distorted, livid face of Nastasia gazed at him
reproachfully, and her blue lips whispered:
"What? Would you go to her--to her?"
She fell senseless into his arms.
He raised her, carried her into the room, placed her in an arm-
chair, and stood over her, stupefied. On the table stood a
tumbler of water. Rogojin, who now returned, took this and
sprinkled a little in her face. She opened her eyes, but for a
moment she understood nothing.
Suddenly she looked around, shuddered, gave a loud cry, and threw
herself in the prince's arms.
"Mine, mine!" she cried. "Has the proud young lady gone? Ha, ha,
ha!" she laughed hysterically. "And I had given him up to her!
Why--why did I? Mad--mad! Get away, Rogojin! Ha, ha, ha!"
Rogojin stared intently at them; then he took his hat, and
without a word, left the room.
A few moments later, the prince was seated by Nastasia on the
sofa, gazing into her eyes and stroking her face and hair, as he
would a little child's. He laughed when she laughed, and was
ready to cry when she cried. He did not speak, but listened to
her excited, disconnected chatter, hardly understanding a word of
it the while. No sooner did he detect the slightest appearance of
complaining, or weeping, or reproaching, than he would smile at
her kindly, and begin stroking her hair and her cheeks, soothing
and consoling her once more, as if she were a child.
IX.
A FORTNIGHT had passed since the events recorded in the last
chapter, and the position of the actors in our story had become
so changed that it is almost impossible for us to continue the
tale without some few explanations. Yet we feel that we ought to
limit ourselves to the simple record of facts, without much
attempt at explanation, for a very patent reason: because we
ourselves have the greatest possible difficulty in accounting for
the facts to be recorded. Such a statement on our part may appear
strange to the reader. How is anyone to tell a story which he
cannot understand himself? In order to keep clear of a false
position, we had perhaps better give an example of what we mean;
and probably the intelligent reader will soon understand the
difficulty. More especially are we inclined to take this course
since the example will constitute a distinct march forward of our
story, and will not hinder the progress of the events remaining
to be recorded.
During the next fortnight--that is, through the early part of
July--the history of our hero was circulated in the form of
strange, diverting, most unlikely-sounding stories, which passed
from mouth to mouth, through the streets and villas adjoining
those inhabited by Lebedeff, Ptitsin, Nastasia Philipovna and the
Epanchins; in fact, pretty well through the whole town and its
environs. All society--both the inhabitants of the place and
those who came down of an evening for the music--had got hold of
one and the same story, in a thousand varieties of detail--as to
how a certain young prince had raised a terrible scandal in a
most respectable household, had thrown over a daughter of the
family, to whom he was engaged, and had been captured by a woman
of shady reputation whom he was determined to marry at once--
breaking off all old ties for the satisfaction of his insane
idea; and, in spite of the public indignation roused by his
action, the marriage was to take place in Pavlofsk openly and
publicly, and the prince had announced his intention of going
through with it with head erect and looking the whole world in
the face. The story was so artfully adorned with scandalous
details, and persons of so great eminence and importance were
apparently mixed up in it, while, at the same time, the evidence
was so circumstantial, that it was no wonder the matter gave food
for plenty of curiosity and gossip.
According to the reports of the most talented gossip-mongers--
those who, in every class of society, are always in haste to
explain every event to their neighbours--the young gentleman
concerned was of good family--a prince--fairly rich--weak of
intellect, but a democrat and a dabbler in the Nihilism of the
period, as exposed by Mr. Turgenieff. He could hardly talk
Russian, but had fallen in love with one of the Miss Epanchins,
and his suit met with so much encouragement that he had been
received in the house as the recognized bridegroom-to-be of the
young lady. But like the Frenchman of whom the story is told that
he studied for holy orders, took all the oaths, was ordained
priest, and next morning wrote to his bishop informing him that,
as he did not believe in God and considered it wrong to deceive
the people and live upon their pockets, he begged to surrender
the orders conferred upon him the day before, and to inform his
lordship that he was sending this letter to the public press,--
like this Frenchman, the prince played a false game. It was
rumoured that he had purposely waited for the solemn occasion of
a large evening party at the house of his future bride, at which
he was introduced to several eminent persons, in order publicly
to make known his ideas and opinions, and thereby insult the
"big-wigs," and to throw over his bride as offensively as
possible; and that, resisting the servants who were told off to
turn him out of the house, he had seized and thrown down a
magnificent china vase. As a characteristic addition to the
above, it was currently reported that the young prince really
loved the lady to whom he was engaged, and had thrown her over
out of purely Nihilistic motives, with the intention of giving
himself the satisfaction of marrying a fallen woman in the face
of all the world, thereby publishing his opinion that there is no
distinction between virtuous and disreputable women, but that all
women are alike, free; and a "fallen" woman, indeed, somewhat
superior to a virtuous one.
It was declared that he believed in no classes or anything else,
excepting "the woman question."
All this looked likely enough, and was accepted as fact by most
of the inhabitants of the place, especially as it was borne out,
more or less, by daily occurrences.
Of course much was said that could not be determined absolutely.
For instance, it was reported that the poor girl had so loved her
future husband that she had followed him to the house of the
other woman, the day after she had been thrown over; others said
that he had insisted on her coming, himself, in order to shame
and insult her by his taunts and Nihilistic confessions when she
reached the house. However all these things might be, the public
interest in the matter grew daily, especially as it became clear
that the scandalous wedding was undoubtedly to take place.
So that if our readers were to ask an explanation, not of the
wild reports about the prince's Nihilistic opinions, but simply
as to how such a marriage could possibly satisfy his real
aspirations, or as to the spiritual condition of our hero at this
time, we confess that we should have great difficulty in giving
the required information.
All we know is, that the marriage really was arranged, and that
the prince had commissioned Lebedeff and Keller to look after all
the necessary business connected with it; that he had requested
them to spare no expense; that Nastasia herself was hurrying on
the wedding; that Keller was to be the prince's best man, at his
own earnest request; and that Burdovsky was to give Nastasia
away, to his great delight. The wedding was to take place before
the middle of July.
But, besides the above, we are cognizant of certain other
undoubted facts, which puzzle us a good deal because they seem
flatly to contradict the foregoing.
We suspect, for instance, that having commissioned Lebedeff and
the others, as above, the prince immediately forgot all about
masters of ceremonies and even the ceremony itself; and we feel
quite certain that in making these arrangements he did so in
order that he might absolutely escape all thought of the wedding,
and even forget its approach if he could, by detailing all
business concerning it to others.
What did he think of all this time, then? What did he wish for?
There is no doubt that he was a perfectly free agent all through,
and that as far as Nastasia was concerned, there was no force of
any kind brought to bear on him. Nastasia wished for a speedy
marriage, true!--but the prince agreed at once to her proposals;
he agreed, in fact, so casually that anyone might suppose he was
but acceding to the most simple and ordinary suggestion.
There are many strange circumstances such as this before us; but
in our opinion they do but deepen the mystery, and do not in the
smallest degree help us to understand the case.
However, let us take one more example. Thus, we know for a fact
that during the whole of this fortnight the prince spent all his
days and evenings with Nastasia; he walked with her, drove with
her; he began to be restless whenever he passed an hour without
seeing her--in fact, to all appearances, he sincerely loved her.
He would listen to her for hours at a time with a quiet smile on
his face, scarcely saying a word himself. And yet we know,
equally certainly, that during this period he several times set
off, suddenly, to the Epanchins', not concealing the fact from
Nastasia Philipovna, and driving the latter to absolute despair.
We know also that he was not received at the Epanchins' so long
as they remained at Pavlofsk, and that he was not allowed an
interview with Aglaya;--but next day he would set off once more
on the same errand, apparently quite oblivious of the fact of
yesterday's visit having been a failure,--and, of course, meeting
with another refusal. We know, too, that exactly an hour after
Aglaya had fled from Nastasia Philipovna's house on that fateful
evening, the prince was at the Epanchins',--and that his
appearance there had been the cause of the greatest consternation
and dismay; for Aglaya had not been home, and the family only
discovered then, for the first time, that the two of them had
been to Nastasia's house together.
It was said that Elizabetha Prokofievna and her daughters had
there and then denounced the prince in the strongest terms, and
had refused any further acquaintance and friendship with him;
their rage and denunciations being redoubled when Varia
Ardalionovna suddenly arrived and stated that Aglaya had been at
her house in a terrible state of mind for the last hour, and that
she refused to come home.
This last item of news, which disturbed Lizabetha Prokofievna
more than anything else, was perfectly true. On leaving
Nastasia's, Aglaya had felt that she would rather die than face
her people, and had therefore gone straight to Nina
Alexandrovna's. On receiving the news, Lizabetha and her
daughters and the general all rushed off to Aglaya, followed by
Prince Lef Nicolaievitch--undeterred by his recent dismissal; but
through Varia he was refused a sight of Aglaya here also. The end
of the episode was that when Aglaya saw her mother and sisters
crying over her and not uttering a word of reproach, she had
flung herself into their arms and gone straight home with them.
It was said that Gania managed to make a fool of himself even on
this occasion; for, finding himself alone with Aglaya for a
minute or two when Varia had gone to the Epanchins', he had
thought it a fitting opportunity to make a declaration of his
love, and on hearing this Aglaya, in spite of her state of mind
at the time, had suddenly burst out laughing, and had put a
strange question to him. She asked him whether he would consent
to hold his finger to a lighted candle in proof of his devotion!
Gania--it was said--looked so comically bewildered that Aglaya
had almost laughed herself into hysterics, and had rushed out of
the room and upstairs,--where her parents had found her.
Hippolyte told the prince this last story, sending for him on
purpose. When Muishkin heard about the candle and Gania's finger
he had laughed so that he had quite astonished Hippolyte,--and
then shuddered and burst into tears. The prince's condition
during those days was strange and perturbed. Hippolyte plainly
declared that he thought he was out of his mind;--this, however,
was hardly to be relied upon.
Offering all these facts to our readers and refusing to explain
them, we do not for a moment desire to justify our hero's
conduct. On the contrary, we are quite prepared to feel our share
of the indignation which his behaviour aroused in the hearts of
his friends. Even Vera Lebedeff was angry with him for a while;
so was Colia; so was Keller, until he was selected for best man;
so was Lebedeff himself,--who began to intrigue against him out
of pure irritation;--but of this anon. In fact we are in full
accord with certain forcible words spoken to the prince by
Evgenie Pavlovitch, quite unceremoniously, during the course of a
friendly conversation, six or seven days after the events at
Nastasia Philipovna's house.
We may remark here that not only the Epanchins themselves, but
all who had anything to do with them, thought it right to break
with the prince in consequence of his conduct. Prince S. even
went so far as to turn away and cut him dead in the street. But
Evgenie Pavlovitch was not afraid to compromise himself by paying
the prince a visit, and did so, in spite of the fact that he had
recommenced to visit at the Epanchins', where he was received
with redoubled hospitality and kindness after the temporary
estrangement.
Evgenie called upon the prince the day after that on which the
Epanchins left Pavlofsk. He knew of all the current rumours,--in
fact, he had probably contributed to them himself. The prince was
delighted to see him, and immediately began to speak of the
Epanchins;--which simple and straightforward opening quite took
Evgenie's fancy, so that he melted at once, and plunged in medias
res without ceremony.
The prince did not know, up to this, that the Epanchins had left
the place. He grew very pale on hearing the news; but a moment
later he nodded his head, and said thoughtfully:
"I knew it was bound to be so." Then he added quickly:
"Where have they gone to?"
Evgenie meanwhile observed him attentively, and the rapidity of
the questions, their, simplicity, the prince's candour, and at
the same time, his evident perplexity and mental agitation,
surprised him considerably. However, he told Muishkin all he
could, kindly and in detail. The prince hardly knew anything, for
this was the first informant from the household whom he had met
since the estrangement.
Evgenie reported that Aglaya had been really ill, and that for
two nights she had not slept at all, owing to high fever; that
now she was better and out of serious danger, but still in a
nervous, hysterical state.
"It's a good thing that there is peace in the house, at all
events," he continued. "They never utter a hint about the past,
not only in Aglaya's presence, but even among themselves. The old
people are talking of a trip abroad in the autumn, immediately
after Adelaida's wedding; Aglaya received the news in silence."
Evgenie himself was very likely going abroad also; so were Prince
S. and his wife, if affairs allowed of it; the general was to
stay at home. They were all at their estate of Colmina now, about
twenty miles or so from St. Petersburg. Princess Bielokonski had
not returned to Moscow yet, and was apparently staying on for
reasons of her own. Lizabetha Prokofievna had insisted that it
was quite impossible to remain in Pavlofsk after what had
happened. Evgenie had told her of all the rumours current in town
about the affair; so that there could be no talk of their going
to their house on the Yelagin as yet.
"And in point of fact, prince," added Evgenie Pavlovitch, "you
must allow that they could hardly have stayed here, considering
that they knew of all that went on at your place, and in the face
of your daily visits to their house, visits which you insisted
upon making in spite of their refusal to see you."
"Yes--yes, quite so; you are quite right. I wished to see Aglaya
Ivanovna, you know!" said the prince, nodding his head.
"Oh, my dear fellow," cried Evgenie, warmly, with real sorrow in
his voice, "how could you permit all that to come about as it
has? Of course, of course, I know it was all so unexpected. I
admit that you, only naturally, lost your head, and--and could
not stop the foolish girl; that was not in your power. I quite
see so much; but you really should have understood how seriously
she cared for you. She could not bear to share you with another;
and you could bring yourself to throw away and shatter such a
treasure! Oh, prince, prince!"
"Yes, yes, you are quite right again," said the poor prince, in
anguish of mind. "I was wrong, I know. But it was only Aglaya who
looked on Nastasia Philipovna so; no one else did, you know."
"But that's just the worst of it all, don't you see, that there
was absolutely nothing serious about the matter in reality!"
cried Evgenie, beside himself: "Excuse me, prince, but I have
thought over all this; I have thought a great deal over it; I
know all that had happened before; I know all that took place six
months since; and I know there was NOTHING serious about the
matter, it was but fancy, smoke, fantasy, distorted by agitation,
and only the alarmed jealousy of an absolutely inexperienced girl
could possibly have mistaken it for serious reality."
Here Evgenie Pavlovitch quite let himself go, and gave the reins
to his indignation.
Clearly and reasonably, and with great psychological insight, he
drew a picture of the prince's past relations with Nastasia
Philipovna. Evgenie Pavlovitch always had a ready tongue, but on
this occasion his eloquence, surprised himself. "From the very
beginning," he said, "you began with a lie; what began with a lie
was bound to end with a lie; such is the law of nature. I do not
agree, in fact I am angry, when I hear you called an idiot; you
are far too intelligent to deserve such an epithet; but you are
so far STRANGE as to be unlike others; that you must allow,
yourself. Now, I have come to the conclusion that the basis of
all that has happened, has been first of all your innate
inexperience (remark the expression 'innate,' prince). Then
follows your unheard-of simplicity of heart; then comes your
absolute want of sense of proportion (to this want you have
several times confessed); and lastly, a mass, an accumulation, of
intellectual convictions which you, in your unexampled honesty of
soul, accept unquestionably as also innate and natural and true.
Admit, prince, that in your relations with Nastasia Philipovna
there has existed, from the very first, something democratic, and
the fascination, so to speak, of the 'woman question'? I know all
about that scandalous scene at Nastasia Philipovna's house when
Rogojin brought the money, six months ago. I'll show you yourself
as in a looking-glass, if you like. I know exactly all that went
on, in every detail, and why things have turned out as they have.
You thirsted, while in Switzerland, for your home-country, for
Russia; you read, doubtless, many books about Russia, excellent
books, I dare say, but hurtful to YOU; and you arrived here; as
it were, on fire with the longing to be of service. Then, on the
very day of your arrival, they tell you a sad story of an ill-
used woman; they tell YOU, a knight, pure and without reproach,
this tale of a poor woman! The same day you actually SEE her; you
are attracted by her beauty, her fantastic, almost demoniacal,
beauty--(I admit her beauty, of course).
"Add to all this your nervous nature, your epilepsy, and your
sudden arrival in a strange town--the day of meetings and of
exciting scenes, the day of unexpected acquaintanceships, the day
of sudden actions, the day of meeting with the three lovely
Epanchin girls, and among them Aglaya--add your fatigue, your
excitement; add Nastasia' s evening party, and the tone of that
party, and--what were you to expect of yourself at such a moment
as that?"
"Yes, yes, yes!" said the prince, once more, nodding his head,
and blushing slightly. "Yes, it was so, or nearly so--I know it.
And besides, you see, I had not slept the night before, in the
train, or the night before that, either, and I was very tired."
"Of course, of course, quite so; that's what I am driving at!"
continued Evgenie, excitedly. "It is as clear as possible, and
most comprehensible, that you, in your enthusiasm, should plunge
headlong into the first chance that came of publicly airing your
great idea that you, a prince, and a pure-living man, did not
consider a woman disgraced if the sin were not her own, but that
of a disgusting social libertine! Oh, heavens! it's
comprehensible enough, my dear prince, but that is not the
question, unfortunately! The question is, was there any reality
and truth in your feelings? Was it nature, or nothing but
intellectual enthusiasm? What do you think yourself? We are told,
of course, that a far worse woman was FORGIVEN, but we don't find
that she was told that she had done well, or that she was worthy
of honour and respect! Did not your common-sense show you what
was the real state of the case, a few months later? The question
is now, not whether she is an innocent woman (I do not insist one
way or the other--I do not wish to); but can her whole career
justify such intolerable pride, such insolent, rapacious egotism
as she has shown? Forgive me, I am too violent, perhaps, but--"
"Yes--I dare say it is all as you say; I dare say you are quite
right," muttered the prince once more. "She is very sensitive and
easily put out, of course; but still, she..."
"She is worthy of sympathy? Is that what you wished to say, my
good fellow? But then, for the mere sake of vindicating her
worthiness of sympathy, you should not have insulted and offended
a noble and generous girl in her presence! This is a terrible
exaggeration of sympathy! How can you love a girl, and yet so
humiliate her as to throw her over for the sake of another woman,
before the very eyes of that other woman, when you have already
made her a formal proposal of marriage? And you DID propose to
her, you know; you did so before her parents and sisters. Can you
be an honest man, prince, if you act so? I ask you! And did you
not deceive that beautiful girl when you assured her of your
love?"
"Yes, you are quite right. Oh! I feel that I am very guilty!"
said Muishkin, in deepest distress.
"But as if that is enough!" cried Evgenie, indignantly. "As if it
is enough simply to say: 'I know I am very guilty!' You are to
blame, and yet you persevere in evil-doing. Where was your heart,
I should like to know, your CHRISTIAN HEART, all that time? Did
she look as though she were suffering less, at that moment? You
saw her face--was she suffering less than the other woman? How
could you see her suffering and allow it to continue? How could
you?"
"But I did not allow it," murmured the wretched prince.
"How--what do you mean you didn't allow?"
"Upon my word, I didn't! To this moment I don't know how it all
happened. I--I ran after Aglaya Ivanovna, but Nastasia Philipovna
fell down in a faint; and since that day they won't let me see
Aglaya--that's all I know."
"It's all the same; you ought to have run after Aglaya though the
other was fainting."
"Yes, yes, I ought--but I couldn't! She would have died--she
would have killed herself. You don't know her; and I should have
told Aglaya everything afterwards--but I see, Evgenie Pavlovitch,
you don't know all. Tell me now, why am I not allowed to see
Aglaya? I should have cleared it all up, you know. Neither
of them kept to the real point, you see. I could never explain
what I mean to you, but I think I could to Aglaya. Oh! my God, my
God! You spoke just now of Aglaya's face at the moment when she
ran away. Oh, my God! I remember it! Come along, come along--
quick!" He pulled at Evgenie's coat-sleeve nervously and
excitedly, and rose from his chair.
"Where to?"
"Come to Aglaya--quick, quick!"
"But I told you she is not at Pavlofsk. And what would be the use
if she were?"
"Oh, she'll understand, she'll understand!" cried the prince,
clasping his hands. "She would understand that all this is not
the point--not a bit the real point--it is quite foreign to the
real question."
"How can it be foreign? You ARE going to be married, are you not?
Very well, then you are persisting in your course. ARE you going
to marry her or not?"
"Yes, I shall marry her--yes."
"Then why is it 'not the point'?"
"Oh, no, it is not the point, not a bit. It makes no difference,
my marrying her--it means nothing."
"How 'means nothing'? You are talking nonsense, my friend. You
are marrying the woman you love in order to secure her happiness,
and Aglaya sees and knows it. How can you say that it's 'not the
point'?"
"Her happiness? Oh, no! I am only marrying her--well, because she
wished it. It means nothing--it's all the same. She would
certainly have died. I see now that that marriage with Rogojin
was an insane idea. I understand all now that I did not
understand before; and, do you know, when those two stood
opposite to one another, I could not bear Nastasia Philipovna's
face! You must know, Evgenie Pavlovitch, I have never told anyone
before--not even Aglaya--that I cannot bear Nastasia Philipovna's
face." (He lowered his voice mysteriously as he said this.) You
described that evening at Nastasia Philipovna's (six months
since) very accurately just now; but there is one thing which you
did not mention, and of which you took no account, because you do
not know. I mean her FACE--I looked at her face, you see. Even in
the morning when I saw her portrait, I felt that I could not BEAR
to look at it. Now, there's Vera Lebedeff, for instance, her eyes
are quite different, you know. I'm AFRAID of her face!" he added,
with real alarm.
"You are AFRAID of it?"
"Yes--she's mad!" he whispered, growing pale.
"Do you know this for certain?" asked Evgenie, with the greatest
curiosity.
"Yes, for certain--quite for certain, now! I have discovered it
ABSOLUTELY for certain, these last few days."
"What are you doing, then?" cried Evgenie, in horror. "You must
be marrying her solely out of FEAR, then! I can't make head or
tail of it, prince. Perhaps you don't even love her?"
"Oh, no; I love her with all my soul. Why, she is a child! She's
a child now--a real child. Oh! you know nothing about it at all,
I see."
"And are you assured, at the same time, that you love Aglaya
too?"
"Yes--yes--oh; yes!"
"How so? Do you want to make out that you love them BOTH?"
"Yes--yes--both! I do!"
"Excuse me, prince, but think what you are saying! Recollect
yourself!"
"Without Aglaya--I--I MUST see Aglaya!--I shall die in my sleep
very soon--I thought I was dying in my sleep last night. Oh! if
Aglaya only knew all--I mean really, REALLY all! Because she must
know ALL--that's the first condition towards understanding. Why
cannot we ever know all about another, especially when that other
has been guilty? But I don't know what I'm talking about--I'm so
confused. You pained me so dreadfully. Surely--surely Aglaya has
not the same expression now as she had at the moment when she ran
away? Oh, yes! I am guilty and I know it--I know it! Probably I
am in fault all round--I don't quite know how--but I am in fault,
no doubt. There is something else, but I cannot explain it to
you, Evgenie Pavlovitch. I have no words; but Aglaya will
understand. I have always believed Aglaya will understand--I am
assured she will."
"No, prince, she will not. Aglaya loved like a woman, like a
human being, not like an abstract spirit. Do you know what, my
poor prince? The most probable explanation of the matter is that
you never loved either the one or the other in reality."
"I don't know--perhaps you are right in much that you have said,
Evgenie Pavlovitch. You are very wise, Evgenie Pavlovitch--oh!
how my head is beginning to ache again! Come to her, quick--for
God's sake, come!"
"But I tell you she is not in Pavlofsk! She's in Colmina."
"Oh, come to Colmina, then! Come--let us go at once!"
"No--no, impossible!" said Evgenie, rising.
"Look here--I'll write a letter--take a letter for me!"
"No--no, prince; you must forgive me, but I can't undertake any
such commissions! I really can't."
And so they parted.
Evgenie Pavlovitch left the house with strange convictions. He,
too, felt that the prince must be out of his mind.
"And what did he mean by that FACE--a face which he so fears, and
yet so loves? And meanwhile he really may die, as he says,
without seeing Aglaya, and she will never know how devotedly he
loves her! Ha, ha, ha! How does the fellow manage to love two of
them? Two different kinds of love, I suppose! This is very
interesting--poor idiot! What on earth will become of him now?"
X.
THE prince did not die before his wedding--either by day or
night, as he had foretold that he might. Very probably he passed
disturbed nights, and was afflicted with bad dreams; but, during
the daytime, among his fellow-men, he seemed as kind as ever, and
even contented; only a little thoughtful when alone.
The wedding was hurried on. The day was fixed for exactly a week
after Evgenie's visit to the prince. In the face of such haste as
this, even the prince's best friends (if he had had any) would
have felt the hopelessness of any attempt to save" the poor
madman." Rumour said that in the visit of Evgenie Pavlovitch was
to be discerned the influence of Lizabetha Prokofievna and her
husband... But if those good souls, in the boundless kindness of
their hearts, were desirous of saving the eccentric young fellow
from ruin, they were unable to take any stronger measures to
attain that end. Neither their position, nor their private
inclination, perhaps (and only naturally), would allow them to
use any more pronounced means.
We have observed before that even some of the prince's nearest
neighbours had begun to oppose him. Vera Lebedeff's passive
disagreement was limited to the shedding of a few solitary tears;
to more frequent sitting alone at home, and to a diminished
frequency in her visits to the prince's apartments.
Colia was occupied with his father at this time. The old man died
during a second stroke, which took place just eight days after
the first. The prince showed great sympathy in the grief of the
family, and during the first days of their mourning he was at the
house a great deal with Nina Alexandrovna. He went to the
funeral, and it was observable that the public assembled in
church greeted his arrival and departure with whisperings, and
watched him closely.
The same thing happened in the park and in the street, wherever
he went. He was pointed out when he drove by, and he often
overheard the name of Nastasia Philipovna coupled with his own as
he passed. People looked out for her at the funeral, too, but she
was not there; and another conspicuous absentee was the captain's
widow, whom Lebedeff had prevented from coming.
The funeral service produced a great effect on the prince. He
whispered to Lebedeff that this was the first time he had ever
heard a Russian funeral service since he was a little boy.
Observing that he was looking about him uneasily, Lebedeff asked
him whom he was seeking.
"Nothing. I only thought I--"
"Is it Rogojin?"
"Why--is he here?"
"Yes, he's in church."
"I thought I caught sight of his eyes!" muttered the prince, in
confusion. "But what of it!--Why is he here? Was he asked?"
"Oh, dear, no! Why, they don't even know him! Anyone can come in,
you know. Why do you look so amazed? I often meet him; I've seen
him at least four times, here at Pavlofsk, within the last week."
"I haven't seen him once--since that day!" the prince murmured.
As Nastasia Philipovna had not said a word about having met
Rogojin since "that day," the prince concluded that the latter
had his own reasons for wishing to keep out of sight. All the day
of the funeral our hero, was in a deeply thoughtful state, while
Nastasia Philipovna was particularly merry, both in the daytime
and in the evening.
Colia had made it up with the prince before his father's death,
and it was he who urged him to make use of Keller and Burdovsky,
promising to answer himself for the former's behaviour. Nina
Alexandrovna and Lebedeff tried to persuade him to have the
wedding in St. Petersburg, instead of in the public fashion
contemplated, down here at Pavlofsk in the height of the season.
But the prince only said that Nastasia Philipovna desired to have
it so, though he saw well enough what prompted their arguments.
The next day Keller came to visit the prince. He was in a high
state of delight with the post of honour assigned to him at the
wedding.
Before entering he stopped on the threshold, raised his hand as
if making a solemn vow, and cried:
"I won't drink!"
Then he went up to the prince, seized both his hands, shook them
warmly, and declared that he had at first felt hostile towards
the project of this marriage, and had openly said so in the
billiard-rooms, but that the reason simply was that, with the
impatience of a friend, he had hoped to see the prince marry at
least a Princess de Rohan or de Chabot; but that now he saw that
the prince's way of thinking was ten times more noble than that
of "all the rest put together." For he desired neither pomp nor
wealth nor honour, but only the truth! The sympathies of exalted
personages were well known, and the prince was too highly placed
by his education, and so on, not to be in some sense an exalted
personage!
"But all the common herd judge 'differently; in the town, at the
meetings, in the villas, at the band, in the inns and the
billiard-rooms, the coming event has only to be mentioned and
there are shouts and cries from everybody. I have even heard talk
of getting up a 'charivari' under the windows on the wedding-
night. So if 'you have need of the pistol' of an honest man,
prince, I am ready to fire half a dozen shots even before you
rise from your nuptial couch!"
Keller also advised, in anticipation of the crowd making a rush
after the ceremony, that a fire-hose should be placed at the
entrance to the house; but Lebedeff was opposed to this measure,
which he said might result in the place being pulled down.
"I assure you, prince, that Lebedeff is intriguing against you.
He wants to put you under control. Imagine that! To take 'from
you the use of your free-will and your money--that' is to say,
the two things that distinguish us from the animals! I have heard
it said positively. It is the sober truth."
The prince recollected that somebody had told him something of
the kind before, and he had, of course, scoffed at it. He only
laughed now, and forgot the hint at once.
Lebedeff really had been busy for some little while; but, as
usual, his plans had become too complex to succeed, through sheer
excess of ardour. When he came to the prince--the very day before
the wedding--to confess (for he always confessed to the persons
against whom he intrigued, especially when the plan failed), he
informed our hero that he himself was a born Talleyrand, but for
some unknown reason had become simple Lebedeff. He then proceeded
to explain his whole game to the prince, interesting the latter
exceedingly.
According to Lebedeff's account, he had first tried what he could
do with General Epanchin. The latter informed him that he wished
well to the unfortunate young man, and would gladly do what he
could to "save him," but that he did not think it would be seemly
for him to interfere in this matter. Lizabetha Prokofievna would
neither hear nor see him. Prince S. and Evgenie Pavlovitch only
shrugged their shoulders, and implied that it was no business of
theirs. However, Lebedeff had not lost heart, and went off to a
clever lawyer,--a worthy and respectable man, whom he knew well.
This old gentleman informed him that the thing was perfectly
feasible if he could get hold of competent witnesses as to
Muishkin's mental incapacity. Then, with the assistance of a few
influential persons, he would soon see the matter arranged.
Lebedeff immediately procured the services of an old doctor, and
carried the latter away to Pavlofsk to see the prince, by way of
viewing the ground, as it were, and to give him (Lebedeff)
counsel as to whether the thing was to be done or not. The visit
was not to be official, but merely friendly.
Muishkin remembered the doctor's visit quite well. He remembered
that Lebedeff had said that he looked ill, and had better see a
doctor; and although the prince scouted the idea, Lebedeff had
turned up almost immediately with his old friend, explaining that
they had just met at the bedside of Hippolyte, who was very ill,
and that the doctor had something to tell the prince about the
sick man.
The prince had, of course, at once received him, and had plunged
into a conversation about Hippolyte. He had given the doctor an
account of Hippolyte's attempted suicide; and had proceeded
thereafter to talk of his own malady,--of Switzerland, of
Schneider, and so on; and so deeply was the old man interested by
the prince's conversation and his description of Schneider's
system, that he sat on for two hours.
Muishkin gave him excellent cigars to smoke, and Lebedeff, for
his part, regaled him with liqueurs, brought in by Vera, to whom
the doctor--a married man and the father of a family--addressed
such compliments that she was filled with indignation. They
parted friends, and, after leaving the prince, the doctor said to
Lebedeff: "If all such people were put under restraint, there
would be no one left for keepers." Lebedeff then, in tragic
tones, told of the approaching marriage, whereupon the other
nodded his head and replied that, after all, marriages like that
were not so rare; that he had heard that the lady was very
fascinating and of extraordinary beauty, which was enough to
explain the infatuation of a wealthy man; that, further, thanks
to the liberality of Totski and of Rogojin, she possessed--so he
had heard--not only money, but pearls, diamonds, shawls, and
furniture, and consequently she could not be considered a bad
match. In brief, it seemed to the doctor that the prince's
choice, far from being a sign of foolishness, denoted, on the
contrary, a shrewd, calculating, and practical mind. Lebedeff had
been much struck by this point of view, and he terminated his
confession by assuring the prince that he was ready, if need be,
to shed his very life's blood for him.
Hippolyte, too, was a source of some distraction to the prince at
this time; he would send for him at any and every hour of the
day. They lived,--Hippolyte and his mother and the children,--in
a small house not far off, and the little ones were happy, if
only because they were able to escape from the invalid into the
garden. The prince had enough to do in keeping the peace between
the irritable Hippolyte and his mother, and eventually the former
became so malicious and sarcastic on the subject of the
approaching wedding, that Muishkin took offence at last, and
refused to continue his visits.
A couple of days later, however, Hippolyte's mother came with
tears in her eyes, and begged the prince to come back, "or HE
would eat her up bodily." She added that Hippolyte had a great
secret to disclose. Of course the prince went. There was no
secret, however, unless we reckon certain pantings and agitated
glances around (probably all put on) as the invalid begged his
visitor to "beware of Rogojin."
"He is the sort of man," he continued,. "who won't give up his
object, you know; he is not like you and me, prince--he belongs
to quite a different order of beings. If he sets his heart on a
thing he won't be afraid of anything--" and so on.
Hippolyte was very ill, and looked as though he could not long
survive. He was tearful at first, but grew more and more
sarcastic and malicious as the interview proceeded.
The prince questioned him in detail as to his hints about
Rogojin. He was anxious to seize upon some facts which might
confirm Hippolyte's vague warnings; but there were none; only
Hippolyte's own private impressions and feelings.
However, the invalid--to his immense satisfaction--ended by
seriously alarming the prince.
At first Muishkin had not cared to make any reply to his sundry
questions, and only smiled in response to Hippolyte's advice to
"run for his life--abroad, if necessary. There are Russian
priests everywhere, and one can get married all over the world."
But it was Hippolyte's last idea which upset him.
"What I am really alarmed about, though," he said, "is Aglaya
Ivanovna. Rogojin knows how you love her. Love for love. You took
Nastasia Philipovna from him. He will murder Aglaya Ivanovna; for
though she is not yours, of course, now, still such an act would
pain you,--wouldn't it?"
He had attained his end. The prince left the house beside himself
with terror.
These warnings about Rogojin were expressed on the day before the
wedding. That evening the prince saw Nastasia Philipovna for the
last time before they were to meet at the altar; but Nastasia was
not in a position to give him any comfort or consolation. On the
contrary, she only added to his mental perturbation as the
evening went on. Up to this time she had invariably done her best
to cheer him--she was afraid of his looking melancholy; she would
try singing to him, and telling him every sort of funny story or
reminiscence that she could recall. The prince nearly always
pretended to be amused, whether he were so actually or no; but
often enough he laughed sincerely, delighted by the brilliancy of
her wit when she was carried away by her narrative, as she very
often was. Nastasia would be wild with joy to see the impression
she had made, and to hear his laugh of real amusement; and she
would remain the whole evening in a state of pride and happiness.
But this evening her melancholy and thoughtfulness grew with
every hour.
The prince had told Evgenie Pavlovitch with perfect sincerity
that he loved Nastasia Philipovna with all his soul. In his love
for her there was the sort of tenderness one feels for a sick,
unhappy child which cannot be left alone. He never spoke of his
feelings for Nastasia to anyone, not even to herself. When they
were together they never discussed their "feelings," and there
was nothing in their cheerful, animated conversation which an
outsider could not have heard. Daria Alexeyevna, with whom
Nastasia was staying, told afterwards how she had been filled
with joy and delight only to look at them, all this time.
Thanks to the manner in which he regarded Nastasia's mental and
moral condition, the prince was to some extent freed from other
perplexities. She was now quite different from the woman he had
known three months before. He was not astonished, for instance,
to see her now so impatient to marry him--she who formerly had
wept with rage and hurled curses and reproaches at him if he
mentioned marriage! "It shows that she no longer fears, as she
did then, that she would make me unhappy by marrying me," he
thought. And he felt sure that so sudden a change could not be a
natural one. This rapid growth of self-confidence could not be
due only to her hatred for Aglaya. To suppose that would be to
suspect the depth of her feelings. Nor could it arise from dread
of the fate that awaited her if she married Rogojin. These
causes, indeed, as well as others, might have played a part in
it, but the true reason, Muishkin decided, was the one he had
long suspected--that the poor sick soul had come to the end of
its forces. Yet this was an explanation that did not procure him
any peace of mind. At times he seemed to be making violent
efforts to think of nothing, and one would have said that he
looked on his marriage as an unimportant formality, and on his
future happiness as a thing not worth considering. As to
conversations such as the one held with Evgenie Pavlovitch, he
avoided them as far as possible, feeling that there were certain
objections to which he could make no answer.
The prince had observed that Nastasia knew well enough what
Aglaya was to him. He never spoke of it, but he had seen her face
when she had caught him starting off for the Epanchins' house on
several occasions. When the Epanchins left Pavlofsk, she had
beamed with radiance and happiness. Unsuspicious and unobservant
as he was, he had feared at that time that Nastasia might have
some scheme in her mind for a scene or scandal which would drive
Aglaya out of Pavlofsk. She had encouraged the rumours and
excitement among the inhabitants of the place as to her marriage
with the prince, in order to annoy her rival; and, finding it
difficult to meet the Epanchins anywhere, she had, on one
occasion, taken him for a drive past their house. He did not
observe what was happening until they were almost passing the
windows, when it was too late to do anything. He said nothing,
but for two days afterwards he was ill.
Nastasia did not try that particular experiment again. A few days
before that fixed for the wedding, she grew grave and thoughtful.
She always ended by getting the better of her melancholy, and
becoming merry and cheerful again, but not quite so unaffectedly
happy as she had been some days earlier.
The prince redoubled his attentive study of her symptoms. It was
a most curious circumstance, in his opinion, that she never spoke
of Rogojin. But once, about five days before the wedding, when
the prince was at home, a messenger arrived begging him to come
at once, as Nastasia Philipovna was very ill.
He had found her in a condition approaching to absolute madness.
She screamed, and trembled, and cried out that Rogojin was hiding
out there in the garden--that she had seen him herself--and that
he would murder her in the night--that he would cut her throat.
She was terribly agitated all day. But it so happened that the
prince called at Hippolyte's house later on, and heard from his
mother that she had been in town all day, and had there received
a visit from Rogojin, who had made inquiries about Pavlofsk. On
inquiry, it turned out that Rogojin visited the old lady in town
at almost the same moment when Nastasia declared that she had
seen him in the garden; so that the whole thing turned out to be
an illusion on her part. Nastasia immediately went across to
Hippolyte's to inquire more accurately, and returned immensely
relieved and comforted.
On the day before the wedding, the prince left Nastasia in a
state of great animation. Her wedding-dress and all sorts of
finery had just arrived from town. Muishkin had not imagined that
she would be so excited over it, but he praised everything, and
his praise rendered her doubly happy.
But Nastasia could not hide the cause of her intense interest in
her wedding splendour. She had heard of the indignation in the
town, and knew that some of the populace was getting up a sort of
charivari with music, that verses had been composed for the
occasion, and that the rest of Pavlofsk society more or less
encouraged these preparations. So, since attempts were being made
to humiliate her, she wanted to hold her head even higher than
usual, and to overwhelm them all with the beauty and taste of her
toilette. "Let them shout and whistle, if they dare!" Her eyes
flashed at the thought. But, underneath this, she had another
motive, of which she did not speak. She thought that possibly
Aglaya, or at any rate someone sent by her, would be present
incognito at the ceremony, or in the crowd, and she wished to be
prepared for this eventuality.
The prince left her at eleven, full of these thoughts, and went
home. But it was not twelve o'clock when a messenger came to say
that Nastasia was very bad, and he must come at once.
On hurrying back he found his bride locked up in her own room and
could hear her hysterical cries and sobs. It was some time before
she could be made to hear that the prince had come, and then she
opened the door only just sufficiently to let him in, and
immediately locked it behind him. She then fell on her knees at
his feet. (So at least Dana Alexeyevna reported.)
"What am I doing? What am I doing to you?" she sobbed
convulsively, embracing his knees.
The prince was a whole hour soothing and comforting her, and left
her, at length, pacified and composed. He sent another messenger
during the night to inquire after her, and two more next morning.
The last brought back a message that Nastasia was surrounded by a
whole army of dressmakers and maids, and was as happy and as busy
as such a beauty should be on her wedding morning, and that there
was not a vestige of yesterday's agitation remaining. The message
concluded with the news that at the moment of the bearer's
departure there was a great confabulation in progress as to which
diamonds were to be worn, and how.
This message entirely calmed the prince's mind.
The following report of the proceedings on the wedding day may be
depended upon, as coming from eye-witnesses.
The wedding was fixed for eight o'clock in the evening. Nastasia
Philipovna was ready at seven. From six o'clock groups of people
began to gather at Nastasia's house, at the prince's, and at the
church door, but more especially at the former place. The church
began to fill at seven.
Colia and Vera Lebedeff were very anxious on the prince's
account, but they were so busy over the arrangements for
receiving the guests after the wedding, that they had not much
time for the indulgence of personal feelings.
There were to be very few guests besides the best men and so on;
only Dana Alexeyevna, the Ptitsins, Gania, and the doctor. When
the prince asked Lebedeff why he had invited the doctor, who was
almost a stranger, Lebedeff replied:
"Why, he wears an 'order,' and it looks so well!"
This idea amused the prince.
Keller and Burdovsky looked wonderfully correct in their dress-
coats and white kid gloves, although Keller caused the bridegroom
some alarm by his undisguisedly hostile glances at the gathering
crowd of sight-seers outside.
At about half-past seven the prince started for the church in his
carriage.
We may remark here that he seemed anxious not to omit a single
one of the recognized customs and traditions observed at
weddings. He wished all to be done as openly as possible, and "in
due order."
Arrived at the church, Muishkin, under Keller's guidance, passed
through the crowd of spectators, amid continuous whispering and
excited exclamations. The prince stayed near the altar, while
Keller made off once more to fetch the bride.
On reaching the gate of Daria Alexeyevna's house, Keller found a
far denser crowd than he had encountered at the prince's. The
remarks and exclamations of the spectators here were of so
irritating a nature that Keller was very near making them a
speech on the impropriety of their conduct, but was luckily
caught by Burdovsky, in the act of turning to address them, and
hurried indoors.
Nastasia Philipovna was ready. She rose from her seat, looked
into the glass and remarked, as Keller told the tale afterwards,
that she was "as pale as a corpse." She then bent her head
reverently, before the ikon in the corner, and left the room.
A torrent of voices greeted her appearance at the front door. The
crowd whistled, clapped its hands, and laughed and shouted; but
in a moment or two isolated voices were distinguishable.
"What a beauty!" cried one.
"Well, she isn't the first in the world, nor the last," said
another.
"Marriage covers everything," observed a third.
"I defy you to find another beauty like that," said a fourth.
"She's a real princess! I'd sell my soul for such a princess as
that!"
Nastasia came out of the house looking as white as any
handkerchief; but her large dark eyes shone upon the vulgar crowd
like blazing coals. The spectators' cries were redoubled, and
became more exultant and triumphant every moment. The door of the
carriage was open, and Keller had given his hand to the bride to
help her in, when suddenly with a loud cry she rushed from him,
straight into the surging crowd. Her friends about her were
stupefied with amazement; the crowd parted as she rushed through
it, and suddenly, at a distance of five or six yards from the
carriage, appeared Rogojin. It was his look that had caught her
eyes.
Nastasia rushed to him like a madwoman, and seized both his
hands.
"Save me!" she cried. "Take me away, anywhere you like, quick!"
Rogojin seized her in his arms and almost carried her to the
carriage. Then, in a flash, he tore a hundred-rouble note out of
his pocket and held it to the coachman.
"To the station, quick! If you catch the train you shall have
another. Quick!"
He leaped into the carriage after Nastasia and banged the door.
The coachman did not hesitate a moment; he whipped up the horses,
and they were oft.
"One more second and I should have stopped him," said Keller,
afterwards. In fact, he and Burdovsky jumped into another
carriage and set off in pursuit; but it struck them as they drove
along that it was not much use trying to bring Nastasia back by
force.
"Besides," said Burdovsky," the prince would not like it, would
he?" So they gave up the pursuit.
Rogojin and Nastasia Philipovna reached the station just in time
for the train. As he jumped out of the carriage and was almost on
the point of entering the train, Rogojin accosted a young girl
standing on the platform and wearing an old-fashioned, but
respectable-looking, black cloak and a silk handkerchief over her
head.
"Take fifty roubles for your cloak?" he shouted, holding the
money out to the girl. Before the astonished young woman could
collect her scattered senses, he pushed the money into her hand,
seized the mantle, and threw it and the handkerchief over
Nastasia's head and shoulders. The latter's wedding-array would
have attracted too much attention, and it was not until some time
later that the girl understood why her old cloak and kerchief had
been bought at such a price.
The news of what had happened reached the church with
extraordinary rapidity. When Keller arrived, a host of people
whom he did not know thronged around to ask him questions. There
was much excited talking, and shaking of heads, even some
laughter; but no one left the church, all being anxious to
observe how the now celebrated bridegroom would take the news. He
grew very pale upon hearing it, but took it quite quietly.
"I was afraid," he muttered, scarcely audibly, "but I hardly
thought it would come to this." Then after a short silence, he
added: "However, in her state, it is quite consistent with the
natural order of things."
Even Keller admitted afterwards that this was "extraordinarily
philosophical" on the prince's part. He left the church quite
calm, to all appearances, as many witnesses were found to declare
afterwards. He seemed anxious to reach home and be left alone as
quickly as possible; but this was not to be. He was accompanied
by nearly all the invited guests, and besides this, the house was
almost besieged by excited bands of people, who insisted upon
being allowed to enter the verandah. The prince heard Keller and
Lebedeff remonstrating and quarrelling with these unknown
individuals, and soon went out himself. He approached the
disturbers of his peace, requested courteously to be told what
was desired; then politely putting Lebedeff and Keller aside, he
addressed an old gentleman who was standing on the verandah steps
at the head of the band of would-be guests, and courteously
requested him to honour him with a visit. The old fellow was
quite taken aback by this, but entered, followed by a few more,
who tried to appear at their ease. The rest remained outside, and
presently the whole crowd was censuring those who had accepted
the invitation. The prince offered seats to his strange visitors,
tea was served, and a general conversation sprang up. Everything
was done most decorously, to the considerable surprise of the
intruders. A few tentative attempts were made to turn the
conversation to the events of the day, and a few indiscreet
questions were asked; but Muishkin replied to everybody with such
simplicity and good-humour, and at the same time with so much
dignity, and showed such confidence in the good breeding of his
guests, that the indiscreet talkers were quickly silenced. By
degrees the conversation became almost serious. One gentleman
suddenly exclaimed, with great vehemence: "Whatever happens, I
shall not sell my property; I shall wait. Enterprise is better
than money, and there, sir, you have my whole system of economy,
if you wish!" He addressed the prince, who warmly commended his
sentiments, though Lebedeff whispered in his ear that this
gentleman, who talked so much of his "property," had never had
either house or home.
Nearly an hour passed thus, and when tea was over the visitors
seemed to think that it was time to go. As they went out, the
doctor and the old gentleman bade Muishkin a warm farewell, and
all the rest took their leave with hearty protestations of good-
will, dropping remarks to the effect that "it was no use
worrying," and that "perhaps all would turn out for the best,"
and so on. Some of the younger intruders would have asked for
champagne, but they were checked by the older ones. When all had
departed, Keller leaned over to Lebedeff, and said:
"With you and me there would have been a scene. We should have
shouted and fought, and called in the police. But he has simply
made some new friends--and such friends, too! I know them!"
Lebedeff, who was slightly intoxicated, answered with a sigh:
"Things are hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed unto
babes. I have applied those words to him before, but now I add
that God has preserved the babe himself from the abyss, He and
all His saints."
At last, about half-past ten, the prince was left alone. His head
ached. Colia was the last to go, after having helped him to
change his wedding clothes. They parted on affectionate terms,
and, without speaking of what had happened, Colia promised to
come very early the next day. He said later that the prince had
given no hint of his intentions when they said good-bye, but had
hidden them even from him. Soon there was hardly anyone left in
the house. Burdovsky had gone to see Hippolyte; Keller and
Lebedeff had wandered off together somewhere.
Only Vera Lebedeff remained hurriedly rearranging the furniture
in the rooms. As she left the verandah, she glanced at the
prince. He was seated at the table, with both elbows upon it, and
his head resting on his hands. She approached him, and touched
his shoulder gently. The prince started and looked at her in
perplexity; he seemed to be collecting his senses for a minute or
so, before he could remember where he was. As recollection dawned
upon him, he became violently agitated. All he did, however, was
to ask Vera very earnestly to knock at his door and awake him in
time for the first train to Petersburg next morning. Vera
promised, and the prince entreated her not to tell anyone of his
intention. She promised this, too; and at last, when she had
half-closed the door, be called her back a third time, took her
hands in his, kissed them, then kissed her forehead, and in a
rather peculiar manner said to her, "Until tomorrow!"
Such was Vera's story afterwards.
She went away in great anxiety about him, but when she saw him in
the morning, he seemed to be quite himself again, greeted her
with a smile, and told her that he would very likely be back by
the evening. It appears that he did not consider it necessary to
inform anyone excepting Vera of his departure for town.
XI.
AN hour later he was in St. Petersburg, and by ten o'clock he had
rung the bell at Rogojin's.
He had gone to the front door, and was kept waiting a long while
before anyone came. At last the door of old Mrs. Rogojin's flat
was opened, and an aged servant appeared.
"Parfen Semionovitch is not at home," she announced from the
doorway. "Whom do you want?"
"Parfen Semionovitch."
"He is not in."
The old woman examined the prince from head to foot with great
curiosity.
"At all events tell me whether he slept at home last night, and
whether he came alone?"
The old woman continued to stare at him, but said nothing.
"Was not Nastasia Philipovna here with him, yesterday evening?"
"And, pray, who are you yourself?"
"Prince Lef Nicolaievitch Muishkin; he knows me well."
"He is not at home."
The woman lowered her eyes.
"And Nastasia Philipovna?"
"I know nothing about it."
"Stop a minute! When will he come back?"
"I don't know that either."
The door was shut with these words, and the old woman
disappeared. The prince decided to come back within an
hour. Passing out of the house, he met the porter.
"Is Parfen Semionovitch at home?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Why did they tell me he was not at home, then?" "Where did they
tell you so,--at his door?" "No, at his mother's flat; I rang at
Parfen Semionovitch's door and nobody came."
"Well, he may have gone out. I can't tell. Sometimes he takes the
keys with him, and leaves the rooms empty for two or three days."
"Do you know for certain that he was at home last night?"
"Yes, he was."
"Was Nastasia Philipovna with him?"
"I don't know; she doesn't come often. I think I should have
known if she had come."
The prince went out deep in thought, and walked up and down the
pavement for some time. The windows of all the rooms occupied by
Rogojin were closed, those of his mother's apartments were open.
It was a hot, bright day. The prince crossed the road in order to
have a good look at the windows again; not only were Rogojin's
closed, but the white blinds were all down as well.
He stood there for a minute and then, suddenly and strangely
enough, it seemed to him that a little corner of one of the
blinds was lifted, and Rogojin's face appeared for an instant and
then vanished. He waited another minute, and decided to go and
ring the bell once more; however, he thought better of it again
and put it off for an hour.
The chief object in his mind at this moment was to get as quickly
as he could to Nastasia Philipovna's lodging. He remembered that,
not long since, when she had left Pavlofsk at his request, he had
begged her to put up in town at the house of a respectable widow,
who had well-furnished rooms to let, near the Ismailofsky
barracks. Probably Nastasia had kept the rooms when she came down
to Pavlofsk this last time; and most likely she would have spent
the night in them, Rogojin having taken her straight there from
the station.
The prince took a droshky. It struck him as he drove on that he
ought to have begun by coming here, since it was most improbable
that Rogojin should have taken Nastasia to his own house last
night. He remembered that the porter said she very rarely came at
all, so that it was still less likely that she would have gone
there so late at night.
Vainly trying to comfort himself with these reflections, the
prince reached the Ismailofsky barracks more dead than alive.
To his consternation the good people at the lodgings had not only
heard nothing of Nastasia, but all came out to look at him as if
he were a marvel of some sort. The whole family, of all ages,
surrounded him, and he was begged to enter. He guessed at once
that they knew perfectly well who he was, and that yesterday
ought to have been his wedding-day; and further that they were
dying to ask about the wedding, and especially about why he
should be here now, inquiring for the woman who in all reasonable
human probability might have been expected to be with him in
Pavlofsk.
He satisfied their curiosity, in as few words as possible, with
regard to the wedding, but their exclamations and sighs were so
numerous and sincere that he was obliged to tell the whole story--
in a short form, of course. The advice of all these agitated
ladies was that the prince should go at once and knock at
Rogojin's until he was let in: and when let in insist upon a
substantial explanation of everything. If Rogojin was really not
at home, the prince was advised to go to a certain house, the
address of which was given, where lived a German lady, a friend
of Nastasia Philipovna's. It was possible that she might have
spent the night there in her anxiety to conceal herself.
The prince rose from his seat in a condition of mental collapse.
The good ladies reported afterwards that "his pallor was terrible
to see, and his legs seemed to give way underneath him." With
difficulty he was made to understand that his new friends would
be glad of his address, in order to act with him if possible.
After a moment's thought he gave the address of the small hotel,
on the stairs of which he had had a fit some five weeks since. He
then set off once more for Rogojin's.
This time they neither opened the door at Rogojin's flat nor at
the one opposite. The prince found the porter with difficulty,
but when found, the man would hardly look at him or answer his
questions, pretending to be busy. Eventually, however, he was
persuaded to reply so far as to state that Rogojin had left the
house early in the morning and gone to Pavlofsk, and that he
would not return today at all.
"I shall wait; he may come back this evening."
"He may not be home for a week."
"Then, at all events, he DID sleep here, did he?"
"Well--he did sleep here, yes."
All this was suspicious and unsatisfactory. Very likely the
porter had received new instructions during the interval of the
prince's absence; his manner was so different now. He had been
obliging--now he was as obstinate and silent as a mule. However,
the prince decided to call again in a couple of hours, and after
that to watch the house, in case of need. His hope was that he
might yet find Nastasia at the address which he had just
received. To that address he now set off at full speed.
But alas! at the German lady's house they did not even appear to
understand what he wanted. After a while, by means of certain
hints, he was able to gather that Nastasia must have had a
quarrel with her friend two or three weeks ago, since which date
the latter had neither heard nor seen anything of her. He was
given to understand that the subject of Nastasia's present
whereabouts was not of the slightest interest to her; and that
Nastasia might marry all the princes in the world for all she
cared! So Muishkin took his leave hurriedly. It struck him now
that she might have gone away to Moscow just as she had done the
last time, and that Rogojin had perhaps gone after her, or even
WITH her. If only he could find some trace!
However, he must take his room at the hotel; and he started off
in that direction. Having engaged his room, he was asked by the
waiter whether he would take dinner; replying mechanically in the
affirmative, he sat down and waited; but it was not long before
it struck him that dining would delay him. Enraged at this idea,
he started up, crossed the dark passage (which filled him with
horrible impressions and gloomy forebodings), and set out once
more for Rogojin's. Rogojin had not returned, and no one came to
the door. He rang at the old lady's door opposite, and was
informed that Parfen Semionovitch would not return for three
days. The curiosity with which the old servant stared at him
again impressed the prince disagreeably. He could not find the
porter this time at all.
As before, he crossed the street and watched the windows from the
other side, walking up and down in anguish of soul for half an
hour or so in the stifling heat. Nothing stirred; the blinds were
motionless; indeed, the prince began to think that the apparition
of Rogojin's face could have been nothing but fancy. Soothed by
this thought, he drove off once more to his friends at the
Ismailofsky barracks. He was expected there. The mother had
already been to three or four places to look for Nastasia, but
had not found a trace of any kind.
The prince said nothing, but entered the room, sat down silently,
and stared at them, one after the other, with the air of a man
who cannot understand what is being said to him. It was strange--
one moment he seemed to be so observant, the next so absent; his
behaviour struck all the family as most remarkable. At length he
rose from his seat, and begged to be shown Nastasia's rooms. The
ladies reported afterwards how he had examined everything in the
apartments. He observed an open book on the table, Madam Bovary,
and requested the leave of the lady of the house to take it with
him. He had turned down the leaf at the open page, and pocketed
it before they could explain that it was a library book. He had
then seated himself by the open window, and seeing a card-table,
he asked who played cards.
He was informed that Nastasia used to play with Rogojin every
evening, either at "preference" or "little fool," or "whist";
that this had been their practice since her last return from
Pavlofsk; that she had taken to this amusement because she did
not like to see Rogojin sitting silent and dull for whole
evenings at a time; that the day after Nastasia had made a remark
to this effect, Rogojin had whipped a pack of cards out of his
pocket. Nastasia had laughed, but soon they began playing. The
prince asked where were the cards, but was told that Rogojin used
to bring a new pack every day, and always carried it away in his
pocket.
The good ladies recommended the prince to try knocking at
Rogojin's once more--not at once, but in the evening Meanwhile,
the mother would go to Pavlofsk to inquire at Dana Alexeyevna's
whether anything had been heard of Nastasia there. The prince was
to come back at ten o'clock and meet her, to hear her news and
arrange plans for the morrow.
In spite of the kindly-meant consolations of his new friends, the
prince walked to his hotel in inexpressible anguish of spirit,
through the hot, dusty streets, aimlessly staring at the faces of
those who passed him. Arrived at his destination, he determined
to rest awhile in his room before be started for Rogojin's once
more. He sat down, rested his elbows on the table and his head on
his hands, and fell to thinking.
Heaven knows how long and upon what subjects he thought. He
thought of many things--of Vera Lebedeff, and of her father; of
Hippolyte; of Rogojin himself, first at the funeral, then as he
had met him in the park, then, suddenly, as they had met in this
very passage, outside, when Rogojin had watched in the darkness
and awaited him with uplifted knife. The prince remembered his
enemy's eyes as they had glared at him in the darkness. He
shuddered, as a sudden idea struck him.
This idea was, that if Rogojin were in Petersburg, though he
might hide for a time, yet he was quite sure to come to him--the
prince--before long, with either good or evil intentions, but
probably with the same intention as on that other occasion. At
all events, if Rogojin were to come at all he would be sure to
seek the prince here--he had no other town address--perhaps in this
same corridor; he might well seek him here if he needed him. And
perhaps he did need him. This idea seemed quite natural to the
prince, though he could not have explained why he should so
suddenly have become necessary to Rogojin. Rogojin would not come
if all were well with him, that was part of the thought; he would
come if all were not well; and certainly, undoubtedly, all would
not be well with him. The prince could not bear this new idea; he
took his hat and rushed out towards the street. It was almost
dark in the passage.
"What if he were to come out of that corner as I go by and--and
stop me?" thought the prince, as he approached the familiar spot.
But no one came out.
He passed under the gateway and into the street. The crowds of
people walking about--as is always the case at sunset in
Petersburg, during the summer--surprised him, but he walked on in
the direction of Rogojin's house.
About fifty yards from the hotel, at the first cross-road, as he
passed through the crowd of foot-passengers sauntering along,
someone touched his shoulder, and said in a whisper into his ear:
"Lef Nicolaievitch, my friend, come along with me." It was
Rogojin.
The prince immediately began to tell him, eagerly and joyfully,
how he had but the moment before expected to see him in the dark
passage of the hotel.
"I was there," said Rogojin, unexpectedly. "Come along." The
prince was surprised at this answer; but his astonishment
increased a couple of minutes afterwards, when he began to
consider it. Having thought it over, he glanced at Rogojin in
alarm. The latter was striding along a yard or so ahead, looking
straight in front of him, and mechanically making way for anyone
he met.
"Why did you not ask for me at my room if you were in the hotel?"
asked the prince, suddenly.
Rogojin stopped and looked at him; then reflected, and replied as
though he had not heard the question:
"Look here, Lef Nicolaievitch, you go straight on to the house; I
shall walk on the other side. See that we keep together."
So saying, Rogojin crossed the road.
Arrived on the opposite pavement, he looked back to see whether
the prince were moving, waved his hand in the direction of the
Gorohovaya, and strode on, looking across every moment to see
whether Muishkin understood his instructions. The prince supposed
that Rogojin desired to look out for someone whom he was afraid
to miss; but if so, why had he not told HIM whom to look out for?
So the two proceeded for half a mile or so. Suddenly the prince
began to tremble from some unknown cause. He could not bear it,
and signalled to Rogojin across the road.
The latter came at once.
"Is Nastasia Philipovna at your house?"
"Yes."
"And was it you looked out of the window under the blind this
morning?"
"Yes."
"Then why did--"
But the prince could not finish his question; he did not know
what to say. Besides this, his heart was beating so that he found
it difficult to speak at all. Rogojin was silent also and looked
at him as before, with an expression of deep thoughtfulness.
"Well, I'm going," he said, at last, preparing to recross the
road. "You go along here as before; we will keep to different
sides of the road; it's better so, you'll see."
When they reached the Gorohovaya, and came near the house, the
prince's legs were trembling so that he could hardly walk. It was
about ten o'clock. The old lady's windows were open, as before;
Rogojin's were all shut, and in the darkness the white blinds
showed whiter than ever. Rogojin and the prince each approached
the house on his respective side of the road; Rogojin, who was on
the near side, beckoned the prince across. He went over to the
doorway.
"Even the porter does not know that I have come home now. I told
him, and told them at my mother's too, that I was off to
Pavlofsk," said Rogojin, with a cunning and almost satisfied
smile. "We'll go in quietly and nobody will hear us."
He had the key in his hand. Mounting the staircase he turned and
signalled to the prince to go more softly; he opened the door
very quietly, let the prince in, followed him, locked the door
behind him, and put the key in his pocket.
"Come along," he whispered.
He had spoken in a whisper all the way. In spite of his apparent
outward composure, he was evidently in a state of great mental
agitation. Arrived in a large salon, next to the study, he went
to the window and cautiously beckoned the prince up to him.
"When you rang the bell this morning I thought it must be you. I
went to the door on tip-toe and heard you talking to the servant
opposite. I had told her before that if anyone came and rang--
especially you, and I gave her your name--she was not to tell
about me. Then I thought, what if he goes and stands opposite and
looks up, or waits about to watch the house? So I came to this
very window, looked out, and there you were staring straight at
me. That's how it came about."
"Where is Nastasia Philipovna?" asked the prince, breathlessly.
"She's here," replied Rogojin, slowly, after a slight pause.
"Where?"
Rogojin raised his eyes and gazed intently at the prince.
"Come," he said.
He continued to speak in a whisper, very deliberately as before,
and looked strangely thoughtful and dreamy. Even while he told
the story of how he had peeped through the blind, he gave the
impression of wishing to say something else. They entered the
study. In this room some changes had taken place since the prince
last saw it. It was now divided into two equal parts by a heavy
green silk curtain stretched across it, separating the alcove
beyond, where stood Rogojin's bed, from the rest of the room.
The heavy curtain was drawn now, and it was very dark. The bright
Petersburg summer nights were already beginning to close in, and
but for the full moon, it would have been difficult to
distinguish anything in Rogojin's dismal room, with the drawn
blinds. They could just see one anothers faces, however, though
not in detail. Rogojin's face was white, as usual. His glittering
eyes watched the prince with an intent stare.
"Had you not better light a candle?" said Muishkin.
"No, I needn't," replied Rogojin, and taking the other by the
hand he drew him down to a chair. He himself took a chair
opposite and drew it up so close that he almost pressed against
the prince's knees. At their side was a little round table.
Sit down," said Rogojin; "let's rest a bit." There was silence
for a moment.
"I knew you would be at that hotel," he continued, just as men
sometimes commence a serious conversation by discussing any
outside subject before leading up to the main point. "As I
entered the passage it struck me that perhaps you were sitting
and waiting for me, just as I was waiting for you. Have you been
to the old lady at Ismailofsky barracks?"
"Yes," said the prince, squeezing the word out with difficulty
owing to the dreadful beating of his heart.
"I thought you would. 'They'll talk about it,' I thought; so I
determined to go and fetch you to spend the night here--'We will
be together,' I thought, 'for this one night--'"
"Rogojin, WHERE is Nastasia Philipovna?" said the prince,
suddenly rising from his seat. He was quaking in all his limbs,
and his words came in a scarcely audible whisper. Rogojin rose
also.
"There," he whispered, nodding his head towards the curtain.
"Asleep?" whispered the prince.
Rogojin looked intently at him again, as before.
"Let's go in--but you mustn't--well--let's go in."
He lifted the curtain, paused--and turned to the prince. "Go in,"
he said, motioning him to pass behind the curtain. Muishkin went
in.
It's so dark," he said.
"You can see quite enough," muttered Rogojin.
"I can just see there's a bed--"
"Go nearer," suggested Rogojin, softly.
The prince took a step forward--then another--and paused. He
stood and stared for a minute or two.
Neither of the men spoke a word while at the bedside. The
prince's heart beat so loud that its knocking seemed to be
distinctly audible in the deathly silence.
But now his eyes had become so far accustomed to the darkness
that he could distinguish the whole of the bed. Someone was
asleep upon it--in an absolutely motionless sleep. Not the
slightest movement was perceptible, not the faintest breathing
could be heard. The sleeper was covered with a white sheet; the
outline of the limbs was hardly distinguishable. He could only
just make out that a human being lay outstretched there.
All around, on the bed, on a chair beside it, on the floor, were
scattered the different portions of a magnificent white silk
dress, bits of lace, ribbons and flowers. On a small table at the
bedside glittered a mass of diamonds, torn off and thrown down
anyhow. From under a heap of lace at the end of the bed peeped a
small white foot, which looked as though it had been chiselled
out of marble; it was terribly still.
The prince gazed and gazed, and felt that the more he gazed the
more death-like became the silence. Suddenly a fly awoke
somewhere, buzzed across the room, and settled on the pillow. The
prince shuddered.
"Let's go," said Rogojin, touching his shoulder. They left the
alcove and sat down in the two chairs they had occupied before,
opposite to one another. The prince trembled more and more
violently, and never took his questioning eyes off Rogojin's
face.
"I see you are shuddering, Lef Nicolaievitch," said the latter,
at length, "almost as you did once in Moscow, before your fit;
don't you remember? I don't know what I shall do with you--"
The prince bent forward to listen, putting all the strain he
could muster upon his understanding in order to take in what
Rogojin said, and continuing to gaze at the latter's face.
"Was it you?" he muttered, at last, motioning with his head
towards the curtain.
"Yes, it was I," whispered Rogojin, looking down.
Neither spoke for five minutes.
"Because, you know," Rogojin recommenced, as though continuing a
former sentence, "if you were ill now, or had a fit, or screamed,
or anything, they might hear it in the yard, or even in the
street, and guess that someone was passing the night in the
house. They would all come and knock and want to come in, because
they know I am not at home. I didn't light a candle for the same
reason. When I am not here--for two or three days at a time, now
and then--no one comes in to tidy the house or anything; those
are my orders. So that I want them to not know we are spending
the night here--"
"Wait," interrupted the prince. "I asked both the porter and the
woman whether Nastasia Philipovna had spent last night in the
house; so they knew--"
"I know you asked. I told them that she had called in for ten
minutes, and then gone straight back to Pavlofsk. No one knows
she slept here. Last night we came in just as carefully as you
and I did today. I thought as I came along with her that she
would not like to creep in so secretly, but I was quite wrong.
She whispered, and walked on tip-toe; she carried her skirt over
her arm, so that it shouldn't rustle, and she held up her finger
at me on the stairs, so that I shouldn't make a noise--it was you
she was afraid of. She was mad with terror in the train, and she
begged me to bring her to this house. I thought of taking her to
her rooms at the Ismailofsky barracks first; but she wouldn't
hear of it. She said, 'No--not there; he'll find me out at once
there. Take me to your own house, where you can hide me, and
tomorrow we'll set off for Moscow.' Thence she would go to Orel,
she said. When she went to bed, she was still talking about going
to Orel."
"Wait! What do you intend to do now, Parfen?"
"Well, I'm afraid of you. You shudder and tremble so. We'll pass
the night here together. There are no other beds besides that
one; but I've thought how we'll manage. I'll take the cushions
off all the sofas, and lay them down on the floor, up against the
curtain here--for you and me--so that we shall be together. For if
they come in and look about now, you know, they'll find her, and
carry her away, and they'll be asking me questions, and I shall
say I did it, and then they'll take me away, too, don't you see?
So let her lie close to us--close to you and me.
"Yes, yes," agreed the prince, warmly.
"So we will not say anything about it, or let them take her
away?"
"Not for anything!" cried the other; "no, no, no!"
"So I had decided, my friend; not to give her up to anyone,"
continued Rogojin. "We'll be very quiet. I have only been out of
the house one hour all day, all the rest of the time I have been
with her. I dare say the air is very bad here. It is so hot. Do
you find it bad?"
"I don't know--perhaps--by morning it will be."
"I've covered her with oil-cloth--best American oilcloth, and put
the sheet over that, and four jars of disinfectant, on account of
the smell--as they did at Moscow--you remember? And she's lying
so still; you shall see, in the morning, when it's light. What!
can't you get up?" asked Rogojin, seeing the other was trembling
so that he could not rise from his seat.
"My legs won't move," said the prince; "it's fear, I know. When
my fear is over, I'll get up--"
"Wait a bit--I'll make the bed, and you can lie down. I'll lie
down, too, and we'll listen and watch, for I don't know yet what
I shall do... I tell you beforehand, so that you may be ready
in case I--"
Muttering these disconnected words, Rogojin began to make up the
beds. It was clear that he had devised these beds long before;
last night he slept on the sofa. But there was no room for two on
the sofa, and he seemed anxious that he and the prince should be
close to one another; therefore, he now dragged cushions of all
sizes and shapes from the sofas, and made a sort of bed of them
close by the curtain. He then approached the prince, and gently
helped him to rise, and led him towards the bed. But the prince
could now walk by himself, so that his fear must have passed; for
all that, however, he continued to shudder.
"It's hot weather, you see," continued Rogojin, as he lay down on
the cushions beside Muishkin, "and, naturally, there will be a
smell. I daren't open the window. My mother has some beautiful
flowers in pots; they have a delicious scent; I thought of
fetching them in, but that old servant will find out, she's very
inquisitive.
"Yes, she is inquisitive," assented the prince.
"I thought of buying flowers, and putting them all round her; but
I was afraid it would make us sad to see her with flowers round
her."
"Look here," said the prince; he was bewildered, and his brain
wandered. He seemed to be continually groping for the questions
he wished to ask, and then losing them. "Listen--tell me--how did
you--with a knife?--That same one?"
"Yes, that same one."
"Wait a minute, I want to ask you something else, Parfen; all
sorts of things; but tell me first, did you intend to kill her
before my wedding, at the church door, with your knife?"
"I don't know whether I did or not," said Rogojin, drily, seeming
to be a little astonished at the question, and not quite taking
it in.
"Did you never take your knife to Pavlofsk with you?" "No. As to
the knife," he added, "this is all I can tell you about it." He
was silent for a moment, and then said, "I took it out of the
locked drawer this morning about three, for it was in the early
morning all this--happened. It has been inside the book ever
since--and--and--this is what is such a marvel to me, the knife
only went in a couple of inches at most, just under her left
breast, and there wasn't more than half a tablespoonful of blood
altogether, not more."
"Yes--yes--yes--" The prince jumped up in extraordinary
agitation. "I know, I know, I've read of that sort of thing--it's
internal haemorrhage, you know. Sometimes there isn't a drop--if
the blow goes straight to the heart--"
"Wait--listen!" cried Rogojin, suddenly, starting up. "Somebody's
walking about, do you hear? In the hall." Both sat up to listen.
"I hear," said the prince in a whisper, his eyes fixed on
Rogojin.
"Footsteps?"
"Yes."
"Shall we shut the door, and lock it, or not?"
"Yes, lock it."
They locked the door, and both lay down again. There was a long
silence.
"Yes, by-the-by," whispered the prince, hurriedly and excitedly
as before, as though he had just seized hold of an idea and was
afraid of losing it again. "I--I wanted those cards! They say you
played cards with her?"
"Yes, I played with her," said Rogojin, after a short silence.
"Where are the cards?"
"Here they are," said Rogojin, after a still longer pause.
He pulled out a pack of cards, wrapped in a bit of paper, from
his pocket, and handed them to the prince. The latter took them,
with a sort of perplexity. A new, sad, helpless feeling weighed
on his heart; he had suddenly realized that not only at this
moment, but for a long while, he had not been saying what he
wanted to say, had not been acting as he wanted to act; and that
these cards which he held in his hand, and which he had been so
delighted to have at first, were now of no use--no use... He rose,
and wrung his hands. Rogojin lay motionless, and seemed neither
to hear nor see his movements; but his eyes blazed in the
darkness, and were fixed in a wild stare.
The prince sat down on a chair, and watched him in alarm. Half an
hour went by.
Suddenly Rogojin burst into a loud abrupt laugh, as though he had
quite forgotten that they must speak in whispers.
"That officer, eh!--that young officer--don't you remember that
fellow at the band? Eh? Ha, ha, ha! Didn't she whip him smartly,
eh?"
The prince jumped up from his seat in renewed terror. When
Rogojin quieted down (which he did at once) the prince bent over
him, sat down beside him, and with painfully beating heart and
still more painful breath, watched his face intently. Rogojin
never turned his head, and seemed to have forgotten all about
him. The prince watched and waited. Time went on--it began to
grow light.
Rogojin began to wander--muttering disconnectedly; then he took
to shouting and laughing. The prince stretched out a trembling
hand and gently stroked his hair and his cheeks--he could do
nothing more. His legs trembled again and he seemed to have lost
the use of them. A new sensation came over him, filling his heart
and soul with infinite anguish.
Meanwhile the daylight grew full and strong; and at last the
prince lay down, as though overcome by despair, and laid his face
against the white, motionless face of Rogojin. His tears flowed
on to Rogojin's cheek, though he was perhaps not aware of them
himself.
At all events when, after many hours, the door was opened and
people thronged in, they found the murderer unconscious and in a
raging fever. The prince was sitting by him, motionless, and each
time that the sick man gave a laugh, or a shout, he hastened to
pass his own trembling hand over his companion's hair and cheeks,
as though trying to soothe and quiet him. But alas I he
understood nothing of what was said to him, and recognized none
of those who surrounded him.
If Schneider himself had arrived then and seen his former pupil
and patient, remembering the prince's condition during the first
year in Switzerland, he would have flung up his hands,
despairingly, and cried, as he did then:
"An idiot!"