That there was, indeed, beauty and harmony in those abnormal moments,

that they really contained the highest synthesis of life, he could not

doubt, nor even admit the possibility of doubt. He felt that they were

not analogous to the fantastic and unreal dreams due to intoxication by

hashish, opium or wine. Of that he could judge, when the attack was

over. These instants were characterized—to define it in a word—by an

intense quickening of the sense of personality. Since, in the last

conscious moment preceding the attack, he could say to himself, with

full understanding of his words: “I would give my whole life for this

one instant,” then doubtless to him it really was worth a lifetime. For

the rest, he thought the dialectical part of his argument of little

worth; he saw only too clearly that the result of these ecstatic

moments was stupefaction, mental darkness, idiocy. No argument was

possible on that point. His conclusion, his estimate of the “moment,”

doubtless contained some error, yet the reality of the sensation

troubled him. What’s more unanswerable than a fact? And this fact had

occurred. The prince had confessed unreservedly to himself that the

feeling of intense beatitude in that crowded moment made the moment

worth a lifetime. “I feel then,” he said one day to Rogojin in Moscow,

“I feel then as if I understood those amazing words—‘There shall be no

more time.’” And he added with a smile: “No doubt the epileptic Mahomet

refers to that same moment when he says that he visited all the

dwellings of Allah, in less time than was needed to empty his pitcher

of water.” Yes, he had often met Rogojin in Moscow, and many were the

subjects they discussed. “He told me I had been a brother to him,”

thought the prince. “He said so today, for the first time.”

He was sitting in the Summer Garden on a seat under a tree, and his

mind dwelt on the matter. It was about seven o’clock, and the place was

empty. The stifling atmosphere foretold a storm, and the prince felt a

certain charm in the contemplative mood which possessed him. He found

pleasure, too, in gazing at the exterior objects around him. All the

time he was trying to forget some thing, to escape from some idea that

haunted him; but melancholy thoughts came back, though he would so

willingly have escaped from them. He remembered suddenly how he had

been talking to the waiter, while he dined, about a recently committed

murder which the whole town was discussing, and as he thought of it

something strange came over him. He was seized all at once by a violent

desire, almost a temptation, against which he strove in vain.

He jumped up and walked off as fast as he could towards the “Petersburg

Side.” [One of the quarters of St. Petersburg.] He had asked someone, a

little while before, to show him which was the Petersburg Side, on the

banks of the Neva. He had not gone there, however; and he knew very

well that it was of no use to go now, for he would certainly not find

Lebedeff’s relation at home. He had the address, but she must certainly

have gone to Pavlofsk, or Colia would have let him know. If he were to

go now, it would merely be out of curiosity, but a sudden, new idea had

come into his head.

However, it was something to move on and know where he was going. A

minute later he was still moving on, but without knowing anything. He

could no longer think out his new idea. He tried to take an interest in

all he saw; in the sky, in the Neva. He spoke to some children he met.

He felt his epileptic condition becoming more and more developed. The

evening was very close; thunder was heard some way off.

The prince was haunted all that day by the face of Lebedeff’s nephew

whom he had seen for the first time that morning, just as one is

haunted at times by some persistent musical refrain. By a curious

association of ideas, the young man always appeared as the murderer of

whom Lebedeff had spoken when introducing him to Muishkin. Yes, he had

read something about the murder, and that quite recently. Since he came

to Russia, he had heard many stories of this kind, and was interested

in them. His conversation with the waiter, an hour ago, chanced to be

on the subject of this murder of the Zemarins, and the latter had

agreed with him about it. He thought of the waiter again, and decided

that he was no fool, but a steady, intelligent man: though, said he to

himself, “God knows what he may really be; in a country with which one

is unfamiliar it is difficult to understand the people one meets.” He

was beginning to have a passionate faith in the Russian soul, however,

and what discoveries he had made in the last six months, what

unexpected discoveries! But every soul is a mystery, and depths of

mystery lie in the soul of a Russian. He had been intimate with

Rogojin, for example, and a brotherly friendship had sprung up between

them—yet did he really know him? What chaos and ugliness fills the

world at times! What a self-satisfied rascal is that nephew of

Lebedeff’s! “But what am I thinking,” continued the prince to himself.

“Can he really have committed that crime? Did he kill those six

persons? I seem to be confusing things... how strange it all is.... My

head goes round... And Lebedeff’s daughter—how sympathetic and charming

her face was as she held the child in her arms! What an innocent look

and child-like laugh she had! It is curious that I had forgotten her

until now. I expect Lebedeff adores her—and I really believe, when I

think of it, that as sure as two and two make four, he is fond of that

nephew, too!”

Well, why should he judge them so hastily! Could he really say what

they were, after one short visit? Even Lebedeff seemed an enigma today.

Did he expect to find him so? He had never seen him like that before.

Lebedeff and the Comtesse du Barry! Good Heavens! If Rogojin should

really kill someone, it would not, at any rate, be such a senseless,

chaotic affair. A knife made to a special pattern, and six people

killed in a kind of delirium. But Rogojin also had a knife made to a

special pattern. Can it be that Rogojin wishes to murder anyone? The

prince began to tremble violently. “It is a crime on my part to imagine

anything so base, with such cynical frankness.” His face reddened with

shame at the thought; and then there came across him as in a flash the

memory of the incidents at the Pavlofsk station, and at the other

station in the morning; and the question asked him by Rogojin about

_the eyes_ and Rogojin’s cross, that he was even now wearing; and the

benediction of Rogojin’s mother; and his embrace on the darkened

staircase—that last supreme renunciation—and now, to find himself full

of this new “idea,” staring into shop-windows, and looking round for

things—how base he was!

Despair overmastered his soul; he would not go on, he would go back to

his hotel; he even turned and went the other way; but a moment after he

changed his mind again and went on in the old direction.

Why, here he was on the Petersburg Side already, quite close to the

house! Where was his “idea”? He was marching along without it now. Yes,

his malady was coming back, it was clear enough; all this gloom and

heaviness, all these “ideas,” were nothing more nor less than a fit

coming on; perhaps he would have a fit this very day.

But just now all the gloom and darkness had fled, his heart felt full

of joy and hope, there was no such thing as doubt. And yes, he hadn’t

seen her for so long; he really must see her. He wished he could meet

Rogojin; he would take his hand, and they would go to her together. His

heart was pure, he was no rival of Parfen’s. Tomorrow, he would go and

tell him that he had seen her. Why, he had only come for the sole

purpose of seeing her, all the way from Moscow! Perhaps she might be

here still, who knows? She might not have gone away to Pavlofsk yet.

Yes, all this must be put straight and above-board, there must be no

more passionate renouncements, such as Rogojin’s. It must all be clear

as day. Cannot Rogojin’s soul bear the light? He said he did not love

her with sympathy and pity; true, he added that “your pity is greater

than my love,” but he was not quite fair on himself there. Kin! Rogojin

reading a book—wasn’t that sympathy beginning? Did it not show that he

comprehended his relations with her? And his story of waiting day and

night for her forgiveness? That didn’t look quite like passion alone.

And as to her face, could it inspire nothing but passion? Could her

face inspire passion at all now? Oh, it inspired suffering, grief,

overwhelming grief of the soul! A poignant, agonizing memory swept over

the prince’s heart.

Yes, agonizing. He remembered how he had suffered that first day when

he thought he observed in her the symptoms of madness. He had almost

fallen into despair. How could he have lost his hold upon her when she

ran away from him to Rogojin? He ought to have run after her himself,

rather than wait for news as he had done. Can Rogojin have failed to

observe, up to now, that she is mad? Rogojin attributes her strangeness

to other causes, to passion! What insane jealousy! What was it he had

hinted at in that suggestion of his? The prince suddenly blushed, and

shuddered to his very heart.

But why recall all this? There was insanity on both sides. For him, the

prince, to love this woman with passion, was unthinkable. It would be

cruel and inhuman. Yes. Rogojin is not fair to himself; he has a large

heart; he has aptitude for sympathy. When he learns the truth, and

finds what a pitiable being is this injured, broken, half-insane

creature, he will forgive her all the torment she has caused him. He

will become her slave, her brother, her friend. Compassion will teach

even Rogojin, it will show him how to reason. Compassion is the chief

law of human existence. Oh, how guilty he felt towards Rogojin! And,

for a few warm, hasty words spoken in Moscow, Parfen had called him

“brother,” while he—but no, this was delirium! It would all come right!

That gloomy Parfen had implied that his faith was waning; he must

suffer dreadfully. He said he liked to look at that picture; it was not

that he liked it, but he felt the need of looking at it. Rogojin was

not merely a passionate soul; he was a fighter. He was fighting for the

restoration of his dying faith. He must have something to hold on to

and believe, and someone to believe in. What a strange picture that of

Holbein’s is! Why, this is the street, and here’s the house, No. 16.

The prince rang the bell, and asked for Nastasia Philipovna. The lady

of the house came out, and stated that Nastasia had gone to stay with

Daria Alexeyevna at Pavlofsk, and might be there some days.

Madame Filisoff was a little woman of forty, with a cunning face, and

crafty, piercing eyes. When, with an air of mystery, she asked her

visitor’s name, he refused at first to answer, but in a moment he

changed his mind, and left strict instructions that it should be given

to Nastasia Philipovna. The urgency of his request seemed to impress

Madame Filisoff, and she put on a knowing expression, as if to say,

“You need not be afraid, I quite understand.” The prince’s name

evidently was a great surprise to her. He stood and looked absently at

her for a moment, then turned, and took the road back to his hotel. But

he went away not as he came. A great change had suddenly come over him.

He went blindly forward; his knees shook under him; he was tormented by

“ideas”; his lips were blue, and trembled with a feeble, meaningless

smile. His demon was upon him once more.

What had happened to him? Why was his brow clammy with drops of

moisture, his knees shaking beneath him, and his soul oppressed with a

cold gloom? Was it because he had just seen these dreadful eyes again?

Why, he had left the Summer Garden on purpose to see them; that had

been his “idea.” He had wished to assure himself that he would see them

once more at that house. Then why was he so overwhelmed now, having

seen them as he expected? just as though he had not expected to see

them! Yes, they were the very same eyes; and no doubt about it. The

same that he had seen in the crowd that morning at the station, the

same that he had surprised in Rogojin’s rooms some hours later, when

the latter had replied to his inquiry with a sneering laugh, “Well,

whose eyes were they?” Then for the third time they had appeared just

as he was getting into the train on his way to see Aglaya. He had had a

strong impulse to rush up to Rogojin, and repeat his words of the

morning “Whose eyes are they?” Instead he had fled from the station,

and knew nothing more, until he found himself gazing into the window of

a cutler’s shop, and wondering if a knife with a staghorn handle would

cost more than sixty copecks. And as the prince sat dreaming in the

Summer Garden under a lime-tree, a wicked demon had come and whispered

in his car: “Rogojin has been spying upon you and watching you all the

morning in a frenzy of desperation. When he finds you have not gone to

Pavlofsk—a terrible discovery for him—he will surely go at once to that

house in Petersburg Side, and watch for you there, although only this

morning you gave your word of honour not to see _her_, and swore that

you had not come to Petersburg for that purpose.” And thereupon the

prince had hastened off to that house, and what was there in the fact

that he had met Rogojin there? He had only seen a wretched, suffering

creature, whose state of mind was gloomy and miserable, but most

comprehensible. In the morning Rogojin had seemed to be trying to keep

out of the way; but at the station this afternoon he had stood out, he

had concealed himself, indeed, less than the prince himself; at the

house, now, he had stood fifty yards off on the other side of the road,

with folded hands, watching, plainly in view and apparently desirous of

being seen. He had stood there like an accuser, like a judge, not like

a—a what?

And why had not the prince approached him and spoken to him, instead of

turning away and pretending he had seen nothing, although their eyes

met? (Yes, their eyes had met, and they had looked at each other.) Why,

he had himself wished to take Rogojin by the hand and go in together,

he had himself determined to go to him on the morrow and tell him that

he had seen her, he had repudiated the demon as he walked to the house,

and his heart had been full of joy.

Was there something in the whole aspect of the man, today, sufficient

to justify the prince’s terror, and the awful suspicions of his demon?

Something seen, but indescribable, which filled him with dreadful

presentiments? Yes, he was convinced of it—convinced of what? (Oh, how

mean and hideous of him to feel this conviction, this presentiment! How

he blamed himself for it!) “Speak if you dare, and tell me, what is the

presentiment?” he repeated to himself, over and over again. “Put it

into words, speak out clearly and distinctly. Oh, miserable coward that

I am!” The prince flushed with shame for his own baseness. “How shall I

ever look this man in the face again? My God, what a day! And what a

nightmare, what a nightmare!”

There was a moment, during this long, wretched walk back from the

Petersburg Side, when the prince felt an irresistible desire to go

straight to Rogojin’s, wait for him, embrace him with tears of shame

and contrition, and tell him of his distrust, and finish with it—once

for all.

But here he was back at his hotel.

How often during the day he had thought of this hotel with loathing—its

corridor, its rooms, its stairs. How he had dreaded coming back to it,

for some reason.

“What a regular old woman I am today,” he had said to himself each

time, with annoyance. “I believe in every foolish presentiment that

comes into my head.”

He stopped for a moment at the door; a great flush of shame came over

him. “I am a coward, a wretched coward,” he said, and moved forward

again; but once more he paused.

Among all the incidents of the day, one recurred to his mind to the

exclusion of the rest; although now that his self-control was regained,

and he was no longer under the influence of a nightmare, he was able to

think of it calmly. It concerned the knife on Rogojin’s table. “Why

should not Rogojin have as many knives on his table as he chooses?”

thought the prince, wondering at his suspicions, as he had done when he

found himself looking into the cutler’s window. “What could it have to

do with me?” he said to himself again, and stopped as if rooted to the

ground by a kind of paralysis of limb such as attacks people under the

stress of some humiliating recollection.

The doorway was dark and gloomy at any time; but just at this moment it

was rendered doubly so by the fact that the thunder-storm had just

broken, and the rain was coming down in torrents.

And in the semi-darkness the prince distinguished a man standing close

to the stairs, apparently waiting.

There was nothing particularly significant in the fact that a man was

standing back in the doorway, waiting to come out or go upstairs; but

the prince felt an irresistible conviction that he knew this man, and

that it was Rogojin. The man moved on up the stairs; a moment later the

prince passed up them, too. His heart froze within him. “In a minute or

two I shall know all,” he thought.

The staircase led to the first and second corridors of the hotel, along

which lay the guests’ bedrooms. As is often the case in Petersburg

houses, it was narrow and very dark, and turned around a massive stone

column.

On the first landing, which was as small as the necessary turn of the

stairs allowed, there was a niche in the column, about half a yard

wide, and in this niche the prince felt convinced that a man stood

concealed. He thought he could distinguish a figure standing there. He

would pass by quickly and not look. He took a step forward, but could

bear the uncertainty no longer and turned his head.

The eyes—the same two eyes—met his! The man concealed in the niche had

also taken a step forward. For one second they stood face to face.

Suddenly the prince caught the man by the shoulder and twisted him

round towards the light, so that he might see his face more clearly.

Rogojin’s eyes flashed, and a smile of insanity distorted his

countenance. His right hand was raised, and something glittered in it.

The prince did not think of trying to stop it. All he could remember

afterwards was that he seemed to have called out:

“Parfen! I won’t believe it.”

Next moment something appeared to burst open before him: a wonderful

inner light illuminated his soul. This lasted perhaps half a second,

yet he distinctly remembered hearing the beginning of the wail, the

strange, dreadful wail, which burst from his lips of its own accord,

and which no effort of will on his part could suppress.

Next moment he was absolutely unconscious; black darkness blotted out

everything.

He had fallen in an epileptic fit.

As is well known, these fits occur instantaneously. The face,

especially the eyes, become terribly disfigured, convulsions seize the

limbs, a terrible cry breaks from the sufferer, a wail from which

everything human seems to be blotted out, so that it is impossible to

believe that the man who has just fallen is the same who emitted the

dreadful cry. It seems more as though some other being, inside the

stricken one, had cried. Many people have borne witness to this

impression; and many cannot behold an epileptic fit without a feeling

of mysterious terror and dread.

Such a feeling, we must suppose, overtook Rogojin at this moment, and

saved the prince’s life. Not knowing that it was a fit, and seeing his

victim disappear head foremost into the darkness, hearing his head

strike the stone steps below with a crash, Rogojin rushed downstairs,

skirting the body, and flung himself headlong out of the hotel, like a

raving madman.

The prince’s body slipped convulsively down the steps till it rested at

the bottom. Very soon, in five minutes or so, he was discovered, and a

crowd collected around him.

A pool of blood on the steps near his head gave rise to grave fears.

Was it a case of accident, or had there been a crime? It was, however,

soon recognized as a case of epilepsy, and identification and proper

measures for restoration followed one another, owing to a fortunate

circumstance. Colia Ivolgin had come back to his hotel about seven

o’clock, owing to a sudden impulse which made him refuse to dine at the

Epanchins’, and, finding a note from the prince awaiting him, had sped

away to the latter’s address. Arrived there, he ordered a cup of tea

and sat sipping it in the coffee-room. While there he heard excited

whispers of someone just found at the bottom of the stairs in a fit;

upon which he had hurried to the spot, with a presentiment of evil, and

at once recognized the prince.

The sufferer was immediately taken to his room, and though he partially

regained consciousness, he lay long in a semi-dazed condition.

The doctor stated that there was no danger to be apprehended from the

wound on the head, and as soon as the prince could understand what was

going on around him, Colia hired a carriage and took him away to

Lebedeff’s. There he was received with much cordiality, and the

departure to the country was hastened on his account. Three days later

they were all at Pavlofsk.

VI.

Lebedeff’s country-house was not large, but it was pretty and

convenient, especially the part which was let to the prince.

A row of orange and lemon trees and jasmines, planted in green tubs,

stood on the fairly wide terrace. According to Lebedeff, these trees

gave the house a most delightful aspect. Some were there when he bought

it, and he was so charmed with the effect that he promptly added to

their number. When the tubs containing these plants arrived at the

villa and were set in their places, Lebedeff kept running into the

street to enjoy the view of the house, and every time he did so the

rent to be demanded from the future tenant went up with a bound.

This country villa pleased the prince very much in his state of

physical and mental exhaustion. On the day that they left for Pavlofsk,

that is the day after his attack, he appeared almost well, though in

reality he felt very far from it. The faces of those around him for the

last three days had made a pleasant impression. He was pleased to see,

not only Colia, who had become his inseparable companion, but Lebedeff

himself and all the family, except the nephew, who had left the house.

He was also glad to receive a visit from General Ivolgin, before

leaving St. Petersburg.

It was getting late when the party arrived at Pavlofsk, but several

people called to see the prince, and assembled in the verandah. Gania

was the first to arrive. He had grown so pale and thin that the prince

could hardly recognize him. Then came Varia and Ptitsin, who were

rusticating in the neighbourhood. As to General Ivolgin, he scarcely

budged from Lebedeff’s house, and seemed to have moved to Pavlofsk with

him. Lebedeff did his best to keep Ardalion Alexandrovitch by him, and

to prevent him from invading the prince’s quarters. He chatted with him

confidentially, so that they might have been taken for old friends.

During those three days the prince had noticed that they frequently

held long conversations; he often heard their voices raised in argument

on deep and learned subjects, which evidently pleased Lebedeff. He

seemed as if he could not do without the general. But it was not only

Ardalion Alexandrovitch whom Lebedeff kept out of the prince’s way.

Since they had come to the villa, he treated his own family the same.

Upon the pretext that his tenant needed quiet, he kept him almost in

isolation, and Muishkin protested in vain against this excess of zeal.

Lebedeff stamped his feet at his daughters and drove them away if they

attempted to join the prince on the terrace; not even Vera was

excepted.

“They will lose all respect if they are allowed to be so free and easy;

besides it is not proper for them,” he declared at last, in answer to a

direct question from the prince.

“Why on earth not?” asked the latter. “Really, you know, you are making

yourself a nuisance, by keeping guard over me like this. I get bored

all by myself; I have told you so over and over again, and you get on

my nerves more than ever by waving your hands and creeping in and out

in the mysterious way you do.”

It was a fact that Lebedeff, though he was so anxious to keep everyone

else from disturbing the patient, was continually in and out of the

prince’s room himself. He invariably began by opening the door a crack

and peering in to see if the prince was there, or if he had escaped;

then he would creep softly up to the arm-chair, sometimes making

Muishkin jump by his sudden appearance. He always asked if the patient

wanted anything, and when the latter replied that he only wanted to be

left in peace, he would turn away obediently and make for the door on

tip-toe, with deprecatory gestures to imply that he had only just

looked in, that he would not speak a word, and would go away and not

intrude again; which did not prevent him from reappearing in ten

minutes or a quarter of an hour. Colia had free access to the prince,

at which Lebedeff was quite disgusted and indignant. He would listen at

the door for half an hour at a time while the two were talking. Colia

found this out, and naturally told the prince of his discovery.

“Do you think yourself my master, that you try to keep me under lock

and key like this?” said the prince to Lebedeff. “In the country, at

least, I intend to be free, and you may make up your mind that I mean

to see whom I like, and go where I please.”

“Why, of course,” replied the clerk, gesticulating with his hands.

The prince looked him sternly up and down.

“Well, Lukian Timofeyovitch, have you brought the little cupboard that

you had at the head of your bed with you here?”

“No, I left it where it was.”

“Impossible!”

“It cannot be moved; you would have to pull the wall down, it is so

firmly fixed.”

“Perhaps you have one like it here?”

“I have one that is even better, much better; that is really why I

bought this house.”

“Ah! What visitor did you turn away from my door, about an hour ago?”

“The-the general. I would not let him in; there is no need for him to

visit you, prince... I have the deepest esteem for him, he is a—a great

man. You don’t believe it? Well, you will see, and yet, most excellent

prince, you had much better not receive him.”

“May I ask why? and also why you walk about on tiptoe and always seem

as if you were going to whisper a secret in my ear whenever you come

near me?”

“I am vile, vile; I know it!” cried Lebedeff, beating his breast with a

contrite air. “But will not the general be too hospitable for you?”

“Too hospitable?”

“Yes. First, he proposes to come and live in my house. Well and good;

but he sticks at nothing; he immediately makes himself one of the

family. We have talked over our respective relations several times, and

discovered that we are connected by marriage. It seems also that you

are a sort of nephew on his mother’s side; he was explaining it to me

again only yesterday. If you are his nephew, it follows that I must

also be a relation of yours, most excellent prince. Never mind about

that, it is only a foible; but just now he assured me that all his

life, from the day he was made an ensign to the 11th of last June, he

has entertained at least two hundred guests at his table every day.

Finally, he went so far as to say that they never rose from the table;

they dined, supped, and had tea, for fifteen hours at a stretch. This

went on for thirty years without a break; there was barely time to

change the table-cloth; directly one person left, another took his

place. On feast-days he entertained as many as three hundred guests,

and they numbered seven hundred on the thousandth anniversary of the

foundation of the Russian Empire. It amounts to a passion with him; it

makes one uneasy to hear of it. It is terrible to have to entertain

people who do things on such a scale. That is why I wonder whether such

a man is not too hospitable for you and me.”

“But you seem to be on the best of terms with him?”

“Quite fraternal—I look upon it as a joke. Let us be brothers-in-law,

it is all the same to me,—rather an honour than not. But in spite of

the two hundred guests and the thousandth anniversary of the Russian

Empire, I can see that he is a very remarkable man. I am quite sincere.

You said just now that I always looked as if I was going to tell you a

secret; you are right. I have a secret to tell you: a certain person

has just let me know that she is very anxious for a secret interview

with you.”

“Why should it be secret? Not at all; I will call on her myself

tomorrow.”

“No, oh no!” cried Lebedeff, waving his arms; “if she is afraid, it is

not for the reason you think. By the way, do you know that the monster

comes every day to inquire after your health?”

“You call him a monster so often that it makes me suspicious.”

“You must have no suspicions, none whatever,” said Lebedeff quickly. “I

only want you to know that the person in question is not afraid of him,

but of something quite, quite different.”

“What on earth is she afraid of, then? Tell me plainly, without any

more beating about the bush,” said the prince, exasperated by the

other’s mysterious grimaces.

“Ah that is the secret,” said Lebedeff, with a smile.

“Whose secret?”

“Yours. You forbade me yourself to mention it before you, most

excellent prince,” murmured Lebedeff. Then, satisfied that he had

worked up Muishkin’s curiosity to the highest pitch, he added abruptly:

“She is afraid of Aglaya Ivanovna.”

The prince frowned for a moment in silence, and then said suddenly:

“Really, Lebedeff, I must leave your house. Where are Gavrila

Ardalionovitch and the Ptitsins? Are they here? Have you chased them

away, too?”

“They are coming, they are coming; and the general as well. I will open

all the doors; I will call all my daughters, all of them, this very

minute,” said Lebedeff in a low voice, thoroughly frightened, and

waving his hands as he ran from door to door.

At that moment Colia appeared on the terrace; he announced that

Lizabetha Prokofievna and her three daughters were close behind him.

Moved by this news, Lebedeff hurried up to the prince.

“Shall I call the Ptitsins, and Gavrila Ardalionovitch? Shall I let the

general in?” he asked.

“Why not? Let in anyone who wants to see me. I assure you, Lebedeff,

you have misunderstood my position from the very first; you have been

wrong all along. I have not the slightest reason to hide myself from

anyone,” replied the prince gaily.

Seeing him laugh, Lebedeff thought fit to laugh also, and though much

agitated his satisfaction was quite visible.

Colia was right; the Epanchin ladies were only a few steps behind him.

As they approached the terrace other visitors appeared from Lebedeff’s

side of the house—the Ptitsins, Gania, and Ardalion Alexandrovitch.

The Epanchins had only just heard of the prince’s illness and of his

presence in Pavlofsk, from Colia; and up to this time had been in a

state of considerable bewilderment about him. The general brought the

prince’s card down from town, and Mrs. Epanchin had felt convinced that

he himself would follow his card at once; she was much excited.

In vain the girls assured her that a man who had not written for six

months would not be in such a dreadful hurry, and that probably he had

enough to do in town without needing to bustle down to Pavlofsk to see

them. Their mother was quite angry at the very idea of such a thing,

and announced her absolute conviction that he would turn up the next

day at latest.

So next day the prince was expected all the morning, and at dinner,

tea, and supper; and when he did not appear in the evening, Mrs.

Epanchin quarrelled with everyone in the house, finding plenty of

pretexts without so much as mentioning the prince’s name.

On the third day there was no talk of him at all, until Aglaya remarked

at dinner: “Mamma is cross because the prince hasn’t turned up,” to

which the general replied that it was not his fault.

Mrs. Epanchin misunderstood the observation, and rising from her place

she left the room in majestic wrath. In the evening, however, Colia

came with the story of the prince’s adventures, so far as he knew them.

Mrs. Epanchin was triumphant; although Colia had to listen to a long

lecture. “He idles about here the whole day long, one can’t get rid of

him; and then when he is wanted he does not come. He might have sent a

line if he did not wish to inconvenience himself.”

At the words “one can’t get rid of him,” Colia was very angry, and

nearly flew into a rage; but he resolved to be quiet for the time and

show his resentment later. If the words had been less offensive he

might have forgiven them, so pleased was he to see Lizabetha

Prokofievna worried and anxious about the prince’s illness.

She would have insisted on sending to Petersburg at once, for a certain

great medical celebrity; but her daughters dissuaded her, though they

were not willing to stay behind when she at once prepared to go and

visit the invalid. Aglaya, however, suggested that it was a little

unceremonious to go _en masse_ to see him.

“Very well then, stay at home,” said Mrs. Epanchin, “and a good thing

too, for Evgenie Pavlovitch is coming down and there will be no one at

home to receive him.”

Of course, after this, Aglaya went with the rest. In fact, she had

never had the slightest intention of doing otherwise.

Prince S., who was in the house, was requested to escort the ladies. He

had been much interested when he first heard of the prince from the

Epanchins. It appeared that they had known one another before, and had

spent some time together in a little provincial town three months ago.

Prince S. had greatly taken to him, and was delighted with the

opportunity of meeting him again.

The general had not come down from town as yet, nor had Evgenie

Pavlovitch arrived.

It was not more than two or three hundred yards from the Epanchins’

house to Lebedeff’s. The first disagreeable impression experienced by

Mrs. Epanchin was to find the prince surrounded by a whole assembly of

other guests—not to mention the fact that some of those present were

particularly detestable in her eyes. The next annoying circumstance was

when an apparently strong and healthy young fellow, well dressed, and

smiling, came forward to meet her on the terrace, instead of the

half-dying unfortunate whom she had expected to see.

She was astonished and vexed, and her disappointment pleased Colia

immensely. Of course he could have undeceived her before she started,

but the mischievous boy had been careful not to do that, foreseeing the

probably laughable disgust that she would experience when she found her

dear friend, the prince, in good health. Colia was indelicate enough to

voice the delight he felt at his success in managing to annoy Lizabetha

Prokofievna, with whom, in spite of their really amicable relations, he

was constantly sparring.

“Just wait a while, my boy!” said she; “don’t be too certain of your

triumph.” And she sat down heavily, in the arm-chair pushed forward by

the prince.

Lebedeff, Ptitsin, and General Ivolgin hastened to find chairs for the

young ladies. Varia greeted them joyfully, and they exchanged

confidences in ecstatic whispers.

“I must admit, prince, I was a little put out to see you up and about

like this—I expected to find you in bed; but I give you my word, I was

only annoyed for an instant, before I collected my thoughts properly. I

am always wiser on second thoughts, and I dare say you are the same. I

assure you I am as glad to see you well as though you were my own

son,—yes, and more; and if you don’t believe me the more shame to you,

and it’s not my fault. But that spiteful boy delights in playing all

sorts of tricks. You are his patron, it seems. Well, I warn you that

one fine morning I shall deprive myself of the pleasure of his further

acquaintance.”

“What have I done wrong now?” cried Colia. “What was the good of

telling you that the prince was nearly well again? You would not have

believed me; it was so much more interesting to picture him on his

death-bed.”

“How long do you remain here, prince?” asked Madame Epanchin.

“All the summer, and perhaps longer.”

“You are alone, aren’t you,—not married?”

“No, I’m not married!” replied the prince, smiling at the ingenuousness

of this little feeler.

“Oh, you needn’t laugh! These things do happen, you know! Now then—why

didn’t you come to us? We have a wing quite empty. But just as you

like, of course. Do you lease it from _him?_—this fellow, I mean,” she

added, nodding towards Lebedeff. “And why does he always wriggle so?”

At that moment Vera, carrying the baby in her arms as usual, came out

of the house, on to the terrace. Lebedeff kept fidgeting among the

chairs, and did not seem to know what to do with himself, though he had

no intention of going away. He no sooner caught sight of his daughter,

than he rushed in her direction, waving his arms to keep her away; he

even forgot himself so far as to stamp his foot.

“Is he mad?” asked Madame Epanchin suddenly.

“No, he...”

“Perhaps he is drunk? Your company is rather peculiar,” she added, with

a glance at the other guests....

“But what a pretty girl! Who is she?”

“That is Lebedeff’s daughter—Vera Lukianovna.”

“Indeed? She looks very sweet. I should like to make her acquaintance.”

The words were hardly out of her mouth, when Lebedeff dragged Vera

forward, in order to present her.

“Orphans, poor orphans!” he began in a pathetic voice.

“The child she carries is an orphan, too. She is Vera’s sister, my

daughter Luboff. The day this babe was born, six weeks ago, my wife

died, by the will of God Almighty.... Yes... Vera takes her mother’s

place, though she is but her sister... nothing more... nothing more...”

“And you! You are nothing more than a fool, if you’ll excuse me! Well!

well! you know that yourself, I expect,” said the lady indignantly.

Lebedeff bowed low. “It is the truth,” he replied, with extreme

respect.

“Oh, Mr. Lebedeff, I am told you lecture on the Apocalypse. Is it

true?” asked Aglaya.

“Yes, that is so... for the last fifteen years.”

“I have heard of you, and I think read of you in the newspapers.”

“No, that was another commentator, whom the papers named. He is dead,

however, and I have taken his place,” said the other, much delighted.

“We are neighbours, so will you be so kind as to come over one day and

explain the Apocalypse to me?” said Aglaya. “I do not understand it in

the least.”

“Allow me to warn you,” interposed General Ivolgin, “that he is the

greatest charlatan on earth.” He had taken the chair next to the girl,

and was impatient to begin talking. “No doubt there are pleasures and

amusements peculiar to the country,” he continued, “and to listen to a

pretended student holding forth on the book of the Revelations may be

as good as any other. It may even be original. But... you seem to be

looking at me with some surprise—may I introduce myself—General

Ivolgin—I carried you in my arms as a baby—”

“Delighted, I’m sure,” said Aglaya; “I am acquainted with Varvara

Ardalionovna and Nina Alexandrovna.” She was trying hard to restrain

herself from laughing.

Mrs. Epanchin flushed up; some accumulation of spleen in her suddenly

needed an outlet. She could not bear this General Ivolgin whom she had

once known, long ago—in society.

“You are deviating from the truth, sir, as usual!” she remarked,

boiling over with indignation; “you never carried her in your life!”

“You have forgotten, mother,” said Aglaya, suddenly. “He really did

carry me about,—in Tver, you know. I was six years old, I remember. He

made me a bow and arrow, and I shot a pigeon. Don’t you remember

shooting a pigeon, you and I, one day?”

“Yes, and he made me a cardboard helmet, and a little wooden sword—I

remember!” said Adelaida.

“Yes, I remember too!” said Alexandra. “You quarrelled about the

wounded pigeon, and Adelaida was put in the corner, and stood there

with her helmet and sword and all.”

The poor general had merely made the remark about having carried Aglaya

in his arms because he always did so begin a conversation with young

people. But it happened that this time he had really hit upon the

truth, though he had himself entirely forgotten the fact. But when

Adelaida and Aglaya recalled the episode of the pigeon, his mind became

filled with memories, and it is impossible to describe how this poor

old man, usually half drunk, was moved by the recollection.

“I remember—I remember it all!” he cried. “I was captain then. You were

such a lovely little thing—Nina Alexandrovna!—Gania, listen! I was

received then by General Epanchin.”

“Yes, and look what you have come to now!” interrupted Mrs. Epanchin.

“However, I see you have not quite drunk your better feelings away. But

you’ve broken your wife’s heart, sir—and instead of looking after your

children, you have spent your time in public-houses and debtors’

prisons! Go away, my friend, stand in some corner and weep, and bemoan

your fallen dignity, and perhaps God will forgive you yet! Go, go! I’m

serious! There’s nothing so favourable for repentance as to think of

the past with feelings of remorse!”

There was no need to repeat that she was serious. The general, like all

drunkards, was extremely emotional and easily touched by recollections

of his better days. He rose and walked quietly to the door, so meekly

that Mrs. Epanchin was instantly sorry for him.

“Ardalion Alexandrovitch,” she cried after him, “wait a moment, we are

all sinners! When you feel that your conscience reproaches you a little

less, come over to me and we’ll have a talk about the past! I dare say

I am fifty times more of a sinner than you are! And now go, go,

good-bye, you had better not stay here!” she added, in alarm, as he

turned as though to come back.

“Don’t go after him just now, Colia, or he’ll be vexed, and the benefit

of this moment will be lost!” said the prince, as the boy was hurrying

out of the room.

“Quite true! Much better to go in half an hour or so,” said Mrs.

Epanchin.

“That’s what comes of telling the truth for once in one’s life!” said

Lebedeff. “It reduced him to tears.”

“Come, come! the less _you_ say about it the better—to judge from all I

have heard about you!” replied Mrs. Epanchin.

The prince took the first opportunity of informing the Epanchin ladies

that he had intended to pay them a visit that day, if they had not

themselves come this afternoon, and Lizabetha Prokofievna replied that

she hoped he would still do so.

By this time some of the visitors had disappeared.

Ptitsin had tactfully retreated to Lebedeff’s wing; and Gania soon

followed him.

The latter had behaved modestly, but with dignity, on this occasion of

his first meeting with the Epanchins since the rupture. Twice Mrs.

Epanchin had deliberately examined him from head to foot; but he had

stood fire without flinching. He was certainly much changed, as anyone

could see who had not met him for some time; and this fact seemed to

afford Aglaya a good deal of satisfaction.

“That was Gavrila Ardalionovitch, who just went out, wasn’t it?” she

asked suddenly, interrupting somebody else’s conversation to make the

remark.

“Yes, it was,” said the prince.

“I hardly knew him; he is much changed, and for the better!”

“I am very glad,” said the prince.

“He has been very ill,” added Varia.

“How has he changed for the better?” asked Mrs. Epanchin. “I don’t see

any change for the better! What’s better in him? Where did you get

_that_ idea from? _what_’s better?”

“There’s nothing better than the ‘poor knight’!” said Colia, who was

standing near the last speaker’s chair.

“I quite agree with you there!” said Prince S., laughing.

“So do I,” said Adelaida, solemnly.

“_What_ poor knight?” asked Mrs. Epanchin, looking round at the face of

each of the speakers in turn. Seeing, however, that Aglaya was

blushing, she added, angrily:

“What nonsense you are all talking! What do you mean by poor knight?”

“It’s not the first time this urchin, your favourite, has shown his

impudence by twisting other people’s words,” said Aglaya, haughtily.

Every time that Aglaya showed temper (and this was very often), there

was so much childish pouting, such “school-girlishness,” as it were, in

her apparent wrath, that it was impossible to avoid smiling at her, to

her own unutterable indignation. On these occasions she would say, “How

can they, how _dare_ they laugh at me?”

This time everyone laughed at her, her sisters, Prince S., Prince

Muishkin (though he himself had flushed for some reason), and Colia.

Aglaya was dreadfully indignant, and looked twice as pretty in her

wrath.

“He’s always twisting round what one says,” she cried.

“I am only repeating your own exclamation!” said Colia. “A month ago

you were turning over the pages of your Don Quixote, and suddenly

called out ‘there is nothing better than the poor knight.’ I don’t know

whom you were referring to, of course, whether to Don Quixote, or

Evgenie Pavlovitch, or someone else, but you certainly said these

words, and afterwards there was a long conversation...”

“You are inclined to go a little too far, my good boy, with your

guesses,” said Mrs. Epanchin, with some show of annoyance.

“But it’s not I alone,” cried Colia. “They all talked about it, and

they do still. Why, just now Prince S. and Adelaida Ivanovna declared

that they upheld ‘the poor knight’; so evidently there does exist a

‘poor knight’; and if it were not for Adelaida Ivanovna, we should have

known long ago who the ‘poor knight’ was.”

“Why, how am I to blame?” asked Adelaida, smiling.

“You wouldn’t draw his portrait for us, that’s why you are to blame!

Aglaya Ivanovna asked you to draw his portrait, and gave you the whole

subject of the picture. She invented it herself; and you wouldn’t.”

“What was I to draw? According to the lines she quoted:

“‘From his face he never lifted

That eternal mask of steel.’”

“What sort of a face was I to draw? I couldn’t draw a mask.”

“I don’t know what you are driving at; what mask do you mean?” said

Mrs. Epanchin, irritably. She began to see pretty clearly though what

it meant, and whom they referred to by the generally accepted title of

“poor knight.” But what specially annoyed her was that the prince was

looking so uncomfortable, and blushing like a ten-year-old child.

“Well, have you finished your silly joke?” she added, “and am I to be

told what this ‘poor knight’ means, or is it a solemn secret which

cannot be approached lightly?”

But they all laughed on.

“It’s simply that there is a Russian poem,” began Prince S., evidently

anxious to change the conversation, “a strange thing, without beginning

or end, and all about a ‘poor knight.’ A month or so ago, we were all

talking and laughing, and looking up a subject for one of Adelaida’s

pictures—you know it is the principal business of this family to find

subjects for Adelaida’s pictures. Well, we happened upon this ‘poor

knight.’ I don’t remember who thought of it first—”

“Oh! Aglaya Ivanovna did,” said Colia.

“Very likely—I don’t recollect,” continued Prince S.

“Some of us laughed at the subject; some liked it; but she declared

that, in order to make a picture of the gentleman, she must first see

his face. We then began to think over all our friends’ faces to see if

any of them would do, and none suited us, and so the matter stood;

that’s all. I don’t know why Nicolai Ardalionovitch has brought up the

joke now. What was appropriate and funny then, has quite lost all

interest by this time.”

“Probably there’s some new silliness about it,” said Mrs. Epanchin,

sarcastically.

“There is no silliness about it at all—only the profoundest respect,”

said Aglaya, very seriously. She had quite recovered her temper; in

fact, from certain signs, it was fair to conclude that she was

delighted to see this joke going so far; and a careful observer might

have remarked that her satisfaction dated from the moment when the fact

of the prince’s confusion became apparent to all.

“‘Profoundest respect!’ What nonsense! First, insane giggling, and

then, all of a sudden, a display of ‘profoundest respect.’ Why respect?

Tell me at once, why have you suddenly developed this ‘profound

respect,’ eh?”

“Because,” replied Aglaya gravely, “in the poem the knight is described

as a man capable of living up to an ideal all his life. That sort of

thing is not to be found every day among the men of our times. In the

poem it is not stated exactly what the ideal was, but it was evidently

some vision, some revelation of pure Beauty, and the knight wore round

his neck, instead of a scarf, a rosary. A device—A. N. B.—the meaning

of which is not explained, was inscribed on his shield—”

“No, A. N. D.,” corrected Colia.

“I say A. N. B., and so it shall be!” cried Aglaya, irritably. “Anyway,

the ‘poor knight’ did not care what his lady was, or what she did. He

had chosen his ideal, and he was bound to serve her, and break lances

for her, and acknowledge her as the ideal of pure Beauty, whatever she

might say or do afterwards. If she had taken to stealing, he would have

championed her just the same. I think the poet desired to embody in

this one picture the whole spirit of medieval chivalry and the platonic

love of a pure and high-souled knight. Of course it’s all an ideal, and

in the ‘poor knight’ that spirit reached the utmost limit of

asceticism. He is a Don Quixote, only serious and not comical. I used

not to understand him, and laughed at him, but now I love the ‘poor

knight,’ and respect his actions.”

So ended Aglaya; and, to look at her, it was difficult, indeed, to

judge whether she was joking or in earnest.

“Pooh! he was a fool, and his actions were the actions of a fool,” said

Mrs. Epanchin; “and as for you, young woman, you ought to know better.

At all events, you are not to talk like that again. What poem is it?

Recite it! I want to hear this poem! I have hated poetry all my life.

Prince, you must excuse this nonsense. We neither of us like this sort

of thing! Be patient!”

They certainly were put out, both of them.

The prince tried to say something, but he was too confused, and could

not get his words out. Aglaya, who had taken such liberties in her

little speech, was the only person present, perhaps, who was not in the

least embarrassed. She seemed, in fact, quite pleased.

She now rose solemnly from her seat, walked to the centre of the

terrace, and stood in front of the prince’s chair. All looked on with

some surprise, and Prince S. and her sisters with feelings of decided

alarm, to see what new frolic she was up to; it had gone quite far

enough already, they thought. But Aglaya evidently thoroughly enjoyed

the affectation and ceremony with which she was introducing her

recitation of the poem.

Mrs. Epanchin was just wondering whether she would not forbid the

performance after all, when, at the very moment that Aglaya commenced

her declamation, two new guests, both talking loudly, entered from the

street. The new arrivals were General Epanchin and a young man.

Their entrance caused some slight commotion.

VII.

The young fellow accompanying the general was about twenty-eight, tall,

and well built, with a handsome and clever face, and bright black eyes,

full of fun and intelligence.

Aglaya did not so much as glance at the new arrivals, but went on with

her recitation, gazing at the prince the while in an affected manner,

and at him alone. It was clear to him that she was doing all this with

some special object.

But the new guests at least somewhat eased his strained and

uncomfortable position. Seeing them approaching, he rose from his

chair, and nodding amicably to the general, signed to him not to

interrupt the recitation. He then got behind his chair, and stood there

with his left hand resting on the back of it. Thanks to this change of

position, he was able to listen to the ballad with far less

embarrassment than before. Mrs. Epanchin had also twice motioned to the

new arrivals to be quiet, and stay where they were.

The prince was much interested in the young man who had just entered.

He easily concluded that this was Evgenie Pavlovitch Radomski, of whom

he had already heard mention several times. He was puzzled, however, by

the young man’s plain clothes, for he had always heard of Evgenie

Pavlovitch as a military man. An ironical smile played on Evgenie’s

lips all the while the recitation was proceeding, which showed that he,

too, was probably in the secret of the ‘poor knight’ joke. But it had

become quite a different matter with Aglaya. All the affectation of

manner which she had displayed at the beginning disappeared as the

ballad proceeded. She spoke the lines in so serious and exalted a

manner, and with so much taste, that she even seemed to justify the

exaggerated solemnity with which she had stepped forward. It was

impossible to discern in her now anything but a deep feeling for the

spirit of the poem which she had undertaken to interpret.

Her eyes were aglow with inspiration, and a slight tremor of rapture

passed over her lovely features once or twice. She continued to recite:

“Once there came a vision glorious,

Mystic, dreadful, wondrous fair;

Burned itself into his spirit,

And abode for ever there!

“Never more—from that sweet moment—

Gazéd he on womankind;

He was dumb to love and wooing

And to all their graces blind.

“Full of love for that sweet vision,

Brave and pure he took the field;

With his blood he stained the letters

N. P. B. upon his shield.

“‘Lumen caeli, sancta Rosa!’

Shouting on the foe he fell,

And like thunder rang his war-cry

O’er the cowering infidel.

“Then within his distant castle,

Home returned, he dreamed his days—

Silent, sad,—and when death took him

He was mad, the legend says.”

When recalling all this afterwards the prince could not for the life of

him understand how to reconcile the beautiful, sincere, pure nature of

the girl with the irony of this jest. That it was a jest there was no

doubt whatever; he knew that well enough, and had good reason, too, for

his conviction; for during her recitation of the ballad Aglaya had

deliberately changed the letters A. N. B. into N. P. B. He was quite

sure she had not done this by accident, and that his ears had not

deceived him. At all events her performance—which was a joke, of

course, if rather a crude one,—was premeditated. They had evidently

talked (and laughed) over the ‘poor knight’ for more than a month.

Yet Aglaya had brought out these letters N. P. B. not only without the

slightest appearance of irony, or even any particular accentuation, but

with so even and unbroken an appearance of seriousness that assuredly

anyone might have supposed that these initials were the original ones

written in the ballad. The thing made an uncomfortable impression upon

the prince. Of course Mrs. Epanchin saw nothing either in the change of

initials or in the insinuation embodied therein. General Epanchin only

knew that there was a recitation of verses going on, and took no

further interest in the matter. Of the rest of the audience, many had

understood the allusion and wondered both at the daring of the lady and

at the motive underlying it, but tried to show no sign of their

feelings. But Evgenie Pavlovitch (as the prince was ready to wager)

both comprehended and tried his best to show that he comprehended; his

smile was too mocking to leave any doubt on that point.

“How beautiful that is!” cried Mrs. Epanchin, with sincere admiration.

“Whose is it?”

“Pushkin’s, mama, of course! Don’t disgrace us all by showing your

ignorance,” said Adelaida.

“As soon as we reach home give it to me to read.”

“I don’t think we have a copy of Pushkin in the house.”

“There are a couple of torn volumes somewhere; they have been lying

about from time immemorial,” added Alexandra.

“Send Feodor or Alexey up by the very first train to buy a copy,

then.—Aglaya, come here—kiss me, dear, you recited beautifully! but,”

she added in a whisper, “if you were sincere I am sorry for you. If it

was a joke, I do not approve of the feelings which prompted you to do

it, and in any case you would have done far better not to recite it at

all. Do you understand?—Now come along, young woman; we’ve sat here too

long. I’ll speak to you about this another time.”

Meanwhile the prince took the opportunity of greeting General Epanchin,

and the general introduced Evgenie Pavlovitch to him.

“I caught him up on the way to your house,” explained the general. “He

had heard that we were all here.”

“Yes, and I heard that you were here, too,” added Evgenie Pavlovitch;

“and since I had long promised myself the pleasure of seeking not only

your acquaintance but your friendship, I did not wish to waste time,

but came straight on. I am sorry to hear that you are unwell.”

“Oh, but I’m quite well now, thank you, and very glad to make your

acquaintance. Prince S. has often spoken to me about you,” said

Muishkin, and for an instant the two men looked intently into one

another’s eyes.

The prince remarked that Evgenie Pavlovitch’s plain clothes had

evidently made a great impression upon the company present, so much so

that all other interests seemed to be effaced before this surprising

fact.

His change of dress was evidently a matter of some importance. Adelaida

and Alexandra poured out a stream of questions; Prince S., a relative

of the young man, appeared annoyed; and Ivan Fedorovitch quite excited.

Aglaya alone was not interested. She merely looked closely at Evgenie

for a minute, curious perhaps as to whether civil or military clothes

became him best, then turned away and paid no more attention to him or

his costume. Lizabetha Prokofievna asked no questions, but it was clear

that she was uneasy, and the prince fancied that Evgenie was not in her

good graces.

“He has astonished me,” said Ivan Fedorovitch. “I nearly fell down with

surprise. I could hardly believe my eyes when I met him in Petersburg

just now. Why this haste? That’s what I want to know. He has always

said himself that there is no need to break windows.”

Evgenie Pavlovitch remarked here that he had spoken of his intention of

leaving the service long ago. He had, however, always made more or less

of a joke about it, so no one had taken him seriously. For that matter

he joked about everything, and his friends never knew what to believe,

especially if he did not wish them to understand him.

“I have only retired for a time,” said he, laughing. “For a few months;

at most for a year.”

“But there is no necessity for you to retire at all,” complained the

general, “as far as I know.”

“I want to go and look after my country estates. You advised me to do

that yourself,” was the reply. “And then I wish to go abroad.”

After a few more expostulations, the conversation drifted into other

channels, but the prince, who had been an attentive listener, thought

all this excitement about so small a matter very curious. “There must

be more in it than appears,” he said to himself.

“I see the ‘poor knight’ has come on the scene again,” said Evgenie

Pavlovitch, stepping to Aglaya’s side.

To the amazement of the prince, who overheard the remark, Aglaya looked

haughtily and inquiringly at the questioner, as though she would give

him to know, once for all, that there could be no talk between them

about the ‘poor knight,’ and that she did not understand his question.

“But not now! It is too late to send to town for a Pushkin now. It is

much too late, I say!” Colia was exclaiming in a loud voice. “I have

told you so at least a hundred times.”

“Yes, it is really much too late to send to town now,” said Evgenie

Pavlovitch, who had escaped from Aglaya as rapidly as possible. “I am

sure the shops are shut in Petersburg; it is past eight o’clock,” he

added, looking at his watch.

“We have done without him so far,” interrupted Adelaida in her turn.

“Surely we can wait until to-morrow.”

“Besides,” said Colia, “it is quite unusual, almost improper, for

people in our position to take any interest in literature. Ask Evgenie

Pavlovitch if I am not right. It is much more fashionable to drive a

waggonette with red wheels.”

“You got that from some magazine, Colia,” remarked Adelaida.

“He gets most of his conversation in that way,” laughed Evgenie

Pavlovitch. “He borrows whole phrases from the reviews. I have long had

the pleasure of knowing both Nicholai Ardalionovitch and his

conversational methods, but this time he was not repeating something he

had read; he was alluding, no doubt, to my yellow waggonette, which

has, or had, red wheels. But I have exchanged it, so you are rather

behind the times, Colia.”

The prince had been listening attentively to Radomski’s words, and

thought his manner very pleasant. When Colia chaffed him about his

waggonette he had replied with perfect equality and in a friendly

fashion. This pleased Muishkin.

At this moment Vera came up to Lizabetha Prokofievna, carrying several

large and beautifully bound books, apparently quite new.

“What is it?” demanded the lady.

“This is Pushkin,” replied the girl. “Papa told me to offer it to you.”

“What? Impossible!” exclaimed Mrs. Epanchin.

“Not as a present, not as a present! I should not have taken the

liberty,” said Lebedeff, appearing suddenly from behind his daughter.

“It is our own Pushkin, our family copy, Annenkoff’s edition; it could

not be bought now. I beg to suggest, with great respect, that your

excellency should buy it, and thus quench the noble literary thirst

which is consuming you at this moment,” he concluded grandiloquently.

“Oh! if you will sell it, very good—and thank you. You shall not be a

loser! But for goodness’ sake, don’t twist about like that, sir! I have

heard of you; they tell me you are a very learned person. We must have

a talk one of these days. You will bring me the books yourself?”

“With the greatest respect... and... and veneration,” replied Lebedeff,

making extraordinary grimaces.

“Well, bring them, with or without respect, provided always you do not

drop them on the way; but on the condition,” went on the lady, looking

full at him, “that you do not cross my threshold. I do not intend to

receive you today. You may send your daughter Vera at once, if you

like. I am much pleased with her.”

“Why don’t you tell him about them?” said Vera impatiently to her

father. “They will come in, whether you announce them or not, and they

are beginning to make a row. Lef Nicolaievitch,”—she addressed herself

to the prince—“four men are here asking for you. They have waited some

time, and are beginning to make a fuss, and papa will not bring them

in.”

“Who are these people?” said the prince.

“They say that they have come on business, and they are the kind of

men, who, if you do not see them here, will follow you about the

street. It would be better to receive them, and then you will get rid

of them. Gavrila Ardalionovitch and Ptitsin are both there, trying to

make them hear reason.”

“Pavlicheff’s son! It is not worth while!” cried Lebedeff. “There is no

necessity to see them, and it would be most unpleasant for your

excellency. They do not deserve...”

“What? Pavlicheff’s son!” cried the prince, much perturbed. “I know...

I know—but I entrusted this matter to Gavrila Ardalionovitch. He told

me...”

At that moment Gania, accompanied by Ptitsin, came out to the terrace.

From an adjoining room came a noise of angry voices, and General

Ivolgin, in loud tones, seemed to be trying to shout them down. Colia

rushed off at once to investigate the cause of the uproar.

“This is most interesting!” observed Evgenie Pavlovitch.

“I expect he knows all about it!” thought the prince.

“What, the son of Pavlicheff? And who may this son of Pavlicheff be?”

asked General Epanchin with surprise; and looking curiously around him,

he discovered that he alone had no clue to the mystery. Expectation and

suspense were on every face, with the exception of that of the prince,

who stood gravely wondering how an affair so entirely personal could

have awakened such lively and widespread interest in so short a time.

Aglaya went up to him with a peculiarly serious look.

“It will be well,” she said, “if you put an end to this affair yourself

_at once_: but you must allow us to be your witnesses. They want to

throw mud at you, prince, and you must be triumphantly vindicated. I

give you joy beforehand!”

“And I also wish for justice to be done, once for all,” cried Madame

Epanchin, “about this impudent claim. Deal with them promptly, prince,

and don’t spare them! I am sick of hearing about the affair, and many a

quarrel I have had in your cause. But I confess I am anxious to see

what happens, so do make them come out here, and we will remain. You

have heard people talking about it, no doubt?” she added, turning to

Prince S.

“Of course,” said he. “I have heard it spoken about at your house, and

I am anxious to see these young men!”

“They are Nihilists, are they not?”

“No, they are not Nihilists,” explained Lebedeff, who seemed much

excited. “This is another lot—a special group. According to my nephew

they are more advanced even than the Nihilists. You are quite wrong,

excellency, if you think that your presence will intimidate them;

nothing intimidates them. Educated men, learned men even, are to be

found among Nihilists; these go further, in that they are men of

action. The movement is, properly speaking, a derivative from

Nihilism—though they are only known indirectly, and by hearsay, for

they never advertise their doings in the papers. They go straight to

the point. For them, it is not a question of showing that Pushkin is

stupid, or that Russia must be torn in pieces. No; but if they have a

great desire for anything, they believe they have a right to get it

even at the cost of the lives, say, of eight persons. They are checked

by no obstacles. In fact, prince, I should not advise you...”

But Muishkin had risen, and was on his way to open the door for his

visitors.

“You are slandering them, Lebedeff,” said he, smiling.

“You are always thinking about your nephew’s conduct. Don’t believe

him, Lizabetha Prokofievna. I can assure you Gorsky and Daniloff are

exceptions—and that these are only... mistaken. However, I do not care

about receiving them here, in public. Excuse me, Lizabetha Prokofievna.

They are coming, and you can see them, and then I will take them away.

Please come in, gentlemen!”

Another thought tormented him: He wondered was this an arranged

business—arranged to happen when he had guests in his house, and in

anticipation of his humiliation rather than of his triumph? But he

reproached himself bitterly for such a thought, and felt as if he

should die of shame if it were discovered. When his new visitors

appeared, he was quite ready to believe himself infinitely less to be

respected than any of them.

Four persons entered, led by General Ivolgin, in a state of great

excitement, and talking eloquently.

“He is for me, undoubtedly!” thought the prince, with a smile. Colia

also had joined the party, and was talking with animation to Hippolyte,

who listened with a jeering smile on his lips.

The prince begged the visitors to sit down. They were all so young that

it made the proceedings seem even more extraordinary. Ivan Fedorovitch,

who really understood nothing of what was going on, felt indignant at

the sight of these youths, and would have interfered in some way had it

not been for the extreme interest shown by his wife in the affair. He

therefore remained, partly through curiosity, partly through

good-nature, hoping that his presence might be of some use. But the bow

with which General Ivolgin greeted him irritated him anew; he frowned,

and decided to be absolutely silent.

As to the rest, one was a man of thirty, the retired officer, now a

boxer, who had been with Rogojin, and in his happier days had given

fifteen roubles at a time to beggars. Evidently he had joined the

others as a comrade to give them moral, and if necessary material,

support. The man who had been spoken of as “Pavlicheff’s son,” although

he gave the name of Antip Burdovsky, was about twenty-two years of age,

fair, thin and rather tall. He was remarkable for the poverty, not to

say uncleanliness, of his personal appearance: the sleeves of his

overcoat were greasy; his dirty waistcoat, buttoned up to his neck,

showed not a trace of linen; a filthy black silk scarf, twisted till it

resembled a cord, was round his neck, and his hands were unwashed. He

looked round with an air of insolent effrontery. His face, covered with

pimples, was neither thoughtful nor even contemptuous; it wore an

expression of complacent satisfaction in demanding his rights and in

being an aggrieved party. His voice trembled, and he spoke so fast, and

with such stammerings, that he might have been taken for a foreigner,

though the purest Russian blood ran in his veins. Lebedeff’s nephew,

whom the reader has seen already, accompanied him, and also the youth

named Hippolyte Terentieff. The latter was only seventeen or eighteen.

He had an intelligent face, though it was usually irritated and fretful

in expression. His skeleton-like figure, his ghastly complexion, the

brightness of his eyes, and the red spots of colour on his cheeks,

betrayed the victim of consumption to the most casual glance. He

coughed persistently, and panted for breath; it looked as though he had

but a few weeks more to live. He was nearly dead with fatigue, and

fell, rather than sat, into a chair. The rest bowed as they came in;

and being more or less abashed, put on an air of extreme

self-assurance. In short, their attitude was not that which one would

have expected in men who professed to despise all trivialities, all

foolish mundane conventions, and indeed everything, except their own

personal interests.

“Antip Burdovsky,” stuttered the son of Pavlicheff.

“Vladimir Doktorenko,” said Lebedeff’s nephew briskly, and with a

certain pride, as if he boasted of his name.

“Keller,” murmured the retired officer.

“Hippolyte Terentieff,” cried the last-named, in a shrill voice.

They sat now in a row facing the prince, and frowned, and played with

their caps. All appeared ready to speak, and yet all were silent; the

defiant expression on their faces seemed to say, “No, sir, you don’t

take us in!” It could be felt that the first word spoken by anyone

present would bring a torrent of speech from the whole deputation.

VIII.

“I _did_ not expect you, gentlemen,” began the prince. “I have been ill

until to-day. A month ago,” he continued, addressing himself to Antip

Burdovsky, “I put your business into Gavrila Ardalionovitch Ivolgin’s

hands, as I told you then. I do not in the least object to having a

personal interview... but you will agree with me that this is hardly

the time... I propose that we go into another room, if you will not

keep me long... As you see, I have friends here, and believe me...”

“Friends as many as you please, but allow me,” interrupted the harsh

voice of Lebedeff’s nephew—“allow me to tell you that you might have

treated us rather more politely, and not have kept us waiting at least

two hours...

“No doubt... and I... is that acting like a prince? And you... you may

be a general! But I... I am not your valet! And I... I...” stammered

Antip Burdovsky.

He was extremely excited; his lips trembled, and the resentment of an

embittered soul was in his voice. But he spoke so indistinctly that

hardly a dozen words could be gathered.

“It was a princely action!” sneered Hippolyte.

“If anyone had treated me so,” grumbled the boxer.

“I mean to say that if I had been in Burdovsky’s place...I...”

“Gentlemen, I did not know you were there; I have only just been

informed, I assure you,” repeated Muishkin.

“We are not afraid of your friends, prince,” remarked Lebedeff’s

nephew, “for we are within our rights.”

The shrill tones of Hippolyte interrupted him. “What right have you...

by what right do you demand us to submit this matter, about

Burdovsky... to the judgment of your friends? We know only too well

what the judgment of your friends will be!...”

This beginning gave promise of a stormy discussion. The prince was much

discouraged, but at last he managed to make himself heard amid the

vociferations of his excited visitors.

“If you,” he said, addressing Burdovsky—“if you prefer not to speak

here, I offer again to go into another room with you... and as to your

waiting to see me, I repeat that I only this instant heard...”

“Well, you have no right, you have no right, no right at all!... Your

friends indeed!”... gabbled Burdovsky, defiantly examining the faces

round him, and becoming more and more excited. “You have no right!...”

As he ended thus abruptly, he leant forward, staring at the prince with

his short-sighted, bloodshot eyes. The latter was so astonished, that

he did not reply, but looked steadily at him in return.

“Lef Nicolaievitch!” interposed Madame Epanchin, suddenly, “read this

at once, this very moment! It is about this business.”

She held out a weekly comic paper, pointing to an article on one of its

pages. Just as the visitors were coming in, Lebedeff, wishing to

ingratiate himself with the great lady, had pulled this paper from his

pocket, and presented it to her, indicating a few columns marked in

pencil. Lizabetha Prokofievna had had time to read some of it, and was

greatly upset.

“Would it not be better to peruse it alone... later,” asked the prince,

nervously.

“No, no, read it—read it at once directly, and aloud, aloud!” cried

she, calling Colia to her and giving him the journal.—“Read it aloud,

so that everyone may hear it!”

An impetuous woman, Lizabetha Prokofievna sometimes weighed her anchors

and put out to sea quite regardless of the possible storms she might

encounter. Ivan Fedorovitch felt a sudden pang of alarm, but the others

were merely curious, and somewhat surprised. Colia unfolded the paper,

and began to read, in his clear, high-pitched voice, the following

article:

“Proletarians and scions of nobility! An episode of the brigandage of

today and every day! Progress! Reform! Justice!”

“Strange things are going on in our so-called Holy Russia in this age

of reform and great enterprises; this age of patriotism in which

hundreds of millions are yearly sent abroad; in which industry is

encouraged, and the hands of Labour paralyzed, etc.; there is no end to

this, gentlemen, so let us come to the point. A strange thing has

happened to a scion of our defunct aristocracy. (_De profundis!_) The

grandfathers of these scions ruined themselves at the gaming-tables;

their fathers were forced to serve as officers or subalterns; some have

died just as they were about to be tried for innocent thoughtlessness

in the handling of public funds. Their children are sometimes

congenital idiots, like the hero of our story; sometimes they are found

in the dock at the Assizes, where they are generally acquitted by the

jury for edifying motives; sometimes they distinguish themselves by one

of those burning scandals that amaze the public and add another blot to

the stained record of our age. Six months ago—that is, last winter—this

particular scion returned to Russia, wearing gaiters like a foreigner,

and shivering with cold in an old scantily-lined cloak. He had come

from Switzerland, where he had just undergone a successful course of

treatment for idiocy (_sic!_). Certainly Fortune favoured him, for,

apart from the interesting malady of which he was cured in Switzerland

(can there be a cure for idiocy?) his story proves the truth of the

Russian proverb that ‘happiness is the right of certain classes!’ Judge

for yourselves. Our subject was an infant in arms when he lost his

father, an officer who died just as he was about to be court-martialled

for gambling away the funds of his company, and perhaps also for

flogging a subordinate to excess (remember the good old days,

gentlemen). The orphan was brought up by the charity of a very rich

Russian landowner. In the good old days, this man, whom we will call

P——, owned four thousand souls as serfs (souls as serfs!—can you

understand such an expression, gentlemen? I cannot; it must be looked

up in a dictionary before one can understand it; these things of a

bygone day are already unintelligible to us). He appears to have been

one of those Russian parasites who lead an idle existence abroad,

spending the summer at some spa, and the winter in Paris, to the

greater profit of the organizers of public balls. It may safely be said

that the manager of the Chateau des Fleurs (lucky man!) pocketed at

least a third of the money paid by Russian peasants to their lords in

the days of serfdom. However this may be, the gay P—— brought up the

orphan like a prince, provided him with tutors and governesses (pretty,

of course!) whom he chose himself in Paris. But the little aristocrat,

the last of his noble race, was an idiot. The governesses, recruited at

the Chateau des Fleurs, laboured in vain; at twenty years of age their

pupil could not speak in any language, not even Russian. But ignorance

of the latter was still excusable. At last P—— was seized with a

strange notion; he imagined that in Switzerland they could change an

idiot into a man of sense. After all, the idea was quite logical; a

parasite and landowner naturally supposed that intelligence was a

marketable commodity like everything else, and that in Switzerland

especially it could be bought for money. The case was entrusted to a

celebrated Swiss professor, and cost thousands of roubles; the

treatment lasted five years. Needless to say, the idiot did not become

intelligent, but it is alleged that he grew into something more or less

resembling a man. At this stage P—— died suddenly, and, as usual, he

had made no will and left his affairs in disorder. A crowd of eager

claimants arose, who cared nothing about any last scion of a noble race

undergoing treatment in Switzerland, at the expense of the deceased, as

a congenital idiot. Idiot though he was, the noble scion tried to cheat

his professor, and they say he succeeded in getting him to continue the

treatment gratis for two years, by concealing the death of his

benefactor. But the professor himself was a charlatan. Getting anxious

at last when no money was forthcoming, and alarmed above all by his

patient’s appetite, he presented him with a pair of old gaiters and a

shabby cloak and packed him off to Russia, third class. It would seem

that Fortune had turned her back upon our hero. Not at all; Fortune,

who lets whole populations die of hunger, showered all her gifts at

once upon the little aristocrat, like Kryloff’s Cloud which passes over

an arid plain and empties itself into the sea. He had scarcely arrived

in St. Petersburg, when a relation of his mother’s (who was of

bourgeois origin, of course), died at Moscow. He was a merchant, an Old

Believer, and he had no children. He left a fortune of several millions

in good current coin, and everything came to our noble scion, our

gaitered baron, formerly treated for idiocy in a Swiss lunatic asylum.

Instantly the scene changed, crowds of friends gathered round our

baron, who meanwhile had lost his head over a celebrated demi-mondaine;

he even discovered some relations; moreover a number of young girls of

high birth burned to be united to him in lawful matrimony. Could anyone

possibly imagine a better match? Aristocrat, millionaire, and idiot, he

has every advantage! One might hunt in vain for his equal, even with

the lantern of Diogenes; his like is not to be had even by getting it

made to order!”

“Oh, I don’t know what this means” cried Ivan Fedorovitch, transported

with indignation.

“Leave off, Colia,” begged the prince. Exclamations arose on all sides.

“Let him go on reading at all costs!” ordered Lizabetha Prokofievna,

evidently preserving her composure by a desperate effort. “Prince, if

the reading is stopped, you and I will quarrel.”

Colia had no choice but to obey. With crimson cheeks he read on

unsteadily:

“But while our young millionaire dwelt as it were in the Empyrean,

something new occurred. One fine morning a man called upon him, calm

and severe of aspect, distinguished, but plainly dressed. Politely, but

in dignified terms, as befitted his errand, he briefly explained the

motive for his visit. He was a lawyer of enlightened views; his client

was a young man who had consulted him in confidence. This young man was

no other than the son of P——, though he bears another name. In his

youth P——, the sensualist, had seduced a young girl, poor but

respectable. She was a serf, but had received a European education.

Finding that a child was expected, he hastened her marriage with a man

of noble character who had loved her for a long time. He helped the

young couple for a time, but he was soon obliged to give up, for the

high-minded husband refused to accept anything from him. Soon the

careless nobleman forgot all about his former mistress and the child

she had borne him; then, as we know, he died intestate. P——’s son, born

after his mother’s marriage, found a true father in the generous man

whose name he bore. But when he also died, the orphan was left to

provide for himself, his mother now being an invalid who had lost the

use of her limbs. Leaving her in a distant province, he came to the

capital in search of pupils. By dint of daily toil he earned enough to

enable him to follow the college courses, and at last to enter the

university. But what can one earn by teaching the children of Russian

merchants at ten copecks a lesson, especially with an invalid mother to

keep? Even her death did not much diminish the hardships of the young

man’s struggle for existence. Now this is the question: how, in the

name of justice, should our scion have argued the case? Our readers

will think, no doubt, that he would say to himself: ‘P—— showered

benefits upon me all my life; he spent tens of thousands of roubles to

educate me, to provide me with governesses, and to keep me under

treatment in Switzerland. Now I am a millionaire, and P——’s son, a

noble young man who is not responsible for the faults of his careless

and forgetful father, is wearing himself out giving ill-paid lessons.

According to justice, all that was done for me ought to have been done

for him. The enormous sums spent upon me were not really mine; they

came to me by an error of blind Fortune, when they ought to have gone

to P——’s son. They should have gone to benefit him, not me, in whom P——

interested himself by a mere caprice, instead of doing his duty as a

father. If I wished to behave nobly, justly, and with delicacy, I ought

to bestow half my fortune upon the son of my benefactor; but as economy

is my favourite virtue, and I know this is not a case in which the law

can intervene, I will not give up half my millions. But it would be too

openly vile, too flagrantly infamous, if I did not at least restore to

P——’s son the tens of thousands of roubles spent in curing my idiocy.

This is simply a case of conscience and of strict justice. Whatever

would have become of me if P—— had not looked after my education, and

had taken care of his own son instead of me?’

“No, gentlemen, our scions of the nobility do not reason thus. The

lawyer, who had taken up the matter purely out of friendship to the

young man, and almost against his will, invoked every consideration of

justice, delicacy, honour, and even plain figures; in vain, the

ex-patient of the Swiss lunatic asylum was inflexible. All this might

pass, but the sequel is absolutely unpardonable, and not to be excused

by any interesting malady. This millionaire, having but just discarded

the old gaiters of his professor, could not even understand that the

noble young man slaving away at his lessons was not asking for

charitable help, but for his rightful due, though the debt was not a

legal one; that, correctly speaking, he was not asking for anything,

but it was merely his friends who had thought fit to bestir themselves

on his behalf. With the cool insolence of a bloated capitalist, secure

in his millions, he majestically drew a banknote for fifty roubles from

his pocket-book and sent it to the noble young man as a humiliating

piece of charity. You can hardly believe it, gentlemen! You are

scandalized and disgusted; you cry out in indignation! But that is what

he did! Needless to say, the money was returned, or rather flung back

in his face. The case is not within the province of the law, it must be

referred to the tribunal of public opinion; this is what we now do,

guaranteeing the truth of all the details which we have related.”

When Colia had finished reading, he handed the paper to the prince, and

retired silently to a corner of the room, hiding his face in his hands.

He was overcome by a feeling of inexpressible shame; his boyish

sensitiveness was wounded beyond endurance. It seemed to him that

something extraordinary, some sudden catastrophe had occurred, and that

he was almost the cause of it, because he had read the article aloud.

Yet all the others were similarly affected. The girls were

uncomfortable and ashamed. Lizabetha Prokofievna restrained her violent

anger by a great effort; perhaps she bitterly regretted her

interference in the matter; for the present she kept silence. The

prince felt as very shy people often do in such a case; he was so

ashamed of the conduct of other people, so humiliated for his guests,

that he dared not look them in the face. Ptitsin, Varia, Gania, and

Lebedeff himself, all looked rather confused. Stranger still, Hippolyte

and the “son of Pavlicheff” also seemed slightly surprised, and

Lebedeff’s nephew was obviously far from pleased. The boxer alone was

perfectly calm; he twisted his moustaches with affected dignity, and if

his eyes were cast down it was certainly not in confusion, but rather

in noble modesty, as if he did not wish to be insolent in his triumph.

It was evident that he was delighted with the article.

“The devil knows what it means,” growled Ivan Fedorovitch, under his

breath; “it must have taken the united wits of fifty footmen to write

it.”

“May I ask your reason for such an insulting supposition, sir?” said

Hippolyte, trembling with rage.

“You will admit yourself, general, that for an honourable man, if the

author is an honourable man, that is an—an insult,” growled the boxer

suddenly, with convulsive jerkings of his shoulders.

“In the first place, it is not for you to address me as ‘sir,’ and, in

the second place, I refuse to give you any explanation,” said Ivan

Fedorovitch vehemently; and he rose without another word, and went and

stood on the first step of the flight that led from the verandah to the

street, turning his back on the company. He was indignant with

Lizabetha Prokofievna, who did not think of moving even now.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen, let me speak at last,” cried the prince, anxious

and agitated. “Please let us understand one another. I say nothing

about the article, gentlemen, except that every word is false; I say

this because you know it as well as I do. It is shameful. I should be

surprised if any one of you could have written it.”

“I did not know of its existence till this moment,” declared Hippolyte.

“I do not approve of it.”

“I knew it had been written, but I would not have advised its

publication,” said Lebedeff’s nephew, “because it is premature.”

“I knew it, but I have a right. I... I...” stammered the “son of

Pavlicheff.”

“What! Did you write all that yourself? Is it possible?” asked the

prince, regarding Burdovsky with curiosity.

“One might dispute your right to ask such questions,” observed

Lebedeff’s nephew.

“I was only surprised that Mr. Burdovsky should have—however, this is

what I have to say. Since you had already given the matter publicity,

why did you object just now, when I began to speak of it to my

friends?”

“At last!” murmured Lizabetha Prokofievna indignantly.

Lebedeff could restrain himself no longer; he made his way through the

row of chairs.

“Prince,” he cried, “you are forgetting that if you consented to

receive and hear them, it was only because of your kind heart which has

no equal, for they had not the least right to demand it, especially as

you had placed the matter in the hands of Gavrila Ardalionovitch, which

was also extremely kind of you. You are also forgetting, most excellent

prince, that you are with friends, a select company; you cannot

sacrifice them to these gentlemen, and it is only for you to have them

turned out this instant. As the master of the house I shall have great

pleasure ....”

“Quite right!” agreed General Ivolgin in a loud voice.

“That will do, Lebedeff, that will do—” began the prince, when an

indignant outcry drowned his words.

“Excuse me, prince, excuse me, but now that will not do,” shouted

Lebedeff’s nephew, his voice dominating all the others. “The matter

must be clearly stated, for it is obviously not properly understood.

They are calling in some legal chicanery, and upon that ground they are

threatening to turn us out of the house! Really, prince, do you think

we are such fools as not to be aware that this matter does not come

within the law, and that legally we cannot claim a rouble from you? But

we are also aware that if actual law is not on our side, human law is

for us, natural law, the law of common-sense and conscience, which is

no less binding upon every noble and honest man—that is, every man of

sane judgment—because it is not to be found in miserable legal codes.

If we come here without fear of being turned out (as was threatened

just now) because of the imperative tone of our demand, and the

unseemliness of such a visit at this late hour (though it was not late

when we arrived, we were kept waiting in your anteroom), if, I say, we

came in without fear, it is just because we expected to find you a man

of sense; I mean, a man of honour and conscience. It is quite true that

we did not present ourselves humbly, like your flatterers and

parasites, but holding up our heads as befits independent men. We

present no petition, but a proud and free demand (note it well, we do

not beseech, we demand!). We ask you fairly and squarely in a dignified

manner. Do you believe that in this affair of Burdovsky you have right

on your side? Do you admit that Pavlicheff overwhelmed you with

benefits, and perhaps saved your life? If you admit it (which we take

for granted), do you intend, now that you are a millionaire, and do you

not think it in conformity with justice, to indemnify Burdovsky? Yes or

no? If it is yes, or, in other words, if you possess what you call

honour and conscience, and we more justly call common-sense, then

accede to our demand, and the matter is at an end. Give us

satisfaction, without entreaties or thanks from us; do not expect

thanks from us, for what you do will be done not for our sake, but for

the sake of justice. If you refuse to satisfy us, that is, if your

answer is no, we will go away at once, and there will be an end of the

matter. But we will tell you to your face before the present company

that you are a man of vulgar and undeveloped mind; we will openly deny

you the right to speak in future of your honour and conscience, for you

have not paid the fair price of such a right. I have no more to say—I

have put the question before you. Now turn us out if you dare. You can

do it; force is on your side. But remember that we do not beseech, we

demand! We do not beseech, we demand!”

With these last excited words, Lebedeff’s nephew was silent.

“We demand, we demand, we demand, we do not beseech,” spluttered

Burdovsky, red as a lobster.

The speech of Lebedeff’s nephew caused a certain stir among the

company; murmurs arose, though with the exception of Lebedeff, who was

still very much excited, everyone was careful not to interfere in the

matter. Strangely enough, Lebedeff, although on the prince’s side,

seemed quite proud of his nephew’s eloquence. Gratified vanity was

visible in the glances he cast upon the assembled company.

“In my opinion, Mr. Doktorenko,” said the prince, in rather a low

voice, “you are quite right in at least half of what you say. I would

go further and say that you are altogether right, and that I quite

agree with you, if there were not something lacking in your speech. I

cannot undertake to say precisely what it is, but you have certainly

omitted something, and you cannot be quite just while there is

something lacking. But let us put that aside and return to the point.

Tell me what induced you to publish this article. Every word of it is a

calumny, and I think, gentlemen, that you have been guilty of a mean

action.”

“Allow me—”

“Sir—”

“What? What? What?” cried all the visitors at once, in violent

agitation.

“As to the article,” said Hippolyte in his croaking voice, “I have told

you already that we none of us approve of it! There is the writer,” he

added, pointing to the boxer, who sat beside him. “I quite admit that

he has written it in his old regimental manner, with an equal disregard

for style and decency. I know he is a cross between a fool and an

adventurer; I make no bones about telling him so to his face every day.

But after all he is half justified; publicity is the lawful right of

every man; consequently, Burdovsky is not excepted. Let him answer for

his own blunders. As to the objection which I made just now in the name

of all, to the presence of your friends, I think I ought to explain,

gentlemen, that I only did so to assert our rights, though we really

wished to have witnesses; we had agreed unanimously upon the point

before we came in. We do not care who your witnesses may be, or whether

they are your friends or not. As they cannot fail to recognize

Burdovsky’s right (seeing that it is mathematically demonstrable), it

is just as well that the witnesses should be your friends. The truth

will only be more plainly evident.”

“It is quite true; we had agreed upon that point,” said Lebedeff’s

nephew, in confirmation.

“If that is the case, why did you begin by making such a fuss about

it?” asked the astonished prince.

The boxer was dying to get in a few words; owing, no doubt, to the

presence of the ladies, he was becoming quite jovial.

“As to the article, prince,” he said, “I admit that I wrote it, in

spite of the severe criticism of my poor friend, in whom I always

overlook many things because of his unfortunate state of health. But I

wrote and published it in the form of a letter, in the paper of a

friend. I showed it to no one but Burdovsky, and I did not read it all

through, even to him. He immediately gave me permission to publish it,

but you will admit that I might have done so without his consent.

Publicity is a noble, beneficent, and universal right. I hope, prince,

that you are too progressive to deny this?”

“I deny nothing, but you must confess that your article—”

“Is a bit thick, you mean? Well, in a way that is in the public

interest; you will admit that yourself, and after all one cannot

overlook a blatant fact. So much the worse for the guilty parties, but

the public welfare must come before everything. As to certain

inaccuracies and figures of speech, so to speak, you will also admit

that the motive, aim, and intention, are the chief thing. It is a

question, above all, of making a wholesome example; the individual case

can be examined afterwards; and as to the style—well, the thing was

meant to be humorous, so to speak, and, after all, everybody writes

like that; you must admit it yourself! Ha, ha!”

“But, gentlemen, I assure you that you are quite astray,” exclaimed the

prince. “You have published this article upon the supposition that I

would never consent to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky. Acting on that

conviction, you have tried to intimidate me by this publication and to

be revenged for my supposed refusal. But what did you know of my

intentions? It may be that I have resolved to satisfy Mr. Burdovsky’s

claim. I now declare openly, in the presence of these witnesses, that I

will do so.”

“The noble and intelligent word of an intelligent and most noble man,

at last!” exclaimed the boxer.

“Good God!” exclaimed Lizabetha Prokofievna involuntarily.

“This is intolerable,” growled the general.

“Allow me, gentlemen, allow me,” urged the prince.

“I will explain matters to you. Five weeks ago I received a visit from

Tchebaroff, your agent, Mr. Burdovsky. You have given a very flattering

description of him in your article, Mr. Keller,” he continued, turning

to the boxer with a smile, “but he did not please me at all. I saw at

once that Tchebaroff was the moving spirit in the matter, and, to speak

frankly, I thought he might have induced you, Mr. Burdovsky, to make

this claim, by taking advantage of your simplicity.”

“You have no right.... I am not simple,” stammered Burdovsky, much

agitated.

“You have no sort of right to suppose such things,” said Lebedeff’s

nephew in a tone of authority.

“It is most offensive!” shrieked Hippolyte; “it is an insulting

suggestion, false, and most ill-timed.”

“I beg your pardon, gentlemen; please excuse me,” said the prince. “I

thought absolute frankness on both sides would be best, but have it

your own way. I told Tchebaroff that, as I was not in Petersburg, I

would commission a friend to look into the matter without delay, and

that I would let you know, Mr. Burdovsky. Gentlemen, I have no

hesitation in telling you that it was the fact of Tchebaroff’s

intervention that made me suspect a fraud. Oh! do not take offence at

my words, gentlemen, for Heaven’s sake do not be so touchy!” cried the

prince, seeing that Burdovsky was getting excited again, and that the

rest were preparing to protest. “If I say I suspected a fraud, there is

nothing personal in that. I had never seen any of you then; I did not

even know your names; I only judged by Tchebaroff; I am speaking quite

generally—if you only knew how I have been ‘done’ since I came into my

fortune!”

“You are shockingly naive, prince,” said Lebedeff’s nephew in mocking

tones.

“Besides, though you are a prince and a millionaire, and even though

you may really be simple and good-hearted, you can hardly be outside

the general law,” Hippolyte declared loudly.

“Perhaps not; it is very possible,” the prince agreed hastily, “though

I do not know what general law you allude to. I will go on—only please

do not take offence without good cause. I assure you I do not mean to

offend you in the least. Really, it is impossible to speak three words

sincerely without your flying into a rage! At first I was amazed when

Tchebaroff told me that Pavlicheff had a son, and that he was in such a

miserable position. Pavlicheff was my benefactor, and my father’s

friend. Oh, Mr. Keller, why does your article impute things to my

father without the slightest foundation? He never squandered the funds

of his company nor ill-treated his subordinates, I am absolutely

certain of it; I cannot imagine how you could bring yourself to write

such a calumny! But your assertions concerning Pavlicheff are

absolutely intolerable! You do not scruple to make a libertine of that

noble man; you call him a sensualist as coolly as if you were speaking

the truth, and yet it would not be possible to find a chaster man. He

was even a scholar of note, and in correspondence with several

celebrated scientists, and spent large sums in the interests of

science. As to his kind heart and his good actions, you were right

indeed when you said that I was almost an idiot at that time, and could

hardly understand anything—(I could speak and understand Russian,

though),—but now I can appreciate what I remember—”

“Excuse me,” interrupted Hippolyte, “is not this rather sentimental?

You said you wished to come to the point; please remember that it is

after nine o’clock.”

“Very well, gentlemen—very well,” replied the prince. “At first I

received the news with mistrust, then I said to myself that I might be

mistaken, and that Pavlicheff might possibly have had a son. But I was

absolutely amazed at the readiness with which the son had revealed the

secret of his birth at the expense of his mother’s honour. For

Tchebaroff had already menaced me with publicity in our interview....”

“What nonsense!” Lebedeff’s nephew interrupted violently.

“You have no right—you have no right!” cried Burdovsky.

“The son is not responsible for the misdeeds of his father; and the

mother is not to blame,” added Hippolyte, with warmth.

“That seems to me all the more reason for sparing her,” said the prince

timidly.

“Prince, you are not only simple, but your simplicity is almost past

the limit,” said Lebedeff’s nephew, with a sarcastic smile.

“But what right had you?” said Hippolyte in a very strange tone.

“None—none whatever,” agreed the prince hastily. “I admit you are right

there, but it was involuntary, and I immediately said to myself that my

personal feelings had nothing to do with it,—that if I thought it right

to satisfy the demands of Mr. Burdovsky, out of respect for the memory

of Pavlicheff, I ought to do so in any case, whether I esteemed Mr.

Burdovsky or not. I only mentioned this, gentlemen, because it seemed

so unnatural to me for a son to betray his mother’s secret in such a

way. In short, that is what convinced me that Tchebaroff must be a

rogue, and that he had induced Mr. Burdovsky to attempt this fraud.”

“But this is intolerable!” cried the visitors, some of them starting to

their feet.

“Gentlemen, I supposed from this that poor Mr. Burdovsky must be a

simple-minded man, quite defenceless, and an easy tool in the hands of

rogues. That is why I thought it my duty to try and help him as

‘Pavlicheff’s son’; in the first place by rescuing him from the

influence of Tchebaroff, and secondly by making myself his friend. I

have resolved to give him ten thousand roubles; that is about the sum

which I calculate that Pavlicheff must have spent on me.”

“What, only ten thousand!” cried Hippolyte.

“Well, prince, your arithmetic is not up to much, or else you are

mighty clever at it, though you affect the air of a simpleton,” said

Lebedeff’s nephew.

“I will not accept ten thousand roubles,” said Burdovsky.

“Accept, Antip,” whispered the boxer eagerly, leaning past the back of

Hippolyte’s chair to give his friend this piece of advice. “Take it for

the present; we can see about more later on.”

“Look here, Mr. Muishkin,” shouted Hippolyte, “please understand that

we are not fools, nor idiots, as your guests seem to imagine; these

ladies who look upon us with such scorn, and especially this fine

gentleman” (pointing to Evgenie Pavlovitch) “whom I have not the honour

of knowing, though I think I have heard some talk about him—”

“Really, really, gentlemen,” cried the prince in great agitation, “you

are misunderstanding me again. In the first place, Mr. Keller, you have

greatly overestimated my fortune in your article. I am far from being a

millionaire. I have barely a tenth of what you suppose. Secondly, my

treatment in Switzerland was very far from costing tens of thousands of

roubles. Schneider received six hundred roubles a year, and he was only

paid for the first three years. As to the pretty governesses whom

Pavlicheff is supposed to have brought from Paris, they only exist in

Mr. Keller’s imagination; it is another calumny. According to my

calculations, the sum spent on me was very considerably under ten

thousand roubles, but I decided on that sum, and you must admit that in

paying a debt I could not offer Mr. Burdovsky more, however kindly

disposed I might be towards him; delicacy forbids it; I should seem to

be offering him charity instead of rightful payment. I don’t know how

you cannot see that, gentlemen! Besides, I had no intention of leaving

the matter there. I meant to intervene amicably later on and help to

improve poor Mr. Burdovsky’s position. It is clear that he has been

deceived, or he would never have agreed to anything so vile as the

scandalous revelations about his mother in Mr. Keller’s article. But,

gentlemen, why are you getting angry again? Are we never to come to an

understanding? Well, the event has proved me right! I have just seen

with my own eyes the proof that my conjecture was correct!” he added,

with increasing eagerness.

He meant to calm his hearers, and did not perceive that his words had

only increased their irritation.

“What do you mean? What are you convinced of?” they demanded angrily.

“In the first place, I have had the opportunity of getting a correct

idea of Mr. Burdovsky. I see what he is for myself. He is an innocent

man, deceived by everyone! A defenceless victim, who deserves

indulgence! Secondly, Gavrila Ardalionovitch, in whose hands I had

placed the matter, had his first interview with me barely an hour ago.

I had not heard from him for some time, as I was away, and have been

ill for three days since my return to St. Petersburg. He tells me that

he has exposed the designs of Tchebaroff and has proof that justifies

my opinion of him. I know, gentlemen, that many people think me an

idiot. Counting upon my reputation as a man whose purse-strings are

easily loosened, Tchebaroff thought it would be a simple matter to

fleece me, especially by trading on my gratitude to Pavlicheff. But the

main point is—listen, gentlemen, let me finish!—the main point is that

Mr. Burdovsky is not Pavlicheff’s son at all. Gavrila Ardalionovitch

has just told me of his discovery, and assures me that he has positive

proofs. Well, what do you think of that? It is scarcely credible, even

after all the tricks that have been played upon me. Please note that we

have positive proofs! I can hardly believe it myself, I assure you; I

do not yet believe it; I am still doubtful, because Gavrila

Ardalionovitch has not had time to go into details; but there can be no

further doubt that Tchebaroff is a rogue! He has deceived poor Mr.

Burdovsky, and all of you, gentlemen, who have come forward so nobly to

support your friend—(he evidently needs support, I quite see that!). He

has abused your credulity and involved you all in an attempted fraud,

for when all is said and done this claim is nothing else!”

“What! a fraud? What, he is not Pavlicheff’s son? Impossible!”

These exclamations but feebly expressed the profound bewilderment into

which the prince’s words had plunged Burdovsky’s companions.

“Certainly it is a fraud! Since Mr. Burdovsky is not Pavlicheff’s son,

his claim is neither more nor less than attempted fraud (supposing, of

course, that he had known the truth), but the fact is that he has been

deceived. I insist on this point in order to justify him; I repeat that

his simple-mindedness makes him worthy of pity, and that he cannot

stand alone; otherwise he would have behaved like a scoundrel in this

matter. But I feel certain that he does not understand it! I was just

the same myself before I went to Switzerland; I stammered incoherently;

one tries to express oneself and cannot. I understand that. I am all

the better able to pity Mr. Burdovsky, because I know from experience

what it is to be like that, and so I have a right to speak. Well,

though there is no such person as ‘Pavlicheff’s son,’ and it is all

nothing but a humbug, yet I will keep to my decision, and I am prepared

to give up ten thousand roubles in memory of Pavlicheff. Before Mr.

Burdovsky made this claim, I proposed to found a school with this

money, in memory of my benefactor, but I shall honour his memory quite

as well by giving the ten thousand roubles to Mr. Burdovsky, because,

though he was not Pavlicheff’s son, he was treated almost as though he

were. That is what gave a rogue the opportunity of deceiving him; he

really did think himself Pavlicheff’s son. Listen, gentlemen; this

matter must be settled; keep calm; do not get angry; and sit down!

Gavrila Ardalionovitch will explain everything to you at once, and I

confess that I am very anxious to hear all the details myself. He says

that he has even been to Pskoff to see your mother, Mr. Burdovsky; she

is not dead, as the article which was just read to us makes out. Sit

down, gentlemen, sit down!”