to do likewise. During the last ten or twenty minutes, exasperated by
continual interruptions, he had raised his voice, and spoken with great
vehemence. Now, no doubt, he bitterly regretted several words and
expressions which had escaped him in his excitement. If he had not been
driven beyond the limits of endurance, he would not have ventured to
express certain conjectures so openly. He had no sooner sat down than
his heart was torn by sharp remorse. Besides insulting Burdovsky with
the supposition, made in the presence of witnesses, that he was
suffering from the complaint for which he had himself been treated in
Switzerland, he reproached himself with the grossest indelicacy in
having offered him the ten thousand roubles before everyone. “I ought
to have waited till to-morrow and offered him the money when we were
alone,” thought Muishkin. “Now it is too late, the mischief is done!
Yes, I am an idiot, an absolute idiot!” he said to himself, overcome
with shame and regret.
Till then Gavrila Ardalionovitch had sat apart in silence. When the
prince called upon him, he came and stood by his side, and in a calm,
clear voice began to render an account of the mission confided to him.
All conversation ceased instantly. Everyone, especially the Burdovsky
party, listened with the utmost curiosity.
IX.
“You will not deny, I am sure,” said Gavrila Ardalionovitch, turning to
Burdovsky, who sat looking at him with wide-open eyes, perplexed and
astonished. “You will not deny, seriously, that you were born just two
years after your mother’s legal marriage to Mr. Burdovsky, your father.
Nothing would be easier than to prove the date of your birth from
well-known facts; we can only look on Mr. Keller’s version as a work of
imagination, and one, moreover, extremely offensive both to you and
your mother. Of course he distorted the truth in order to strengthen
your claim, and to serve your interests. Mr. Keller said that he
previously consulted you about his article in the paper, but did not
read it to you as a whole. Certainly he could not have read that
passage...”
“As a matter of fact, I did not read it,” interrupted the boxer, “but
its contents had been given me on unimpeachable authority, and I...”
“Excuse me, Mr. Keller,” interposed Gavrila Ardalionovitch. “Allow me
to speak. I assure you your article shall be mentioned in its proper
place, and you can then explain everything, but for the moment I would
rather not anticipate. Quite accidentally, with the help of my sister,
Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsin, I obtained from one of her intimate
friends, Madame Zoubkoff, a letter written to her twenty-five years
ago, by Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff, then abroad. After getting into
communication with this lady, I went by her advice to Timofei
Fedorovitch Viazovkin, a retired colonel, and one of Pavlicheff’s
oldest friends. He gave me two more letters written by the latter when
he was still in foreign parts. These three documents, their dates, and
the facts mentioned in them, prove in the most undeniable manner, that
eighteen months before your birth, Nicolai Andreevitch went abroad,
where he remained for three consecutive years. Your mother, as you are
well aware, has never been out of Russia.... It is too late to read the
letters now; I am content to state the fact. But if you desire it, come
to me tomorrow morning, bring witnesses and writing experts with you,
and I will prove the absolute truth of my story. From that moment the
question will be decided.”
These words caused a sensation among the listeners, and there was a
general movement of relief. Burdovsky got up abruptly.
“If that is true,” said he, “I have been deceived, grossly deceived,
but not by Tchebaroff: and for a long time past, a long time. I do not
wish for experts, not I, nor to go to see you. I believe you. I give it
up.... But I refuse the ten thousand roubles. Good-bye.”
“Wait five minutes more, Mr. Burdovsky,” said Gavrila Ardalionovitch
pleasantly. “I have more to say. Some rather curious and important
facts have come to light, and it is absolutely necessary, in my
opinion, that you should hear them. You will not regret, I fancy, to
have the whole matter thoroughly cleared up.”
Burdovsky silently resumed his seat, and bent his head as though in
profound thought. His friend, Lebedeff’s nephew, who had risen to
accompany him, also sat down again. He seemed much disappointed, though
as self-confident as ever. Hippolyte looked dejected and sulky, as well
as surprised. He had just been attacked by a violent fit of coughing,
so that his handkerchief was stained with blood. The boxer looked
thoroughly frightened.
“Oh, Antip!” cried he in a miserable voice, “I did say to you the other
day—the day before yesterday—that perhaps you were not really
Pavlicheff’s son!”
There were sounds of half-smothered laughter at this.
“Now, that is a valuable piece of information, Mr. Keller,” replied
Gania. “However that may be, I have private information which convinces
me that Mr. Burdovsky, though doubtless aware of the date of his birth,
knew nothing at all about Pavlicheff’s sojourn abroad. Indeed, he
passed the greater part of his life out of Russia, returning at
intervals for short visits. The journey in question is in itself too
unimportant for his friends to recollect it after more than twenty
years; and of course Mr. Burdovsky could have known nothing about it,
for he was not born. As the event has proved, it was not impossible to
find evidence of his absence, though I must confess that chance has
helped me in a quest which might very well have come to nothing. It was
really almost impossible for Burdovsky or Tchebaroff to discover these
facts, even if it had entered their heads to try. Naturally they never
dreamt...”
Here the voice of Hippolyte suddenly intervened.
“Allow me, Mr. Ivolgin,” he said irritably. “What is the good of all
this rigmarole? Pardon me. All is now clear, and we acknowledge the
truth of your main point. Why go into these tedious details? You wish
perhaps to boast of the cleverness of your investigation, to cry up
your talents as detective? Or perhaps your intention is to excuse
Burdovsky, by proving that he took up the matter in ignorance? Well, I
consider that extremely impudent on your part! You ought to know that
Burdovsky has no need of being excused or justified by you or anyone
else! It is an insult! The affair is quite painful enough for him
without that. Will nothing make you understand?”
“Enough! enough! Mr. Terentieff,” interrupted Gania.
“Don’t excite yourself; you seem very ill, and I am sorry for that. I
am almost done, but there are a few facts to which I must briefly
refer, as I am convinced that they ought to be clearly explained once
for all....” A movement of impatience was noticed in his audience as he
resumed: “I merely wish to state, for the information of all concerned,
that the reason for Mr. Pavlicheff’s interest in your mother, Mr.
Burdovsky, was simply that she was the sister of a serf-girl with whom
he was deeply in love in his youth, and whom most certainly he would
have married but for her sudden death. I have proofs that this
circumstance is almost, if not quite, forgotten. I may add that when
your mother was about ten years old, Pavlicheff took her under his
care, gave her a good education, and later, a considerable dowry. His
relations were alarmed, and feared he might go so far as to marry her,
but she gave her hand to a young land-surveyor named Burdovsky when she
reached the age of twenty. I can even say definitely that it was a
marriage of affection. After his wedding your father gave up his
occupation as land-surveyor, and with his wife’s dowry of fifteen
thousand roubles went in for commercial speculations. As he had had no
experience, he was cheated on all sides, and took to drink in order to
forget his troubles. He shortened his life by his excesses, and eight
years after his marriage he died. Your mother says herself that she was
left in the direst poverty, and would have died of starvation had it
not been for Pavlicheff, who generously allowed her a yearly pension of
six hundred roubles. Many people recall his extreme fondness for you as
a little boy. Your mother confirms this, and agrees with others in
thinking that he loved you the more because you were a sickly child,
stammering in your speech, and almost deformed—for it is known that all
his life Nicolai Andreevitch had a partiality for unfortunates of every
kind, especially children. In my opinion this is most important. I may
add that I discovered yet another fact, the last on which I employed my
detective powers. Seeing how fond Pavlicheff was of you,—it was thanks
to him you went to school, and also had the advantage of special
teachers—his relations and servants grew to believe that you were his
son, and that your father had been betrayed by his wife. I may point
out that this idea was only accredited generally during the last years
of Pavlicheff’s life, when his next-of-kin were trembling about the
succession, when the earlier story was quite forgotten, and when all
opportunity for discovering the truth had seemingly passed away. No
doubt you, Mr. Burdovsky, heard this conjecture, and did not hesitate
to accept it as true. I have had the honour of making your mother’s
acquaintance, and I find that she knows all about these reports. What
she does not know is that you, her son, should have listened to them so
complaisantly. I found your respected mother at Pskoff, ill and in deep
poverty, as she has been ever since the death of your benefactor. She
told me with tears of gratitude how you had supported her; she expects
much of you, and believes fervently in your future success...”
“Oh, this is unbearable!” said Lebedeff’s nephew impatiently. “What is
the good of all this romancing?”
“It is revolting and unseemly!” cried Hippolyte, jumping up in a fury.
Burdovsky alone sat silent and motionless.
“What is the good of it?” repeated Gavrila Ardalionovitch, with
pretended surprise. “Well, firstly, because now perhaps Mr. Burdovsky
is quite convinced that Mr. Pavlicheff’s love for him came simply from
generosity of soul, and not from paternal duty. It was most necessary
to impress this fact upon his mind, considering that he approved of the
article written by Mr. Keller. I speak thus because I look on you, Mr.
Burdovsky, as an honourable man. Secondly, it appears that there was no
intention of cheating in this case, even on the part of Tchebaroff. I
wish to say this quite plainly, because the prince hinted a while ago
that I too thought it an attempt at robbery and extortion. On the
contrary, everyone has been quite sincere in the matter, and although
Tchebaroff may be somewhat of a rogue, in this business he has acted
simply as any sharp lawyer would do under the circumstances. He looked
at it as a case that might bring him in a lot of money, and he did not
calculate badly; because on the one hand he speculated on the
generosity of the prince, and his gratitude to the late Mr. Pavlicheff,
and on the other to his chivalrous ideas as to the obligations of
honour and conscience. As to Mr. Burdovsky, allowing for his
principles, we may acknowledge that he engaged in the business with
very little personal aim in view. At the instigation of Tchebaroff and
his other friends, he decided to make the attempt in the service of
truth, progress, and humanity. In short, the conclusion may be drawn
that, in spite of all appearances, Mr. Burdovsky is a man of
irreproachable character, and thus the prince can all the more readily
offer him his friendship, and the assistance of which he spoke just
now...”
“Hush! hush! Gavrila Ardalionovitch!” cried Muishkin in dismay, but it
was too late.
“I said, and I have repeated it over and over again,” shouted Burdovsky
furiously, “that I did not want the money. I will not take it...
why...I will not... I am going away!”
He was rushing hurriedly from the terrace, when Lebedeff’s nephew
seized his arms, and said something to him in a low voice. Burdovsky
turned quickly, and drawing an addressed but unsealed envelope from his
pocket, he threw it down on a little table beside the prince.
“There’s the money!... How dare you?... The money!”
“Those are the two hundred and fifty roubles you dared to send him as a
charity, by the hands of Tchebaroff,” explained Doktorenko.
“The article in the newspaper put it at fifty!” cried Colia.
“I beg your pardon,” said the prince, going up to Burdovsky. “I have
done you a great wrong, but I did not send you that money as a charity,
believe me. And now I am again to blame. I offended you just now.” (The
prince was much distressed; he seemed worn out with fatigue, and spoke
almost incoherently.) “I spoke of swindling... but I did not apply that
to you. I was deceived .... I said you were... afflicted... like me...
But you are not like me... you give lessons... you support your mother.
I said you had dishonoured your mother, but you love her. She says so
herself... I did not know... Gavrila Ardalionovitch did not tell me
that... Forgive me! I dared to offer you ten thousand roubles, but I
was wrong. I ought to have done it differently, and now... there is no
way of doing it, for you despise me...”
“I declare, this is a lunatic asylum!” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna.
“Of course it is a lunatic asylum!” repeated Aglaya sharply, but her
words were overpowered by other voices. Everybody was talking loudly,
making remarks and comments; some discussed the affair gravely, others
laughed. Ivan Fedorovitch Epanchin was extremely indignant. He stood
waiting for his wife with an air of offended dignity. Lebedeff’s nephew
took up the word again.
“Well, prince, to do you justice, you certainly know how to make the
most of your—let us call it infirmity, for the sake of politeness; you
have set about offering your money and friendship in such a way that no
self-respecting man could possibly accept them. This is an excess of
ingenuousness or of malice—you ought to know better than anyone which
word best fits the case.”
“Allow me, gentlemen,” said Gavrila Ardalionovitch, who had just
examined the contents of the envelope, “there are only a hundred
roubles here, not two hundred and fifty. I point this out, prince, to
prevent misunderstanding.”
“Never mind, never mind,” said the prince, signing to him to keep
quiet.
“But we do mind,” said Lebedeff’s nephew vehemently. “Prince, your
‘never mind’ is an insult to us. We have nothing to hide; our actions
can bear daylight. It is true that there are only a hundred roubles
instead of two hundred and fifty, but it is all the same.”
“Why, no, it is hardly the same,” remarked Gavrila Ardalionovitch, with
an air of ingenuous surprise.
“Don’t interrupt, we are not such fools as you think, Mr. Lawyer,”
cried Lebedeff’s nephew angrily. “Of course there is a difference
between a hundred roubles and two hundred and fifty, but in this case
the principle is the main point, and that a hundred and fifty roubles
are missing is only a side issue. The point to be emphasized is that
Burdovsky will not accept your highness’s charity; he flings it back in
your face, and it scarcely matters if there are a hundred roubles or
two hundred and fifty. Burdovsky has refused ten thousand roubles; you
heard him. He would not have returned even a hundred roubles if he was
dishonest! The hundred and fifty roubles were paid to Tchebaroff for
his travelling expenses. You may jeer at our stupidity and at our
inexperience in business matters; you have done all you could already
to make us look ridiculous; but do not dare to call us dishonest. The
four of us will club together every day to repay the hundred and fifty
roubles to the prince, if we have to pay it in instalments of a rouble
at a time, but we will repay it, with interest. Burdovsky is poor, he
has no millions. After his journey to see the prince Tchebaroff sent in
his bill. We counted on winning... Who would not have done the same in
such a case?”
“Who indeed?” exclaimed Prince S.
“I shall certainly go mad, if I stay here!” cried Lizabetha
Prokofievna.
“It reminds me,” said Evgenie Pavlovitch, laughing, “of the famous plea
of a certain lawyer who lately defended a man for murdering six people
in order to rob them. He excused his client on the score of poverty.
‘It is quite natural,’ he said in conclusion, ‘considering the state of
misery he was in, that he should have thought of murdering these six
people; which of you, gentlemen, would not have done the same in his
place?’”
“Enough,” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna abruptly, trembling with anger,
“we have had enough of this balderdash!”
In a state of terrible excitement she threw back her head, with flaming
eyes, casting looks of contempt and defiance upon the whole company, in
which she could no longer distinguish friend from foe. She had
restrained herself so long that she felt forced to vent her rage on
somebody. Those who knew Lizabetha Prokofievna saw at once how it was
with her. “She flies into these rages sometimes,” said Ivan Fedorovitch
to Prince S. the next day, “but she is not often so violent as she was
yesterday; it does not happen more than once in three years.”
“Be quiet, Ivan Fedorovitch! Leave me alone!” cried Mrs. Epanchin. “Why
do you offer me your arm now? You had not sense enough to take me away
before. You are my husband, you are a father, it was your duty to drag
me away by force, if in my folly I refused to obey you and go quietly.
You might at least have thought of your daughters. We can find our way
out now without your help. Here is shame enough for a year! Wait a
moment ‘till I thank the prince! Thank you, prince, for the
entertainment you have given us! It was most amusing to hear these
young men... It is vile, vile! A chaos, a scandal, worse than a
nightmare! Is it possible that there can be many such people on earth?
Be quiet, Aglaya! Be quiet, Alexandra! It is none of your business!
Don’t fuss round me like that, Evgenie Pavlovitch; you exasperate me!
So, my dear,” she cried, addressing the prince, “you go so far as to
beg their pardon! He says, ‘Forgive me for offering you a fortune.’ And
you, you mountebank, what are you laughing at?” she cried, turning
suddenly on Lebedeff’s nephew. “‘We refuse ten thousand roubles; we do
not beseech, we demand!’ As if he did not know that this idiot will
call on them tomorrow to renew his offers of money and friendship. You
will, won’t you? You will? Come, will you, or won’t you?”
“I shall,” said the prince, with gentle humility.
“You hear him! You count upon it, too,” she continued, turning upon
Doktorenko. “You are as sure of him now as if you had the money in your
pocket. And there you are playing the swaggerer to throw dust in our
eyes! No, my dear sir, you may take other people in! I can see through
all your airs and graces, I see your game!”
“Lizabetha Prokofievna!” exclaimed the prince.
“Come, Lizabetha Prokofievna, it is quite time for us to be going, we
will take the prince with us,” said Prince S. with a smile, in the
coolest possible way.
The girls stood apart, almost frightened; their father was positively
horrified. Mrs. Epanchin’s language astonished everybody. Some who
stood a little way off smiled furtively, and talked in whispers.
Lebedeff wore an expression of utmost ecstasy.
“Chaos and scandal are to be found everywhere, madame,” remarked
Doktorenko, who was considerably put out of countenance.
“Not like this! Nothing like the spectacle you have just given us,
sir,” answered Lizabetha Prokofievna, with a sort of hysterical rage.
“Leave me alone, will you?” she cried violently to those around her,
who were trying to keep her quiet. “No, Evgenie Pavlovitch, if, as you
said yourself just now, a lawyer said in open court that he found it
quite natural that a man should murder six people because he was in
misery, the world must be coming to an end. I had not heard of it
before. Now I understand everything. And this stutterer, won’t he turn
out a murderer?” she cried, pointing to Burdovsky, who was staring at
her with stupefaction. “I bet he will! He will have none of your money,
possibly, he will refuse it because his conscience will not allow him
to accept it, but he will go murdering you by night and walking off
with your cashbox, with a clear conscience! He does not call it a
dishonest action but ‘the impulse of a noble despair’; ‘a negation’; or
the devil knows what! Bah! everything is upside down, everyone walks
head downwards. A young girl, brought up at home, suddenly jumps into a
cab in the middle of the street, saying: ‘Good-bye, mother, I married
Karlitch, or Ivanitch, the other day!’ And you think it quite right?
You call such conduct estimable and natural? The ‘woman question’? Look
here,” she continued, pointing to Colia, “the other day that
whippersnapper told me that this was the whole meaning of the ‘woman
question.’ But even supposing that your mother is a fool, you are none
the less, bound to treat her with humanity. Why did you come here
tonight so insolently? ‘Give us our rights, but don’t dare to speak in
our presence. Show us every mark of deepest respect, while we treat you
like the scum of the earth.’ The miscreants have written a tissue of
calumny in their article, and these are the men who seek for truth, and
do battle for the right! ‘We do not beseech, we demand, you will get no
thanks from us, because you will be acting to satisfy your own
conscience!’ What morality! But, good heavens! if you declare that the
prince’s generosity will, excite no gratitude in you, he might answer
that he is not, bound to be grateful to Pavlicheff, who also was only
satisfying his own conscience. But you counted on the prince’s,
gratitude towards Pavlicheff; you never lent him any money; he owes you
nothing; then what were you counting upon if not on his gratitude? And
if you appeal to that sentiment in others, why should you expect to be
exempted from it? They are mad! They say society is savage and inhuman
because it despises a young girl who has been seduced. But if you call
society inhuman you imply that the young girl is made to suffer by its
censure. How then, can you hold her up to the scorn of society in the
newspapers without realizing that you are making her suffering, still
greater? Madmen! Vain fools! They don’t believe in God, they don’t
believe in Christ! But you are so eaten up by pride and vanity, that
you will end by devouring each other—that is my prophecy! Is not this
absurd? Is it not monstrous chaos? And after all this, that shameless
creature will go and beg their pardon! Are there many people like you?
What are you smiling at? Because I am not ashamed to disgrace myself
before you?—Yes, I am disgraced—it can’t be helped now! But don’t you
jeer at me, you scum!” (this was aimed at Hippolyte). “He is almost at
his last gasp, yet he corrupts others. You, have got hold of this lad—”
(she pointed to Colia); “you, have turned his head, you have taught him
to be an atheist, you don’t believe in God, and you are not too old to
be whipped, sir! A plague upon you! And so, Prince Lef Nicolaievitch,
you will call on them tomorrow, will you?” she asked the prince
breathlessly, for the second time.
“Yes.”
“Then I will never speak to you again.” She made a sudden movement to
go, and then turned quickly back. “And you will call on that atheist?”
she continued, pointing to Hippolyte. “How dare you grin at me like
that?” she shouted furiously, rushing at the invalid, whose mocking
smile drove her to distraction.
Exclamations arose on all sides.
“Lizabetha Prokofievna! Lizabetha Prokofievna! Lizabetha Prokofievna!”
“Mother, this is disgraceful!” cried Aglaya.
Mrs. Epanchin had approached Hippolyte and seized him firmly by the
arm, while her eyes, blazing with fury, were fixed upon his face.
“Do not distress yourself, Aglaya Ivanovitch,” he answered calmly;
“your mother knows that one cannot strike a dying man. I am ready to
explain why I was laughing. I shall be delighted if you will let me—”
A violent fit of coughing, which lasted a full minute, prevented him
from finishing his sentence.
“He is dying, yet he will not stop holding forth!” cried Lizabetha
Prokofievna. She loosed her hold on his arm, almost terrified, as she
saw him wiping the blood from his lips. “Why do you talk? You ought to
go home to bed.”
“So I will,” he whispered hoarsely. “As soon as I get home I will go to
bed at once; and I know I shall be dead in a fortnight; Botkine told me
so himself last week. That is why I should like to say a few farewell
words, if you will let me.”
“But you must be mad! It is ridiculous! You should take care of
yourself; what is the use of holding a conversation now? Go home to
bed, do!” cried Mrs. Epanchin in horror.
“When I do go to bed I shall never get up again,” said Hippolyte, with
a smile. “I meant to take to my bed yesterday and stay there till I
died, but as my legs can still carry me, I put it off for two days, so
as to come here with them to-day—but I am very tired.”
“Oh, sit down, sit down, why are you standing?”
Lizabetha Prokofievna placed a chair for him with her own hands.
“Thank you,” he said gently. “Sit opposite to me, and let us talk. We
must have a talk now, Lizabetha Prokofievna; I am very anxious for it.”
He smiled at her once more. “Remember that today, for the last time, I
am out in the air, and in the company of my fellow-men, and that in a
fortnight I shall certainly be no longer in this world. So, in a way,
this is my farewell to nature and to men. I am not very sentimental,
but do you know, I am quite glad that all this has happened at
Pavlofsk, where at least one can see a green tree.”
“But why talk now?” replied Lizabetha Prokofievna, more and more
alarmed; “You are quite feverish. Just now you would not stop shouting,
and now you can hardly breathe. You are gasping.”
“I shall have time to rest. Why will you not grant my last wish? Do you
know, Lizabetha Prokofievna, that I have dreamed of meeting you for a
long while? I had often heard of you from Colia; he is almost the only
person who still comes to see me. You are an original and eccentric
woman; I have seen that for myself—Do you know, I have even been rather
fond of you?”
“Good heavens! And I very nearly struck him!”
“You were prevented by Aglaya Ivanovna. I think I am not mistaken? That
is your daughter, Aglaya Ivanovna? She is so beautiful that I
recognized her directly, although I had never seen her before. Let me,
at least, look on beauty for the last time in my life,” he said with a
wry smile. “You are here with the prince, and your husband, and a large
company. Why should you refuse to gratify my last wish?”
“Give me a chair!” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, but she seized one for
herself and sat down opposite to Hippolyte. “Colia, you must go home
with him,” she commanded, “and tomorrow I will come my self.”
“Will you let me ask the prince for a cup of tea?... I am exhausted. Do
you know what you might do, Lizabetha Prokofievna? I think you wanted
to take the prince home with you for tea. Stay here, and let us spend
the evening together. I am sure the prince will give us all some tea.
Forgive me for being so free and easy—but I know you are kind, and the
prince is kind, too. In fact, we are all good-natured people—it is
really quite comical.”
The prince bestirred himself to give orders. Lebedeff hurried out,
followed by Vera.
“It is quite true,” said Mrs. Epanchin decisively. “Talk, but not too
loud, and don’t excite yourself. You have made me sorry for you.
Prince, you don’t deserve that I should stay and have tea with you, yet
I will, all the same, but I won’t apologize. I apologize to nobody!
Nobody! It is absurd! However, forgive me, prince, if I blew you
up—that is, if you like, of course. But please don’t let me keep
anyone,” she added suddenly to her husband and daughters, in a tone of
resentment, as though they had grievously offended her. “I can come
home alone quite well.”
But they did not let her finish, and gathered round her eagerly. The
prince immediately invited everyone to stay for tea, and apologized for
not having thought of it before. The general murmured a few polite
words, and asked Lizabetha Prokofievna if she did not feel cold on the
terrace. He very nearly asked Hippolyte how long he had been at the
University, but stopped himself in time. Evgenie Pavlovitch and Prince
S. suddenly grew extremely gay and amiable. Adelaida and Alexandra had
not recovered from their surprise, but it was now mingled with
satisfaction; in short, everyone seemed very much relieved that
Lizabetha Prokofievna had got over her paroxysm. Aglaya alone still
frowned, and sat apart in silence. All the other guests stayed on as
well; no one wanted to go, not even General Ivolgin, but Lebedeff said
something to him in passing which did not seem to please him, for he
immediately went and sulked in a corner. The prince took care to offer
tea to Burdovsky and his friends as well as the rest. The invitation
made them rather uncomfortable. They muttered that they would wait for
Hippolyte, and went and sat by themselves in a distant corner of the
verandah. Tea was served at once; Lebedeff had no doubt ordered it for
himself and his family before the others arrived. It was striking
eleven.
X.
After moistening his lips with the tea which Vera Lebedeff brought him,
Hippolyte set the cup down on the table, and glanced round. He seemed
confused and almost at a loss.
“Just look, Lizabetha Prokofievna,” he began, with a kind of feverish
haste; “these china cups are supposed to be extremely valuable.
Lebedeff always keeps them locked up in his china-cupboard; they were
part of his wife’s dowry. Yet he has brought them out tonight—in your
honour, of course! He is so pleased—” He was about to add something
else, but could not find the words.
“There, he is feeling embarrassed; I expected as much,” whispered
Evgenie Pavlovitch suddenly in the prince’s ear. “It is a bad sign;
what do you think? Now, out of spite, he will come out with something
so outrageous that even Lizabetha Prokofievna will not be able to stand
it.”
Muishkin looked at him inquiringly.
“You do not care if he does?” added Evgenie Pavlovitch. “Neither do I;
in fact, I should be glad, merely as a proper punishment for our dear
Lizabetha Prokofievna. I am very anxious that she should get it,
without delay, and I shall stay till she does. You seem feverish.”
“Never mind; by-and-by; yes, I am not feeling well,” said the prince
impatiently, hardly listening. He had just heard Hippolyte mention his
own name.
“You don’t believe it?” said the invalid, with a nervous laugh. “I
don’t wonder, but the prince will have no difficulty in believing it;
he will not be at all surprised.”
“Do you hear, prince—do you hear that?” said Lizabetha Prokofievna,
turning towards him.
There was laughter in the group around her, and Lebedeff stood before
her gesticulating wildly.
“He declares that your humbug of a landlord revised this gentleman’s
article—the article that was read aloud just now—in which you got such
a charming dressing-down.”
The prince regarded Lebedeff with astonishment.
“Why don’t you say something?” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, stamping
her foot.
“Well,” murmured the prince, with his eyes still fixed on Lebedeff, “I
can see now that he did.”
“Is it true?” she asked eagerly.
“Absolutely, your excellency,” said Lebedeff, without the least
hesitation.
Mrs. Epanchin almost sprang up in amazement at his answer, and at the
assurance of his tone.
“He actually seems to boast of it!” she cried.
“I am base—base!” muttered Lebedeff, beating his breast, and hanging
his head.
“What do I care if you are base or not? He thinks he has only to say,
‘I am base,’ and there is an end of it. As to you, prince, are you not
ashamed?—I repeat, are you not ashamed, to mix with such riff-raff? I
will never forgive you!”
“The prince will forgive me!” said Lebedeff with emotional conviction.
Keller suddenly left his seat, and approached Lizabetha Prokofievna.
“It was only out of generosity, madame,” he said in a resonant voice,
“and because I would not betray a friend in an awkward position, that I
did not mention this revision before; though you heard him yourself
threatening to kick us down the steps. To clear the matter up, I
declare now that I did have recourse to his assistance, and that I paid
him six roubles for it. But I did not ask him to correct my style; I
simply went to him for information concerning the facts, of which I was
ignorant to a great extent, and which he was competent to give. The
story of the gaiters, the appetite in the Swiss professor’s house, the
substitution of fifty roubles for two hundred and fifty—all such
details, in fact, were got from him. I paid him six roubles for them;
but he did not correct the style.”
“I must state that I only revised the first part of the article,”
interposed Lebedeff with feverish impatience, while laughter rose from
all around him; “but we fell out in the middle over one idea, so I
never corrected the second part. Therefore I cannot be held responsible
for the numerous grammatical blunders in it.”
“That is all he thinks of!” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna.
“May I ask when this article was revised?” said Evgenie Pavlovitch to
Keller.
“Yesterday morning,” he replied, “we had an interview which we all gave
our word of honour to keep secret.”
“The very time when he was cringing before you and making protestations
of devotion! Oh, the mean wretches! I will have nothing to do with your
Pushkin, and your daughter shall not set foot in my house!”
Lizabetha Prokofievna was about to rise, when she saw Hippolyte
laughing, and turned upon him with irritation.
“Well, sir, I suppose you wanted to make me look ridiculous?”
“Heaven forbid!” he answered, with a forced smile. “But I am more than
ever struck by your eccentricity, Lizabetha Prokofievna. I admit that I
told you of Lebedeff’s duplicity, on purpose. I knew the effect it
would have on you,—on you alone, for the prince will forgive him. He
has probably forgiven him already, and is racking his brains to find
some excuse for him—is not that the truth, prince?”
He gasped as he spoke, and his strange agitation seemed to increase.
“Well?” said Mrs. Epanchin angrily, surprised at his tone; “well, what
more?”
“I have heard many things of the kind about you...they delighted me...
I have learned to hold you in the highest esteem,” continued Hippolyte.
His words seemed tinged with a kind of sarcastic mockery, yet he was
extremely agitated, casting suspicious glances around him, growing
confused, and constantly losing the thread of his ideas. All this,
together with his consumptive appearance, and the frenzied expression
of his blazing eyes, naturally attracted the attention of everyone
present.
“I might have been surprised (though I admit I know nothing of the
world), not only that you should have stayed on just now in the company
of such people as myself and my friends, who are not of your class, but
that you should let these... young ladies listen to such a scandalous
affair, though no doubt novel-reading has taught them all there is to
know. I may be mistaken; I hardly know what I am saying; but surely no
one but you would have stayed to please a whippersnapper (yes, a
whippersnapper; I admit it) to spend the evening and take part in
everything—only to be ashamed of it tomorrow. (I know I express myself
badly.) I admire and appreciate it all extremely, though the expression
on the face of his excellency, your husband, shows that he thinks it
very improper. He-he!” He burst out laughing, and was seized with a fit
of coughing which lasted for two minutes and prevented him from
speaking.
“He has lost his breath now!” said Lizabetha Prokofievna coldly,
looking at him with more curiosity than pity: “Come, my dear boy, that
is quite enough—let us make an end of this.”
Ivan Fedorovitch, now quite out of patience, interrupted suddenly. “Let
me remark in my turn, sir,” he said in tones of deep annoyance, “that
my wife is here as the guest of Prince Lef Nicolaievitch, our friend
and neighbour, and that in any case, young man, it is not for you to
pass judgment on the conduct of Lizabetha Prokofievna, or to make
remarks aloud in my presence concerning what feelings you think may be
read in my face. Yes, my wife stayed here,” continued the general, with
increasing irritation, “more out of amazement than anything else.
Everyone can understand that a collection of such strange young men
would attract the attention of a person interested in contemporary
life. I stayed myself, just as I sometimes stop to look on in the
street when I see something that may be regarded as-as-as-”
“As a curiosity,” suggested Evgenie Pavlovitch, seeing his excellency
involved in a comparison which he could not complete.
“That is exactly the word I wanted,” said the general with
satisfaction—“a curiosity. However, the most astonishing and, if I may
so express myself, the most painful, thing in this matter, is that you
cannot even understand, young man, that Lizabetha Prokofievna, only
stayed with you because you are ill,—if you really are dying—moved by
the pity awakened by your plaintive appeal, and that her name,
character, and social position place her above all risk of
contamination. Lizabetha Prokofievna!” he continued, now crimson with
rage, “if you are coming, we will say goodnight to the prince, and—”
“Thank you for the lesson, general,” said Hippolyte, with unexpected
gravity, regarding him thoughtfully.
“Two minutes more, if you please, dear Ivan Fedorovitch,” said
Lizabetha Prokofievna to her husband; “it seems to me that he is in a
fever and delirious; you can see by his eyes what a state he is in; it
is impossible to let him go back to Petersburg tonight. Can you put him
up, Lef Nicolaievitch? I hope you are not bored, dear prince,” she
added suddenly to Prince S. “Alexandra, my dear, come here! Your hair
is coming down.”
She arranged her daughter’s hair, which was not in the least
disordered, and gave her a kiss. This was all that she had called her
for.
“I thought you were capable of development,” said Hippolyte, coming out
of his fit of abstraction. “Yes, that is what I meant to say,” he
added, with the satisfaction of one who suddenly remembers something he
had forgotten. “Here is Burdovsky, sincerely anxious to protect his
mother; is not that so? And he himself is the cause of her disgrace.
The prince is anxious to help Burdovsky and offers him friendship and a
large sum of money, in the sincerity of his heart. And here they stand
like two sworn enemies—ha, ha, ha! You all hate Burdovsky because his
behaviour with regard to his mother is shocking and repugnant to you;
do you not? Is not that true? Is it not true? You all have a passion
for beauty and distinction in outward forms; that is all you care for,
isn’t it? I have suspected for a long time that you cared for nothing
else! Well, let me tell you that perhaps there is not one of you who
loved your mother as Burdovsky loved his. As to you, prince, I know
that you have sent money secretly to Burdovsky’s mother through Gania.
Well, I bet now,” he continued with an hysterical laugh, “that
Burdovsky will accuse you of indelicacy, and reproach you with a want
of respect for his mother! Yes, that is quite certain! Ha, ha, ha!”
He caught his breath, and began to cough once more.
“Come, that is enough! That is all now; you have no more to say? Now go
to bed; you are burning with fever,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna
impatiently. Her anxious eyes had never left the invalid. “Good
heavens, he is going to begin again!”
“You are laughing, I think? Why do you keep laughing at me?” said
Hippolyte irritably to Evgenie Pavlovitch, who certainly was laughing.
“I only want to know, Mr. Hippolyte—excuse me, I forget your surname.”
“Mr. Terentieff,” said the prince.
“Oh yes, Mr. Terentieff. Thank you prince. I heard it just now, but had
forgotten it. I want to know, Mr. Terentieff, if what I have heard
about you is true. It seems you are convinced that if you could speak
to the people from a window for a quarter of an hour, you could make
them all adopt your views and follow you?”
“I may have said so,” answered Hippolyte, as if trying to remember.
“Yes, I certainly said so,” he continued with sudden animation, fixing
an unflinching glance on his questioner. “What of it?”
“Nothing. I was only seeking further information, to put the finishing
touch.”
Evgenie Pavlovitch was silent, but Hippolyte kept his eyes fixed upon
him, waiting impatiently for more.
“Well, have you finished?” said Lizabetha Prokofievna to Evgenie. “Make
haste, sir; it is time he went to bed. Have you more to say?” She was
very angry.
“Yes, I have a little more,” said Evgenie Pavlovitch, with a smile. “It
seems to me that all you and your friends have said, Mr. Terentieff,
and all you have just put forward with such undeniable talent, may be
summed up in the triumph of right above all, independent of everything
else, to the exclusion of everything else; perhaps even before having
discovered what constitutes the right. I may be mistaken?”
“You are certainly mistaken; I do not even understand you. What else?”
Murmurs arose in the neighbourhood of Burdovsky and his companions;
Lebedeff’s nephew protested under his breath.
“I have nearly finished,” replied Evgenie Pavlovitch.
“I will only remark that from these premises one could conclude that
might is right—I mean the right of the clenched fist, and of personal
inclination. Indeed, the world has often come to that conclusion.
Prudhon upheld that might is right. In the American War some of the
most advanced Liberals took sides with the planters on the score that
the blacks were an inferior race to the whites, and that might was the
right of the white race.”
“Well?”
“You mean, no doubt, that you do not deny that might is right?”
“What then?”
“You are at least logical. I would only point out that from the right
of might, to the right of tigers and crocodiles, or even Daniloff and
Gorsky, is but a step.”
“I know nothing about that; what else?”
Hippolyte was scarcely listening. He kept saying “well?” and “what
else?” mechanically, without the least curiosity, and by mere force of
habit.
“Why, nothing else; that is all.”
“However, I bear you no grudge,” said Hippolyte suddenly, and, hardly
conscious of what he was doing, he held out his hand with a smile. The
gesture took Evgenie Pavlovitch by surprise, but with the utmost
gravity he touched the hand that was offered him in token of
forgiveness.
“I can but thank you,” he said, in a tone too respectful to be sincere,
“for your kindness in letting me speak, for I have often noticed that
our Liberals never allow other people to have an opinion of their own,
and immediately answer their opponents with abuse, if they do not have
recourse to arguments of a still more unpleasant nature.”
“What you say is quite true,” observed General Epanchin; then, clasping
his hands behind his back, he returned to his place on the terrace
steps, where he yawned with an air of boredom.
“Come, sir, that will do; you weary me,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna
suddenly to Evgenie Pavlovitch.
Hippolyte rose all at once, looking troubled and almost frightened.
“It is time for me to go,” he said, glancing round in perplexity. “I
have detained you... I wanted to tell you everything... I thought you
all... for the last time... it was a whim...”
He evidently had sudden fits of returning animation, when he awoke from
his semi-delirium; then, recovering full self-possession for a few
moments, he would speak, in disconnected phrases which had perhaps
haunted him for a long while on his bed of suffering, during weary,
sleepless nights.
“Well, good-bye,” he said abruptly. “You think it is easy for me to say
good-bye to you? Ha, ha!”
Feeling that his question was somewhat gauche, he smiled angrily. Then
as if vexed that he could not ever express what he really meant, he
said irritably, in a loud voice:
“Excellency, I have the honour of inviting you to my funeral; that is,
if you will deign to honour it with your presence. I invite you all,
gentlemen, as well as the general.”
He burst out laughing again, but it was the laughter of a madman.
Lizabetha Prokofievna approached him anxiously and seized his arm. He
stared at her for a moment, still laughing, but soon his face grew
serious.
“Do you know that I came here to see those trees?” pointing to the
trees in the park. “It is not ridiculous, is it? Say that it is not
ridiculous!” he demanded urgently of Lizabetha Prokofievna. Then he
seemed to be plunged in thought. A moment later he raised his head, and
his eyes sought for someone. He was looking for Evgenie Pavlovitch, who
was close by on his right as before, but he had forgotten this, and his
eyes ranged over the assembled company. “Ah! you have not gone!” he
said, when he caught sight of him at last. “You kept on laughing just
now, because I thought of speaking to the people from the window for a
quarter of an hour. But I am not eighteen, you know; lying on that bed,
and looking out of that window, I have thought of all sorts of things
for such a long time that... a dead man has no age, you know. I was
saying that to myself only last week, when I was awake in the night. Do
you know what you fear most? You fear our sincerity more than anything,
although you despise us! The idea crossed my mind that night... You
thought I was making fun of you just now, Lizabetha Prokofievna? No,
the idea of mockery was far from me; I only meant to praise you. Colia
told me the prince called you a child—very well—but let me see, I had
something else to say...” He covered his face with his hands and tried
to collect his thoughts.
“Ah, yes—you were going away just now, and I thought to myself: ‘I
shall never see these people again—never again! This is the last time I
shall see the trees, too. I shall see nothing after this but the red
brick wall of Meyer’s house opposite my window. Tell them about it—try
to tell them,’ I thought. ‘Here is a beautiful young girl—you are a
dead man; make them understand that. Tell them that a dead man may say
anything—and Mrs. Grundy will not be angry—ha-ha! You are not
laughing?” He looked anxiously around. “But you know I get so many
queer ideas, lying there in bed. I have grown convinced that nature is
full of mockery—you called me an atheist just now, but you know this
nature... why are you laughing again? You are very cruel!” he added
suddenly, regarding them all with mournful reproach. “I have not
corrupted Colia,” he concluded in a different and very serious tone, as
if remembering something again.
“Nobody here is laughing at you. Calm yourself,” said Lizabetha
Prokofievna, much moved. “You shall see a new doctor tomorrow; the
other was mistaken; but sit down, do not stand like that! You are
delirious—” Oh, what shall we do with him she cried in anguish, as she
made him sit down again in the arm-chair.
A tear glistened on her cheek. At the sight of it Hippolyte seemed
amazed. He lifted his hand timidly and, touched the tear with his
finger, smiling like a child.
“I... you,” he began joyfully. “You cannot tell how I... he always
spoke so enthusiastically of you, Colia here; I liked his enthusiasm. I
was not corrupting him! But I must leave him, too—I wanted to leave
them all—there was not one of them—not one! I wanted to be a man of
action—I had a right to be. Oh! what a lot of things I wanted! Now I
want nothing; I renounce all my wants; I swore to myself that I would
want nothing; let them seek the truth without me! Yes, nature is full
of mockery! Why”—he continued with sudden warmth—“does she create the
choicest beings only to mock at them? The only human being who is
recognized as perfect, when nature showed him to mankind, was given the
mission to say things which have caused the shedding of so much blood
that it would have drowned mankind if it had all been shed at once! Oh!
it is better for me to die! I should tell some dreadful lie too; nature
would so contrive it! I have corrupted nobody. I wanted to live for the
happiness of all men, to find and spread the truth. I used to look out
of my window at the wall of Meyer’s house, and say to myself that if I
could speak for a quarter of an hour I would convince the whole world,
and now for once in my life I have come into contact with... you—if not
with the others! And what is the result? Nothing! The sole result is
that you despise me! Therefore I must be a fool, I am useless, it is
time I disappeared! And I shall leave not even a memory! Not a sound,
not a trace, not a single deed! I have not spread a single truth!... Do
not laugh at the fool! Forget him! Forget him forever! I beseech you,
do not be so cruel as to remember! Do you know that if I were not
consumptive, I would kill myself?”
Though he seemed to wish to say much more, he became silent. He fell
back into his chair, and, covering his face with his hands, began to
sob like a little child.
“Oh! what on earth are we to do with him?” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna.
She hastened to him and pressed his head against her bosom, while he
sobbed convulsively.
“Come, come, come! There, you must not cry, that will do. You are a
good child! God will forgive you, because you knew no better. Come now,
be a man! You know presently you will be ashamed.”
Hippolyte raised his head with an effort, saying:
“I have little brothers and sisters, over there, poor avid innocent.
She will corrupt them! You are a saint! You are a child yourself—save
them! Snatch them from that... she is... it is shameful! Oh! help them!
God will repay you a hundredfold. For the love of God, for the love of
Christ!”
“Speak, Ivan Fedorovitch! What are we to do?” cried Lizabetha
Prokofievna, irritably. “Please break your majestic silence! I tell
you, if you cannot come to some decision, I will stay here all night
myself. You have tyrannized over me enough, you autocrat!”
She spoke angrily, and in great excitement, and expected an immediate
reply. But in such a case, no matter how many are present, all prefer
to keep silence: no one will take the initiative, but all reserve their
comments till afterwards. There were some present—Varvara Ardalionovna,
for instance—who would have willingly sat there till morning without
saying a word. Varvara had sat apart all the evening without opening
her lips, but she listened to everything with the closest attention;
perhaps she had her reasons for so doing.
“My dear,” said the general, “it seems to me that a sick-nurse would be
of more use here than an excitable person like you. Perhaps it would be
as well to get some sober, reliable man for the night. In any case we
must consult the prince, and leave the patient to rest at once.
Tomorrow we can see what can be done for him.”
“It is nearly midnight; we are going. Will he come with us, or is he to
stay here?” Doktorenko asked crossly of the prince.
“You can stay with him if you like,” said Muishkin.
“There is plenty of room here.”
Suddenly, to the astonishment of all, Keller went quickly up to the
general.
“Excellency,” he said, impulsively, “if you want a reliable man for the
night, I am ready to sacrifice myself for my friend—such a soul as he
has! I have long thought him a great man, excellency! My article showed
my lack of education, but when he criticizes he scatters pearls!”
Ivan Fedorovitch turned from the boxer with a gesture of despair.
“I shall be delighted if he will stay; it would certainly be difficult
for him to get back to Petersburg,” said the prince, in answer to the
eager questions of Lizabetha Prokofievna.
“But you are half asleep, are you not? If you don’t want him, I will
take him back to my house! Why, good gracious! He can hardly stand up
himself! What is it? Are you ill?”
Not finding the prince on his death-bed, Lizabetha Prokofievna had been
misled by his appearance to think him much better than he was. But his
recent illness, the painful memories attached to it, the fatigue of
this evening, the incident with “Pavlicheff’s son,” and now this scene
with Hippolyte, had all so worked on his oversensitive nature that he
was now almost in a fever. Moreover, a new trouble, almost a fear,
showed itself in his eyes; he watched Hippolyte anxiously as if
expecting something further.
Suddenly Hippolyte arose. His face, shockingly pale, was that of a man
overwhelmed with shame and despair. This was shown chiefly in the look
of fear and hatred which he cast upon the assembled company, and in the
wild smile upon his trembling lips. Then he cast down his eyes, and
with the same smile, staggered towards Burdovsky and Doktorenko, who
stood at the entrance to the verandah. He had decided to go with them.
“There! that is what I feared!” cried the prince. “It was inevitable!”
Hippolyte turned upon him, a prey to maniacal rage, which set all the
muscles of his face quivering.
“Ah! that is what you feared! It was inevitable, you say! Well, let me
tell you that if I hate anyone here—I hate you all,” he cried, in a
hoarse, strained voice—“but you, you, with your jesuitical soul, your
soul of sickly sweetness, idiot, beneficent millionaire—I hate you
worse than anything or anyone on earth! I saw through you and hated you
long ago; from the day I first heard of you. I hated you with my whole
heart. You have contrived all this! You have driven me into this state!
You have made a dying man disgrace himself. You, you, you are the cause
of my abject cowardice! I would kill you if I remained alive! I do not
want your benefits; I will accept none from anyone; do you hear? Not
from any one! I want nothing! I was delirious, do not dare to triumph!
I curse every one of you, once for all!”
Breath failed him here, and he was obliged to stop.
“He is ashamed of his tears!” whispered Lebedeff to Lizabetha
Prokofievna. “It was inevitable. Ah! what a wonderful man the prince
is! He read his very soul.”
But Mrs. Epanchin would not deign to look at Lebedeff. Drawn up
haughtily, with her head held high, she gazed at the “riff-raff,” with
scornful curiosity. When Hippolyte had finished, Ivan Fedorovitch
shrugged his shoulders, and his wife looked him angrily up and down, as
if to demand the meaning of his movement. Then she turned to the
prince.
“Thanks, prince, many thanks, eccentric friend of the family, for the
pleasant evening you have provided for us. I am sure you are quite
pleased that you have managed to mix us up with your extraordinary
affairs. It is quite enough, dear family friend; thank you for giving
us an opportunity of getting to know you so well.”
She arranged her cloak with hands that trembled with anger as she
waited for the “riff-raff” to go. The cab which Lebedeff’s son had gone
to fetch a quarter of an hour ago, by Doktorenko’s order, arrived at
that moment. The general thought fit to put in a word after his wife.
“Really, prince, I hardly expected after—after all our friendly
intercourse—and you see, Lizabetha Prokofievna—”
“Papa, how can you?” cried Adelaida, walking quickly up to the prince
and holding out her hand.
He smiled absently at her; then suddenly he felt a burning sensation in
his ear as an angry voice whispered:
“If you do not turn those dreadful people out of the house this very
instant, I shall hate you all my life—all my life!” It was Aglaya. She
seemed almost in a frenzy, but she turned away before the prince could
look at her. However, there was no one left to turn out of the house,
for they had managed meanwhile to get Hippolyte into the cab, and it
had driven off.
“Well, how much longer is this going to last, Ivan Fedorovitch? What do
you think? Shall I soon be delivered from these odious youths?”
“My dear, I am quite ready; naturally... the prince.”
Ivan Fedorovitch held out his hand to Muishkin, but ran after his wife,
who was leaving with every sign of violent indignation, before he had
time to shake it. Adelaida, her fiance, and Alexandra, said good-bye to
their host with sincere friendliness. Evgenie Pavlovitch did the same,
and he alone seemed in good spirits.
“What I expected has happened! But I am sorry, you poor fellow, that
you should have had to suffer for it,” he murmured, with a most
charming smile.
Aglaya left without saying good-bye. But the evening was not to end
without a last adventure. An unexpected meeting was yet in store for
Lizabetha Prokofievna.
She had scarcely descended the terrace steps leading to the high road
that skirts the park at Pavlofsk, when suddenly there dashed by a smart
open carriage, drawn by a pair of beautiful white horses. Having passed
some ten yards beyond the house, the carriage suddenly drew up, and one
of the two ladies seated in it turned sharp round as though she had
just caught sight of some acquaintance whom she particularly wished to
see.
“Evgenie Pavlovitch! Is that you?” cried a clear, sweet voice, which
caused the prince, and perhaps someone else, to tremble. “Well, I _am_
glad I’ve found you at last! I’ve sent to town for you twice today
myself! My messengers have been searching for you everywhere!”
Evgenie Pavlovitch stood on the steps like one struck by lightning.
Mrs. Epanchin stood still too, but not with the petrified expression of
Evgenie. She gazed haughtily at the audacious person who had addressed
her companion, and then turned a look of astonishment upon Evgenie
himself.
“There’s news!” continued the clear voice. “You need not be anxious
about Kupferof’s IOU’s—Rogojin has bought them up. I persuaded him
to!—I dare say we shall settle Biscup too, so it’s all right, you see!
_Au revoir_, tomorrow! And don’t worry!” The carriage moved on, and
disappeared.
“The woman’s mad!” cried Evgenie, at last, crimson with anger, and
looking confusedly around. “I don’t know what she’s talking about! What
IOU’s? Who is she?” Mrs. Epanchin continued to watch his face for a
couple of seconds; then she marched briskly and haughtily away towards
her own house, the rest following her.
A minute afterwards, Evgenie Pavlovitch reappeared on the terrace, in
great agitation.
“Prince,” he said, “tell me the truth; do you know what all this
means?”
“I know nothing whatever about it!” replied the latter, who was,
himself, in a state of nervous excitement.
“No?”
“No!”
“Well, nor do I!” said Evgenie Pavlovitch, laughing suddenly. “I
haven’t the slightest knowledge of any such IOU’s as she mentioned, I
swear I haven’t—What’s the matter, are you fainting?”
“Oh, no—no—I’m all right, I assure you!”
XI.
The anger of the Epanchin family was unappeased for three days. As
usual the prince reproached himself, and had expected punishment, but
he was inwardly convinced that Lizabetha Prokofievna could not be
seriously angry with him, and that she probably was more angry with
herself. He was painfully surprised, therefore, when three days passed
with no word from her. Other things also troubled and perplexed him,
and one of these grew more important in his eyes as the days went by.
He had begun to blame himself for two opposite tendencies—on the one
hand to extreme, almost “senseless,” confidence in his fellows, on the
other to a “vile, gloomy suspiciousness.”
By the end of the third day the incident of the eccentric lady and
Evgenie Pavlovitch had attained enormous and mysterious proportions in
his mind. He sorrowfully asked himself whether he had been the cause of
this new “monstrosity,” or was it... but he refrained from saying who
else might be in fault. As for the letters N.P.B., he looked on that as
a harmless joke, a mere childish piece of mischief—so childish that he
felt it would be shameful, almost dishonourable, to attach any
importance to it.
The day after these scandalous events, however, the prince had the
honour of receiving a visit from Adelaida and her fiance, Prince S.
They came, ostensibly, to inquire after his health. They had wandered
out for a walk, and called in “by accident,” and talked for almost the
whole of the time they were with him about a certain most lovely tree
in the park, which Adelaida had set her heart upon for a picture. This,
and a little amiable conversation on Prince S.’s part, occupied the
time, and not a word was said about last evening’s episodes. At length
Adelaida burst out laughing, apologized, and explained that they had
come incognito; from which, and from the circumstance that they said
nothing about the prince’s either walking back with them or coming to
see them later on, the latter inferred that he was in Mrs. Epanchin’s
black books. Adelaida mentioned a watercolour that she would much like
to show him, and explained that she would either send it by Colia, or
bring it herself the next day—which to the prince seemed very
suggestive.
At length, however, just as the visitors were on the point of
departing, Prince S. seemed suddenly to recollect himself. “Oh yes,
by-the-by,” he said, “do you happen to know, my dear Lef Nicolaievitch,
who that lady was who called out to Evgenie Pavlovitch last night, from
the carriage?”
“It was Nastasia Philipovna,” said the prince; “didn’t you know that? I
cannot tell you who her companion was.”
“But what on earth did she mean? I assure you it is a real riddle to
me—to me, and to others, too!” Prince S. seemed to be under the
influence of sincere astonishment.
“She spoke of some bills of Evgenie Pavlovitch’s,” said the prince,
simply, “which Rogojin had bought up from someone; and implied that
Rogojin would not press him.”
“Oh, I heard that much, my dear fellow! But the thing is so impossibly
absurd! A man of property like Evgenie to give IOU’s to a money-lender,
and to be worried about them! It is ridiculous. Besides, he cannot
possibly be on such intimate terms with Nastasia Philipovna as she gave
us to understand; that’s the principal part of the mystery! He has
given me his word that he knows nothing whatever about the matter, and
of course I believe him. Well, the question is, my dear prince, do you
know anything about it? Has any sort of suspicion of the meaning of it
come across you?”
“No, I know nothing whatever about it. I assure you I had nothing at
all to do with it.”
“Oh, prince, how strange you have become! I assure you, I hardly know
you for your old self. How can you suppose that I ever suggested you
could have had a finger in such a business? But you are not quite
yourself today, I can see.” He embraced the prince, and kissed him.
“What do you mean, though,” asked Muishkin, “‘by such a business’? I
don’t see any particular ‘business’ about it at all!”
“Oh, undoubtedly, this person wished somehow, and for some reason, to
do Evgenie Pavlovitch a bad turn, by attributing to him—before
witnesses—qualities which he neither has nor can have,” replied Prince
S. drily enough.
Muiskhin looked disturbed, but continued to gaze intently and
questioningly into Prince S.’s face. The latter, however, remained
silent.
“Then it was not simply a matter of bills?” Muishkin said at last, with
some impatience. “It was not as she said?”
“But I ask you, my dear sir, how can there be anything in common
between Evgenie Pavlovitch, and—her, and again Rogojin? I tell you he
is a man of immense wealth—as I know for a fact; and he has further
expectations from his uncle. Simply Nastasia Philipovna—”
Prince S. paused, as though unwilling to continue talking about
Nastasia Philipovna.
“Then at all events he knows her!” remarked the prince, after a
moment’s silence.
“Oh, that may be. He may have known her some time ago—two or three
years, at least. He used to know Totski. But it is impossible that
there should be any intimacy between them. She has not even been in the
place—many people don’t even know that she has returned from Moscow! I
have only observed her carriage about for the last three days or so.”
“It’s a lovely carriage,” said Adelaida.
“Yes, it was a beautiful turn-out, certainly!”
The visitors left the house, however, on no less friendly terms than
before. But the visit was of the greatest importance to the prince,
from his own point of view. Admitting that he had his suspicions, from
the moment of the occurrence of last night, perhaps even before, that
Nastasia had some mysterious end in view, yet this visit confirmed his
suspicions and justified his fears. It was all clear to him; Prince S.
was wrong, perhaps, in his view of the matter, but he was somewhere
near the truth, and was right in so far as that he understood there to
be an intrigue of some sort going on. Perhaps Prince S. saw it all more
clearly than he had allowed his hearers to understand. At all events,
nothing could be plainer than that he and Adelaida had come for the
express purpose of obtaining explanations, and that they suspected him
of being concerned in the affair. And if all this were so, then _she_
must have some terrible object in view! What was it? There was no
stopping _her_, as Muishkin knew from experience, in the performance of
anything she had set her mind on! “Oh, she is mad, mad!” thought the
poor prince.
But there were many other puzzling occurrences that day, which required
immediate explanation, and the prince felt very sad. A visit from Vera
Lebedeff distracted him a little. She brought the infant Lubotchka with
her as usual, and talked cheerfully for some time. Then came her
younger sister, and later the brother, who attended a school close by.
He informed Muishkin that his father had lately found a new
interpretation of the star called “wormwood,” which fell upon the
water-springs, as described in the Apocalypse. He had decided that it
meant the network of railroads spread over the face of Europe at the
present time. The prince refused to believe that Lebedeff could have
given such an interpretation, and they decided to ask him about it at
the earliest opportunity. Vera related how Keller had taken up his
abode with them on the previous evening. She thought he would remain
for some time, as he was greatly pleased with the society of General
Ivolgin and of the whole family. But he declared that he had only come
to them in order to complete his education! The prince always enjoyed
the company of Lebedeff’s children, and today it was especially
welcome, for Colia did not appear all day. Early that morning he had
started for Petersburg. Lebedeff also was away on business. But Gavrila
Ardalionovitch had promised to visit Muishkin, who eagerly awaited his
coming.
About seven in the evening, soon after dinner, he arrived. At the first
glance it struck the prince that he, at any rate, must know all the
details of last night’s affair. Indeed, it would have been impossible
for him to remain in ignorance considering the intimate relationship
between him, Varvara Ardalionovna, and Ptitsin. But although he and the
prince were intimate, in a sense, and although the latter had placed
the Burdovsky affair in his hands—and this was not the only mark of
confidence he had received—it seemed curious how many matters there
were that were tacitly avoided in their conversations. Muishkin thought
that Gania at times appeared to desire more cordiality and frankness.
It was apparent now, when he entered, that he was convinced that the
moment for breaking the ice between them had come at last.
But all the same Gania was in haste, for his sister was waiting at
Lebedeff’s to consult him on an urgent matter of business. If he had
anticipated impatient questions, or impulsive confidences, he was soon
undeceived. The prince was thoughtful, reserved, even a little
absent-minded, and asked none of the questions—one in particular—that
Gania had expected. So he imitated the prince’s demeanour, and talked
fast and brilliantly upon all subjects but the one on which their
thoughts were engaged. Among other things Gania told his host that
Nastasia Philipovna had been only four days in Pavlofsk, and that
everyone was talking about her already. She was staying with Daria
Alexeyevna, in an ugly little house in Mattrossky Street, but drove
about in the smartest carriage in the place. A crowd of followers had
pursued her from the first, young and old. Some escorted her on
horse-back when she took the air in her carriage.
She was as capricious as ever in the choice of her acquaintances, and
admitted few into her narrow circle. Yet she already had a numerous
following and many champions on whom she could depend in time of need.
One gentleman on his holiday had broken off his engagement on her
account, and an old general had quarrelled with his only son for the
same reason.
She was accompanied sometimes in her carriage by a girl of sixteen, a
distant relative of her hostess. This young lady sang very well; in
fact, her music had given a kind of notoriety to their little house.
Nastasia, however, was behaving with great discretion on the whole. She
dressed quietly, though with such taste as to drive all the ladies in
Pavlofsk mad with envy, of that, as well as of her beauty and her
carriage and horses.
“As for yesterday’s episode,” continued Gania, “of course it was
pre-arranged.” Here he paused, as though expecting to be asked how he
knew that. But the prince did not inquire. Concerning Evgenie
Pavlovitch, Gania stated, without being asked, that he believed the
former had not known Nastasia Philipovna in past years, but that he had
probably been introduced to her by somebody in the park during these
four days. As to the question of the IOU’s she had spoken of, there
might easily be something in that; for though Evgenie was undoubtedly a
man of wealth, yet certain of his affairs were equally undoubtedly in
disorder. Arrived at this interesting point, Gania suddenly broke off,
and said no more about Nastasia’s prank of the previous evening.
At last Varvara Ardalionovna came in search of her brother, and
remained for a few minutes. Without Muishkin’s asking her, she informed
him that Evgenie Pavlovitch was spending the day in Petersburg, and
perhaps would remain there over tomorrow; and that her husband had also
gone to town, probably in connection with Evgenie Pavlovitch’s affairs.
“Lizabetha Prokofievna is in a really fiendish temper today,” she
added, as she went out, “but the most curious thing is that Aglaya has
quarrelled with her whole family; not only with her father and mother,
but with her sisters also. It is not a good sign.” She said all this
quite casually, though it was extremely important in the eyes of the
prince, and went off with her brother. Regarding the episode of
“Pavlicheff’s son,” Gania had been absolutely silent, partly from a
kind of false modesty, partly, perhaps, to “spare the prince’s
feelings.” The latter, however, thanked him again for the trouble he
had taken in the affair.
Muishkin was glad enough to be left alone. He went out of the garden,
crossed the road, and entered the park. He wished to reflect, and to
make up his mind as to a certain “step.” This step was one of those
things, however, which are not thought out, as a rule, but decided for
or against hastily, and without much reflection. The fact is, he felt a
longing to leave all this and go away—go anywhere, if only it were far
enough, and at once, without bidding farewell to anyone. He felt a
presentiment that if he remained but a few days more in this place, and
among these people, he would be fixed there irrevocably and
permanently. However, in a very few minutes he decided that to run away
was impossible; that it would be cowardly; that great problems lay
before him, and that he had no right to leave them unsolved, or at
least to refuse to give all his energy and strength to the attempt to
solve them. Having come to this determination, he turned and went home,
his walk having lasted less than a quarter of an hour. At that moment
he was thoroughly unhappy.
Lebedeff had not returned, so towards evening Keller managed to
penetrate into the prince’s apartments. He was not drunk, but in a
confidential and talkative mood. He announced that he had come to tell
the story of his life to Muishkin, and had only remained at Pavlofsk
for that purpose. There was no means of turning him out; nothing short
of an earthquake would have removed him.
In the manner of one with long hours before him, he began his history;
but after a few incoherent words he jumped to the conclusion, which was
that “having ceased to believe in God Almighty, he had lost every
vestige of morality, and had gone so far as to commit a theft.” “Could
you imagine such a thing?” said he.
“Listen to me, Keller,” returned the prince. “If I were in your place,
I should not acknowledge that unless it were absolutely necessary for
some reason. But perhaps you are making yourself out to be worse than
you are, purposely?”
“I should tell it to no one but yourself, prince, and I only name it
now as a help to my soul’s evolution. When I die, that secret will die
with me! But, excellency, if you knew, if you only had the least idea,
how difficult it is to get money nowadays! Where to find it is the
question. Ask for a loan, the answer is always the same: ‘Give us gold,
jewels, or diamonds, and it will be quite easy.’ Exactly what one has
not got! Can you picture that to yourself? I got angry at last, and
said, ‘I suppose you would accept emeralds?’ ‘Certainly, we accept
emeralds with pleasure. Yes!’ ‘Well, that’s all right,’ said I. ‘Go to
the devil, you den of thieves!’ And with that I seized my hat, and
walked out.”
“Had you any emeralds?” asked the prince.
“What? I have emeralds? Oh, prince! with what simplicity, with what
almost pastoral simplicity, you look upon life!”
Could not something be made of this man under good influences? asked
the prince of himself, for he began to feel a kind of pity for his
visitor. He thought little of the value of his own personal influence,
not from a sense of humility, but from his peculiar way of looking at
things in general. Imperceptibly the conversation grew more animated
and more interesting, so that neither of the two felt anxious to bring
it to a close. Keller confessed, with apparent sincerity, to having
been guilty of many acts of such a nature that it astonished the prince
that he could mention them, even to him. At every fresh avowal he
professed the deepest repentance, and described himself as being
“bathed in tears”; but this did not prevent him from putting on a
boastful air at times, and some of his stories were so absurdly comical
that both he and the prince laughed like madmen.
“One point in your favour is that you seem to have a child-like mind,
and extreme truthfulness,” said the prince at last. “Do you know that
that atones for much?”
“I am assuredly noble-minded, and chivalrous to a degree!” said Keller,
much softened. “But, do you know, this nobility of mind exists in a
dream, if one may put it so? It never appears in practice or deed. Now,
why is that? I can never understand.”
“Do not despair. I think we may say without fear of deceiving
ourselves, that you have now given a fairly exact account of your life.
I, at least, think it would be impossible to add much to what you have
just told me.”
“Impossible?” cried Keller, almost pityingly. “Oh prince, how little
you really seem to understand human nature!”
“Is there really much more to be added?” asked the prince, with mild
surprise. “Well, what is it you really want of me? Speak out; tell me
why you came to make your confession to me?”
“What did I want? Well, to begin with, it is good to meet a man like
you. It is a pleasure to talk over my faults with you. I know you for
one of the best of men... and then... then...”
He hesitated, and appeared so much embarrassed that the prince helped
him out.
“Then you wanted me to lend you money?”
The words were spoken in a grave tone, and even somewhat shyly.
Keller started, gave an astonished look at the speaker, and thumped the
table with his fist.
“Well, prince, that’s enough to knock me down! It astounds me! Here you
are, as simple and innocent as a knight of the golden age, and yet...
yet... you read a man’s soul like a psychologist! Now, do explain it to
me, prince, because I... I really do not understand!... Of course, my
aim was to borrow money all along, and you... you asked the question as
if there was nothing blameable in it—as if you thought it quite
natural.”
“Yes... from you it is quite natural.”
“And you are not offended?”
“Why should I be offended?”
“Well, just listen, prince. I remained here last evening, partly
because I have a great admiration for the French archbishop Bourdaloue.
I enjoyed a discussion over him till three o’clock in the morning, with
Lebedeff; and then... then—I swear by all I hold sacred that I am
telling you the truth—then I wished to develop my soul in this frank
and heartfelt confession to you. This was my thought as I was sobbing
myself to sleep at dawn. Just as I was losing consciousness, tears in
my soul, tears on my face (I remember how I lay there sobbing), an idea
from hell struck me. ‘Why not, after confessing, borrow money from
him?’ You see, this confession was a kind of masterstroke; I intended
to use it as a means to your good grace and favour—and then—then I
meant to walk off with a hundred and fifty roubles. Now, do you not
call that base?”
“It is hardly an exact statement of the case,” said the prince in
reply. “You have confused your motives and ideas, as I need scarcely
say too often happens to myself. I can assure you, Keller, I reproach
myself bitterly for it sometimes. When you were talking just now I
seemed to be listening to something about myself. At times I have
imagined that all men were the same,” he continued earnestly, for he
appeared to be much interested in the conversation, “and that consoled
me in a certain degree, for a _double_ motive is a thing most difficult
to fight against. I have tried, and I know. God knows whence they
arise, these ideas that you speak of as base. I fear these double
motives more than ever just now, but I am not your judge, and in my
opinion it is going too far to give the name of baseness to it—what do
you think? You were going to employ your tears as a ruse in order to
borrow money, but you also say—in fact, you have sworn to the fact—that
independently of this your confession was made with an honourable
motive. As for the money, you want it for drink, do you not? After your
confession, that is weakness, of course; but, after all, how can anyone
give up a bad habit at a moment’s notice? It is impossible. What can we
do? It is best, I think, to leave the matter to your own conscience.
How does it seem to you?” As he concluded the prince looked curiously
at Keller; evidently this problem of double motives had often been
considered by him before.
“Well, how anybody can call you an idiot after that, is more than I can
understand!” cried the boxer.
The prince reddened slightly.
“Bourdaloue, the archbishop, would not have spared a man like me,”
Keller continued, “but you, you have judged me with humanity. To show
how grateful I am, and as a punishment, I will not accept a hundred and
fifty roubles. Give me twenty-five—that will be enough; it is all I
really need, for a fortnight at least. I will not ask you for more for
a fortnight. I should like to have given Agatha a present, but she does
not really deserve it. Oh, my dear prince, God bless you!”
At this moment Lebedeff appeared, having just arrived from Petersburg.
He frowned when he saw the twenty-five rouble note in Keller’s hand,
but the latter, having got the money, went away at once. Lebedeff began
to abuse him.
“You are unjust; I found him sincerely repentant,” observed the prince,
after listening for a time.
“What is the good of repentance like that? It is the same exactly as
mine yesterday, when I said, ‘I am base, I am base,’—words, and nothing
more!”
“Then they were only words on your part? I thought, on the contrary...”
“Well, I don’t mind telling you the truth—you only! Because you see
through a man somehow. Words and actions, truth and falsehood, are all
jumbled up together in me, and yet I am perfectly sincere. I feel the
deepest repentance, believe it or not, as you choose; but words and
lies come out in the infernal craving to get the better of other
people. It is always there—the notion of cheating people, and of using
my repentant tears to my own advantage! I assure you this is the truth,
prince! I would not tell any other man for the world! He would laugh
and jeer at me—but you, you judge a man humanely.”
“Why, Keller said the same thing to me nearly word for word a few
minutes ago!” cried Muishkin. “And you both seem inclined to boast
about it! You astonish me, but I think he is more sincere than you, for
you make a regular trade of it. Oh, don’t put on that pathetic
expression, and don’t put your hand on your heart! Have you anything to
say to me? You have not come for nothing...”
Lebedeff grinned and wriggled.
“I have been waiting all day for you, because I want to ask you a
question; and, for once in your life, please tell me the truth at once.
Had you anything to do with that affair of the carriage yesterday?”
Lebedeff began to grin again, rubbed his hands, sneezed, but spoke not
a word in reply.
“I see you had something to do with it.”
“Indirectly, quite indirectly! I am speaking the truth—I am indeed! I
merely told a certain person that I had people in my house, and that
such and such personages might be found among them.”
“I am aware that you sent your son to that house—he told me so himself
just now, but what is this intrigue?” said the prince, impatiently.
“It is not my intrigue!” cried Lebedeff, waving his hand.
“It was engineered by other people, and is, properly speaking, rather a
fantasy than an intrigue!”
“But what is it all about? Tell me, for Heaven’s sake! Cannot you
understand how nearly it touches me? Why are they blackening Evgenie
Pavlovitch’s reputation?”
Lebedeff grimaced and wriggled again.
“Prince!” said he. “Excellency! You won’t let me tell you the whole
truth; I have tried to explain; more than once I have begun, but you
have not allowed me to go on...”
The prince gave no answer, and sat deep in thought. Evidently he was
struggling to decide.
“Very well! Tell me the truth,” he said, dejectedly.
“Aglaya Ivanovna...” began Lebedeff, promptly.
“Be silent! At once!” interrupted the prince, red with indignation, and
perhaps with shame, too. “It is impossible and absurd! All that has
been invented by you, or fools like you! Let me never hear you say a
word again on that subject!”
Late in the evening Colia came in with a whole budget of Petersburg and
Pavlofsk news. He did not dwell much on the Petersburg part of it,
which consisted chiefly of intelligence about his friend Hippolyte, but
passed quickly to the Pavlofsk tidings. He had gone straight to the
Epanchins’ from the station.
“There’s the deuce and all going on there!” he said. “First of all
about the row last night, and I think there must be something new as
well, though I didn’t like to ask. Not a word about _you_, prince, the
whole time! The most interesting fact was that Aglaya had been
quarrelling with her people about Gania. Colia did not know any
details, except that it had been a terrible quarrel! Also Evgenie
Pavlovitch had called, and met with an excellent reception all round.
And another curious thing: Mrs. Epanchin was so angry that she called
Varia to her—Varia was talking to the girls—and turned her out of the
house ‘once for all’ she said. I heard it from Varia herself—Mrs.
Epanchin was quite polite, but firm; and when Varia said good-bye to
the girls, she told them nothing about it, and they didn’t know they
were saying goodbye for the last time. I’m sorry for Varia, and for
Gania too; he isn’t half a bad fellow, in spite of his faults, and I
shall never forgive myself for not liking him before! I don’t know
whether I ought to continue to go to the Epanchins’ now,” concluded
Colia—“I like to be quite independent of others, and of other people’s
quarrels if I can; but I must think over it.”
“I don’t think you need break your heart over Gania,” said the prince;
“for if what you say is true, he must be considered dangerous in the
Epanchin household, and if so, certain hopes of his must have been
encouraged.”
“What? What hopes?” cried Colia; “you surely don’t mean Aglaya?—oh,
no!—”
“You’re a dreadful sceptic, prince,” he continued, after a moment’s
silence. “I have observed of late that you have grown sceptical about
everything. You don’t seem to believe in people as you did, and are
always attributing motives and so on—am I using the word ‘sceptic’ in
its proper sense?”
“I believe so; but I’m not sure.”
“Well, I’ll change it, right or wrong; I’ll say that you are not
sceptical, but _jealous_. There! you are deadly jealous of Gania, over
a certain proud damsel! Come!” Colia jumped up, with these words, and
burst out laughing. He laughed as he had perhaps never laughed before,
and still more when he saw the prince flushing up to his temples. He
was delighted that the prince should be jealous about Aglaya. However,
he stopped immediately on seeing that the other was really hurt, and
the conversation continued, very earnestly, for an hour or more.
Next day the prince had to go to town, on business. Returning in the
afternoon, he happened upon General Epanchin at the station. The latter
seized his hand, glancing around nervously, as if he were afraid of
being caught in wrong-doing, and dragged him into a first-class
compartment. He was burning to speak about something of importance.
“In the first place, my dear prince, don’t be angry with me. I would
have come to see you yesterday, but I didn’t know how Lizabetha
Prokofievna would take it. My dear fellow, my house is simply a hell
just now, a sort of sphinx has taken up its abode there. We live in an
atmosphere of riddles; I can’t make head or tail of anything. As for
you, I feel sure you are the least to blame of any of us, though you
certainly have been the cause of a good deal of trouble. You see, it’s
all very pleasant to be a philanthropist; but it can be carried too
far. Of course I admire kind-heartedness, and I esteem my wife, but—”
The general wandered on in this disconnected way for a long time; it
was clear that he was much disturbed by some circumstance which he
could make nothing of.
“It is plain to me, that _you_ are not in it at all,” he continued, at
last, a little less vaguely, “but perhaps you had better not come to
our house for a little while. I ask you in the friendliest manner,
mind; just till the wind changes again. As for Evgenie Pavlovitch,” he
continued with some excitement, “the whole thing is a calumny, a dirty
calumny. It is simply a plot, an intrigue, to upset our plans and to
stir up a quarrel. You see, prince, I’ll tell you privately, Evgenie
and ourselves have not said a word yet, we have no formal
understanding, we are in no way bound on either side, but the word may
be said very soon, don’t you see, _very_ soon, and all this is most
injurious, and is meant to be so. Why? I’m sure I can’t tell you. She’s
an extraordinary woman, you see, an eccentric woman; I tell you I am so
frightened of that woman that I can’t sleep. What a carriage that was,
and where did it come from, eh? I declare, I was base enough to suspect
Evgenie at first; but it seems certain that that cannot be the case,
and if so, why is she interfering here? That’s the riddle, what does
she want? Is it to keep Evgenie to herself? But, my dear fellow, I
swear to you, I swear he doesn’t even _know_ her, and as for those
bills, why, the whole thing is an invention! And the familiarity of the
woman! It’s quite clear we must treat the impudent creature’s attempt
with disdain, and redouble our courtesy towards Evgenie. I told my wife
so.
“Now I’ll tell you my secret conviction. I’m certain that she’s doing
this to revenge herself on me, on account of the past, though I assure
you that all the time I was blameless. I blush at the very idea. And
now she turns up again like this, when I thought she had finally
disappeared! Where’s Rogojin all this time? I thought she was Mrs.
Rogojin, long ago.”
The old man was in a state of great mental perturbation. The whole of
the journey, which occupied nearly an hour, he continued in this
strain, putting questions and answering them himself, shrugging his
shoulders, pressing the prince’s hand, and assuring the latter that, at
all events, he had no suspicion whatever of _him_. This last assurance
was satisfactory, at all events. The general finished by informing him
that Evgenie’s uncle was head of one of the civil service departments,
and rich, very rich, and a gourmand. “And, well, Heaven preserve him,
of course—but Evgenie gets his money, don’t you see? But, for all this,
I’m uncomfortable, I don’t know why. There’s something in the air, I
feel there’s something nasty in the air, like a bat, and I’m by no
means comfortable.”
And it was not until the third day that the formal reconciliation
between the prince and the Epanchins took place, as said before.
XII.
It was seven in the evening, and the prince was just preparing to go
out for a walk in the park, when suddenly Mrs. Epanchin appeared on the
terrace.
“In the first place, don’t dare to suppose,” she began, “that I am
going to apologize. Nonsense! You were entirely to blame.”
The prince remained silent.
“Were you to blame, or not?”
“No, certainly not, no more than yourself, though at first I thought I
was.”
“Oh, very well, let’s sit down, at all events, for I don’t intend to
stand up all day. And remember, if you say, one word about ‘mischievous
urchins,’ I shall go away and break with you altogether. Now then, did
you, or did you not, send a letter to Aglaya, a couple of months or so
ago, about Easter-tide?”
“Yes!”
“What for? What was your object? Show me the letter.” Mrs. Epanchin’s
eyes flashed; she was almost trembling with impatience.
“I have not got the letter,” said the prince, timidly, extremely
surprised at the turn the conversation had taken. “If anyone has it, if
it still exists, Aglaya Ivanovna must have it.”
“No finessing, please. What did you write about?”
“I am not finessing, and I am not in the least afraid of telling you;
but I don’t see the slightest reason why I should not have written.”
“Be quiet, you can talk afterwards! What was the letter about? Why are
you blushing?”
The prince was silent. At last he spoke.
“I don’t understand your thoughts, Lizabetha Prokofievna; but I can see
that the fact of my having written is for some reason repugnant to you.
You must admit that I have a perfect right to refuse to answer your
questions; but, in order to show you that I am neither ashamed of the
letter, nor sorry that I wrote it, and that I am not in the least
inclined to blush about it” (here the prince’s blushes redoubled), “I
will repeat the substance of my letter, for I think I know it almost by
heart.”
So saying, the prince repeated the letter almost word for word, as he
had written it.
“My goodness, what utter twaddle, and what may all this nonsense have
signified, pray? If it had any meaning at all!” said Mrs. Epanchin,
cuttingly, after having listened with great attention.
“I really don’t absolutely know myself; I know my feeling was very
sincere. I had moments at that time full of life and hope.”
“What sort of hope?”
“It is difficult to explain, but certainly not the hopes you have in
your mind. Hopes—well, in a word, hopes for the future, and a feeling
of joy that _there_, at all events, I was not entirely a stranger and a
foreigner. I felt an ecstasy in being in my native land once more; and
one sunny morning I took up a pen and wrote her that letter, but why to
_her_, I don’t quite know. Sometimes one longs to have a friend near,
and I evidently felt the need of one then,” added the prince, and
paused.
“Are you in love with her?”
“N-no! I wrote to her as to a sister; I signed myself her brother.”
“Oh yes, of course, on purpose! I quite understand.”
“It is very painful to me to answer these questions, Lizabetha
Prokofievna.”
“I dare say it is; but that’s no affair of mine. Now then, assure me
truly as before Heaven, are you lying to me or not?”
“No, I am not lying.”
“Are you telling the truth when you say you are not in love?”
“I believe it is the absolute truth.”
“‘I believe,’ indeed! Did that mischievous urchin give it to her?”
“I asked Nicolai Ardalionovitch...”
“The urchin! the urchin!” interrupted Lizabetha Prokofievna in an angry
voice. “I do not want to know if it were Nicolai Ardalionovitch! The
urchin!”
“Nicolai Ardalionovitch...”
“The urchin, I tell you!”
“No, it was not the urchin: it was Nicolai Ardalionovitch,” said the
prince very firmly, but without raising his voice.
“Well, all right! All right, my dear! I shall put that down to your
account.”
She was silent a moment to get breath, and to recover her composure.
“Well!—and what’s the meaning of the ‘poor knight,’ eh?”
“I don’t know in the least; I wasn’t present when the joke was made. It
_is_ a joke. I suppose, and that’s all.”
“Well, that’s a comfort, at all events. You don’t suppose she could
take any interest in you, do you? Why, she called you an ‘idiot’
herself.”
“I think you might have spared me that,” murmured the prince
reproachfully, almost in a whisper.
“Don’t be angry; she is a wilful, mad, spoilt girl. If she likes a
person she will pitch into him, and chaff him. I used to be just such
another. But for all that you needn’t flatter yourself, my boy; she is
not for you. I don’t believe it, and it is not to be. I tell you so at
once, so that you may take proper precautions. Now, I want to hear you
swear that you are not married to that woman?”
“Lizabetha Prokofievna, what are you thinking of?” cried the prince,
almost leaping to his feet in amazement.
“Why? You very nearly were, anyhow.”
“Yes—I nearly was,” whispered the prince, hanging his head.
“Well then, have you come here for _her?_ Are you in love with _her?_
With _that_ creature?”
“I did not come to marry at all,” replied the prince.
“Is there anything you hold sacred?”
“There is.”
“Then swear by it that you did not come here to marry _her!_”
“I’ll swear it by whatever you please.”
“I believe you. You may kiss me; I breathe freely at last. But you must
know, my dear friend, Aglaya does not love you, and she shall never be
your wife while I am out of my grave. So be warned in time. Do you hear
me?”
“Yes, I hear.”
The prince flushed up so much that he could not look her in the face.
“I have waited for you with the greatest impatience (not that you were
worth it). Every night I have drenched my pillow with tears, not for
you, my friend, not for you, don’t flatter yourself! I have my own
grief, always the same, always the same. But I’ll tell you why I have
been awaiting you so impatiently, because I believe that Providence
itself sent you to be a friend and a brother to me. I haven’t a friend
in the world except Princess Bielokonski, and she is growing as stupid
as a sheep from old age. Now then, tell me, yes or no? Do you know why
she called out from her carriage the other night?”
“I give you my word of honour that I had nothing to do with the matter
and know nothing about it.”
“Very well, I believe you. I have my own ideas about it. Up to
yesterday morning I thought it was really Evgenie Pavlovitch who was to
blame; now I cannot help agreeing with the others. But why he was made
such a fool of I cannot understand. However, he is not going to marry
Aglaya, I can tell you that. He may be a very excellent fellow, but—so
it shall be. I was not at all sure of accepting him before, but now I
have quite made up my mind that I won’t have him. ‘Put me in my coffin
first and then into my grave, and then you may marry my daughter to
whomsoever you please,’ so I said to the general this very morning. You
see how I trust you, my boy.”
“Yes, I see and understand.”
Mrs. Epanchin gazed keenly into the prince’s eyes. She was anxious to
see what impression the news as to Evgenie Pavlovitch had made upon
him.
“Do you know anything about Gavrila Ardalionovitch?” she asked at last.
“Oh yes, I know a good deal.”
“Did you know he had communications with Aglaya?”
“No, I didn’t,” said the prince, trembling a little, and in great
agitation. “You say Gavrila Ardalionovitch has private communications
with Aglaya?—Impossible!”
“Only quite lately. His sister has been working like a rat to clear the
way for him all the winter.”
“I don’t believe it!” said the prince abruptly, after a short pause.
“Had it been so I should have known long ago.”
“Oh, of course, yes; he would have come and wept out his secret on your
bosom. Oh, you simpleton—you simpleton! Anyone can deceive you and take
you in like a—like a,—aren’t you ashamed to trust him? Can’t you see
that he humbugs you just as much as ever he pleases?”
“I know very well that he does deceive me occasionally, and he knows
that I know it, but—” The prince did not finish his sentence.
“And that’s why you trust him, eh? So I should have supposed. Good
Lord, was there ever such a man as you? Tfu! and are you aware, sir,
that this Gania, or his sister Varia, have brought her into
correspondence with Nastasia Philipovna?”
“Brought whom?” cried Muishkin.
“Aglaya.”
“I don’t believe it! It’s impossible! What object could they have?” He
jumped up from his chair in his excitement.
“Nor do I believe it, in spite of the proofs. The girl is self-willed
and fantastic, and insane! She’s wicked, wicked! I’ll repeat it for a
thousand years that she’s wicked; they _all_ are, just now, all my
daughters, even that ‘wet hen’ Alexandra. And yet I don’t believe it.
Because I don’t choose to believe it, perhaps; but I don’t. Why haven’t
you been?” she turned on the prince suddenly. “Why didn’t you come near
us all these three days, eh?”
The prince began to give his reasons, but she interrupted him again.
“Everybody takes you in and deceives you; you went to town yesterday. I
dare swear you went down on your knees to that rogue, and begged him to
accept your ten thousand roubles!”
“I never thought of doing any such thing. I have not seen him, and he
is not a rogue, in my opinion. I have had a letter from him.”
“Show it me!”
The prince took a paper from his pocket-book, and handed it to
Lizabetha Prokofievna. It ran as follows:
“Sir,
“In the eyes of the world I am sure that I have no cause for pride
or self-esteem. I am much too insignificant for that. But what may
be so to other men’s eyes is not so to yours. I am convinced that
you are better than other people. Doktorenko disagrees with me, but
I am content to differ from him on this point. I will never accept
one single copeck from you, but you have helped my mother, and I am
bound to be grateful to you for that, however weak it may seem. At
any rate, I have changed my opinion about you, and I think right to
inform you of the fact; but I also suppose that there can be no
further intercourse between us.
“Antip Burdovsky.
“P.S.—The two hundred roubles I owe you shall certainly be repaid in
time.”
“How extremely stupid!” cried Mrs. Epanchin, giving back the letter
abruptly. “It was not worth the trouble of reading. Why are you
smiling?”
“Confess that you are pleased to have read it.”
“What! Pleased with all that nonsense! Why, cannot you see that they
are all infatuated with pride and vanity?”
“He has acknowledged himself to be in the wrong. Don’t you see that the
greater his vanity, the more difficult this admission must have been on
his part? Oh, what a little child you are, Lizabetha Prokofievna!”
“Are you tempting me to box your ears for you, or what?”
“Not at all. I am only proving that you are glad about the letter. Why
conceal your real feelings? You always like to do it.”
“Never come near my house again!” cried Mrs. Epanchin, pale with rage.
“Don’t let me see as much as a _shadow_ of you about the place! Do you
hear?”
“Oh yes, and in three days you’ll come and invite me yourself. Aren’t
you ashamed now? These are your best feelings; you are only tormenting
yourself.”
“I’ll die before I invite you! I shall forget your very name! I’ve
forgotten it already!”
She marched towards the door.
“But I’m forbidden your house as it is, without your added threats!”
cried the prince after her.
“What? Who forbade you?”
She turned round so suddenly that one might have supposed a needle had
been stuck into her.
The prince hesitated. He perceived that he had said too much now.
“_Who_ forbade you?” cried Mrs. Epanchin once more.
“Aglaya Ivanovna told me—”
“When? Speak—quick!”
“She sent to say, yesterday morning, that I was never to dare to come
near the house again.”
Lizabetha Prokofievna stood like a stone.
“What did she send? Whom? Was it that boy? Was it a message?—quick!”
“I had a note,” said the prince.
“Where is it? Give it here, at once.”
The prince thought a moment. Then he pulled out of his waistcoat pocket
an untidy slip of paper, on which was scrawled:
“PRINCE LEF NICOLAIEVITCH,—If you think fit, after all that has passed,
to honour our house with a visit, I can assure you you will not find me
among the number of those who are in any way delighted to see you.
“Aglaya Epanchin.”
Mrs. Epanchin reflected a moment. The next minute she flew at the
prince, seized his hand, and dragged him after her to the door.
“Quick—come along!” she cried, breathless with agitation and
impatience. “Come along with me this moment!”
“But you declared I wasn’t—”
“Don’t be a simpleton. You behave just as though you weren’t a man at
all. Come on! I shall see, now, with my own eyes. I shall see all.”
“Well, let me get my hat, at least.”
“Here’s your miserable hat. He couldn’t even choose a respectable shape
for his hat! Come on! She did that because I took your part and said
you ought to have come—little vixen!—else she would never have sent you
that silly note. It’s a most improper note, I call it; most improper
for such an intelligent, well-brought-up girl to write. H’m! I dare say
she was annoyed that you didn’t come; but she ought to have known that
one can’t write like that to an idiot like you, for you’d be sure to
take it literally.” Mrs. Epanchin was dragging the prince along with
her all the time, and never let go of his hand for an instant. “What
are you listening for?” she added, seeing that she had committed
herself a little. “She wants a clown like you—she hasn’t seen one for
some time—to play with. That’s why she is anxious for you to come to
the house. And right glad I am that she’ll make a thorough good fool of
you. You deserve it; and she can do it—oh! she can, indeed!—as well as
most people.”