PART IV

I.

A week had elapsed since the rendezvous of our two friends on the green

bench in the park, when, one fine morning at about half-past ten

o’clock, Varvara Ardalionovna, otherwise Mrs. Ptitsin, who had been out

to visit a friend, returned home in a state of considerable mental

depression.

There are certain people of whom it is difficult to say anything which

will at once throw them into relief—in other words, describe them

graphically in their typical characteristics. These are they who are

generally known as “commonplace people,” and this class comprises, of

course, the immense majority of mankind. Authors, as a rule, attempt to

select and portray types rarely met with in their entirety, but these

types are nevertheless more real than real life itself.

“Podkoleosin” [A character in Gogol’s comedy, The Wedding.] was perhaps

an exaggeration, but he was by no means a non-existent character; on

the contrary, how many intelligent people, after hearing of this

Podkoleosin from Gogol, immediately began to find that scores of their

friends were exactly like him! They knew, perhaps, before Gogol told

them, that their friends were like Podkoleosin, but they did not know

what name to give them. In real life, young fellows seldom jump out of

the window just before their weddings, because such a feat, not to

speak of its other aspects, must be a decidedly unpleasant mode of

escape; and yet there are plenty of bridegrooms, intelligent fellows

too, who would be ready to confess themselves Podkoleosins in the

depths of their consciousness, just before marriage. Nor does every

husband feel bound to repeat at every step, “_Tu l’as voulu, Georges

Dandin!_” like another typical personage; and yet how many millions and

billions of Georges Dandins there are in real life who feel inclined to

utter this soul-drawn cry after their honeymoon, if not the day after

the wedding! Therefore, without entering into any more serious

examination of the question, I will content myself with remarking that

in real life typical characters are “watered down,” so to speak; and

all these Dandins and Podkoleosins actually exist among us every day,

but in a diluted form. I will just add, however, that Georges Dandin

might have existed exactly as Molière presented him, and probably does

exist now and then, though rarely; and so I will end this scientific

examination, which is beginning to look like a newspaper criticism. But

for all this, the question remains,—what are the novelists to do with

commonplace people, and how are they to be presented to the reader in

such a form as to be in the least degree interesting? They cannot be

left out altogether, for commonplace people meet one at every turn of

life, and to leave them out would be to destroy the whole reality and

probability of the story. To fill a novel with typical characters only,

or with merely strange and uncommon people, would render the book

unreal and improbable, and would very likely destroy the interest. In

my opinion, the duty of the novelist is to seek out points of interest

and instruction even in the characters of commonplace people.

For instance, when the whole essence of an ordinary person’s nature

lies in his perpetual and unchangeable commonplaceness; and when in

spite of all his endeavours to do something out of the common, this

person ends, eventually, by remaining in his unbroken line of routine—.

I think such an individual really does become a type of his own—a type

of commonplaceness which will not for the world, if it can help it, be

contented, but strains and yearns to be something original and

independent, without the slightest possibility of being so. To this

class of commonplace people belong several characters in this

novel;—characters which—I admit—I have not drawn very vividly up to now

for my reader’s benefit.

Such were, for instance, Varvara Ardalionovna Ptitsin, her husband, and

her brother, Gania.

There is nothing so annoying as to be fairly rich, of a fairly good

family, pleasing presence, average education, to be “not stupid,”

kind-hearted, and yet to have no talent at all, no originality, not a

single idea of one’s own—to be, in fact, “just like everyone else.”

Of such people there are countless numbers in this world—far more even

than appear. They can be divided into two classes as all men can—that

is, those of limited intellect, and those who are much cleverer. The

former of these classes is the happier.

To a commonplace man of limited intellect, for instance, nothing is

simpler than to imagine himself an original character, and to revel in

that belief without the slightest misgiving.

Many of our young women have thought fit to cut their hair short, put

on blue spectacles, and call themselves Nihilists. By doing this they

have been able to persuade themselves, without further trouble, that

they have acquired new convictions of their own. Some men have but felt

some little qualm of kindness towards their fellow-men, and the fact

has been quite enough to persuade them that they stand alone in the van

of enlightenment and that no one has such humanitarian feelings as

they. Others have but to read an idea of somebody else’s, and they can

immediately assimilate it and believe that it was a child of their own

brain. The “impudence of ignorance,” if I may use the expression, is

developed to a wonderful extent in such cases;—unlikely as it appears,

it is met with at every turn.

This confidence of a stupid man in his own talents has been wonderfully

depicted by Gogol in the amazing character of Pirogoff. Pirogoff has

not the slightest doubt of his own genius,—nay, of his _superiority_ of

genius,—so certain is he of it that he never questions it. How many

Pirogoffs have there not been among our writers—scholars,

propagandists? I say “have been,” but indeed there are plenty of them

at this very day.

Our friend, Gania, belonged to the other class—to the “much cleverer”

persons, though he was from head to foot permeated and saturated with

the longing to be original. This class, as I have said above, is far

less happy. For the “clever commonplace” person, though he may possibly

imagine himself a man of genius and originality, none the less has

within his heart the deathless worm of suspicion and doubt; and this

doubt sometimes brings a clever man to despair. (As a rule, however,

nothing tragic happens;—his liver becomes a little damaged in the

course of time, nothing more serious. Such men do not give up their

aspirations after originality without a severe struggle,—and there have

been men who, though good fellows in themselves, and even benefactors

to humanity, have sunk to the level of base criminals for the sake of

originality).

Gania was a beginner, as it were, upon this road. A deep and

unchangeable consciousness of his own lack of talent, combined with a

vast longing to be able to persuade himself that he was original, had

rankled in his heart, even from childhood.

He seemed to have been born with overwrought nerves, and in his

passionate desire to excel, he was often led to the brink of some rash

step; and yet, having resolved upon such a step, when the moment

arrived, he invariably proved too sensible to take it. He was ready, in

the same way, to do a base action in order to obtain his wished-for

object; and yet, when the moment came to do it, he found that he was

too honest for any great baseness. (Not that he objected to acts of

petty meanness—he was always ready for _them_.) He looked with hate and

loathing on the poverty and downfall of his family, and treated his

mother with haughty contempt, although he knew that his whole future

depended on her character and reputation.

Aglaya had simply frightened him; yet he did not give up all thoughts

of her—though he never seriously hoped that she would condescend to

him. At the time of his “adventure” with Nastasia Philipovna he had

come to the conclusion that money was his only hope—money should do all

for him.

At the moment when he lost Aglaya, and after the scene with Nastasia,

he had felt so low in his own eyes that he actually brought the money

back to the prince. Of this returning of the money given to him by a

madwoman who had received it from a madman, he had often repented

since—though he never ceased to be proud of his action. During the

short time that Muishkin remained in Petersburg Gania had had time to

come to hate him for his sympathy, though the prince told him that it

was “not everyone who would have acted so nobly” as to return the

money. He had long pondered, too, over his relations with Aglaya, and

had persuaded himself that with such a strange, childish, innocent

character as hers, things might have ended very differently. Remorse

then seized him; he threw up his post, and buried himself in

self-torment and reproach.

He lived at Ptitsin’s, and openly showed contempt for the latter,

though he always listened to his advice, and was sensible enough to ask

for it when he wanted it. Gavrila Ardalionovitch was angry with Ptitsin

because the latter did not care to become a Rothschild. “If you are to

be a Jew,” he said, “do it properly—squeeze people right and left, show

some character; be the King of the Jews while you are about it.”

Ptitsin was quiet and not easily offended—he only laughed. But on one

occasion he explained seriously to Gania that he was no Jew, that he

did nothing dishonest, that he could not help the market price of

money, that, thanks to his accurate habits, he had already a good

footing and was respected, and that his business was flourishing.

“I shan’t ever be a Rothschild, and there is no reason why I should,”

he added, smiling; “but I shall have a house in the Liteynaya, perhaps

two, and that will be enough for me.” “Who knows but what I may have

three!” he concluded to himself; but this dream, cherished inwardly, he

never confided to a soul.

Nature loves and favours such people. Ptitsin will certainly have his

reward, not three houses, but four, precisely because from childhood up

he had realized that he would never be a Rothschild. That will be the

limit of Ptitsin’s fortune, and, come what may, he will never have more

than four houses.

Varvara Ardalionovna was not like her brother. She too, had passionate

desires, but they were persistent rather than impetuous. Her plans were

as wise as her methods of carrying them out. No doubt she also belonged

to the category of ordinary people who dream of being original, but she

soon discovered that she had not a grain of true originality, and she

did not let it trouble her too much. Perhaps a certain kind of pride

came to her help. She made her first concession to the demands of

practical life with great resolution when she consented to marry

Ptitsin. However, when she married she did not say to herself, “Never

mind a mean action if it leads to the end in view,” as her brother

would certainly have said in such a case; it is quite probable that he

may have said it when he expressed his elder-brotherly satisfaction at

her decision. Far from this; Varvara Ardalionovna did not marry until

she felt convinced that her future husband was unassuming, agreeable,

almost cultured, and that nothing on earth would tempt him to a really

dishonourable deed. As to small meannesses, such trifles did not

trouble her. Indeed, who is free from them? It is absurd to expect the

ideal! Besides, she knew that her marriage would provide a refuge for

all her family. Seeing Gania unhappy, she was anxious to help him, in

spite of their former disputes and misunderstandings. Ptitsin, in a

friendly way, would press his brother-in-law to enter the army. “You

know,” he said sometimes, jokingly, “you despise generals and

generaldom, but you will see that ‘they’ will all end by being generals

in their turn. You will see it if you live long enough!”

“But why should they suppose that I despise generals?” Gania thought

sarcastically to himself.

To serve her brother’s interests, Varvara Ardalionovna was constantly

at the Epanchins’ house, helped by the fact that in childhood she and

Gania had played with General Ivan Fedorovitch’s daughters. It would

have been inconsistent with her character if in these visits she had

been pursuing a chimera; her project was not chimerical at all; she was

building on a firm basis—on her knowledge of the character of the

Epanchin family, especially Aglaya, whom she studied closely. All

Varvara’s efforts were directed towards bringing Aglaya and Gania

together. Perhaps she achieved some result; perhaps, also, she made the

mistake of depending too much upon her brother, and expecting more from

him than he would ever be capable of giving. However this may be, her

manoeuvres were skilful enough. For weeks at a time she would never

mention Gania. Her attitude was modest but dignified, and she was

always extremely truthful and sincere. Examining the depths of her

conscience, she found nothing to reproach herself with, and this still

further strengthened her in her designs. But Varvara Ardalionovna

sometimes remarked that she felt spiteful; that there was a good deal

of vanity in her, perhaps even of wounded vanity. She noticed this at

certain times more than at others, and especially after her visits to

the Epanchins.

Today, as I have said, she returned from their house with a heavy

feeling of dejection. There was a sensation of bitterness, a sort of

mocking contempt, mingled with it.

Arrived at her own house, Varia heard a considerable commotion going on

in the upper storey, and distinguished the voices of her father and

brother. On entering the salon she found Gania pacing up and down at

frantic speed, pale with rage and almost tearing his hair. She frowned,

and subsided on to the sofa with a tired air, and without taking the

trouble to remove her hat. She very well knew that if she kept quiet

and asked her brother nothing about his reason for tearing up and down

the room, his wrath would fall upon her head. So she hastened to put

the question:

“The old story, eh?”

“Old story? No! Heaven knows what’s up now—I don’t! Father has simply

gone mad; mother’s in floods of tears. Upon my word, Varia, I must kick

him out of the house; or else go myself,” he added, probably

remembering that he could not well turn people out of a house which was

not his own.

“You must make allowances,” murmured Varia.

“Make allowances? For whom? Him—the old blackguard? No, no, Varia—that

won’t do! It won’t do, I tell you! And look at the swagger of the man!

He’s all to blame himself, and yet he puts on so much ‘side’ that you’d

think—my word!—‘It’s too much trouble to go through the gate, you must

break the fence for me!’ That’s the sort of air he puts on; but what’s

the matter with you, Varia? What a curious expression you have!”

“I’m all right,” said Varia, in a tone that sounded as though she were

all wrong.

Gania looked more intently at her.

“You’ve been _there?_” he asked, suddenly.

“Yes.”

“Did you find out anything?”

“Nothing unexpected. I discovered that it’s all true. My husband was

wiser than either of us. Just as he suspected from the beginning, so it

has fallen out. Where is he?”

“Out. Well—what has happened?—go on.”

“The prince is formally engaged to her—that’s settled. The elder

sisters told me about it. Aglaya has agreed. They don’t attempt to

conceal it any longer; you know how mysterious and secret they have all

been up to now. Adelaida’s wedding is put off again, so that both can

be married on one day. Isn’t that delightfully romantic? Somebody ought

to write a poem on it. Sit down and write an ode instead of tearing up

and down like that. This evening Princess Bielokonski is to arrive; she

comes just in time—they have a party tonight. He is to be presented to

old Bielokonski, though I believe he knows her already; probably the

engagement will be openly announced. They are only afraid that he may

knock something down, or trip over something when he comes into the

room. It would be just like him.”

Gania listened attentively, but to his sister’s astonishment he was by

no means so impressed by this news (which should, she thought, have

been so important to him) as she had expected.

“Well, it was clear enough all along,” he said, after a moment’s

reflection. “So that’s the end,” he added, with a disagreeable smile,

continuing to walk up and down the room, but much slower than before,

and glancing slyly into his sister’s face.

“It’s a good thing that you take it philosophically, at all events,”

said Varia. “I’m really very glad of it.”

“Yes, it’s off our hands—off _yours_, I should say.”

“I think I have served you faithfully. I never even asked you what

happiness you expected to find with Aglaya.”

“Did I ever expect to find happiness with Aglaya?”

“Come, come, don’t overdo your philosophy. Of course you did. Now it’s

all over, and a good thing, too; pair of fools that we have been! I

confess I have never been able to look at it seriously. I busied myself

in it for your sake, thinking that there was no knowing what might

happen with a funny girl like that to deal with. There were ninety to

one chances against it. To this moment I can’t make out why you wished

for it.”

“H’m! now, I suppose, you and your husband will never weary of egging

me on to work again. You’ll begin your lectures about perseverance and

strength of will, and all that. I know it all by heart,” said Gania,

laughing.

“He’s got some new idea in his head,” thought Varia. “Are they pleased

over there—the parents?” asked Gania, suddenly.

“N-no, I don’t think they are. You can judge for yourself. I think the

general is pleased enough; her mother is a little uneasy. She always

loathed the idea of the prince as a _husband_; everybody knows that.”

“Of course, naturally. The bridegroom is an impossible and ridiculous

one. I mean, has _she_ given her formal consent?”

“She has not said ‘no,’ up to now, and that’s all. It was sure to be so

with her. You know what she is like. You know how absurdly shy she is.

You remember how she used to hide in a cupboard as a child, so as to

avoid seeing visitors, for hours at a time. She is just the same now;

but, do you know, I think there is something serious in the matter,

even from her side; I feel it, somehow. She laughs at the prince, they

say, from morn to night in order to hide her real feelings; but you may

be sure she finds occasion to say something or other to him on the sly,

for he himself is in a state of radiant happiness. He walks in the

clouds; they say he is extremely funny just now; I heard it from

themselves. They seemed to be laughing at me in their sleeves—those

elder girls—I don’t know why.”

Gania had begun to frown, and probably Varia added this last sentence

in order to probe his thought. However, at this moment, the noise began

again upstairs.

“I’ll turn him out!” shouted Gania, glad of the opportunity of venting

his vexation. “I shall just turn him out—we can’t have this.”

“Yes, and then he’ll go about the place and disgrace us as he did

yesterday.”

“How ‘as he did yesterday’? What do you mean? What did he do

yesterday?” asked Gania, in alarm.

“Why, goodness me, don’t you know?” Varia stopped short.

“What? You don’t mean to say that he went there yesterday!” cried

Gania, flushing red with shame and anger. “Good heavens, Varia! Speak!

You have just been there. _Was_ he there or not, _quick?_” And Gania

rushed for the door. Varia followed and caught him by both hands.

“What are you doing? Where are you going to? You can’t let him go now;

if you do he’ll go and do something worse.”

“What did he do there? What did he say?”

“They couldn’t tell me themselves; they couldn’t make head or tail of

it; but he frightened them all. He came to see the general, who was not

at home; so he asked for Lizabetha Prokofievna. First of all, he begged

her for some place, or situation, for work of some kind, and then he

began to complain about _us_, about me and my husband, and you,

especially _you_; he said a lot of things.”

“Oh! couldn’t you find out?” muttered Gania, trembling hysterically.

“No—nothing more than that. Why, they couldn’t understand him

themselves; and very likely didn’t tell me all.”

Gania seized his head with both hands and tottered to the window; Varia

sat down at the other window.

“Funny girl, Aglaya,” she observed, after a pause. “When she left me

she said, ‘Give my special and personal respects to your parents; I

shall certainly find an opportunity to see your father one day,’ and so

serious over it. She’s a strange creature.”

“Wasn’t she joking? She was speaking sarcastically!”

“Not a bit of it; that’s just the strange part of it.”

“Does she know about father, do you think—or not?”

“That they do _not_ know about it in the house is quite certain, the

rest of them, I mean; but you have given me an idea. Aglaya perhaps

knows. She alone, though, if anyone; for the sisters were as astonished

as I was to hear her speak so seriously. If she knows, the prince must

have told her.”

“Oh! it’s not a great matter to guess who told her. A thief! A thief in

our family, and the head of the family, too!”

“Oh! nonsense!” cried Varia, angrily. “That was nothing but a

drunkard’s tale. Nonsense! Why, who invented the whole thing—Lebedeff

and the prince—a pretty pair! Both were probably drunk.”

“Father is a drunkard and a thief; I am a beggar, and the husband of my

sister is a usurer,” continued Gania, bitterly. “There was a pretty

list of advantages with which to enchant the heart of Aglaya.”

“That same husband of your sister, the usurer—”

“Feeds me? Go on. Don’t stand on ceremony, pray.”

“Don’t lose your temper. You are just like a schoolboy. You think that

all this sort of thing would harm you in Aglaya’s eyes, do you? You

little know her character. She is capable of refusing the most

brilliant party, and running away and starving in a garret with some

wretched student; that’s the sort of girl she is. You never could or

did understand how interesting you would have seen in her eyes if you

had come firmly and proudly through our misfortunes. The prince has

simply caught her with hook and line; firstly, because he never thought

of fishing for her, and secondly, because he is an idiot in the eyes of

most people. It’s quite enough for her that by accepting him she puts

her family out and annoys them all round—that’s what she likes. You

don’t understand these things.”

“We shall see whether I understand or no!” said Gania, enigmatically.

“But I shouldn’t like her to know all about father, all the same. I

thought the prince would manage to hold his tongue about this, at

least. He prevented Lebedeff spreading the news—he wouldn’t even tell

me all when I asked him—”

“Then you must see that he is not responsible. What does it matter to

you now, in any case? What are you hoping for still? If you _have_ a

hope left, it is that your suffering air may soften her heart towards

you.”

“Oh, she would funk a scandal like anyone else. You are all tarred with

one brush!”

“What! _Aglaya_ would have funked? You are a chicken-hearted fellow,

Gania!” said Varia, looking at her brother with contempt. “Not one of

us is worth much. Aglaya may be a wild sort of a girl, but she is far

nobler than any of us, a thousand times nobler!”

“Well—come! there’s nothing to get cross about,” said Gania.

“All I’m afraid of is—mother. I’m afraid this scandal about father may

come to her ears; perhaps it has already. I am dreadfully afraid.”

“It undoubtedly has already!” observed Gania.

Varia had risen from her place and had started to go upstairs to her

mother; but at this observation of Gania’s she turned and gazed at him

attentively.

“Who could have told her?”

“Hippolyte, probably. He would think it the most delightful amusement

in the world to tell her of it the instant he moved over here; I

haven’t a doubt of it.”

“But how could he know anything of it? Tell me that. Lebedeff and the

prince determined to tell no one—even Colia knows nothing.”

“What, Hippolyte? He found it out himself, of course. Why, you have no

idea what a cunning little animal he is; dirty little gossip! He has

the most extraordinary nose for smelling out other people’s secrets, or

anything approaching to scandal. Believe it or not, but I’m pretty sure

he has got round Aglaya. If he hasn’t, he soon will. Rogojin is

intimate with him, too. How the prince doesn’t notice it, I can’t

understand. The little wretch considers me his enemy now and does his

best to catch me tripping. What on earth does it matter to him, when

he’s dying? However, you’ll see; I shall catch _him_ tripping yet, and

not he me.”

“Why did you get him over here, if you hate him so? And is it really

worth your while to try to score off him?”

“Why, it was yourself who advised me to bring him over!”

“I thought he might be useful. You know he is in love with Aglaya

himself, now, and has written to her; he has even written to Lizabetha

Prokofievna!”

“Oh! he’s not dangerous there!” cried Gania, laughing angrily.

“However, I believe there is something of that sort in the air; he is

very likely to be in love, for he is a mere boy. But he won’t write

anonymous letters to the old lady; that would be too audacious a thing

for him to attempt; but I dare swear the very first thing he did was to

show me up to Aglaya as a base deceiver and intriguer. I confess I was

fool enough to attempt something through him at first. I thought he

would throw himself into my service out of revengeful feelings towards

the prince, the sly little beast! But I know him better now. As for the

theft, he may have heard of it from the widow in Petersburg, for if the

old man committed himself to such an act, he can have done it for no

other object but to give the money to her. Hippolyte said to me,

without any prelude, that the general had promised the widow four

hundred roubles. Of course I understood, and the little wretch looked

at me with a nasty sort of satisfaction. I know him; you may depend

upon it he went and told mother too, for the pleasure of wounding her.

And why doesn’t he die, I should like to know? He undertook to die

within three weeks, and here he is getting fatter. His cough is better,

too. It was only yesterday that he said that was the second day he

hadn’t coughed blood.”

“Well, turn him out!”

“I don’t _hate_, I despise him,” said Gania, grandly. “Well, I do hate

him, if you like!” he added, with a sudden access of rage, “and I’ll

tell him so to his face, even when he’s dying! If you had but read his

confession—good Lord! what refinement of impudence! Oh, but I’d have

liked to whip him then and there, like a schoolboy, just to see how

surprised he would have been! Now he hates everybody because he—Oh, I

say, what on earth are they doing there! Listen to that noise! I really

can’t stand this any longer. Ptitsin!” he cried, as the latter entered

the room, “what in the name of goodness are we coming to? Listen to

that—”

But the noise came rapidly nearer, the door burst open, and old General

Ivolgin, raging, furious, purple-faced, and trembling with anger,

rushed in. He was followed by Nina Alexandrovna, Colia, and behind the

rest, Hippolyte.

II.

Hippolyte had now been five days at the Ptitsins’. His flitting from

the prince’s to these new quarters had been brought about quite

naturally and without many words. He did not quarrel with the prince—in

fact, they seemed to part as friends. Gania, who had been hostile

enough on that eventful evening, had himself come to see him a couple

of days later, probably in obedience to some sudden impulse. For some

reason or other, Rogojin too had begun to visit the sick boy. The

prince thought it might be better for him to move away from his (the

prince’s) house. Hippolyte informed him, as he took his leave, that

Ptitsin “had been kind enough to offer him a corner,” and did not say a

word about Gania, though Gania had procured his invitation, and himself

came to fetch him away. Gania noticed this at the time, and put it to

Hippolyte’s debit on account.

Gania was right when he told his sister that Hippolyte was getting

better; that he was better was clear at the first glance. He entered

the room now last of all, deliberately, and with a disagreeable smile

on his lips.

Nina Alexandrovna came in, looking frightened. She had changed much

since we last saw her, half a year ago, and had grown thin and pale.

Colia looked worried and perplexed. He could not understand the

vagaries of the general, and knew nothing of the last achievement of

that worthy, which had caused so much commotion in the house. But he

could see that his father had of late changed very much, and that he

had begun to behave in so extraordinary a fashion both at home and

abroad that he was not like the same man. What perplexed and disturbed

him as much as anything was that his father had entirely given up

drinking during the last few days. Colia knew that he had quarrelled

with both Lebedeff and the prince, and had just bought a small bottle

of vodka and brought it home for his father.

“Really, mother,” he had assured Nina Alexandrovna upstairs, “really

you had better let him drink. He has not had a drop for three days; he

must be suffering agonies—” The general now entered the room, threw the

door wide open, and stood on the threshold trembling with indignation.

“Look here, my dear sir,” he began, addressing Ptitsin in a very loud

tone of voice; “if you have really made up your mind to sacrifice an

old man—your father too or at all events father of your wife—an old man

who has served his emperor—to a wretched little atheist like this, all

I can say is, sir, my foot shall cease to tread your floors. Make your

choice, sir; make your choice quickly, if you please! Me or this—screw!

Yes, screw, sir; I said it accidentally, but let the word stand—this

screw, for he screws and drills himself into my soul—”

“Hadn’t you better say corkscrew?” said Hippolyte.

“No, sir, _not_ corkscrew. I am a general, not a bottle, sir. Make your

choice, sir—me or him.”

Here Colia handed him a chair, and he subsided into it, breathless with

rage.

“Hadn’t you better—better—take a nap?” murmured the stupefied Ptitsin.

“A nap?” shrieked the general. “I am not drunk, sir; you insult me! I

see,” he continued, rising, “I see that all are against me here.

Enough—I go; but know, sirs—know that—”

He was not allowed to finish his sentence. Somebody pushed him back

into his chair, and begged him to be calm. Nina Alexandrovna trembled,

and cried quietly. Gania retired to the window in disgust.

“But what have I done? What is his grievance?” asked Hippolyte,

grinning.

“What have you done, indeed?” put in Nina Alexandrovna. “You ought to

be ashamed of yourself, teasing an old man like that—and in your

position, too.”

“And pray what _is_ my position, madame? I have the greatest respect

for you, personally; but—”

“He’s a little screw,” cried the general; “he drills holes in my heart

and soul. He wishes me to be a pervert to atheism. Know, you young

greenhorn, that I was covered with honours before ever you were born;

and you are nothing better than a wretched little worm, torn in two

with coughing, and dying slowly of your own malice and unbelief. What

did Gavrila bring you over here for? They’re all against me, even to my

own son—all against me.”

“Oh, come—nonsense!” cried Gania; “if you did not go shaming us all

over the town, things might be better for all parties.”

“What—shame you? I?—what do you mean, you young calf? I shame you? I

can only do you honour, sir; I cannot shame you.”

He jumped up from his chair in a fit of uncontrollable rage. Gania was

very angry too.

“Honour, indeed!” said the latter, with contempt.

“What do you say, sir?” growled the general, taking a step towards him.

“I say that I have but to open my mouth, and you—”

Gania began, but did not finish. The two—father and son—stood before

one another, both unspeakably agitated, especially Gania.

“Gania, Gania, reflect!” cried his mother, hurriedly.

“It’s all nonsense on both sides,” snapped out Varia. “Let them alone,

mother.”

“It’s only for mother’s sake that I spare him,” said Gania, tragically.

“Speak!” said the general, beside himself with rage and excitement;

“speak—under the penalty of a father’s curse!”

“Oh, father’s curse be hanged—you don’t frighten me that way!” said

Gania. “Whose fault is it that you have been as mad as a March hare all

this week? It is just a week—you see, I count the days. Take care now;

don’t provoke me too much, or I’ll tell all. Why did you go to the

Epanchins’ yesterday—tell me that? And you call yourself an old man,

too, with grey hair, and father of a family! H’m—nice sort of a

father.”

“Be quiet, Gania,” cried Colia. “Shut up, you fool!”

“Yes, but how have I offended him?” repeated Hippolyte, still in the

same jeering voice. “Why does he call me a screw? You all heard it. He

came to me himself and began telling me about some Captain Eropegoff. I

don’t wish for your company, general. I always avoided you—you know

that. What have I to do with Captain Eropegoff? All I did was to

express my opinion that probably Captain Eropegoff never existed at

all!”

“Of course he never existed!” Gania interrupted.

But the general only stood stupefied and gazed around in a dazed way.

Gania’s speech had impressed him, with its terrible candour. For the

first moment or two he could find no words to answer him, and it was

only when Hippolyte burst out laughing, and said:

“There, you see! Even your own son supports my statement that there

never was such a person as Captain Eropegoff!” that the old fellow

muttered confusedly:

“Kapiton Eropegoff—not Captain Eropegoff!—Kapiton—major

retired—Eropegoff—Kapiton.”

“Kapiton didn’t exist either!” persisted Gania, maliciously.

“What? Didn’t exist?” cried the poor general, and a deep blush suffused

his face.

“That’ll do, Gania!” cried Varia and Ptitsin.

“Shut up, Gania!” said Colia.

But this intercession seemed to rekindle the general.

“What did you mean, sir, that he didn’t exist? Explain yourself,” he

repeated, angrily.

“Because he _didn’t_ exist—never could and never did—there! You’d

better drop the subject, I warn you!”

“And this is my son—my own son—whom I—oh, gracious Heaven!

Eropegoff—Eroshka Eropegoff didn’t exist!”

“Ha, ha! it’s Eroshka now,” laughed Hippolyte.

“No, sir, Kapitoshka—not Eroshka. I mean, Kapiton Alexeyevitch—retired

major—married Maria Petrovna Lu—Lu—he was my friend and

companion—Lutugoff—from our earliest beginnings. I closed his eyes for

him—he was killed. Kapiton Eropegoff never existed! tfu!”

The general shouted in his fury; but it was to be concluded that his

wrath was not kindled by the expressed doubt as to Kapiton’s existence.

This was his scapegoat; but his excitement was caused by something

quite different. As a rule he would have merely shouted down the doubt

as to Kapiton, told a long yarn about his friend, and eventually

retired upstairs to his room. But today, in the strange uncertainty of

human nature, it seemed to require but so small an offence as this to

make his cup to overflow. The old man grew purple in the face, he

raised his hands. “Enough of this!” he yelled. “My curse—away, out of

the house I go! Colia, bring my bag away!” He left the room hastily and

in a paroxysm of rage.

His wife, Colia, and Ptitsin ran out after him.

“What have you done now?” said Varia to Gania. “He’ll probably be

making off _there_ again! What a disgrace it all is!”

“Well, he shouldn’t steal,” cried Gania, panting with fury. And just at

this moment his eye met Hippolyte’s.

“As for you, sir,” he cried, “you should at least remember that you are

in a strange house and—receiving hospitality; you should not take the

opportunity of tormenting an old man, sir, who is too evidently out of

his mind.”

Hippolyte looked furious, but he restrained himself.

“I don’t quite agree with you that your father is out of his mind,” he

observed, quietly. “On the contrary, I cannot help thinking he has been

less demented of late. Don’t you think so? He has grown so cunning and

careful, and weighs his words so deliberately; he spoke to me about

that Kapiton fellow with an object, you know! Just fancy—he wanted me

to—”

“Oh, devil take what he wanted you to do! Don’t try to be too cunning

with me, young man!” shouted Gania. “If you are aware of the real

reason for my father’s present condition (and you have kept such an

excellent spying watch during these last few days that you are sure to

be aware of it)—you had no right whatever to torment the—unfortunate

man, and to worry my mother by your exaggerations of the affair;

because the whole business is nonsense—simply a drunken freak, and

nothing more, quite unproved by any evidence, and I don’t believe that

much of it!” (he snapped his fingers). “But you must needs spy and

watch over us all, because you are a—a—”

“Screw!” laughed Hippolyte.

“Because you are a humbug, sir; and thought fit to worry people for

half an hour, and tried to frighten them into believing that you would

shoot yourself with your little empty pistol, pirouetting about and

playing at suicide! I gave you hospitality, you have fattened on it,

your cough has left you, and you repay all this—”

“Excuse me—two words! I am Varvara Ardalionovna’s guest, not yours;

_you_ have extended no hospitality to me. On the contrary, if I am not

mistaken, I believe you are yourself indebted to Mr. Ptitsin’s

hospitality. Four days ago I begged my mother to come down here and

find lodgings, because I certainly do feel better here, though I am not

fat, nor have I ceased to cough. I am today informed that my room is

ready for me; therefore, having thanked your sister and mother for

their kindness to me, I intend to leave the house this evening. I beg

your pardon—I interrupted you—I think you were about to add something?”

“Oh—if that is the state of affairs—” began Gania.

“Excuse me—I will take a seat,” interrupted Hippolyte once more,

sitting down deliberately; “for I am not strong yet. Now then, I am

ready to hear you. Especially as this is the last chance we shall have

of a talk, and very likely the last meeting we shall ever have at all.”

Gania felt a little guilty.

“I assure you I did not mean to reckon up debits and credits,” he

began, “and if you—”

“I don’t understand your condescension,” said Hippolyte. “As for me, I

promised myself, on the first day of my arrival in this house, that I

would have the satisfaction of settling accounts with you in a very

thorough manner before I said good-bye to you. I intend to perform this

operation now, if you like; after you, though, of course.”

“May I ask you to be so good as to leave this room?”

“You’d better speak out. You’ll be sorry afterwards if you don’t.”

“Hippolyte, stop, please! It’s so dreadfully undignified,” said Varia.

“Well, only for the sake of a lady,” said Hippolyte, laughing. “I am

ready to put off the reckoning, but only put it off, Varvara

Ardalionovna, because an explanation between your brother and myself

has become an absolute necessity, and I could not think of leaving the

house without clearing up all misunderstandings first.”

“In a word, you are a wretched little scandal-monger,” cried Gania,

“and you cannot go away without a scandal!”

“You see,” said Hippolyte, coolly, “you can’t restrain yourself. You’ll

be dreadfully sorry afterwards if you don’t speak out now. Come, you

shall have the first say. I’ll wait.”

Gania was silent and merely looked contemptuously at him.

“You won’t? Very well. I shall be as short as possible, for my part.

Two or three times to-day I have had the word ‘hospitality’ pushed down

my throat; this is not fair. In inviting me here you yourself entrapped

me for your own use; you thought I wished to revenge myself upon the

prince. You heard that Aglaya Ivanovna had been kind to me and read my

confession. Making sure that I should give myself up to your interests,

you hoped that you might get some assistance out of me. I will not go

into details. I don’t ask either admission or confirmation of this from

yourself; I am quite content to leave you to your conscience, and to

feel that we understand one another capitally.”

“What a history you are weaving out of the most ordinary

circumstances!” cried Varia.

“I told you the fellow was nothing but a scandal-monger,” said Gania.

“Excuse me, Varia Ardalionovna, I will proceed. I can, of course,

neither love nor respect the prince, though he is a good-hearted

fellow, if a little queer. But there is no need whatever for me to hate

him. I quite understood your brother when he first offered me aid

against the prince, though I did not show it; I knew well that your

brother was making a ridiculous mistake in me. I am ready to spare him,

however, even now; but solely out of respect for yourself, Varvara

Ardalionovna.

“Having now shown you that I am not quite such a fool as I look, and

that I have to be fished for with a rod and line for a good long while

before I am caught, I will proceed to explain why I specially wished to

make your brother look a fool. That my motive power is hate, I do not

attempt to conceal. I have felt that before dying (and I am dying,

however much fatter I may appear to you), I must absolutely make a fool

of, at least, one of that class of men which has dogged me all my life,

which I hate so cordially, and which is so prominently represented by

your much esteemed brother. I should not enjoy paradise nearly so much

without having done this first. I hate you, Gavrila Ardalionovitch,

solely (this may seem curious to you, but I repeat)—solely because you

are the type, and incarnation, and head, and crown of the most

impudent, the most self-satisfied, the most vulgar and detestable form

of commonplaceness. You are ordinary of the ordinary; you have no

chance of ever fathering the pettiest idea of your own. And yet you are

as jealous and conceited as you can possibly be; you consider yourself

a great genius; of this you are persuaded, although there are dark

moments of doubt and rage, when even this fact seems uncertain. There

are spots of darkness on your horizon, though they will disappear when

you become completely stupid. But a long and chequered path lies before

you, and of this I am glad. In the first place you will never gain a

certain person.”

“Come, come! This is intolerable! You had better stop, you little

mischief-making wretch!” cried Varia. Gania had grown very pale; he

trembled, but said nothing.

Hippolyte paused, and looked at him intently and with great

gratification. He then turned his gaze upon Varia, bowed, and went out,

without adding another word.

Gania might justly complain of the hardness with which fate treated

him. Varia dared not speak to him for a long while, as he strode past

her, backwards and forwards. At last he went and stood at the window,

looking out, with his back turned towards her. There was a fearful row

going on upstairs again.

“Are you off?” said Gania, suddenly, remarking that she had risen and

was about to leave the room. “Wait a moment—look at this.”

He approached the table and laid a small sheet of paper before her. It

looked like a little note.

“Good heavens!” cried Varia, raising her hands.

This was the note:

“GAVRILA ARDOLIONOVITCH,—persuaded of your kindness of heart, I have

determined to ask your advice on a matter of great importance to

myself. I should like to meet you tomorrow morning at seven o’clock by

the green bench in the park. It is not far from our house. Varvara

Ardalionovna, who must accompany you, knows the place well.

“A. E.”

“What on earth is one to make of a girl like that?” said Varia.

Gania, little as he felt inclined for swagger at this moment, could not

avoid showing his triumph, especially just after such humiliating

remarks as those of Hippolyte. A smile of self-satisfaction beamed on

his face, and Varia too was brimming over with delight.

“And this is the very day that they were to announce the engagement!

What will she do next?”

“What do you suppose she wants to talk about tomorrow?” asked Gania.

“Oh, _that’s_ all the same! The chief thing is that she wants to see

you after six months’ absence. Look here, Gania, this is a _serious_

business. Don’t swagger again and lose the game—play carefully, but

don’t funk, do you understand? As if she could possibly avoid seeing

what I have been working for all this last six months! And just

imagine, I was there this morning and not a word of this! I was there,

you know, on the sly. The old lady did not know, or she would have

kicked me out. I ran some risk for you, you see. I did so want to find

out, at all hazards.”

Here there was a frantic noise upstairs once more; several people

seemed to be rushing downstairs at once.

“Now, Gania,” cried Varia, frightened, “we can’t let him go out! We

can’t afford to have a breath of scandal about the town at this moment.

Run after him and beg his pardon—quick.”

But the father of the family was out in the road already. Colia was

carrying his bag for him; Nina Alexandrovna stood and cried on the

doorstep; she wanted to run after the general, but Ptitsin kept her

back.

“You will only excite him more,” he said. “He has nowhere else to go

to—he’ll be back here in half an hour. I’ve talked it all over with

Colia; let him play the fool a bit, it will do him good.”

“What are you up to? Where are you off to? You’ve nowhere to go to, you

know,” cried Gania, out of the window.

“Come back, father; the neighbours will hear!” cried Varia.

The general stopped, turned round, raised his hands and remarked: “My

curse be upon this house!”

“Which observation should always be made in as theatrical a tone as

possible,” muttered Gania, shutting the window with a bang.

The neighbours undoubtedly did hear. Varia rushed out of the room.

No sooner had his sister left him alone, than Gania took the note out

of his pocket, kissed it, and pirouetted around.

III.

As a general rule, old General Ivolgin’s paroxysms ended in smoke. He

had before this experienced fits of sudden fury, but not very often,

because he was really a man of peaceful and kindly disposition. He had

tried hundreds of times to overcome the dissolute habits which he had

contracted of late years. He would suddenly remember that he was “a

father,” would be reconciled with his wife, and shed genuine tears. His

feeling for Nina Alexandrovna amounted almost to adoration; she had

pardoned so much in silence, and loved him still in spite of the state

of degradation into which he had fallen. But the general’s struggles

with his own weakness never lasted very long. He was, in his way, an

impetuous man, and a quiet life of repentance in the bosom of his

family soon became insupportable to him. In the end he rebelled, and

flew into rages which he regretted, perhaps, even as he gave way to

them, but which were beyond his control. He picked quarrels with

everyone, began to hold forth eloquently, exacted unlimited respect,

and at last disappeared from the house, and sometimes did not return

for a long time. He had given up interfering in the affairs of his

family for two years now, and knew nothing about them but what he

gathered from hearsay.

But on this occasion there was something more serious than usual.

Everyone seemed to know something, but to be afraid to talk about it.

The general had turned up in the bosom of his family two or three days

before, but not, as usual, with the olive branch of peace in his hand,

not in the garb of penitence—in which he was usually clad on such

occasions—but, on the contrary, in an uncommonly bad temper. He had

arrived in a quarrelsome mood, pitching into everyone he came across,

and talking about all sorts and kinds of subjects in the most

unexpected manner, so that it was impossible to discover what it was

that was really putting him out. At moments he would be apparently

quite bright and happy; but as a rule he would sit moody and

thoughtful. He would abruptly commence to hold forth about the

Epanchins, about Lebedeff, or the prince, and equally abruptly would

stop short and refuse to speak another word, answering all further

questions with a stupid smile, unconscious that he was smiling, or that

he had been asked a question. The whole of the previous night he had

spent tossing about and groaning, and poor Nina Alexandrovna had been

busy making cold compresses and warm fomentations and so on, without

being very clear how to apply them. He had fallen asleep after a while,

but not for long, and had awaked in a state of violent hypochondria

which had ended in his quarrel with Hippolyte, and the solemn cursing

of Ptitsin’s establishment generally. It was also observed during those

two or three days that he was in a state of morbid self-esteem, and was

specially touchy on all points of honour. Colia insisted, in discussing

the matter with his mother, that all this was but the outcome of

abstinence from drink, or perhaps of pining after Lebedeff, with whom

up to this time the general had been upon terms of the greatest

friendship; but with whom, for some reason or other, he had quarrelled

a few days since, parting from him in great wrath. There had also been

a scene with the prince. Colia had asked an explanation of the latter,

but had been forced to conclude that he was not told the whole truth.

If Hippolyte and Nina Alexandrovna had, as Gania suspected, had some

special conversation about the general’s actions, it was strange that

the malicious youth, whom Gania had called a scandal-monger to his

face, had not allowed himself a similar satisfaction with Colia.

The fact is that probably Hippolyte was not quite so black as Gania

painted him; and it was hardly likely that he had informed Nina

Alexandrovna of certain events, of which we know, for the mere pleasure

of giving her pain. We must never forget that human motives are

generally far more complicated than we are apt to suppose, and that we

can very rarely accurately describe the motives of another. It is much

better for the writer, as a rule, to content himself with the bare

statement of events; and we shall take this line with regard to the

catastrophe recorded above, and shall state the remaining events

connected with the general’s trouble shortly, because we feel that we

have already given to this secondary character in our story more

attention than we originally intended.

The course of events had marched in the following order. When Lebedeff

returned, in company with the general, after their expedition to town a

few days since, for the purpose of investigation, he brought the prince

no information whatever. If the latter had not himself been occupied

with other thoughts and impressions at the time, he must have observed

that Lebedeff not only was very uncommunicative, but even appeared

anxious to avoid him.

When the prince did give the matter a little attention, he recalled the

fact that during these days he had always found Lebedeff to be in

radiantly good spirits, when they happened to meet; and further, that

the general and Lebedeff were always together. The two friends did not

seem ever to be parted for a moment.

Occasionally the prince heard loud talking and laughing upstairs, and

once he detected the sound of a jolly soldier’s song going on above,

and recognized the unmistakable bass of the general’s voice. But the

sudden outbreak of song did not last; and for an hour afterwards the

animated sound of apparently drunken conversation continued to be heard

from above. At length there was the clearest evidence of a grand mutual

embracing, and someone burst into tears. Shortly after this, however,

there was a violent but short-lived quarrel, with loud talking on both

sides.

All these days Colia had been in a state of great mental preoccupation.

Muishkin was usually out all day, and only came home late at night. On

his return he was invariably informed that Colia had been looking for

him. However, when they did meet, Colia never had anything particular

to tell him, excepting that he was highly dissatisfied with the general

and his present condition of mind and behaviour.

“They drag each other about the place,” he said, “and get drunk

together at the pub close by here, and quarrel in the street on the way

home, and embrace one another after it, and don’t seem to part for a

moment.”

When the prince pointed out that there was nothing new about that, for

that they had always behaved in this manner together, Colia did not

know what to say; in fact he could not explain what it was that

specially worried him, just now, about his father.

On the morning following the bacchanalian songs and quarrels recorded

above, as the prince stepped out of the house at about eleven o’clock,

the general suddenly appeared before him, much agitated.

“I have long sought the honour and opportunity of meeting

you—much-esteemed Lef Nicolaievitch,” he murmured, pressing the

prince’s hand very hard, almost painfully so; “long—very long.”

The prince begged him to step in and sit down.

“No—I will not sit down,—I am keeping you, I see,—another time!—I think

I may be permitted to congratulate you upon the realization of your

heart’s best wishes, is it not so?”

“What best wishes?”

The prince blushed. He thought, as so many in his position do, that

nobody had seen, heard, noticed, or understood anything.

“Oh—be easy, sir, be easy! I shall not wound your tenderest feelings.

I’ve been through it all myself, and I know well how unpleasant it is

when an outsider sticks his nose in where he is not wanted. I

experience this every morning. I came to speak to you about another

matter, though, an important matter. A very important matter, prince.”

The latter requested him to take a seat once more, and sat down

himself.

“Well—just for one second, then. The fact is, I came for advice. Of

course I live now without any very practical objects in life; but,

being full of self-respect, in which quality the ordinary Russian is so

deficient as a rule, and of activity, I am desirous, in a word, prince,

of placing myself and my wife and children in a position of—in fact, I

want advice.”

The prince commended his aspirations with warmth.

“Quite so—quite so! But this is all mere nonsense. I came here to speak

of something quite different, something very important, prince. And I

have determined to come to you as to a man in whose sincerity and

nobility of feeling I can trust like—like—are you surprised at my

words, prince?”

The prince was watching his guest, if not with much surprise, at all

events with great attention and curiosity.

The old man was very pale; every now and then his lips trembled, and

his hands seemed unable to rest quietly, but continually moved from

place to place. He had twice already jumped up from his chair and sat

down again without being in the least aware of it. He would take up a

book from the table and open it—talking all the while,—look at the

heading of a chapter, shut it and put it back again, seizing another

immediately, but holding it unopened in his hand, and waving it in the

air as he spoke.

“But enough!” he cried, suddenly. “I see I have been boring you with

my—”

“Not in the least—not in the least, I assure you. On the contrary, I am

listening most attentively, and am anxious to guess—”

“Prince, I wish to place myself in a respectable position—I wish to

esteem myself—and to—”

“My dear sir, a man of such noble aspirations is worthy of all esteem

by virtue of those aspirations alone.”

The prince brought out his “copy-book sentence” in the firm belief that

it would produce a good effect. He felt instinctively that some such

well-sounding humbug, brought out at the proper moment, would soothe

the old man’s feelings, and would be specially acceptable to such a man

in such a position. At all hazards, his guest must be despatched with

heart relieved and spirit comforted; that was the problem before the

prince at this moment.

The phrase flattered the general, touched him, and pleased him

mightily. He immediately changed his tone, and started off on a long

and solemn explanation. But listen as he would, the prince could make

neither head nor tail of it.

The general spoke hotly and quickly for ten minutes; he spoke as though

his words could not keep pace with his crowding thoughts. Tears stood

in his eyes, and yet his speech was nothing but a collection of

disconnected sentences, without beginning and without end—a string of

unexpected words and unexpected sentiments—colliding with one another,

and jumping over one another, as they burst from his lips.

“Enough!” he concluded at last, “you understand me, and that is the

great thing. A heart like yours cannot help understanding the

sufferings of another. Prince, you are the ideal of generosity; what

are other men beside yourself? But you are young—accept my blessing! My

principal object is to beg you to fix an hour for a most important

conversation—that is my great hope, prince. My heart needs but a little

friendship and sympathy, and yet I cannot always find means to satisfy

it.”

“But why not now? I am ready to listen, and—”

“No, no—prince, not now! Now is a dream! And it is too, too important!

It is to be the hour of Fate to me—_my own_ hour. Our interview is not

to be broken in upon by every chance comer, every impertinent guest—and

there are plenty of such stupid, impertinent fellows”—(he bent over and

whispered mysteriously, with a funny, frightened look on his face)—“who

are unworthy to tie your shoe, prince. I don’t say _mine_, mind—you

will understand me, prince. Only _you_ understand me, prince—no one

else. _He_ doesn’t understand me, he is absolutely—_absolutely_ unable

to sympathize. The first qualification for understanding another is

Heart.”

The prince was rather alarmed at all this, and was obliged to end by

appointing the same hour of the following day for the interview

desired. The general left him much comforted and far less agitated than

when he had arrived.

At seven in the evening, the prince sent to request Lebedeff to pay him

a visit. Lebedeff came at once, and “esteemed it an honour,” as he

observed, the instant he entered the room. He acted as though there had

never been the slightest suspicion of the fact that he had

systematically avoided the prince for the last three days.

He sat down on the edge of his chair, smiling and making faces, and

rubbing his hands, and looking as though he were in delighted

expectation of hearing some important communication, which had been

long guessed by all.

The prince was instantly covered with confusion; for it appeared to be

plain that everyone expected something of him—that everyone looked at

him as though anxious to congratulate him, and greeted him with hints,

and smiles, and knowing looks.

Keller, for instance, had run into the house three times of late, “just

for a moment,” and each time with the air of desiring to offer his

congratulations. Colia, too, in spite of his melancholy, had once or

twice begun sentences in much the same strain of suggestion or

insinuation.

The prince, however, immediately began, with some show of annoyance, to

question Lebedeff categorically, as to the general’s present condition,

and his opinion thereon. He described the morning’s interview in a few

words.

“Everyone has his worries, prince, especially in these strange and

troublous times of ours,” Lebedeff replied, drily, and with the air of

a man disappointed of his reasonable expectations.

“Dear me, what a philosopher you are!” laughed the prince.

“Philosophy is necessary, sir—very necessary—in our day. It is too much

neglected. As for me, much esteemed prince, I am sensible of having

experienced the honour of your confidence in a certain matter up to a

certain point, but never beyond that point. I do not for a moment

complain—”

“Lebedeff, you seem to be angry for some reason!” said the prince.

“Not the least bit in the world, esteemed and revered prince! Not the

least bit in the world!” cried Lebedeff, solemnly, with his hand upon

his heart. “On the contrary, I am too painfully aware that neither by

my position in the world, nor by my gifts of intellect and heart, nor

by my riches, nor by any former conduct of mine, have I in any way

deserved your confidence, which is far above my highest aspirations and

hopes. Oh no, prince; I may serve you, but only as your humble slave! I

am not angry, oh no! Not angry; pained perhaps, but nothing more.

“My dear Lebedeff, I—”

“Oh, nothing more, nothing more! I was saying to myself but now... ‘I

am quite unworthy of friendly relations with him,’ say I; ‘but perhaps

as landlord of this house I may, at some future date, in his good time,

receive information as to certain imminent and much to be desired

changes—’”

So saying Lebedeff fixed the prince with his sharp little eyes, still

in hope that he would get his curiosity satisfied.

The prince looked back at him in amazement.

“I don’t understand what you are driving at!” he cried, almost angrily,

“and, and—what an intriguer you are, Lebedeff!” he added, bursting into

a fit of genuine laughter.

Lebedeff followed suit at once, and it was clear from his radiant face

that he considered his prospects of satisfaction immensely improved.

“And do you know,” the prince continued, “I am amazed at your naive

ways, Lebedeff! Don’t be angry with me—not only yours, everybody else’s

also! You are waiting to hear something from me at this very moment

with such simplicity that I declare I feel quite ashamed of myself for

having nothing whatever to tell you. I swear to you solemnly, that

there is nothing to tell. There! Can you take that in?” The prince

laughed again.

Lebedeff assumed an air of dignity. It was true enough that he was

sometimes naive to a degree in his curiosity; but he was also an

excessively cunning gentleman, and the prince was almost converting him

into an enemy by his repeated rebuffs. The prince did not snub

Lebedeff’s curiosity, however, because he felt any contempt for him;

but simply because the subject was too delicate to talk about. Only a

few days before he had looked upon his own dreams almost as crimes. But

Lebedeff considered the refusal as caused by personal dislike to

himself, and was hurt accordingly. Indeed, there was at this moment a

piece of news, most interesting to the prince, which Lebedeff knew and

even had wished to tell him, but which he now kept obstinately to

himself.

“And what can I do for you, esteemed prince? Since I am told you sent

for me just now,” he said, after a few moments’ silence.

“Oh, it was about the general,” began the prince, waking abruptly from

the fit of musing which he too had indulged in “and—and about the theft

you told me of.”

“That is—er—about—what theft?”

“Oh come! just as if you didn’t understand, Lukian Timofeyovitch! What

are you up to? I can’t make you out! The money, the money, sir! The

four hundred roubles that you lost that day. You came and told me about

it one morning, and then went off to Petersburg. There, _now_ do you

understand?”

“Oh—h—h! You mean the four hundred roubles!” said Lebedeff, dragging

the words out, just as though it had only just dawned upon him what the

prince was talking about. “Thanks very much, prince, for your kind

interest—you do me too much honour. I found the money, long ago!”

“You found it? Thank God for that!”

“Your exclamation proves the generous sympathy of your nature, prince;

for four hundred roubles—to a struggling family man like myself—is no

small matter!”

“I didn’t mean that; at least, of course, I’m glad for your sake, too,”

added the prince, correcting himself, “but—how did you find it?”

“Very simply indeed! I found it under the chair upon which my coat had

hung; so that it is clear the purse simply fell out of the pocket and

on to the floor!”

“Under the chair? Impossible! Why, you told me yourself that you had

searched every corner of the room? How could you not have looked in the

most likely place of all?”

“Of course I looked there,—of course I did! Very much so! I looked and

scrambled about, and felt for it, and wouldn’t believe it was not

there, and looked again and again. It is always so in such cases. One

longs and expects to find a lost article; one sees it is not there, and

the place is as bare as one’s palm; and yet one returns and looks again

and again, fifteen or twenty times, likely enough!”

“Oh, quite so, of course. But how was it in your case?—I don’t quite

understand,” said the bewildered prince. “You say it wasn’t there at

first, and that you searched the place thoroughly, and yet it turned up

on that very spot!”

“Yes, sir—on that very spot.” The prince gazed strangely at Lebedeff.

“And the general?” he asked, abruptly.

“The—the general? How do you mean, the general?” said Lebedeff,

dubiously, as though he had not taken in the drift of the prince’s

remark.

“Oh, good heavens! I mean, what did the general say when the purse

turned up under the chair? You and he had searched for it together

there, hadn’t you?”

“Quite so—together! But the second time I thought better to say nothing

about finding it. I found it alone.”

“But—why in the world—and the money? Was it all there?”

“I opened the purse and counted it myself; right to a single rouble.”

“I think you might have come and told me,” said the prince,

thoughtfully.

“Oh—I didn’t like to disturb you, prince, in the midst of your private

and doubtless most interesting personal reflections. Besides, I wanted

to appear, myself, to have found nothing. I took the purse, and opened

it, and counted the money, and shut it and put it down again under the

chair.”

“What in the world for?”

“Oh, just out of curiosity,” said Lebedeff, rubbing his hands and

sniggering.

“What, it’s still there then, is it? Ever since the day before

yesterday?”

“Oh no! You see, I was half in hopes the general might find it. Because

if I found it, why should not he too observe an object lying before his

very eyes? I moved the chair several times so as to expose the purse to

view, but the general never saw it. He is very absent just now,

evidently. He talks and laughs and tells stories, and suddenly flies

into a rage with me, goodness knows why.”

“Well, but—have you taken the purse away now?”

“No, it disappeared from under the chair in the night.”

“Where is it now, then?”

“Here,” laughed Lebedeff, at last, rising to his full height and

looking pleasantly at the prince, “here, in the lining of my coat.

Look, you can feel it for yourself, if you like!”

Sure enough there was something sticking out of the front of the

coat—something large. It certainly felt as though it might well be the

purse fallen through a hole in the pocket into the lining.

“I took it out and had a look at it; it’s all right. I’ve let it slip

back into the lining now, as you see, and so I have been walking about

ever since yesterday morning; it knocks against my legs when I walk

along.”

“H’m! and you take no notice of it?”

“Quite so, I take no notice of it. Ha, ha! and think of this, prince,

my pockets are always strong and whole, and yet, here in one night, is

a huge hole. I know the phenomenon is unworthy of your notice; but such

is the case. I examined the hole, and I declare it actually looks as

though it had been made with a pen-knife, a most improbable

contingency.”

“And—and—the general?”

“Ah, very angry all day, sir; all yesterday and all today. He shows

decided bacchanalian predilections at one time, and at another is

tearful and sensitive, but at any moment he is liable to paroxysms of

such rage that I assure you, prince, I am quite alarmed. I am not a

military man, you know. Yesterday we were sitting together in the

tavern, and the lining of my coat was—quite accidentally, of

course—sticking out right in front. The general squinted at it, and

flew into a rage. He never looks me quite in the face now, unless he is

very drunk or maudlin; but yesterday he looked at me in such a way that

a shiver went all down my back. I intend to find the purse tomorrow;

but till then I am going to have another night of it with him.”

“What’s the good of tormenting him like this?” cried the prince.

“I don’t torment him, prince, I don’t indeed!” cried Lebedeff, hotly.

“I love him, my dear sir, I esteem him; and believe it or not, I love

him all the better for this business, yes—and value him more.”

Lebedeff said this so seriously that the prince quite lost his temper

with him.

“Nonsense! love him and torment him so! Why, by the very fact that he

put the purse prominently before you, first under the chair and then in

your lining, he shows that he does not wish to deceive you, but is

anxious to beg your forgiveness in this artless way. Do you hear? He is

asking your pardon. He confides in the delicacy of your feelings, and

in your friendship for him. And you can allow yourself to humiliate so

thoroughly honest a man!”

“Thoroughly honest, quite so, prince, thoroughly honest!” said

Lebedeff, with flashing eyes. “And only you, prince, could have found

so very appropriate an expression. I honour you for it, prince. Very

well, that’s settled; I shall find the purse now and not tomorrow.

Here, I find it and take it out before your eyes! And the money is all

right. Take it, prince, and keep it till tomorrow, will you? Tomorrow

or next day I’ll take it back again. I think, prince, that the night

after its disappearance it was buried under a bush in the garden. So I

believe—what do you think of that?”

“Well, take care you don’t tell him to his face that you have found the

purse. Simply let him see that it is no longer in the lining of your

coat, and form his own conclusions.”

“Do you think so? Had I not just better tell him I have found it, and

pretend I never guessed where it was?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said the prince, thoughtfully; “it’s too late

for that—that would be dangerous now. No, no! Better say nothing about

it. Be nice with him, you know, but don’t show him—oh, _you_ know well

enough—”

“I know, prince, of course I know, but I’m afraid I shall not carry it

out; for to do so one needs a heart like your own. He is so very

irritable just now, and so proud. At one moment he will embrace me, and

the next he flies out at me and sneers at me, and then I stick the

lining forward on purpose. Well, _au revoir_, prince, I see I am

keeping you, and boring you, too, interfering with your most

interesting private reflections.”

“Now, do be careful! Secrecy, as before!”

“Oh, silence isn’t the word! Softly, softly!”

But in spite of this conclusion to the episode, the prince remained as

puzzled as ever, if not more so. He awaited next morning’s interview

with the general most impatiently.

IV.

The time appointed was twelve o’clock, and the prince, returning home

unexpectedly late, found the general waiting for him. At the first

glance, he saw that the latter was displeased, perhaps because he had

been kept waiting. The prince apologized, and quickly took a seat. He

seemed strangely timid before the general this morning, for some

reason, and felt as though his visitor were some piece of china which

he was afraid of breaking.

On scrutinizing him, the prince soon saw that the general was quite a

different man from what he had been the day before; he looked like one

who had come to some momentous resolve. His calmness, however, was more

apparent than real. He was courteous, but there was a suggestion of

injured innocence in his manner.

“I’ve brought your book back,” he began, indicating a book lying on the

table. “Much obliged to you for lending it to me.”

“Ah, yes. Well, did you read it, general? It’s curious, isn’t it?” said

the prince, delighted to be able to open up conversation upon an

outside subject.

“Curious enough, yes, but crude, and of course dreadful nonsense;

probably the man lies in every other sentence.”

The general spoke with considerable confidence, and dragged his words

out with a conceited drawl.

“Oh, but it’s only the simple tale of an old soldier who saw the French

enter Moscow. Some of his remarks were wonderfully interesting. Remarks

of an eye-witness are always valuable, whoever he be, don’t you think

so?”

“Had I been the publisher I should not have printed it. As to the

evidence of eye-witnesses, in these days people prefer impudent lies to

the stories of men of worth and long service. I know of some notes of

the year 1812, which—I have determined, prince, to leave this house,

Mr. Lebedeff’s house.”

The general looked significantly at his host.

“Of course you have your own lodging at Pavlofsk at—at your daughter’s

house,” began the prince, quite at a loss what to say. He suddenly

recollected that the general had come for advice on a most important

matter, affecting his destiny.

“At my wife’s; in other words, at my own place, my daughter’s house.”

“I beg your pardon, I—”

“I leave Lebedeff’s house, my dear prince, because I have quarrelled

with this person. I broke with him last night, and am very sorry that I

did not do so before. I expect respect, prince, even from those to whom

I give my heart, so to speak. Prince, I have often given away my heart,

and am nearly always deceived. This person was quite unworthy of the

gift.”

“There is much that might be improved in him,” said the prince,

moderately, “but he has some qualities which—though amid them one

cannot but discern a cunning nature—reveal what is often a diverting

intellect.”

The prince’s tone was so natural and respectful that the general could

not possibly suspect him of any insincerity.

“Oh, that he possesses good traits, I was the first to show, when I

very nearly made him a present of my friendship. I am not dependent

upon his hospitality, and upon his house; I have my own family. I do

not attempt to justify my own weakness. I have drunk with this man, and

perhaps I deplore the fact now, but I did not take him up for the sake

of drink alone (excuse the crudeness of the expression, prince); I did

not make friends with him for that alone. I was attracted by his good

qualities; but when the fellow declares that he was a child in 1812,

and had his left leg cut off, and buried in the Vagarkoff cemetery, in

Moscow, such a cock-and-bull story amounts to disrespect, my dear sir,

to—to impudent exaggeration.”

“Oh, he was very likely joking; he said it for fun.”

“I quite understand you. You mean that an innocent lie for the sake of

a good joke is harmless, and does not offend the human heart. Some

people lie, if you like to put it so, out of pure friendship, in order

to amuse their fellows; but when a man makes use of extravagance in

order to show his disrespect and to make clear how the intimacy bores

him, it is time for a man of honour to break off the said intimacy, and

to teach the offender his place.”

The general flushed with indignation as he spoke.

“Oh, but Lebedeff cannot have been in Moscow in 1812. He is much too

young; it is all nonsense.”

“Very well, but even if we admit that he _was_ alive in 1812, can one

believe that a French chasseur pointed a cannon at him for a lark, and

shot his left leg off? He says he picked his own leg up and took it

away and buried it in the cemetery. He swore he had a stone put up over

it with the inscription: ‘Here lies the leg of Collegiate Secretary

Lebedeff,’ and on the other side, ‘Rest, beloved ashes, till the morn

of joy,’ and that he has a service read over it every year (which is

simply sacrilege), and goes to Moscow once a year on purpose. He

invites me to Moscow in order to prove his assertion, and show me his

leg’s tomb, and the very cannon that shot him; he says it’s the

eleventh from the gate of the Kremlin, an old-fashioned falconet taken

from the French afterwards.”

“And, meanwhile both his legs are still on his body,” said the prince,

laughing. “I assure you, it is only an innocent joke, and you need not

be angry about it.”

“Excuse me—wait a minute—he says that the leg we see is a wooden one,

made by Tchernosvitoff.”

“They do say one can dance with those!”

“Quite so, quite so; and he swears that his wife never found out that

one of his legs was wooden all the while they were married. When I

showed him the ridiculousness of all this, he said, ‘Well, if you were

one of Napoleon’s pages in 1812, you might let me bury my leg in the

Moscow cemetery.’”

“Why, did you say—” began the prince, and paused in confusion.

The general gazed at his host disdainfully.

“Oh, go on,” he said, “finish your sentence, by all means. Say how odd

it appears to you that a man fallen to such a depth of humiliation as

I, can ever have been the actual eye-witness of great events. Go on,

_I_ don’t mind! Has _he_ found time to tell you scandal about me?”

“No, I’ve heard nothing of this from Lebedeff, if you mean Lebedeff.”

“H’m; I thought differently. You see, we were talking over this period

of history. I was criticizing a current report of something which then

happened, and having been myself an eye-witness of the occurrence—you

are smiling, prince—you are looking at my face as if—”

“Oh no! not at all—I—”

“I am rather young-looking, I know; but I am actually older than I

appear to be. I was ten or eleven in the year 1812. I don’t know my age

exactly, but it has always been a weakness of mine to make it out less

than it really is.”

“I assure you, general, I do not in the least doubt your statement. One

of our living autobiographers states that when he was a small baby in

Moscow in 1812 the French soldiers fed him with bread.”

“Well, there you see!” said the general, condescendingly. “There is

nothing whatever unusual about my tale. Truth very often appears to be

impossible. I was a page—it sounds strange, I dare say. Had I been

fifteen years old I should probably have been terribly frightened when

the French arrived, as my mother was (who had been too slow about

clearing out of Moscow); but as I was only just ten I was not in the

least alarmed, and rushed through the crowd to the very door of the

palace when Napoleon alighted from his horse.”

“Undoubtedly, at ten years old you would not have felt the sense of

fear, as you say,” blurted out the prince, horribly uncomfortable in

the sensation that he was just about to blush.

“Of course; and it all happened so easily and naturally. And yet, were

a novelist to describe the episode, he would put in all kinds of

impossible and incredible details.”

“Oh,” cried the prince, “I have often thought that! Why, I know of a

murder, for the sake of a watch. It’s in all the papers now. But if

some writer had invented it, all the critics would have jumped down his

throat and said the thing was too improbable for anything. And yet you

read it in the paper, and you can’t help thinking that out of these

strange disclosures is to be gained the full knowledge of Russian life

and character. You said that well, general; it is so true,” concluded

the prince, warmly, delighted to have found a refuge from the fiery

blushes which had covered his face.

“Yes, it’s quite true, isn’t it?” cried the general, his eyes sparkling

with gratification. “A small boy, a child, would naturally realize no

danger; he would shove his way through the crowds to see the shine and

glitter of the uniforms, and especially the great man of whom everyone

was speaking, for at that time all the world had been talking of no one

but this man for some years past. The world was full of his name; I—so

to speak—drew it in with my mother’s milk. Napoleon, passing a couple

of paces from me, caught sight of me accidentally. I was very well

dressed, and being all alone, in that crowd, as you will easily

imagine...”

“Oh, of course! Naturally the sight impressed him, and proved to him

that not _all_ the aristocracy had left Moscow; that at least some

nobles and their children had remained behind.”

“Just so! just so! He wanted to win over the aristocracy! When his

eagle eye fell on me, mine probably flashed back in response. ‘_Voilà

un garçon bien éveillé! Qui est ton père?_’ I immediately replied,

almost panting with excitement, ‘A general, who died on the

battle-fields of his country!’ ‘_Le fils d’un boyard et d’un brave,

pardessus le marché. J’aime les boyards. M’aimes-tu, petit?_’

“To this keen question I replied as keenly, ‘The Russian heart can

recognize a great man even in the bitter enemy of his country.’ At

least, I don’t remember the exact words, you know, but the idea was as

I say. Napoleon was struck; he thought a minute and then said to his

suite: ‘I like that boy’s pride; if all Russians think like this child,

then—’ he didn’t finish, but went on and entered the palace. I

instantly mixed with his suite, and followed him. I was already in high

favour. I remember when he came into the first hall, the emperor

stopped before a portrait of the Empress Katherine, and after a

thoughtful glance remarked, ‘That was a great woman,’ and passed on.

“Well, in a couple of days I was known all over the palace and the

Kremlin as ‘le petit boyard.’ I only went home to sleep. They were

nearly out of their minds about me at home. A couple of days after

this, Napoleon’s page, De Bazancour, died; he had not been able to

stand the trials of the campaign. Napoleon remembered me; I was taken

away without explanation; the dead page’s uniform was tried on me, and

when I was taken before the emperor, dressed in it, he nodded his head

to me, and I was told that I was appointed to the vacant post of page.

“Well, I was glad enough, for I had long felt the greatest sympathy for

this man; and then the pretty uniform and all that—only a child, you

know—and so on. It was a dark green dress coat with gold buttons—red

facings, white trousers, and a white silk waistcoat—silk stockings,

shoes with buckles, and top-boots if I were riding out with his majesty

or with the suite.

“Though the position of all of us at that time was not particularly

brilliant, and the poverty was dreadful all round, yet the etiquette at

court was strictly preserved, and the more strictly in proportion to

the growth of the forebodings of disaster.”

“Quite so, quite so, of course!” murmured the poor prince, who didn’t

know where to look. “Your memoirs would be most interesting.”

The general was, of course, repeating what he had told Lebedeff the

night before, and thus brought it out glibly enough, but here he looked

suspiciously at the prince out of the corners of his eyes.

“My memoirs!” he began, with redoubled pride and dignity. “Write my

memoirs? The idea has not tempted me. And yet, if you please, my

memoirs have long been written, but they shall not see the light until

dust returns to dust. Then, I doubt not, they will be translated into

all languages, not of course on account of their actual literary merit,

but because of the great events of which I was the actual witness,

though but a child at the time. As a child, I was able to penetrate

into the secrecy of the great man’s private room. At nights I have

heard the groans and wailings of this ‘giant in distress.’ He could

feel no shame in weeping before such a mere child as I was, though I

understood even then that the reason for his suffering was the silence

of the Emperor Alexander.”

“Yes, of course; he had written letters to the latter with proposals of

peace, had he not?” put in the prince.

“We did not know the details of his proposals, but he wrote letter

after letter, all day and every day. He was dreadfully agitated.

Sometimes at night I would throw myself upon his breast with tears (Oh,

how I loved that man!). ‘Ask forgiveness, Oh, ask forgiveness of the

Emperor Alexander!’ I would cry. I should have said, of course, ‘Make

peace with Alexander,’ but as a child I expressed my idea in the naive

way recorded. ‘Oh, my child,’ he would say (he loved to talk to me and

seemed to forget my tender years), ‘Oh, my child, I am ready to kiss

Alexander’s feet, but I hate and abominate the King of Prussia and the

Austrian Emperor, and—and—but you know nothing of politics, my child.’

He would pull up, remembering whom he was speaking to, but his eyes

would sparkle for a long while after this. Well now, if I were to

describe all this, and I have seen greater events than these, all these

critical gentlemen of the press and political parties—Oh, no thanks!

I’m their very humble servant, but no thanks!”

“Quite so—parties—you are very right,” said the prince. “I was reading

a book about Napoleon and the Waterloo campaign only the other day, by

Charasse, in which the author does not attempt to conceal his joy at

Napoleon’s discomfiture at every page. Well now, I don’t like that; it

smells of ‘party,’ you know. You are quite right. And were you much

occupied with your service under Napoleon?”

The general was in ecstasies, for the prince’s remarks, made, as they

evidently were, in all seriousness and simplicity, quite dissipated the

last relics of his suspicion.

“I know Charasse’s book! Oh! I was so angry with his work! I wrote to

him and said—I forget what, at this moment. You ask whether I was very

busy under the Emperor? Oh no! I was called ‘page,’ but hardly took my

duty seriously. Besides, Napoleon very soon lost hope of conciliating

the Russians, and he would have forgotten all about me had he not loved

me—for personal reasons—I don’t mind saying so now. My heart was

greatly drawn to him, too. My duties were light. I merely had to be at

the palace occasionally to escort the Emperor out riding, and that was

about all. I rode very fairly well. He used to have a ride before

dinner, and his suite on those occasions were generally Davoust,

myself, and Roustan.”

“Constant?” said the prince, suddenly, and quite involuntarily.

“No; Constant was away then, taking a letter to the Empress Josephine.

Instead of him there were always a couple of orderlies—and that was

all, excepting, of course, the generals and marshals whom Napoleon

always took with him for the inspection of various localities, and for

the sake of consultation generally. I remember there was

one—Davoust—nearly always with him—a big man with spectacles. They used

to argue and quarrel sometimes. Once they were in the Emperor’s study

together—just those two and myself—I was unobserved—and they argued,

and the Emperor seemed to be agreeing to something under protest.

Suddenly his eye fell on me and an idea seemed to flash across him.

“‘Child,’ he said, abruptly. ‘If I were to recognize the Russian

orthodox religion and emancipate the serfs, do you think Russia would

come over to me?’”

“‘Never!’ I cried, indignantly.”

“The Emperor was much struck.”

“‘In the flashing eyes of this patriotic child I read and accept the

fiat of the Russian people. Enough, Davoust, it is mere phantasy on our

part. Come, let’s hear your other project.’”

“Yes, but that was a great idea,” said the prince, clearly interested.

“You ascribe it to Davoust, do you?”

“Well, at all events, they were consulting together at the time. Of

course it was the idea of an eagle, and must have originated with

Napoleon; but the other project was good too—it was the ‘Conseil du

lion!’ as Napoleon called it. This project consisted in a proposal to

occupy the Kremlin with the whole army; to arm and fortify it

scientifically, to kill as many horses as could be got, and salt their

flesh, and spend the winter there; and in spring to fight their way

out. Napoleon liked the idea—it attracted him. We rode round the

Kremlin walls every day, and Napoleon used to give orders where they

were to be patched, where built up, where pulled down and so on. All

was decided at last. They were alone together—those two and myself.

“Napoleon was walking up and down with folded arms. I could not take my

eyes off his face—my heart beat loudly and painfully.

“‘I’m off,’ said Davoust. ‘Where to?’ asked Napoleon.

“‘To salt horse-flesh,’ said Davoust. Napoleon shuddered—his fate was

being decided.

“‘Child,’ he addressed me suddenly, ‘what do you think of our plan?’ Of

course he only applied to me as a sort of toss-up, you know. I turned

to Davoust and addressed my reply to him. I said, as though inspired:

“‘Escape, general! Go home!—’

“The project was abandoned; Davoust shrugged his shoulders and went

out, whispering to himself—‘_Bah, il devient superstitieux!_’ Next

morning the order to retreat was given.”

“All this is most interesting,” said the prince, very softly, “if it

really was so—that is, I mean—” he hastened to correct himself.

“Oh, my dear prince,” cried the general, who was now so intoxicated

with his own narrative that he probably could not have pulled up at the

most patent indiscretion. “You say, ‘if it really was so!’ There was

more—_much_ more, I assure you! These are merely a few little political

acts. I tell you I was the eye-witness of the nightly sorrow and

groanings of the great man, and of _that_ no one can speak but myself.

Towards the end he wept no more, though he continued to emit an

occasional groan; but his face grew more overcast day by day, as though

Eternity were wrapping its gloomy mantle about him. Occasionally we

passed whole hours of silence together at night, Roustan snoring in the

next room—that fellow slept like a pig. ‘But he’s loyal to me and my

dynasty,’ said Napoleon of him.

“Sometimes it was very painful to me, and once he caught me with tears

in my eyes. He looked at me kindly. ‘You are sorry for me,’ he said,

‘you, my child, and perhaps one other child—my son, the King of

Rome—may grieve for me. All the rest hate me; and my brothers are the

first to betray me in misfortune.’ I sobbed and threw myself into his

arms. He could not resist me—he burst into tears, and our tears mingled

as we folded each other in a close embrace.

“‘Write, oh, write a letter to the Empress Josephine!’ I cried,

sobbing. Napoleon started, reflected, and said, ‘You remind me of a

third heart which loves me. Thank you, my friend;’ and then and there

he sat down and wrote that letter to Josephine, with which Constant was

sent off next day.”

“You did a good action,” said the prince, “for in the midst of his

angry feelings you insinuated a kind thought into his heart.”

“Just so, prince, just so. How well you bring out that fact! Because

your own heart is good!” cried the ecstatic old gentleman, and,

strangely enough, real tears glistened in his eyes. “Yes, prince, it

was a wonderful spectacle. And, do you know, I all but went off to

Paris, and should assuredly have shared his solitary exile with him;

but, alas, our destinies were otherwise ordered! We parted, he to his

island, where I am sure he thought of the weeping child who had

embraced him so affectionately at parting in Moscow; and I was sent off

to the cadet corps, where I found nothing but roughness and harsh

discipline. Alas, my happy days were done!”

“‘I do not wish to deprive your mother of you, and, therefore, I will

not ask you to go with me,’ he said, the morning of his departure, ‘but

I should like to do something for you.’ He was mounting his horse as he

spoke. ‘Write something in my sister’s album for me,’ I said rather

timidly, for he was in a state of great dejection at the moment. He

turned, called for a pen, took the album. ‘How old is your sister?’ he

asked, holding the pen in his hand. ‘Three years old,’ I said. ‘Ah,

_petite fille alors!_’ and he wrote in the album:

“‘Ne mentez jamais! NAPOLÉON (votre ami sincère).’

“Such advice, and at such a moment, you must allow, prince, was—”

“Yes, quite so; very remarkable.”

“This page of the album, framed in gold, hung on the wall of my

sister’s drawing-room all her life, in the most conspicuous place, till

the day of her death; where it is now, I really don’t know. Heavens!

it’s two o’clock! _How_ I have kept you, prince! It is really most

unpardonable of me.”

The general rose.

“Oh, not in the least,” said the prince. “On the contrary, I have been

so much interested, I’m really very much obliged to you.”

“Prince,” said the general, pressing his hand, and looking at him with

flashing eyes, and an expression as though he were under the influence

of a sudden thought which had come upon him with stunning force.

“Prince, you are so kind, so simple-minded, that sometimes I really

feel sorry for you! I gaze at you with a feeling of real affection. Oh,

Heaven bless you! May your life blossom and fructify in love. Mine is

over. Forgive me, forgive me!”

He left the room quickly, covering his face with his hands.

The prince could not doubt the sincerity of his agitation. He

understood, too, that the old man had left the room intoxicated with

his own success. The general belonged to that class of liars, who, in

spite of their transports of lying, invariably suspect that they are

not believed. On this occasion, when he recovered from his exaltation,

he would probably suspect Muishkin of pitying him, and feel insulted.

“Have I been acting rightly in allowing him to develop such vast

resources of imagination?” the prince asked himself. But his answer was

a fit of violent laughter which lasted ten whole minutes. He tried to

reproach himself for the laughing fit, but eventually concluded that he

needn’t do so, since in spite of it he was truly sorry for the old man.

The same evening he received a strange letter, short but decided. The

general informed him that they must part for ever; that he was

grateful, but that even from him he could not accept “signs of sympathy

which were humiliating to the dignity of a man already miserable

enough.”

When the prince heard that the old man had gone to Nina Alexandrovna,

though, he felt almost easy on his account.

We have seen, however, that the general paid a visit to Lizabetha

Prokofievna and caused trouble there, the final upshot being that he

frightened Mrs. Epanchin, and angered her by bitter hints as to his son

Gania.

He had been turned out in disgrace, eventually, and this was the cause

of his bad night and quarrelsome day, which ended in his sudden

departure into the street in a condition approaching insanity, as

recorded before.

Colia did not understand the position. He tried severity with his

father, as they stood in the street after the latter had cursed the

household, hoping to bring him round that way.

“Well, where are we to go to now, father?” he asked. “You don’t want to

go to the prince’s; you have quarrelled with Lebedeff; you have no

money; I never have any; and here we are in the middle of the road, in

a nice sort of mess.”

“Better to be of a mess than in a mess! I remember making a joke

something like that at the mess in eighteen hundred and forty—forty—I

forget. ‘Where is my youth, where is my golden youth?’ Who was it said

that, Colia?”

“It was Gogol, in Dead Souls, father,” cried Colia, glancing at him in

some alarm.

“‘Dead Souls,’ yes, of course, dead. When I die, Colia, you must

engrave on my tomb:

“‘Here lies a Dead Soul,

Shame pursues me.’

“Who said that, Colia?”

“I don’t know, father.”

“There was no Eropegoff? Eroshka Eropegoff?” he cried, suddenly,

stopping in the road in a frenzy. “No Eropegoff! And my own son to say

it! Eropegoff was in the place of a brother to me for eleven months. I

fought a duel for him. He was married afterwards, and then killed on

the field of battle. The bullet struck the cross on my breast and

glanced off straight into his temple. ‘I’ll never forget you,’ he

cried, and expired. I served my country well and honestly, Colia, but

shame, shame has pursued me! You and Nina will come to my grave, Colia;

poor Nina, I always used to call her Nina in the old days, and how she

loved.... Nina, Nina, oh, Nina. What have I ever done to deserve your

forgiveness and long-suffering? Oh, Colia, your mother has an angelic

spirit, an angelic spirit, Colia!”

“I know that, father. Look here, dear old father, come back home! Let’s

go back to mother. Look, she ran after us when we came out. What have

you stopped her for, just as though you didn’t take in what I said? Why

are you crying, father?”

Poor Colia cried himself, and kissed the old man’s hands

“You kiss my hands, _mine?_”

“Yes, yes, yours, yours! What is there to surprise anyone in that?

Come, come, you mustn’t go on like this, crying in the middle of the

road; and you a general too, a military man! Come, let’s go back.”

“God bless you, dear boy, for being respectful to a disgraced man. Yes,

to a poor disgraced old fellow, your father. You shall have such a son

yourself; le roi de Rome. Oh, curses on this house!”

“Come, come, what does all this mean?” cried Colia beside himself at

last. “What is it? What has happened to you? Why don’t you wish to come

back home? Why have you gone out of your mind, like this?”

“I’ll explain it, I’ll explain all to you. Don’t shout! You shall hear.

Le roi de Rome. Oh, I am sad, I am melancholy!

“‘Nurse, where is your tomb?’

“Who said that, Colia?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know who said it. Come home at once; come on!

I’ll punch Gania’s head myself, if you like—only come. Oh, where _are_

you off to again?” The general was dragging him away towards the door

of a house nearby. He sat down on the step, still holding Colia by the

hand.

“Bend down—bend down your ear. I’ll tell you all—disgrace—bend down,

I’ll tell you in your ear.”

“What are you dreaming of?” said poor, frightened Colia, stooping down

towards the old man, all the same.

“Le roi de Rome,” whispered the general, trembling all over.

“What? What _do_ you mean? What roi de Rome?”

“I—I,” the general continued to whisper, clinging more and more tightly

to the boy’s shoulder. “I—wish—to tell you—all—Maria—Maria

Petrovna—Su—Su—Su.......”

Colia broke loose, seized his father by the shoulders, and stared into

his eyes with frenzied gaze. The old man had grown livid—his lips were

shaking, convulsions were passing over his features. Suddenly he leant

over and began to sink slowly into Colia’s arms.

“He’s got a stroke!” cried Colia, loudly, realizing what was the matter

at last.

V.

In point of fact, Varia had rather exaggerated the certainty of her

news as to the prince’s betrothal to Aglaya. Very likely, with the

perspicacity of her sex, she gave out as an accomplished fact what she

felt was pretty sure to become a fact in a few days. Perhaps she could

not resist the satisfaction of pouring one last drop of bitterness into

her brother Gania’s cup, in spite of her love for him. At all events,

she had been unable to obtain any definite news from the Epanchin

girls—the most she could get out of them being hints and surmises, and

so on. Perhaps Aglaya’s sisters had merely been pumping Varia for news

while pretending to impart information; or perhaps, again, they had

been unable to resist the feminine gratification of teasing a

friend—for, after all this time, they could scarcely have helped

divining the aim of her frequent visits.

On the other hand, the prince, although he had told Lebedeff,—as we

know, that nothing had happened, and that he had nothing to impart,—the

prince may have been in error. Something strange seemed to have

happened, without anything definite having actually happened. Varia had

guessed that with her true feminine instinct.

How or why it came about that everyone at the Epanchins’ became imbued

with one conviction—that something very important had happened to

Aglaya, and that her fate was in process of settlement—it would be very

difficult to explain. But no sooner had this idea taken root, than all

at once declared that they had seen and observed it long ago; that they

had remarked it at the time of the “poor knight” joke, and even before,

though they had been unwilling to believe in such nonsense.

So said the sisters. Of course, Lizabetha Prokofievna had foreseen it

long before the rest; her “heart had been sore” for a long while, she

declared, and it was now so sore that she appeared to be quite

overwhelmed, and the very thought of the prince became distasteful to

her.

There was a question to be decided—most important, but most difficult;

so much so, that Mrs. Epanchin did not even see how to put it into

words. Would the prince do or not? Was all this good or bad? If good

(which might be the case, of course), _why_ good? If bad (which was

hardly doubtful), _wherein_, especially, bad? Even the general, the

paterfamilias, though astonished at first, suddenly declared that,

“upon his honour, he really believed he had fancied something of the

kind, after all. At first, it seemed a new idea, and then, somehow, it

looked as familiar as possible.” His wife frowned him down there. This

was in the morning; but in the evening, alone with his wife, he had

given tongue again.

“Well, really, you know”—(silence)—“of course, you know all this is

very strange, if true, which I cannot deny; but”—(silence).—“But, on

the other hand, if one looks things in the face, you know—upon my

honour, the prince is a rare good fellow—and—and—and—well, his name,

you know—your family name—all this looks well, and perpetuates the name

and title and all that—which at this moment is not standing so high as

it might—from one point of view—don’t you know? The world, the world is

the world, of course—and people will talk—and—and—the prince has

property, you know—if it is not very large—and then he—he—” (Continued

silence, and collapse of the general.)

Hearing these words from her husband, Lizabetha Prokofievna was driven

beside herself.

According to her opinion, the whole thing had been one huge,

fantastical, absurd, unpardonable mistake. “First of all, this prince

is an idiot, and, secondly, he is a fool—knows nothing of the world,

and has no place in it. Whom can he be shown to? Where can you take him

to? What will old Bielokonski say? We never thought of such a husband

as _that_ for our Aglaya!”

Of course, the last argument was the chief one. The maternal heart

trembled with indignation to think of such an absurdity, although in

that heart there rose another voice, which said: “And _why_ is not the

prince such a husband as you would have desired for Aglaya?” It was

this voice which annoyed Lizabetha Prokofievna more than anything else.

For some reason or other, the sisters liked the idea of the prince.

They did not even consider it very strange; in a word, they might be

expected at any moment to range themselves strongly on his side. But

both of them decided to say nothing either way. It had always been

noticed in the family that the stronger Mrs. Epanchin’s opposition was

to any project, the nearer she was, in reality, to giving in.

Alexandra, however, found it difficult to keep absolute silence on the

subject. Long since holding, as she did, the post of “confidential

adviser to mamma,” she was now perpetually called in council, and asked

her opinion, and especially her assistance, in order to recollect “how

on earth all this happened?” Why did no one see it? Why did no one say

anything about it? What did all that wretched “poor knight” joke mean?

Why was she, Lizabetha Prokofievna, driven to think, and foresee, and

worry for everybody, while they all sucked their thumbs, and counted

the crows in the garden, and did nothing? At first, Alexandra had been

very careful, and had merely replied that perhaps her father’s remark

was not so far out: that, in the eyes of the world, probably the choice

of the prince as a husband for one of the Epanchin girls would be

considered a very wise one. Warming up, however, she added that the

prince was by no means a fool, and never had been; and that as to

“place in the world,” no one knew what the position of a respectable

person in Russia would imply in a few years—whether it would depend on

successes in the government service, on the old system, or what.

To all this her mother replied that Alexandra was a freethinker, and

that all this was due to that “cursed woman’s rights question.”

Half an hour after this conversation, she went off to town, and thence

to the Kammenny Ostrof, [“Stone Island,” a suburb and park of St.

Petersburg] to see Princess Bielokonski, who had just arrived from

Moscow on a short visit. The princess was Aglaya’s godmother.

“Old Bielokonski” listened to all the fevered and despairing

lamentations of Lizabetha Prokofievna without the least emotion; the

tears of this sorrowful mother did not evoke answering sighs—in fact,

she laughed at her. She was a dreadful old despot, this princess; she

could not allow equality in anything, not even in friendship of the

oldest standing, and she insisted on treating Mrs. Epanchin as her

_protégée_, as she had been thirty-five years ago. She could never put

up with the independence and energy of Lizabetha’s character. She

observed that, as usual, the whole family had gone much too far ahead,

and had converted a fly into an elephant; that, so far as she had heard

their story, she was persuaded that nothing of any seriousness had

occurred; that it would surely be better to wait until something _did_

happen; that the prince, in her opinion, was a very decent young

fellow, though perhaps a little eccentric, through illness, and not

quite as weighty in the world as one could wish. The worst feature was,

she said, Nastasia Philipovna.

Lizabetha Prokofievna well understood that the old lady was angry at

the failure of Evgenie Pavlovitch—her own recommendation. She returned

home to Pavlofsk in a worse humour than when she left, and of course

everybody in the house suffered. She pitched into everyone, because,

she declared, they had ‘gone mad.’ Why were things always mismanaged in

her house? Why had everybody been in such a frantic hurry in this

matter? So far as she could see, nothing whatever had happened. Surely

they had better wait and see what was to happen, instead of making

mountains out of molehills.

And so the conclusion of the matter was that it would be far better to

take it quietly, and wait coolly to see what would turn up. But, alas!

peace did not reign for more than ten minutes. The first blow dealt to

its power was in certain news communicated to Lizabetha Prokofievna as

to events which had happened during her trip to see the princess. (This

trip had taken place the day after that on which the prince had turned

up at the Epanchins at nearly one o’clock at night, thinking it was

nine.)

The sisters replied candidly and fully enough to their mother’s

impatient questions on her return. They said, in the first place, that

nothing particular had happened since her departure; that the prince

had been, and that Aglaya had kept him waiting a long while before she

appeared—half an hour, at least; that she had then come in, and

immediately asked the prince to have a game of chess; that the prince

did not know the game, and Aglaya had beaten him easily; that she had

been in a wonderfully merry mood, and had laughed at the prince, and

chaffed him so unmercifully that one was quite sorry to see his

wretched expression.

She had then asked him to play cards—the game called “little fools.” At

this game the tables were turned completely, for the prince had shown

himself a master at it. Aglaya had cheated and changed cards, and

stolen others, in the most bare-faced way, but, in spite of everything

the prince had beaten her hopelessly five times running, and she had

been left “little fool” each time.

Aglaya then lost her temper, and began to say such awful things to the

prince that he laughed no more, but grew dreadfully pale, especially

when she said that she should not remain in the house with him, and

that he ought to be ashamed of coming to their house at all, especially

at night, “_after all that had happened_.”

So saying, she had left the room, banging the door after her, and the

prince went off, looking as though he were on his way to a funeral, in

spite of all their attempts at consolation.

Suddenly, a quarter of an hour after the prince’s departure, Aglaya had

rushed out of her room in such a hurry that she had not even wiped her

eyes, which were full of tears. She came back because Colia had brought

a hedgehog. Everybody came in to see the hedgehog. In answer to their

questions Colia explained that the hedgehog was not his, and that he

had left another boy, Kostia Lebedeff, waiting for him outside. Kostia

was too shy to come in, because he was carrying a hatchet; they had

bought the hedgehog and the hatchet from a peasant whom they had met on

the road. He had offered to sell them the hedgehog, and they had paid

fifty copecks for it; and the hatchet had so taken their fancy that

they had made up their minds to buy it of their own accord. On hearing

this, Aglaya urged Colia to sell her the hedgehog; she even called him

“dear Colia,” in trying to coax him. He refused for a long time, but at

last he could hold out no more, and went to fetch Kostia Lebedeff. The

latter appeared, carrying his hatchet, and covered with confusion. Then

it came out that the hedgehog was not theirs, but the property of a

schoolmate, one Petroff, who had given them some money to buy

Schlosser’s History for him, from another schoolfellow who at that

moment was driven to raising money by the sale of his books. Colia and

Kostia were about to make this purchase for their friend when chance

brought the hedgehog to their notice, and they had succumbed to the

temptation of buying it. They were now taking Petroff the hedgehog and

hatchet which they had bought with his money, instead of Schlosser’s

History. But Aglaya so entreated them that at last they consented to

sell her the hedgehog. As soon as she had got possession of it, she put

it in a wicker basket with Colia’s help, and covered it with a napkin.

Then she said to Colia: “Go and take this hedgehog to the prince from

me, and ask him to accept it as a token of my profound respect.” Colia

joyfully promised to do the errand, but he demanded explanations. “What

does the hedgehog mean? What is the meaning of such a present?” Aglaya

replied that it was none of his business. “I am sure that there is some

allegory about it,” Colia persisted. Aglaya grew angry, and called him

“a silly boy.” “If I did not respect all women in your person,” replied

Colia, “and if my own principles would permit it, I would soon prove to

you, that I know how to answer such an insult!” But, in the end, Colia

went off with the hedgehog in great delight, followed by Kostia

Lebedeff. Aglaya’s annoyance was soon over, and seeing that Colia was

swinging the hedgehog’s basket violently to and fro, she called out to

him from the verandah, as if they had never quarrelled: “Colia, dear,

please take care not to drop him!” Colia appeared to have no grudge

against her, either, for he stopped, and answered most cordially: “No,

I will not drop him! Don’t be afraid, Aglaya Ivanovna!” After which he

went on his way. Aglaya burst out laughing and ran up to her room,

highly delighted. Her good spirits lasted the whole day.

All this filled poor Lizabetha’s mind with chaotic confusion. What on

earth did it all mean? The most disturbing feature was the hedgehog.

What was the symbolic signification of a hedgehog? What did they

understand by it? What underlay it? Was it a cryptic message?

Poor General Epanchin “put his foot in it” by answering the above

questions in his own way. He said there was no cryptic message at all.

As for the hedgehog, it was just a hedgehog, which meant

nothing—unless, indeed, it was a pledge of friendship,—the sign of

forgetting of offences and so on. At all events, it was a joke, and, of

course, a most pardonable and innocent one.

We may as well remark that the general had guessed perfectly

accurately.

The prince, returning home from the interview with Aglaya, had sat

gloomy and depressed for half an hour. He was almost in despair when

Colia arrived with the hedgehog.

Then the sky cleared in a moment. The prince seemed to arise from the

dead; he asked Colia all about it, made him repeat the story over and

over again, and laughed and shook hands with the boys in his delight.

It seemed clear to the prince that Aglaya forgave him, and that he

might go there again this very evening; and in his eyes that was not

only the main thing, but everything in the world.

“What children we are still, Colia!” he cried at last,

enthusiastically,—“and how delightful it is that we can be children

still!”

“Simply—my dear prince,—simply she is in love with you,—that’s the

whole of the secret!” replied Colia, with authority.

The prince blushed, but this time he said nothing. Colia burst out

laughing and clapped his hands. A minute later the prince laughed too,

and from this moment until the evening he looked at his watch every

other minute to see how much time he had to wait before evening came.

But the situation was becoming rapidly critical.

Mrs. Epanchin could bear her suspense no longer, and in spite of the

opposition of husband and daughters, she sent for Aglaya, determined to

get a straightforward answer out of her, once for all.

“Otherwise,” she observed hysterically, “I shall die before evening.”

It was only now that everyone realized to what a ridiculous dead-lock

the whole matter had been brought. Excepting feigned surprise,

indignation, laughter, and jeering—both at the prince and at everyone

who asked her questions,—nothing could be got out of Aglaya.

Lizabetha Prokofievna went to bed and only rose again in time for tea,

when the prince might be expected.

She awaited him in trembling agitation; and when he at last arrived she

nearly went off into hysterics.

Muishkin himself came in very timidly. He seemed to feel his way, and

looked in each person’s eyes in a questioning way,—for Aglaya was

absent, which fact alarmed him at once.

This evening there were no strangers present—no one but the immediate

members of the family. Prince S. was still in town, occupied with the

affairs of Evgenie Pavlovitch’s uncle.

“I wish at least _he_ would come and say something!” complained poor

Lizabetha Prokofievna.

The general sat still with a most preoccupied air. The sisters were

looking very serious and did not speak a word, and Lizabetha

Prokofievna did not know how to commence the conversation.

At length she plunged into an energetic and hostile criticism of

railways, and glared at the prince defiantly.

Alas Aglaya still did not come—and the prince was quite lost. He had

the greatest difficulty in expressing his opinion that railways were

most useful institutions,—and in the middle of his speech Adelaida

laughed, which threw him into a still worse state of confusion.

At this moment in marched Aglaya, as calm and collected as could be.

She gave the prince a ceremonious bow and solemnly took up a prominent

position near the big round table. She looked at the prince

questioningly.

All present realized that the moment for the settlement of perplexities

had arrived.

“Did you get my hedgehog?” she inquired, firmly and almost angrily.

“Yes, I got it,” said the prince, blushing.

“Tell us now, at once, what you made of the present? I must have you

answer this question for mother’s sake; she needs pacifying, and so do

all the rest of the family!”

“Look here, Aglaya—” began the general.

“This—this is going beyond all limits!” said Lizabetha Prokofievna,

suddenly alarmed.

“It is not in the least beyond all limits, mamma!” said her daughter,

firmly. “I sent the prince a hedgehog this morning, and I wish to hear

his opinion of it. Go on, prince.”

“What—what sort of opinion, Aglaya Ivanovna?”

“About the hedgehog.”

“That is—I suppose you wish to know how I received the hedgehog, Aglaya

Ivanovna,—or, I should say, how I regarded your sending him to me? In

that case, I may tell you—in a word—that I—in fact—”

He paused, breathless.

“Come—you haven’t told us much!” said Aglaya, after waiting some five

seconds. “Very well, I am ready to drop the hedgehog, if you like; but

I am anxious to be able to clear up this accumulation of

misunderstandings. Allow me to ask you, prince,—I wish to hear from

you, personally—are you making me an offer, or not?”

“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Lizabetha Prokofievna. The prince

started. The general stiffened in his chair; the sisters frowned.

“Don’t deceive me now, prince—tell the truth. All these people

persecute me with astounding questions—about you. Is there any ground

for all these questions, or not? Come!”

“I have not asked you to marry me yet, Aglaya Ivanovna,” said the

prince, becoming suddenly animated; “but you know yourself how much I

love you and trust you.”

“No—I asked you this—answer this! Do you intend to ask for my hand, or

not?”

“Yes—I do ask for it!” said the prince, more dead than alive now.

There was a general stir in the room.