air of annoyance, taking his hat. “A month of this... Are you coming
home, Ptitsin?” Hippolyte listened to this in amazement, almost
amounting to stupefaction. Suddenly he became deadly pale and
shuddered.
“You manage your composure too awkwardly. I see you wish to insult me,”
he cried to Gania. “You—you are a cur!” He looked at Gania with an
expression of malice.
“What on earth is the matter with the boy? What phenomenal
feeble-mindedness!” exclaimed Ferdishenko.
“Oh, he’s simply a fool,” said Gania.
Hippolyte braced himself up a little.
“I understand, gentlemen,” he began, trembling as before, and stumbling
over every word, “that I have deserved your resentment, and—and am
sorry that I should have troubled you with this raving nonsense”
(pointing to his article), “or rather, I am sorry that I have not
troubled you enough.” He smiled feebly. “Have I troubled you, Evgenie
Pavlovitch?” He suddenly turned on Evgenie with this question. “Tell me
now, have I troubled you or not?”
“Well, it was a little drawn out, perhaps; but—”
“Come, speak out! Don’t lie, for once in your life—speak out!”
continued Hippolyte, quivering with agitation.
“Oh, my good sir, I assure you it’s entirely the same to me. Please
leave me in peace,” said Evgenie, angrily, turning his back on him.
“Good-night, prince,” said Ptitsin, approaching his host.
“What are you thinking of? Don’t go, he’ll blow his brains out in a
minute!” cried Vera Lebedeff, rushing up to Hippolyte and catching hold
of his hands in a torment of alarm. “What are you thinking of? He said
he would blow his brains out at sunrise.”
“Oh, he won’t shoot himself!” cried several voices, sarcastically.
“Gentlemen, you’d better look out,” cried Colia, also seizing Hippolyte
by the hand. “Just look at him! Prince, what are you thinking of?” Vera
and Colia, and Keller, and Burdovsky were all crowding round Hippolyte
now and holding him down.
“He has the right—the right—” murmured Burdovsky. “Excuse me, prince,
but what are your arrangements?” asked Lebedeff, tipsy and exasperated,
going up to Muishkin.
“What do you mean by ‘arrangements’?”
“No, no, excuse me! I’m master of this house, though I do not wish to
lack respect towards you. You are master of the house too, in a way;
but I can’t allow this sort of thing—”
“He won’t shoot himself; the boy is only playing the fool,” said
General Ivolgin, suddenly and unexpectedly, with indignation.
“I know he won’t, I know he won’t, general; but I—I’m master here!”
“Listen, Mr. Terentieff,” said Ptitsin, who had bidden the prince
good-night, and was now holding out his hand to Hippolyte; “I think you
remark in that manuscript of yours, that you bequeath your skeleton to
the Academy. Are you referring to your own skeleton—I mean, your very
bones?”
“Yes, my bones, I—”
“Quite so, I see; because, you know, little mistakes have occurred now
and then. There was a case—”
“Why do you tease him?” cried the prince, suddenly.
“You’ve moved him to tears,” added Ferdishenko. But Hippolyte was by no
means weeping. He was about to move from his place, when his four
guards rushed at him and seized him once more. There was a laugh at
this.
“He led up to this on purpose. He took the trouble of writing all that
so that people should come and grab him by the arm,” observed Rogojin.
“Good-night, prince. What a time we’ve sat here, my very bones ache!”
“If you really intended to shoot yourself, Terentieff,” said Evgenie
Pavlovitch, laughing, “if I were you, after all these compliments, I
should just not shoot myself in order to vex them all.”
“They are very anxious to see me blow my brains out,” said Hippolyte,
bitterly.
“Yes, they’ll be awfully annoyed if they don’t see it.”
“Then you think they won’t see it?”
“I am not trying to egg you on. On the contrary, I think it very likely
that you may shoot yourself; but the principal thing is to keep cool,”
said Evgenie with a drawl, and with great condescension.
“I only now perceive what a terrible mistake I made in reading this
article to them,” said Hippolyte, suddenly, addressing Evgenie, and
looking at him with an expression of trust and confidence, as though he
were applying to a friend for counsel.
“Yes, it’s a droll situation; I really don’t know what advice to give
you,” replied Evgenie, laughing. Hippolyte gazed steadfastly at him,
but said nothing. To look at him one might have supposed that he was
unconscious at intervals.
“Excuse me,” said Lebedeff, “but did you observe the young gentleman’s
style? ‘I’ll go and blow my brains out in the park,’ says he, ‘so as
not to disturb anyone.’ He thinks he won’t disturb anybody if he goes
three yards away, into the park, and blows his brains out there.”
“Gentlemen—” began the prince.
“No, no, excuse me, most revered prince,” Lebedeff interrupted,
excitedly. “Since you must have observed yourself that this is no joke,
and since at least half your guests must also have concluded that after
all that has been said this youth _must_ blow his brains out for
honour’s sake—I—as master of this house, and before these witnesses,
now call upon you to take steps.”
“Yes, but what am I to do, Lebedeff? What steps am I to take? I am
ready.”
“I’ll tell you. In the first place he must immediately deliver up the
pistol which he boasted of, with all its appurtenances. If he does this
I shall consent to his being allowed to spend the night in this
house—considering his feeble state of health, and of course
conditionally upon his being under proper supervision. But tomorrow he
must go elsewhere. Excuse me, prince! Should he refuse to deliver up
his weapon, then I shall instantly seize one of his arms and General
Ivolgin the other, and we shall hold him until the police arrive and
take the matter into their own hands. Mr. Ferdishenko will kindly fetch
them.”
At this there was a dreadful noise; Lebedeff danced about in his
excitement; Ferdishenko prepared to go for the police; Gania
frantically insisted that it was all nonsense, “for nobody was going to
shoot themselves.” Evgenie Pavlovitch said nothing.
“Prince,” whispered Hippolyte, suddenly, his eyes all ablaze, “you
don’t suppose that I did not foresee all this hatred?” He looked at the
prince as though he expected him to reply, for a moment. “Enough!” he
added at length, and addressing the whole company, he cried: “It’s all
my fault, gentlemen! Lebedeff, here’s the key,” (he took out a small
bunch of keys); “this one, the last but one—Colia will show you—Colia,
where’s Colia?” he cried, looking straight at Colia and not seeing him.
“Yes, he’ll show you; he packed the bag with me this morning. Take him
up, Colia; my bag is upstairs in the prince’s study, under the table.
Here’s the key, and in the little case you’ll find my pistol and the
powder, and all. Colia packed it himself, Mr. Lebedeff; he’ll show you;
but it’s on condition that tomorrow morning, when I leave for
Petersburg, you will give me back my pistol, do you hear? I do this for
the prince’s sake, not yours.”
“Capital, that’s much better!” cried Lebedeff, and seizing the key he
made off in haste.
Colia stopped a moment as though he wished to say something; but
Lebedeff dragged him away.
Hippolyte looked around at the laughing guests. The prince observed
that his teeth were chattering as though in a violent attack of ague.
“What brutes they all are!” he whispered to the prince. Whenever he
addressed him he lowered his voice.
“Let them alone, you’re too weak now—”
“Yes, directly; I’ll go away directly. I’ll—”
Suddenly he embraced Muishkin.
“Perhaps you think I am mad, eh?” he asked him, laughing very
strangely.
“No, but you—”
“Directly, directly! Stand still a moment, I wish to look in your eyes;
don’t speak—stand so—let me look at you! I am bidding farewell to
mankind.”
He stood so for ten seconds, gazing at the prince, motionless, deadly
pale, his temples wet with perspiration; he held the prince’s hand in a
strange grip, as though afraid to let him go.
“Hippolyte, Hippolyte, what is the matter with you?” cried Muishkin.
“Directly! There, that’s enough. I’ll lie down directly. I must drink
to the sun’s health. I wish to—I insist upon it! Let go!”
He seized a glass from the table, broke away from the prince, and in a
moment had reached the terrace steps.
The prince made after him, but it so happened that at this moment
Evgenie Pavlovitch stretched out his hand to say good-night. The next
instant there was a general outcry, and then followed a few moments of
indescribable excitement.
Reaching the steps, Hippolyte had paused, holding the glass in his left
hand while he put his right hand into his coat pocket.
Keller insisted afterwards that he had held his right hand in his
pocket all the while, when he was speaking to the prince, and that he
had held the latter’s shoulder with his left hand only. This
circumstance, Keller affirmed, had led him to feel some suspicion from
the first. However this may be, Keller ran after Hippolyte, but he was
too late.
He caught sight of something flashing in Hippolyte’s right hand, and
saw that it was a pistol. He rushed at him, but at that very instant
Hippolyte raised the pistol to his temple and pulled the trigger. There
followed a sharp metallic click, but no report.
When Keller seized the would-be suicide, the latter fell forward into
his arms, probably actually believing that he was shot. Keller had hold
of the pistol now. Hippolyte was immediately placed in a chair, while
the whole company thronged around excitedly, talking and asking each
other questions. Every one of them had heard the snap of the trigger,
and yet they saw a live and apparently unharmed man before them.
Hippolyte himself sat quite unconscious of what was going on, and gazed
around with a senseless expression.
Lebedeff and Colia came rushing up at this moment.
“What is it?” someone asked, breathlessly—“A misfire?”
“Perhaps it wasn’t loaded,” said several voices.
“It’s loaded all right,” said Keller, examining the pistol, “but—”
“What! did it miss fire?”
“There was no cap in it,” Keller announced.
It would be difficult to describe the pitiable scene that now followed.
The first sensation of alarm soon gave place to amusement; some burst
out laughing loud and heartily, and seemed to find a malicious
satisfaction in the joke. Poor Hippolyte sobbed hysterically; he wrung
his hands; he approached everyone in turn—even Ferdishenko—and took
them by both hands, and swore solemnly that he had forgotten—absolutely
forgotten—“accidentally, and not on purpose,”—to put a cap in—that he
“had ten of them, at least, in his pocket.” He pulled them out and
showed them to everyone; he protested that he had not liked to put one
in beforehand for fear of an accidental explosion in his pocket. That
he had thought he would have lots of time to put it in afterwards—when
required—and, that, in the heat of the moment, he had forgotten all
about it. He threw himself upon the prince, then on Evgenie Pavlovitch.
He entreated Keller to give him back the pistol, and he’d soon show
them all that “his honour—his honour,”—but he was “dishonoured, now,
for ever!”
He fell senseless at last—and was carried into the prince’s study.
Lebedeff, now quite sobered down, sent for a doctor; and he and his
daughter, with Burdovsky and General Ivolgin, remained by the sick
man’s couch.
When he was carried away unconscious, Keller stood in the middle of the
room, and made the following declaration to the company in general, in
a loud tone of voice, with emphasis upon each word.
“Gentlemen, if any one of you casts any doubt again, before me, upon
Hippolyte’s good faith, or hints that the cap was forgotten
intentionally, or suggests that this unhappy boy was acting a part
before us, I beg to announce that the person so speaking shall account
to me for his words.”
No one replied.
The company departed very quickly, in a mass. Ptitsin, Gania, and
Rogojin went away together.
The prince was much astonished that Evgenie Pavlovitch changed his
mind, and took his departure without the conversation he had requested.
“Why, you wished to have a talk with me when the others left?” he said.
“Quite so,” said Evgenie, sitting down suddenly beside him, “but I have
changed my mind for the time being. I confess, I am too disturbed, and
so, I think, are you; and the matter as to which I wished to consult
you is too serious to tackle with one’s mind even a little disturbed;
too serious both for myself and for you. You see, prince, for once in
my life I wish to perform an absolutely honest action, that is, an
action with no ulterior motive; and I think I am hardly in a condition
to talk of it just at this moment, and—and—well, we’ll discuss it
another time. Perhaps the matter may gain in clearness if we wait for
two or three days—just the two or three days which I must spend in
Petersburg.”
Here he rose again from his chair, so that it seemed strange that he
should have thought it worth while to sit down at all.
The prince thought, too, that he looked vexed and annoyed, and not
nearly so friendly towards himself as he had been earlier in the night.
“I suppose you will go to the sufferer’s bedside now?” he added.
“Yes, I am afraid...” began the prince.
“Oh, you needn’t fear! He’ll live another six weeks all right. Very
likely he will recover altogether; but I strongly advise you to pack
him off tomorrow.”
“I think I may have offended him by saying nothing just now. I am
afraid he may suspect that I doubted his good faith,—about shooting
himself, you know. What do you think, Evgenie Pavlovitch?”
“Not a bit of it! You are much too good to him; you shouldn’t care a
hang about what he thinks. I have heard of such things before, but
never came across, till tonight, a man who would actually shoot himself
in order to gain a vulgar notoriety, or blow out his brains for spite,
if he finds that people don’t care to pat him on the back for his
sanguinary intentions. But what astonishes me more than anything is the
fellow’s candid confession of weakness. You’d better get rid of him
tomorrow, in any case.”
“Do you think he will make another attempt?”
“Oh no, not he, not now! But you have to be very careful with this sort
of gentleman. Crime is too often the last resource of these petty
nonentities. This young fellow is quite capable of cutting the throats
of ten people, simply for a lark, as he told us in his ‘explanation.’ I
assure you those confounded words of his will not let me sleep.”
“I think you disturb yourself too much.”
“What an extraordinary person you are, prince! Do you mean to say that
you doubt the fact that he is capable of murdering ten men?”
“I daren’t say, one way or the other; all this is very strange—but—”
“Well, as you like, just as you like,” said Evgenie Pavlovitch,
irritably. “Only you are such a plucky fellow, take care you don’t get
included among the ten victims!”
“Oh, he is much more likely not to kill anyone at all,” said the
prince, gazing thoughtfully at Evgenie. The latter laughed
disagreeably.
“Well, _au revoir!_ Did you observe that he ‘willed’ a copy of his
confession to Aglaya Ivanovna?”
“Yes, I did; I am thinking of it.”
“In connection with ‘the ten,’ eh?” laughed Evgenie, as he left the
room.
An hour later, towards four o’clock, the prince went into the park. He
had endeavoured to fall asleep, but could not, owing to the painful
beating of his heart.
He had left things quiet and peaceful; the invalid was fast asleep, and
the doctor, who had been called in, had stated that there was no
special danger. Lebedeff, Colia, and Burdovsky were lying down in the
sick-room, ready to take it in turns to watch. There was nothing to
fear, therefore, at home.
But the prince’s mental perturbation increased every moment. He
wandered about the park, looking absently around him, and paused in
astonishment when he suddenly found himself in the empty space with the
rows of chairs round it, near the Vauxhall. The look of the place
struck him as dreadful now: so he turned round and went by the path
which he had followed with the Epanchins on the way to the band, until
he reached the green bench which Aglaya had pointed out for their
rendezvous. He sat down on it and suddenly burst into a loud fit of
laughter, immediately followed by a feeling of irritation. His
disturbance of mind continued; he felt that he must go away somewhere,
anywhere.
Above his head some little bird sang out, of a sudden; he began to peer
about for it among the leaves. Suddenly the bird darted out of the tree
and away, and instantly he thought of the “fly buzzing about in the
sun’s rays” that Hippolyte had talked of; how that it knew its place
and was a participator in the universal life, while he alone was an
“outcast.” This picture had impressed him at the time, and he meditated
upon it now. An old, forgotten memory awoke in his brain, and suddenly
burst into clearness and light. It was a recollection of Switzerland,
during the first year of his cure, the very first months. At that time
he had been pretty nearly an idiot still; he could not speak properly,
and had difficulty in understanding when others spoke to him. He
climbed the mountain-side, one sunny morning, and wandered long and
aimlessly with a certain thought in his brain, which would not become
clear. Above him was the blazing sky, below, the lake; all around was
the horizon, clear and infinite. He looked out upon this, long and
anxiously. He remembered how he had stretched out his arms towards the
beautiful, boundless blue of the horizon, and wept, and wept. What had
so tormented him was the idea that he was a stranger to all this, that
he was outside this glorious festival.
What was this universe? What was this grand, eternal pageant to which
he had yearned from his childhood up, and in which he could never take
part? Every morning the same magnificent sun; every morning the same
rainbow in the waterfall; every evening the same glow on the
snow-mountains.
Every little fly that buzzed in the sun’s rays was a singer in the
universal chorus, “knew its place, and was happy in it.” Every blade of
grass grew and was happy. Everything knew its path and loved it, went
forth with a song and returned with a song; only he knew nothing,
understood nothing, neither men nor words, nor any of nature’s voices;
he was a stranger and an outcast.
Oh, he could not then speak these words, or express all he felt! He had
been tormented dumbly; but now it appeared to him that he must have
said these very words—even then—and that Hippolyte must have taken his
picture of the little fly from his tears and words of that time.
He was sure of it, and his heart beat excitedly at the thought, he knew
not why.
He fell asleep on the bench; but his mental disquiet continued through
his slumbers.
Just before he dozed off, the idea of Hippolyte murdering ten men
flitted through his brain, and he smiled at the absurdity of such a
thought.
Around him all was quiet; only the flutter and whisper of the leaves
broke the silence, but broke it only to cause it to appear yet more
deep and still.
He dreamed many dreams as he sat there, and all were full of disquiet,
so that he shuddered every moment.
At length a woman seemed to approach him. He knew her, oh! he knew her
only too well. He could always name her and recognize her anywhere;
but, strange, she seemed to have quite a different face from hers, as
he had known it, and he felt a tormenting desire to be able to say she
was not the same woman. In the face before him there was such dreadful
remorse and horror that he thought she must be a criminal, that she
must have just committed some awful crime.
Tears were trembling on her white cheek. She beckoned him, but placed
her finger on her lip as though to warn him that he must follow her
very quietly. His heart froze within him. He wouldn’t, he _couldn’t_
confess her to be a criminal, and yet he felt that something dreadful
would happen the next moment, something which would blast his whole
life.
She seemed to wish to show him something, not far off, in the park.
He rose from his seat in order to follow her, when a bright, clear peal
of laughter rang out by his side. He felt somebody’s hand suddenly in
his own, seized it, pressed it hard, and awoke. Before him stood
Aglaya, laughing aloud.
VIII.
She laughed, but she was rather angry too.
“He’s asleep! You were asleep,” she said, with contemptuous surprise.
“Is it really you?” muttered the prince, not quite himself as yet, and
recognizing her with a start of amazement. “Oh yes, of course,” he
added, “this is our rendezvous. I fell asleep here.”
“So I saw.”
“Did no one awake me besides yourself? Was there no one else here? I
thought there was another woman.”
“There was another woman here?”
At last he was wide awake.
“It was a dream, of course,” he said, musingly. “Strange that I should
have a dream like that at such a moment. Sit down—”
He took her hand and seated her on the bench; then sat down beside her
and reflected.
Aglaya did not begin the conversation, but contented herself with
watching her companion intently.
He looked back at her, but at times it was clear that he did not see
her and was not thinking of her.
Aglaya began to flush up.
“Oh yes!” cried the prince, starting. “Hippolyte’s suicide—”
“What? At your house?” she asked, but without much surprise. “He was
alive yesterday evening, wasn’t he? How could you sleep here after
that?” she cried, growing suddenly animated.
“Oh, but he didn’t kill himself; the pistol didn’t go off.” Aglaya
insisted on hearing the whole story. She hurried the prince along, but
interrupted him with all sorts of questions, nearly all of which were
irrelevant. Among other things, she seemed greatly interested in every
word that Evgenie Pavlovitch had said, and made the prince repeat that
part of the story over and over again.
“Well, that’ll do; we must be quick,” she concluded, after hearing all.
“We have only an hour here, till eight; I must be home by then without
fail, so that they may not find out that I came and sat here with you;
but I’ve come on business. I have a great deal to say to you. But you
have bowled me over considerably with your news. As to Hippolyte, I
think his pistol was bound not to go off; it was more consistent with
the whole affair. Are you sure he really wished to blow his brains out,
and that there was no humbug about the matter?”
“No humbug at all.”
“Very likely. So he wrote that you were to bring me a copy of his
confession, did he? Why didn’t you bring it?”
“Why, he didn’t die! I’ll ask him for it, if you like.”
“Bring it by all means; you needn’t ask him. He will be delighted, you
may be sure; for, in all probability, he shot at himself simply in
order that I might read his confession. Don’t laugh at what I say,
please, Lef Nicolaievitch, because it may very well be the case.”
“I’m not laughing. I am convinced, myself, that that may have been
partly the reason.”
“You are convinced? You don’t really mean to say you think that
honestly?” asked Aglaya, extremely surprised.
She put her questions very quickly and talked fast, every now and then
forgetting what she had begun to say, and not finishing her sentence.
She seemed to be impatient to warn the prince about something or other.
She was in a state of unusual excitement, and though she put on a brave
and even defiant air, she seemed to be rather alarmed. She was dressed
very simply, but this suited her well. She continually trembled and
blushed, and she sat on the very edge of the seat.
The fact that the prince confirmed her idea, about Hippolyte shooting
himself that she might read his confession, surprised her greatly.
“Of course,” added the prince, “he wished us all to applaud his
conduct—besides yourself.”
“How do you mean—applaud?”
“Well—how am I to explain? He was very anxious that we should all come
around him, and say we were so sorry for him, and that we loved him
very much, and all that; and that we hoped he wouldn’t kill himself,
but remain alive. Very likely he thought more of you than the rest of
us, because he mentioned you at such a moment, though perhaps he did
not know himself that he had you in his mind’s eye.”
“I don’t understand you. How could he have me in view, and not be aware
of it himself? And yet, I don’t know—perhaps I do. Do you know I have
intended to poison myself at least thirty times—ever since I was
thirteen or so—and to write to my parents before I did it? I used to
think how nice it would be to lie in my coffin, and have them all
weeping over me and saying it was all their fault for being so cruel,
and all that—what are you smiling at?” she added, knitting her brow.
“What do _you_ think of when you go mooning about alone? I suppose you
imagine yourself a field-marshal, and think you have conquered
Napoleon?”
“Well, I really have thought something of the sort now and then,
especially when just dozing off,” laughed the prince. “Only it is the
Austrians whom I conquer—not Napoleon.”
“I don’t wish to joke with you, Lef Nicolaievitch. I shall see
Hippolyte myself. Tell him so. As for you, I think you are behaving
very badly, because it is not right to judge a man’s soul as you are
judging Hippolyte’s. You have no gentleness, but only justice—so you
are unjust.”
The prince reflected.
“I think you are unfair towards me,” he said. “There is nothing wrong
in the thoughts I ascribe to Hippolyte; they are only natural. But of
course I don’t know for certain what he thought. Perhaps he thought
nothing, but simply longed to see human faces once more, and to hear
human praise and feel human affection. Who knows? Only it all came out
wrong, somehow. Some people have luck, and everything comes out right
with them; others have none, and never a thing turns out fortunately.”
“I suppose you have felt that in your own case,” said Aglaya.
“Yes, I have,” replied the prince, quite unsuspicious of any irony in
the remark.
“H’m—well, at all events, I shouldn’t have fallen asleep here, in your
place. It wasn’t nice of you, that. I suppose you fall asleep wherever
you sit down?”
“But I didn’t sleep a wink all night. I walked and walked about, and
went to where the music was—”
“What music?”
“Where they played last night. Then I found this bench and sat down,
and thought and thought—and at last I fell fast asleep.”
“Oh, is that it? That makes a difference, perhaps. What did you go to
the bandstand for?”
“I don’t know; I—”
“Very well—afterwards. You are always interrupting me. What woman was
it you were dreaming about?”
“It was—about—you saw her—”
“Quite so; I understand. I understand quite well. You are very—Well,
how did she appear to you? What did she look like? No, I don’t want to
know anything about her,” said Aglaya, angrily; “don’t interrupt me—”
She paused a moment as though getting breath, or trying to master her
feeling of annoyance.
“Look here; this is what I called you here for. I wish to make you a—to
ask you to be my friend. What do you stare at me like that for?” she
added, almost angrily.
The prince certainly had darted a rather piercing look at her, and now
observed that she had begun to blush violently. At such moments, the
more Aglaya blushed, the angrier she grew with herself; and this was
clearly expressed in her eyes, which flashed like fire. As a rule, she
vented her wrath on her unfortunate companion, be it who it might. She
was very conscious of her own shyness, and was not nearly so talkative
as her sisters for this reason—in fact, at times she was much too
quiet. When, therefore, she was bound to talk, especially at such
delicate moments as this, she invariably did so with an air of haughty
defiance. She always knew beforehand when she was going to blush, long
before the blush came.
“Perhaps you do not wish to accept my proposition?” she asked, gazing
haughtily at the prince.
“Oh yes, I do; but it is so unnecessary. I mean, I did not think you
need make such a proposition,” said the prince, looking confused.
“What did you suppose, then? Why did you think I invited you out here?
I suppose you think me a ‘little fool,’ as they all call me at home?”
“I didn’t know they called you a fool. I certainly don’t think you
one.”
“You don’t think me one! Oh, dear me!—that’s very clever of you; you
put it so neatly, too.”
“In my opinion, you are far from a fool sometimes—in fact, you are very
intelligent. You said a very clever thing just now about my being
unjust because I had _only_ justice. I shall remember that, and think
about it.”
Aglaya blushed with pleasure. All these changes in her expression came
about so naturally and so rapidly—they delighted the prince; he watched
her, and laughed.
“Listen,” she began again; “I have long waited to tell you all this,
ever since the time when you sent me that letter—even before that. Half
of what I have to say you heard yesterday. I consider you the most
honest and upright of men—more honest and upright than any other man;
and if anybody says that your mind is—is sometimes affected, you
know—it is unfair. I always say so and uphold it, because even if your
surface mind be a little affected (of course you will not feel angry
with me for talking so—I am speaking from a higher point of view) yet
your real mind is far better than all theirs put together. Such a mind
as they have never even _dreamed_ of; because really, there are _two_
minds—the kind that matters, and the kind that doesn’t matter. Isn’t it
so?”
“May be! may be so!” said the prince, faintly; his heart was beating
painfully.
“I knew you would not misunderstand me,” she said, triumphantly.
“Prince S. and Evgenie Pavlovitch and Alexandra don’t understand
anything about these two kinds of mind, but, just fancy, mamma does!”
“You are very like Lizabetha Prokofievna.”
“What! surely not?” said Aglaya.
“Yes, you are, indeed.”
“Thank you; I am glad to be like mamma,” she said, thoughtfully. “You
respect her very much, don’t you?” she added, quite unconscious of the
naiveness of the question.
“_Very_ much; and I am so glad that you have realized the fact.”
“I am very glad, too, because she is often laughed at by people. But
listen to the chief point. I have long thought over the matter, and at
last I have chosen you. I don’t wish people to laugh at me; I don’t
wish people to think me a ‘little fool.’ I don’t want to be chaffed. I
felt all this of a sudden, and I refused Evgenie Pavlovitch flatly,
because I am not going to be forever thrown at people’s heads to be
married. I want—I want—well, I’ll tell you, I wish to run away from
home, and I have chosen you to help me.”
“Run away from home?” cried the prince.
“Yes—yes—yes! Run away from home!” she repeated, in a transport of
rage. “I won’t, I won’t be made to blush every minute by them all! I
don’t want to blush before Prince S. or Evgenie Pavlovitch, or anyone,
and therefore I have chosen you. I shall tell you everything,
_everything_, even the most important things of all, whenever I like,
and you are to hide nothing from me on your side. I want to speak to at
least one person, as I would to myself. They have suddenly begun to say
that I am waiting for you, and in love with you. They began this before
you arrived here, and so I didn’t show them the letter, and now they
all say it, every one of them. I want to be brave, and be afraid of
nobody. I don’t want to go to their balls and things—I want to do good.
I have long desired to run away, for I have been kept shut up for
twenty years, and they are always trying to marry me off. I wanted to
run away when I was fourteen years old—I was a little fool then, I
know—but now I have worked it all out, and I have waited for you to
tell me about foreign countries. I have never seen a single Gothic
cathedral. I must go to Rome; I must see all the museums; I must study
in Paris. All this last year I have been preparing and reading
forbidden books. Alexandra and Adelaida are allowed to read anything
they like, but I mayn’t. I don’t want to quarrel with my sisters, but I
told my parents long ago that I wish to change my social position. I
have decided to take up teaching, and I count on you because you said
you loved children. Can we go in for education together—if not at once,
then afterwards? We could do good together. I won’t be a general’s
daughter any more! Tell me, are you a very learned man?”
“Oh no; not at all.”
“Oh-h-h! I’m sorry for that. I thought you were. I wonder why I always
thought so—but at all events you’ll help me, won’t you? Because I’ve
chosen you, you know.”
“Aglaya Ivanovna, it’s absurd.”
“But I will, I _will_ run away!” she cried—and her eyes flashed again
with anger—“and if you don’t agree I shall go and marry Gavrila
Ardalionovitch! I won’t be considered a horrible girl, and accused of
goodness knows what.”
“Are you out of your mind?” cried the prince, almost starting from his
seat. “What do they accuse you of? Who accuses you?”
“At home, everybody, mother, my sisters, Prince S., even that
detestable Colia! If they don’t say it, they think it. I told them all
so to their faces. I told mother and father and everybody. Mamma was
ill all the day after it, and next day father and Alexandra told me
that I didn’t understand what nonsense I was talking. I informed them
that they little knew me—I was not a small child—I understood every
word in the language—that I had read a couple of Paul de Kok’s novels
two years since on purpose, so as to know all about everything. No
sooner did mamma hear me say this than she nearly fainted!”
A strange thought passed through the prince’s brain; he gazed intently
at Aglaya and smiled.
He could not believe that this was the same haughty young girl who had
once so proudly shown him Gania’s letter. He could not understand how
that proud and austere beauty could show herself to be such an utter
child—a child who probably did not even now understand some words.
“Have you always lived at home, Aglaya Ivanovna?” he asked. “I mean,
have you never been to school, or college, or anything?”
“No—never—nowhere! I’ve been at home all my life, corked up in a
bottle; and they expect me to be married straight out of it. What are
you laughing at again? I observe that you, too, have taken to laughing
at me, and range yourself on their side against me,” she added,
frowning angrily. “Don’t irritate me—I’m bad enough without that—I
don’t know what I am doing sometimes. I am persuaded that you came here
today in the full belief that I am in love with you, and that I
arranged this meeting because of that,” she cried, with annoyance.
“I admit I was afraid that that was the case, yesterday,” blundered the
prince (he was rather confused), “but today I am quite convinced that—”
“How?” cried Aglaya—and her lower lip trembled violently. “You were
_afraid_ that I—you dared to think that I—good gracious! you suspected,
perhaps, that I sent for you to come here in order to catch you in a
trap, so that they should find us here together, and make you marry
me—”
“Aglaya Ivanovna, aren’t you ashamed of saying such a thing? How could
such a horrible idea enter your sweet, innocent heart? I am certain you
don’t believe a word of what you say, and probably you don’t even know
what you are talking about.”
Aglaya sat with her eyes on the ground; she seemed to have alarmed even
herself by what she had said.
“No, I’m not; I’m not a bit ashamed!” she murmured. “And how do you
know my heart is innocent? And how dared you send me a love-letter that
time?”
“_Love-letter?_ My letter a love-letter? That letter was the most
respectful of letters; it went straight from my heart, at what was
perhaps the most painful moment of my life! I thought of you at the
time as a kind of light. I—”
“Well, very well, very well!” she said, but quite in a different tone.
She was remorseful now, and bent forward to touch his shoulder, though
still trying not to look him in the face, as if the more persuasively
to beg him not to be angry with her. “Very well,” she continued,
looking thoroughly ashamed of herself, “I feel that I said a very
foolish thing. I only did it just to try you. Take it as unsaid, and if
I offended you, forgive me. Don’t look straight at me like that,
please; turn your head away. You called it a ‘horrible idea’; I only
said it to shock you. Very often I am myself afraid of saying what I
intend to say, and out it comes all the same. You have just told me
that you wrote that letter at the most painful moment of your life. I
know what moment that was!” she added softly, looking at the ground
again.
“Oh, if you could know all!”
“I _do_ know all!” she cried, with another burst of indignation. “You
were living in the same house as that horrible woman with whom you ran
away.” She did not blush as she said this; on the contrary, she grew
pale, and started from her seat, apparently oblivious of what she did,
and immediately sat down again. Her lip continued to tremble for a long
time.
There was silence for a moment. The prince was taken aback by the
suddenness of this last reply, and did not know to what he should
attribute it.
“I don’t love you a bit!” she said suddenly, just as though the words
had exploded from her mouth.
The prince did not answer, and there was silence again. “I love Gavrila
Ardalionovitch,” she said, quickly; but hardly audibly, and with her
head bent lower than ever.
“That is _not_ true,” said the prince, in an equally low voice.
“What! I tell stories, do I? It is true! I gave him my promise a couple
of days ago on this very seat.”
The prince was startled, and reflected for a moment.
“It is not true,” he repeated, decidedly; “you have just invented it!”
“You are wonderfully polite. You know he is greatly improved. He loves
me better than his life. He let his hand burn before my very eyes in
order to prove to me that he loved me better than his life!”
“He burned his hand!”
“Yes, believe it or not! It’s all the same to me!”
The prince sat silent once more. Aglaya did not seem to be joking; she
was too angry for that.
“What! he brought a candle with him to this place? That is, if the
episode happened here; otherwise I can’t.”
“Yes, a candle! What’s there improbable about that?”
“A whole one, and in a candlestick?”
“Yes—no—half a candle—an end, you know—no, it was a whole candle; it’s
all the same. Be quiet, can’t you! He brought a box of matches too, if
you like, and then lighted the candle and held his finger in it for
half an hour and more!—There! Can’t that be?”
“I saw him yesterday, and his fingers were all right!”
Aglaya suddenly burst out laughing, as simply as a child.
“Do you know why I have just told you these lies?” She appealed to the
prince, of a sudden, with the most childlike candour, and with the
laugh still trembling on her lips. “Because when one tells a lie, if
one insists on something unusual and eccentric—something too ‘out of
the way’ for anything, you know—the more impossible the thing is, the
more plausible does the lie sound. I’ve noticed this. But I managed it
badly; I didn’t know how to work it.” She suddenly frowned again at
this point as though at some sudden unpleasant recollection.
“If”—she began, looking seriously and even sadly at him—“if when I read
you all that about the ‘poor knight,’ I wished to-to praise you for one
thing—I also wished to show you that I knew all—and did not approve of
your conduct.”
“You are very unfair to me, and to that unfortunate woman of whom you
spoke just now in such dreadful terms, Aglaya.”
“Because I know all, all—and that is why I speak so. I know very well
how you—half a year since—offered her your hand before everybody. Don’t
interrupt me. You see, I am merely stating facts without any comment
upon them. After that she ran away with Rogojin. Then you lived with
her at some village or town, and she ran away from you.” (Aglaya
blushed dreadfully.) “Then she returned to Rogojin again, who loves her
like a madman. Then you—like a wise man as you are—came back here after
her as soon as ever you heard that she had returned to Petersburg.
Yesterday evening you sprang forward to protect her, and just now you
dreamed about her. You see, I know all. You did come back here for her,
for her—now didn’t you?”
“Yes—for her!” said the prince softly and sadly, and bending his head
down, quite unconscious of the fact that Aglaya was gazing at him with
eyes which burned like live coals. “I came to find out something—I
don’t believe in her future happiness as Rogojin’s wife, although—in a
word, I did not know how to help her or what to do for her—but I came,
on the chance.”
He glanced at Aglaya, who was listening with a look of hatred on her
face.
“If you came without knowing why, I suppose you love her very much
indeed!” she said at last.
“No,” said the prince, “no, I do not love her. Oh! if you only knew
with what horror I recall the time I spent with her!”
A shudder seemed to sweep over his whole body at the recollection.
“Tell me about it,” said Aglaya.
“There is nothing which you might not hear. Why I should wish to tell
you, and only you, this experience of mine, I really cannot say;
perhaps it really is because I love you very much. This unhappy woman
is persuaded that she is the most hopeless, fallen creature in the
world. Oh, do not condemn her! Do not cast stones at her! She has
suffered too much already in the consciousness of her own undeserved
shame.
“And she is not guilty—oh God!—Every moment she bemoans and bewails
herself, and cries out that she does not admit any guilt, that she is
the victim of circumstances—the victim of a wicked libertine.
“But whatever she may say, remember that she does not believe it
herself,—remember that she will believe nothing but that she is a
guilty creature.
“When I tried to rid her soul of this gloomy fallacy, she suffered so
terribly that my heart will never be quite at peace so long as I can
remember that dreadful time!—Do you know why she left me? Simply to
prove to me what is not true—that she is base. But the worst of it is,
she did not realize herself that that was all she wanted to prove by
her departure! She went away in response to some inner prompting to do
something disgraceful, in order that she might say to
herself—‘There—you’ve done a new act of shame—you degraded creature!’
“Oh, Aglaya—perhaps you cannot understand all this. Try to realize that
in the perpetual admission of guilt she probably finds some dreadful
unnatural satisfaction—as though she were revenging herself upon
someone.
“Now and then I was able to persuade her almost to see light around her
again; but she would soon fall, once more, into her old tormenting
delusions, and would go so far as to reproach me for placing myself on
a pedestal above her (I never had an idea of such a thing!), and
informed me, in reply to my proposal of marriage, that she ‘did not
want condescending sympathy or help from anybody.’ You saw her last
night. You don’t suppose she can be happy among such people as
those—you cannot suppose that such society is fit for her? You have no
idea how well-educated she is, and what an intellect she has! She
astonished me sometimes.”
“And you preached her sermons there, did you?”
“Oh no,” continued the prince thoughtfully, not noticing Aglaya’s
mocking tone, “I was almost always silent there. I often wished to
speak, but I really did not know what to say. In some cases it is best
to say nothing, I think. I loved her, yes, I loved her very much
indeed; but afterwards—afterwards she guessed all.”
“What did she guess?”
“That I only _pitied_ her—and—and loved her no longer!”
“How do you know that? How do you know that she is not really in love
with that—that rich cad—the man she eloped with?”
“Oh no! I know she only laughs at him; she has made a fool of him all
along.”
“Has she never laughed at you?”
“No—in anger, perhaps. Oh yes! she reproached me dreadfully in anger;
and suffered herself, too! But afterwards—oh! don’t remind me—don’t
remind me of that!”
He hid his face in his hands.
“Are you aware that she writes to me almost every day?”
“So that is true, is it?” cried the prince, greatly agitated. “I had
heard a report of it, but would not believe it.”
“Whom did you hear it from?” asked Aglaya, alarmed. “Rogojin said
something about it yesterday, but nothing definite.”
“Yesterday! Morning or evening? Before the music or after?”
“After—it was about twelve o’clock.”
“Ah! Well, if it was Rogojin—but do you know what she writes to me
about?”
“I should not be surprised by anything. She is mad!”
“There are the letters.” (Aglaya took three letters out of her pocket
and threw them down before the prince.) “For a whole week she has been
entreating and worrying and persuading me to marry you. She—well, she
is clever, though she may be mad—much cleverer than I am, as you say.
Well, she writes that she is in love with me herself, and tries to see
me every day, if only from a distance. She writes that you love me, and
that she has long known it and seen it, and that you and she talked
about me—there. She wishes to see you happy, and she says that she is
certain only I can ensure you the happiness you deserve. She writes
such strange, wild letters—I haven’t shown them to anyone. Now, do you
know what all this means? Can you guess anything?”
“It is madness—it is merely another proof of her insanity!” said the
prince, and his lips trembled.
“You are crying, aren’t you?”
“No, Aglaya. No, I’m not crying.” The prince looked at her.
“Well, what am I to do? What do you advise me? I cannot go on receiving
these letters, you know.”
“Oh, let her alone, I entreat you!” cried the prince. “What can you do
in this dark, gloomy mystery? Let her alone, and I’ll use all my power
to prevent her writing you any more letters.”
“If so, you are a heartless man!” cried Aglaya. “As if you can’t see
that it is not myself she loves, but you, you, and only you! Surely you
have not remarked everything else in her, and only not _this?_ Do you
know what these letters mean? They mean jealousy, sir—nothing but pure
jealousy! She—do you think she will ever really marry this Rogojin, as
she says here she will? She would take her own life the day after you
and I were married.”
The prince shuddered; his heart seemed to freeze within him. He gazed
at Aglaya in wonderment; it was difficult for him to realize that this
child was also a woman.
“God knows, Aglaya, that to restore her peace of mind and make her
happy I would willingly give up my life. But I cannot love her, and she
knows that.”
“Oh, make a sacrifice of yourself! That sort of thing becomes you well,
you know. Why not do it? And don’t call me ‘Aglaya’; you have done it
several times lately. You are bound, it is your _duty_ to ‘raise’ her;
you must go off somewhere again to soothe and pacify her. Why, you love
her, you know!”
“I cannot sacrifice myself so, though I admit I did wish to do so once.
Who knows, perhaps I still wish to! But I know for _certain_, that if
she married me it would be her ruin; I know this and therefore I leave
her alone. I ought to go to see her today; now I shall probably not go.
She is proud, she would never forgive me the nature of the love I bear
her, and we should both be ruined. This may be unnatural, I don’t know;
but everything seems unnatural. You say she loves me, as if this were
_love!_ As if she could love _me_, after what I have been through! No,
no, it is not love.”
“How pale you have grown!” cried Aglaya in alarm.
“Oh, it’s nothing. I haven’t slept, that’s all, and I’m rather tired.
I—we certainly did talk about you, Aglaya.”
“Oh, indeed, it is true then! _You could actually talk about me with
her_; and—and how could you have been fond of me when you had only seen
me once?”
“I don’t know. Perhaps it was that I seemed to come upon light in the
midst of my gloom. I told you the truth when I said I did not know why
I thought of you before all others. Of course it was all a sort of
dream, a dream amidst the horrors of reality. Afterwards I began to
work. I did not intend to come back here for two or three years—”
“Then you came for her sake?” Aglaya’s voice trembled.
“Yes, I came for her sake.”
There was a moment or two of gloomy silence. Aglaya rose from her seat.
“If you say,” she began in shaky tones, “if you say that this woman of
yours is mad—at all events I have nothing to do with her insane
fancies. Kindly take these three letters, Lef Nicolaievitch, and throw
them back to her, from me. And if she dares,” cried Aglaya suddenly,
much louder than before, “if she dares so much as write me one word
again, tell her I shall tell my father, and that she shall be taken to
a lunatic asylum.”
The prince jumped up in alarm at Aglaya’s sudden wrath, and a mist
seemed to come before his eyes.
“You cannot really feel like that! You don’t mean what you say. It is
not true,” he murmured.
“It _is_ true, it _is_ true,” cried Aglaya, almost beside herself with
rage.
“What’s true? What’s all this? What’s true?” said an alarmed voice just
beside them.
Before them stood Lizabetha Prokofievna.
“Why, it’s true that I am going to marry Gavrila Ardalionovitch, that I
love him and intend to elope with him tomorrow,” cried Aglaya, turning
upon her mother. “Do you hear? Is your curiosity satisfied? Are you
pleased with what you have heard?”
Aglaya rushed away homewards with these words.
“H’m! well, _you_ are not going away just yet, my friend, at all
events,” said Lizabetha, stopping the prince. “Kindly step home with
me, and let me have a little explanation of the mystery. Nice goings
on, these! I haven’t slept a wink all night as it is.”
The prince followed her.
IX.
Arrived at her house, Lizabetha Prokofievna paused in the first room.
She could go no farther, and subsided on to a couch quite exhausted;
too feeble to remember so much as to ask the prince to take a seat.
This was a large reception-room, full of flowers, and with a glass door
leading into the garden.
Alexandra and Adelaida came in almost immediately, and looked
inquiringly at the prince and their mother.
The girls generally rose at about nine in the morning in the country;
Aglaya, of late, had been in the habit of getting up rather earlier and
having a walk in the garden, but not at seven o’clock; about eight or a
little later was her usual time.
Lizabetha Prokofievna, who really had not slept all night, rose at
about eight on purpose to meet Aglaya in the garden and walk with her;
but she could not find her either in the garden or in her own room.
This agitated the old lady considerably; and she awoke her other
daughters. Next, she learned from the maid that Aglaya had gone into
the park before seven o’clock. The sisters made a joke of Aglaya’s last
freak, and told their mother that if she went into the park to look for
her, Aglaya would probably be very angry with her, and that she was
pretty sure to be sitting reading on the green bench that she had
talked of two or three days since, and about which she had nearly
quarrelled with Prince S., who did not see anything particularly lovely
in it.
Arrived at the rendezvous of the prince and her daughter, and hearing
the strange words of the latter, Lizabetha Prokofievna had been
dreadfully alarmed, for many reasons. However, now that she had dragged
the prince home with her, she began to feel a little frightened at what
she had undertaken. Why should not Aglaya meet the prince in the park
and have a talk with him, even if such a meeting should be by
appointment?
“Don’t suppose, prince,” she began, bracing herself up for the effort,
“don’t suppose that I have brought you here to ask questions. After
last night, I assure you, I am not so exceedingly anxious to see you at
all; I could have postponed the pleasure for a long while.” She paused.
“But at the same time you would be very glad to know how I happened to
meet Aglaya Ivanovna this morning?” The prince finished her speech for
her with the utmost composure.
“Well, what then? Supposing I should like to know?” cried Lizabetha
Prokofievna, blushing. “I’m sure I am not afraid of plain speaking. I’m
not offending anyone, and I never wish to, and—”
“Pardon me, it is no offence to wish to know this; you are her mother.
We met at the green bench this morning, punctually at seven
o’clock,—according to an agreement made by Aglaya Ivanovna with myself
yesterday. She said that she wished to see me and speak to me about
something important. We met and conversed for an hour about matters
concerning Aglaya Ivanovna herself, and that’s all.”
“Of course it is all, my friend. I don’t doubt you for a moment,” said
Lizabetha Prokofievna with dignity.
“Well done, prince, capital!” cried Aglaya, who entered the room at
this moment. “Thank you for assuming that I would not demean myself
with lies. Come, is that enough, mamma, or do you intend to put any
more questions?”
“You know I have never needed to blush before you, up to this day,
though perhaps you would have been glad enough to make me,” said
Lizabetha Prokofievna,—with majesty. “Good-bye, prince; forgive me for
bothering you. I trust you will rest assured of my unalterable esteem
for you.”
The prince made his bows and retired at once. Alexandra and Adelaida
smiled and whispered to each other, while Lizabetha Prokofievna glared
severely at them. “We are only laughing at the prince’s beautiful bows,
mamma,” said Adelaida. “Sometimes he bows just like a meal-sack, but
to-day he was like—like Evgenie Pavlovitch!”
“It is the _heart_ which is the best teacher of refinement and dignity,
not the dancing-master,” said her mother, sententiously, and departed
upstairs to her own room, not so much as glancing at Aglaya.
When the prince reached home, about nine o’clock, he found Vera
Lebedeff and the maid on the verandah. They were both busy trying to
tidy up the place after last night’s disorderly party.
“Thank goodness, we’ve just managed to finish it before you came in!”
said Vera, joyfully.
“Good-morning! My head whirls so; I didn’t sleep all night. I should
like to have a nap now.”
“Here, on the verandah? Very well, I’ll tell them all not to come and
wake you. Papa has gone out somewhere.”
The servant left the room. Vera was about to follow her, but returned
and approached the prince with a preoccupied air.
“Prince!” she said, “have pity on that poor boy; don’t turn him out
today.”
“Not for the world; he shall do just as he likes.”
“He won’t do any harm now; and—and don’t be too severe with him.”
“Oh dear no! Why—”
“And—and you won’t _laugh_ at him? That’s the chief thing.”
“Oh no! Never.”
“How foolish I am to speak of such things to a man like you,” said
Vera, blushing. “Though you _do_ look tired,” she added, half turning
away, “your eyes are so splendid at this moment—so full of happiness.”
“Really?” asked the prince, gleefully, and he laughed in delight.
But Vera, simple-minded little girl that she was (just like a boy, in
fact), here became dreadfully confused, of a sudden, and ran hastily
out of the room, laughing and blushing.
“What a dear little thing she is,” thought the prince, and immediately
forgot all about her.
He walked to the far end of the verandah, where the sofa stood, with a
table in front of it. Here he sat down and covered his face with his
hands, and so remained for ten minutes. Suddenly he put his hand in his
coat-pocket and hurriedly produced three letters.
But the door opened again, and out came Colia.
The prince actually felt glad that he had been interrupted,—and might
return the letters to his pocket. He was glad of the respite.
“Well,” said Colia, plunging _in medias res_, as he always did, “here’s
a go! What do you think of Hippolyte now? Don’t respect him any longer,
eh?”
“Why not? But look here, Colia, I’m tired; besides, the subject is too
melancholy to begin upon again. How is he, though?”
“Asleep—he’ll sleep for a couple of hours yet. I quite understand—you
haven’t slept—you walked about the park, I know.
Agitation—excitement—all that sort of thing—quite natural, too!”
“How do you know I walked in the park and didn’t sleep at home?”
“Vera just told me. She tried to persuade me not to come, but I
couldn’t help myself, just for one minute. I have been having my turn
at the bedside for the last two hours; Kostia Lebedeff is there now.
Burdovsky has gone. Now, lie down, prince, make yourself comfortable,
and sleep well! I’m awfully impressed, you know.”
“Naturally, all this—”
“No, no, I mean with the ‘explanation,’ especially that part of it
where he talks about Providence and a future life. There is a gigantic
thought there.”
The prince gazed affectionately at Colia, who, of course, had come in
solely for the purpose of talking about this “gigantic thought.”
“But it is not any one particular thought, only; it is the general
circumstances of the case. If Voltaire had written this now, or
Rousseau, I should have just read it and thought it remarkable, but
should not have been so _impressed_ by it. But a man who knows for
certain that he has but ten minutes to live and can talk like
that—why—it’s—it’s _pride_, that is! It is really a most extraordinary,
exalted assertion of personal dignity, it’s—it’s _defiant!_ What a
_gigantic_ strength of will, eh? And to accuse a fellow like that of
not putting in the cap on purpose; it’s base and mean! You know he
deceived us last night, the cunning rascal. I never packed his bag for
him, and I never saw his pistol. He packed it himself. But he put me
off my guard like that, you see. Vera says you are going to let him
stay on; I swear there’s no danger, especially as we are always with
him.”
“Who was by him at night?”
“I, and Burdovsky, and Kostia Lebedeff. Keller stayed a little while,
and then went over to Lebedeff’s to sleep. Ferdishenko slept at
Lebedeff’s, too; but he went away at seven o’clock. My father is always
at Lebedeff’s; but he has gone out just now. I dare say Lebedeff will
be coming in here directly; he has been looking for you; I don’t know
what he wants. Shall we let him in or not, if you are asleep? I’m going
to have a nap, too. By-the-by, such a curious thing happened. Burdovsky
woke me at seven, and I met my father just outside the room, so drunk,
he didn’t even know me. He stood before me like a log, and when he
recovered himself, asked hurriedly how Hippolyte was. ‘Yes,’ he said,
when I told him, ‘that’s all very well, but I _really_ came to warn you
that you must be very careful what you say before Ferdishenko.’ Do you
follow me, prince?”
“Yes. Is it really so? However, it’s all the same to us, of course.”
“Of course it is; we are not a secret society; and that being the case,
it is all the more curious that the general should have been on his way
to wake me up in order to tell me this.”
“Ferdishenko has gone, you say?”
“Yes, he went at seven o’clock. He came into the room on his way out; I
was watching just then. He said he was going to spend ‘the rest of the
night’ at Wilkin’s; there’s a tipsy fellow, a friend of his, of that
name. Well, I’m off. Oh, here’s Lebedeff himself! The prince wants to
go to sleep, Lukian Timofeyovitch, so you may just go away again.”
“One moment, my dear prince, just one. I must absolutely speak to you
about something which is most grave,” said Lebedeff, mysteriously and
solemnly, entering the room with a bow and looking extremely important.
He had but just returned, and carried his hat in his hand. He looked
preoccupied and most unusually dignified.
The prince begged him to take a chair.
“I hear you have called twice; I suppose you are still worried about
yesterday’s affair.”
“What, about that boy, you mean? Oh dear no, yesterday my ideas were a
little—well—mixed. Today, I assure you, I shall not oppose in the
slightest degree any suggestions it may please you to make.”
“What’s up with you this morning, Lebedeff? You look so important and
dignified, and you choose your words so carefully,” said the prince,
smiling.
“Nicolai Ardalionovitch!” said Lebedeff, in a most amiable tone of
voice, addressing the boy. “As I have a communication to make to the
prince which concerns only myself—”
“Of course, of course, not my affair. All right,” said Colia, and away
he went.
“I love that boy for his perception,” said Lebedeff, looking after him.
“My dear prince,” he continued, “I have had a terrible misfortune,
either last night or early this morning. I cannot tell the exact time.”
“What is it?”
“I have lost four hundred roubles out of my side pocket! They’re gone!”
said Lebedeff, with a sour smile.
“You’ve lost four hundred roubles? Oh! I’m sorry for that.”
“Yes, it is serious for a poor man who lives by his toil.”
“Of course, of course! How was it?”
“Oh, the wine is to blame, of course. I confess to you, prince, as I
would to Providence itself. Yesterday I received four hundred roubles
from a debtor at about five in the afternoon, and came down here by
train. I had my purse in my pocket. When I changed, I put the money
into the pocket of my plain clothes, intending to keep it by me, as I
expected to have an applicant for it in the evening.”
“It’s true then, Lebedeff, that you advertise to lend money on gold or
silver articles?”
“Yes, through an agent. My own name doesn’t appear. I have a large
family, you see, and at a small percentage—”
“Quite so, quite so. I only asked for information—excuse the question.
Go on.”
“Well, meanwhile that sick boy was brought here, and those guests came
in, and we had tea, and—well, we made merry—to my ruin! Hearing of your
birthday afterwards, and excited with the circumstances of the evening,
I ran upstairs and changed my plain clothes once more for my uniform
[Civil Service clerks in Russia wear uniform.]—you must have noticed I
had my uniform on all the evening? Well, I forgot the money in the
pocket of my old coat—you know when God will ruin a man he first of all
bereaves him of his senses—and it was only this morning at half-past
seven that I woke up and grabbed at my coat pocket, first thing. The
pocket was empty—the purse gone, and not a trace to be found!”
“Dear me! This is very unpleasant!”
“Unpleasant! Indeed it is. You have found a very appropriate
expression,” said Lebedeff, politely, but with sarcasm.
“But what’s to be done? It’s a serious matter,” said the prince,
thoughtfully. “Don’t you think you may have dropped it out of your
pocket whilst intoxicated?”
“Certainly. Anything is possible when one is intoxicated, as you neatly
express it, prince. But consider—if I, intoxicated or not, dropped an
object out of my pocket on to the ground, that object ought to remain
on the ground. Where is the object, then?”
“Didn’t you put it away in some drawer, perhaps?”
“I’ve looked everywhere, and turned out everything.”
“I confess this disturbs me a good deal. Someone must have picked it
up, then.”
“Or taken it out of my pocket—two alternatives.”
“It is very distressing, because _who_—? That’s the question!”
“Most undoubtedly, excellent prince, you have hit it—that is the very
question. How wonderfully you express the exact situation in a few
words!”
“Come, come, Lebedeff, no sarcasm! It’s a serious—”
“Sarcasm!” cried Lebedeff, wringing his hands. “All right, all right,
I’m not angry. I’m only put out about this. Whom do you suspect?”
“That is a very difficult and complicated question. I cannot suspect
the servant, for she was in the kitchen the whole evening, nor do I
suspect any of my children.”
“I should think not. Go on.”
“Then it must be one of the guests.”
“Is such a thing possible?”
“Absolutely and utterly impossible—and yet, so it must be. But one
thing I am sure of, if it be a theft, it was committed, not in the
evening when we were all together, but either at night or early in the
morning; therefore, by one of those who slept here. Burdovsky and Colia
I except, of course. They did not even come into my room.”
“Yes, or even if they had! But who did sleep with you?”
“Four of us, including myself, in two rooms. The general, myself,
Keller, and Ferdishenko. One of us four it must have been. I don’t
suspect myself, though such cases have been known.”
“Oh! _do_ go on, Lebedeff! Don’t drag it out so.”
“Well, there are three left, then—Keller firstly. He is a drunkard to
begin with, and a liberal (in the sense of other people’s pockets),
otherwise with more of the ancient knight about him than of the modern
liberal. He was with the sick man at first, but came over afterwards
because there was no place to lie down in the room and the floor was so
hard.”
“You suspect him?”
“I _did_ suspect him. When I woke up at half-past seven and tore my
hair in despair for my loss and carelessness, I awoke the general, who
was sleeping the sleep of innocence near me. Taking into consideration
the sudden disappearance of Ferdishenko, which was suspicious in
itself, we decided to search Keller, who was lying there sleeping like
a top. Well, we searched his clothes thoroughly, and not a farthing did
we find; in fact, his pockets all had holes in them. We found a dirty
handkerchief, and a love-letter from some scullery-maid. The general
decided that he was innocent. We awoke him for further inquiries, and
had the greatest difficulty in making him understand what was up. He
opened his mouth and stared—he looked so stupid and so absurdly
innocent. It wasn’t Keller.”
“Oh, I’m so glad!” said the prince, joyfully. “I was so afraid.”
“Afraid! Then you had some grounds for supposing he might be the
culprit?” said Lebedeff, frowning.
“Oh no—not a bit! It was foolish of me to say I was afraid! Don’t
repeat it please, Lebedeff, don’t tell anyone I said that!”
“My dear prince! your words lie in the lowest depth of my heart—it is
their tomb!” said Lebedeff, solemnly, pressing his hat to the region of
his heart.
“Thanks; very well. Then I suppose it’s Ferdishenko; that is, I mean,
you suspect Ferdishenko?”
“Whom else?” said Lebedeff, softly, gazing intently into the prince s
face.
“Of course—quite so, whom else? But what are the proofs?”
“We have evidence. In the first place, his mysterious disappearance at
seven o’clock, or even earlier.”
“I know, Colia told me that he had said he was off to—I forget the
name, some friend of his, to finish the night.”
“H’m! then Colia has spoken to you already?”
“Not about the theft.”
“He does not know of it; I have kept it a secret. Very well,
Ferdishenko went off to Wilkin’s. That is not so curious in itself, but
here the evidence opens out further. He left his address, you see, when
he went. Now prince, consider, why did he leave his address? Why do you
suppose he went out of his way to tell Colia that he had gone to
Wilkin’s? Who cared to know that he was going to Wilkin’s? No, no!
prince, this is finesse, thieves’ finesse! This is as good as saying,
‘There, how can I be a thief when I leave my address? I’m not
concealing my movements as a thief would.’ Do you understand, prince?”
“Oh yes, but that is not enough.”
“Second proof. The scent turns out to be false, and the address given
is a sham. An hour after—that is at about eight, I went to Wilkin’s
myself, and there was no trace of Ferdishenko. The maid did tell me,
certainly, that an hour or so since someone had been hammering at the
door, and had smashed the bell; she said she would not open the door
because she didn’t want to wake her master; probably she was too lazy
to get up herself. Such phenomena are met with occasionally!”
“But is that all your evidence? It is not enough!”
“Well, prince, whom are we to suspect, then? Consider!” said Lebedeff
with almost servile amiability, smiling at the prince. There was a look
of cunning in his eyes, however.
“You should search your room and all the cupboards again,” said the
prince, after a moment or two of silent reflection.
“But I have done so, my dear prince!” said Lebedeff, more sweetly than
ever.
“H’m! why must you needs go up and change your coat like that?” asked
the prince, banging the table with his fist, in annoyance.
“Oh, don’t be so worried on my account, prince! I assure you I am not
worth it! At least, not I alone. But I see you are suffering on behalf
of the criminal too, for wretched Ferdishenko, in fact!”
“Of course you have given me a disagreeable enough thing to think
about,” said the prince, irritably, “but what are you going to do,
since you are so sure it was Ferdishenko?”
“But who else _could_ it be, my very dear prince?” repeated Lebedeff,
as sweet as sugar again. “If you don’t wish me to suspect Mr.
Burdovsky?”
“Of course not.”
“Nor the general? Ha, ha, ha!”
“Nonsense!” said the prince, angrily, turning round upon him.
“Quite so, nonsense! Ha, ha, ha! dear me! He did amuse me, did the
general! We went off on the hot scent to Wilkin’s together, you know;
but I must first observe that the general was even more thunderstruck
than I myself this morning, when I awoke him after discovering the
theft; so much so that his very face changed—he grew red and then pale,
and at length flew into a paroxysm of such noble wrath that I assure
you I was quite surprised! He is a most generous-hearted man! He tells
lies by the thousands, I know, but it is merely a weakness; he is a man
of the highest feelings; a simple-minded man too, and a man who carries
the conviction of innocence in his very appearance. I love that man,
sir; I may have told you so before; it is a weakness of mine. Well—he
suddenly stopped in the middle of the road, opened out his coat and
bared his breast. ‘Search me,’ he says, ‘you searched Keller; why don’t
you search me too? It is only fair!’ says he. And all the while his
legs and hands were trembling with anger, and he as white as a sheet
all over! So I said to him, ‘Nonsense, general; if anybody but yourself
had said that to me, I’d have taken my head, my own head, and put it on
a large dish and carried it round to anyone who suspected you; and I
should have said: “There, you see that head? It’s my head, and I’ll go
bail with that head for him! Yes, and walk through the fire for him,
too.” There,’ says I, ‘that’s how I’d answer for you, general!’ Then he
embraced me, in the middle of the street, and hugged me so tight
(crying over me all the while) that I coughed fit to choke! ‘You are
the one friend left to me amid all my misfortunes,’ says he. Oh, he’s a
man of sentiment, that! He went on to tell me a story of how he had
been accused, or suspected, of stealing five hundred thousand roubles
once, as a young man; and how, the very next day, he had rushed into a
burning, blazing house and saved the very count who suspected him, and
Nina Alexandrovna (who was then a young girl), from a fiery death. The
count embraced him, and that was how he came to marry Nina
Alexandrovna, he said. As for the money, it was found among the ruins
next day in an English iron box with a secret lock; it had got under
the floor somehow, and if it had not been for the fire it would never
have been found! The whole thing is, of course, an absolute
fabrication, though when he spoke of Nina Alexandrovna he wept! She’s a
grand woman, is Nina Alexandrovna, though she is very angry with me!”
“Are you acquainted with her?”
“Well, hardly at all. I wish I were, if only for the sake of justifying
myself in her eyes. Nina Alexandrovna has a grudge against me for, as
she thinks, encouraging her husband in drinking; whereas in reality I
not only do not encourage him, but I actually keep him out of harm’s
way, and out of bad company. Besides, he’s my friend, prince, so that I
shall not lose sight of him, again. Where he goes, I go. He’s quite
given up visiting the captain’s widow, though sometimes he thinks sadly
of her, especially in the morning, when he’s putting on his boots. I
don’t know why it’s at that time. But he has no money, and it’s no use
his going to see her without. Has he borrowed any money from you,
prince?”
“No, he has not.”
“Ah, he’s ashamed to! He _meant_ to ask you, I know, for he said so. I
suppose he thinks that as you gave him some once (you remember), you
would probably refuse if he asked you again.”
“Do you ever give him money?”
“Prince! Money! Why I would give that man not only my money, but my
very life, if he wanted it. Well, perhaps that’s exaggeration; not
life, we’ll say, but some illness, a boil or a bad cough, or anything
of that sort, I would stand with pleasure, for his sake; for I consider
him a great man fallen—money, indeed!”
“H’m, then you _do_ give him money?”
“N-no, I have never given him money, and he knows well that I will
never give him any; because I am anxious to keep him out of intemperate
ways. He is going to town with me now; for you must know I am off to
Petersburg after Ferdishenko, while the scent is hot; I’m certain he is
there. I shall let the general go one way, while I go the other; we
have so arranged matters in order to pop out upon Ferdishenko, you see,
from different sides. But I am going to follow that naughty old general
and catch him, I know where, at a certain widow’s house; for I think it
will be a good lesson, to put him to shame by catching him with the
widow.”
“Oh, Lebedeff, don’t, don’t make any scandal about it!” said the
prince, much agitated, and speaking in a low voice.
“Not for the world, not for the world! I merely wish to make him
ashamed of himself. Oh, prince, great though this misfortune be to
myself, I cannot help thinking of his morals! I have a great favour to
ask of you, esteemed prince; I confess that it is the chief object of
my visit. You know the Ivolgins, you have even lived in their house; so
if you would lend me your help, honoured prince, in the general’s own
interest and for his good.”
Lebedeff clasped his hands in supplication.
“What help do you want from me? You may be certain that I am most
anxious to understand you, Lebedeff.”
“I felt sure of that, or I should not have come to you. We might manage
it with the help of Nina Alexandrovna, so that he might be closely
watched in his own house. Unfortunately I am not on terms...
otherwise... but Nicolai Ardalionovitch, who adores you with all his
youthful soul, might help, too.”
“No, no! Heaven forbid that we should bring Nina Alexandrovna into this
business! Or Colia, either. But perhaps I have not yet quite understood
you, Lebedeff?”
Lebedeff made an impatient movement.
“But there is nothing to understand! Sympathy and tenderness, that is
all—that is all our poor invalid requires! You will permit me to
consider him an invalid?”
“Yes, it shows delicacy and intelligence on your part.”
“I will explain my idea by a practical example, to make it clearer. You
know the sort of man he is. At present his only failing is that he is
crazy about that captain’s widow, and he cannot go to her without
money, and I mean to catch him at her house today—for his own good; but
supposing it was not only the widow, but that he had committed a real
crime, or at least some very dishonourable action (of which he is, of
course, incapable), I repeat that even in that case, if he were treated
with what I may call generous tenderness, one could get at the whole
truth, for he is very soft-hearted! Believe me, he would betray himself
before five days were out; he would burst into tears, and make a clean
breast of the matter; especially if managed with tact, and if you and
his family watched his every step, so to speak. Oh, my dear prince,”
Lebedeff added most emphatically, “I do not positively assert that he
has... I am ready, as the saying is, to shed my last drop of blood for
him this instant; but you will admit that debauchery, drunkenness, and
the captain’s widow, all these together may lead him very far.”
“I am, of course, quite ready to add my efforts to yours in such a
case,” said the prince, rising; “but I confess, Lebedeff, that I am
terribly perplexed. Tell me, do you still think... plainly, you say
yourself that you suspect Mr. Ferdishenko?”
Lebedeff clasped his hands once more.
“Why, who else could I possibly suspect? Who else, most outspoken
prince?” he replied, with an unctuous smile.
Muishkin frowned, and rose from his seat.
“You see, Lebedeff, a mistake here would be a dreadful thing. This
Ferdishenko, I would not say a word against him, of course; but, who
knows? Perhaps it really was he? I mean he really does seem to be a
more likely man than... than any other.”
Lebedeff strained his eyes and ears to take in what the prince was
saying. The latter was frowning more and more, and walking excitedly up
and down, trying not to look at Lebedeff.
“You see,” he said, “I was given to understand that Ferdishenko was
that sort of man,—that one can’t say everything before him. One has to
take care not to say too much, you understand? I say this to prove that
he really is, so to speak, more likely to have done this than anyone
else, eh? You understand? The important thing is, not to make a
mistake.”
“And who told you this about Ferdishenko?”
“Oh, I was told. Of course I don’t altogether believe it. I am very
sorry that I should have had to say this, because I assure you I don’t
believe it myself; it is all nonsense, of course. It was stupid of me
to say anything about it.”
“You see, it is very important, it is most important to know where you
got this report from,” said Lebedeff, excitedly. He had risen from his
seat, and was trying to keep step with the prince, running after him,
up and down. “Because look here, prince, I don’t mind telling you now
that as we were going along to Wilkin’s this morning, after telling me
what you know about the fire, and saving the count and all that, the
general was pleased to drop certain hints to the same effect about
Ferdishenko, but so vaguely and clumsily that I thought better to put a
few questions to him on the matter, with the result that I found the
whole thing was an invention of his excellency’s own mind. Of course,
he only lies with the best intentions; still, he lies. But, such being
the case, where could you have heard the same report? It was the
inspiration of the moment with him, you understand, so who could have
told _you?_ It is an important question, you see!”
“It was Colia told me, and his father told _him_ at about six this
morning. They met at the threshold, when Colia was leaving the room for
something or other.” The prince told Lebedeff all that Colia had made
known to himself, in detail.
“There now, that’s what we may call _scent!_” said Lebedeff, rubbing
his hands and laughing silently. “I thought it must be so, you see. The
general interrupted his innocent slumbers, at six o’clock, in order to
go and wake his beloved son, and warn him of the dreadful danger of
companionship with Ferdishenko. Dear me! what a dreadfully dangerous
man Ferdishenko must be, and what touching paternal solicitude, on the
part of his excellency, ha! ha! ha!”
“Listen, Lebedeff,” began the prince, quite overwhelmed; “_do_ act
quietly—don’t make a scandal, Lebedeff, I ask you—I entreat you! No one
must know—_no one_, mind! In that case only, I will help you.”
“Be assured, most honourable, most worthy of princes—be assured that
the whole matter shall be buried within my heart!” cried Lebedeff, in a
paroxysm of exaltation. “I’d give every drop of my blood... Illustrious
prince, I am a poor wretch in soul and spirit, but ask the veriest
scoundrel whether he would prefer to deal with one like himself, or
with a noble-hearted man like you, and there is no doubt as to his
choice! He’ll answer that he prefers the noble-hearted man—and there
you have the triumph of virtue! _Au revoir_, honoured prince! You and I
together—softly! softly!”
X.
The prince understood at last why he shivered with dread every time he
thought of the three letters in his pocket, and why he had put off
reading them until the evening.
When he fell into a heavy sleep on the sofa on the verandah, without
having had the courage to open a single one of the three envelopes, he
again dreamed a painful dream, and once more that poor, “sinful” woman
appeared to him. Again she gazed at him with tears sparkling on her
long lashes, and beckoned him after her; and again he awoke, as before,
with the picture of her face haunting him.
He longed to get up and go to her at once—but he _could not_. At
length, almost in despair, he unfolded the letters, and began to read
them.
These letters, too, were like a dream. We sometimes have strange,
impossible dreams, contrary to all the laws of nature. When we awake we
remember them and wonder at their strangeness. You remember, perhaps,
that you were in full possession of your reason during this succession
of fantastic images; even that you acted with extraordinary logic and
cunning while surrounded by murderers who hid their intentions and made
great demonstrations of friendship, while waiting for an opportunity to
cut your throat. You remember how you escaped them by some ingenious
stratagem; then you doubted if they were really deceived, or whether
they were only pretending not to know your hiding-place; then you
thought of another plan and hoodwinked them once again. You remember
all this quite clearly, but how is it that your reason calmly accepted
all the manifest absurdities and impossibilities that crowded into your
dream? One of the murderers suddenly changed into a woman before your
very eyes; then the woman was transformed into a hideous, cunning
little dwarf; and you believed it, and accepted it all almost as a
matter of course—while at the same time your intelligence seemed
unusually keen, and accomplished miracles of cunning, sagacity, and
logic! Why is it that when you awake to the world of realities you
nearly always feel, sometimes very vividly, that the vanished dream has
carried with it some enigma which you have failed to solve? You smile
at the extravagance of your dream, and yet you feel that this tissue of
absurdity contained some real idea, something that belongs to your true
life,—something that exists, and has always existed, in your heart. You
search your dream for some prophecy that you were expecting. It has
left a deep impression upon you, joyful or cruel, but what it means, or
what has been predicted to you in it, you can neither understand nor
remember.
The reading of these letters produced some such effect upon the prince.
He felt, before he even opened the envelopes, that the very fact of
their existence was like a nightmare. How could she ever have made up
her mind to write to her? he asked himself. How could she write about
that at all? And how could such a wild idea have entered her head? And
yet, the strangest part of the matter was, that while he read the
letters, he himself almost believed in the possibility, and even in the
justification, of the idea he had thought so wild. Of course it was a
mad dream, a nightmare, and yet there was something cruelly real about
it. For hours he was haunted by what he had read. Several passages
returned again and again to his mind, and as he brooded over them, he
felt inclined to say to himself that he had foreseen and known all that
was written here; it even seemed to him that he had read the whole of
this some time or other, long, long ago; and all that had tormented and
grieved him up to now was to be found in these old, long since read,
letters.
“When you open this letter” (so the first began), “look first at the
signature. The signature will tell you all, so that I need explain
nothing, nor attempt to justify myself. Were I in any way on a footing
with you, you might be offended at my audacity; but who am I, and who
are you? We are at such extremes, and I am so far removed from you,
that I could not offend you if I wished to do so.”
Farther on, in another place, she wrote: “Do not consider my words as
the sickly ecstasies of a diseased mind, but you are, in my
opinion—perfection! I have seen you—I see you every day. I do not judge
you; I have not weighed you in the scales of Reason and found you
Perfection—it is simply an article of faith. But I must confess one sin
against you—I love you. One should not love perfection. One should only
look on it as perfection—yet I am in love with you. Though love
equalizes, do not fear. I have not lowered you to my level, even in my
most secret thoughts. I have written ‘Do not fear,’ as if you could
fear. I would kiss your footprints if I could; but, oh! I am not
putting myself on a level with you!—Look at the signature—quick, look
at the signature!”
“However, observe” (she wrote in another of the letters), “that
although I couple you with him, yet I have not once asked you whether
you love him. He fell in love with you, though he saw you but once. He
spoke of you as of ‘the light.’ These are his own words—I heard him use
them. But I understood without his saying it that you were all that
light is to him. I lived near him for a whole month, and I understood
then that you, too, must love him. I think of you and him as one.”
“What was the matter yesterday?” (she wrote on another sheet). “I
passed by you, and you seemed to me to _blush_. Perhaps it was only my
fancy. If I were to bring you to the most loathsome den, and show you
the revelation of undisguised vice—you should not blush. You can never
feel the sense of personal affront. You may hate all who are mean, or
base, or unworthy—but not for yourself—only for those whom they wrong.
No one can wrong _you_. Do you know, I think you ought to love me—for
you are the same in my eyes as in his—you are as light. An angel cannot
hate, perhaps cannot love, either. I often ask myself—is it possible to
love everybody? Indeed it is not; it is not in nature. Abstract love of
humanity is nearly always love of self. But you are different. You
cannot help loving all, since you can compare with none, and are above
all personal offence or anger. Oh! how bitter it would be to me to know
that you felt anger or shame on my account, for that would be your
fall—you would become comparable at once with such as me.
“Yesterday, after seeing you, I went home and thought out a picture.
“Artists always draw the Saviour as an actor in one of the Gospel
stories. I should do differently. I should represent Christ alone—the
disciples did leave Him alone occasionally. I should paint one little
child left with Him. This child has been playing about near Him, and
had probably just been telling the Saviour something in its pretty baby
prattle. Christ had listened to it, but was now musing—one hand
reposing on the child’s bright head. His eyes have a far-away
expression. Thought, great as the Universe, is in them—His face is sad.
The little one leans its elbow upon Christ’s knee, and with its cheek
resting on its hand, gazes up at Him, pondering as children sometimes
do ponder. The sun is setting. There you have my picture.
“You are innocent—and in your innocence lies all your perfection—oh,
remember that! What is my passion to you?—you are mine now; I shall be
near you all my life—I shall not live long!”
At length, in the last letter of all, he found:
“For Heaven’s sake, don’t misunderstand me! Do not think that I
humiliate myself by writing thus to you, or that I belong to that class
of people who take a satisfaction in humiliating themselves—from pride.
I have my consolation, though it would be difficult to explain it—but I
do not humiliate myself.
“Why do I wish to unite you two? For your sakes or my own? For my own
sake, naturally. All the problems of my life would thus be solved; I
have thought so for a long time. I know that once when your sister
Adelaida saw my portrait she said that such beauty could overthrow the
world. But I have renounced the world. You think it strange that I
should say so, for you saw me decked with lace and diamonds, in the
company of drunkards and wastrels. Take no notice of that; I know that
I have almost ceased to exist. God knows what it is dwelling within me
now—it is not myself. I can see it every day in two dreadful eyes which
are always looking at me, even when not present. These eyes are silent
now, they say nothing; but I know their secret. His house is gloomy,
and there is a secret in it. I am convinced that in some box he has a
razor hidden, tied round with silk, just like the one that Moscow
murderer had. This man also lived with his mother, and had a razor
hidden away, tied round with white silk, and with this razor he
intended to cut a throat.
“All the while I was in their house I felt sure that somewhere beneath
the floor there was hidden away some dreadful corpse, wrapped in
oil-cloth, perhaps buried there by his father, who knows? Just as in
the Moscow case. I could have shown you the very spot!
“He is always silent, but I know well that he loves me so much that he
must hate me. My wedding and yours are to be on the same day; so I have
arranged with him. I have no secrets from him. I would kill him from
very fright, but he will kill me first. He has just burst out laughing,
and says that I am raving. He knows I am writing to you.”
There was much more of this delirious wandering in the letters—one of
them was very long.
At last the prince came out of the dark, gloomy park, in which he had
wandered about for hours just as yesterday. The bright night seemed to
him to be lighter than ever. “It must be quite early,” he thought. (He
had forgotten his watch.) There was a sound of distant music somewhere.
“Ah,” he thought, “the Vauxhall! They won’t be there today, of course!”
At this moment he noticed that he was close to their house; he had felt
that he must gravitate to this spot eventually, and, with a beating
heart, he mounted the verandah steps.
No one met him; the verandah was empty, and nearly pitch dark. He
opened the door into the room, but it, too, was dark and empty. He
stood in the middle of the room in perplexity. Suddenly the door
opened, and in came Alexandra, candle in hand. Seeing the prince she
stopped before him in surprise, looking at him questioningly.
It was clear that she had been merely passing through the room from
door to door, and had not had the remotest notion that she would meet
anyone.
“How did you come here?” she asked, at last.
“I—I—came in—”
“Mamma is not very well, nor is Aglaya. Adelaida has gone to bed, and I
am just going. We were alone the whole evening. Father and Prince S.
have gone to town.”
“I have come to you—now—to—”
“Do you know what time it is?”
“N—no!”
“Half-past twelve. We are always in bed by one.”
“I—I thought it was half-past nine!”
“Never mind!” she laughed, “but why didn’t you come earlier? Perhaps
you were expected!”
“I thought” he stammered, making for the door.
“_Au revoir!_ I shall amuse them all with this story tomorrow!”
He walked along the road towards his own house. His heart was beating,
his thoughts were confused, everything around seemed to be part of a
dream.
And suddenly, just as twice already he had awaked from sleep with the
same vision, that very apparition now seemed to rise up before him. The
woman appeared to step out from the park, and stand in the path in
front of him, as though she had been waiting for him there.
He shuddered and stopped; she seized his hand and pressed it
frenziedly.
No, this was no apparition!
There she stood at last, face to face with him, for the first time
since their parting.
She said something, but he looked silently back at her. His heart ached
with anguish. Oh! never would he banish the recollection of this
meeting with her, and he never remembered it but with the same pain and
agony of mind.
She went on her knees before him—there in the open road—like a
madwoman. He retreated a step, but she caught his hand and kissed it,
and, just as in his dream, the tears were sparkling on her long,
beautiful lashes.
“Get up!” he said, in a frightened whisper, raising her. “Get up at
once!”
“Are you happy—are you happy?” she asked. “Say this one word. Are you
happy now? Today, this moment? Have you just been with her? What did
she say?”
She did not rise from her knees; she would not listen to him; she put
her questions hurriedly, as though she were pursued.
“I am going away tomorrow, as you bade me—I won’t write—so that this is
the last time I shall see you, the last time! This is really the _last
time!_”
“Oh, be calm—be calm! Get up!” he entreated, in despair.
She gazed thirstily at him and clutched his hands.
“Good-bye!” she said at last, and rose and left him, very quickly.
The prince noticed that Rogojin had suddenly appeared at her side, and
had taken her arm and was leading her away.
“Wait a minute, prince,” shouted the latter, as he went. “I shall be
back in five minutes.”
He reappeared in five minutes as he had said. The prince was waiting
for him.
“I’ve put her in the carriage,” he said; “it has been waiting round the
corner there since ten o’clock. She expected that you would be with
_them_ all the evening. I told her exactly what you wrote me. She won’t
write to the girl any more, she promises; and tomorrow she will be off,
as you wish. She desired to see you for the last time, although you
refused, so we’ve been sitting and waiting on that bench till you
should pass on your way home.”
“Did she bring you with her of her own accord?”
“Of course she did!” said Rogojin, showing his teeth; “and I saw for
myself what I knew before. You’ve read her letters, I suppose?”
“Did you read them?” asked the prince, struck by the thought.
“Of course—she showed them to me herself. You are thinking of the
razor, eh? Ha, ha, ha!”
“Oh, she is mad!” cried the prince, wringing his hands.
“Who knows? Perhaps she is not so mad after all,” said Rogojin, softly,
as though thinking aloud.
The prince made no reply.
“Well, good-bye,” said Rogojin. “I’m off tomorrow too, you know.
Remember me kindly! By-the-by,” he added, turning round sharply again,
“did you answer her question just now? Are you happy, or not?”
“No, no, no!” cried the prince, with unspeakable sadness.
“Ha, ha! I never supposed you would say ‘yes,’” cried Rogojin, laughing
sardonically.
And he disappeared, without looking round again.