But Gania first conducted the prince to the family apartments. These

consisted of a “salon,” which became the dining-room when required; a

drawing-room, which was only a drawing-room in the morning, and became

Gania’s study in the evening, and his bedroom at night; and lastly Nina

Alexandrovna’s and Varvara’s bedroom, a small, close chamber which they

shared together.

In a word, the whole place was confined, and a “tight fit” for the

party. Gania used to grind his teeth with rage over the state of

affairs; though he was anxious to be dutiful and polite to his mother.

However, it was very soon apparent to anyone coming into the house,

that Gania was the tyrant of the family.

Nina Alexandrovna and her daughter were both seated in the

drawing-room, engaged in knitting, and talking to a visitor, Ivan

Petrovitch Ptitsin.

The lady of the house appeared to be a woman of about fifty years of

age, thin-faced, and with black lines under the eyes. She looked ill

and rather sad; but her face was a pleasant one for all that; and from

the first word that fell from her lips, any stranger would at once

conclude that she was of a serious and particularly sincere nature. In

spite of her sorrowful expression, she gave the idea of possessing

considerable firmness and decision.

Her dress was modest and simple to a degree, dark and elderly in style;

but both her face and appearance gave evidence that she had seen better

days.

Varvara was a girl of some twenty-three summers, of middle height,

thin, but possessing a face which, without being actually beautiful,

had the rare quality of charm, and might fascinate even to the extent

of passionate regard.

She was very like her mother: she even dressed like her, which proved

that she had no taste for smart clothes. The expression of her grey

eyes was merry and gentle, when it was not, as lately, too full of

thought and anxiety. The same decision and firmness was to be observed

in her face as in her mother’s, but her strength seemed to be more

vigorous than that of Nina Alexandrovna. She was subject to outbursts

of temper, of which even her brother was a little afraid.

The present visitor, Ptitsin, was also afraid of her. This was a young

fellow of something under thirty, dressed plainly, but neatly. His

manners were good, but rather ponderously so. His dark beard bore

evidence to the fact that he was not in any government employ. He could

speak well, but preferred silence. On the whole he made a decidedly

agreeable impression. He was clearly attracted by Varvara, and made no

secret of his feelings. She trusted him in a friendly way, but had not

shown him any decided encouragement as yet, which fact did not quell

his ardour in the least.

Nina Alexandrovna was very fond of him, and had grown quite

confidential with him of late. Ptitsin, as was well known, was engaged

in the business of lending out money on good security, and at a good

rate of interest. He was a great friend of Gania’s.

After a formal introduction by Gania (who greeted his mother very

shortly, took no notice of his sister, and immediately marched Ptitsin

out of the room), Nina Alexandrovna addressed a few kind words to the

prince and forthwith requested Colia, who had just appeared at the

door, to show him to the “middle room.”

Colia was a nice-looking boy. His expression was simple and confiding,

and his manners were very polite and engaging.

“Where’s your luggage?” he asked, as he led the prince away to his

room.

“I had a bundle; it’s in the entrance hall.”

“I’ll bring it you directly. We only have a cook and one maid, so I

have to help as much as I can. Varia looks after things, generally, and

loses her temper over it. Gania says you have only just arrived from

Switzerland?”

“Yes.”

“Is it jolly there?”

“Very.”

“Mountains?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go and get your bundle.”

Here Varvara joined them.

“The maid shall bring your bed-linen directly. Have you a portmanteau?”

“No; a bundle—your brother has just gone to the hall for it.”

“There’s nothing there except this,” said Colia, returning at this

moment. “Where did you put it?”

“Oh! but that’s all I have,” said the prince, taking it.

“Ah! I thought perhaps Ferdishenko had taken it.”

“Don’t talk nonsense,” said Varia, severely. She seemed put out, and

was only just polite with the prince.

“Oho!” laughed the boy, “you can be nicer than that to _me_, you

know—I’m not Ptitsin!”

“You ought to be whipped, Colia, you silly boy. If you want anything”

(to the prince) “please apply to the servant. We dine at half-past

four. You can take your dinner with us, or have it in your room, just

as you please. Come along, Colia, don’t disturb the prince.”

At the door they met Gania coming in.

“Is father in?” he asked. Colia whispered something in his ear and went

out.

“Just a couple of words, prince, if you’ll excuse me. Don’t blab over

_there_ about what you may see here, or in this house as to all that

about Aglaya and me, you know. Things are not altogether pleasant in

this establishment—devil take it all! You’ll see. At all events keep

your tongue to yourself for _today_.”

“I assure you I ‘blabbed’ a great deal less than you seem to suppose,”

said the prince, with some annoyance. Clearly the relations between

Gania and himself were by no means improving.

“Oh well; I caught it quite hot enough today, thanks to you. However, I

forgive you.”

“I think you might fairly remember that I was not in any way bound, I

had no reason to be silent about that portrait. You never asked me not

to mention it.”

“Pfu! what a wretched room this is—dark, and the window looking into

the yard. Your coming to our house is, in no respect, opportune.

However, it’s not _my_ affair. I don’t keep the lodgings.”

Ptitsin here looked in and beckoned to Gania, who hastily left the

room, in spite of the fact that he had evidently wished to say

something more and had only made the remark about the room to gain

time. The prince had hardly had time to wash and tidy himself a little

when the door opened once more, and another figure appeared.

This was a gentleman of about thirty, tall, broad-shouldered, and

red-haired; his face was red, too, and he possessed a pair of thick

lips, a wide nose, small eyes, rather bloodshot, and with an ironical

expression in them; as though he were perpetually winking at someone.

His whole appearance gave one the idea of impudence; his dress was

shabby.

He opened the door just enough to let his head in. His head remained so

placed for a few seconds while he quietly scrutinized the room; the

door then opened enough to admit his body; but still he did not enter.

He stood on the threshold and examined the prince carefully. At last he

gave the door a final shove, entered, approached the prince, took his

hand and seated himself and the owner of the room on two chairs side by

side.

“Ferdishenko,” he said, gazing intently and inquiringly into the

prince’s eyes.

“Very well, what next?” said the latter, almost laughing in his face.

“A lodger here,” continued the other, staring as before.

“Do you wish to make acquaintance?” asked the prince.

“Ah!” said the visitor, passing his fingers through his hair and

sighing. He then looked over to the other side of the room and around

it. “Got any money?” he asked, suddenly.

“Not much.”

“How much?”

“Twenty-five roubles.”

“Let’s see it.”

The prince took his banknote out and showed it to Ferdishenko. The

latter unfolded it and looked at it; then he turned it round and

examined the other side; then he held it up to the light.

“How strange that it should have browned so,” he said, reflectively.

“These twenty-five rouble notes brown in a most extraordinary way,

while other notes often grow paler. Take it.”

The prince took his note. Ferdishenko rose.

“I came here to warn you,” he said. “In the first place, don’t lend me

any money, for I shall certainly ask you to.”

“Very well.”

“Shall you pay here?”

“Yes, I intend to.”

“Oh! I _don’t_ intend to. Thanks. I live here, next door to you; you

noticed a room, did you? Don’t come to me very often; I shall see you

here quite often enough. Have you seen the general?”

“No.”

“Nor heard him?”

“No; of course not.”

“Well, you’ll both hear and see him soon; he even tries to borrow money

from me. _Avis au lecteur._ Good-bye; do you think a man can possibly

live with a name like Ferdishenko?”

“Why not?”

“Good-bye.”

And so he departed. The prince found out afterwards that this gentleman

made it his business to amaze people with his originality and wit, but

that it did not as a rule “come off.” He even produced a bad impression

on some people, which grieved him sorely; but he did not change his

ways for all that.

As he went out of the prince’s room, he collided with yet another

visitor coming in. Ferdishenko took the opportunity of making several

warning gestures to the prince from behind the new arrival’s back, and

left the room in conscious pride.

This next arrival was a tall red-faced man of about fifty-five, with

greyish hair and whiskers, and large eyes which stood out of their

sockets. His appearance would have been distinguished had it not been

that he gave the idea of being rather dirty. He was dressed in an old

coat, and he smelled of vodka when he came near. His walk was

effective, and he clearly did his best to appear dignified, and to

impress people by his manner.

This gentleman now approached the prince slowly, and with a most

courteous smile; silently took his hand and held it in his own, as he

examined the prince’s features as though searching for familiar traits

therein.

“‘Tis he, ‘tis he!” he said at last, quietly, but with much solemnity.

“As though he were alive once more. I heard the familiar name—the dear

familiar name—and, oh! how it reminded me of the irrevocable

past—Prince Muishkin, I believe?”

“Exactly so.”

“General Ivolgin—retired and unfortunate. May I ask your Christian and

generic names?”

“Lef Nicolaievitch.”

“So, so—the son of my old, I may say my childhood’s friend, Nicolai

Petrovitch.”

“My father’s name was Nicolai Lvovitch.”

“Lvovitch,” repeated the general without the slightest haste, and with

perfect confidence, just as though he had not committed himself the

least in the world, but merely made a little slip of the tongue. He sat

down, and taking the prince’s hand, drew him to a seat next to himself.

“I carried you in my arms as a baby,” he observed.

“Really?” asked the prince. “Why, it’s twenty years since my father

died.”

“Yes, yes—twenty years and three months. We were educated together; I

went straight into the army, and he—”

“My father went into the army, too. He was a sub-lieutenant in the

Vasiliefsky regiment.”

“No, sir—in the Bielomirsky; he changed into the latter shortly before

his death. I was at his bedside when he died, and gave him my blessing

for eternity. Your mother—” The general paused, as though overcome with

emotion.

“She died a few months later, from a cold,” said the prince.

“Oh, not cold—believe an old man—not from a cold, but from grief for

her prince. Oh—your mother, your mother! heigh-ho! Youth—youth! Your

father and I—old friends as we were—nearly murdered each other for her

sake.”

The prince began to be a little incredulous.

“I was passionately in love with her when she was engaged—engaged to my

friend. The prince noticed the fact and was furious. He came and woke

me at seven o’clock one morning. I rise and dress in amazement; silence

on both sides. I understand it all. He takes a couple of pistols out of

his pocket—across a handkerchief—without witnesses. Why invite

witnesses when both of us would be walking in eternity in a couple of

minutes? The pistols are loaded; we stretch the handkerchief and stand

opposite one another. We aim the pistols at each other’s hearts.

Suddenly tears start to our eyes, our hands shake; we weep, we

embrace—the battle is one of self-sacrifice now! The prince shouts,

‘She is yours;’ I cry, ‘She is yours—’ in a word, in a word—You’ve come

to live with us, hey?”

“Yes—yes—for a while, I think,” stammered the prince.

“Prince, mother begs you to come to her,” said Colia, appearing at the

door.

The prince rose to go, but the general once more laid his hand in a

friendly manner on his shoulder, and dragged him down on to the sofa.

“As the true friend of your father, I wish to say a few words to you,”

he began. “I have suffered—there was a catastrophe. I suffered without

a trial; I had no trial. Nina Alexandrovna my wife, is an excellent

woman, so is my daughter Varvara. We have to let lodgings because we

are poor—a dreadful, unheard-of come-down for us—for me, who should

have been a governor-general; but we are very glad to have _you_, at

all events. Meanwhile there is a tragedy in the house.”

The prince looked inquiringly at the other.

“Yes, a marriage is being arranged—a marriage between a questionable

woman and a young fellow who might be a flunkey. They wish to bring

this woman into the house where my wife and daughter reside, but while

I live and breathe she shall never enter my doors. I shall lie at the

threshold, and she shall trample me underfoot if she does. I hardly

talk to Gania now, and avoid him as much as I can. I warn you of this

beforehand, but you cannot fail to observe it. But you are the son of

my old friend, and I hope—”

“Prince, be so kind as to come to me for a moment in the drawing-room,”

said Nina Alexandrovna herself, appearing at the door.

“Imagine, my dear,” cried the general, “it turns out that I have nursed

the prince on my knee in the old days.” His wife looked searchingly at

him, and glanced at the prince, but said nothing. The prince rose and

followed her; but hardly had they reached the drawing-room, and Nina

Alexandrovna had begun to talk hurriedly, when in came the general. She

immediately relapsed into silence. The master of the house may have

observed this, but at all events he did not take any notice of it; he

was in high good humour.

“A son of my old friend, dear,” he cried; “surely you must remember

Prince Nicolai Lvovitch? You saw him at—at Tver.”

“I don’t remember any Nicolai Lvovitch. Was that your father?” she

inquired of the prince.

“Yes, but he died at Elizabethgrad, not at Tver,” said the prince,

rather timidly. “So Pavlicheff told me.”

“No, Tver,” insisted the general; “he removed just before his death.

You were very small and cannot remember; and Pavlicheff, though an

excellent fellow, may have made a mistake.”

“You knew Pavlicheff then?”

“Oh, yes—a wonderful fellow; but I was present myself. I gave him my

blessing.”

“My father was just about to be tried when he died,” said the prince,

“although I never knew of what he was accused. He died in hospital.”

“Oh! it was the Kolpakoff business, and of course he would have been

acquitted.”

“Yes? Do you know that for a fact?” asked the prince, whose curiosity

was aroused by the general’s words.

“I should think so indeed!” cried the latter. “The court-martial came

to no decision. It was a mysterious, an impossible business, one might

say! Captain Larionoff, commander of the company, had died; his command

was handed over to the prince for the moment. Very well. This soldier,

Kolpakoff, stole some leather from one of his comrades, intending to

sell it, and spent the money on drink. Well! The prince—you understand

that what follows took place in the presence of the sergeant-major, and

a corporal—the prince rated Kolpakoff soundly, and threatened to have

him flogged. Well, Kolpakoff went back to the barracks, lay down on a

camp bedstead, and in a quarter of an hour was dead: you quite

understand? It was, as I said, a strange, almost impossible, affair. In

due course Kolpakoff was buried; the prince wrote his report, the

deceased’s name was removed from the roll. All as it should be, is it

not? But exactly three months later at the inspection of the brigade,

the man Kolpakoff was found in the third company of the second

battalion of infantry, Novozemlianski division, just as if nothing had

happened!”

“What?” said the prince, much astonished.

“It did not occur—it’s a mistake!” said Nina Alexandrovna quickly,

looking, at the prince rather anxiously. “_Mon mari se trompe_,” she

added, speaking in French.

“My dear, ‘_se trompe_’ is easily said. Do you remember any case at all

like it? Everybody was at their wits’ end. I should be the first to say

‘_qu’on se trompe_,’ but unfortunately I was an eye-witness, and was

also on the commission of inquiry. Everything proved that it was really

he, the very same soldier Kolpakoff who had been given the usual

military funeral to the sound of the drum. It is of course a most

curious case—nearly an impossible one. I recognize that... but—”

“Father, your dinner is ready,” said Varvara at this point, putting her

head in at the door.

“Very glad, I’m particularly hungry. Yes, yes, a strange

coincidence—almost a psychological—”

“Your soup’ll be cold; do come.”

“Coming, coming,” said the general. “Son of my old friend—” he was

heard muttering as he went down the passage.

“You will have to excuse very much in my husband, if you stay with us,”

said Nina Alexandrovna; “but he will not disturb you often. He dines

alone. Everyone has his little peculiarities, you know, and some people

perhaps have more than those who are most pointed at and laughed at.

One thing I must beg of you—if my husband applies to you for payment

for board and lodging, tell him that you have already paid me. Of

course anything paid by you to the general would be as fully settled as

if paid to me, so far as you are concerned; but I wish it to be so, if

you please, for convenience’ sake. What is it, Varia?”

Varia had quietly entered the room, and was holding out the portrait of

Nastasia Philipovna to her mother.

Nina Alexandrovna started, and examined the photograph intently, gazing

at it long and sadly. At last she looked up inquiringly at Varia.

“It’s a present from herself to him,” said Varia; “the question is to

be finally decided this evening.”

“This evening!” repeated her mother in a tone of despair, but softly,

as though to herself. “Then it’s all settled, of course, and there’s no

hope left to us. She has anticipated her answer by the present of her

portrait. Did he show it you himself?” she added, in some surprise.

“You know we have hardly spoken to each other for a whole month.

Ptitsin told me all about it; and the photo was lying under the table,

and I picked it up.”

“Prince,” asked Nina Alexandrovna, “I wanted to inquire whether you

have known my son long? I think he said that you had only arrived today

from somewhere.”

The prince gave a short narrative of what we have heard before, leaving

out the greater part. The two ladies listened intently.

“I did not ask about Gania out of curiosity,” said the elder, at last.

“I wish to know how much you know about him, because he said just now

that we need not stand on ceremony with you. What, exactly, does that

mean?”

At this moment Gania and Ptitsin entered the room together, and Nina

Alexandrovna immediately became silent again. The prince remained

seated next to her, but Varia moved to the other end of the room; the

portrait of Nastasia Philipovna remained lying as before on the

work-table. Gania observed it there, and with a frown of annoyance

snatched it up and threw it across to his writing-table, which stood at

the other end of the room.

“Is it today, Gania?” asked Nina Alexandrovna, at last.

“Is what today?” cried the former. Then suddenly recollecting himself,

he turned sharply on the prince. “Oh,” he growled, “I see, you are

here, that explains it! Is it a disease, or what, that you can’t hold

your tongue? Look here, understand once for all, prince—”

“I am to blame in this, Gania—no one else,” said Ptitsin.

Gania glanced inquiringly at the speaker.

“It’s better so, you know, Gania—especially as, from one point of view,

the matter may be considered as settled,” said Ptitsin; and sitting

down a little way from the table he began to study a paper covered with

pencil writing.

Gania stood and frowned, he expected a family scene. He never thought

of apologizing to the prince, however.

“If it’s all settled, Gania, then of course Mr. Ptitsin is right,” said

Nina Alexandrovna. “Don’t frown. You need not worry yourself, Gania; I

shall ask you no questions. You need not tell me anything you don’t

like. I assure you I have quite submitted to your will.” She said all

this, knitting away the while as though perfectly calm and composed.

Gania was surprised, but cautiously kept silence and looked at his

mother, hoping that she would express herself more clearly. Nina

Alexandrovna observed his cautiousness and added, with a bitter smile:

“You are still suspicious, I see, and do not believe me; but you may be

quite at your ease. There shall be no more tears, nor questions—not

from my side, at all events. All I wish is that you may be happy, you

know that. I have submitted to my fate; but my heart will always be

with you, whether we remain united, or whether we part. Of course I

only answer for myself—you can hardly expect your sister—”

“My sister again,” cried Gania, looking at her with contempt and almost

hate. “Look here, mother, I have already given you my word that I shall

always respect you fully and absolutely, and so shall everyone else in

this house, be it who it may, who shall cross this threshold.”

Gania was so much relieved that he gazed at his mother almost

affectionately.

“I was not at all afraid for myself, Gania, as you know well. It was

not for my own sake that I have been so anxious and worried all this

time! They say it is all to be settled to-day. What is to be settled?”

“She has promised to tell me tonight at her own house whether she

consents or not,” replied Gania.

“We have been silent on this subject for three weeks,” said his mother,

“and it was better so; and now I will only ask you one question. How

can she give her consent and make you a present of her portrait when

you do not love her? How can such a—such a—”

“Practised hand—eh?”

“I was not going to express myself so. But how could you so blind her?”

Nina Alexandrovna’s question betrayed intense annoyance. Gania waited a

moment and then said, without taking the trouble to conceal the irony

of his tone:

“There you are, mother, you are always like that. You begin by

promising that there are to be no reproaches or insinuations or

questions, and here you are beginning them at once. We had better drop

the subject—we had, really. I shall never leave you, mother; any other

man would cut and run from such a sister as this. See how she is

looking at me at this moment! Besides, how do you know that I am

blinding Nastasia Philipovna? As for Varia, I don’t care—she can do

just as she pleases. There, that’s quite enough!”

Gania’s irritation increased with every word he uttered, as he walked

up and down the room. These conversations always touched the family

sores before long.

“I have said already that the moment she comes in I go out, and I shall

keep my word,” remarked Varia.

“Out of obstinacy” shouted Gania. “You haven’t married, either, thanks

to your obstinacy. Oh, you needn’t frown at me, Varvara! You can go at

once for all I care; I am sick enough of your company. What, you are

going to leave us are you, too?” he cried, turning to the prince, who

was rising from his chair.

Gania’s voice was full of the most uncontrolled and uncontrollable

irritation.

The prince turned at the door to say something, but perceiving in

Gania’s expression that there was but that one drop wanting to make the

cup overflow, he changed his mind and left the room without a word. A

few minutes later he was aware from the noisy voices in the drawing

room, that the conversation had become more quarrelsome than ever after

his departure.

He crossed the salon and the entrance-hall, so as to pass down the

corridor into his own room. As he came near the front door he heard

someone outside vainly endeavouring to ring the bell, which was

evidently broken, and only shook a little, without emitting any sound.

The prince took down the chain and opened the door. He started back in

amazement—for there stood Nastasia Philipovna. He knew her at once from

her photograph. Her eyes blazed with anger as she looked at him. She

quickly pushed by him into the hall, shouldering him out of her way,

and said, furiously, as she threw off her fur cloak:

“If you are too lazy to mend your bell, you should at least wait in the

hall to let people in when they rattle the bell handle. There, now,

you’ve dropped my fur cloak—dummy!”

Sure enough the cloak was lying on the ground. Nastasia had thrown it

off her towards the prince, expecting him to catch it, but the prince

had missed it.

“Now then—announce me, quick!”

The prince wanted to say something, but was so confused and astonished

that he could not. However, he moved off towards the drawing-room with

the cloak over his arm.

“Now then, where are you taking my cloak to? Ha, ha, ha! Are you mad?”

The prince turned and came back, more confused than ever. When she

burst out laughing, he smiled, but his tongue could not form a word as

yet. At first, when he had opened the door and saw her standing before

him, he had become as pale as death; but now the red blood had rushed

back to his cheeks in a torrent.

“Why, what an idiot it is!” cried Nastasia, stamping her foot with

irritation. “Go on, do! Whom are you going to announce?”

“Nastasia Philipovna,” murmured the prince.

“And how do you know that?” she asked him, sharply.

“I have never seen you before!”

“Go on, announce me—what’s that noise?”

“They are quarrelling,” said the prince, and entered the drawing-room,

just as matters in there had almost reached a crisis. Nina Alexandrovna

had forgotten that she had “submitted to everything!” She was defending

Varia. Ptitsin was taking her part, too. Not that Varia was afraid of

standing up for herself. She was by no means that sort of a girl; but

her brother was becoming ruder and more intolerable every moment. Her

usual practice in such cases as the present was to say nothing, but

stare at him, without taking her eyes off his face for an instant. This

manoeuvre, as she well knew, could drive Gania distracted.

Just at this moment the door opened and the prince entered, announcing:

“Nastasia Philipovna!”

IX.

Silence immediately fell on the room; all looked at the prince as

though they neither understood, nor hoped to understand. Gania was

motionless with horror.

Nastasia’s arrival was a most unexpected and overwhelming event to all

parties. In the first place, she had never been before. Up to now she

had been so haughty that she had never even asked Gania to introduce

her to his parents. Of late she had not so much as mentioned them.

Gania was partly glad of this; but still he had put it to her debit in

the account to be settled after marriage.

He would have borne anything from her rather than this visit. But one

thing seemed to him quite clear—her visit now, and the present of her

portrait on this particular day, pointed out plainly enough which way

she intended to make her decision!

The incredulous amazement with which all regarded the prince did not

last long, for Nastasia herself appeared at the door and passed in,

pushing by the prince again.

“At last I’ve stormed the citadel! Why do you tie up your bell?” she

said, merrily, as she pressed Gania’s hand, the latter having rushed up

to her as soon as she made her appearance. “What are you looking so

upset about? Introduce me, please!”

The bewildered Gania introduced her first to Varia, and both women,

before shaking hands, exchanged looks of strange import. Nastasia,

however, smiled amiably; but Varia did not try to look amiable, and

kept her gloomy expression. She did not even vouchsafe the usual

courteous smile of etiquette. Gania darted a terrible glance of wrath

at her for this, but Nina Alexandrovna mended matters a little when

Gania introduced her at last. Hardly, however, had the old lady begun

about her “highly gratified feelings,” and so on, when Nastasia left

her, and flounced into a chair by Gania’s side in the corner by the

window, and cried: “Where’s your study? and where are the—the lodgers?

You do take in lodgers, don’t you?”

Gania looked dreadfully put out, and tried to say something in reply,

but Nastasia interrupted him:

“Why, where are you going to squeeze lodgers in here? Don’t you use a

study? Does this sort of thing pay?” she added, turning to Nina

Alexandrovna.

“Well, it is troublesome, rather,” said the latter; “but I suppose it

will ‘pay’ pretty well. We have only just begun, however—”

Again Nastasia Philipovna did not hear the sentence out. She glanced at

Gania, and cried, laughing, “What a face! My goodness, what a face you

have on at this moment!”

Indeed, Gania did not look in the least like himself. His bewilderment

and his alarmed perplexity passed off, however, and his lips now

twitched with rage as he continued to stare evilly at his laughing

guest, while his countenance became absolutely livid.

There was another witness, who, though standing at the door motionless

and bewildered himself, still managed to remark Gania’s death-like

pallor, and the dreadful change that had come over his face. This

witness was the prince, who now advanced in alarm and muttered to

Gania:

“Drink some water, and don’t look like that!”

It was clear that he came out with these words quite spontaneously, on

the spur of the moment. But his speech was productive of much—for it

appeared that all Gania’s rage now overflowed upon the prince. He

seized him by the shoulder and gazed with an intensity of loathing and

revenge at him, but said nothing—as though his feelings were too strong

to permit of words.

General agitation prevailed. Nina Alexandrovna gave a little cry of

anxiety; Ptitsin took a step forward in alarm; Colia and Ferdishenko

stood stock still at the door in amazement;—only Varia remained coolly

watching the scene from under her eyelashes. She did not sit down, but

stood by her mother with folded hands. However, Gania recollected

himself almost immediately. He let go of the prince and burst out

laughing.

“Why, are you a doctor, prince, or what?” he asked, as naturally as

possible. “I declare you quite frightened me! Nastasia Philipovna, let

me introduce this interesting character to you—though I have only known

him myself since the morning.”

Nastasia gazed at the prince in bewilderment. “Prince? He a Prince?

Why, I took him for the footman, just now, and sent him in to announce

me! Ha, ha, ha, isn’t that good!”

“Not bad that, not bad at all!” put in Ferdishenko, “_se non è vero_—”

“I rather think I pitched into you, too, didn’t I? Forgive me—do! Who

is he, did you say? What prince? Muishkin?” she added, addressing

Gania.

“He is a lodger of ours,” explained the latter.

“An idiot!”—the prince distinctly heard the word half whispered from

behind him. This was Ferdishenko’s voluntary information for Nastasia’s

benefit.

“Tell me, why didn’t you put me right when I made such a dreadful

mistake just now?” continued the latter, examining the prince from head

to foot without the slightest ceremony. She awaited the answer as

though convinced that it would be so foolish that she must inevitably

fail to restrain her laughter over it.

“I was astonished, seeing you so suddenly—” murmured the prince.

“How did you know who I was? Where had you seen me before? And why were

you so struck dumb at the sight of me? What was there so overwhelming

about me?”

“Oho! ho, ho, ho!” cried Ferdishenko. “_Now_ then, prince! My word,

what things I would say if I had such a chance as that! My goodness,

prince—go on!”

“So should I, in your place, I’ve no doubt!” laughed the prince to

Ferdishenko; then continued, addressing Nastasia: “Your portrait struck

me very forcibly this morning; then I was talking about you to the

Epanchins; and then, in the train, before I reached Petersburg, Parfen

Rogojin told me a good deal about you; and at the very moment that I

opened the door to you I happened to be thinking of you, when—there you

stood before me!”

“And how did you recognize me?”

“From the portrait!”

“What else?”

“I seemed to imagine you exactly as you are—I seemed to have seen you

somewhere.”

“Where—where?”

“I seem to have seen your eyes somewhere; but it cannot be! I have not

seen you—I never was here before. I may have dreamed of you, I don’t

know.”

The prince said all this with manifest effort—in broken sentences, and

with many drawings of breath. He was evidently much agitated. Nastasia

Philipovna looked at him inquisitively, but did not laugh.

“Bravo, prince!” cried Ferdishenko, delighted.

At this moment a loud voice from behind the group which hedged in the

prince and Nastasia Philipovna, divided the crowd, as it were, and

before them stood the head of the family, General Ivolgin. He was

dressed in evening clothes; his moustache was dyed.

This apparition was too much for Gania. Vain and ambitious almost to

morbidness, he had had much to put up with in the last two months, and

was seeking feverishly for some means of enabling himself to lead a

more presentable kind of existence. At home, he now adopted an attitude

of absolute cynicism, but he could not keep this up before Nastasia

Philipovna, although he had sworn to make her pay after marriage for

all he suffered now. He was experiencing a last humiliation, the

bitterest of all, at this moment—the humiliation of blushing for his

own kindred in his own house. A question flashed through his mind as to

whether the game was really worth the candle.

For that had happened at this moment, which for two months had been his

nightmare; which had filled his soul with dread and shame—the meeting

between his father and Nastasia Philipovna. He had often tried to

imagine such an event, but had found the picture too mortifying and

exasperating, and had quietly dropped it. Very likely he anticipated

far worse things than was at all necessary; it is often so with vain

persons. He had long since determined, therefore, to get his father out

of the way, anywhere, before his marriage, in order to avoid such a

meeting; but when Nastasia entered the room just now, he had been so

overwhelmed with astonishment, that he had not thought of his father,

and had made no arrangements to keep him out of the way. And now it was

too late—there he was, and got up, too, in a dress coat and white tie,

and Nastasia in the very humour to heap ridicule on him and his family

circle; of this last fact, he felt quite persuaded. What else had she

come for? There were his mother and his sister sitting before her, and

she seemed to have forgotten their very existence already; and if she

behaved like that, he thought, she must have some object in view.

Ferdishenko led the general up to Nastasia Philipovna.

“Ardalion Alexandrovitch Ivolgin,” said the smiling general, with a low

bow of great dignity, “an old soldier, unfortunate, and the father of

this family; but happy in the hope of including in that family so

exquisite—”

He did not finish his sentence, for at this moment Ferdishenko pushed a

chair up from behind, and the general, not very firm on his legs, at

this post-prandial hour, flopped into it backwards. It was always a

difficult thing to put this warrior to confusion, and his sudden

descent left him as composed as before. He had sat down just opposite

to Nastasia, whose fingers he now took, and raised to his lips with

great elegance, and much courtesy. The general had once belonged to a

very select circle of society, but he had been turned out of it two or

three years since on account of certain weaknesses, in which he now

indulged with all the less restraint; but his good manners remained

with him to this day, in spite of all.

Nastasia Philipovna seemed delighted at the appearance of this latest

arrival, of whom she had of course heard a good deal by report.

“I have heard that my son—” began Ardalion Alexandrovitch.

“Your son, indeed! A nice papa you are! _You_ might have come to see me

anyhow, without compromising anyone. Do you hide yourself, or does your

son hide you?”

“The children of the nineteenth century, and their parents—” began the

general, again.

“Nastasia Philipovna, will you excuse the general for a moment? Someone

is inquiring for him,” said Nina Alexandrovna in a loud voice,

interrupting the conversation.

“Excuse him? Oh no, I have wished to see him too long for that. Why,

what business can he have? He has retired, hasn’t he? You won’t leave

me, general, will you?”

“I give you my word that he shall come and see you—but he—he needs rest

just now.”

“General, they say you require rest,” said Nastasia Philipovna, with

the melancholy face of a child whose toy is taken away.

Ardalion Alexandrovitch immediately did his best to make his foolish

position a great deal worse.

“My dear, my dear!” he said, solemnly and reproachfully, looking at his

wife, with one hand on his heart.

“Won’t you leave the room, mamma?” asked Varia, aloud.

“No, Varia, I shall sit it out to the end.”

Nastasia must have overheard both question and reply, but her vivacity

was not in the least damped. On the contrary, it seemed to increase.

She immediately overwhelmed the general once more with questions, and

within five minutes that gentleman was as happy as a king, and holding

forth at the top of his voice, amid the laughter of almost all who

heard him.

Colia jogged the prince’s arm.

“Can’t _you_ get him out of the room, somehow? _Do_, please,” and tears

of annoyance stood in the boy’s eyes. “Curse that Gania!” he muttered,

between his teeth.

“Oh yes, I knew General Epanchin well,” General Ivolgin was saying at

this moment; “he and Prince Nicolai Ivanovitch Muishkin—whose son I

have this day embraced after an absence of twenty years—and I, were

three inseparables. Alas one is in the grave, torn to pieces by

calumnies and bullets; another is now before you, still battling with

calumnies and bullets—”

“Bullets?” cried Nastasia.

“Yes, here in my chest. I received them at the siege of Kars, and I

feel them in bad weather now. And as to the third of our trio,

Epanchin, of course after that little affair with the poodle in the

railway carriage, it was all _up_ between us.”

“Poodle? What was that? And in a railway carriage? Dear me,” said

Nastasia, thoughtfully, as though trying to recall something to mind.

“Oh, just a silly, little occurrence, really not worth telling, about

Princess Bielokonski’s governess, Miss Smith, and—oh, it is really not

worth telling!”

“No, no, we must have it!” cried Nastasia merrily.

“Yes, of course,” said Ferdishenko. “C’est du nouveau.”

“Ardalion,” said Nina Alexandrovitch, entreatingly.

“Papa, you are wanted!” cried Colia.

“Well, it is a silly little story, in a few words,” began the delighted

general. “A couple of years ago, soon after the new railway was opened,

I had to go somewhere or other on business. Well, I took a first-class

ticket, sat down, and began to smoke, or rather _continued_ to smoke,

for I had lighted up before. I was alone in the carriage. Smoking is

not allowed, but is not prohibited either; it is half allowed—so to

speak, winked at. I had the window open.”

“Suddenly, just before the whistle, in came two ladies with a little

poodle, and sat down opposite to me; not bad-looking women; one was in

light blue, the other in black silk. The poodle, a beauty with a silver

collar, lay on light blue’s knee. They looked haughtily about, and

talked English together. I took no notice, just went on smoking. I

observed that the ladies were getting angry—over my cigar, doubtless.

One looked at me through her tortoise-shell eyeglass.

“I took no notice, because they never said a word. If they didn’t like

the cigar, why couldn’t they say so? Not a word, not a hint! Suddenly,

and without the very slightest suspicion of warning, ‘light blue’

seizes my cigar from between my fingers, and, wheugh! out of the window

with it! Well, on flew the train, and I sat bewildered, and the young

woman, tall and fair, and rather red in the face, too red, glared at me

with flashing eyes.

“I didn’t say a word, but with extreme courtesy, I may say with most

refined courtesy, I reached my finger and thumb over towards the

poodle, took it up delicately by the nape of the neck, and chucked it

out of the window, after the cigar. The train went flying on, and the

poodle’s yells were lost in the distance.”

“Oh, you naughty man!” cried Nastasia, laughing and clapping her hands

like a child.

“Bravo!” said Ferdishenko. Ptitsin laughed too, though he had been very

sorry to see the general appear. Even Colia laughed and said, “Bravo!”

“And I was right, truly right,” cried the general, with warmth and

solemnity, “for if cigars are forbidden in railway carriages, poodles

are much more so.”

“Well, and what did the lady do?” asked Nastasia, impatiently.

“She—ah, that’s where all the mischief of it lies!” replied Ivolgin,

frowning. “Without a word, as it were, of warning, she slapped me on

the cheek! An extraordinary woman!”

“And you?”

The general dropped his eyes, and elevated his brows; shrugged his

shoulders, tightened his lips, spread his hands, and remained silent.

At last he blurted out:

“I lost my head!”

“Did you hit her?”

“No, oh no!—there was a great flare-up, but I didn’t hit her! I had to

struggle a little, purely to defend myself; but the very devil was in

the business. It turned out that ‘light blue’ was an Englishwoman,

governess or something, at Princess Bielokonski’s, and the other woman

was one of the old-maid princesses Bielokonski. Well, everybody knows

what great friends the princess and Mrs. Epanchin are, so there was a

pretty kettle of fish. All the Bielokonskis went into mourning for the

poodle. Six princesses in tears, and the Englishwoman shrieking!

“Of course I wrote an apology, and called, but they would not receive

either me or my apology, and the Epanchins cut me, too!”

“But wait,” said Nastasia. “How is it that, five or six days since, I

read exactly the same story in the paper, as happening between a

Frenchman and an English girl? The cigar was snatched away exactly as

you describe, and the poodle was chucked out of the window after it.

The slapping came off, too, as in your case; and the girl’s dress was

light blue!”

The general blushed dreadfully; Colia blushed too; and Ptitsin turned

hastily away. Ferdishenko was the only one who laughed as gaily as

before. As to Gania, I need not say that he was miserable; he stood

dumb and wretched and took no notice of anybody.

“I assure you,” said the general, “that exactly the same thing happened

to myself!”

“I remembered there was some quarrel between father and Miss Smith, the

Bielokonski’s governess,” said Colia.

“How very curious, point for point the same anecdote, and happening at

different ends of Europe! Even the light blue dress the same,”

continued the pitiless Nastasia. “I must really send you the paper.”

“You must observe,” insisted the general, “that my experience was two

years earlier.”

“Ah! that’s it, no doubt!”

Nastasia Philipovna laughed hysterically.

“Father, will you hear a word from me outside!” said Gania, his voice

shaking with agitation, as he seized his father by the shoulder. His

eyes shone with a blaze of hatred.

At this moment there was a terrific bang at the front door, almost

enough to break it down. Some most unusual visitor must have arrived.

Colia ran to open.

X.

The entrance-hall suddenly became full of noise and people. To judge

from the sounds which penetrated to the drawing-room, a number of

people had already come in, and the stampede continued. Several voices

were talking and shouting at once; others were talking and shouting on

the stairs outside; it was evidently a most extraordinary visit that

was about to take place.

Everyone exchanged startled glances. Gania rushed out towards the

dining-room, but a number of men had already made their way in, and met

him.

“Ah! here he is, the Judas!” cried a voice which the prince recognized

at once. “How d’ye do, Gania, you old blackguard?”

“Yes, that’s the man!” said another voice.

There was no room for doubt in the prince’s mind: one of the voices was

Rogojin’s, and the other Lebedeff’s.

Gania stood at the door like a block and looked on in silence, putting

no obstacle in the way of their entrance, and ten or a dozen men

marched in behind Parfen Rogojin. They were a decidedly mixed-looking

collection, and some of them came in in their furs and caps. None of

them were quite drunk, but all appeared to be considerably excited.

They seemed to need each other’s support, morally, before they dared

come in; not one of them would have entered alone but with the rest

each one was brave enough. Even Rogojin entered rather cautiously at

the head of his troop; but he was evidently preoccupied. He appeared to

be gloomy and morose, and had clearly come with some end in view. All

the rest were merely chorus, brought in to support the chief character.

Besides Lebedeff there was the dandy Zalesheff, who came in without his

coat and hat, two or three others followed his example; the rest were

more uncouth. They included a couple of young merchants, a man in a

great-coat, a medical student, a little Pole, a small fat man who

laughed continuously, and an enormously tall stout one who apparently

put great faith in the strength of his fists. A couple of “ladies” of

some sort put their heads in at the front door, but did not dare come

any farther. Colia promptly banged the door in their faces and locked

it.

“Hallo, Gania, you blackguard! You didn’t expect Rogojin, eh?” said the

latter, entering the drawing-room, and stopping before Gania.

But at this moment he saw, seated before him, Nastasia Philipovna. He

had not dreamed of meeting her here, evidently, for her appearance

produced a marvellous effect upon him. He grew pale, and his lips

became actually blue.

“I suppose it is true, then!” he muttered to himself, and his face took

on an expression of despair. “So that’s the end of it! Now you, sir,

will you answer me or not?” he went on suddenly, gazing at Gania with

ineffable malice. “Now then, you—”

He panted, and could hardly speak for agitation. He advanced into the

room mechanically; but perceiving Nina Alexandrovna and Varia he became

more or less embarrassed, in spite of his excitement. His followers

entered after him, and all paused a moment at sight of the ladies. Of

course their modesty was not fated to be long-lived, but for a moment

they were abashed. Once let them begin to shout, however, and nothing

on earth should disconcert them.

“What, you here too, prince?” said Rogojin, absently, but a little

surprised all the same “Still in your gaiters, eh?” He sighed, and

forgot the prince next moment, and his wild eyes wandered over to

Nastasia again, as though attracted in that direction by some magnetic

force.

Nastasia looked at the new arrivals with great curiosity. Gania

recollected himself at last.

“Excuse me, sirs,” he said, loudly, “but what does all this mean?” He

glared at the advancing crowd generally, but addressed his remarks

especially to their captain, Rogojin. “You are not in a stable,

gentlemen, though you may think it—my mother and sister are present.”

“Yes, I see your mother and sister,” muttered Rogojin, through his

teeth; and Lebedeff seemed to feel himself called upon to second the

statement.

“At all events, I must request you to step into the salon,” said Gania,

his rage rising quite out of proportion to his words, “and then I shall

inquire—”

“What, he doesn’t know me!” said Rogojin, showing his teeth

disagreeably. “He doesn’t recognize Rogojin!” He did not move an inch,

however.

“I have met you somewhere, I believe, but—”

“Met me somewhere, pfu! Why, it’s only three months since I lost two

hundred roubles of my father’s money to you, at cards. The old fellow

died before he found out. Ptitsin knows all about it. Why, I’ve only to

pull out a three-rouble note and show it to you, and you’d crawl on

your hands and knees to the other end of the town for it; that’s the

sort of man you are. Why, I’ve come now, at this moment, to buy you up!

Oh, you needn’t think that because I wear these boots I have no money.

I have lots of money, my beauty,—enough to buy up you and all yours

together. So I shall, if I like to! I’ll buy you up! I will!” he

yelled, apparently growing more and more intoxicated and excited. “Oh,

Nastasia Philipovna! don’t turn me out! Say one word, do! Are you going

to marry this man, or not?”

Rogojin asked his question like a lost soul appealing to some divinity,

with the reckless daring of one appointed to die, who has nothing to

lose.

He awaited the reply in deadly anxiety.

Nastasia Philipovna gazed at him with a haughty, ironical expression of

face; but when she glanced at Nina Alexandrovna and Varia, and from

them to Gania, she changed her tone, all of a sudden.

“Certainly not; what are you thinking of? What could have induced you

to ask such a question?” she replied, quietly and seriously, and even,

apparently, with some astonishment.

“No? No?” shouted Rogojin, almost out of his mind with joy. “You are

not going to, after all? And they told me—oh, Nastasia Philipovna—they

said you had promised to marry him, _him!_ As if you _could_ do

it!—him—pooh! I don’t mind saying it to everyone—I’d buy him off for a

hundred roubles, any day pfu! Give him a thousand, or three if he

likes, poor devil, and he’d cut and run the day before his wedding, and

leave his bride to me! Wouldn’t you, Gania, you blackguard? You’d take

three thousand, wouldn’t you? Here’s the money! Look, I’ve come on

purpose to pay you off and get your receipt, formally. I said I’d buy

you up, and so I will.”

“Get out of this, you drunken beast!” cried Gania, who was red and

white by turns.

Rogojin’s troop, who were only waiting for an excuse, set up a howl at

this. Lebedeff stepped forward and whispered something in Parfen’s ear.

“You’re right, clerk,” said the latter, “you’re right, tipsy

spirit—you’re right!—Nastasia Philipovna,” he added, looking at her

like some lunatic, harmless generally, but suddenly wound up to a pitch

of audacity, “here are eighteen thousand roubles, and—and you shall

have more—.” Here he threw a packet of bank-notes tied up in white

paper, on the table before her, not daring to say all he wished to say.

“No—no—no!” muttered Lebedeff, clutching at his arm. He was clearly

aghast at the largeness of the sum, and thought a far smaller amount

should have been tried first.

“No, you fool—you don’t know whom you are dealing with—and it appears I

am a fool, too!” said Parfen, trembling beneath the flashing glance of

Nastasia. “Oh, curse it all! What a fool I was to listen to you!” he

added, with profound melancholy.

Nastasia Philipovna, observing his woe-begone expression, suddenly

burst out laughing.

“Eighteen thousand roubles, for me? Why, you declare yourself a fool at

once,” she said, with impudent familiarity, as she rose from the sofa

and prepared to go. Gania watched the whole scene with a sinking of the

heart.

“Forty thousand, then—forty thousand roubles instead of eighteen!

Ptitsin and another have promised to find me forty thousand roubles by

seven o’clock tonight. Forty thousand roubles—paid down on the nail!”

The scene was growing more and more disgraceful; but Nastasia

Philipovna continued to laugh and did not go away. Nina Alexandrovna

and Varia had both risen from their places and were waiting, in silent

horror, to see what would happen. Varia’s eyes were all ablaze with

anger; but the scene had a different effect on Nina Alexandrovna. She

paled and trembled, and looked more and more like fainting every

moment.

“Very well then, a _hundred_ thousand! a hundred thousand! paid this

very day. Ptitsin! find it for me. A good share shall stick to your

fingers—come!”

“You are mad!” said Ptitsin, coming up quickly and seizing him by the

hand. “You’re drunk—the police will be sent for if you don’t look out.

Think where you are.”

“Yes, he’s boasting like a drunkard,” added Nastasia, as though with

the sole intention of goading him.

“I do _not_ boast! You shall have a hundred thousand, this very day.

Ptitsin, get the money, you gay usurer! Take what you like for it, but

get it by the evening! I’ll show that I’m in earnest!” cried Rogojin,

working himself up into a frenzy of excitement.

“Come, come; what’s all this?” cried General Ivolgin, suddenly and

angrily, coming close up to Rogojin. The unexpectedness of this sally

on the part of the hitherto silent old man caused some laughter among

the intruders.

“Halloa! what’s this now?” laughed Rogojin. “You come along with me,

old fellow! You shall have as much to drink as you like.”

“Oh, it’s too horrible!” cried poor Colia, sobbing with shame and

annoyance.

“Surely there must be someone among all of you here who will turn this

shameless creature out of the room?” cried Varia, suddenly. She was

shaking and trembling with rage.

“That’s me, I suppose. I’m the shameless creature!” cried Nastasia

Philipovna, with amused indifference. “Dear me, and I came—like a fool,

as I am—to invite them over to my house for the evening! Look how your

sister treats me, Gavrila Ardalionovitch.”

For some moments Gania stood as if stunned or struck by lightning,

after his sister’s speech. But seeing that Nastasia Philipovna was

really about to leave the room this time, he sprang at Varia and seized

her by the arm like a madman.

“What have you done?” he hissed, glaring at her as though he would like

to annihilate her on the spot. He was quite beside himself, and could

hardly articulate his words for rage.

“What have I done? Where are you dragging me to?”

“Do you wish me to beg pardon of this creature because she has come

here to insult our mother and disgrace the whole household, you low,

base wretch?” cried Varia, looking back at her brother with proud

defiance.

A few moments passed as they stood there face to face, Gania still

holding her wrist tightly. Varia struggled once—twice—to get free; then

could restrain herself no longer, and spat in his face.

“There’s a girl for you!” cried Nastasia Philipovna. “Mr. Ptitsin, I

congratulate you on your choice.”

Gania lost his head. Forgetful of everything he aimed a blow at Varia,

which would inevitably have laid her low, but suddenly another hand

caught his. Between him and Varia stood the prince.

“Enough—enough!” said the latter, with insistence, but all of a tremble

with excitement.

“Are you going to cross my path for ever, damn you!” cried Gania; and,

loosening his hold on Varia, he slapped the prince’s face with all his

force.

Exclamations of horror arose on all sides. The prince grew pale as

death; he gazed into Gania’s eyes with a strange, wild, reproachful

look; his lips trembled and vainly endeavoured to form some words; then

his mouth twisted into an incongruous smile.

“Very well—never mind about me; but I shall not allow you to strike

her!” he said, at last, quietly. Then, suddenly, he could bear it no

longer, and covering his face with his hands, turned to the wall, and

murmured in broken accents:

“Oh! how ashamed you will be of this afterwards!”

Gania certainly did look dreadfully abashed. Colia rushed up to comfort

the prince, and after him crowded Varia, Rogojin and all, even the

general.

“It’s nothing, it’s nothing!” said the prince, and again he wore the

smile which was so inconsistent with the circumstances.

“Yes, he will be ashamed!” cried Rogojin. “You will be properly ashamed

of yourself for having injured such a—such a sheep” (he could not find

a better word). “Prince, my dear fellow, leave this and come away with

me. I’ll show you how Rogojin shows his affection for his friends.”

Nastasia Philipovna was also much impressed, both with Gania’s action

and with the prince’s reply.

Her usually thoughtful, pale face, which all this while had been so

little in harmony with the jests and laughter which she had seemed to

put on for the occasion, was now evidently agitated by new feelings,

though she tried to conceal the fact and to look as though she were as

ready as ever for jesting and irony.

“I really think I must have seen him somewhere!” she murmured seriously

enough.

“Oh, aren’t you ashamed of yourself—aren’t you ashamed? Are you really

the sort of woman you are trying to represent yourself to be? Is it

possible?” The prince was now addressing Nastasia, in a tone of

reproach, which evidently came from his very heart.

Nastasia Philipovna looked surprised, and smiled, but evidently

concealed something beneath her smile and with some confusion and a

glance at Gania she left the room.

However, she had not reached the outer hall when she turned round,

walked quickly up to Nina Alexandrovna, seized her hand and lifted it

to her lips.

“He guessed quite right. I am not that sort of woman,” she whispered

hurriedly, flushing red all over. Then she turned again and left the

room so quickly that no one could imagine what she had come back for.

All they saw was that she said something to Nina Alexandrovna in a

hurried whisper, and seemed to kiss her hand. Varia, however, both saw

and heard all, and watched Nastasia out of the room with an expression

of wonder.

Gania recollected himself in time to rush after her in order to show

her out, but she had gone. He followed her to the stairs.

“Don’t come with me,” she cried, “_Au revoir_, till the evening—do you

hear? _Au revoir!_”

He returned thoughtful and confused; the riddle lay heavier than ever

on his soul. He was troubled about the prince, too, and so bewildered

that he did not even observe Rogojin’s rowdy band crowd past him and

step on his toes, at the door as they went out. They were all talking

at once. Rogojin went ahead of the others, talking to Ptitsin, and

apparently insisting vehemently upon something very important.

“You’ve lost the game, Gania” he cried, as he passed the latter.

Gania gazed after him uneasily, but said nothing.

XI.

The prince now left the room and shut himself up in his own chamber.

Colia followed him almost at once, anxious to do what he could to

console him. The poor boy seemed to be already so attached to him that

he could hardly leave him.

“You were quite right to go away!” he said. “The row will rage there

worse than ever now; and it’s like this every day with us—and all

through that Nastasia Philipovna.”

“You have so many sources of trouble here, Colia,” said the prince.

“Yes, indeed, and it is all our own fault. But I have a great friend

who is much worse off even than we are. Would you like to know him?”

“Yes, very much. Is he one of your school-fellows?”

“Well, not exactly. I will tell you all about him some day.... What do

you think of Nastasia Philipovna? She is beautiful, isn’t she? I had

never seen her before, though I had a great wish to do so. She

fascinated me. I could forgive Gania if he were to marry her for love,

but for money! Oh dear! that is horrible!”

“Yes, your brother does not attract me much.”

“I am not surprised at that. After what you... But I do hate that way

of looking at things! Because some fool, or a rogue pretending to be a

fool, strikes a man, that man is to be dishonoured for his whole life,

unless he wipes out the disgrace with blood, or makes his assailant beg

forgiveness on his knees! I think that so very absurd and tyrannical.

Lermontoff’s Bal Masque is based on that idea—a stupid and unnatural

one, in my opinion; but he was hardly more than a child when he wrote

it.”

“I like your sister very much.”

“Did you see how she spat in Gania’s face! Varia is afraid of no one.

But you did not follow her example, and yet I am sure it was not

through cowardice. Here she comes! Speak of a wolf and you see his

tail! I felt sure that she would come. She is very generous, though of

course she has her faults.”

Varia pounced upon her brother.

“This is not the place for you,” said she. “Go to father. Is he

plaguing you, prince?”

“Not in the least; on the contrary, he interests me.”

“Scolding as usual, Varia! It is the worst thing about her. After all,

I believe father may have started off with Rogojin. No doubt he is

sorry now. Perhaps I had better go and see what he is doing,” added

Colia, running off.

“Thank God, I have got mother away, and put her to bed without another

scene! Gania is worried—and ashamed—not without reason! What a

spectacle! I have come to thank you once more, prince, and to ask you

if you knew Nastasia Philipovna before?”

“No, I have never known her.”

“Then what did you mean, when you said straight out to her that she was

not really ‘like that’? You guessed right, I fancy. It is quite

possible she was not herself at the moment, though I cannot fathom her

meaning. Evidently she meant to hurt and insult us. I have heard

curious tales about her before now, but if she came to invite us to her

house, why did she behave so to my mother? Ptitsin knows her very well;

he says he could not understand her today. With Rogojin, too! No one

with a spark of self-respect could have talked like that in the house

of her... Mother is extremely vexed on your account, too...

“That is nothing!” said the prince, waving his hand.

“But how meek she was when you spoke to her!”

“Meek! What do you mean?”

“You told her it was a shame for her to behave so, and her manner

changed at once; she was like another person. You have some influence

over her, prince,” added Varia, smiling a little.

The door opened at this point, and in came Gania most unexpectedly.

He was not in the least disconcerted to see Varia there, but he stood a

moment at the door, and then approached the prince quietly.

“Prince,” he said, with feeling, “I was a blackguard. Forgive me!” His

face gave evidence of suffering. The prince was considerably amazed,

and did not reply at once. “Oh, come, forgive me, forgive me!” Gania

insisted, rather impatiently. “If you like, I’ll kiss your hand.

There!”

The prince was touched; he took Gania’s hands, and embraced him

heartily, while each kissed the other.

“I never, never thought you were like that,” said Muishkin, drawing a

deep breath. “I thought you—you weren’t capable of—”

“Of what? Apologizing, eh? And where on earth did I get the idea that

you were an idiot? You always observe what other people pass by

unnoticed; one could talk sense to you, but—”

“Here is another to whom you should apologize,” said the prince,

pointing to Varia.

“No, no! they are all enemies! I’ve tried them often enough, believe

me,” and Gania turned his back on Varia with these words.

“But if I beg you to make it up?” said Varia.

“And you’ll go to Nastasia Philipovna’s this evening—”

“If you insist: but, judge for yourself, can I go, ought I to go?”

“But she is not that sort of woman, I tell you!” said Gania, angrily.

“She was only acting.”

“I know that—I know that; but what a part to play! And think what she

must take _you_ for, Gania! I know she kissed mother’s hand, and all

that, but she laughed at you, all the same. All this is not good enough

for seventy-five thousand roubles, my dear boy. You are capable of

honourable feelings still, and that’s why I am talking to you so. Oh!

_do_ take care what you are doing! Don’t you know yourself that it will

end badly, Gania?”

So saying, and in a state of violent agitation, Varia left the room.

“There, they are all like that,” said Gania, laughing, “just as if I do

not know all about it much better than they do.”

He sat down with these words, evidently intending to prolong his visit.

“If you know it so well,” said the prince a little timidly, “why do you

choose all this worry for the sake of the seventy-five thousand, which,

you confess, does not cover it?”

“I didn’t mean that,” said Gania; “but while we are upon the subject,

let me hear your opinion. Is all this worry worth seventy-five thousand

or not?”

“Certainly not.”

“Of course! And it would be a disgrace to marry so, eh?”

“A great disgrace.”

“Oh, well, then you may know that I shall certainly do it, now. I shall

certainly marry her. I was not quite sure of myself before, but now I

am. Don’t say a word: I know what you want to tell me—”

“No. I was only going to say that what surprises me most of all is your

extraordinary confidence.”

“How so? What in?”

“That Nastasia Philipovna will accept you, and that the question is as

good as settled; and secondly, that even if she did, you would be able

to pocket the money. Of course, I know very little about it, but that’s

my view. When a man marries for money it often happens that the wife

keeps the money in her own hands.”

“Of course, you don’t know all; but, I assure you, you needn’t be

afraid, it won’t be like that in our case. There are circumstances,”

said Gania, rather excitedly. “And as to her answer to me, there’s no

doubt about that. Why should you suppose she will refuse me?”

“Oh, I only judge by what I see. Varvara Ardalionovna said just now—”

“Oh she—they don’t know anything about it! Nastasia was only chaffing

Rogojin. I was alarmed at first, but I have thought better of it now;

she was simply laughing at him. She looks on me as a fool because I

show that I meant her money, and doesn’t realize that there are other

men who would deceive her in far worse fashion. I’m not going to

pretend anything, and you’ll see she’ll marry me, all right. If she

likes to live quietly, so she shall; but if she gives me any of her

nonsense, I shall leave her at once, but I shall keep the money. I’m

not going to look a fool; that’s the first thing, not to look a fool.”

“But Nastasia Philipovna seems to me to be such a _sensible_ woman,

and, as such, why should she run blindly into this business? That’s

what puzzles me so,” said the prince.

“You don’t know all, you see; I tell you there are things—and besides,

I’m sure that she is persuaded that I love her to distraction, and I

give you my word I have a strong suspicion that she loves me, too—in

her own way, of course. She thinks she will be able to make a sort of

slave of me all my life; but I shall prepare a little surprise for her.

I don’t know whether I ought to be confidential with you, prince; but,

I assure you, you are the only decent fellow I have come across. I have

not spoken so sincerely as I am doing at this moment for years. There

are uncommonly few honest people about, prince; there isn’t one

honester than Ptitsin, he’s the best of the lot. Are you laughing? You

don’t know, perhaps, that blackguards like honest people, and being one

myself I like you. _Why_ am I a blackguard? Tell me honestly, now. They

all call me a blackguard because of her, and I have got into the way of

thinking myself one. That’s what is so bad about the business.”

“_I_ for one shall never think you a blackguard again,” said the

prince. “I confess I had a poor opinion of you at first, but I have

been so joyfully surprised about you just now; it’s a good lesson for

me. I shall never judge again without a thorough trial. I see now that

you are not only not a blackguard, but are not even quite spoiled. I

see that you are quite an ordinary man, not original in the least

degree, but rather weak.”

Gania laughed sarcastically, but said nothing. The prince, seeing that

he did not quite like the last remark, blushed, and was silent too.

“Has my father asked you for money?” asked Gania, suddenly.

“No.”

“Don’t give it to him if he does. Fancy, he was a decent, respectable

man once! He was received in the best society; he was not always the

liar he is now. Of course, wine is at the bottom of it all; but he is a

good deal worse than an innocent liar now. Do you know that he keeps a

mistress? I can’t understand how mother is so long-suffering. Did he

tell you the story of the siege of Kars? Or perhaps the one about his

grey horse that talked? He loves to enlarge on these absurd histories.”

And Gania burst into a fit of laughter. Suddenly he turned to the

prince and asked: “Why are you looking at me like that?”

“I am surprised to see you laugh in that way, like a child. You came to

make friends with me again just now, and you said, ‘I will kiss your

hand, if you like,’ just as a child would have said it. And then, all

at once you are talking of this mad project—of these seventy-five

thousand roubles! It all seems so absurd and impossible.”

“Well, what conclusion have you reached?”

“That you are rushing madly into the undertaking, and that you would do

well to think it over again. It is more than possible that Varvara

Ardalionovna is right.”

“Ah! now you begin to moralize! I know that I am only a child, very

well,” replied Gania impatiently. “That is proved by my having this

conversation with you. It is not for money only, prince, that I am

rushing into this affair,” he continued, hardly master of his words, so

closely had his vanity been touched. “If I reckoned on that I should

certainly be deceived, for I am still too weak in mind and character. I

am obeying a passion, an impulse perhaps, because I have but one aim,

one that overmasters all else. You imagine that once I am in possession

of these seventy-five thousand roubles, I shall rush to buy a

carriage... No, I shall go on wearing the old overcoat I have worn for

three years, and I shall give up my club. I shall follow the example of

men who have made their fortunes. When Ptitsin was seventeen he slept

in the street, he sold pen-knives, and began with a copeck; now he has

sixty thousand roubles, but to get them, what has he not done? Well, I

shall be spared such a hard beginning, and shall start with a little

capital. In fifteen years people will say, ‘Look, that’s Ivolgin, the

king of the Jews!’ You say that I have no originality. Now mark this,

prince—there is nothing so offensive to a man of our time and race than

to be told that he is wanting in originality, that he is weak in

character, has no particular talent, and is, in short, an ordinary

person. You have not even done me the honour of looking upon me as a

rogue. Do you know, I could have knocked you down for that just now!

You wounded me more cruelly than Epanchin, who thinks me capable of

selling him my wife! Observe, it was a perfectly gratuitous idea on his

part, seeing there has never been any discussion of it between us! This

has exasperated me, and I am determined to make a fortune! I will do

it! Once I am rich, I shall be a genius, an extremely original man. One

of the vilest and most hateful things connected with money is that it

can buy even talent; and will do so as long as the world lasts. You

will say that this is childish—or romantic. Well, that will be all the

better for me, but the thing shall be done. I will carry it through. He

laughs most, who laughs last. Why does Epanchin insult me? Simply

because, socially, I am a nobody. However, enough for the present.

Colia has put his nose in to tell us dinner is ready, twice. I’m dining

out. I shall come and talk to you now and then; you shall be

comfortable enough with us. They are sure to make you one of the

family. I think you and I will either be great friends or enemies. Look

here now, supposing I had kissed your hand just now, as I offered to do

in all sincerity, should I have hated you for it afterwards?”

“Certainly, but not always. You would not have been able to keep it up,

and would have ended by forgiving me,” said the prince, after a pause

for reflection, and with a pleasant smile.

“Oho, how careful one has to be with you, prince! Haven’t you put a

drop of poison in that remark now, eh? By the way—ha, ha, ha!—I forgot

to ask, was I right in believing that you were a good deal struck

yourself with Nastasia Philipovna.”

“Ye-yes.”

“Are you in love with her?”

“N-no.”

“And yet you flush up as red as a rosebud! Come—it’s all right. I’m not

going to laugh at you. Do you know she is a very virtuous woman?

Believe it or not, as you like. You think she and Totski—not a bit of

it, not a bit of it! Not for ever so long! _Au revoir!_”

Gania left the room in great good humour. The prince stayed behind, and

meditated alone for a few minutes. At length, Colia popped his head in

once more.

“I don’t want any dinner, thanks, Colia. I had too good a lunch at

General Epanchin’s.”

Colia came into the room and gave the prince a note; it was from the

general and was carefully sealed up. It was clear from Colia’s face how

painful it was to him to deliver the missive. The prince read it, rose,

and took his hat.

“It’s only a couple of yards,” said Colia, blushing.

“He’s sitting there over his bottle—and how they can give him credit, I

cannot understand. Don’t tell mother I brought you the note, prince; I

have sworn not to do it a thousand times, but I’m always so sorry for

him. Don’t stand on ceremony, give him some trifle, and let that end

it.”

“Come along, Colia, I want to see your father. I have an idea,” said

the prince.

XII.

Colia took the prince to a public-house in the Litaynaya, not far off.

In one of the side rooms there sat at a table—looking like one of the

regular guests of the establishment—Ardalion Alexandrovitch, with a

bottle before him, and a newspaper on his knee. He was waiting for the

prince, and no sooner did the latter appear than he began a long

harangue about something or other; but so far gone was he that the

prince could hardly understand a word.

“I have not got a ten-rouble note,” said the prince; “but here is a

twenty-five. Change it and give me back the fifteen, or I shall be left

without a farthing myself.”

“Oh, of course, of course; and you quite understand that I—”

“Yes; and I have another request to make, general. Have you ever been

at Nastasia Philipovna’s?”

“I? I? Do you mean me? Often, my friend, often! I only pretended I had

not in order to avoid a painful subject. You saw today, you were a

witness, that I did all that a kind, an indulgent father could do. Now

a father of altogether another type shall step into the scene. You

shall see; the old soldier shall lay bare this intrigue, or a shameless

woman will force her way into a respectable and noble family.”

“Yes, quite so. I wished to ask you whether you could show me the way

to Nastasia Philipovna’s tonight. I must go; I have business with her;

I was not invited but I was introduced. Anyhow I am ready to trespass

the laws of propriety if only I can get in somehow or other.”

“My dear young friend, you have hit on my very idea. It was not for

this rubbish I asked you to come over here” (he pocketed the money,

however, at this point), “it was to invite your alliance in the

campaign against Nastasia Philipovna tonight. How well it sounds,

‘General Ivolgin and Prince Muishkin.’ That’ll fetch her, I think, eh?

Capital! We’ll go at nine; there’s time yet.”

“Where does she live?”

“Oh, a long way off, near the Great Theatre, just in the square

there—It won’t be a large party.”

The general sat on and on. He had ordered a fresh bottle when the

prince arrived; this took him an hour to drink, and then he had

another, and another, during the consumption of which he told pretty

nearly the whole story of his life. The prince was in despair. He felt

that though he had but applied to this miserable old drunkard because

he saw no other way of getting to Nastasia Philipovna’s, yet he had

been very wrong to put the slightest confidence in such a man.

At last he rose and declared that he would wait no longer. The general

rose too, drank the last drops that he could squeeze out of the bottle,

and staggered into the street.

Muishkin began to despair. He could not imagine how he had been so

foolish as to trust this man. He only wanted one thing, and that was to

get to Nastasia Philipovna’s, even at the cost of a certain amount of

impropriety. But now the scandal threatened to be more than he had

bargained for. By this time Ardalion Alexandrovitch was quite

intoxicated, and he kept his companion listening while he discoursed

eloquently and pathetically on subjects of all kinds, interspersed with

torrents of recrimination against the members of his family. He

insisted that all his troubles were caused by their bad conduct, and

time alone would put an end to them.

At last they reached the Litaynaya. The thaw increased steadily, a

warm, unhealthy wind blew through the streets, vehicles splashed

through the mud, and the iron shoes of horses and mules rang on the

paving stones. Crowds of melancholy people plodded wearily along the

footpaths, with here and there a drunken man among them.

“Do you see those brightly-lighted windows?” said the general. “Many of

my old comrades-in-arms live about here, and I, who served longer, and

suffered more than any of them, am walking on foot to the house of a

woman of rather questionable reputation! A man, look you, who has

thirteen bullets on his breast!... You don’t believe it? Well, I can

assure you it was entirely on my account that Pirogoff telegraphed to

Paris, and left Sebastopol at the greatest risk during the siege.

Nelaton, the Tuileries surgeon, demanded a safe conduct, in the name of

science, into the besieged city in order to attend my wounds. The

government knows all about it. ‘That’s the Ivolgin with thirteen

bullets in him!’ That’s how they speak of me.... Do you see that house,

prince? One of my old friends lives on the first floor, with his large

family. In this and five other houses, three overlooking Nevsky, two in

the Morskaya, are all that remain of my personal friends. Nina

Alexandrovna gave them up long ago, but I keep in touch with them

still... I may say I find refreshment in this little coterie, in thus

meeting my old acquaintances and subordinates, who worship me still, in

spite of all. General Sokolovitch (by the way, I have not called on him

lately, or seen Anna Fedorovna)... You know, my dear prince, when a

person does not receive company himself, he gives up going to other

people’s houses involuntarily. And yet... well... you look as if you

didn’t believe me.... Well now, why should I not present the son of my

old friend and companion to this delightful family—General Ivolgin and

Prince Muishkin? You will see a lovely girl—what am I saying—a lovely

girl? No, indeed, two, three! Ornaments of this city and of society:

beauty, education, culture—the woman question—poetry—everything! Added

to which is the fact that each one will have a dot of at least eighty

thousand roubles. No bad thing, eh?... In a word I absolutely must

introduce you to them: it is a duty, an obligation. General Ivolgin and

Prince Muishkin. Tableau!”

“At once? Now? You must have forgotten...” began the prince.

“No, I have forgotten nothing. Come! This is the house—up this

magnificent staircase. I am surprised not to see the porter, but ....

it is a holiday... and the man has gone off... Drunken fool! Why have

they not got rid of him? Sokolovitch owes all the happiness he has had

in the service and in his private life to me, and me alone, but... here

we are.”

The prince followed quietly, making no further objection for fear of

irritating the old man. At the same time he fervently hoped that

General Sokolovitch and his family would fade away like a mirage in the

desert, so that the visitors could escape, by merely returning

downstairs. But to his horror he saw that General Ivolgin was quite

familiar with the house, and really seemed to have friends there. At

every step he named some topographical or biographical detail that left

nothing to be desired on the score of accuracy. When they arrived at

last, on the first floor, and the general turned to ring the bell to

the right, the prince decided to run away, but a curious incident

stopped him momentarily.

“You have made a mistake, general,” said he. “The name on the door is

Koulakoff, and you were going to see General Sokolovitch.”

“Koulakoff... Koulakoff means nothing. This is Sokolovitch’s flat, and

I am ringing at his door.... What do I care for Koulakoff?... Here

comes someone to open.”

In fact, the door opened directly, and the footman informed the

visitors that the family were all away.

“What a pity! What a pity! It’s just my luck!” repeated Ardalion

Alexandrovitch over and over again, in regretful tones. “When your

master and mistress return, my man, tell them that General Ivolgin and

Prince Muishkin desired to present themselves, and that they were

extremely sorry, excessively grieved...”

Just then another person belonging to the household was seen at the

back of the hall. It was a woman of some forty years, dressed in sombre

colours, probably a housekeeper or a governess. Hearing the names she

came forward with a look of suspicion on her face.

“Marie Alexandrovna is not at home,” said she, staring hard at the

general. “She has gone to her mother’s, with Alexandra Michailovna.”

“Alexandra Michailovna out, too! How disappointing! Would you believe

it, I am always so unfortunate! May I most respectfully ask you to

present my compliments to Alexandra Michailovna, and remind her... tell

her, that with my whole heart I wish for her what she wished for

herself on Thursday evening, while she was listening to Chopin’s

Ballade. She will remember. I wish it with all sincerity. General

Ivolgin and Prince Muishkin!”

The woman’s face changed; she lost her suspicious expression.

“I will not fail to deliver your message,” she replied, and bowed them

out.

As they went downstairs the general regretted repeatedly that he had

failed to introduce the prince to his friends.

“You know I am a bit of a poet,” said he. “Have you noticed it? The

poetic soul, you know.” Then he added suddenly—“But after all... after

all I believe we made a mistake this time! I remember that the

Sokolovitch’s live in another house, and what is more, they are just

now in Moscow. Yes, I certainly was at fault. However, it is of no

consequence.”

“Just tell me,” said the prince in reply, “may I count still on your

assistance? Or shall I go on alone to see Nastasia Philipovna?”

“Count on my assistance? Go alone? How can you ask me that question,

when it is a matter on which the fate of my family so largely depends?

You don’t know Ivolgin, my friend. To trust Ivolgin is to trust a rock;

that’s how the first squadron I commanded spoke of me. ‘Depend upon

Ivolgin,’ said they all, ‘he is as steady as a rock.’ But, excuse me, I

must just call at a house on our way, a house where I have found

consolation and help in all my trials for years.”

“You are going home?”

“No... I wish... to visit Madame Terentieff, the widow of Captain

Terentieff, my old subordinate and friend. She helps me to keep up my

courage, and to bear the trials of my domestic life, and as I have an

extra burden on my mind today...”

“It seems to me,” interrupted the prince, “that I was foolish to

trouble you just now. However, at present you... Good-bye!”

“Indeed, you must not go away like that, young man, you must not!”

cried the general. “My friend here is a widow, the mother of a family;

her words come straight from her heart, and find an echo in mine. A

visit to her is merely an affair of a few minutes; I am quite at home

in her house. I will have a wash, and dress, and then we can drive to

the Grand Theatre. Make up your mind to spend the evening with me....

We are just there—that’s the house... Why, Colia! you here! Well, is

Marfa Borisovna at home or have you only just come?”

“Oh no! I have been here a long while,” replied Colia, who was at the

front door when the general met him. “I am keeping Hippolyte company.

He is worse, and has been in bed all day. I came down to buy some

cards. Marfa Borisovna expects you. But what a state you are in,

father!” added the boy, noticing his father’s unsteady gait. “Well, let

us go in.”

On meeting Colia the prince determined to accompany the general, though

he made up his mind to stay as short a time as possible. He wanted

Colia, but firmly resolved to leave the general behind. He could not

forgive himself for being so simple as to imagine that Ivolgin would be

of any use. The three climbed up the long staircase until they reached

the fourth floor where Madame Terentieff lived.

“You intend to introduce the prince?” asked Colia, as they went up.

“Yes, my boy. I wish to present him: General Ivolgin and Prince

Muishkin! But what’s the matter?... what?... How is Marfa Borisovna?”

“You know, father, you would have done much better not to come at all!

She is ready to eat you up! You have not shown yourself since the day

before yesterday and she is expecting the money. Why did you promise

her any? You are always the same! Well, now you will have to get out of

it as best you can.”

They stopped before a somewhat low doorway on the fourth floor.

Ardalion Alexandrovitch, evidently much out of countenance, pushed

Muishkin in front.

“I will wait here,” he stammered. “I should like to surprise her. ....”

Colia entered first, and as the door stood open, the mistress of the

house peeped out. The surprise of the general’s imagination fell very

flat, for she at once began to address him in terms of reproach.

Marfa Borisovna was about forty years of age. She wore a

dressing-jacket, her feet were in slippers, her face painted, and her

hair was in dozens of small plaits. No sooner did she catch sight of

Ardalion Alexandrovitch than she screamed:

“There he is, that wicked, mean wretch! I knew it was he! My heart

misgave me!”

The old man tried to put a good face on the affair.

“Come, let us go in—it’s all right,” he whispered in the prince’s ear.

But it was more serious than he wished to think. As soon as the

visitors had crossed the low dark hall, and entered the narrow

reception-room, furnished with half a dozen cane chairs, and two small

card-tables, Madame Terentieff, in the shrill tones habitual to her,

continued her stream of invectives.

“Are you not ashamed? Are you not ashamed? You barbarian! You tyrant!

You have robbed me of all I possessed—you have sucked my bones to the

marrow. How long shall I be your victim? Shameless, dishonourable man!”

“Marfa Borisovna! Marfa Borisovna! Here is... the Prince Muishkin!

General Ivolgin and Prince Muishkin,” stammered the disconcerted old

man.

“Would you believe,” said the mistress of the house, suddenly

addressing the prince, “would you believe that that man has not even

spared my orphan children? He has stolen everything I possessed, sold

everything, pawned everything; he has left me nothing—nothing! What am

I to do with your IOU’s, you cunning, unscrupulous rogue? Answer,

devourer! answer, heart of stone! How shall I feed my orphans? with

what shall I nourish them? And now he has come, he is drunk! He can

scarcely stand. How, oh how, have I offended the Almighty, that He

should bring this curse upon me! Answer, you worthless villain,

answer!”

But this was too much for the general.

“Here are twenty-five roubles, Marfa Borisovna... it is all that I can

give... and I owe even these to the prince’s generosity—my noble

friend. I have been cruelly deceived. Such is... life... Now... Excuse

me, I am very weak,” he continued, standing in the centre of the room,

and bowing to all sides. “I am faint; excuse me! Lenotchka... a

cushion... my dear!”