PART I

PART II

PART III

PART IV

PART I

I.

Towards the end of November, during a thaw, at nine o’clock one

morning, a train on the Warsaw and Petersburg railway was approaching

the latter city at full speed. The morning was so damp and misty that

it was only with great difficulty that the day succeeded in breaking;

and it was impossible to distinguish anything more than a few yards

away from the carriage windows.

Some of the passengers by this particular train were returning from

abroad; but the third-class carriages were the best filled, chiefly

with insignificant persons of various occupations and degrees, picked

up at the different stations nearer town. All of them seemed weary, and

most of them had sleepy eyes and a shivering expression, while their

complexions generally appeared to have taken on the colour of the fog

outside.

When day dawned, two passengers in one of the third-class carriages

found themselves opposite each other. Both were young fellows, both

were rather poorly dressed, both had remarkable faces, and both were

evidently anxious to start a conversation. If they had but known why,

at this particular moment, they were both remarkable persons, they

would undoubtedly have wondered at the strange chance which had set

them down opposite to one another in a third-class carriage of the

Warsaw Railway Company.

One of them was a young fellow of about twenty-seven, not tall, with

black curling hair, and small, grey, fiery eyes. His nose was broad and

flat, and he had high cheek bones; his thin lips were constantly

compressed into an impudent, ironical—it might almost be called a

malicious—smile; but his forehead was high and well formed, and atoned

for a good deal of the ugliness of the lower part of his face. A

special feature of this physiognomy was its death-like pallor, which

gave to the whole man an indescribably emaciated appearance in spite of

his hard look, and at the same time a sort of passionate and suffering

expression which did not harmonize with his impudent, sarcastic smile

and keen, self-satisfied bearing. He wore a large fur—or rather

astrachan—overcoat, which had kept him warm all night, while his

neighbour had been obliged to bear the full severity of a Russian

November night entirely unprepared. His wide sleeveless mantle with a

large cape to it—the sort of cloak one sees upon travellers during the

winter months in Switzerland or North Italy—was by no means adapted to

the long cold journey through Russia, from Eydkuhnen to St. Petersburg.

The wearer of this cloak was a young fellow, also of about twenty-six

or twenty-seven years of age, slightly above the middle height, very

fair, with a thin, pointed and very light coloured beard; his eyes were

large and blue, and had an intent look about them, yet that heavy

expression which some people affirm to be a peculiarity as well as

evidence, of an epileptic subject. His face was decidedly a pleasant

one for all that; refined, but quite colourless, except for the

circumstance that at this moment it was blue with cold. He held a

bundle made up of an old faded silk handkerchief that apparently

contained all his travelling wardrobe, and wore thick shoes and

gaiters, his whole appearance being very un-Russian.

His black-haired neighbour inspected these peculiarities, having

nothing better to do, and at length remarked, with that rude enjoyment

of the discomforts of others which the common classes so often show:

“Cold?”

“Very,” said his neighbour, readily, “and this is a thaw, too. Fancy if

it had been a hard frost! I never thought it would be so cold in the

old country. I’ve grown quite out of the way of it.”

“What, been abroad, I suppose?”

“Yes, straight from Switzerland.”

“Wheugh! my goodness!” The black-haired young fellow whistled, and then

laughed.

The conversation proceeded. The readiness of the fair-haired young man

in the cloak to answer all his opposite neighbour’s questions was

surprising. He seemed to have no suspicion of any impertinence or

inappropriateness in the fact of such questions being put to him.

Replying to them, he made known to the inquirer that he certainly had

been long absent from Russia, more than four years; that he had been

sent abroad for his health; that he had suffered from some strange

nervous malady—a kind of epilepsy, with convulsive spasms. His

interlocutor burst out laughing several times at his answers; and more

than ever, when to the question, “whether he had been cured?” the

patient replied:

“No, they did not cure me.”

“Hey! that’s it! You stumped up your money for nothing, and we believe

in those fellows, here!” remarked the black-haired individual,

sarcastically.

“Gospel truth, sir, Gospel truth!” exclaimed another passenger, a

shabbily dressed man of about forty, who looked like a clerk, and

possessed a red nose and a very blotchy face. “Gospel truth! All they

do is to get hold of our good Russian money free, gratis, and for

nothing.”

“Oh, but you’re quite wrong in my particular instance,” said the Swiss

patient, quietly. “Of course I can’t argue the matter, because I know

only my own case; but my doctor gave me money—and he had very little—to

pay my journey back, besides having kept me at his own expense, while

there, for nearly two years.”

“Why? Was there no one else to pay for you?” asked the black-haired

one.

“No—Mr. Pavlicheff, who had been supporting me there, died a couple of

years ago. I wrote to Mrs. General Epanchin at the time (she is a

distant relative of mine), but she did not answer my letter. And so

eventually I came back.”

“And where have you come to?”

“That is—where am I going to stay? I—I really don’t quite know yet, I—”

Both the listeners laughed again.

“I suppose your whole set-up is in that bundle, then?” asked the first.

“I bet anything it is!” exclaimed the red-nosed passenger, with extreme

satisfaction, “and that he has precious little in the luggage

van!—though of course poverty is no crime—we must remember that!”

It appeared that it was indeed as they had surmised. The young fellow

hastened to admit the fact with wonderful readiness.

“Your bundle has some importance, however,” continued the clerk, when

they had laughed their fill (it was observable that the subject of

their mirth joined in the laughter when he saw them laughing); “for

though I dare say it is not stuffed full of friedrichs d’or and louis

d’or—judge from your costume and gaiters—still—if you can add to your

possessions such a valuable property as a relation like Mrs. General

Epanchin, then your bundle becomes a significant object at once. That

is, of course, if you really are a relative of Mrs. Epanchin’s, and

have not made a little error through—well, absence of mind, which is

very common to human beings; or, say—through a too luxuriant fancy?”

“Oh, you are right again,” said the fair-haired traveller, “for I

really am _almost_ wrong when I say she and I are related. She is

hardly a relation at all; so little, in fact, that I was not in the

least surprised to have no answer to my letter. I expected as much.”

“H’m! you spent your postage for nothing, then. H’m! you are candid,

however—and that is commendable. H’m! Mrs. Epanchin—oh yes! a most

eminent person. I know her. As for Mr. Pavlicheff, who supported you in

Switzerland, I know him too—at least, if it was Nicolai Andreevitch of

that name? A fine fellow he was—and had a property of four thousand

souls in his day.”

“Yes, Nicolai Andreevitch—that was his name,” and the young fellow

looked earnestly and with curiosity at the all-knowing gentleman with

the red nose.

This sort of character is met with pretty frequently in a certain

class. They are people who know everyone—that is, they know where a man

is employed, what his salary is, whom he knows, whom he married, what

money his wife had, who are his cousins, and second cousins, etc., etc.

These men generally have about a hundred pounds a year to live on, and

they spend their whole time and talents in the amassing of this style

of knowledge, which they reduce—or raise—to the standard of a science.

During the latter part of the conversation the black-haired young man

had become very impatient. He stared out of the window, and fidgeted,

and evidently longed for the end of the journey. He was very absent; he

would appear to listen—and heard nothing; and he would laugh of a

sudden, evidently with no idea of what he was laughing about.

“Excuse me,” said the red-nosed man to the young fellow with the

bundle, rather suddenly; “whom have I the honour to be talking to?”

“Prince Lef Nicolaievitch Muishkin,” replied the latter, with perfect

readiness.

“Prince Muishkin? Lef Nicolaievitch? H’m! I don’t know, I’m sure! I may

say I have never heard of such a person,” said the clerk, thoughtfully.

“At least, the name, I admit, is historical. Karamsin must mention the

family name, of course, in his history—but as an individual—one never

hears of any Prince Muishkin nowadays.”

“Of course not,” replied the prince; “there are none, except myself. I

believe I am the last and only one. As to my forefathers, they have

always been a poor lot; my own father was a sublieutenant in the army.

I don’t know how Mrs. Epanchin comes into the Muishkin family, but she

is descended from the Princess Muishkin, and she, too, is the last of

her line.”

“And did you learn science and all that, with your professor over

there?” asked the black-haired passenger.

“Oh yes—I did learn a little, but—”

“I’ve never learned anything whatever,” said the other.

“Oh, but I learned very little, you know!” added the prince, as though

excusing himself. “They could not teach me very much on account of my

illness.”

“Do you know the Rogojins?” asked his questioner, abruptly.

“No, I don’t—not at all! I hardly know anyone in Russia. Why, is that

your name?”

“Yes, I am Rogojin, Parfen Rogojin.”

“Parfen Rogojin? dear me—then don’t you belong to those very Rogojins,

perhaps—” began the clerk, with a very perceptible increase of civility

in his tone.

“Yes—those very ones,” interrupted Rogojin, impatiently, and with scant

courtesy. I may remark that he had not once taken any notice of the

blotchy-faced passenger, and had hitherto addressed all his remarks

direct to the prince.

“Dear me—is it possible?” observed the clerk, while his face assumed an

expression of great deference and servility—if not of absolute alarm:

“what, a son of that very Semen Rogojin—hereditary honourable

citizen—who died a month or so ago and left two million and a half of

roubles?”

“And how do _you_ know that he left two million and a half of roubles?”

asked Rogojin, disdainfully, and not deigning so much as to look at the

other. “However, it’s true enough that my father died a month ago, and

that here am I returning from Pskoff, a month after, with hardly a boot

to my foot. They’ve treated me like a dog! I’ve been ill of fever at

Pskoff the whole time, and not a line, nor farthing of money, have I

received from my mother or my confounded brother!”

“And now you’ll have a million roubles, at least—goodness gracious me!”

exclaimed the clerk, rubbing his hands.

“Five weeks since, I was just like yourself,” continued Rogojin,

addressing the prince, “with nothing but a bundle and the clothes I

wore. I ran away from my father and came to Pskoff to my aunt’s house,

where I caved in at once with fever, and he went and died while I was

away. All honour to my respected father’s memory—but he uncommonly

nearly killed me, all the same. Give you my word, prince, if I hadn’t

cut and run then, when I did, he’d have murdered me like a dog.”

“I suppose you angered him somehow?” asked the prince, looking at the

millionaire with considerable curiosity. But though there may have been

something remarkable in the fact that this man was heir to millions of

roubles there was something about him which surprised and interested

the prince more than that. Rogojin, too, seemed to have taken up the

conversation with unusual alacrity it appeared that he was still in a

considerable state of excitement, if not absolutely feverish, and was

in real need of someone to talk to for the mere sake of talking, as

safety-valve to his agitation.

As for his red-nosed neighbour, the latter—since the information as to

the identity of Rogojin—hung over him, seemed to be living on the honey

of his words and in the breath of his nostrils, catching at every

syllable as though it were a pearl of great price.

“Oh, yes; I angered him—I certainly did anger him,” replied Rogojin.

“But what puts me out so is my brother. Of course my mother couldn’t do

anything—she’s too old—and whatever brother Senka says is law for her!

But why couldn’t he let me know? He sent a telegram, they say. What’s

the good of a telegram? It frightened my aunt so that she sent it back

to the office unopened, and there it’s been ever since! It’s only

thanks to Konief that I heard at all; he wrote me all about it. He says

my brother cut off the gold tassels from my father’s coffin, at night

‘because they’re worth a lot of money!’ says he. Why, I can get him

sent off to Siberia for that alone, if I like; it’s sacrilege. Here,

you—scarecrow!” he added, addressing the clerk at his side, “is it

sacrilege or not, by law?”

“Sacrilege, certainly—certainly sacrilege,” said the latter.

“And it’s Siberia for sacrilege, isn’t it?”

“Undoubtedly so; Siberia, of course!”

“They will think that I’m still ill,” continued Rogojin to the prince,

“but I sloped off quietly, seedy as I was, took the train and came

away. Aha, brother Senka, you’ll have to open your gates and let me in,

my boy! I know he told tales about me to my father—I know that well

enough but I certainly did rile my father about Nastasia Philipovna

that’s very sure, and that was my own doing.”

“Nastasia Philipovna?” said the clerk, as though trying to think out

something.

“Come, you know nothing about _her_,” said Rogojin, impatiently.

“And supposing I do know something?” observed the other, triumphantly.

“Bosh! there are plenty of Nastasia Philipovnas. And what an

impertinent beast you are!” he added angrily. “I thought some creature

like you would hang on to me as soon as I got hold of my money.”

“Oh, but I do know, as it happens,” said the clerk in an aggravating

manner. “Lebedeff knows all about her. You are pleased to reproach me,

your excellency, but what if I prove that I am right after all?

Nastasia Philipovna’s family name is Barashkoff—I know, you see—and she

is a very well known lady, indeed, and comes of a good family, too. She

is connected with one Totski, Afanasy Ivanovitch, a man of considerable

property, a director of companies, and so on, and a great friend of

General Epanchin, who is interested in the same matters as he is.”

“My eyes!” said Rogojin, really surprised at last. “The devil take the

fellow, how does he know that?”

“Why, he knows everything—Lebedeff knows everything! I was a month or

two with Lihachof after his father died, your excellency, and while he

was knocking about—he’s in the debtor’s prison now—I was with him, and

he couldn’t do a thing without Lebedeff; and I got to know Nastasia

Philipovna and several people at that time.”

“Nastasia Philipovna? Why, you don’t mean to say that she and

Lihachof—” cried Rogojin, turning quite pale.

“No, no, no, no, no! Nothing of the sort, I assure you!” said Lebedeff,

hastily. “Oh dear no, not for the world! Totski’s the only man with any

chance there. Oh, no! He takes her to his box at the opera at the

French theatre of an evening, and the officers and people all look at

her and say, ‘By Jove, there’s the famous Nastasia Philipovna!’ but no

one ever gets any further than that, for there is nothing more to say.”

“Yes, it’s quite true,” said Rogojin, frowning gloomily; “so Zaleshoff

told me. I was walking about the Nefsky one fine day, prince, in my

father’s old coat, when she suddenly came out of a shop and stepped

into her carriage. I swear I was all of a blaze at once. Then I met

Zaleshoff—looking like a hair-dresser’s assistant, got up as fine as I

don’t know who, while I looked like a tinker. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,

my boy,’ said he; ‘she’s not for such as you; she’s a princess, she is,

and her name is Nastasia Philipovna Barashkoff, and she lives with

Totski, who wishes to get rid of her because he’s growing rather

old—fifty-five or so—and wants to marry a certain beauty, the loveliest

woman in all Petersburg.’ And then he told me that I could see Nastasia

Philipovna at the opera-house that evening, if I liked, and described

which was her box. Well, I’d like to see my father allowing any of us

to go to the theatre; he’d sooner have killed us, any day. However, I

went for an hour or so and saw Nastasia Philipovna, and I never slept a

wink all night after. Next morning my father happened to give me two

government loan bonds to sell, worth nearly five thousand roubles each.

‘Sell them,’ said he, ‘and then take seven thousand five hundred

roubles to the office, give them to the cashier, and bring me back the

rest of the ten thousand, without looking in anywhere on the way; look

sharp, I shall be waiting for you.’ Well, I sold the bonds, but I

didn’t take the seven thousand roubles to the office; I went straight

to the English shop and chose a pair of earrings, with a diamond the

size of a nut in each. They cost four hundred roubles more than I had,

so I gave my name, and they trusted me. With the earrings I went at

once to Zaleshoff’s. ‘Come on!’ I said, ‘come on to Nastasia

Philipovna’s,’ and off we went without more ado. I tell you I hadn’t a

notion of what was about me or before me or below my feet all the way;

I saw nothing whatever. We went straight into her drawing-room, and

then she came out to us.

“I didn’t say right out who I was, but Zaleshoff said: ‘From Parfen

Rogojin, in memory of his first meeting with you yesterday; be so kind

as to accept these!’

“She opened the parcel, looked at the earrings, and laughed.

“‘Thank your friend Mr. Rogojin for his kind attention,’ says she, and

bowed and went off. Why didn’t I die there on the spot? The worst of it

all was, though, that the beast Zaleshoff got all the credit of it! I

was short and abominably dressed, and stood and stared in her face and

never said a word, because I was shy, like an ass! And there was he all

in the fashion, pomaded and dressed out, with a smart tie on, bowing

and scraping; and I bet anything she took him for me all the while!

“‘Look here now,’ I said, when we came out, ‘none of your interference

here after this—do you understand?’ He laughed: ‘And how are you going

to settle up with your father?’ says he. I thought I might as well jump

into the Neva at once without going home first; but it struck me that I

wouldn’t, after all, and I went home feeling like one of the damned.”

“My goodness!” shivered the clerk. “And his father,” he added, for the

prince’s instruction, “and his father would have given a man a ticket

to the other world for ten roubles any day—not to speak of ten

thousand!”

The prince observed Rogojin with great curiosity; he seemed paler than

ever at this moment.

“What do you know about it?” cried the latter. “Well, my father learned

the whole story at once, and Zaleshoff blabbed it all over the town

besides. So he took me upstairs and locked me up, and swore at me for

an hour. ‘This is only a foretaste,’ says he; ‘wait a bit till night

comes, and I’ll come back and talk to you again.’

“Well, what do you think? The old fellow went straight off to Nastasia

Philipovna, touched the floor with his forehead, and began blubbering

and beseeching her on his knees to give him back the diamonds. So after

awhile she brought the box and flew out at him. ‘There,’ she says,

‘take your earrings, you wretched old miser; although they are ten

times dearer than their value to me now that I know what it must have

cost Parfen to get them! Give Parfen my compliments,’ she says, ‘and

thank him very much!’ Well, I meanwhile had borrowed twenty-five

roubles from a friend, and off I went to Pskoff to my aunt’s. The old

woman there lectured me so that I left the house and went on a drinking

tour round the public-houses of the place. I was in a high fever when I

got to Pskoff, and by nightfall I was lying delirious in the streets

somewhere or other!”

“Oho! we’ll make Nastasia Philipovna sing another song now!” giggled

Lebedeff, rubbing his hands with glee. “Hey, my boy, we’ll get her some

proper earrings now! We’ll get her such earrings that—”

“Look here,” cried Rogojin, seizing him fiercely by the arm, “look

here, if you so much as name Nastasia Philipovna again, I’ll tan your

hide as sure as you sit there!”

“Aha! do—by all means! if you tan my hide you won’t turn me away from

your society. You’ll bind me to you, with your lash, for ever. Ha, ha!

here we are at the station, though.”

Sure enough, the train was just steaming in as he spoke.

Though Rogojin had declared that he left Pskoff secretly, a large

collection of friends had assembled to greet him, and did so with

profuse waving of hats and shouting.

“Why, there’s Zaleshoff here, too!” he muttered, gazing at the scene

with a sort of triumphant but unpleasant smile. Then he suddenly turned

to the prince: “Prince, I don’t know why I have taken a fancy to you;

perhaps because I met you just when I did. But no, it can’t be that,

for I met this fellow” (nodding at Lebedeff) “too, and I have not taken

a fancy to him by any means. Come to see me, prince; we’ll take off

those gaiters of yours and dress you up in a smart fur coat, the best

we can buy. You shall have a dress coat, best quality, white waistcoat,

anything you like, and your pocket shall be full of money. Come, and

you shall go with me to Nastasia Philipovna’s. Now then will you come

or no?”

“Accept, accept, Prince Lef Nicolaievitch” said Lebedef solemnly;

“don’t let it slip! Accept, quick!”

Prince Muishkin rose and stretched out his hand courteously, while he

replied with some cordiality:

“I will come with the greatest pleasure, and thank you very much for

taking a fancy to me. I dare say I may even come today if I have time,

for I tell you frankly that I like you very much too. I liked you

especially when you told us about the diamond earrings; but I liked you

before that as well, though you have such a dark-clouded sort of face.

Thanks very much for the offer of clothes and a fur coat; I certainly

shall require both clothes and coat very soon. As for money, I have

hardly a copeck about me at this moment.”

“You shall have lots of money; by the evening I shall have plenty; so

come along!”

“That’s true enough, he’ll have lots before evening!” put in Lebedeff.

“But, look here, are you a great hand with the ladies? Let’s know that

first?” asked Rogojin.

“Oh no, oh no!” said the prince; “I couldn’t, you know—my illness—I

hardly ever saw a soul.”

“H’m! well—here, you fellow—you can come along with me now if you

like!” cried Rogojin to Lebedeff, and so they all left the carriage.

Lebedeff had his desire. He went off with the noisy group of Rogojin’s

friends towards the Voznesensky, while the prince’s route lay towards

the Litaynaya. It was damp and wet. The prince asked his way of

passers-by, and finding that he was a couple of miles or so from his

destination, he determined to take a droshky.

II.

General Epanchin lived in his own house near the Litaynaya. Besides

this large residence—five-sixths of which was let in flats and

lodgings—the general was owner of another enormous house in the

Sadovaya bringing in even more rent than the first. Besides these

houses he had a delightful little estate just out of town, and some

sort of factory in another part of the city. General Epanchin, as

everyone knew, had a good deal to do with certain government

monopolies; he was also a voice, and an important one, in many rich

public companies of various descriptions; in fact, he enjoyed the

reputation of being a well-to-do man of busy habits, many ties, and

affluent means. He had made himself indispensable in several quarters,

amongst others in his department of the government; and yet it was a

known fact that Fedor Ivanovitch Epanchin was a man of no education

whatever, and had absolutely risen from the ranks.

This last fact could, of course, reflect nothing but credit upon the

general; and yet, though unquestionably a sagacious man, he had his own

little weaknesses—very excusable ones,—one of which was a dislike to

any allusion to the above circumstance. He was undoubtedly clever. For

instance, he made a point of never asserting himself when he would gain

more by keeping in the background; and in consequence many exalted

personages valued him principally for his humility and simplicity, and

because “he knew his place.” And yet if these good people could only

have had a peep into the mind of this excellent fellow who “knew his

place” so well! The fact is that, in spite of his knowledge of the

world and his really remarkable abilities, he always liked to appear to

be carrying out other people’s ideas rather than his own. And also, his

luck seldom failed him, even at cards, for which he had a passion that

he did not attempt to conceal. He played for high stakes, and moved,

altogether, in very varied society.

As to age, General Epanchin was in the very prime of life; that is,

about fifty-five years of age,—the flowering time of existence, when

real enjoyment of life begins. His healthy appearance, good colour,

sound, though discoloured teeth, sturdy figure, preoccupied air during

business hours, and jolly good humour during his game at cards in the

evening, all bore witness to his success in life, and combined to make

existence a bed of roses to his excellency. The general was lord of a

flourishing family, consisting of his wife and three grown-up

daughters. He had married young, while still a lieutenant, his wife

being a girl of about his own age, who possessed neither beauty nor

education, and who brought him no more than fifty souls of landed

property, which little estate served, however, as a nest-egg for far

more important accumulations. The general never regretted his early

marriage, or regarded it as a foolish youthful escapade; and he so

respected and feared his wife that he was very near loving her. Mrs.

Epanchin came of the princely stock of Muishkin, which if not a

brilliant, was, at all events, a decidedly ancient family; and she was

extremely proud of her descent.

With a few exceptions, the worthy couple had lived through their long

union very happily. While still young the wife had been able to make

important friends among the aristocracy, partly by virtue of her family

descent, and partly by her own exertions; while, in after life, thanks

to their wealth and to the position of her husband in the service, she

took her place among the higher circles as by right.

During these last few years all three of the general’s

daughters—Alexandra, Adelaida, and Aglaya—had grown up and matured. Of

course they were only Epanchins, but their mother’s family was noble;

they might expect considerable fortunes; their father had hopes of

attaining to very high rank indeed in his country’s service—all of

which was satisfactory. All three of the girls were decidedly pretty,

even the eldest, Alexandra, who was just twenty-five years old. The

middle daughter was now twenty-three, while the youngest, Aglaya, was

twenty. This youngest girl was absolutely a beauty, and had begun of

late to attract considerable attention in society. But this was not

all, for every one of the three was clever, well educated, and

accomplished.

It was a matter of general knowledge that the three girls were very

fond of one another, and supported each other in every way; it was even

said that the two elder ones had made certain sacrifices for the sake

of the idol of the household, Aglaya. In society they not only disliked

asserting themselves, but were actually retiring. Certainly no one

could blame them for being too arrogant or haughty, and yet everybody

was well aware that they were proud and quite understood their own

value. The eldest was musical, while the second was a clever artist,

which fact she had concealed until lately. In a word, the world spoke

well of the girls; but they were not without their enemies, and

occasionally people talked with horror of the number of books they had

read.

They were in no hurry to marry. They liked good society, but were not

too keen about it. All this was the more remarkable, because everyone

was well aware of the hopes and aims of their parents.

It was about eleven o’clock in the forenoon when the prince rang the

bell at General Epanchin’s door. The general lived on the first floor

or flat of the house, as modest a lodging as his position permitted. A

liveried servant opened the door, and the prince was obliged to enter

into long explanations with this gentleman, who, from the first glance,

looked at him and his bundle with grave suspicion. At last, however, on

the repeated positive assurance that he really was Prince Muishkin, and

must absolutely see the general on business, the bewildered domestic

showed him into a little ante-chamber leading to a waiting-room that

adjoined the general’s study, there handing him over to another

servant, whose duty it was to be in this ante-chamber all the morning,

and announce visitors to the general. This second individual wore a

dress coat, and was some forty years of age; he was the general’s

special study servant, and well aware of his own importance.

“Wait in the next room, please; and leave your bundle here,” said the

door-keeper, as he sat down comfortably in his own easy-chair in the

ante-chamber. He looked at the prince in severe surprise as the latter

settled himself in another chair alongside, with his bundle on his

knees.

“If you don’t mind, I would rather sit here with you,” said the prince;

“I should prefer it to sitting in there.”

“Oh, but you can’t stay here. You are a visitor—a guest, so to speak.

Is it the general himself you wish to see?”

The man evidently could not take in the idea of such a shabby-looking

visitor, and had decided to ask once more.

“Yes—I have business—” began the prince.

“I do not ask you what your business may be, all I have to do is to

announce you; and unless the secretary comes in here I cannot do that.”

The man’s suspicions seemed to increase more and more. The prince was

too unlike the usual run of daily visitors; and although the general

certainly did receive, on business, all sorts and conditions of men,

yet in spite of this fact the servant felt great doubts on the subject

of this particular visitor. The presence of the secretary as an

intermediary was, he judged, essential in this case.

“Surely you—are from abroad?” he inquired at last, in a confused sort

of way. He had begun his sentence intending to say, “Surely you are not

Prince Muishkin, are you?”

“Yes, straight from the train! Did not you intend to say, ‘Surely you

are not Prince Muishkin?’ just now, but refrained out of politeness?”

“H’m!” grunted the astonished servant.

“I assure you I am not deceiving you; you shall not have to answer for

me. As to my being dressed like this, and carrying a bundle, there’s

nothing surprising in that—the fact is, my circumstances are not

particularly rosy at this moment.”

“H’m!—no, I’m not afraid of that, you see; I have to announce you,

that’s all. The secretary will be out directly—that is, unless you—yes,

that’s the rub—unless you—come, you must allow me to ask you—you’ve not

come to beg, have you?”

“Oh dear no, you can be perfectly easy on that score. I have quite

another matter on hand.”

“You must excuse my asking, you know. Your appearance led me to

think—but just wait for the secretary; the general is busy now, but the

secretary is sure to come out.”

“Oh—well, look here, if I have some time to wait, would you mind

telling me, is there any place about where I could have a smoke? I have

my pipe and tobacco with me.”

“_Smoke?_” said the man, in shocked but disdainful surprise, blinking

his eyes at the prince as though he could not believe his senses. “No,

sir, you cannot smoke here, and I wonder you are not ashamed of the

very suggestion. Ha, ha! a cool idea that, I declare!”

“Oh, I didn’t mean in this room! I know I can’t smoke here, of course.

I’d adjourn to some other room, wherever you like to show me to. You

see, I’m used to smoking a good deal, and now I haven’t had a puff for

three hours; however, just as you like.”

“Now how on earth am I to announce a man like that?” muttered the

servant. “In the first place, you’ve no right in here at all; you ought

to be in the waiting-room, because you’re a sort of visitor—a guest, in

fact—and I shall catch it for this. Look here, do you intend to take up

you abode with us?” he added, glancing once more at the prince’s

bundle, which evidently gave him no peace.

“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think I should stay even if they were to

invite me. I’ve simply come to make their acquaintance, and nothing

more.”

“Make their acquaintance?” asked the man, in amazement, and with

redoubled suspicion. “Then why did you say you had business with the

general?”

“Oh well, very little business. There is one little matter—some advice

I am going to ask him for; but my principal object is simply to

introduce myself, because I am Prince Muishkin, and Madame Epanchin is

the last of her branch of the house, and besides herself and me there

are no other Muishkins left.”

“What—you’re a relation then, are you?” asked the servant, so

bewildered that he began to feel quite alarmed.

“Well, hardly so. If you stretch a point, we are relations, of course,

but so distant that one cannot really take cognizance of it. I once

wrote to your mistress from abroad, but she did not reply. However, I

have thought it right to make acquaintance with her on my arrival. I am

telling you all this in order to ease your mind, for I see you are

still far from comfortable on my account. All you have to do is to

announce me as Prince Muishkin, and the object of my visit will be

plain enough. If I am received—very good; if not, well, very good

again. But they are sure to receive me, I should think; Madame Epanchin

will naturally be curious to see the only remaining representative of

her family. She values her Muishkin descent very highly, if I am

rightly informed.”

The prince’s conversation was artless and confiding to a degree, and

the servant could not help feeling that as from visitor to common

serving-man this state of things was highly improper. His conclusion

was that one of two things must be the explanation—either that this was

a begging impostor, or that the prince, if prince he were, was simply a

fool, without the slightest ambition; for a sensible prince with any

ambition would certainly not wait about in ante-rooms with servants,

and talk of his own private affairs like this. In either case, how was

he to announce this singular visitor?

“I really think I must request you to step into the next room!” he

said, with all the insistence he could muster.

“Why? If I had been sitting there now, I should not have had the

opportunity of making these personal explanations. I see you are still

uneasy about me and keep eyeing my cloak and bundle. Don’t you think

you might go in yourself now, without waiting for the secretary to come

out?”

“No, no! I can’t announce a visitor like yourself without the

secretary. Besides the general said he was not to be disturbed—he is

with the Colonel C—. Gavrila Ardalionovitch goes in without

announcing.”

“Who may that be? a clerk?”

“What? Gavrila Ardalionovitch? Oh no; he belongs to one of the

companies. Look here, at all events put your bundle down, here.”

“Yes, I will if I may; and—can I take off my cloak”

“Of course; you can’t go in _there_ with it on, anyhow.”

The prince rose and took off his mantle, revealing a neat enough

morning costume—a little worn, but well made. He wore a steel watch

chain and from this chain there hung a silver Geneva watch. Fool the

prince might be, still, the general’s servant felt that it was not

correct for him to continue to converse thus with a visitor, in spite

of the fact that the prince pleased him somehow.

“And what time of day does the lady receive?” the latter asked,

reseating himself in his old place.

“Oh, that’s not in _my_ province! I believe she receives at any time;

it depends upon the visitors. The dressmaker goes in at eleven. Gavrila

Ardalionovitch is allowed much earlier than other people, too; he is

even admitted to early lunch now and then.”

“It is much warmer in the rooms here than it is abroad at this season,”

observed the prince; “but it is much warmer there out of doors. As for

the houses—a Russian can’t live in them in the winter until he gets

accustomed to them.”

“Don’t they heat them at all?”

“Well, they do heat them a little; but the houses and stoves are so

different to ours.”

“H’m! were you long away?”

“Four years! and I was in the same place nearly all the time,—in one

village.”

“You must have forgotten Russia, hadn’t you?”

“Yes, indeed I had—a good deal; and, would you believe it, I often

wonder at myself for not having forgotten how to speak Russian? Even

now, as I talk to you, I keep saying to myself ‘how well I am speaking

it.’ Perhaps that is partly why I am so talkative this morning. I

assure you, ever since yesterday evening I have had the strongest

desire to go on and on talking Russian.”

“H’m! yes; did you live in Petersburg in former years?”

This good flunkey, in spite of his conscientious scruples, really could

not resist continuing such a very genteel and agreeable conversation.

“In Petersburg? Oh no! hardly at all, and now they say so much is

changed in the place that even those who did know it well are obliged

to relearn what they knew. They talk a good deal about the new law

courts, and changes there, don’t they?”

“H’m! yes, that’s true enough. Well now, how is the law over there, do

they administer it more justly than here?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that! I’ve heard much that is good about our

legal administration, too. There is no capital punishment here for one

thing.”

“Is there over there?”

“Yes—I saw an execution in France—at Lyons. Schneider took me over with

him to see it.”

“What, did they hang the fellow?”

“No, they cut off people’s heads in France.”

“What did the fellow do?—yell?”

“Oh no—it’s the work of an instant. They put a man inside a frame and a

sort of broad knife falls by machinery—they call the thing a

guillotine—it falls with fearful force and weight—the head springs off

so quickly that you can’t wink your eye in between. But all the

preparations are so dreadful. When they announce the sentence, you

know, and prepare the criminal and tie his hands, and cart him off to

the scaffold—that’s the fearful part of the business. The people all

crowd round—even women—though they don’t at all approve of women

looking on.”

“No, it’s not a thing for women.”

“Of course not—of course not!—bah! The criminal was a fine intelligent

fearless man; Le Gros was his name; and I may tell you—believe it or

not, as you like—that when that man stepped upon the scaffold he

_cried_, he did indeed,—he was as white as a bit of paper. Isn’t it a

dreadful idea that he should have cried—cried! Whoever heard of a grown

man crying from fear—not a child, but a man who never had cried

before—a grown man of forty-five years. Imagine what must have been

going on in that man’s mind at such a moment; what dreadful convulsions

his whole spirit must have endured; it is an outrage on the soul that’s

what it is. Because it is said ‘thou shalt not kill,’ is he to be

killed because he murdered some one else? No, it is not right, it’s an

impossible theory. I assure you, I saw the sight a month ago and it’s

dancing before my eyes to this moment. I dream of it, often.”

The prince had grown animated as he spoke, and a tinge of colour

suffused his pale face, though his way of talking was as quiet as ever.

The servant followed his words with sympathetic interest. Clearly he

was not at all anxious to bring the conversation to an end. Who knows?

Perhaps he too was a man of imagination and with some capacity for

thought.

“Well, at all events it is a good thing that there’s no pain when the

poor fellow’s head flies off,” he remarked.

“Do you know, though,” cried the prince warmly, “you made that remark

now, and everyone says the same thing, and the machine is designed with

the purpose of avoiding pain, this guillotine I mean; but a thought

came into my head then: what if it be a bad plan after all? You may

laugh at my idea, perhaps—but I could not help its occurring to me all

the same. Now with the rack and tortures and so on—you suffer terrible

pain of course; but then your torture is bodily pain only (although no

doubt you have plenty of that) until you die. But _here_ I should

imagine the most terrible part of the whole punishment is, not the

bodily pain at all—but the certain knowledge that in an hour,—then in

ten minutes, then in half a minute, then now—this very _instant_—your

soul must quit your body and that you will no longer be a man—and that

this is certain, _certain!_ That’s the point—the certainty of it. Just

that instant when you place your head on the block and hear the iron

grate over your head—then—that quarter of a second is the most awful of

all.

“This is not my own fantastical opinion—many people have thought the

same; but I feel it so deeply that I’ll tell you what I think. I

believe that to execute a man for murder is to punish him immeasurably

more dreadfully than is equivalent to his crime. A murder by sentence

is far more dreadful than a murder committed by a criminal. The man who

is attacked by robbers at night, in a dark wood, or anywhere,

undoubtedly hopes and hopes that he may yet escape until the very

moment of his death. There are plenty of instances of a man running

away, or imploring for mercy—at all events hoping on in some

degree—even after his throat was cut. But in the case of an execution,

that last hope—having which it is so immeasurably less dreadful to

die,—is taken away from the wretch and _certainty_ substituted in its

place! There is his sentence, and with it that terrible certainty that

he cannot possibly escape death—which, I consider, must be the most

dreadful anguish in the world. You may place a soldier before a

cannon’s mouth in battle, and fire upon him—and he will still hope. But

read to that same soldier his death-sentence, and he will either go mad

or burst into tears. Who dares to say that any man can suffer this

without going mad? No, no! it is an abuse, a shame, it is

unnecessary—why should such a thing exist? Doubtless there may be men

who have been sentenced, who have suffered this mental anguish for a

while and then have been reprieved; perhaps such men may have been able

to relate their feelings afterwards. Our Lord Christ spoke of this

anguish and dread. No! no! no! No man should be treated so, no man, no

man!”

The servant, though of course he could not have expressed all this as

the prince did, still clearly entered into it and was greatly

conciliated, as was evident from the increased amiability of his

expression. “If you are really very anxious for a smoke,” he remarked,

“I think it might possibly be managed, if you are very quick about it.

You see they might come out and inquire for you, and you wouldn’t be on

the spot. You see that door there? Go in there and you’ll find a little

room on the right; you can smoke there, only open the window, because I

ought not to allow it really, and—.” But there was no time, after all.

A young fellow entered the ante-room at this moment, with a bundle of

papers in his hand. The footman hastened to help him take off his

overcoat. The new arrival glanced at the prince out of the corners of

his eyes.

“This gentleman declares, Gavrila Ardalionovitch,” began the man,

confidentially and almost familiarly, “that he is Prince Muishkin and a

relative of Madame Epanchin’s. He has just arrived from abroad, with

nothing but a bundle by way of luggage—.”

The prince did not hear the rest, because at this point the servant

continued his communication in a whisper.

Gavrila Ardalionovitch listened attentively, and gazed at the prince

with great curiosity. At last he motioned the man aside and stepped

hurriedly towards the prince.

“Are you Prince Muishkin?” he asked, with the greatest courtesy and

amiability.

He was a remarkably handsome young fellow of some twenty-eight summers,

fair and of middle height; he wore a small beard, and his face was most

intelligent. Yet his smile, in spite of its sweetness, was a little

thin, if I may so call it, and showed his teeth too evenly; his gaze

though decidedly good-humoured and ingenuous, was a trifle too

inquisitive and intent to be altogether agreeable.

“Probably when he is alone he looks quite different, and hardly smiles

at all!” thought the prince.

He explained about himself in a few words, very much the same as he had

told the footman and Rogojin beforehand.

Gavrila Ardalionovitch meanwhile seemed to be trying to recall

something.

“Was it not you, then, who sent a letter a year or less ago—from

Switzerland, I think it was—to Elizabetha Prokofievna (Mrs. Epanchin)?”

“It was.”

“Oh, then, of course they will remember who you are. You wish to see

the general? I’ll tell him at once—he will be free in a minute; but

you—you had better wait in the ante-chamber,—hadn’t you? Why is he

here?” he added, severely, to the man.

“I tell you, sir, he wished it himself!”

At this moment the study door opened, and a military man, with a

portfolio under his arm, came out talking loudly, and after bidding

good-bye to someone inside, took his departure.

“You there, Gania?” cried a voice from the study, “come in here, will

you?”

Gavrila Ardalionovitch nodded to the prince and entered the room

hastily.

A couple of minutes later the door opened again and the affable voice

of Gania cried:

“Come in please, prince!”

III.

General Ivan Fedorovitch Epanchin was standing in the middle of the

room, and gazed with great curiosity at the prince as he entered. He

even advanced a couple of steps to meet him.

The prince came forward and introduced himself.

“Quite so,” replied the general, “and what can I do for you?”

“Oh, I have no special business; my principal object was to make your

acquaintance. I should not like to disturb you. I do not know your

times and arrangements here, you see, but I have only just arrived. I

came straight from the station. I am come direct from Switzerland.”

The general very nearly smiled, but thought better of it and kept his

smile back. Then he reflected, blinked his eyes, stared at his guest

once more from head to foot; then abruptly motioned him to a chair, sat

down himself, and waited with some impatience for the prince to speak.

Gania stood at his table in the far corner of the room, turning over

papers.

“I have not much time for making acquaintances, as a rule,” said the

general, “but as, of course, you have your object in coming, I—”

“I felt sure you would think I had some object in view when I resolved

to pay you this visit,” the prince interrupted; “but I give you my

word, beyond the pleasure of making your acquaintance I had no personal

object whatever.”

“The pleasure is, of course, mutual; but life is not all pleasure, as

you are aware. There is such a thing as business, and I really do not

see what possible reason there can be, or what we have in common to—”

“Oh, there is no reason, of course, and I suppose there is nothing in

common between us, or very little; for if I am Prince Muishkin, and

your wife happens to be a member of my house, that can hardly be called

a ‘reason.’ I quite understand that. And yet that was my whole motive

for coming. You see I have not been in Russia for four years, and knew

very little about anything when I left. I had been very ill for a long

time, and I feel now the need of a few good friends. In fact, I have a

certain question upon which I much need advice, and do not know whom to

go to for it. I thought of your family when I was passing through

Berlin. ‘They are almost relations,’ I said to myself, ‘so I’ll begin

with them; perhaps we may get on with each other, I with them and they

with me, if they are kind people;’ and I have heard that you are very

kind people!”

“Oh, thank you, thank you, I’m sure,” replied the general, considerably

taken aback. “May I ask where you have taken up your quarters?”

“Nowhere, as yet.”

“What, straight from the station to my house? And how about your

luggage?”

“I only had a small bundle, containing linen, with me, nothing more. I

can carry it in my hand, easily. There will be plenty of time to take a

room in some hotel by the evening.”

“Oh, then you _do_ intend to take a room?”

“Of course.”

“To judge from your words, you came straight to my house with the

intention of staying there.”

“That could only have been on your invitation. I confess, however, that

I should not have stayed here even if you had invited me, not for any

particular reason, but because it is—well, contrary to my practice and

nature, somehow.”

“Oh, indeed! Then it is perhaps as well that I neither _did_ invite

you, nor _do_ invite you now. Excuse me, prince, but we had better make

this matter clear, once for all. We have just agreed that with regard

to our relationship there is not much to be said, though, of course, it

would have been very delightful to us to feel that such relationship

did actually exist; therefore, perhaps—”

“Therefore, perhaps I had better get up and go away?” said the prince,

laughing merrily as he rose from his place; just as merrily as though

the circumstances were by no means strained or difficult. “And I give

you my word, general, that though I know nothing whatever of manners

and customs of society, and how people live and all that, yet I felt

quite sure that this visit of mine would end exactly as it has ended

now. Oh, well, I suppose it’s all right; especially as my letter was

not answered. Well, good-bye, and forgive me for having disturbed you!”

The prince’s expression was so good-natured at this moment, and so

entirely free from even a suspicion of unpleasant feeling was the smile

with which he looked at the general as he spoke, that the latter

suddenly paused, and appeared to gaze at his guest from quite a new

point of view, all in an instant.

“Do you know, prince,” he said, in quite a different tone, “I do not

know you at all, yet, and after all, Elizabetha Prokofievna would very

likely be pleased to have a peep at a man of her own name. Wait a

little, if you don’t mind, and if you have time to spare?”

“Oh, I assure you I’ve lots of time, my time is entirely my own!” And

the prince immediately replaced his soft, round hat on the table. “I

confess, I thought Elizabetha Prokofievna would very likely remember

that I had written her a letter. Just now your servant—outside

there—was dreadfully suspicious that I had come to beg of you. I

noticed that! Probably he has very strict instructions on that score;

but I assure you I did not come to beg. I came to make some friends.

But I am rather bothered at having disturbed you; that’s all I care

about.—”

“Look here, prince,” said the general, with a cordial smile, “if you

really are the sort of man you appear to be, it may be a source of

great pleasure to us to make your better acquaintance; but, you see, I

am a very busy man, and have to be perpetually sitting here and signing

papers, or off to see his excellency, or to my department, or

somewhere; so that though I should be glad to see more of people, nice

people—you see, I—however, I am sure you are so well brought up that

you will see at once, and—but how old are you, prince?”

“Twenty-six.”

“No? I thought you very much younger.”

“Yes, they say I have a ‘young’ face. As to disturbing you I shall soon

learn to avoid doing that, for I hate disturbing people. Besides, you

and I are so differently constituted, I should think, that there must

be very little in common between us. Not that I will ever believe there

is _nothing_ in common between any two people, as some declare is the

case. I am sure people make a great mistake in sorting each other into

groups, by appearances; but I am boring you, I see, you—”

“Just two words: have you any means at all? Or perhaps you may be

intending to undertake some sort of employment? Excuse my questioning

you, but—”

“Oh, my dear sir, I esteem and understand your kindness in putting the

question. No; at present I have no means whatever, and no employment

either, but I hope to find some. I was living on other people abroad.

Schneider, the professor who treated me and taught me, too, in

Switzerland, gave me just enough money for my journey, so that now I

have but a few copecks left. There certainly is one question upon which

I am anxious to have advice, but—”

“Tell me, how do you intend to live now, and what are your plans?”

interrupted the general.

“I wish to work, somehow or other.”

“Oh yes, but then, you see, you are a philosopher. Have you any

talents, or ability in any direction—that is, any that would bring in

money and bread? Excuse me again—”

“Oh, don’t apologize. No, I don’t think I have either talents or

special abilities of any kind; on the contrary. I have always been an

invalid and unable to learn much. As for bread, I should think—”

The general interrupted once more with questions; while the prince

again replied with the narrative we have heard before. It appeared that

the general had known Pavlicheff; but why the latter had taken an

interest in the prince, that young gentleman could not explain;

probably by virtue of the old friendship with his father, he thought.

The prince had been left an orphan when quite a little child, and

Pavlicheff had entrusted him to an old lady, a relative of his own,

living in the country, the child needing the fresh air and exercise of

country life. He was educated, first by a governess, and afterwards by

a tutor, but could not remember much about this time of his life. His

fits were so frequent then, that they made almost an idiot of him (the

prince used the expression “idiot” himself). Pavlicheff had met

Professor Schneider in Berlin, and the latter had persuaded him to send

the boy to Switzerland, to Schneider’s establishment there, for the

cure of his epilepsy, and, five years before this time, the prince was

sent off. But Pavlicheff had died two or three years since, and

Schneider had himself supported the young fellow, from that day to

this, at his own expense. Although he had not quite cured him, he had

greatly improved his condition; and now, at last, at the prince’s own

desire, and because of a certain matter which came to the ears of the

latter, Schneider had despatched the young man to Russia.

The general was much astonished.

“Then you have no one, absolutely _no_ one in Russia?” he asked.

“No one, at present; but I hope to make friends; and then I have a

letter from—”

“At all events,” put in the general, not listening to the news about

the letter, “at all events, you must have learned _something_, and your

malady would not prevent your undertaking some easy work, in one of the

departments, for instance?”

“Oh dear no, oh no! As for a situation, I should much like to find one

for I am anxious to discover what I really am fit for. I have learned a

good deal in the last four years, and, besides, I read a great many

Russian books.”

“Russian books, indeed? Then, of course, you can read and write quite

correctly?”

“Oh dear, yes!”

“Capital! And your handwriting?”

“Ah, there I am _really_ talented! I may say I am a real caligraphist.

Let me write you something, just to show you,” said the prince, with

some excitement.

“With pleasure! In fact, it is very necessary. I like your readiness,

prince; in fact, I must say—I—I—like you very well, altogether,” said

the general.

“What delightful writing materials you have here, such a lot of pencils

and things, and what beautiful paper! It’s a charming room altogether.

I know that picture, it’s a Swiss view. I’m sure the artist painted it

from nature, and that I have seen the very place—”

“Quite likely, though I bought it here. Gania, give the prince some

paper. Here are pens and paper; now then, take this table. What’s

this?” the general continued to Gania, who had that moment taken a

large photograph out of his portfolio, and shown it to his senior.

“Halloa! Nastasia Philipovna! Did she send it you herself? Herself?” he

inquired, with much curiosity and great animation.

“She gave it me just now, when I called in to congratulate her. I asked

her for it long ago. I don’t know whether she meant it for a hint that

I had come empty-handed, without a present for her birthday, or what,”

added Gania, with an unpleasant smile.

“Oh, nonsense, nonsense,” said the general, with decision. “What

extraordinary ideas you have, Gania! As if she would hint; that’s not

her way at all. Besides, what could _you_ give her, without having

thousands at your disposal? You might have given her your portrait,

however. Has she ever asked you for it?”

“No, not yet. Very likely she never will. I suppose you haven’t

forgotten about tonight, have you, Ivan Fedorovitch? You were one of

those specially invited, you know.”

“Oh no, I remember all right, and I shall go, of course. I should think

so! She’s twenty-five years old today! And, you know, Gania, you must

be ready for great things; she has promised both myself and Afanasy

Ivanovitch that she will give a decided answer tonight, yes or no. So

be prepared!”

Gania suddenly became so ill at ease that his face grew paler than

ever.

“Are you sure she said that?” he asked, and his voice seemed to quiver

as he spoke.

“Yes, she promised. We both worried her so that she gave in; but she

wished us to tell you nothing about it until the day.”

The general watched Gania’s confusion intently, and clearly did not

like it.

“Remember, Ivan Fedorovitch,” said Gania, in great agitation, “that I

was to be free too, until her decision; and that even then I was to

have my ‘yes or no’ free.”

“Why, don’t you, aren’t you—” began the general, in alarm.

“Oh, don’t misunderstand—”

“But, my dear fellow, what are you doing, what do you mean?”

“Oh, I’m not rejecting her. I may have expressed myself badly, but I

didn’t mean that.”

“Reject her! I should think not!” said the general with annoyance, and

apparently not in the least anxious to conceal it. “Why, my dear

fellow, it’s not a question of your rejecting her, it is whether you

are prepared to receive her consent joyfully, and with proper

satisfaction. How are things going on at home?”

“At home? Oh, I can do as I like there, of course; only my father will

make a fool of himself, as usual. He is rapidly becoming a general

nuisance. I don’t ever talk to him now, but I hold him in check, safe

enough. I swear if it had not been for my mother, I should have shown

him the way out, long ago. My mother is always crying, of course, and

my sister sulks. I had to tell them at last that I intended to be

master of my own destiny, and that I expect to be obeyed at home. At

least, I gave my sister to understand as much, and my mother was

present.”

“Well, I must say, I cannot understand it!” said the general, shrugging

his shoulders and dropping his hands. “You remember your mother, Nina

Alexandrovna, that day she came and sat here and groaned—and when I

asked her what was the matter, she says, ‘Oh, it’s such a _dishonour_

to us!’ dishonour! Stuff and nonsense! I should like to know who can

reproach Nastasia Philipovna, or who can say a word of any kind against

her. Did she mean because Nastasia had been living with Totski? What

nonsense it is! You would not let her come near your daughters, says

Nina Alexandrovna. What next, I wonder? I don’t see how she can fail

to—to understand—”

“Her own position?” prompted Gania. “She does understand. Don’t be

annoyed with her. I have warned her not to meddle in other people’s

affairs. However, although there’s comparative peace at home at

present, the storm will break if anything is finally settled tonight.”

The prince heard the whole of the foregoing conversation, as he sat at

the table, writing. He finished at last, and brought the result of his

labour to the general’s desk.

“So this is Nastasia Philipovna,” he said, looking attentively and

curiously at the portrait. “How wonderfully beautiful!” he immediately

added, with warmth. The picture was certainly that of an unusually

lovely woman. She was photographed in a black silk dress of simple

design, her hair was evidently dark and plainly arranged, her eyes were

deep and thoughtful, the expression of her face passionate, but proud.

She was rather thin, perhaps, and a little pale. Both Gania and the

general gazed at the prince in amazement.

“How do you know it’s Nastasia Philipovna?” asked the general; “you

surely don’t know her already, do you?”

“Yes, I do! I have only been one day in Russia, but I have heard of the

great beauty!” And the prince proceeded to narrate his meeting with

Rogojin in the train and the whole of the latter’s story.

“There’s news!” said the general in some excitement, after listening to

the story with engrossed attention.

“Oh, of course it’s nothing but humbug!” cried Gania, a little

disturbed, however. “It’s all humbug; the young merchant was pleased to

indulge in a little innocent recreation! I have heard something of

Rogojin!”

“Yes, so have I!” replied the general. “Nastasia Philipovna told us all

about the earrings that very day. But now it is quite a different

matter. You see the fellow really has a million of roubles, and he is

passionately in love. The whole story smells of passion, and we all

know what this class of gentry is capable of when infatuated. I am much

afraid of some disagreeable scandal, I am indeed!”

“You are afraid of the million, I suppose,” said Gania, grinning and

showing his teeth.

“And you are _not_, I presume, eh?”

“How did he strike you, prince?” asked Gania, suddenly. “Did he seem to

be a serious sort of a man, or just a common rowdy fellow? What was

your own opinion about the matter?”

While Gania put this question, a new idea suddenly flashed into his

brain, and blazed out, impatiently, in his eyes. The general, who was

really agitated and disturbed, looked at the prince too, but did not

seem to expect much from his reply.

“I really don’t quite know how to tell you,” replied the prince, “but

it certainly did seem to me that the man was full of passion, and not,

perhaps, quite healthy passion. He seemed to be still far from well.

Very likely he will be in bed again in a day or two, especially if he

lives fast.”

“No! do you think so?” said the general, catching at the idea.

“Yes, I do think so!”

“Yes, but the sort of scandal I referred to may happen at any moment.

It may be this very evening,” remarked Gania to the general, with a

smile.

“Of course; quite so. In that case it all depends upon what is going on

in her brain at this moment.”

“You know the kind of person she is at times.”

“How? What kind of person is she?” cried the general, arrived at the

limits of his patience. “Look here, Gania, don’t you go annoying her

tonight. What you are to do is to be as agreeable towards her as ever

you can. Well, what are you smiling at? You must understand, Gania,

that I have no interest whatever in speaking like this. Whichever way

the question is settled, it will be to my advantage. Nothing will move

Totski from his resolution, so I run no risk. If there is anything I

desire, you must know that it is your benefit only. Can’t you trust me?

You are a sensible fellow, and I have been counting on you; for, in

this matter, that, that—”

“Yes, that’s the chief thing,” said Gania, helping the general out of

his difficulties again, and curling his lips in an envenomed smile,

which he did not attempt to conceal. He gazed with his fevered eyes

straight into those of the general, as though he were anxious that the

latter might read his thoughts.

The general grew purple with anger.

“Yes, of course it is the chief thing!” he cried, looking sharply at

Gania. “What a very curious man you are, Gania! You actually seem to be

_glad_ to hear of this millionaire fellow’s arrival—just as though you

wished for an excuse to get out of the whole thing. This is an affair

in which you ought to act honestly with both sides, and give due

warning, to avoid compromising others. But, even now, there is still

time. Do you understand me? I wish to know whether you desire this

arrangement or whether you do not? If not, say so,—and—and welcome! No

one is trying to force you into the snare, Gavrila Ardalionovitch, if

you see a snare in the matter, at least.”

“I do desire it,” murmured Gania, softly but firmly, lowering his eyes;

and he relapsed into gloomy silence.

The general was satisfied. He had excited himself, and was evidently

now regretting that he had gone so far. He turned to the prince, and

suddenly the disagreeable thought of the latter’s presence struck him,

and the certainty that he must have heard every word of the

conversation. But he felt at ease in another moment; it only needed one

glance at the prince to see that in that quarter there was nothing to

fear.

“Oh!” cried the general, catching sight of the prince’s specimen of

caligraphy, which the latter had now handed him for inspection. “Why,

this is simply beautiful; look at that, Gania, there’s real talent

there!”

On a sheet of thick writing-paper the prince had written in medieval

characters the legend:

“The gentle Abbot Pafnute signed this.”

“There,” explained the prince, with great delight and animation,

“there, that’s the abbot’s real signature—from a manuscript of the

fourteenth century. All these old abbots and bishops used to write most

beautifully, with such taste and so much care and diligence. Have you

no copy of Pogodin, general? If you had one I could show you another

type. Stop a bit—here you have the large round writing common in France

during the eighteenth century. Some of the letters are shaped quite

differently from those now in use. It was the writing current then, and

employed by public writers generally. I copied this from one of them,

and you can see how good it is. Look at the well-rounded a and d. I

have tried to translate the French character into the Russian letters—a

difficult thing to do, but I think I have succeeded fairly. Here is a

fine sentence, written in a good, original hand—‘Zeal triumphs over

all.’ That is the script of the Russian War Office. That is how

official documents addressed to important personages should be written.

The letters are round, the type black, and the style somewhat

remarkable. A stylist would not allow these ornaments, or attempts at

flourishes—just look at these unfinished tails!—but it has distinction

and really depicts the soul of the writer. He would like to give play

to his imagination, and follow the inspiration of his genius, but a

soldier is only at ease in the guard-room, and the pen stops half-way,

a slave to discipline. How delightful! The first time I met an example

of this handwriting, I was positively astonished, and where do you

think I chanced to find it? In Switzerland, of all places! Now that is

an ordinary English hand. It can hardly be improved, it is so refined

and exquisite—almost perfection. This is an example of another kind, a

mixture of styles. The copy was given me by a French commercial

traveller. It is founded on the English, but the downstrokes are a

little blacker, and more marked. Notice that the oval has some slight

modification—it is more rounded. This writing allows for flourishes;

now a flourish is a dangerous thing! Its use requires such taste, but,

if successful, what a distinction it gives to the whole! It results in

an incomparable type—one to fall in love with!”

“Dear me! How you have gone into all the refinements and details of the

question! Why, my dear fellow, you are not a caligraphist, you are an

artist! Eh, Gania?”

“Wonderful!” said Gania. “And he knows it too,” he added, with a

sarcastic smile.

“You may smile,—but there’s a career in this,” said the general. “You

don’t know what a great personage I shall show this to, prince. Why,

you can command a situation at thirty-five roubles per month to start

with. However, it’s half-past twelve,” he concluded, looking at his

watch; “so to business, prince, for I must be setting to work and shall

not see you again today. Sit down a minute. I have told you that I

cannot receive you myself very often, but I should like to be of some

assistance to you, some small assistance, of a kind that would give you

satisfaction. I shall find you a place in one of the State departments,

an easy place—but you will require to be accurate. Now, as to your

plans—in the house, or rather in the family of Gania here—my young

friend, whom I hope you will know better—his mother and sister have

prepared two or three rooms for lodgers, and let them to highly

recommended young fellows, with board and attendance. I am sure Nina

Alexandrovna will take you in on my recommendation. There you will be

comfortable and well taken care of; for I do not think, prince, that

you are the sort of man to be left to the mercy of Fate in a town like

Petersburg. Nina Alexandrovna, Gania’s mother, and Varvara

Alexandrovna, are ladies for whom I have the highest possible esteem

and respect. Nina Alexandrovna is the wife of General Ardalion

Alexandrovitch, my old brother in arms, with whom, I regret to say, on

account of certain circumstances, I am no longer acquainted. I give you

all this information, prince, in order to make it clear to you that I

am personally recommending you to this family, and that in so doing, I

am more or less taking upon myself to answer for you. The terms are

most reasonable, and I trust that your salary will very shortly prove

amply sufficient for your expenditure. Of course pocket-money is a

necessity, if only a little; do not be angry, prince, if I strongly

recommend you to avoid carrying money in your pocket. But as your purse

is quite empty at the present moment, you must allow me to press these

twenty-five roubles upon your acceptance, as something to begin with.

Of course we will settle this little matter another time, and if you

are the upright, honest man you look, I anticipate very little trouble

between us on that score. Taking so much interest in you as you may

perceive I do, I am not without my object, and you shall know it in

good time. You see, I am perfectly candid with you. I hope, Gania, you

have nothing to say against the prince’s taking up his abode in your

house?”

“Oh, on the contrary! my mother will be very glad,” said Gania,

courteously and kindly.

“I think only one of your rooms is engaged as yet, is it not? That

fellow Ferd-Ferd—”

“Ferdishenko.”

“Yes—I don’t like that Ferdishenko. I can’t understand why Nastasia

Philipovna encourages him so. Is he really her cousin, as he says?”

“Oh dear no, it’s all a joke. No more cousin than I am.”

“Well, what do you think of the arrangement, prince?”

“Thank you, general; you have behaved very kindly to me; all the more

so since I did not ask you to help me. I don’t say that out of pride. I

certainly did not know where to lay my head tonight. Rogojin asked me

to come to his house, of course, but—”

“Rogojin? No, no, my good fellow. I should strongly recommend you,

paternally,—or, if you prefer it, as a friend,—to forget all about

Rogojin, and, in fact, to stick to the family into which you are about

to enter.”

“Thank you,” began the prince; “and since you are so very kind there is

just one matter which I—”

“You must really excuse me,” interrupted the general, “but I positively

haven’t another moment now. I shall just tell Elizabetha Prokofievna

about you, and if she wishes to receive you at once—as I shall advise

her—I strongly recommend you to ingratiate yourself with her at the

first opportunity, for my wife may be of the greatest service to you in

many ways. If she cannot receive you now, you must be content to wait

till another time. Meanwhile you, Gania, just look over these accounts,

will you? We mustn’t forget to finish off that matter—”

The general left the room, and the prince never succeeded in broaching

the business which he had on hand, though he had endeavoured to do so

four times.

Gania lit a cigarette and offered one to the prince. The latter

accepted the offer, but did not talk, being unwilling to disturb

Gania’s work. He commenced to examine the study and its contents. But

Gania hardly so much as glanced at the papers lying before him; he was

absent and thoughtful, and his smile and general appearance struck the

prince still more disagreeably now that the two were left alone

together.

Suddenly Gania approached our hero who was at the moment standing over

Nastasia Philipovna’s portrait, gazing at it.

“Do you admire that sort of woman, prince?” he asked, looking intently

at him. He seemed to have some special object in the question.

“It’s a wonderful face,” said the prince, “and I feel sure that her

destiny is not by any means an ordinary, uneventful one. Her face is

smiling enough, but she must have suffered terribly—hasn’t she? Her

eyes show it—those two bones there, the little points under her eyes,

just where the cheek begins. It’s a proud face too, terribly proud! And

I—I can’t say whether she is good and kind, or not. Oh, if she be but

good! That would make all well!”

“And would you marry a woman like that, now?” continued Gania, never

taking his excited eyes off the prince’s face.

“I cannot marry at all,” said the latter. “I am an invalid.”

“Would Rogojin marry her, do you think?”

“Why not? Certainly he would, I should think. He would marry her

tomorrow!—marry her tomorrow and murder her in a week!”

Hardly had the prince uttered the last word when Gania gave such a

fearful shudder that the prince almost cried out.

“What’s the matter?” said he, seizing Gania’s hand.

“Your highness! His excellency begs your presence in her excellency’s

apartments!” announced the footman, appearing at the door.

The prince immediately followed the man out of the room.

IV.

All three of the Miss Epanchins were fine, healthy girls, well-grown,

with good shoulders and busts, and strong—almost masculine—hands; and,

of course, with all the above attributes, they enjoyed capital

appetites, of which they were not in the least ashamed.

Elizabetha Prokofievna sometimes informed the girls that they were a

little too candid in this matter, but in spite of their outward

deference to their mother these three young women, in solemn conclave,

had long agreed to modify the unquestioning obedience which they had

been in the habit of according to her; and Mrs. General Epanchin had

judged it better to say nothing about it, though, of course, she was

well aware of the fact.

It is true that her nature sometimes rebelled against these dictates of

reason, and that she grew yearly more capricious and impatient; but

having a respectful and well-disciplined husband under her thumb at all

times, she found it possible, as a rule, to empty any little

accumulations of spleen upon his head, and therefore the harmony of the

family was kept duly balanced, and things went as smoothly as family

matters can.

Mrs. Epanchin had a fair appetite herself, and generally took her share

of the capital mid-day lunch which was always served for the girls, and

which was nearly as good as a dinner. The young ladies used to have a

cup of coffee each before this meal, at ten o’clock, while still in

bed. This was a favourite and unalterable arrangement with them. At

half-past twelve, the table was laid in the small dining-room, and

occasionally the general himself appeared at the family gathering, if

he had time.

Besides tea and coffee, cheese, honey, butter, pan-cakes of various

kinds (the lady of the house loved these best), cutlets, and so on,

there was generally strong beef soup, and other substantial delicacies.

On the particular morning on which our story has opened, the family had

assembled in the dining-room, and were waiting the general’s

appearance, the latter having promised to come this day. If he had been

one moment late, he would have been sent for at once; but he turned up

punctually.

As he came forward to wish his wife good-morning and kiss her hands, as

his custom was, he observed something in her look which boded ill. He

thought he knew the reason, and had expected it, but still, he was not

altogether comfortable. His daughters advanced to kiss him, too, and

though they did not look exactly angry, there was something strange in

their expression as well.

The general was, owing to certain circumstances, a little inclined to

be too suspicious at home, and needlessly nervous; but, as an

experienced father and husband, he judged it better to take measures at

once to protect himself from any dangers there might be in the air.

However, I hope I shall not interfere with the proper sequence of my

narrative too much, if I diverge for a moment at this point, in order

to explain the mutual relations between General Epanchin’s family and

others acting a part in this history, at the time when we take up the

thread of their destiny. I have already stated that the general, though

he was a man of lowly origin, and of poor education, was, for all that,

an experienced and talented husband and father. Among other things, he

considered it undesirable to hurry his daughters to the matrimonial

altar and to worry them too much with assurances of his paternal wishes

for their happiness, as is the custom among parents of many grown-up

daughters. He even succeeded in ranging his wife on his side on this

question, though he found the feat very difficult to accomplish,

because unnatural; but the general’s arguments were conclusive, and

founded upon obvious facts. The general considered that the girls’

taste and good sense should be allowed to develop and mature

deliberately, and that the parents’ duty should merely be to keep

watch, in order that no strange or undesirable choice be made; but that

the selection once effected, both father and mother were bound from

that moment to enter heart and soul into the cause, and to see that the

matter progressed without hindrance until the altar should be happily

reached.

Besides this, it was clear that the Epanchins’ position gained each

year, with geometrical accuracy, both as to financial solidity and

social weight; and, therefore, the longer the girls waited, the better

was their chance of making a brilliant match.

But again, amidst the incontrovertible facts just recorded, one more,

equally significant, rose up to confront the family; and this was, that

the eldest daughter, Alexandra, had imperceptibly arrived at her

twenty-fifth birthday. Almost at the same moment, Afanasy Ivanovitch

Totski, a man of immense wealth, high connections, and good standing,

announced his intention of marrying. Afanasy Ivanovitch was a gentleman

of fifty-five years of age, artistically gifted, and of most refined

tastes. He wished to marry well, and, moreover, he was a keen admirer

and judge of beauty.

Now, since Totski had, of late, been upon terms of great cordiality

with Epanchin, which excellent relations were intensified by the fact

that they were, so to speak, partners in several financial enterprises,

it so happened that the former now put in a friendly request to the

general for counsel with regard to the important step he meditated.

Might he suggest, for instance, such a thing as a marriage between

himself and one of the general’s daughters?

Evidently the quiet, pleasant current of the family life of the

Epanchins was about to undergo a change.

The undoubted beauty of the family, _par excellence_, was the youngest,

Aglaya, as aforesaid. But Totski himself, though an egotist of the

extremest type, realized that he had no chance there; Aglaya was

clearly not for such as he.

Perhaps the sisterly love and friendship of the three girls had more or

less exaggerated Aglaya’s chances of happiness. In their opinion, the

latter’s destiny was not merely to be very happy; she was to live in a

heaven on earth. Aglaya’s husband was to be a compendium of all the

virtues, and of all success, not to speak of fabulous wealth. The two

elder sisters had agreed that all was to be sacrificed by them, if need

be, for Aglaya’s sake; her dowry was to be colossal and unprecedented.

The general and his wife were aware of this agreement, and, therefore,

when Totski suggested himself for one of the sisters, the parents made

no doubt that one of the two elder girls would probably accept the

offer, since Totski would certainly make no difficulty as to dowry. The

general valued the proposal very highly. He knew life, and realized

what such an offer was worth.

The answer of the sisters to the communication was, if not conclusive,

at least consoling and hopeful. It made known that the eldest,

Alexandra, would very likely be disposed to listen to a proposal.

Alexandra was a good-natured girl, though she had a will of her own.

She was intelligent and kind-hearted, and, if she were to marry Totski,

she would make him a good wife. She did not care for a brilliant

marriage; she was eminently a woman calculated to soothe and sweeten

the life of any man; decidedly pretty, if not absolutely handsome. What

better could Totski wish?

So the matter crept slowly forward. The general and Totski had agreed

to avoid any hasty and irrevocable step. Alexandra’s parents had not

even begun to talk to their daughters freely upon the subject, when

suddenly, as it were, a dissonant chord was struck amid the harmony of

the proceedings. Mrs. Epanchin began to show signs of discontent, and

that was a serious matter. A certain circumstance had crept in, a

disagreeable and troublesome factor, which threatened to overturn the

whole business.

This circumstance had come into existence eighteen years before. Close

to an estate of Totski’s, in one of the central provinces of Russia,

there lived, at that time, a poor gentleman whose estate was of the

wretchedest description. This gentleman was noted in the district for

his persistent ill-fortune; his name was Barashkoff, and, as regards

family and descent, he was vastly superior to Totski, but his estate

was mortgaged to the last acre. One day, when he had ridden over to the

town to see a creditor, the chief peasant of his village followed him

shortly after, with the news that his house had been burnt down, and

that his wife had perished with it, but his children were safe.

Even Barashkoff, inured to the storms of evil fortune as he was, could

not stand this last stroke. He went mad and died shortly after in the

town hospital. His estate was sold for the creditors; and the little

girls—two of them, of seven and eight years of age respectively,—were

adopted by Totski, who undertook their maintenance and education in the

kindness of his heart. They were brought up together with the children

of his German bailiff. Very soon, however, there was only one of them

left—Nastasia Philipovna—for the other little one died of

whooping-cough. Totski, who was living abroad at this time, very soon

forgot all about the child; but five years after, returning to Russia,

it struck him that he would like to look over his estate and see how

matters were going there, and, arrived at his bailiff’s house, he was

not long in discovering that among the children of the latter there now

dwelt a most lovely little girl of twelve, sweet and intelligent, and

bright, and promising to develop beauty of most unusual quality—as to

which last Totski was an undoubted authority.

He only stayed at his country seat a few days on this occasion, but he

had time to make his arrangements. Great changes took place in the

child’s education; a good governess was engaged, a Swiss lady of

experience and culture. For four years this lady resided in the house

with little Nastia, and then the education was considered complete. The

governess took her departure, and another lady came down to fetch

Nastia, by Totski’s instructions. The child was now transported to

another of Totski’s estates in a distant part of the country. Here she

found a delightful little house, just built, and prepared for her

reception with great care and taste; and here she took up her abode

together with the lady who had accompanied her from her old home. In

the house there were two experienced maids, musical instruments of all

sorts, a charming “young lady’s library,” pictures, paint-boxes, a

lap-dog, and everything to make life agreeable. Within a fortnight

Totski himself arrived, and from that time he appeared to have taken a

great fancy to this part of the world and came down each summer,

staying two and three months at a time. So passed four years peacefully

and happily, in charming surroundings.

At the end of that time, and about four months after Totski’s last

visit (he had stayed but a fortnight on this occasion), a report

reached Nastasia Philipovna that he was about to be married in St.

Petersburg, to a rich, eminent, and lovely woman. The report was only

partially true, the marriage project being only in an embryo condition;

but a great change now came over Nastasia Philipovna. She suddenly

displayed unusual decision of character; and without wasting time in

thought, she left her country home and came up to St. Petersburg,

straight to Totski’s house, all alone.

The latter, amazed at her conduct, began to express his displeasure;

but he very soon became aware that he must change his voice, style, and

everything else, with this young lady; the good old times were gone. An

entirely new and different woman sat before him, between whom and the

girl he had left in the country last July there seemed nothing in

common.

In the first place, this new woman understood a good deal more than was

usual for young people of her age; so much indeed, that Totski could

not help wondering where she had picked up her knowledge. Surely not

from her “young lady’s library”? It even embraced legal matters, and

the “world” in general, to a considerable extent.

Her character was absolutely changed. No more of the girlish

alternations of timidity and petulance, the adorable naivete, the

reveries, the tears, the playfulness... It was an entirely new and

hitherto unknown being who now sat and laughed at him, and informed him

to his face that she had never had the faintest feeling for him of any

kind, except loathing and contempt—contempt which had followed closely

upon her sensations of surprise and bewilderment after her first

acquaintance with him.

This new woman gave him further to understand that though it was

absolutely the same to her whom he married, yet she had decided to

prevent this marriage—for no particular reason, but that she _chose_ to

do so, and because she wished to amuse herself at his expense for that

it was “quite her turn to laugh a little now!”

Such were her words—very likely she did not give her real reason for

this eccentric conduct; but, at all events, that was all the

explanation she deigned to offer.

Meanwhile, Totski thought the matter over as well as his scattered

ideas would permit. His meditations lasted a fortnight, however, and at

the end of that time his resolution was taken. The fact was, Totski was

at that time a man of fifty years of age; his position was solid and

respectable; his place in society had long been firmly fixed upon safe

foundations; he loved himself, his personal comforts, and his position

better than all the world, as every respectable gentleman should!

At the same time his grasp of things in general soon showed Totski that

he now had to deal with a being who was outside the pale of the

ordinary rules of traditional behaviour, and who would not only

threaten mischief but would undoubtedly carry it out, and stop for no

one.

There was evidently, he concluded, something at work here; some storm

of the mind, some paroxysm of romantic anger, goodness knows against

whom or what, some insatiable contempt—in a word, something altogether

absurd and impossible, but at the same time most dangerous to be met

with by any respectable person with a position in society to keep up.

For a man of Totski’s wealth and standing, it would, of course, have

been the simplest possible matter to take steps which would rid him at

once from all annoyance; while it was obviously impossible for Nastasia

Philipovna to harm him in any way, either legally or by stirring up a

scandal, for, in case of the latter danger, he could so easily remove

her to a sphere of safety. However, these arguments would only hold

good in case of Nastasia acting as others might in such an emergency.

She was much more likely to overstep the bounds of reasonable conduct

by some extraordinary eccentricity.

Here the sound judgment of Totski stood him in good stead. He realized

that Nastasia Philipovna must be well aware that she could do nothing

by legal means to injure him, and that her flashing eyes betrayed some

entirely different intention.

Nastasia Philipovna was quite capable of ruining herself, and even of

perpetrating something which would send her to Siberia, for the mere

pleasure of injuring a man for whom she had developed so inhuman a

sense of loathing and contempt. He had sufficient insight to understand

that she valued nothing in the world—herself least of all—and he made

no attempt to conceal the fact that he was a coward in some respects.

For instance, if he had been told that he would be stabbed at the

altar, or publicly insulted, he would undoubtedly have been frightened;

but not so much at the idea of being murdered, or wounded, or insulted,

as at the thought that if such things were to happen he would be made

to look ridiculous in the eyes of society.

He knew well that Nastasia thoroughly understood him and where to wound

him and how, and therefore, as the marriage was still only in embryo,

Totski decided to conciliate her by giving it up. His decision was

strengthened by the fact that Nastasia Philipovna had curiously altered

of late. It would be difficult to conceive how different she was

physically, at the present time, to the girl of a few years ago. She

was pretty then... but now!... Totski laughed angrily when he thought

how short-sighted he had been. In days gone by he remembered how he had

looked at her beautiful eyes, how even then he had marvelled at their

dark mysterious depths, and at their wondering gaze which seemed to

seek an answer to some unknown riddle. Her complexion also had altered.

She was now exceedingly pale, but, curiously, this change only made her

more beautiful. Like most men of the world, Totski had rather despised

such a cheaply-bought conquest, but of late years he had begun to think

differently about it. It had struck him as long ago as last spring that

he ought to be finding a good match for Nastasia; for instance, some

respectable and reasonable young fellow serving in a government office

in another part of the country. How maliciously Nastasia laughed at the

idea of such a thing, now!

However, it appeared to Totski that he might make use of her in another

way; and he determined to establish her in St. Petersburg, surrounding

her with all the comforts and luxuries that his wealth could command.

In this way he might gain glory in certain circles.

Five years of this Petersburg life went by, and, of course, during that

time a great deal happened. Totski’s position was very uncomfortable;

having “funked” once, he could not totally regain his ease. He was

afraid, he did not know why, but he was simply _afraid_ of Nastasia

Philipovna. For the first two years or so he had suspected that she

wished to marry him herself, and that only her vanity prevented her

telling him so. He thought that she wanted him to approach her with a

humble proposal from his own side. But to his great, and not entirely

pleasurable amazement, he discovered that this was by no means the

case, and that were he to offer himself he would be refused. He could

not understand such a state of things, and was obliged to conclude that

it was pride, the pride of an injured and imaginative woman, which had

gone to such lengths that it preferred to sit and nurse its contempt

and hatred in solitude rather than mount to heights of hitherto

unattainable splendour. To make matters worse, she was quite impervious

to mercenary considerations, and could not be bribed in any way.

Finally, Totski took cunning means to try to break his chains and be

free. He tried to tempt her in various ways to lose her heart; he

invited princes, hussars, secretaries of embassies, poets, novelists,

even Socialists, to see her; but not one of them all made the faintest

impression upon Nastasia. It was as though she had a pebble in place of

a heart, as though her feelings and affections were dried up and

withered for ever.

She lived almost entirely alone; she read, she studied, she loved

music. Her principal acquaintances were poor women of various grades, a

couple of actresses, and the family of a poor schoolteacher. Among

these people she was much beloved.

She received four or five friends sometimes, of an evening. Totski

often came. Lately, too, General Epanchin had been enabled with great

difficulty to introduce himself into her circle. Gania made her

acquaintance also, and others were Ferdishenko, an ill-bred, and

would-be witty, young clerk, and Ptitsin, a money-lender of modest and

polished manners, who had risen from poverty. In fact, Nastasia

Philipovna’s beauty became a thing known to all the town; but not a

single man could boast of anything more than his own admiration for

her; and this reputation of hers, and her wit and culture and grace,

all confirmed Totski in the plan he had now prepared.

And it was at this moment that General Epanchin began to play so large

and important a part in the story.

When Totski had approached the general with his request for friendly

counsel as to a marriage with one of his daughters, he had made a full

and candid confession. He had said that he intended to stop at no means

to obtain his freedom; even if Nastasia were to promise to leave him

entirely alone in future, he would not (he said) believe and trust her;

words were not enough for him; he must have solid guarantees of some

sort. So he and the general determined to try what an attempt to appeal

to her heart would effect. Having arrived at Nastasia’s house one day,

with Epanchin, Totski immediately began to speak of the intolerable

torment of his position. He admitted that he was to blame for all, but

candidly confessed that he could not bring himself to feel any remorse

for his original guilt towards herself, because he was a man of sensual

passions which were inborn and ineradicable, and that he had no power

over himself in this respect; but that he wished, seriously, to marry

at last, and that the whole fate of the most desirable social union

which he contemplated, was in her hands; in a word, he confided his all

to her generosity of heart.

General Epanchin took up his part and spoke in the character of father

of a family; he spoke sensibly, and without wasting words over any

attempt at sentimentality, he merely recorded his full admission of her

right to be the arbiter of Totski’s destiny at this moment. He then

pointed out that the fate of his daughter, and very likely of both his

other daughters, now hung upon her reply.

To Nastasia’s question as to what they wished her to do, Totski

confessed that he had been so frightened by her, five years ago, that

he could never now be entirely comfortable until she herself married.

He immediately added that such a suggestion from him would, of course,

be absurd, unless accompanied by remarks of a more pointed nature. He

very well knew, he said, that a certain young gentleman of good family,

namely, Gavrila Ardalionovitch Ivolgin, with whom she was acquainted,

and whom she received at her house, had long loved her passionately,

and would give his life for some response from her. The young fellow

had confessed this love of his to him (Totski) and had also admitted it

in the hearing of his benefactor, General Epanchin. Lastly, he could

not help being of opinion that Nastasia must be aware of Gania’s love

for her, and if he (Totski) mistook not, she had looked with some

favour upon it, being often lonely, and rather tired of her present

life. Having remarked how difficult it was for him, of all people, to

speak to her of these matters, Totski concluded by saying that he

trusted Nastasia Philipovna would not look with contempt upon him if he

now expressed his sincere desire to guarantee her future by a gift of

seventy-five thousand roubles. He added that the sum would have been

left her all the same in his will, and that therefore she must not

consider the gift as in any way an indemnification to her for anything,

but that there was no reason, after all, why a man should not be

allowed to entertain a natural desire to lighten his conscience, etc.,

etc.; in fact, all that would naturally be said under the

circumstances. Totski was very eloquent all through, and, in

conclusion, just touched on the fact that not a soul in the world, not

even General Epanchin, had ever heard a word about the above

seventy-five thousand roubles, and that this was the first time he had

ever given expression to his intentions in respect to them.

Nastasia Philipovna’s reply to this long rigmarole astonished both the

friends considerably.