I.
The Epanchin family, or at least the more serious members of it, were
sometimes grieved because they seemed so unlike the rest of the world.
They were not quite certain, but had at times a strong suspicion that
things did not happen to them as they did to other people. Others led a
quiet, uneventful life, while they were subject to continual upheavals.
Others kept on the rails without difficulty; they ran off at the
slightest obstacle. Other houses were governed by a timid routine;
theirs was somehow different. Perhaps Lizabetha Prokofievna was alone
in making these fretful observations; the girls, though not wanting in
intelligence, were still young; the general was intelligent, too, but
narrow, and in any difficulty he was content to say, “H’m!” and leave
the matter to his wife. Consequently, on her fell the responsibility.
It was not that they distinguished themselves as a family by any
particular originality, or that their excursions off the track led to
any breach of the proprieties. Oh no.
There was nothing premeditated, there was not even any conscious
purpose in it all, and yet, in spite of everything, the family,
although highly respected, was not quite what every highly respected
family ought to be. For a long time now Lizabetha Prokofievna had had
it in her mind that all the trouble was owing to her “unfortunate
character,” and this added to her distress. She blamed her own stupid
unconventional “eccentricity.” Always restless, always on the go, she
constantly seemed to lose her way, and to get into trouble over the
simplest and more ordinary affairs of life.
We said at the beginning of our story, that the Epanchins were liked
and esteemed by their neighbours. In spite of his humble origin, Ivan
Fedorovitch himself was received everywhere with respect. He deserved
this, partly on account of his wealth and position, partly because,
though limited, he was really a very good fellow. But a certain
limitation of mind seems to be an indispensable asset, if not to all
public personages, at least to all serious financiers. Added to this,
his manner was modest and unassuming; he knew when to be silent, yet
never allowed himself to be trampled upon. Also—and this was more
important than all—he had the advantage of being under exalted
patronage.
As to Lizabetha Prokofievna, she, as the reader knows, belonged to an
aristocratic family. True, Russians think more of influential friends
than of birth, but she had both. She was esteemed and even loved by
people of consequence in society, whose example in receiving her was
therefore followed by others. It seems hardly necessary to remark that
her family worries and anxieties had little or no foundation, or that
her imagination increased them to an absurd degree; but if you have a
wart on your forehead or nose, you imagine that all the world is
looking at it, and that people would make fun of you because of it,
even if you had discovered America! Doubtless Lizabetha Prokofievna was
considered “eccentric” in society, but she was none the less esteemed:
the pity was that she was ceasing to believe in that esteem. When she
thought of her daughters, she said to herself sorrowfully that she was
a hindrance rather than a help to their future, that her character and
temper were absurd, ridiculous, insupportable. Naturally, she put the
blame on her surroundings, and from morning to night was quarrelling
with her husband and children, whom she really loved to the point of
self-sacrifice, even, one might say, of passion.
She was, above all distressed by the idea that her daughters might grow
up “eccentric,” like herself; she believed that no other society girls
were like them. “They are growing into Nihilists!” she repeated over
and over again. For years she had tormented herself with this idea, and
with the question: “Why don’t they get married?”
“It is to annoy their mother; that is their one aim in life; it can be
nothing else. The fact is it is all of a piece with these modern ideas,
that wretched woman’s question! Six months ago Aglaya took a fancy to
cut off her magnificent hair. Why, even I, when I was young, had
nothing like it! The scissors were in her hand, and I had to go down on
my knees and implore her... She did it, I know, from sheer mischief, to
spite her mother, for she is a naughty, capricious girl, a real spoiled
child spiteful and mischievous to a degree! And then Alexandra wanted
to shave her head, not from caprice or mischief, but, like a little
fool, simply because Aglaya persuaded her she would sleep better
without her hair, and not suffer from headache! And how many suitors
have they not had during the last five years! Excellent offers, too!
What more do they want? Why don’t they get married? For no other reason
than to vex their mother—none—none!”
But Lizabetha Prokofievna felt somewhat consoled when she could say
that one of her girls, Adelaida, was settled at last. “It will be one
off our hands!” she declared aloud, though in private she expressed
herself with greater tenderness. The engagement was both happy and
suitable, and was therefore approved in society. Prince S. was a
distinguished man, he had money, and his future wife was devoted to
him; what more could be desired? Lizabetha Prokofievna had felt less
anxious about this daughter, however, although she considered her
artistic tastes suspicious. But to make up for them she was, as her
mother expressed it, “merry,” and had plenty of “common-sense.” It was
Aglaya’s future which disturbed her most. With regard to her eldest
daughter, Alexandra, the mother never quite knew whether there was
cause for anxiety or not. Sometimes she felt as if there was nothing to
be expected from her. She was twenty-five now, and must be fated to be
an old maid, and “with such beauty, too!” The mother spent whole nights
in weeping and lamenting, while all the time the cause of her grief
slumbered peacefully. “What is the matter with her? Is she a Nihilist,
or simply a fool?”
But Lizabetha Prokofievna knew perfectly well how unnecessary was the
last question. She set a high value on Alexandra Ivanovna’s judgment,
and often consulted her in difficulties; but that she was a ‘wet hen’
she never for a moment doubted. “She is so calm; nothing rouses
her—though wet hens are not always calm! Oh! I can’t understand it!”
Her eldest daughter inspired Lizabetha with a kind of puzzled
compassion. She did not feel this in Aglaya’s case, though the latter
was her idol. It may be said that these outbursts and epithets, such as
“wet hen” (in which the maternal solicitude usually showed itself),
only made Alexandra laugh. Sometimes the most trivial thing annoyed
Mrs. Epanchin, and drove her into a frenzy. For instance, Alexandra
Ivanovna liked to sleep late, and was always dreaming, though her
dreams had the peculiarity of being as innocent and naive as those of a
child of seven; and the very innocence of her dreams annoyed her
mother. Once she dreamt of nine hens, and this was the cause of quite a
serious quarrel—no one knew why. Another time she had—it was most
unusual—a dream with a spark of originality in it. She dreamt of a monk
in a dark room, into which she was too frightened to go. Adelaida and
Aglaya rushed off with shrieks of laughter to relate this to their
mother, but she was quite angry, and said her daughters were all fools.
“H’m! she is as stupid as a fool! A veritable ‘wet hen’! Nothing
excites her; and yet she is not happy; some days it makes one miserable
only to look at her! Why is she unhappy, I wonder?” At times Lizabetha
Prokofievna put this question to her husband, and as usual she spoke in
the threatening tone of one who demands an immediate answer. Ivan
Fedorovitch would frown, shrug his shoulders, and at last give his
opinion: “She needs a husband!”
“God forbid that he should share your ideas, Ivan Fedorovitch!” his
wife flashed back. “Or that he should be as gross and churlish as you!”
The general promptly made his escape, and Lizabetha Prokofievna after a
while grew calm again. That evening, of course, she would be unusually
attentive, gentle, and respectful to her “gross and churlish” husband,
her “dear, kind Ivan Fedorovitch,” for she had never left off loving
him. She was even still “in love” with him. He knew it well, and for
his part held her in the greatest esteem.
But the mother’s great and continual anxiety was Aglaya. “She is
exactly like me—my image in everything,” said Mrs. Epanchin to herself.
“A tyrant! A real little demon! A Nihilist! Eccentric, senseless and
mischievous! Good Lord, how unhappy she will be!”
But as we said before, the fact of Adelaida’s approaching marriage was
balm to the mother. For a whole month she forgot her fears and worries.
Adelaida’s fate was settled; and with her name that of Aglaya’s was
linked, in society gossip. People whispered that Aglaya, too, was “as
good as engaged;” and Aglaya always looked so sweet and behaved so well
(during this period), that the mother’s heart was full of joy. Of
course, Evgenie Pavlovitch must be thoroughly studied first, before the
final step should be taken; but, really, how lovely dear Aglaya had
become—she actually grew more beautiful every day! And then—Yes, and
then—this abominable prince showed his face again, and everything went
topsy-turvy at once, and everyone seemed as mad as March hares.
What had really happened?
If it had been any other family than the Epanchins’, nothing particular
would have happened. But, thanks to Mrs. Epanchin’s invariable
fussiness and anxiety, there could not be the slightest hitch in the
simplest matters of everyday life, but she immediately foresaw the most
dreadful and alarming consequences, and suffered accordingly.
What then must have been her condition, when, among all the imaginary
anxieties and calamities which so constantly beset her, she now saw
looming ahead a serious cause for annoyance—something really likely to
arouse doubts and suspicions!
“How dared they, how _dared_ they write that hateful anonymous letter
informing me that Aglaya is in communication with Nastasia Philipovna?”
she thought, as she dragged the prince along towards her own house, and
again when she sat him down at the round table where the family was
already assembled. “How dared they so much as _think_ of such a thing?
I should _die_ with shame if I thought there was a particle of truth in
it, or if I were to show the letter to Aglaya herself! Who dares play
these jokes upon _us_, the Epanchins? _Why_ didn’t we go to the Yelagin
instead of coming down here? I _told_ you we had better go to the
Yelagin this summer, Ivan Fedorovitch. It’s all your fault. I dare say
it was that Varia who sent the letter. It’s all Ivan Fedorovitch.
_That_ woman is doing it all for him, I know she is, to show she can
make a fool of him now just as she did when he used to give her pearls.
“But after all is said, we are mixed up in it. Your daughters are mixed
up in it, Ivan Fedorovitch; young ladies in society, young ladies at an
age to be married; they were present, they heard everything there was
to hear. They were mixed up with that other scene, too, with those
dreadful youths. You must be pleased to remember they heard it all. I
cannot forgive that wretched prince. I never shall forgive him! And
why, if you please, has Aglaya had an attack of nerves for these last
three days? Why has she all but quarrelled with her sisters, even with
Alexandra—whom she respects so much that she always kisses her hands as
though she were her mother? What are all these riddles of hers that we
have to guess? What has Gavrila Ardalionovitch to do with it? Why did
she take upon herself to champion him this morning, and burst into
tears over it? Why is there an allusion to that cursed ‘poor knight’ in
the anonymous letter? And why did I rush off to him just now like a
lunatic, and drag him back here? I do believe I’ve gone mad at last.
What on earth have I done now? To talk to a young man about my
daughter’s secrets—and secrets having to do with himself, too! Thank
goodness, he’s an idiot, and a friend of the house! Surely Aglaya
hasn’t fallen in love with such a gaby! What an idea! Pfu! we ought all
to be put under glass cases—myself first of all—and be shown off as
curiosities, at ten copecks a peep!”
“I shall never forgive you for all this, Ivan Fedorovitch—never! Look
at her now. Why doesn’t she make fun of him? She said she would, and
she doesn’t. Look there! She stares at him with all her eyes, and
doesn’t move; and yet she told him not to come. He looks pale enough;
and that abominable chatterbox, Evgenie Pavlovitch, monopolizes the
whole of the conversation. Nobody else can get a word in. I could soon
find out all about everything if I could only change the subject.”
The prince certainly was very pale. He sat at the table and seemed to
be feeling, by turns, sensations of alarm and rapture.
Oh, how frightened he was of looking to one side—one particular
corner—whence he knew very well that a pair of dark eyes were watching
him intently, and how happy he was to think that he was once more among
them, and occasionally hearing that well-known voice, although she had
written and forbidden him to come again!
“What on earth will she say to me, I wonder?” he thought to himself.
He had not said a word yet; he sat silent and listened to Evgenie
Pavlovitch’s eloquence. The latter had never appeared so happy and
excited as on this evening. The prince listened to him, but for a long
time did not take in a word he said.
Excepting Ivan Fedorovitch, who had not as yet returned from town, the
whole family was present. Prince S. was there; and they all intended to
go out to hear the band very soon.
Colia arrived presently and joined the circle. “So he is received as
usual, after all,” thought the prince.
The Epanchins’ country-house was a charming building, built after the
model of a Swiss chalet, and covered with creepers. It was surrounded
on all sides by a flower garden, and the family sat, as a rule, on the
open verandah as at the prince’s house.
The subject under discussion did not appear to be very popular with the
assembly, and some would have been delighted to change it; but Evgenie
would not stop holding forth, and the prince’s arrival seemed to spur
him on to still further oratorical efforts.
Lizabetha Prokofievna frowned, but had not as yet grasped the subject,
which seemed to have arisen out of a heated argument. Aglaya sat apart,
almost in the corner, listening in stubborn silence.
“Excuse me,” continued Evgenie Pavlovitch hotly, “I don’t say a word
against liberalism. Liberalism is not a sin, it is a necessary part of
a great whole, which whole would collapse and fall to pieces without
it. Liberalism has just as much right to exist as has the most moral
conservatism; but I am attacking _Russian_ liberalism; and I attack it
for the simple reason that a Russian liberal is not a Russian liberal,
he is a non-Russian liberal. Show me a real Russian liberal, and I’ll
kiss him before you all, with pleasure.”
“If he cared to kiss you, that is,” said Alexandra, whose cheeks were
red with irritation and excitement.
“Look at that, now,” thought the mother to herself, “she does nothing
but sleep and eat for a year at a time, and then suddenly flies out in
the most incomprehensible way!”
The prince observed that Alexandra appeared to be angry with Evgenie,
because he spoke on a serious subject in a frivolous manner, pretending
to be in earnest, but with an under-current of irony.
“I was saying just now, before you came in, prince, that there has been
nothing national up to now, about our liberalism, and nothing the
liberals do, or have done, is in the least degree national. They are
drawn from two classes only, the old landowning class, and clerical
families—”
“How, nothing that they have done is Russian?” asked Prince S.
“It may be Russian, but it is not national. Our liberals are not
Russian, nor are our conservatives, and you may be sure that the nation
does not recognize anything that has been done by the landed gentry, or
by the seminarists, or what is to be done either.”
“Come, that’s good! How can you maintain such a paradox? If you are
serious, that is. I cannot allow such a statement about the landed
proprietors to pass unchallenged. Why, you are a landed proprietor
yourself!” cried Prince S. hotly.
“I suppose you’ll say there is nothing national about our literature
either?” said Alexandra.
“Well, I am not a great authority on literary questions, but I
certainly do hold that Russian literature is not Russian, except
perhaps Lomonosoff, Pouschkin and Gogol.”
“In the first place, that is a considerable admission, and in the
second place, one of the above was a peasant, and the other two were
both landed proprietors!”
“Quite so, but don’t be in such a hurry! For since it has been the part
of these three men, and only these three, to say something absolutely
their own, not borrowed, so by this very fact these three men become
really national. If any Russian shall have done or said anything really
and absolutely original, he is to be called national from that moment,
though he may not be able to talk the Russian language; still he is a
national Russian. I consider that an axiom. But we were not speaking of
literature; we began by discussing the socialists. Very well then, I
insist that there does not exist one single Russian socialist. There
does not, and there has never existed such a one, because all
socialists are derived from the two classes—the landed proprietors, and
the seminarists. All our eminent socialists are merely old liberals of
the class of landed proprietors, men who were liberals in the days of
serfdom. Why do you laugh? Give me their books, give me their studies,
their memoirs, and though I am not a literary critic, yet I will prove
as clear as day that every chapter and every word of their writings has
been the work of a former landed proprietor of the old school. You’ll
find that all their raptures, all their generous transports are
proprietary, all their woes and their tears, proprietary; all
proprietary or seminarist! You are laughing again, and you, prince, are
smiling too. Don’t you agree with me?”
It was true enough that everybody was laughing, the prince among them.
“I cannot tell you on the instant whether I agree with you or not,”
said the latter, suddenly stopping his laughter, and starting like a
schoolboy caught at mischief. “But, I assure you, I am listening to you
with extreme gratification.”
So saying, he almost panted with agitation, and a cold sweat stood upon
his forehead. These were his first words since he had entered the
house; he tried to lift his eyes, and look around, but dared not;
Evgenie Pavlovitch noticed his confusion, and smiled.
“I’ll just tell you one fact, ladies and gentlemen,” continued the
latter, with apparent seriousness and even exaltation of manner, but
with a suggestion of “chaff” behind every word, as though he were
laughing in his sleeve at his own nonsense—“a fact, the discovery of
which, I believe, I may claim to have made by myself alone. At all
events, no other has ever said or written a word about it; and in this
fact is expressed the whole essence of Russian liberalism of the sort
which I am now considering.
“In the first place, what is liberalism, speaking generally, but an
attack (whether mistaken or reasonable, is quite another question) upon
the existing order of things? Is this so? Yes. Very well. Then my
‘fact’ consists in this, that _Russian_ liberalism is not an attack
upon the existing order of things, but an attack upon the very essence
of things themselves—indeed, on the things themselves; not an attack on
the Russian order of things, but on Russia itself. My Russian liberal
goes so far as to reject Russia; that is, he hates and strikes his own
mother. Every misfortune and mishap of the mother-country fills him
with mirth, and even with ecstasy. He hates the national customs,
Russian history, and everything. If he has a justification, it is that
he does not know what he is doing, and believes that his hatred of
Russia is the grandest and most profitable kind of liberalism. (You
will often find a liberal who is applauded and esteemed by his fellows,
but who is in reality the dreariest, blindest, dullest of
conservatives, and is not aware of the fact.) This hatred for Russia
has been mistaken by some of our ‘Russian liberals’ for sincere love of
their country, and they boast that they see better than their
neighbours what real love of one’s country should consist in. But of
late they have grown, more candid and are ashamed of the expression
‘love of country,’ and have annihilated the very spirit of the words as
something injurious and petty and undignified. This is the truth, and I
hold by it; but at the same time it is a phenomenon which has not been
repeated at any other time or place; and therefore, though I hold to it
as a fact, yet I recognize that it is an accidental phenomenon, and may
likely enough pass away. There can be no such thing anywhere else as a
liberal who really hates his country; and how is this fact to be
explained among _us?_ By my original statement that a Russian liberal
is _not_ a _Russian_ liberal—that’s the only explanation that I can
see.”
“I take all that you have said as a joke,” said Prince S. seriously.
“I have not seen all kinds of liberals, and cannot, therefore, set
myself up as a judge,” said Alexandra, “but I have heard all you have
said with indignation. You have taken some accidental case and twisted
it into a universal law, which is unjust.”
“Accidental case!” said Evgenie Pavlovitch. “Do you consider it an
accidental case, prince?”
“I must also admit,” said the prince, “that I have not seen much, or
been very far into the question; but I cannot help thinking that you
are more or less right, and that Russian liberalism—that phase of it
which you are considering, at least—really is sometimes inclined to
hate Russia itself, and not only its existing order of things in
general. Of course this is only _partially_ the truth; you cannot lay
down the law for all...”
The prince blushed and broke off, without finishing what he meant to
say.
In spite of his shyness and agitation, he could not help being greatly
interested in the conversation. A special characteristic of his was the
naive candour with which he always listened to arguments which
interested him, and with which he answered any questions put to him on
the subject at issue. In the very expression of his face this naivete
was unmistakably evident, this disbelief in the insincerity of others,
and unsuspecting disregard of irony or humour in their words.
But though Evgenie Pavlovitch had put his questions to the prince with
no other purpose but to enjoy the joke of his simple-minded
seriousness, yet now, at his answer, he was surprised into some
seriousness himself, and looked gravely at Muishkin as though he had
not expected that sort of answer at all.
“Why, how strange!” he ejaculated. “You didn’t answer me seriously,
surely, did you?”
“Did not you ask me the question seriously” inquired the prince, in
amazement.
Everybody laughed.
“Oh, trust _him_ for that!” said Adelaida. “Evgenie Pavlovitch turns
everything and everybody he can lay hold of to ridicule. You should
hear the things he says sometimes, apparently in perfect seriousness.”
“In my opinion the conversation has been a painful one throughout, and
we ought never to have begun it,” said Alexandra. “We were all going
for a walk—”
“Come along then,” said Evgenie; “it’s a glorious evening. But, to
prove that this time I was speaking absolutely seriously, and
especially to prove this to the prince (for you, prince, have
interested me exceedingly, and I swear to you that I am not quite such
an ass as I like to appear sometimes, although I am rather an ass, I
admit), and—well, ladies and gentlemen, will you allow me to put just
one more question to the prince, out of pure curiosity? It shall be the
last. This question came into my mind a couple of hours since (you see,
prince, I do think seriously at times), and I made my own decision upon
it; now I wish to hear what the prince will say to it.”
“We have just used the expression ‘accidental case.’ This is a
significant phrase; we often hear it. Well, not long since everyone was
talking and reading about that terrible murder of six people on the
part of a—young fellow, and of the extraordinary speech of the counsel
for the defence, who observed that in the poverty-stricken condition of
the criminal it must have come _naturally_ into his head to kill these
six people. I do not quote his words, but that is the sense of them, or
something very like it. Now, in my opinion, the barrister who put
forward this extraordinary plea was probably absolutely convinced that
he was stating the most liberal, the most humane, the most enlightened
view of the case that could possibly be brought forward in these days.
Now, was this distortion, this capacity for a perverted way of viewing
things, a special or accidental case, or is such a general rule?”
Everyone laughed at this.
“A special case—accidental, of course!” cried Alexandra and Adelaida.
“Let me remind you once more, Evgenie,” said Prince S., “that your joke
is getting a little threadbare.”
“What do you think about it, prince?” asked Evgenie, taking no notice
of the last remark, and observing Muishkin’s serious eyes fixed upon
his face. “What do you think—was it a special or a usual case—the rule,
or an exception? I confess I put the question especially for you.”
“No, I don’t think it was a special case,” said the prince, quietly,
but firmly.
“My dear fellow!” cried Prince S., with some annoyance, “don’t you see
that he is chaffing you? He is simply laughing at you, and wants to
make game of you.”
“I thought Evgenie Pavlovitch was talking seriously,” said the prince,
blushing and dropping his eyes.
“My dear prince,” continued Prince S. “remember what you and I were
saying two or three months ago. We spoke of the fact that in our newly
opened Law Courts one could already lay one’s finger upon so many
talented and remarkable young barristers. How pleased you were with the
state of things as we found it, and how glad I was to observe your
delight! We both said it was a matter to be proud of; but this clumsy
defence that Evgenie mentions, this strange argument _can_, of course,
only be an accidental case—one in a thousand!”
The prince reflected a little, but very soon he replied, with absolute
conviction in his tone, though he still spoke somewhat shyly and
timidly:
“I only wished to say that this ‘distortion,’ as Evgenie Pavlovitch
expressed it, is met with very often, and is far more the general rule
than the exception, unfortunately for Russia. So much so, that if this
distortion were not the general rule, perhaps these dreadful crimes
would be less frequent.”
“Dreadful crimes? But I can assure you that crimes just as dreadful,
and probably more horrible, have occurred before our times, and at all
times, and not only here in Russia, but everywhere else as well. And in
my opinion it is not at all likely that such murders will cease to
occur for a very long time to come. The only difference is that in
former times there was less publicity, while now everyone talks and
writes freely about such things—which fact gives the impression that
such crimes have only now sprung into existence. That is where your
mistake lies—an extremely natural mistake, I assure you, my dear
fellow!” said Prince S.
“I know that there were just as many, and just as terrible, crimes
before our times. Not long since I visited a convict prison and made
acquaintance with some of the criminals. There were some even more
dreadful criminals than this one we have been speaking of—men who have
murdered a dozen of their fellow-creatures, and feel no remorse
whatever. But what I especially noticed was this, that the very most
hopeless and remorseless murderer—however hardened a criminal he may
be—still _knows that he is a criminal_; that is, he is conscious that
he has acted wickedly, though he may feel no remorse whatever. And they
were all like this. Those of whom Evgenie Pavlovitch has spoken, do not
admit that they are criminals at all; they think they had a right to do
what they did, and that they were even doing a good deed, perhaps. I
consider there is the greatest difference between the two cases. And
recollect—it was a _youth_, at the particular age which is most
helplessly susceptible to the distortion of ideas!”
Prince S. was now no longer smiling; he gazed at the prince in
bewilderment.
Alexandra, who had seemed to wish to put in her word when the prince
began, now sat silent, as though some sudden thought had caused her to
change her mind about speaking.
Evgenie Pavlovitch gazed at him in real surprise, and this time his
expression of face had no mockery in it whatever.
“What are you looking so surprised about, my friend?” asked Mrs.
Epanchin, suddenly. “Did you suppose he was stupider than yourself, and
was incapable of forming his own opinions, or what?”
“No! Oh no! Not at all!” said Evgenie. “But—how is it, prince, that
you—(excuse the question, will you?)—if you are capable of observing
and seeing things as you evidently do, how is it that you saw nothing
distorted or perverted in that claim upon your property, which you
acknowledged a day or two since; and which was full of arguments
founded upon the most distorted views of right and wrong?”
“I’ll tell you what, my friend,” cried Mrs. Epanchin, of a sudden,
“here are we all sitting here and imagining we are very clever, and
perhaps laughing at the prince, some of us, and meanwhile he has
received a letter this very day in which that same claimant renounces
his claim, and begs the prince’s pardon. There! _we_ don’t often get
that sort of letter; and yet we are not ashamed to walk with our noses
in the air before him.”
“And Hippolyte has come down here to stay,” said Colia, suddenly.
“What! has he arrived?” said the prince, starting up.
“Yes, I brought him down from town just after you had left the house.”
“There now! It’s just like him,” cried Lizabetha Prokofievna, boiling
over once more, and entirely oblivious of the fact that she had just
taken the prince’s part. “I dare swear that you went up to town
yesterday on purpose to get the little wretch to do you the great
honour of coming to stay at your house. You did go up to town, you know
you did—you said so yourself! Now then, did you, or did you not, go
down on your knees and beg him to come, confess!”
“No, he didn’t, for I saw it all myself,” said Colia. “On the contrary,
Hippolyte kissed his hand twice and thanked him; and all the prince
said was that he thought Hippolyte might feel better here in the
country!”
“Don’t, Colia,—what is the use of saying all that?” cried the prince,
rising and taking his hat.
“Where are you going to now?” cried Mrs. Epanchin.
“Never mind about him now, prince,” said Colia. “He is all right and
taking a nap after the journey. He is very happy to be here; but I
think perhaps it would be better if you let him alone for today,—he is
very sensitive now that he is so ill—and he might be embarrassed if you
show him too much attention at first. He is decidedly better today, and
says he has not felt so well for the last six months, and has coughed
much less, too.”
The prince observed that Aglaya came out of her corner and approached
the table at this point.
He did not dare look at her, but he was conscious, to the very tips of
his fingers, that she was gazing at him, perhaps angrily; and that she
had probably flushed up with a look of fiery indignation in her black
eyes.
“It seems to me, Mr. Colia, that you were very foolish to bring your
young friend down—if he is the same consumptive boy who wept so
profusely, and invited us all to his own funeral,” remarked Evgenie
Pavlovitch. “He talked so eloquently about the blank wall outside his
bedroom window, that I’m sure he will never support life here without
it.”
“I think so too,” said Mrs. Epanchin; “he will quarrel with you, and be
off,” and she drew her workbox towards her with an air of dignity,
quite oblivious of the fact that the family was about to start for a
walk in the park.
“Yes, I remember he boasted about the blank wall in an extraordinary
way,” continued Evgenie, “and I feel that without that blank wall he
will never be able to die eloquently; and he does so long to die
eloquently!”
“Oh, you must forgive him the blank wall,” said the prince, quietly.
“He has come down to see a few trees now, poor fellow.”
“Oh, I forgive him with all my heart; you may tell him so if you like,”
laughed Evgenie.
“I don’t think you should take it quite like that,” said the prince,
quietly, and without removing his eyes from the carpet. “I think it is
more a case of his forgiving you.”
“Forgiving me! why so? What have I done to need his forgiveness?”
“If you don’t understand, then—but of course, you do understand. He
wished—he wished to bless you all round and to have your
blessing—before he died—that’s all.”
“My dear prince,” began Prince S., hurriedly, exchanging glances with
some of those present, “you will not easily find heaven on earth, and
yet you seem to expect to. Heaven is a difficult thing to find
anywhere, prince; far more difficult than appears to that good heart of
yours. Better stop this conversation, or we shall all be growing quite
disturbed in our minds, and—”
“Let’s go and hear the band, then,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna, angrily
rising from her place.
The rest of the company followed her example.
II.
The prince suddenly approached Evgenie Pavlovitch.
“Evgenie Pavlovitch,” he said, with strange excitement and seizing the
latter’s hand in his own, “be assured that I esteem you as a generous
and honourable man, in spite of everything. Be assured of that.”
Evgenie Pavlovitch fell back a step in astonishment. For one moment it
was all he could do to restrain himself from bursting out laughing;
but, looking closer, he observed that the prince did not seem to be
quite himself; at all events, he was in a very curious state.
“I wouldn’t mind betting, prince,” he cried, “that you did not in the
least mean to say that, and very likely you meant to address someone
else altogether. What is it? Are you feeling unwell or anything?”
“Very likely, extremely likely, and you must be a very close observer
to detect the fact that perhaps I did not intend to come up to _you_ at
all.”
So saying he smiled strangely; but suddenly and excitedly he began
again:
“Don’t remind me of what I have done or said. Don’t! I am very much
ashamed of myself, I—”
“Why, what have you done? I don’t understand you.”
“I see you are ashamed of me, Evgenie Pavlovitch; you are blushing for
me; that’s a sign of a good heart. Don’t be afraid; I shall go away
directly.”
“What’s the matter with him? Do his fits begin like that?” said
Lizabetha Prokofievna, in a high state of alarm, addressing Colia.
“No, no, Lizabetha Prokofievna, take no notice of me. I am not going to
have a fit. I will go away directly; but I know I am afflicted. I was
twenty-four years an invalid, you see—the first twenty-four years of my
life—so take all I do and say as the sayings and actions of an invalid.
I’m going away directly, I really am—don’t be afraid. I am not
blushing, for I don’t think I need blush about it, need I? But I see
that I am out of place in society—society is better without me. It’s
not vanity, I assure you. I have thought over it all these last three
days, and I have made up my mind that I ought to unbosom myself
candidly before you at the first opportunity. There are certain things,
certain great ideas, which I must not so much as approach, as Prince S.
has just reminded me, or I shall make you all laugh. I have no sense of
proportion, I know; my words and gestures do not express my ideas—they
are a humiliation and abasement of the ideas, and therefore, I have no
right—and I am too sensitive. Still, I believe I am beloved in this
household, and esteemed far more than I deserve. But I can’t help
knowing that after twenty-four years of illness there must be some
trace left, so that it is impossible for people to refrain from
laughing at me sometimes; don’t you think so?”
He seemed to pause for a reply, for some verdict, as it were, and
looked humbly around him.
All present stood rooted to the earth with amazement at this unexpected
and apparently uncalled-for outbreak; but the poor prince’s painful and
rambling speech gave rise to a strange episode.
“Why do you say all this here?” cried Aglaya, suddenly. “Why do you
talk like this to _them?_”
She appeared to be in the last stages of wrath and irritation; her eyes
flashed. The prince stood dumbly and blindly before her, and suddenly
grew pale.
“There is not one of them all who is worthy of these words of yours,”
continued Aglaya. “Not one of them is worth your little finger, not one
of them has heart or head to compare with yours! You are more honest
than all, and better, nobler, kinder, wiser than all. There are some
here who are unworthy to bend and pick up the handkerchief you have
just dropped. Why do you humiliate yourself like this, and place
yourself lower than these people? Why do you debase yourself before
them? Why have you no pride?”
“My God! Who would ever have believed this?” cried Mrs. Epanchin,
wringing her hands.
“Hurrah for the ‘poor knight’!” cried Colia.
“Be quiet! How dare they laugh at me in your house?” said Aglaya,
turning sharply on her mother in that hysterical frame of mind that
rides recklessly over every obstacle and plunges blindly through
proprieties. “Why does everyone, everyone worry and torment me? Why
have they all been bullying me these three days about you, prince? I
will not marry you—never, and under no circumstances! Know that once
and for all; as if anyone could marry an absurd creature like you! Just
look in the glass and see what you look like, this very moment! Why,
_why_ do they torment me and say I am going to marry you? You must know
it; you are in the plot with them!”
“No one ever tormented you on the subject,” murmured Adelaida, aghast.
“No one ever thought of such a thing! There has never been a word said
about it!” cried Alexandra.
“Who has been annoying her? Who has been tormenting the child? Who
could have said such a thing to her? Is she raving?” cried Lizabetha
Prokofievna, trembling with rage, to the company in general.
“Every one of them has been saying it—every one of them—all these three
days! And I will never, never marry him!”
So saying, Aglaya burst into bitter tears, and, hiding her face in her
handkerchief, sank back into a chair.
“But he has never even—”
“I have never asked you to marry me, Aglaya Ivanovna!” said the prince,
of a sudden.
“_What?_” cried Mrs. Epanchin, raising her hands in horror. “_What’s_
that?”
She could not believe her ears.
“I meant to say—I only meant to say,” said the prince, faltering, “I
merely meant to explain to Aglaya Ivanovna—to have the honour to
explain, as it were—that I had no intention—never had—to ask the honour
of her hand. I assure you I am not guilty, Aglaya Ivanovna, I am not,
indeed. I never did wish to—I never thought of it at all—and never
shall—you’ll see it yourself—you may be quite assured of it. Some
wicked person has been maligning me to you; but it’s all right. Don’t
worry about it.”
So saying, the prince approached Aglaya.
She took the handkerchief from her face, glanced keenly at him, took in
what he had said, and burst out laughing—such a merry, unrestrained
laugh, so hearty and gay, that Adelaida could not contain herself. She,
too, glanced at the prince’s panic-stricken countenance, then rushed at
her sister, threw her arms round her neck, and burst into as merry a
fit of laughter as Aglaya’s own. They laughed together like a couple of
school-girls. Hearing and seeing this, the prince smiled happily, and
in accents of relief and joy, he exclaimed “Well, thank God—thank God!”
Alexandra now joined in, and it looked as though the three sisters were
going to laugh on for ever.
“They are insane,” muttered Lizabetha Prokofievna. “Either they
frighten one out of one’s wits, or else—”
But Prince S. was laughing now, too, so was Evgenie Pavlovitch, so was
Colia, and so was the prince himself, who caught the infection as he
looked round radiantly upon the others.
“Come along, let’s go out for a walk!” cried Adelaida. “We’ll all go
together, and the prince must absolutely go with us. You needn’t go
away, you dear good fellow! _Isn’t_ he a dear, Aglaya? Isn’t he,
mother? I must really give him a kiss for—for his explanation to Aglaya
just now. Mother, dear, I may kiss him, mayn’t I? Aglaya, may I kiss
_your_ prince?” cried the young rogue, and sure enough she skipped up
to the prince and kissed his forehead.
He seized her hands, and pressed them so hard that Adelaida nearly
cried out; he then gazed with delight into her eyes, and raising her
right hand to his lips with enthusiasm, kissed it three times.
“Come along,” said Aglaya. “Prince, you must walk with me. May he,
mother? This young cavalier, who won’t have me? You said you would
_never_ have me, didn’t you, prince? No—no, not like that; _that’s_ not
the way to give your arm. Don’t you know how to give your arm to a lady
yet? There—so. Now, come along, you and I will lead the way. Would you
like to lead the way with me alone, tête-à-tête?”
She went on talking and chatting without a pause, with occasional
little bursts of laughter between.
“Thank God—thank God!” said Lizabetha Prokofievna to herself, without
quite knowing why she felt so relieved.
“What extraordinary people they are!” thought Prince S., for perhaps
the hundredth time since he had entered into intimate relations with
the family; but—he liked these “extraordinary people,” all the same. As
for Prince Lef Nicolaievitch himself, Prince S. did not seem quite to
like him, somehow. He was decidedly preoccupied and a little disturbed
as they all started off.
Evgenie Pavlovitch seemed to be in a lively humour. He made Adelaida
and Alexandra laugh all the way to the Vauxhall; but they both laughed
so very readily and promptly that the worthy Evgenie began at last to
suspect that they were not listening to him at all.
At this idea, he burst out laughing all at once, in quite unaffected
mirth, and without giving any explanation.
The sisters, who also appeared to be in high spirits, never tired of
glancing at Aglaya and the prince, who were walking in front. It was
evident that their younger sister was a thorough puzzle to them both.
Prince S. tried hard to get up a conversation with Mrs. Epanchin upon
outside subjects, probably with the good intention of distracting and
amusing her; but he bored her dreadfully. She was absent-minded to a
degree, and answered at cross purposes, and sometimes not at all.
But the puzzle and mystery of Aglaya was not yet over for the evening.
The last exhibition fell to the lot of the prince alone. When they had
proceeded some hundred paces or so from the house, Aglaya said to her
obstinately silent cavalier in a quick half-whisper:
“Look to the right!”
The prince glanced in the direction indicated.
“Look closer. Do you see that bench, in the park there, just by those
three big trees—that green bench?”
The prince replied that he saw it.
“Do you like the position of it? Sometimes of a morning early, at seven
o’clock, when all the rest are still asleep, I come out and sit there
alone.”
The prince muttered that the spot was a lovely one.
“Now, go away, I don’t wish to have your arm any longer; or perhaps,
better, continue to give me your arm, and walk along beside me, but
don’t speak a word to me. I wish to think by myself.”
The warning was certainly unnecessary; for the prince would not have
said a word all the rest of the time whether forbidden to speak or not.
His heart beat loud and painfully when Aglaya spoke of the bench; could
she—but no! he banished the thought, after an instant’s deliberation.
At Pavlofsk, on weekdays, the public is more select than it is on
Sundays and Saturdays, when the townsfolk come down to walk about and
enjoy the park.
The ladies dress elegantly, on these days, and it is the fashion to
gather round the band, which is probably the best of our
pleasure-garden bands, and plays the newest pieces. The behaviour of
the public is most correct and proper, and there is an appearance of
friendly intimacy among the usual frequenters. Many come for nothing
but to look at their acquaintances, but there are others who come for
the sake of the music. It is very seldom that anything happens to break
the harmony of the proceedings, though, of course, accidents will
happen everywhere.
On this particular evening the weather was lovely, and there were a
large number of people present. All the places anywhere near the
orchestra were occupied.
Our friends took chairs near the side exit. The crowd and the music
cheered Mrs. Epanchin a little, and amused the girls; they bowed and
shook hands with some of their friends and nodded at a distance to
others; they examined the ladies’ dresses, noticed comicalities and
eccentricities among the people, and laughed and talked among
themselves. Evgenie Pavlovitch, too, found plenty of friends to bow to.
Several people noticed Aglaya and the prince, who were still together.
Before very long two or three young men had come up, and one or two
remained to talk; all of these young men appeared to be on intimate
terms with Evgenie Pavlovitch. Among them was a young officer, a
remarkably handsome fellow—very good-natured and a great chatterbox. He
tried to get up a conversation with Aglaya, and did his best to secure
her attention. Aglaya behaved very graciously to him, and chatted and
laughed merrily. Evgenie Pavlovitch begged the prince’s leave to
introduce their friend to him. The prince hardly realized what was
wanted of him, but the introduction came off; the two men bowed and
shook hands.
Evgenie Pavlovitch’s friend asked the prince some question, but the
latter did not reply, or if he did, he muttered something so strangely
indistinct that there was nothing to be made of it. The officer stared
intently at him, then glanced at Evgenie, divined why the latter had
introduced him, and gave his undivided attention to Aglaya again. Only
Evgenie Pavlovitch observed that Aglaya flushed up for a moment at
this.
The prince did not notice that others were talking and making
themselves agreeable to Aglaya; in fact, at moments, he almost forgot
that he was sitting by her himself. At other moments he felt a longing
to go away somewhere and be alone with his thoughts, and to feel that
no one knew where he was.
Or if that were impossible he would like to be alone at home, on the
terrace—without either Lebedeff or his children, or anyone else about
him, and to lie there and think—a day and night and another day again!
He thought of the mountains—and especially of a certain spot which he
used to frequent, whence he would look down upon the distant valleys
and fields, and see the waterfall, far off, like a little silver
thread, and the old ruined castle in the distance. Oh! how he longed to
be there now—alone with his thoughts—to think of one thing all his
life—one thing! A thousand years would not be too much time! And let
everyone here forget him—forget him utterly! How much better it would
have been if they had never known him—if all this could but prove to be
a dream. Perhaps it was a dream!
Now and then he looked at Aglaya for five minutes at a time, without
taking his eyes off her face; but his expression was very strange; he
would gaze at her as though she were an object a couple of miles
distant, or as though he were looking at her portrait and not at
herself at all.
“Why do you look at me like that, prince?” she asked suddenly, breaking
off her merry conversation and laughter with those about her. “I’m
afraid of you! You look as though you were just going to put out your
hand and touch my face to see if it’s real! Doesn’t he, Evgenie
Pavlovitch—doesn’t he look like that?”
The prince seemed surprised that he should have been addressed at all;
he reflected a moment, but did not seem to take in what had been said
to him; at all events, he did not answer. But observing that she and
the others had begun to laugh, he too opened his mouth and laughed with
them.
The laughter became general, and the young officer, who seemed a
particularly lively sort of person, simply shook with mirth.
Aglaya suddenly whispered angrily to herself the word—
“Idiot!”
“My goodness—surely she is not in love with such a—surely she isn’t
mad!” groaned Mrs. Epanchin, under her breath.
“It’s all a joke, mamma; it’s just a joke like the ‘poor
knight’—nothing more whatever, I assure you!” Alexandra whispered in
her ear. “She is chaffing him—making a fool of him, after her own
private fashion, that’s all! But she carries it just a little too
far—she is a regular little actress. How she frightened us just
now—didn’t she?—and all for a lark!”
“Well, it’s lucky she has happened upon an idiot, then, that’s all I
can say!” whispered Lizabetha Prokofievna, who was somewhat comforted,
however, by her daughter’s remark.
The prince had heard himself referred to as “idiot,” and had shuddered
at the moment; but his shudder, it so happened, was not caused by the
word applied to him. The fact was that in the crowd, not far from where
he was sitting, a pale familiar face, with curly black hair, and a
well-known smile and expression, had flashed across his vision for a
moment, and disappeared again. Very likely he had imagined it! There
only remained to him the impression of a strange smile, two eyes, and a
bright green tie. Whether the man had disappeared among the crowd, or
whether he had turned towards the Vauxhall, the prince could not say.
But a moment or two afterwards he began to glance keenly about him.
That first vision might only too likely be the forerunner of a second;
it was almost certain to be so. Surely he had not forgotten the
possibility of such a meeting when he came to the Vauxhall? True
enough, he had not remarked where he was coming to when he set out with
Aglaya; he had not been in a condition to remark anything at all.
Had he been more careful to observe his companion, he would have seen
that for the last quarter of an hour Aglaya had also been glancing
around in apparent anxiety, as though she expected to see someone, or
something particular, among the crowd of people. Now, at the moment
when his own anxiety became so marked, her excitement also increased
visibly, and when he looked about him, she did the same.
The reason for their anxiety soon became apparent. From that very side
entrance to the Vauxhall, near which the prince and all the Epanchin
party were seated, there suddenly appeared quite a large knot of
persons, at least a dozen.
Heading this little band walked three ladies, two of whom were
remarkably lovely; and there was nothing surprising in the fact that
they should have had a large troop of admirers following in their wake.
But there was something in the appearance of both the ladies and their
admirers which was peculiar, quite different for that of the rest of
the public assembled around the orchestra.
Nearly everyone observed the little band advancing, and all pretended
not to see or notice them, except a few young fellows who exchanged
glances and smiled, saying something to one another in whispers.
It was impossible to avoid noticing them, however, in reality, for they
made their presence only too conspicuous by laughing and talking
loudly. It was to be supposed that some of them were more than half
drunk, although they were well enough dressed, some even particularly
well. There were one or two, however, who were very strange-looking
creatures, with flushed faces and extraordinary clothes; some were
military men; not all were quite young; one or two were middle-aged
gentlemen of decidedly disagreeable appearance, men who are avoided in
society like the plague, decked out in large gold studs and rings, and
magnificently “got up,” generally.
Among our suburban resorts there are some which enjoy a specially high
reputation for respectability and fashion; but the most careful
individual is not absolutely exempt from the danger of a tile falling
suddenly upon his head from his neighbour’s roof.
Such a tile was about to descend upon the elegant and decorous public
now assembled to hear the music.
In order to pass from the Vauxhall to the band-stand, the visitor has
to descend two or three steps. Just at these steps the group paused, as
though it feared to proceed further; but very quickly one of the three
ladies, who formed its apex, stepped forward into the charmed circle,
followed by two members of her suite.
One of these was a middle-aged man of very respectable appearance, but
with the stamp of parvenu upon him, a man whom nobody knew, and who
evidently knew nobody. The other follower was younger and far less
respectable-looking.
No one else followed the eccentric lady; but as she descended the steps
she did not even look behind her, as though it were absolutely the same
to her whether anyone were following or not. She laughed and talked
loudly, however, just as before. She was dressed with great taste, but
with rather more magnificence than was needed for the occasion,
perhaps.
She walked past the orchestra, to where an open carriage was waiting,
near the road.
The prince had not seen _her_ for more than three months. All these
days since his arrival from Petersburg he had intended to pay her a
visit, but some mysterious presentiment had restrained him. He could
not picture to himself what impression this meeting with her would make
upon him, though he had often tried to imagine it, with fear and
trembling. One fact was quite certain, and that was that the meeting
would be painful.
Several times during the last six months he had recalled the effect
which the first sight of this face had had upon him, when he only saw
its portrait. He recollected well that even the portrait face had left
but too painful an impression.
That month in the provinces, when he had seen this woman nearly every
day, had affected him so deeply that he could not now look back upon it
calmly. In the very look of this woman there was something which
tortured him. In conversation with Rogojin he had attributed this
sensation to pity—immeasurable pity, and this was the truth. The sight
of the portrait face alone had filled his heart full of the agony of
real sympathy; and this feeling of sympathy, nay, of actual
_suffering_, for her, had never left his heart since that hour, and was
still in full force. Oh yes, and more powerful than ever!
But the prince was not satisfied with what he had said to Rogojin. Only
at this moment, when she suddenly made her appearance before him, did
he realize to the full the exact emotion which she called up in him,
and which he had not described correctly to Rogojin.
And, indeed, there were no words in which he could have expressed his
horror, yes, _horror_, for he was now fully convinced from his own
private knowledge of her, that the woman was mad.
If, loving a woman above everything in the world, or at least having a
foretaste of the possibility of such love for her, one were suddenly to
behold her on a chain, behind bars and under the lash of a keeper, one
would feel something like what the poor prince now felt.
“What’s the matter?” asked Aglaya, in a whisper, giving his sleeve a
little tug.
He turned his head towards her and glanced at her black and (for some
reason) flashing eyes, tried to smile, and then, apparently forgetting
her in an instant, turned to the right once more, and continued to
watch the startling apparition before him.
Nastasia Philipovna was at this moment passing the young ladies’
chairs.
Evgenie Pavlovitch continued some apparently extremely funny and
interesting anecdote to Alexandra, speaking quickly and with much
animation. The prince remembered that at this moment Aglaya remarked in
a half-whisper:
“_What_ a—”
She did not finish her indefinite sentence; she restrained herself in a
moment; but it was enough.
Nastasia Philipovna, who up to now had been walking along as though she
had not noticed the Epanchin party, suddenly turned her head in their
direction, as though she had just observed Evgenie Pavlovitch sitting
there for the first time.
“Why, I declare, here he is!” she cried, stopping suddenly. “The man
one can’t find with all one’s messengers sent about the place, sitting
just under one’s nose, exactly where one never thought of looking! I
thought you were sure to be at your uncle’s by this time.”
Evgenie Pavlovitch flushed up and looked angrily at Nastasia
Philipovna, then turned his back on her.
“What! don’t you know about it yet? He doesn’t know—imagine that! Why,
he’s shot himself. Your uncle shot himself this very morning. I was
told at two this afternoon. Half the town must know it by now. They say
there are three hundred and fifty thousand roubles, government money,
missing; some say five hundred thousand. And I was under the impression
that he would leave you a fortune! He’s whistled it all away. A most
depraved old gentleman, really! Well, ta, ta!—bonne chance! Surely you
intend to be off there, don’t you? Ha, ha! You’ve retired from the army
in good time, I see! Plain clothes! Well done, sly rogue! Nonsense! I
see—you knew it all before—I dare say you knew all about it yesterday-”
Although the impudence of this attack, this public proclamation of
intimacy, as it were, was doubtless premeditated, and had its special
object, yet Evgenie Pavlovitch at first seemed to intend to make no
show of observing either his tormentor or her words. But Nastasia’s
communication struck him with the force of a thunderclap. On hearing of
his uncle’s death he suddenly grew as white as a sheet, and turned
towards his informant.
At this moment, Lizabetha Prokofievna rose swiftly from her seat,
beckoned her companions, and left the place almost at a run.
Only the prince stopped behind for a moment, as though in indecision;
and Evgenie Pavlovitch lingered too, for he had not collected his
scattered wits. But the Epanchins had not had time to get more than
twenty paces away when a scandalous episode occurred. The young
officer, Evgenie Pavlovitch’s friend who had been conversing with
Aglaya, said aloud in a great state of indignation:
“She ought to be whipped—that’s the only way to deal with creatures
like that—she ought to be whipped!”
This gentleman was a confidant of Evgenie’s, and had doubtless heard of
the carriage episode.
Nastasia turned to him. Her eyes flashed; she rushed up to a young man
standing near, whom she did not know in the least, but who happened to
have in his hand a thin cane. Seizing this from him, she brought it
with all her force across the face of her insulter.
All this occurred, of course, in one instant of time.
The young officer, forgetting himself, sprang towards her. Nastasia’s
followers were not by her at the moment (the elderly gentleman having
disappeared altogether, and the younger man simply standing aside and
roaring with laughter).
In another moment, of course, the police would have been on the spot,
and it would have gone hard with Nastasia Philipovna had not unexpected
aid appeared.
Muishkin, who was but a couple of steps away, had time to spring
forward and seize the officer’s arms from behind.
The officer, tearing himself from the prince’s grasp, pushed him so
violently backwards that he staggered a few steps and then subsided
into a chair.
But there were other defenders for Nastasia on the spot by this time.
The gentleman known as the “boxer” now confronted the enraged officer.
“Keller is my name, sir; ex-lieutenant,” he said, very loud. “If you
will accept me as champion of the fair sex, I am at your disposal.
English boxing has no secrets from me. I sympathize with you for the
insult you have received, but I can’t permit you to raise your hand
against a woman in public. If you prefer to meet me—as would be more
fitting to your rank—in some other manner, of course you understand me,
captain.”
But the young officer had recovered himself, and was no longer
listening. At this moment Rogojin appeared, elbowing through the crowd;
he took Nastasia’s hand, drew it through his arm, and quickly led her
away. He appeared to be terribly excited; he was trembling all over,
and was as pale as a corpse. As he carried Nastasia off, he turned and
grinned horribly in the officer’s face, and with low malice observed:
“Tfu! look what the fellow got! Look at the blood on his cheek! Ha,
ha!”
Recollecting himself, however, and seeing at a glance the sort of
people he had to deal with, the officer turned his back on both his
opponents, and courteously, but concealing his face with his
handkerchief, approached the prince, who was now rising from the chair
into which he had fallen.
“Prince Muishkin, I believe? The gentleman to whom I had the honour of
being introduced?”
“She is mad, insane—I assure you, she is mad,” replied the prince in
trembling tones, holding out both his hands mechanically towards the
officer.
“I cannot boast of any such knowledge, of course, but I wished to know
your name.”
He bowed and retired without waiting for an answer.
Five seconds after the disappearance of the last actor in this scene,
the police arrived. The whole episode had not lasted more than a couple
of minutes. Some of the spectators had risen from their places, and
departed altogether; some merely exchanged their seats for others a
little further off; some were delighted with the occurrence, and talked
and laughed over it for a long time.
In a word, the incident closed as such incidents do, and the band began
to play again. The prince walked away after the Epanchin party. Had he
thought of looking round to the left after he had been pushed so
unceremoniously into the chair, he would have observed Aglaya standing
some twenty yards away. She had stayed to watch the scandalous scene in
spite of her mother’s and sisters’ anxious cries to her to come away.
Prince S. ran up to her and persuaded her, at last, to come home with
them.
Lizabetha Prokofievna saw that she returned in such a state of
agitation that it was doubtful whether she had even heard their calls.
But only a couple of minutes later, when they had reached the park,
Aglaya suddenly remarked, in her usual calm, indifferent voice:
“I wanted to see how the farce would end.”
III.
The occurrence at the Vauxhall had filled both mother and daughters
with something like horror. In their excitement Lizabetha Prokofievna
and the girls were nearly running all the way home.
In her opinion there was so much disclosed and laid bare by the
episode, that, in spite of the chaotic condition of her mind, she was
able to feel more or less decided on certain points which, up to now,
had been in a cloudy condition.
However, one and all of the party realized that something important had
happened, and that, perhaps fortunately enough, something which had
hitherto been enveloped in the obscurity of guess-work had now begun to
come forth a little from the mists. In spite of Prince S.‘s assurances
and explanations, Evgenie Pavlovitch’s real character and position were
at last coming to light. He was publicly convicted of intimacy with
“that creature.” So thought Lizabetha Prokofievna and her two elder
daughters.
But the real upshot of the business was that the number of riddles to
be solved was augmented. The two girls, though rather irritated at
their mother’s exaggerated alarm and haste to depart from the scene,
had been unwilling to worry her at first with questions.
Besides, they could not help thinking that their sister Aglaya probably
knew more about the whole matter than both they and their mother put
together.
Prince S. looked as black as night, and was silent and moody. Mrs.
Epanchin did not say a word to him all the way home, and he did not
seem to observe the fact. Adelaida tried to pump him a little by
asking, “who was the uncle they were talking about, and what was it
that had happened in Petersburg?” But he had merely muttered something
disconnected about “making inquiries,” and that “of course it was all
nonsense.” “Oh, of course,” replied Adelaida, and asked no more
questions. Aglaya, too, was very quiet; and the only remark she made on
the way home was that they were “walking much too fast to be pleasant.”
Once she turned and observed the prince hurrying after them. Noticing
his anxiety to catch them up, she smiled ironically, and then looked
back no more. At length, just as they neared the house, General
Epanchin came out and met them; he had only just arrived from town.
His first word was to inquire after Evgenie Pavlovitch. But Lizabetha
stalked past him, and neither looked at him nor answered his question.
He immediately judged from the faces of his daughters and Prince S.
that there was a thunderstorm brewing, and he himself already bore
evidences of unusual perturbation of mind.
He immediately button-holed Prince S., and standing at the front door,
engaged in a whispered conversation with him. By the troubled aspect of
both of them, when they entered the house, and approached Mrs.
Epanchin, it was evident that they had been discussing very disturbing
news.
Little by little the family gathered together upstairs in Lizabetha
Prokofievna’s apartments, and Prince Muishkin found himself alone on
the verandah when he arrived. He settled himself in a corner and sat
waiting, though he knew not what he expected. It never struck him that
he had better go away, with all this disturbance in the house. He
seemed to have forgotten all the world, and to be ready to sit on where
he was for years on end. From upstairs he caught sounds of excited
conversation every now and then.
He could not say how long he sat there. It grew late and became quite
dark.
Suddenly Aglaya entered the verandah. She seemed to be quite calm,
though a little pale.
Observing the prince, whom she evidently did not expect to see there,
alone in the corner, she smiled, and approached him:
“What are you doing there?” she asked.
The prince muttered something, blushed, and jumped up; but Aglaya
immediately sat down beside him; so he reseated himself.
She looked suddenly, but attentively into his face, then at the window,
as though thinking of something else, and then again at him.
“Perhaps she wants to laugh at me,” thought the prince, “but no; for if
she did she certainly would do so.”
“Would you like some tea? I’ll order some,” she said, after a minute or
two of silence.
“N-no thanks, I don’t know—”
“Don’t know! How can you not know? By-the-by, look here—if someone were
to challenge you to a duel, what should you do? I wished to ask you
this—some time ago—”
“Why? Nobody would ever challenge me to a duel!”
“But if they were to, would you be dreadfully frightened?”
“I dare say I should be—much alarmed!”
“Seriously? Then are you a coward?”
“N-no!—I don’t think so. A coward is a man who is afraid and runs away;
the man who is frightened but does not run away, is not quite a
coward,” said the prince with a smile, after a moment’s thought.
“And you wouldn’t run away?”
“No—I don’t think I should run away,” replied the prince, laughing
outright at last at Aglaya’s questions.
“Though I am a woman, I should certainly not run away for anything,”
said Aglaya, in a slightly pained voice. “However, I see you are
laughing at me and twisting your face up as usual in order to make
yourself look more interesting. Now tell me, they generally shoot at
twenty paces, don’t they? At ten, sometimes? I suppose if at ten they
must be either wounded or killed, mustn’t they?”
“I don’t think they often kill each other at duels.”
“They killed Pushkin that way.”
“That may have been an accident.”
“Not a bit of it; it was a duel to the death, and he was killed.”
“The bullet struck so low down that probably his antagonist would never
have aimed at that part of him—people never do; he would have aimed at
his chest or head; so that probably the bullet hit him accidentally. I
have been told this by competent authorities.”
“Well, a soldier once told me that they were always ordered to aim at
the middle of the body. So you see they don’t aim at the chest or head;
they aim lower on purpose. I asked some officer about this afterwards,
and he said it was perfectly true.”
“That is probably when they fire from a long distance.”
“Can you shoot at all?”
“No, I have never shot in my life.”
“Can’t you even load a pistol?”
“No! That is, I understand how it’s done, of course, but I have never
done it.”
“Then, you don’t know how, for it is a matter that needs practice. Now
listen and learn; in the first place buy good powder, not damp (they
say it mustn’t be at all damp, but very dry), some fine kind it is—you
must ask for _pistol_ powder, not the stuff they load cannons with.
They say one makes the bullets oneself, somehow or other. Have you got
a pistol?”
“No—and I don’t want one,” said the prince, laughing.
“Oh, what _nonsense!_ You must buy one. French or English are the best,
they say. Then take a little powder, about a thimbleful, or perhaps
two, and pour it into the barrel. Better put plenty. Then push in a bit
of felt (it _must_ be felt, for some reason or other); you can easily
get a bit off some old mattress, or off a door; it’s used to keep the
cold out. Well, when you have pushed the felt down, put the bullet in;
do you hear now? The bullet last and the powder first, not the other
way, or the pistol won’t shoot. What are you laughing at? I wish you to
buy a pistol and practise every day, and you must learn to hit a mark
for _certain_; will you?”
The prince only laughed. Aglaya stamped her foot with annoyance.
Her serious air, however, during this conversation had surprised him
considerably. He had a feeling that he ought to be asking her
something, that there was something he wanted to find out far more
important than how to load a pistol; but his thoughts had all
scattered, and he was only aware that she was sitting by him, and
talking to him, and that he was looking at her; as to what she happened
to be saying to him, that did not matter in the least.
The general now appeared on the verandah, coming from upstairs. He was
on his way out, with an expression of determination on his face, and of
preoccupation and worry also.
“Ah! Lef Nicolaievitch, it’s you, is it? Where are you off to now?” he
asked, oblivious of the fact that the prince had not showed the least
sign of moving. “Come along with me; I want to say a word or two to
you.”
“_Au revoir_, then!” said Aglaya, holding out her hand to the prince.
It was quite dark now, and Muishkin could not see her face clearly, but
a minute or two later, when he and the general had left the villa, he
suddenly flushed up, and squeezed his right hand tightly.
It appeared that he and the general were going in the same direction.
In spite of the lateness of the hour, the general was hurrying away to
talk to someone upon some important subject. Meanwhile he talked
incessantly but disconnectedly to the prince, and continually brought
in the name of Lizabetha Prokofievna.
If the prince had been in a condition to pay more attention to what the
general was saying, he would have discovered that the latter was
desirous of drawing some information out of him, or indeed of asking
him some question outright; but that he could not make up his mind to
come to the point.
Muishkin was so absent, that from the very first he could not attend to
a word the other was saying; and when the general suddenly stopped
before him with some excited question, he was obliged to confess,
ignominiously, that he did not know in the least what he had been
talking about.
The general shrugged his shoulders.
“How strange everyone, yourself included, has become of late,” said he.
“I was telling you that I cannot in the least understand Lizabetha
Prokofievna’s ideas and agitations. She is in hysterics up there, and
moans and says that we have been ‘shamed and disgraced.’ How? Why?
When? By whom? I confess that I am very much to blame myself; I do not
conceal the fact; but the conduct, the outrageous behaviour of this
woman, must really be kept within limits, by the police if necessary,
and I am just on my way now to talk the question over and make some
arrangements. It can all be managed quietly and gently, even kindly,
and without the slightest fuss or scandal. I foresee that the future is
pregnant with events, and that there is much that needs explanation.
There is intrigue in the wind; but if on one side nothing is known, on
the other side nothing will be explained. If I have heard nothing about
it, nor have _you_, nor _he_, nor _she_—who _has_ heard about it, I
should like to know? How _can_ all this be explained except by the fact
that half of it is mirage or moonshine, or some hallucination of that
sort?”
“_She_ is insane,” muttered the prince, suddenly recollecting all that
had passed, with a spasm of pain at his heart.
“I too had that idea, and I slept in peace. But now I see that their
opinion is more correct. I do not believe in the theory of madness! The
woman has no common sense; but she is not only not insane, she is
artful to a degree. Her outburst of this evening about Evgenie’s uncle
proves that conclusively. It was _villainous_, simply jesuitical, and
it was all for some special purpose.”
“What about Evgenie’s uncle?”
“My goodness, Lef Nicolaievitch, why, you can’t have heard a single
word I said! Look at me, I’m still trembling all over with the dreadful
shock! It is that that kept me in town so late. Evgenie Pavlovitch’s
uncle—”
“Well?” cried the prince.
“Shot himself this morning, at seven o’clock. A respected, eminent old
man of seventy; and exactly point for point as she described it; a sum
of money, a considerable sum of government money, missing!”
“Why, how could she—”
“What, know of it? Ha, ha, ha! Why, there was a whole crowd round her
the moment she appeared on the scenes here. You know what sort of
people surround her nowadays, and solicit the honour of her
‘acquaintance.’ Of course she might easily have heard the news from
someone coming from town. All Petersburg, if not all Pavlofsk, knows it
by now. Look at the slyness of her observation about Evgenie’s uniform!
I mean, her remark that he had retired just in time! There’s a venomous
hint for you, if you like! No, no! there’s no insanity there! Of course
I refuse to believe that Evgenie Pavlovitch could have known beforehand
of the catastrophe; that is, that at such and such a day at seven
o’clock, and all that; but he might well have had a presentiment of the
truth. And I—all of us—Prince S. and everybody, believed that he was to
inherit a large fortune from this uncle. It’s dreadful, horrible! Mind,
I don’t suspect Evgenie of anything, be quite clear on that point; but
the thing is a little suspicious, nevertheless. Prince S. can’t get
over it. Altogether it is a very extraordinary combination of
circumstances.”
“What suspicion attaches to Evgenie Pavlovitch?”
“Oh, none at all! He has behaved very well indeed. I didn’t mean to
drop any sort of hint. His own fortune is intact, I believe. Lizabetha
Prokofievna, of course, refuses to listen to anything. That’s the worst
of it all, these family catastrophes or quarrels, or whatever you like
to call them. You know, prince, you are a friend of the family, so I
don’t mind telling you; it now appears that Evgenie Pavlovitch proposed
to Aglaya a month ago, and was refused.”
“Impossible!” cried the prince.
“Why? Do you know anything about it? Look here,” continued the general,
more agitated than ever, and trembling with excitement, “maybe I have
been letting the cat out of the bag too freely with you, if so, it is
because you are—that sort of man, you know! Perhaps you have some
special information?”
“I know nothing about Evgenie Pavlovitch!” said the prince.
“Nor do I! They always try to bury me underground when there’s anything
going on; they don’t seem to reflect that it is unpleasant to a man to
be treated so! I won’t stand it! We have just had a terrible
scene!—mind, I speak to you as I would to my own son! Aglaya laughs at
her mother. Her sisters guessed about Evgenie having proposed and been
rejected, and told Lizabetha.
“I tell you, my dear fellow, Aglaya is such an extraordinary, such a
self-willed, fantastical little creature, you wouldn’t believe it!
Every high quality, every brilliant trait of heart and mind, are to be
found in her, and, with it all, so much caprice and mockery, such wild
fancies—indeed, a little devil! She has just been laughing at her
mother to her very face, and at her sisters, and at Prince S., and
everybody—and of course she always laughs at me! You know I love the
child—I love her even when she laughs at me, and I believe the wild
little creature has a special fondness for me for that very reason. She
is fonder of me than any of the others. I dare swear she has had a good
laugh at _you_ before now! You were having a quiet talk just now, I
observed, after all the thunder and lightning upstairs. She was sitting
with you just as though there had been no row at all.”
The prince blushed painfully in the darkness, and closed his right hand
tightly, but he said nothing.
“My dear good Prince Lef Nicolaievitch,” began the general again,
suddenly, “both I and Lizabetha Prokofievna—(who has begun to respect
you once more, and me through you, goodness knows why!)—we both love
you very sincerely, and esteem you, in spite of any appearances to the
contrary. But you’ll admit what a riddle it must have been for us when
that calm, cold, little spitfire, Aglaya—(for she stood up to her
mother and answered her questions with inexpressible contempt, and mine
still more so, because, like a fool, I thought it my duty to assert
myself as head of the family)—when Aglaya stood up of a sudden and
informed us that ‘that madwoman’ (strangely enough, she used exactly
the same expression as you did) ‘has taken it into her head to marry me
to Prince Lef Nicolaievitch, and therefore is doing her best to choke
Evgenie Pavlovitch off, and rid the house of him.’ That’s what she
said. She would not give the slightest explanation; she burst out
laughing, banged the door, and went away. We all stood there with our
mouths open. Well, I was told afterwards of your little passage with
Aglaya this afternoon, and—and—dear prince—you are a good, sensible
fellow, don’t be angry if I speak out—she is laughing at you, my boy!
She is enjoying herself like a child, at your expense, and therefore,
since she is a child, don’t be angry with her, and don’t think anything
of it. I assure you, she is simply making a fool of you, just as she
does with one and all of us out of pure lack of something better to do.
Well—good-bye! You know our feelings, don’t you—our sincere feelings
for yourself? They are unalterable, you know, dear boy, under all
circumstances, but—Well, here we part; I must go down to the right.
Rarely have I sat so uncomfortably in my saddle, as they say, as I now
sit. And people talk of the charms of a country holiday!”
Left to himself at the cross-roads, the prince glanced around him,
quickly crossed the road towards the lighted window of a neighbouring
house, and unfolded a tiny scrap of paper which he had held clasped in
his right hand during the whole of his conversation with the general.
He read the note in the uncertain rays that fell from the window. It
was as follows:
“Tomorrow morning, I shall be at the green bench in the park at seven,
and shall wait there for you. I have made up my mind to speak to you
about a most important matter which closely concerns yourself.
“P.S.—I trust that you will not show this note to anyone. Though I am
ashamed of giving you such instructions, I feel that I must do so,
considering what you are. I therefore write the words, and blush for
your simple character.
“P.P.S.—It is the same green bench that I showed you before. There!
aren’t you ashamed of yourself? I felt that it was necessary to repeat
even that information.”
The note was written and folded anyhow, evidently in a great hurry, and
probably just before Aglaya had come down to the verandah.
In inexpressible agitation, amounting almost to fear, the prince
slipped quickly away from the window, away from the light, like a
frightened thief, but as he did so he collided violently with some
gentleman who seemed to spring from the earth at his feet.
“I was watching for you, prince,” said the individual.
“Is that you, Keller?” said the prince, in surprise.
“Yes, I’ve been looking for you. I waited for you at the Epanchins’
house, but of course I could not come in. I dogged you from behind as
you walked along with the general. Well, prince, here is Keller,
absolutely at your service—command him!—ready to sacrifice himself—even
to die in case of need.”
“But—why?”
“Oh, why?—Of course you’ll be challenged! That was young Lieutenant
Moloftsoff. I know him, or rather of him; he won’t pass an insult. He
will take no notice of Rogojin and myself, and, therefore, you are the
only one left to account for. You’ll have to pay the piper, prince. He
has been asking about you, and undoubtedly his friend will call on you
tomorrow—perhaps he is at your house already. If you would do me the
honour to have me for a second, prince, I should be happy. That’s why I
have been looking for you now.”
“Duel! You’ve come to talk about a duel, too!” The prince burst out
laughing, to the great astonishment of Keller. He laughed
unrestrainedly, and Keller, who had been on pins and needles, and in a
fever of excitement to offer himself as “second,” was very near being
offended.
“You caught him by the arms, you know, prince. No man of proper pride
can stand that sort of treatment in public.”
“Yes, and he gave me a fearful dig in the chest,” cried the prince,
still laughing. “What are we to fight about? I shall beg his pardon,
that’s all. But if we must fight—we’ll fight! Let him have a shot at
me, by all means; I should rather like it. Ha, ha, ha! I know how to
load a pistol now; do you know how to load a pistol, Keller? First, you
have to buy the powder, you know; it mustn’t be wet, and it mustn’t be
that coarse stuff that they load cannons with—it must be pistol powder.
Then you pour the powder in, and get hold of a bit of felt from some
door, and then shove the bullet in. But don’t shove the bullet in
before the powder, because the thing wouldn’t go off—do you hear,
Keller, the thing wouldn’t go off! Ha, ha, ha! Isn’t that a grand
reason, Keller, my friend, eh? Do you know, my dear fellow, I really
must kiss you, and embrace you, this very moment. Ha, ha! How was it
you so suddenly popped up in front of me as you did? Come to my house
as soon as you can, and we’ll have some champagne. We’ll all get drunk!
Do you know I have a dozen of champagne in Lebedeff’s cellar? Lebedeff
sold them to me the day after I arrived. I took the lot. We’ll invite
everybody! Are you going to do any sleeping tonight?”
“As much as usual, prince—why?”
“Pleasant dreams then—ha, ha!”
The prince crossed the road, and disappeared into the park, leaving the
astonished Keller in a state of ludicrous wonder. He had never before
seen the prince in such a strange condition of mind, and could not have
imagined the possibility of it.
“Fever, probably,” he said to himself, “for the man is all nerves, and
this business has been a little too much for him. He is not _afraid_,
that’s clear; that sort never funks! H’m! champagne! That was an
interesting item of news, at all events!—Twelve bottles! Dear me,
that’s a very respectable little stock indeed! I bet anything Lebedeff
lent somebody money on deposit of this dozen of champagne. Hum! he’s a
nice fellow, is this prince! I like this sort of man. Well, I needn’t
be wasting time here, and if it’s a case of champagne, why—there’s no
time like the present!”
That the prince was almost in a fever was no more than the truth. He
wandered about the park for a long while, and at last came to himself
in a lonely avenue. He was vaguely conscious that he had already paced
this particular walk—from that large, dark tree to the bench at the
other end—about a hundred yards altogether—at least thirty times
backwards and forwards.
As to recollecting what he had been thinking of all that time, he could
not. He caught himself, however, indulging in one thought which made
him roar with laughter, though there was nothing really to laugh at in
it; but he felt that he must laugh, and go on laughing.
It struck him that the idea of the duel might not have occurred to
Keller alone, but that his lesson in the art of pistol-loading might
have been not altogether accidental! “Pooh! nonsense!” he said to
himself, struck by another thought, of a sudden. “Why, she was
immensely surprised to find me there on the verandah, and laughed and
talked about _tea!_ And yet she had this little note in her hand,
therefore she must have known that I was sitting there. So why was she
surprised? Ha, ha, ha!”
He pulled the note out and kissed it; then paused and reflected. “How
strange it all is! how strange!” he muttered, melancholy enough now. In
moments of great joy, he invariably felt a sensation of melancholy come
over him—he could not tell why.
He looked intently around him, and wondered why he had come here; he
was very tired, so he approached the bench and sat down on it. Around
him was profound silence; the music in the Vauxhall was over. The park
seemed quite empty, though it was not, in reality, later than half-past
eleven. It was a quiet, warm, clear night—a real Petersburg night of
early June; but in the dense avenue, where he was sitting, it was
almost pitch dark.
If anyone had come up at this moment and told him that he was in love,
passionately in love, he would have rejected the idea with
astonishment, and, perhaps, with irritation. And if anyone had added
that Aglaya’s note was a love-letter, and that it contained an
appointment to a lover’s rendezvous, he would have blushed with shame
for the speaker, and, probably, have challenged him to a duel.
All this would have been perfectly sincere on his part. He had never
for a moment entertained the idea of the possibility of this girl
loving him, or even of such a thing as himself falling in love with
her. The possibility of being loved himself, “a man like me,” as he put
it, he ranked among ridiculous suppositions. It appeared to him that it
was simply a joke on Aglaya’s part, if there really were anything in it
at all; but that seemed to him quite natural. His preoccupation was
caused by something different.
As to the few words which the general had let slip about Aglaya
laughing at everybody, and at himself most of all—he entirely believed
them. He did not feel the slightest sensation of offence; on the
contrary, he was quite certain that it was as it should be.
His whole thoughts were now as to next morning early; he would see her;
he would sit by her on that little green bench, and listen to how
pistols were loaded, and look at her. He wanted nothing more.
The question as to what she might have to say of special interest to
himself occurred to him once or twice. He did not doubt, for a moment,
that she really had some such subject of conversation in store, but so
very little interested in the matter was he that it did not strike him
to wonder what it could be. The crunch of gravel on the path suddenly
caused him to raise his head.
A man, whose face it was difficult to see in the gloom, approached the
bench, and sat down beside him. The prince peered into his face, and
recognized the livid features of Rogojin.
“I knew you’d be wandering about somewhere here. I didn’t have to look
for you very long,” muttered the latter between his teeth.
It was the first time they had met since the encounter on the staircase
at the hotel.
Painfully surprised as he was at this sudden apparition of Rogojin, the
prince, for some little while, was unable to collect his thoughts.
Rogojin, evidently, saw and understood the impression he had made; and
though he seemed more or less confused at first, yet he began talking
with what looked like assumed ease and freedom. However, the prince
soon changed his mind on this score, and thought that there was not
only no affectation of indifference, but that Rogojin was not even
particularly agitated. If there were a little apparent awkwardness, it
was only in his words and gestures. The man could not change his heart.
“How did you—find me here?” asked the prince for the sake of saying
something.
“Keller told me (I found him at your place) that you were in the park.
‘Of course he is!’ I thought.”
“Why so?” asked the prince uneasily.
Rogojin smiled, but did not explain.
“I received your letter, Lef Nicolaievitch—what’s the good of all
that?—It’s no use, you know. I’ve come to you from _her_,—she bade me
tell you that she must see you, she has something to say to you. She
told me to find you today.”
“I’ll come tomorrow. Now I’m going home—are you coming to my house?”
“Why should I? I’ve given you the message.—Goodbye!”
“Won’t you come?” asked the prince in a gentle voice.
“What an extraordinary man you are! I wonder at you!” Rogojin laughed
sarcastically.
“Why do you hate me so?” asked the prince, sadly. “You know yourself
that all you suspected is quite unfounded. I felt you were still angry
with me, though. Do you know why? Because you tried to kill me—that’s
why you can’t shake off your wrath against me. I tell you that I only
remember the Parfen Rogojin with whom I exchanged crosses, and vowed
brotherhood. I wrote you this in yesterday’s letter, in order that you
might forget all that madness on your part, and that you might not feel
called to talk about it when we met. Why do you avoid me? Why do you
hold your hand back from me? I tell you again, I consider all that has
passed a delirium, an insane dream. I can understand all you did, and
all you felt that day, as if it were myself. What you were then
imagining was not the case, and could never be the case. Why, then,
should there be anger between us?”
“You don’t know what anger is!” laughed Rogojin, in reply to the
prince’s heated words.
He had moved a pace or two away, and was hiding his hands behind him.
“No, it is impossible for me to come to your house again,” he added
slowly.
“Why? Do you hate me so much as all that?”
“I don’t love you, Lef Nicolaievitch, and, therefore, what would be the
use of my coming to see you? You are just like a child—you want a
plaything, and it must be taken out and given you—and then you don’t
know how to work it. You are simply repeating all you said in your
letter, and what’s the use? Of course I believe every word you say, and
I know perfectly well that you neither did or ever can deceive me in
any way, and yet, I don’t love you. You write that you’ve forgotten
everything, and only remember your brother Parfen, with whom you
exchanged crosses, and that you don’t remember anything about the
Rogojin who aimed a knife at your throat. What do you know about my
feelings, eh?” (Rogojin laughed disagreeably.) “Here you are holding
out your brotherly forgiveness to me for a thing that I have perhaps
never repented of in the slightest degree. I did not think of it again
all that evening; all my thoughts were centred on something else—”
“Not think of it again? Of course you didn’t!” cried the prince. “And I
dare swear that you came straight away down here to Pavlofsk to listen
to the music and dog her about in the crowd, and stare at her, just as
you did today. There’s nothing surprising in that! If you hadn’t been
in that condition of mind that you could think of nothing but one
subject, you would, probably, never have raised your knife against me.
I had a presentiment of what you would do, that day, ever since I saw
you first in the morning. Do you know yourself what you looked like? I
knew you would try to murder me even at the very moment when we
exchanged crosses. What did you take me to your mother for? Did you
think to stay your hand by doing so? Perhaps you did not put your
thoughts into words, but you and I were thinking the same thing, or
feeling the same thing looming over us, at the same moment. What should
you think of me now if you had not raised your knife to me—the knife
which God averted from my throat? I would have been guilty of
suspecting you all the same—and you would have intended the murder all
the same; therefore we should have been mutually guilty in any case.
Come, don’t frown; you needn’t laugh at me, either. You say you haven’t
‘repented.’ Repented! You probably couldn’t, if you were to try; you
dislike me too much for that. Why, if I were an angel of light, and as
innocent before you as a babe, you would still loathe me if you
believed that _she_ loved me, instead of loving yourself. That’s
jealousy—that is the real jealousy.
“But do you know what I have been thinking out during this last week,
Parfen? I’ll tell you. What if she loves you now better than anyone?
And what if she torments you _because_ she loves you, and in proportion
to her love for you, so she torments you the more? She won’t tell you
this, of course; you must have eyes to see. Why do you suppose she
consents to marry you? She must have a reason, and that reason she will
tell you some day. Some women desire the kind of love you give her, and
she is probably one of these. Your love and your wild nature impress
her. Do you know that a woman is capable of driving a man crazy almost,
with her cruelties and mockeries, and feels not one single pang of
regret, because she looks at him and says to herself, ‘There! I’ll
torment this man nearly into his grave, and then, oh! how I’ll
compensate him for it all with my love!’”
Rogojin listened to the end, and then burst out laughing:
“Why, prince, I declare you must have had a taste of this sort of thing
yourself—haven’t you? I have heard tell of something of the kind, you
know; is it true?”
“What? What can you have heard?” said the prince, stammering.
Rogojin continued to laugh loudly. He had listened to the prince’s
speech with curiosity and some satisfaction. The speaker’s impulsive
warmth had surprised and even comforted him.
“Why, I’ve not only heard of it; I see it for myself,” he said. “When
have you ever spoken like that before? It wasn’t like yourself, prince.
Why, if I hadn’t heard this report about you, I should never have come
all this way into the park—at midnight, too!”
“I don’t understand you in the least, Parfen.”
“Oh, _she_ told me all about it long ago, and tonight I saw for myself.
I saw you at the music, you know, and whom you were sitting with. She
swore to me yesterday, and again today, that you are madly in love with
Aglaya Ivanovna. But that’s all the same to me, prince, and it’s not my
affair at all; for if you have ceased to love _her_, _she_ has not
ceased to love _you_. You know, of course, that she wants to marry you
to that girl? She’s sworn to it! Ha, ha! She says to me, ‘Until then I
won’t marry you. When they go to church, we’ll go too—and not before.’
What on earth does she mean by it? I don’t know, and I never did.
Either she loves you without limits or—yet, if she loves you, why does
she wish to marry you to another girl? She says, ‘I want to see him
happy,’ which is to say—she loves you.”
“I wrote, and I say to you once more, that she is not in her right
mind,” said the prince, who had listened with anguish to what Rogojin
said.
“Goodness knows—you may be wrong there! At all events, she named the
day this evening, as we left the gardens. ‘In three weeks,’ says she,
‘and perhaps sooner, we shall be married.’ She swore to it, took off
her cross and kissed it. So it all depends upon you now, prince, You
see! Ha, ha!”
“That’s all madness. What you say about me, Parfen, never can and never
will be. Tomorrow, I shall come and see you—”
“How can she be mad,” Rogojin interrupted, “when she is sane enough for
other people and only mad for you? How can she write letters to _her_,
if she’s mad? If she were insane they would observe it in her letters.”
“What letters?” said the prince, alarmed.
“She writes to _her_—and the girl reads the letters. Haven’t you
heard?—You are sure to hear; she’s sure to show you the letters
herself.”
“I won’t believe this!” cried the prince.
“Why, prince, you’ve only gone a few steps along this road, I perceive.
You are evidently a mere beginner. Wait a bit! Before long, you’ll have
your own detectives, you’ll watch day and night, and you’ll know every
little thing that goes on there—that is, if—”
“Drop that subject, Rogojin, and never mention it again. And listen: as
I have sat here, and talked, and listened, it has suddenly struck me
that tomorrow is my birthday. It must be about twelve o’clock, now;
come home with me—do, and we’ll see the day in! We’ll have some wine,
and you shall wish me—I don’t know what—but you, especially you, must
wish me a good wish, and I shall wish you full happiness in return.
Otherwise, hand me my cross back again. You didn’t return it to me next
day. Haven’t you got it on now?”
“Yes, I have,” said Rogojin.
“Come along, then. I don’t wish to meet my new year without you—my new
life, I should say, for a new life is beginning for me. Did you know,
Parfen, that a new life had begun for me?”
“I see for myself that it is so—and I shall tell _her_. But you are not
quite yourself, Lef Nicolaievitch.”
IV.
The prince observed with great surprise, as he approached his villa,
accompanied by Rogojin, that a large number of people were assembled on
his verandah, which was brilliantly lighted up. The company seemed
merry and were noisily laughing and talking—even quarrelling, to judge
from the sounds. At all events they were clearly enjoying themselves,
and the prince observed further on closer investigation—that all had
been drinking champagne. To judge from the lively condition of some of
the party, it was to be supposed that a considerable quantity of
champagne had been consumed already.
All the guests were known to the prince; but the curious part of the
matter was that they had all arrived on the same evening, as though
with one accord, although he had only himself recollected the fact that
it was his birthday a few moments since.
“You must have told somebody you were going to trot out the champagne,
and that’s why they are all come!” muttered Rogojin, as the two entered
the verandah. “We know all about that! You’ve only to whistle and they
come up in shoals!” he continued, almost angrily. He was doubtless
thinking of his own late experiences with his boon companions.
All surrounded the prince with exclamations of welcome, and, on hearing
that it was his birthday, with cries of congratulation and delight;
many of them were very noisy.
The presence of certain of those in the room surprised the prince
vastly, but the guest whose advent filled him with the greatest
wonder—almost amounting to alarm—was Evgenie Pavlovitch. The prince
could not believe his eyes when he beheld the latter, and could not
help thinking that something was wrong.
Lebedeff ran up promptly to explain the arrival of all these gentlemen.
He was himself somewhat intoxicated, but the prince gathered from his
long-winded periods that the party had assembled quite naturally, and
accidentally.
First of all Hippolyte had arrived, early in the evening, and feeling
decidedly better, had determined to await the prince on the verandah.
There Lebedeff had joined him, and his household had followed—that is,
his daughters and General Ivolgin. Burdovsky had brought Hippolyte, and
stayed on with him. Gania and Ptitsin had dropped in accidentally later
on; then came Keller, and he and Colia insisted on having champagne.
Evgenie Pavlovitch had only dropped in half an hour or so ago. Lebedeff
had served the champagne readily.
“My own though, prince, my own, mind,” he said, “and there’ll be some
supper later on; my daughter is getting it ready now. Come and sit
down, prince, we are all waiting for you, we want you with us. Fancy
what we have been discussing! You know the question, ‘to be or not to
be,’—out of Hamlet! A contemporary theme! Quite up-to-date! Mr.
Hippolyte has been eloquent to a degree. He won’t go to bed, but he has
only drunk a little champagne, and that can’t do him any harm. Come
along, prince, and settle the question. Everyone is waiting for you,
sighing for the light of your luminous intelligence...”
The prince noticed the sweet, welcoming look on Vera Lebedeff’s face,
as she made her way towards him through the crowd. He held out his hand
to her. She took it, blushing with delight, and wished him “a happy
life from that day forward.” Then she ran off to the kitchen, where her
presence was necessary to help in the preparations for supper. Before
the prince’s arrival she had spent some time on the terrace, listening
eagerly to the conversation, though the visitors, mostly under the
influence of wine, were discussing abstract subjects far beyond her
comprehension. In the next room her younger sister lay on a wooden
chest, sound asleep, with her mouth wide open; but the boy, Lebedeff’s
son, had taken up his position close beside Colia and Hippolyte, his
face lit up with interest in the conversation of his father and the
rest, to which he would willingly have listened for ten hours at a
stretch.
“I have waited for you on purpose, and am very glad to see you arrive
so happy,” said Hippolyte, when the prince came forward to press his
hand, immediately after greeting Vera.
“And how do you know that I am ‘so happy’?”
“I can see it by your face! Say ‘how do you do’ to the others, and come
and sit down here, quick—I’ve been waiting for you!” he added,
accentuating the fact that he had waited. On the prince’s asking, “Will
it not be injurious to you to sit out so late?” he replied that he
could not believe that he had thought himself dying three days or so
ago, for he never had felt better than this evening.
Burdovsky next jumped up and explained that he had come in by accident,
having escorted Hippolyte from town. He murmured that he was glad he
had “written nonsense” in his letter, and then pressed the prince’s
hand warmly and sat down again.
The prince approached Evgenie Pavlovitch last of all. The latter
immediately took his arm.
“I have a couple of words to say to you,” he began, “and those on a
very important matter; let’s go aside for a minute or two.”
“Just a couple of words!” whispered another voice in the prince’s other
ear, and another hand took his other arm. Muishkin turned, and to his
great surprise observed a red, flushed face and a droll-looking figure
which he recognized at once as that of Ferdishenko. Goodness knows
where he had turned up from!
“Do you remember Ferdishenko?” he asked.
“Where have you dropped from?” cried the prince.