Aglaya, if that’s how the matter stands. It’s impossible. Prince,
forgive it, my dear fellow, but—Lizabetha Prokofievna!”—he appealed to
his spouse for help—“you must really—”
“Not I—not I! I retire from all responsibility,” said Lizabetha
Prokofievna, with a wave of the hand.
“Allow me to speak, please, mamma,” said Aglaya. “I think I ought to
have something to say in the matter. An important moment of my destiny
is about to be decided”—(this is how Aglaya expressed herself)—“and I
wish to find out how the matter stands, for my own sake, though I am
glad you are all here. Allow me to ask you, prince, since you cherish
those intentions, how you consider that you will provide for my
happiness?”
“I—I don’t quite know how to answer your question, Aglaya Ivanovna.
What is there to say to such a question? And—and must I answer?”
“I think you are rather overwhelmed and out of breath. Have a little
rest, and try to recover yourself. Take a glass of water, or—but
they’ll give you some tea directly.”
“I love you, Aglaya Ivanovna,—I love you very much. I love only
you—and—please don’t jest about it, for I do love you very much.”
“Well, this matter is important. We are not children—we must look into
it thoroughly. Now then, kindly tell me—what does your fortune consist
of?”
“No—Aglaya—come, enough of this, you mustn’t behave like this,” said
her father, in dismay.
“It’s disgraceful,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna in a loud whisper.
“She’s mad—quite!” said Alexandra.
“Fortune—money—do you mean?” asked the prince in some surprise.
“Just so.”
“I have now—let’s see—I have a hundred and thirty-five thousand
roubles,” said the prince, blushing violently.
“Is that all, really?” said Aglaya, candidly, without the slightest
show of confusion. “However, it’s not so bad, especially if managed
with economy. Do you intend to serve?”
“I—I intended to try for a certificate as private tutor.”
“Very good. That would increase our income nicely. Have you any
intention of being a Kammer-junker?”
“A Kammer-junker? I had not thought of it, but—”
But here the two sisters could restrain themselves no longer, and both
of them burst into irrepressible laughter.
Adelaida had long since detected in Aglaya’s features the gathering
signs of an approaching storm of laughter, which she restrained with
amazing self-control.
Aglaya looked menacingly at her laughing sisters, but could not contain
herself any longer, and the next minute she too had burst into an
irrepressible, and almost hysterical, fit of mirth. At length she
jumped up, and ran out of the room.
“I knew it was all a joke!” cried Adelaida. “I felt it ever since—since
the hedgehog.”
“No, no! I cannot allow this,—this is a little too much,” cried
Lizabetha Prokofievna, exploding with rage, and she rose from her seat
and followed Aglaya out of the room as quickly as she could.
The two sisters hurriedly went after her.
The prince and the general were the only two persons left in the room.
“It’s—it’s really—now could you have imagined anything like it, Lef
Nicolaievitch?” cried the general. He was evidently so much agitated
that he hardly knew what he wished to say. “Seriously now, seriously I
mean—”
“I only see that Aglaya Ivanovna is laughing at me,” said the poor
prince, sadly.
“Wait a bit, my boy, I’ll just go—you stay here, you know. But do just
explain, if you can, Lef Nicolaievitch, how in the world has all this
come about? And what does it all mean? You must understand, my dear
fellow; I am a father, you see, and I ought to be allowed to understand
the matter—do explain, I beg you!”
“I love Aglaya Ivanovna—she knows it,—and I think she must have long
known it.”
The general shrugged his shoulders.
“Strange—it’s strange,” he said, “and you love her very much?”
“Yes, very much.”
“Well—it’s all most strange to me. That is—my dear fellow, it is such a
surprise—such a blow—that... You see, it is not your financial position
(though I should not object if you were a bit richer)—I am thinking of
my daughter’s happiness, of course, and the thing is—are you able to
give her the happiness she deserves? And then—is all this a joke on her
part, or is she in earnest? I don’t mean on your side, but on hers.”
At this moment Alexandra’s voice was heard outside the door, calling
out “Papa!”
“Wait for me here, my boy—will you? Just wait and think it all over,
and I’ll come back directly,” he said hurriedly, and made off with what
looked like the rapidity of alarm in response to Alexandra’s call.
He found the mother and daughter locked in one another’s arms, mingling
their tears.
These were the tears of joy and peace and reconciliation. Aglaya was
kissing her mother’s lips and cheeks and hands; they were hugging each
other in the most ardent way.
“There, look at her now—Ivan Fedorovitch! Here she is—all of her! This
is our _real_ Aglaya at last!” said Lizabetha Prokofievna.
Aglaya raised her happy, tearful face from her mother’s breast, glanced
at her father, and burst out laughing. She sprang at him and hugged him
too, and kissed him over and over again. She then rushed back to her
mother and hid her face in the maternal bosom, and there indulged in
more tears. Her mother covered her with a corner of her shawl.
“Oh, you cruel little girl! How will you treat us all next, I wonder?”
she said, but she spoke with a ring of joy in her voice, and as though
she breathed at last without the oppression which she had felt so long.
“Cruel?” sobbed Aglaya. “Yes, I _am_ cruel, and worthless, and
spoiled—tell father so,—oh, here he is—I forgot Father, listen!” She
laughed through her tears.
“My darling, my little idol,” cried the general, kissing and fondling
her hands (Aglaya did not draw them away); “so you love this young man,
do you?”
“No, no, no, can’t _bear_ him, I can’t _bear_ your young man!” cried
Aglaya, raising her head. “And if you dare say that _once_ more,
papa—I’m serious, you know, I’m,—do you hear me—I’m serious!”
She certainly did seem to be serious enough. She had flushed up all
over and her eyes were blazing.
The general felt troubled and remained silent, while Lizabetha
Prokofievna telegraphed to him from behind Aglaya to ask no questions.
“If that’s the case, darling—then, of course, you shall do exactly as
you like. He is waiting alone downstairs. Hadn’t I better hint to him
gently that he can go?” The general telegraphed to Lizabetha
Prokofievna in his turn.
“No, no, you needn’t do anything of the sort; you mustn’t hint gently
at all. I’ll go down myself directly. I wish to apologize to this young
man, because I hurt his feelings.”
“Yes, _seriously_,” said the general, gravely.
“Well, you’d better stay here, all of you, for a little, and I’ll go
down to him alone to begin with. I’ll just go in and then you can
follow me almost at once. That’s the best way.”
She had almost reached the door when she turned round again.
“I shall laugh—I know I shall; I shall die of laughing,” she said,
lugubriously.
However, she turned and ran down to the prince as fast as her feet
could carry her.
“Well, what does it all mean? What do you make of it?” asked the
general of his spouse, hurriedly.
“I hardly dare say,” said Lizabetha, as hurriedly, “but I think it’s as
plain as anything can be.”
“I think so too, as clear as day; she loves him.”
“Loves him? She is head over ears in love, that’s what she is,” put in
Alexandra.
“Well, God bless her, God bless her, if such is her destiny,” said
Lizabetha, crossing herself devoutly.
“H’m destiny it is,” said the general, “and there’s no getting out of
destiny.”
With these words they all moved off towards the drawing-room, where
another surprise awaited them. Aglaya had not only not laughed, as she
had feared, but had gone to the prince rather timidly, and said to him:
“Forgive a silly, horrid, spoilt girl”—(she took his hand here)—“and be
quite assured that we all of us esteem you beyond all words. And if I
dared to turn your beautiful, admirable simplicity to ridicule, forgive
me as you would a little child its mischief. Forgive me all my
absurdity of just now, which, of course, meant nothing, and could not
have the slightest consequence.” She spoke these words with great
emphasis.
Her father, mother, and sisters came into the room and were much struck
with the last words, which they just caught as they entered—“absurdity
which of course meant nothing”—and still more so with the emphasis with
which Aglaya had spoken.
They exchanged glances questioningly, but the prince did not seem to
have understood the meaning of Aglaya’s words; he was in the highest
heaven of delight.
“Why do you speak so?” he murmured. “Why do you ask my forgiveness?”
He wished to add that he was unworthy of being asked for forgiveness by
her, but paused. Perhaps he did understand Aglaya’s sentence about
“absurdity which meant nothing,” and like the strange fellow that he
was, rejoiced in the words.
Undoubtedly the fact that he might now come and see Aglaya as much as
he pleased again was quite enough to make him perfectly happy; that he
might come and speak to her, and see her, and sit by her, and walk with
her—who knows, but that all this was quite enough to satisfy him for
the whole of his life, and that he would desire no more to the end of
time?
(Lizabetha Prokofievna felt that this might be the case, and she didn’t
like it; though very probably she could not have put the idea into
words.)
It would be difficult to describe the animation and high spirits which
distinguished the prince for the rest of the evening.
He was so happy that “it made one feel happy to look at him,” as
Aglaya’s sisters expressed it afterwards. He talked, and told stories
just as he had done once before, and never since, namely on the very
first morning of his acquaintance with the Epanchins, six months ago.
Since his return to Petersburg from Moscow, he had been remarkably
silent, and had told Prince S. on one occasion, before everyone, that
he did not think himself justified in degrading any thought by his
unworthy words.
But this evening he did nearly all the talking himself, and told
stories by the dozen, while he answered all questions put to him
clearly, gladly, and with any amount of detail.
There was nothing, however, of love-making in his talk. His ideas were
all of the most serious kind; some were even mystical and profound.
He aired his own views on various matters, some of his most private
opinions and observations, many of which would have seemed rather
funny, so his hearers agreed afterwards, had they not been so well
expressed.
The general liked serious subjects of conversation; but both he and
Lizabetha Prokofievna felt that they were having a little too much of a
good thing tonight, and as the evening advanced, they both grew more or
less melancholy; but towards night, the prince fell to telling funny
stories, and was always the first to burst out laughing himself, which
he invariably did so joyously and simply that the rest laughed just as
much at him as at his stories.
As for Aglaya, she hardly said a word all the evening; but she listened
with all her ears to Lef Nicolaievitch’s talk, and scarcely took her
eyes off him.
“She looked at him, and stared and stared, and hung on every word he
said,” said Lizabetha afterwards, to her husband, “and yet, tell her
that she loves him, and she is furious!”
“What’s to be done? It’s fate,” said the general, shrugging his
shoulders, and, for a long while after, he continued to repeat: “It’s
fate, it’s fate!”
We may add that to a business man like General Epanchin the present
position of affairs was most unsatisfactory. He hated the uncertainty
in which they had been, perforce, left. However, he decided to say no
more about it, and merely to look on, and take his time and tune from
Lizabetha Prokofievna.
The happy state in which the family had spent the evening, as just
recorded, was not of very long duration. Next day Aglaya quarrelled
with the prince again, and so she continued to behave for the next few
days. For whole hours at a time she ridiculed and chaffed the wretched
man, and made him almost a laughing-stock.
It is true that they used to sit in the little summer-house together
for an hour or two at a time, very often, but it was observed that on
these occasions the prince would read the paper, or some book, aloud to
Aglaya.
“Do you know,” Aglaya said to him once, interrupting the reading, “I’ve
remarked that you are dreadfully badly educated. You never know
anything thoroughly, if one asks you; neither anyone’s name, nor dates,
nor about treaties and so on. It’s a great pity, you know!”
“I told you I had not had much of an education,” replied the prince.
“How am I to respect you, if that’s the case? Read on now. No—don’t!
Stop reading!”
And once more, that same evening, Aglaya mystified them all. Prince S.
had returned, and Aglaya was particularly amiable to him, and asked a
great deal after Evgenie Pavlovitch. (Muishkin had not come in as yet.)
Suddenly Prince S. hinted something about “a new and approaching change
in the family.” He was led to this remark by a communication
inadvertently made to him by Lizabetha Prokofievna, that Adelaida’s
marriage must be postponed a little longer, in order that the two
weddings might come off together.
It is impossible to describe Aglaya’s irritation. She flared up, and
said some indignant words about “all these silly insinuations.” She
added that “she had no intentions as yet of replacing anybody’s
mistress.”
These words painfully impressed the whole party; but especially her
parents. Lizabetha Prokofievna summoned a secret council of two, and
insisted upon the general’s demanding from the prince a full
explanation of his relations with Nastasia Philipovna. The general
argued that it was only a whim of Aglaya’s; and that, had not Prince S.
unfortunately made that remark, which had confused the child and made
her blush, she never would have said what she did; and that he was sure
Aglaya knew well that anything she might have heard of the prince and
Nastasia Philipovna was merely the fabrication of malicious tongues,
and that the woman was going to marry Rogojin. He insisted that the
prince had nothing whatever to do with Nastasia Philipovna, so far as
any liaison was concerned; and, if the truth were to be told about it,
he added, never had had.
Meanwhile nothing put the prince out, and he continued to be in the
seventh heaven of bliss. Of course he could not fail to observe some
impatience and ill-temper in Aglaya now and then; but he believed in
something else, and nothing could now shake his conviction. Besides,
Aglaya’s frowns never lasted long; they disappeared of themselves.
Perhaps he was too easy in his mind. So thought Hippolyte, at all
events, who met him in the park one day.
“Didn’t I tell you the truth now, when I said you were in love?” he
said, coming up to Muishkin of his own accord, and stopping him.
The prince gave him his hand and congratulated him upon “looking so
well.”
Hippolyte himself seemed to be hopeful about his state of health, as is
often the case with consumptives.
He had approached the prince with the intention of talking
sarcastically about his happy expression of face, but very soon forgot
his intention and began to talk about himself. He began complaining
about everything, disconnectedly and endlessly, as was his wont.
“You wouldn’t believe,” he concluded, “how irritating they all are
there. They are such wretchedly small, vain, egotistical, _commonplace_
people! Would you believe it, they invited me there under the express
condition that I should die quickly, and they are all as wild as
possible with me for not having died yet, and for being, on the
contrary, a good deal better! Isn’t it a comedy? I don’t mind betting
that you don’t believe me!”
The prince said nothing.
“I sometimes think of coming over to you again,” said Hippolyte,
carelessly. “So you _don’t_ think them capable of inviting a man on the
condition that he is to look sharp and die?”
“I certainly thought they invited you with quite other views.”
“Ho, ho! you are not nearly so simple as they try to make you out! This
is not the time for it, or I would tell you a thing or two about that
beauty, Gania, and his hopes. You are being undermined, pitilessly
undermined, and—and it is really melancholy to see you so calm about
it. But alas! it’s your nature—you can’t help it!”
“My word! what a thing to be melancholy about! Why, do you think I
should be any happier if I were to feel disturbed about the excavations
you tell me of?”
“It is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a
fool’s paradise! I suppose you don’t believe that you have a rival in
that quarter?”
“Your insinuations as to rivalry are rather cynical, Hippolyte. I’m
sorry to say I have no right to answer you! As for Gania, I put it to
you, _can_ any man have a happy mind after passing through what he has
had to suffer? I think that is the best way to look at it. He will
change yet, he has lots of time before him, and life is rich;
besides—besides...” the prince hesitated. “As to being undermined, I
don’t know what in the world you are driving at, Hippolyte. I think we
had better drop the subject!”
“Very well, we’ll drop it for a while. You can’t look at anything but
in your exalted, generous way. You must put out your finger and touch a
thing before you’ll believe it, eh? Ha! ha! ha! I suppose you despise
me dreadfully, prince, eh? What do you think?”
“Why? Because you have suffered more than we have?”
“No; because I am unworthy of my sufferings, if you like!”
“Whoever _can_ suffer is worthy to suffer, I should think. Aglaya
Ivanovna wished to see you, after she had read your confession, but—”
“She postponed the pleasure—I see—I quite understand!” said Hippolyte,
hurriedly, as though he wished to banish the subject. “I hear—they tell
me—that you read her all that nonsense aloud? Stupid bosh it
was—written in delirium. And I can’t understand how anyone can be so—I
won’t say _cruel_, because the word would be humiliating to myself, but
we’ll say childishly vain and revengeful, as to _reproach_ me with this
confession, and use it as a weapon against me. Don’t be afraid, I’m not
referring to yourself.”
“Oh, but I’m sorry you repudiate the confession, Hippolyte—it is
sincere; and, do you know, even the absurd parts of it—and these are
many” (here Hippolyte frowned savagely) “are, as it were, redeemed by
suffering—for it must have cost you something to admit what you there
say—great torture, perhaps, for all I know. Your motive must have been
a very noble one all through. Whatever may have appeared to the
contrary, I give you my word, I see this more plainly every day. I do
not judge you; I merely say this to have it off my mind, and I am only
sorry that I did not say it all _then_—”
Hippolyte flushed hotly. He had thought at first that the prince was
“humbugging” him; but on looking at his face he saw that he was
absolutely serious, and had no thought of any deception. Hippolyte
beamed with gratification.
“And yet I must die,” he said, and almost added: “a man like me!
“And imagine how that Gania annoys me! He has developed the idea—or
pretends to believe—that in all probability three or four others who
heard my confession will die before I do. There’s an idea for you—and
all this by way of _consoling_ me! Ha! ha! ha! In the first place they
haven’t died yet; and in the second, if they _did_ die—all of them—what
would be the satisfaction to me in that? He judges me by himself. But
he goes further, he actually pitches into me because, as he declares,
‘any decent fellow’ would die quietly, and that ‘all this’ is mere
egotism on my part. He doesn’t see what refinement of egotism it is on
his own part—and at the same time, what ox-like coarseness! Have you
ever read of the death of one Stepan Gleboff, in the eighteenth
century? I read of it yesterday by chance.”
“Who was he?”
“He was impaled on a stake in the time of Peter.”
“I know, I know! He lay there fifteen hours in the hard frost, and died
with the most extraordinary fortitude—I know—what of him?”
“Only that God gives that sort of dying to some, and not to others.
Perhaps you think, though, that I could not die like Gleboff?”
“Not at all!” said the prince, blushing. “I was only going to say that
you—not that you could not be like Gleboff—but that you would have been
more like—”
“I guess what you mean—I should be an Osterman, not a Gleboff—eh? Is
that what you meant?”
“What Osterman?” asked the prince in some surprise.
“Why, Osterman—the diplomatist. Peter’s Osterman,” muttered Hippolyte,
confused. There was a moment’s pause of mutual confusion.
“Oh, no, no!” said the prince at last, “that was not what I was going
to say—oh no! I don’t think you would ever have been like Osterman.”
Hippolyte frowned gloomily.
“I’ll tell you why I draw the conclusion,” explained the prince,
evidently desirous of clearing up the matter a little. “Because, though
I often think over the men of those times, I cannot for the life of me
imagine them to be like ourselves. It really appears to me that they
were of another race altogether than ourselves of today. At that time
people seemed to stick so to one idea; now, they are more nervous, more
sensitive, more enlightened—people of two or three ideas at once—as it
were. The man of today is a broader man, so to speak—and I declare I
believe that is what prevents him from being so self-contained and
independent a being as his brother of those earlier days. Of course my
remark was only made under this impression, and not in the least—”
“I quite understand. You are trying to comfort me for the naiveness
with which you disagreed with me—eh? Ha! ha! ha! You are a regular
child, prince! However, I cannot help seeing that you always treat me
like—like a fragile china cup. Never mind, never mind, I’m not a bit
angry! At all events we have had a very funny talk. Do you know, all
things considered, I should like to be something better than Osterman!
I wouldn’t take the trouble to rise from the dead to be an Osterman.
However, I see I must make arrangements to die soon, or I myself—.
Well—leave me now! _Au revoir._ Look here—before you go, just give me
your opinion: how do you think I ought to die, now? I mean—the best,
the most virtuous way? Tell me!”
“You should pass us by and forgive us our happiness,” said the prince
in a low voice.
“Ha! ha! ha! I thought so. I thought I should hear something like that.
Well, you are—you really are—oh dear me! Eloquence, eloquence!
Good-bye!”
VI.
As to the evening party at the Epanchins’ at which Princess Bielokonski
was to be present, Varia had reported with accuracy; though she had
perhaps expressed herself too strongly.
The thing was decided in a hurry and with a certain amount of quite
unnecessary excitement, doubtless because “nothing could be done in
this house like anywhere else.”
The impatience of Lizabetha Prokofievna “to get things settled”
explained a good deal, as well as the anxiety of both parents for the
happiness of their beloved daughter. Besides, Princess Bielokonski was
going away soon, and they hoped that she would take an interest in the
prince. They were anxious that he should enter society under the
auspices of this lady, whose patronage was the best of recommendations
for any young man.
Even if there seems something strange about the match, the general and
his wife said to each other, the “world” will accept Aglaya’s fiance
without any question if he is under the patronage of the princess. In
any case, the prince would have to be “shown” sooner or later; that is,
introduced into society, of which he had, so far, not the least idea.
Moreover, it was only a question of a small gathering of a few intimate
friends. Besides Princess Bielokonski, only one other lady was
expected, the wife of a high dignitary. Evgenie Pavlovitch, who was to
escort the princess, was the only young man.
Muishkin was told of the princess’s visit three days beforehand, but
nothing was said to him about the party until the night before it was
to take place.
He could not help observing the excited and agitated condition of all
members of the family, and from certain hints dropped in conversation
he gathered that they were all anxious as to the impression he should
make upon the princess. But the Epanchins, one and all, believed that
Muishkin, in his simplicity of mind, was quite incapable of realizing
that they could be feeling any anxiety on his account, and for this
reason they all looked at him with dread and uneasiness.
In point of fact, he did attach marvellously little importance to the
approaching event. He was occupied with altogether different thoughts.
Aglaya was growing hourly more capricious and gloomy, and this
distressed him. When they told him that Evgenie Pavlovitch was
expected, he evinced great delight, and said that he had long wished to
see him—and somehow these words did not please anyone.
Aglaya left the room in a fit of irritation, and it was not until late
in the evening, past eleven, when the prince was taking his departure,
that she said a word or two to him, privately, as she accompanied him
as far as the front door.
“I should like you,” she said, “not to come here tomorrow until
evening, when the guests are all assembled. You know there are to be
guests, don’t you?”
She spoke impatiently and with severity; this was the first allusion
she had made to the party of tomorrow.
She hated the idea of it, everyone saw that; and she would probably
have liked to quarrel about it with her parents, but pride and modesty
prevented her from broaching the subject.
The prince jumped to the conclusion that Aglaya, too, was nervous about
him, and the impression he would make, and that she did not like to
admit her anxiety; and this thought alarmed him.
“Yes, I am invited,” he replied.
She was evidently in difficulties as to how best to go on. “May I speak
of something serious to you, for once in my life?” she asked, angrily.
She was irritated at she knew not what, and could not restrain her
wrath.
“Of course you may; I am very glad to listen,” replied Muishkin.
Aglaya was silent a moment and then began again with evident dislike of
her subject:
“I do not wish to quarrel with them about this; in some things they
won’t be reasonable. I always did feel a loathing for the laws which
seem to guide mamma’s conduct at times. I don’t speak of father, for he
cannot be expected to be anything but what he is. Mother is a
noble-minded woman, I know; you try to suggest anything mean to her,
and you’ll see! But she is such a slave to these miserable creatures! I
don’t mean old Bielokonski alone. She is a contemptible old thing, but
she is able to twist people round her little finger, and I admire that
in her, at all events! How mean it all is, and how foolish! We were
always middle-class, thoroughly middle-class, people. Why should we
attempt to climb into the giddy heights of the fashionable world? My
sisters are all for it. It’s Prince S. they have to thank for poisoning
their minds. Why are you so glad that Evgenie Pavlovitch is coming?”
“Listen to me, Aglaya,” said the prince, “I do believe you are nervous
lest I shall make a fool of myself tomorrow at your party?”
“Nervous about you?” Aglaya blushed. “Why should I be nervous about
you? What would it matter to me if you were to make ever such a fool of
yourself? How can you say such a thing? What do you mean by ‘making a
fool of yourself’? What a vulgar expression! I suppose you intend to
talk in that sort of way tomorrow evening? Look up a few more such
expressions in your dictionary; do, you’ll make a grand effect! I’m
sorry that you seem to be able to come into a room as gracefully as you
do; where did you learn the art? Do you think you can drink a cup of
tea decently, when you know everybody is looking at you, on purpose to
see how you do it?”
“Yes, I think I can.”
“Can you? I’m sorry for it then, for I should have had a good laugh at
you otherwise. Do break _something_ at least, in the drawing-room!
Upset the Chinese vase, won’t you? It’s a valuable one; _do_ break it.
Mamma values it, and she’ll go out of her mind—it was a present. She’ll
cry before everyone, you’ll see! Wave your hand about, you know, as you
always do, and just smash it. Sit down near it on purpose.”
“On the contrary, I shall sit as far from it as I can. Thanks for the
hint.”
“Ha, ha! Then you are afraid you _will_ wave your arms about! I
wouldn’t mind betting that you’ll talk about some lofty subject,
something serious and learned. How delightful, how tactful that will
be!”
“I should think it would be very foolish indeed, unless it happened to
come in appropriately.”
“Look here, once for all,” cried Aglaya, boiling over, “if I hear you
talking about capital punishment, or the economical condition of
Russia, or about Beauty redeeming the world, or anything of that sort,
I’ll—well, of course I shall laugh and seem very pleased, but I warn
you beforehand, don’t look me in the face again! I’m serious now, mind,
this time I _am really_ serious.” She certainly did say this very
seriously, so much so, that she looked quite different from what she
usually was, and the prince could not help noticing the fact. She did
not seem to be joking in the slightest degree.
“Well, you’ve put me into such a fright that I shall certainly make a
fool of myself, and very likely break something too. I wasn’t a bit
alarmed before, but now I’m as nervous as can be.”
“Then don’t speak at all. Sit still and don’t talk.”
“Oh, I can’t do that, you know! I shall say something foolish out of
pure ‘funk,’ and break something for the same excellent reason; I know
I shall. Perhaps I shall slip and fall on the slippery floor; I’ve done
that before now, you know. I shall dream of it all night now. Why did
you say anything about it?”
Aglaya looked blackly at him.
“Do you know what, I had better not come at all tomorrow! I’ll plead
sick-list and stay away,” said the prince, with decision.
Aglaya stamped her foot, and grew quite pale with anger.
“Oh, my goodness! Just listen to that! ‘Better not come,’ when the
party is on purpose for him! Good Lord! What a delightful thing it is
to have to do with such a—such a stupid as you are!”
“Well, I’ll come, I’ll come,” interrupted the prince, hastily, “and
I’ll give you my word of honour that I will sit the whole evening and
not say a word.”
“I believe that’s the best thing you can do. You said you’d ‘plead
sick-list’ just now; where in the world do you get hold of such
expressions? Why do you talk to me like this? Are you trying to
irritate me, or what?”
“Forgive me, it’s a schoolboy expression. I won’t do it again. I know
quite well, I see it, that you are anxious on my account (now, don’t be
angry), and it makes me very happy to see it. You wouldn’t believe how
frightened I am of misbehaving somehow, and how glad I am of your
instructions. But all this panic is simply nonsense, you know, Aglaya!
I give you my word it is; I am so pleased that you are such a child,
such a dear good child. How _charming_ you can be if you like, Aglaya.”
Aglaya wanted to be angry, of course, but suddenly some quite
unexpected feeling seized upon her heart, all in a moment.
“And you won’t reproach me for all these rude words of mine—some
day—afterwards?” she asked, of a sudden.
“What an idea! Of course not. And what are you blushing for again? And
there comes that frown once more! You’ve taken to looking too gloomy
sometimes, Aglaya, much more than you used to. I know why it is.”
“Be quiet, do be quiet!”
“No, no, I had much better speak out. I have long wished to say it, and
_have_ said it, but that’s not enough, for you didn’t believe me.
Between us two there stands a being who—”
“Be quiet, be quiet, be quiet, be quiet!” Aglaya struck in, suddenly,
seizing his hand in hers, and gazing at him almost in terror.
At this moment she was called by someone. She broke loose from him with
an air of relief and ran away.
The prince was in a fever all night. It was strange, but he had
suffered from fever for several nights in succession. On this
particular night, while in semi-delirium, he had an idea: what if on
the morrow he were to have a fit before everybody? The thought seemed
to freeze his blood within him. All night he fancied himself in some
extraordinary society of strange persons. The worst of it was that he
was talking nonsense; he knew that he ought not to speak at all, and
yet he talked the whole time; he seemed to be trying to persuade them
all to something. Evgenie and Hippolyte were among the guests, and
appeared to be great friends.
He awoke towards nine o’clock with a headache, full of confused ideas
and strange impressions. For some reason or other he felt most anxious
to see Rogojin, to see and talk to him, but what he wished to say he
could not tell. Next, he determined to go and see Hippolyte. His mind
was in a confused state, so much so that the incidents of the morning
seemed to be imperfectly realized, though acutely felt.
One of these incidents was a visit from Lebedeff. Lebedeff came rather
early—before ten—but he was tipsy already. Though the prince was not in
an observant condition, yet he could not avoid seeing that for at least
three days—ever since General Ivolgin had left the house Lebedeff had
been behaving very badly. He looked untidy and dirty at all times of
the day, and it was said that he had begun to rage about in his own
house, and that his temper was very bad. As soon as he arrived this
morning, he began to hold forth, beating his breast and apparently
blaming himself for something.
“I’ve—I’ve had a reward for my meanness—I’ve had a slap in the face,”
he concluded, tragically.
“A slap in the face? From whom? And so early in the morning?”
“Early?” said Lebedeff, sarcastically. “Time counts for nothing, even
in physical chastisement; but my slap in the face was not physical, it
was moral.”
He suddenly took a seat, very unceremoniously, and began his story. It
was very disconnected; the prince frowned, and wished he could get
away; but suddenly a few words struck him. He sat stiff with
wonder—Lebedeff said some extraordinary things.
In the first place he began about some letter; the name of Aglaya
Ivanovna came in. Then suddenly he broke off and began to accuse the
prince of something; he was apparently offended with him. At first he
declared that the prince had trusted him with his confidences as to “a
certain person” (Nastasia Philipovna), but that of late his friendship
had been thrust back into his bosom, and his innocent question as to
“approaching family changes” had been curtly put aside, which Lebedeff
declared, with tipsy tears, he could not bear; especially as he knew so
much already both from Rogojin and Nastasia Philipovna and her friend,
and from Varvara Ardalionovna, and even from Aglaya Ivanovna, through
his daughter Vera. “And who told Lizabetha Prokofievna something in
secret, by letter? Who told her all about the movements of a certain
person called Nastasia Philipovna? Who was the anonymous person, eh?
Tell me!”
“Surely not you?” cried the prince.
“Just so,” said Lebedeff, with dignity; “and only this very morning I
have sent up a letter to the noble lady, stating that I have a matter
of great importance to communicate. She received the letter; I know she
got it; and she received _me_, too.”
“Have you just seen Lizabetha Prokofievna?” asked the prince, scarcely
believing his ears.
“Yes, I saw her, and got the said slap in the face as mentioned. She
chucked the letter back to me unopened, and kicked me out of the house,
morally, not physically, although not far off it.”
“What letter do you mean she returned unopened?”
“What! didn’t I tell you? Ha, ha, ha! I thought I had. Why, I received
a letter, you know, to be handed over—”
“From whom? To whom?”
But it was difficult, if not impossible, to extract anything from
Lebedeff. All the prince could gather was, that the letter had been
received very early, and had a request written on the outside that it
might be sent on to the address given.
“Just as before, sir, just as before! To a certain person, and from a
certain hand. The individual’s name who wrote the letter is to be
represented by the letter A.—”
“What? Impossible! To Nastasia Philipovna? Nonsense!” cried the prince.
“It was, I assure you, and if not to her then to Rogojin, which is the
same thing. Mr. Hippolyte has had letters, too, and all from the
individual whose name begins with an A.,” smirked Lebedeff, with a
hideous grin.
As he kept jumping from subject to subject, and forgetting what he had
begun to talk about, the prince said nothing, but waited, to give him
time.
It was all very vague. Who had taken the letters, if letters there
were? Probably Vera—and how could Lebedeff have got them? In all
probability, he had managed to steal the present letter from Vera, and
had himself gone over to Lizabetha Prokofievna with some idea in his
head. So the prince concluded at last.
“You are mad!” he cried, indignantly.
“Not quite, esteemed prince,” replied Lebedeff, with some acerbity. “I
confess I thought of doing you the service of handing the letter over
to yourself, but I decided that it would pay me better to deliver it up
to the noble lady aforesaid, as I had informed her of everything
hitherto by anonymous letters; so when I sent her up a note from
myself, with the letter, you know, in order to fix a meeting for eight
o’clock this morning, I signed it ‘your secret correspondent.’ They let
me in at once—very quickly—by the back door, and the noble lady
received me.”
“Well? Go on.”
“Oh, well, when I saw her she almost punched my head, as I say; in fact
so nearly that one might almost say she did punch my head. She threw
the letter in my face; she seemed to reflect first, as if she would
have liked to keep it, but thought better of it and threw it in my face
instead. ‘If anybody can have been such a fool as to trust a man like
you to deliver the letter,’ says she, ‘take it and deliver it!’ Hey!
she was grandly indignant. A fierce, fiery lady that, sir!”
“Where’s the letter now?”
“Oh, I’ve still got it, here!”
And he handed the prince the very letter from Aglaya to Gania, which
the latter showed with so much triumph to his sister at a later hour.
“This letter cannot be allowed to remain in your hands.”
“It’s for you—for you! I’ve brought it you on purpose!” cried Lebedeff,
excitedly. “Why, I’m yours again now, heart and hand, your slave; there
was but a momentary pause in the flow of my love and esteem for you.
Mea culpa, mea culpa! as the Pope of Rome says.”
“This letter should be sent on at once,” said the prince, disturbed.
“I’ll hand it over myself.”
“Wouldn’t it be better, esteemed prince, wouldn’t it be better—to—don’t
you know—”
Lebedeff made a strange and very expressive grimace; he twisted about
in his chair, and did something, apparently symbolical, with his hands.
“What do you mean?” said the prince.
“Why, open it, for the time being, don’t you know?” he said, most
confidentially and mysteriously.
The prince jumped up so furiously that Lebedeff ran towards the door;
having gained which strategic position, however, he stopped and looked
back to see if he might hope for pardon.
“Oh, Lebedeff, Lebedeff! Can a man really sink to such depths of
meanness?” said the prince, sadly.
Lebedeff’s face brightened.
“Oh, I’m a mean wretch—a mean wretch!” he said, approaching the prince
once more, and beating his breast, with tears in his eyes.
“It’s abominable dishonesty, you know!”
“Dishonesty—it is, it is! That’s the very word!”
“What in the world induces you to act so? You are nothing but a spy.
Why did you write anonymously to worry so noble and generous a lady?
Why should not Aglaya Ivanovna write a note to whomever she pleases?
What did you mean to complain of today? What did you expect to get by
it? What made you go at all?”
“Pure amiable curiosity,—I assure you—desire to do a service. That’s
all. Now I’m entirely yours again, your slave; hang me if you like!”
“Did you go before Lizabetha Prokofievna in your present condition?”
inquired the prince.
“No—oh no, fresher—more the correct card. I only became this like after
the humiliation I suffered there.”
“Well—that’ll do; now leave me.”
This injunction had to be repeated several times before the man could
be persuaded to move. Even then he turned back at the door, came as far
as the middle of the room, and there went through his mysterious
motions designed to convey the suggestion that the prince should open
the letter. He did not dare put his suggestion into words again.
After this performance, he smiled sweetly and left the room on tiptoe.
All this had been very painful to listen to. One fact stood out certain
and clear, and that was that poor Aglaya must be in a state of great
distress and indecision and mental torment (“from jealousy,” the prince
whispered to himself). Undoubtedly in this inexperienced, but hot and
proud little head, there were all sorts of plans forming, wild and
impossible plans, maybe; and the idea of this so frightened the prince
that he could not make up his mind what to do. Something must be done,
that was clear.
He looked at the address on the letter once more. Oh, he was not in the
least degree alarmed about Aglaya writing such a letter; he could trust
her. What he did not like about it was that he could not trust Gania.
However, he made up his mind that he would himself take the note and
deliver it. Indeed, he went so far as to leave the house and walk up
the road, but changed his mind when he had nearly reached Ptitsin’s
door. However, he there luckily met Colia, and commissioned him to
deliver the letter to his brother as if direct from Aglaya. Colia asked
no questions but simply delivered it, and Gania consequently had no
suspicion that it had passed through so many hands.
Arrived home again, the prince sent for Vera Lebedeff and told her as
much as was necessary, in order to relieve her mind, for she had been
in a dreadful state of anxiety since she had missed the letter. She
heard with horror that her father had taken it. Muishkin learned from
her that she had on several occasions performed secret missions both
for Aglaya and for Rogojin, without, however, having had the slightest
idea that in so doing she might injure the prince in any way.
The latter, with one thing and another, was now so disturbed and
confused, that when, a couple of hours or so later, a message came from
Colia that the general was ill, he could hardly take the news in.
However, when he did master the fact, it acted upon him as a tonic by
completely distracting his attention. He went at once to Nina
Alexandrovna’s, whither the general had been carried, and stayed there
until the evening. He could do no good, but there are people whom to
have near one is a blessing at such times. Colia was in an almost
hysterical state; he cried continuously, but was running about all day,
all the same; fetching doctors, of whom he collected three; going to
the chemist’s, and so on.
The general was brought round to some extent, but the doctors declared
that he could not be said to be out of danger. Varia and Nina
Alexandrovna never left the sick man’s bedside; Gania was excited and
distressed, but would not go upstairs, and seemed afraid to look at the
patient. He wrung his hands when the prince spoke to him, and said that
“such a misfortune at such a moment” was terrible.
The prince thought he knew what Gania meant by “such a moment.”
Hippolyte was not in the house. Lebedeff turned up late in the
afternoon; he had been asleep ever since his interview with the prince
in the morning. He was quite sober now, and cried with real sincerity
over the sick general—mourning for him as though he were his own
brother. He blamed himself aloud, but did not explain why. He repeated
over and over again to Nina Alexandrovna that he alone was to blame—no
one else—but that he had acted out of “pure amiable curiosity,” and
that “the deceased,” as he insisted upon calling the still living
general, had been the greatest of geniuses.
He laid much stress on the genius of the sufferer, as if this idea must
be one of immense solace in the present crisis.
Nina Alexandrovna—seeing his sincerity of feeling—said at last, and
without the faintest suspicion of reproach in her voice: “Come,
come—don’t cry! God will forgive you!”
Lebedeff was so impressed by these words, and the tone in which they
were spoken, that he could not leave Nina Alexandrovna all the
evening—in fact, for several days. Till the general’s death, indeed, he
spent almost all his time at his side.
Twice during the day a messenger came to Nina Alexandrovna from the
Epanchins to inquire after the invalid.
When—late in the evening—the prince made his appearance in Lizabetha
Prokofievna’s drawing-room, he found it full of guests. Mrs. Epanchin
questioned him very fully about the general as soon as he appeared; and
when old Princess Bielokonski wished to know “who this general was, and
who was Nina Alexandrovna,” she proceeded to explain in a manner which
pleased the prince very much.
He himself, when relating the circumstances of the general’s illness to
Lizabetha Prokofievna, “spoke beautifully,” as Aglaya’s sisters
declared afterwards—“modestly, quietly, without gestures or too many
words, and with great dignity.” He had entered the room with propriety
and grace, and he was perfectly dressed; he not only did not “fall down
on the slippery floor,” as he had expressed it, but evidently made a
very favourable impression upon the assembled guests.
As for his own impression on entering the room and taking his seat, he
instantly remarked that the company was not in the least such as
Aglaya’s words had led him to fear, and as he had dreamed of—in
nightmare form—all night.
This was the first time in his life that he had seen a little corner of
what was generally known by the terrible name of “society.” He had long
thirsted, for reasons of his own, to penetrate the mysteries of the
magic circle, and, therefore, this assemblage was of the greatest
possible interest to him.
His first impression was one of fascination. Somehow or other he felt
that all these people must have been born on purpose to be together! It
seemed to him that the Epanchins were not having a party at all; that
these people must have been here always, and that he himself was one of
them—returned among them after a long absence, but one of them,
naturally and indisputably.
It never struck him that all this refined simplicity and nobility and
wit and personal dignity might possibly be no more than an exquisite
artistic polish. The majority of the guests—who were somewhat
empty-headed, after all, in spite of their aristocratic bearing—never
guessed, in their self-satisfied composure, that much of their
superiority was mere veneer, which indeed they had adopted
unconsciously and by inheritance.
The prince would never so much as suspect such a thing in the delight
of his first impression.
He saw, for instance, that one important dignitary, old enough to be
his grandfather, broke off his own conversation in order to listen to
_him_—a young and inexperienced man; and not only listened, but seemed
to attach value to his opinion, and was kind and amiable, and yet they
were strangers and had never seen each other before. Perhaps what most
appealed to the prince’s impressionability was the refinement of the
old man’s courtesy towards him. Perhaps the soil of his susceptible
nature was really predisposed to receive a pleasant impression.
Meanwhile all these people—though friends of the family and of each
other to a certain extent—were very far from being such intimate
friends of the family and of each other as the prince concluded. There
were some present who never would think of considering the Epanchins
their equals. There were even some who hated one another cordially. For
instance, old Princess Bielokonski had all her life despised the wife
of the “dignitary,” while the latter was very far from loving Lizabetha
Prokofievna. The dignitary himself had been General Epanchin’s
protector from his youth up; and the general considered him so majestic
a personage that he would have felt a hearty contempt for himself if he
had even for one moment allowed himself to pose as the great man’s
equal, or to think of him—in his fear and reverence—as anything less
than an Olympic God! There were others present who had not met for
years, and who had no feeling whatever for each other, unless it were
dislike; and yet they met tonight as though they had seen each other
but yesterday in some friendly and intimate assembly of kindred
spirits.
It was not a large party, however. Besides Princess Bielokonski and the
old dignitary (who was really a great man) and his wife, there was an
old military general—a count or baron with a German name, a man reputed
to possess great knowledge and administrative ability. He was one of
those Olympian administrators who know everything except Russia,
pronounce a word of extraordinary wisdom, admired by all, about once in
five years, and, after being an eternity in the service, generally die
full of honour and riches, though they have never done anything great,
and have even been hostile to all greatness. This general was Ivan
Fedorovitch’s immediate superior in the service; and it pleased the
latter to look upon him also as a patron. On the other hand, the great
man did not at all consider himself Epanchin’s patron. He was always
very cool to him, while taking advantage of his ready services, and
would instantly have put another in his place if there had been the
slightest reason for the change.
Another guest was an elderly, important-looking gentleman, a distant
relative of Lizabetha Prokofievna’s. This gentleman was rich, held a
good position, was a great talker, and had the reputation of being “one
of the dissatisfied,” though not belonging to the dangerous sections of
that class. He had the manners, to some extent, of the English
aristocracy, and some of their tastes (especially in the matter of
under-done roast beef, harness, men-servants, etc.). He was a great
friend of the dignitary’s, and Lizabetha Prokofievna, for some reason
or other, had got hold of the idea that this worthy intended at no
distant date to offer the advantages of his hand and heart to
Alexandra.
Besides the elevated and more solid individuals enumerated, there were
present a few younger though not less elegant guests. Besides Prince S.
and Evgenie Pavlovitch, we must name the eminent and fascinating Prince
N.—once the vanquisher of female hearts all over Europe. This gentleman
was no longer in the first bloom of youth—he was forty-five, but still
very handsome. He was well off, and lived, as a rule, abroad, and was
noted as a good teller of stories. Then came a few guests belonging to
a lower stratum of society—people who, like the Epanchins themselves,
moved only occasionally in this exalted sphere. The Epanchins liked to
draft among their more elevated guests a few picked representatives of
this lower stratum, and Lizabetha Prokofievna received much praise for
this practice, which proved, her friends said, that she was a woman of
tact. The Epanchins prided themselves upon the good opinion people held
of them.
One of the representatives of the middle-class present today was a
colonel of engineers, a very serious man and a great friend of Prince
S., who had introduced him to the Epanchins. He was extremely silent in
society, and displayed on the forefinger of his right hand a large
ring, probably bestowed upon him for services of some sort. There was
also a poet, German by name, but a Russian poet; very presentable, and
even handsome—the sort of man one could bring into society with
impunity. This gentleman belonged to a German family of decidedly
bourgeois origin, but he had a knack of acquiring the patronage of
“big-wigs,” and of retaining their favour. He had translated some great
German poem into Russian verse, and claimed to have been a friend of a
famous Russian poet, since dead. (It is strange how great a multitude
of literary people there are who have had the advantages of friendship
with some great man of their own profession who is, unfortunately,
dead.) The dignitary’s wife had introduced this worthy to the
Epanchins. This lady posed as the patroness of literary people, and she
certainly had succeeded in obtaining pensions for a few of them, thanks
to her influence with those in authority on such matters. She was a
lady of weight in her own way. Her age was about forty-five, so that
she was a very young wife for such an elderly husband as the dignitary.
She had been a beauty in her day and still loved, as many ladies of
forty-five do love, to dress a little too smartly. Her intellect was
nothing to boast of, and her literary knowledge very doubtful. Literary
patronage was, however, with her as much a mania as was the love of
gorgeous clothes. Many books and translations were dedicated to her by
her proteges, and a few of these talented individuals had published
some of their own letters to her, upon very weighty subjects.
This, then, was the society that the prince accepted at once as true
coin, as pure gold without alloy.
It so happened, however, that on this particular evening all these good
people were in excellent humour and highly pleased with themselves.
Every one of them felt that they were doing the Epanchins the greatest
possible honour by their presence. But alas! the prince never suspected
any such subtleties! For instance, he had no suspicion of the fact that
the Epanchins, having in their mind so important a step as the marriage
of their daughter, would never think of presuming to take it without
having previously “shown off” the proposed husband to the dignitary—the
recognized patron of the family. The latter, too, though he would
probably have received news of a great disaster to the Epanchin family
with perfect composure, would nevertheless have considered it a
personal offence if they had dared to marry their daughter without his
advice, or we might almost say, his leave.
The amiable and undoubtedly witty Prince N. could not but feel that he
was as a sun, risen for one night only to shine upon the Epanchin
drawing-room. He accounted them immeasurably his inferiors, and it was
this feeling which caused his special amiability and delightful ease
and grace towards them. He knew very well that he must tell some story
this evening for the edification of the company, and led up to it with
the inspiration of anticipatory triumph.
The prince, when he heard the story afterwards, felt that he had never
yet come across so wonderful a humorist, or such remarkable brilliancy
as was shown by this man; and yet if he had only known it, this story
was the oldest, stalest, and most worn-out yarn, and every drawing-room
in town was sick to death of it. It was only in the innocent Epanchin
household that it passed for a new and brilliant tale—as a sudden and
striking reminiscence of a splendid and talented man.
Even the German poet, though as amiable as possible, felt that he was
doing the house the greatest of honours by his presence in it.
But the prince only looked at the bright side; he did not turn the coat
and see the shabby lining.
Aglaya had not foreseen that particular calamity. She herself looked
wonderfully beautiful this evening. All three sisters were dressed very
tastefully, and their hair was done with special care.
Aglaya sat next to Evgenie Pavlovitch, and laughed and talked to him
with an unusual display of friendliness. Evgenie himself behaved rather
more sedately than usual, probably out of respect to the dignitary.
Evgenie had been known in society for a long while. He had appeared at
the Epanchins’ today with crape on his hat, and Princess Bielokonski
had commended this action on his part. Not every society man would have
worn crape for “such an uncle.” Lizabetha Prokofievna had liked it
also, but was too preoccupied to take much notice. The prince remarked
that Aglaya looked attentively at him two or three times, and seemed to
be satisfied with his behaviour.
Little by little he became very happy indeed. All his late anxieties
and apprehensions (after his conversation with Lebedeff) now appeared
like so many bad dreams—impossible, and even laughable.
He did not speak much, only answering such questions as were put to
him, and gradually settled down into unbroken silence, listening to
what went on, and steeped in perfect satisfaction and contentment.
Little by little a sort of inspiration, however, began to stir within
him, ready to spring into life at the right moment. When he did begin
to speak, it was accidentally, in response to a question, and
apparently without any special object.
VII.
While he feasted his eyes upon Aglaya, as she talked merrily with
Evgenie and Prince N., suddenly the old anglomaniac, who was talking to
the dignitary in another corner of the room, apparently telling him a
story about something or other—suddenly this gentleman pronounced the
name of “Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff” aloud. The prince quickly
turned towards him, and listened.
The conversation had been on the subject of land, and the present
disorders, and there must have been something amusing said, for the old
man had begun to laugh at his companion’s heated expressions.
The latter was describing in eloquent words how, in consequence of
recent legislation, he was obliged to sell a beautiful estate in the N.
province, not because he wanted ready money—in fact, he was obliged to
sell it at half its value. “To avoid another lawsuit about the
Pavlicheff estate, I ran away,” he said. “With a few more inheritances
of that kind I should soon be ruined!”
At this point General Epanchin, noticing how interested Muishkin had
become in the conversation, said to him, in a low tone:
“That gentleman—Ivan Petrovitch—is a relation of your late friend, Mr.
Pavlicheff. You wanted to find some of his relations, did you not?”
The general, who had been talking to his chief up to this moment, had
observed the prince’s solitude and silence, and was anxious to draw him
into the conversation, and so introduce him again to the notice of some
of the important personages.
“Lef Nicolaievitch was a ward of Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff, after
the death of his own parents,” he remarked, meeting Ivan Petrovitch’s
eye.
“Very happy to meet him, I’m sure,” remarked the latter. “I remember
Lef Nicolaievitch well. When General Epanchin introduced us just now, I
recognized you at once, prince. You are very little changed, though I
saw you last as a child of some ten or eleven years old. There was
something in your features, I suppose, that—”
“You saw me as a child!” exclaimed the prince, with surprise.
“Oh! yes, long ago,” continued Ivan Petrovitch, “while you were living
with my cousin at Zlatoverhoff. You don’t remember me? No, I dare say
you don’t; you had some malady at the time, I remember. It was so
serious that I was surprised—”
“No; I remember nothing!” said the prince. A few more words of
explanation followed, words which were spoken without the smallest
excitement by his companion, but which evoked the greatest agitation in
the prince; and it was discovered that two old ladies to whose care the
prince had been left by Pavlicheff, and who lived at Zlatoverhoff, were
also relations of Ivan Petrovitch.
The latter had no idea and could give no information as to why
Pavlicheff had taken so great an interest in the little prince, his
ward.
“In point of fact I don’t think I thought much about it,” said the old
fellow. He seemed to have a wonderfully good memory, however, for he
told the prince all about the two old ladies, Pavlicheff’s cousins, who
had taken care of him, and whom, he declared, he had taken to task for
being too severe with the prince as a small sickly boy—the elder
sister, at least; the younger had been kind, he recollected. They both
now lived in another province, on a small estate left to them by
Pavlicheff. The prince listened to all this with eyes sparkling with
emotion and delight.
He declared with unusual warmth that he would never forgive himself for
having travelled about in the central provinces during these last six
months without having hunted up his two old friends.
He declared, further, that he had intended to go every day, but had
always been prevented by circumstances; but that now he would promise
himself the pleasure—however far it was, he would find them out. And so
Ivan Petrovitch _really_ knew Natalia Nikitishna!—what a saintly nature
was hers!—and Martha Nikitishna! Ivan Petrovitch must excuse him, but
really he was not quite fair on dear old Martha. She was severe,
perhaps; but then what else could she be with such a little idiot as he
was then? (Ha, ha.) He really was an idiot then, Ivan Petrovitch must
know, though he might not believe it. (Ha, ha.) So he had really seen
him there! Good heavens! And was he really and truly and actually a
cousin of Pavlicheff’s?
“I assure you of it,” laughed Ivan Petrovitch, gazing amusedly at the
prince.
“Oh! I didn’t say it because I _doubt_ the fact, you know. (Ha, ha.)
How could I doubt such a thing? (Ha, ha, ha.) I made the remark
because—because Nicolai Andreevitch Pavlicheff was such a splendid man,
don’t you see! Such a high-souled man, he really was, I assure you.”
The prince did not exactly pant for breath, but he “seemed almost to
_choke_ out of pure simplicity and goodness of heart,” as Adelaida
expressed it, on talking the party over with her fiance, the Prince S.,
next morning.
“But, my goodness me,” laughed Ivan Petrovitch, “why can’t I be cousin
to even a splendid man?”
“Oh, dear!” cried the prince, confused, trying to hurry his words out,
and growing more and more eager every moment: “I’ve gone and said
another stupid thing. I don’t know what to say. I—I didn’t mean that,
you know—I—I—he really was such a splendid man, wasn’t he?”
The prince trembled all over. Why was he so agitated? Why had he flown
into such transports of delight without any apparent reason? He had far
outshot the measure of joy and emotion consistent with the occasion.
Why this was it would be difficult to say.
He seemed to feel warmly and deeply grateful to someone for something
or other—perhaps to Ivan Petrovitch; but likely enough to all the
guests, individually, and collectively. He was much too happy.
Ivan Petrovitch began to stare at him with some surprise; the
dignitary, too, looked at him with considerable attention; Princess
Bielokonski glared at him angrily, and compressed her lips. Prince N.,
Evgenie, Prince S., and the girls, all broke off their own
conversations and listened. Aglaya seemed a little startled; as for
Lizabetha Prokofievna, her heart sank within her.
This was odd of Lizabetha Prokofievna and her daughters. They had
themselves decided that it would be better if the prince did not talk
all the evening. Yet seeing him sitting silent and alone, but perfectly
happy, they had been on the point of exerting themselves to draw him
into one of the groups of talkers around the room. Now that he was in
the midst of a talk they became more than ever anxious and perturbed.
“That he was a splendid man is perfectly true; you are quite right,”
repeated Ivan Petrovitch, but seriously this time. “He was a fine and a
worthy fellow—worthy, one may say, of the highest respect,” he added,
more and more seriously at each pause; “and it is agreeable to see, on
your part, such—”
“Wasn’t it this same Pavlicheff about whom there was a strange story in
connection with some abbot? I don’t remember who the abbot was, but I
remember at one time everybody was talking about it,” remarked the old
dignitary.
“Yes—Abbot Gurot, a Jesuit,” said Ivan Petrovitch. “Yes, that’s the
sort of thing our best men are apt to do. A man of rank, too, and
rich—a man who, if he had continued to serve, might have done anything;
and then to throw up the service and everything else in order to go
over to Roman Catholicism and turn Jesuit—openly, too—almost
triumphantly. By Jove! it was positively a mercy that he died when he
did—it was indeed—everyone said so at the time.”
The prince was beside himself.
“Pavlicheff?—Pavlicheff turned Roman Catholic? Impossible!” he cried,
in horror.
“H’m! impossible is rather a strong word,” said Ivan Petrovitch. “You
must allow, my dear prince... However, of course you value the memory
of the deceased so very highly; and he certainly was the kindest of
men; to which fact, by the way, I ascribe, more than to anything else,
the success of the abbot in influencing his religious convictions. But
you may ask me, if you please, how much trouble and worry I,
personally, had over that business, and especially with this same
Gurot! Would you believe it,” he continued, addressing the dignitary,
“they actually tried to put in a claim under the deceased’s will, and I
had to resort to the very strongest measures in order to bring them to
their senses? I assure you they knew their cue, did these
gentlemen—wonderful! Thank goodness all this was in Moscow, and I got
the Court, you know, to help me, and we soon brought them to their
senses.”
“You wouldn’t believe how you have pained and astonished me,” cried the
prince.
“Very sorry; but in point of fact, you know, it was all nonsense and
would have ended in smoke, as usual—I’m sure of that. Last year,”—he
turned to the old man again,—“Countess K. joined some Roman Convent
abroad. Our people never seem to be able to offer any resistance so
soon as they get into the hands of these—intriguers—especially abroad.”
“That is all thanks to our lassitude, I think,” replied the old man,
with authority. “And then their way of preaching; they have a skilful
manner of doing it! And they know how to startle one, too. I got quite
a fright myself in ’32, in Vienna, I assure you; but I didn’t cave in
to them, I ran away instead, ha, ha!”
“Come, come, I’ve always heard that you ran away with the beautiful
Countess Levitsky that time—throwing up everything in order to do
it—and not from the Jesuits at all,” said Princess Bielokonski,
suddenly.
“Well, yes—but we call it from the Jesuits, you know; it comes to the
same thing,” laughed the old fellow, delighted with the pleasant
recollection.
“You seem to be very religious,” he continued, kindly, addressing the
prince, “which is a thing one meets so seldom nowadays among young
people.”
The prince was listening open-mouthed, and still in a condition of
excited agitation. The old man was evidently interested in him, and
anxious to study him more closely.
“Pavlicheff was a man of bright intellect and a good Christian, a
sincere Christian,” said the prince, suddenly. “How could he possibly
embrace a faith which is unchristian? Roman Catholicism is, so to
speak, simply the same thing as unchristianity,” he added with flashing
eyes, which seemed to take in everybody in the room.
“Come, that’s a little _too_ strong, isn’t it?” murmured the old man,
glancing at General Epanchin in surprise.
“How do you make out that the Roman Catholic religion is _unchristian?_
What is it, then?” asked Ivan Petrovitch, turning to the prince.
“It is not a Christian religion, in the first place,” said the latter,
in extreme agitation, quite out of proportion to the necessity of the
moment. “And in the second place, Roman Catholicism is, in my opinion,
worse than Atheism itself. Yes—that is my opinion. Atheism only
preaches a negation, but Romanism goes further; it preaches a
disfigured, distorted Christ—it preaches Anti-Christ—I assure you, I
swear it! This is my own personal conviction, and it has long
distressed me. The Roman Catholic believes that the Church on earth
cannot stand without universal temporal Power. He cries ‘non possumus!’
In my opinion the Roman Catholic religion is not a faith at all, but
simply a continuation of the Roman Empire, and everything is
subordinated to this idea—beginning with faith. The Pope has seized
territories and an earthly throne, and has held them with the sword.
And so the thing has gone on, only that to the sword they have added
lying, intrigue, deceit, fanaticism, superstition, swindling;—they have
played fast and loose with the most sacred and sincere feelings of
men;—they have exchanged everything—everything for money, for base
earthly _power!_ And is this not the teaching of Anti-Christ? How could
the upshot of all this be other than Atheism? Atheism is the child of
Roman Catholicism—it proceeded from these Romans themselves, though
perhaps they would not believe it. It grew and fattened on hatred of
its parents; it is the progeny of their lies and spiritual feebleness.
Atheism! In our country it is only among the upper classes that you
find unbelievers; men who have lost the root or spirit of their faith;
but abroad whole masses of the people are beginning to profess
unbelief—at first because of the darkness and lies by which they were
surrounded; but now out of fanaticism, out of loathing for the Church
and Christianity!”
The prince paused to get breath. He had spoken with extraordinary
rapidity, and was very pale.
All present interchanged glances, but at last the old dignitary burst
out laughing frankly. Prince N. took out his eye-glass to have a good
look at the speaker. The German poet came out of his corner and crept
nearer to the table, with a spiteful smile.
“You exaggerate the matter very much,” said Ivan Petrovitch, with
rather a bored air. “There are, in the foreign Churches, many
representatives of their faith who are worthy of respect and esteem.”
“Oh, but I did not speak of individual representatives. I was merely
talking about Roman Catholicism, and its essence—of Rome itself. A
Church can never entirely disappear; I never hinted at that!”
“Agreed that all this may be true; but we need not discuss a subject
which belongs to the domain of theology.”
“Oh, no; oh, no! Not to theology alone, I assure you! Why, Socialism is
the progeny of Romanism and of the Romanistic spirit. It and its
brother Atheism proceed from Despair in opposition to Catholicism. It
seeks to replace in itself the moral power of religion, in order to
appease the spiritual thirst of parched humanity and save it; not by
Christ, but by force. ‘Don’t dare to believe in God, don’t dare to
possess any individuality, any property! _Fraternité ou la Mort_; two
million heads. ‘By their works ye shall know them’—we are told. And we
must not suppose that all this is harmless and without danger to
ourselves. Oh, no; we must resist, and quickly, quickly! We must let
our Christ shine forth upon the Western nations, our Christ whom we
have preserved intact, and whom they have never known. Not as slaves,
allowing ourselves to be caught by the hooks of the Jesuits, but
carrying our Russian civilization to _them_, we must stand before them,
not letting it be said among us that their preaching is ‘skilful,’ as
someone expressed it just now.”
“But excuse me, excuse me;” cried Ivan Petrovitch considerably
disturbed, and looking around uneasily. “Your ideas are, of course,
most praiseworthy, and in the highest degree patriotic; but you
exaggerate the matter terribly. It would be better if we dropped the
subject.”
“No, sir, I do not exaggerate, I understate the matter, if anything,
undoubtedly understate it; simply because I cannot express myself as I
should like, but—”
“Allow me!”
The prince was silent. He sat straight up in his chair and gazed
fervently at Ivan Petrovitch.
“It seems to me that you have been too painfully impressed by the news
of what happened to your good benefactor,” said the old dignitary,
kindly, and with the utmost calmness of demeanour. “You are excitable,
perhaps as the result of your solitary life. If you would make up your
mind to live more among your fellows in society, I trust, I am sure,
that the world would be glad to welcome you, as a remarkable young man;
and you would soon find yourself able to look at things more calmly.
You would see that all these things are much simpler than you think;
and, besides, these rare cases come about, in my opinion, from ennui
and from satiety.”
“Exactly, exactly! That is a true thought!” cried the prince. “From
ennui, from our ennui but not from satiety! Oh, no, you are wrong
there! Say from _thirst_ if you like; the thirst of fever! And please
do not suppose that this is so small a matter that we may have a laugh
at it and dismiss it; we must be able to foresee our disasters and arm
against them. We Russians no sooner arrive at the brink of the water,
and realize that we are really at the brink, than we are so delighted
with the outlook that in we plunge and swim to the farthest point we
can see. Why is this? You say you are surprised at Pavlicheff’s action;
you ascribe it to madness, to kindness of heart, and what not, but it
is not so.
“Our Russian intensity not only astonishes ourselves; all Europe
wonders at our conduct in such cases! For, if one of us goes over to
Roman Catholicism, he is sure to become a Jesuit at once, and a rabid
one into the bargain. If one of us becomes an Atheist, he must needs
begin to insist on the prohibition of faith in God by force, that is,
by the sword. Why is this? Why does he then exceed all bounds at once?
Because he has found land at last, the fatherland that he sought in
vain before; and, because his soul is rejoiced to find it, he throws
himself upon it and kisses it! Oh, it is not from vanity alone, it is
not from feelings of vanity that Russians become Atheists and Jesuits!
But from spiritual thirst, from anguish of longing for higher things,
for dry firm land, for foothold on a fatherland which they never
believed in because they never knew it. It is easier for a Russian to
become an Atheist, than for any other nationality in the world. And not
only does a Russian ‘become an Atheist,’ but he actually _believes in_
Atheism, just as though he had found a new faith, not perceiving that
he has pinned his faith to a negation. Such is our anguish of thirst!
‘Whoso has no country has no God.’ That is not my own expression; it is
the expression of a merchant, one of the Old Believers, whom I once met
while travelling. He did not say exactly these words. I think his
expression was:
“‘Whoso forsakes his country forsakes his God.’
“But let these thirsty Russian souls find, like Columbus’ discoverers,
a new world; let them find the Russian world, let them search and
discover all the gold and treasure that lies hid in the bosom of their
own land! Show them the restitution of lost humanity, in the future, by
Russian thought alone, and by means of the God and of the Christ of our
Russian faith, and you will see how mighty and just and wise and good a
giant will rise up before the eyes of the astonished and frightened
world; astonished because they expect nothing but the sword from us,
because they think they will get nothing out of us but barbarism. This
has been the case up to now, and the longer matters go on as they are
now proceeding, the more clear will be the truth of what I say; and I—”
But at this moment something happened which put a most unexpected end
to the orator’s speech. All this heated tirade, this outflow of
passionate words and ecstatic ideas which seemed to hustle and tumble
over each other as they fell from his lips, bore evidence of some
unusually disturbed mental condition in the young fellow who had
“boiled over” in such a remarkable manner, without any apparent reason.
Of those who were present, such as knew the prince listened to his
outburst in a state of alarm, some with a feeling of mortification. It
was so unlike his usual timid self-constraint; so inconsistent with his
usual taste and tact, and with his instinctive feeling for the higher
proprieties. They could not understand the origin of the outburst; it
could not be simply the news of Pavlicheff’s perversion. By the ladies
the prince was regarded as little better than a lunatic, and Princess
Bielokonski admitted afterwards that “in another minute she would have
bolted.”
The two old gentlemen looked quite alarmed. The old general (Epanchin’s
chief) sat and glared at the prince in severe displeasure. The colonel
sat immovable. Even the German poet grew a little pale, though he wore
his usual artificial smile as he looked around to see what the others
would do.
In point of fact it is quite possible that the matter would have ended
in a very commonplace and natural way in a few minutes. The undoubtedly
astonished, but now more collected, General Epanchin had several times
endeavoured to interrupt the prince, and not having succeeded he was
now preparing to take firmer and more vigorous measures to attain his
end. In another minute or two he would probably have made up his mind
to lead the prince quietly out of the room, on the plea of his being
ill (and it was more than likely that the general was right in his
belief that the prince _was_ actually ill), but it so happened that
destiny had something different in store.
At the beginning of the evening, when the prince first came into the
room, he had sat down as far as possible from the Chinese vase which
Aglaya had spoken of the day before.
Will it be believed that, after Aglaya’s alarming words, an
ineradicable conviction had taken possession of his mind that, however
he might try to avoid this vase next day, he must certainly break it?
But so it was.
During the evening other impressions began to awaken in his mind, as we
have seen, and he forgot his presentiment. But when Pavlicheff was
mentioned and the general introduced him to Ivan Petrovitch, he had
changed his place, and went over nearer to the table; when, it so
happened, he took the chair nearest to the beautiful vase, which stood
on a pedestal behind him, just about on a level with his elbow.
As he spoke his last words he had risen suddenly from his seat with a
wave of his arm, and there was a general cry of horror.
The huge vase swayed backwards and forwards; it seemed to be uncertain
whether or no to topple over on to the head of one of the old men, but
eventually determined to go the other way, and came crashing over
towards the German poet, who darted out of the way in terror.
The crash, the cry, the sight of the fragments of valuable china
covering the carpet, the alarm of the company—what all this meant to
the poor prince it would be difficult to convey to the mind of the
reader, or for him to imagine.
But one very curious fact was that all the shame and vexation and
mortification which he felt over the accident were less powerful than
the deep impression of the almost supernatural truth of his
premonition. He stood still in alarm—in almost superstitious alarm, for
a moment; then all mists seemed to clear away from his eyes; he was
conscious of nothing but light and joy and ecstasy; his breath came and
went; but the moment passed. Thank God it was not that! He drew a long
breath and looked around.
For some minutes he did not seem to comprehend the excitement around
him; that is, he comprehended it and saw everything, but he stood
aside, as it were, like someone invisible in a fairy tale, as though he
had nothing to do with what was going on, though it pleased him to take
an interest in it.
He saw them gather up the broken bits of china; he heard the loud
talking of the guests and observed how pale Aglaya looked, and how very
strangely she was gazing at him. There was no hatred in her expression,
and no anger whatever. It was full of alarm for him, and sympathy and
affection, while she looked around at the others with flashing, angry
eyes. His heart filled with a sweet pain as he gazed at her.
At length he observed, to his amazement, that all had taken their seats
again, and were laughing and talking as though nothing had happened.
Another minute and the laughter grew louder—they were laughing at him,
at his dumb stupor—laughing kindly and merrily. Several of them spoke
to him, and spoke so kindly and cordially, especially Lizabetha
Prokofievna—she was saying the kindest possible things to him.
Suddenly he became aware that General Epanchin was tapping him on the
shoulder; Ivan Petrovitch was laughing too, but still more kind and
sympathizing was the old dignitary. He took the prince by the hand and
pressed it warmly; then he patted it, and quietly urged him to
recollect himself—speaking to him exactly as he would have spoken to a
little frightened child, which pleased the prince wonderfully; and next
seated him beside himself.
The prince gazed into his face with pleasure, but still seemed to have
no power to speak. His breath failed him. The old man’s face pleased
him greatly.
“Do you really forgive me?” he said at last. “And—and Lizabetha
Prokofievna too?” The laugh increased, tears came into the prince’s
eyes, he could not believe in all this kindness—he was enchanted.
“The vase certainly was a very beautiful one. I remember it here for
fifteen years—yes, quite that!” remarked Ivan Petrovitch.
“Oh, what a dreadful calamity! A wretched vase smashed, and a man half
dead with remorse about it,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna, loudly. “What
made you so dreadfully startled, Lef Nicolaievitch?” she added, a
little timidly. “Come, my dear boy! cheer up. You really alarm me,
taking the accident so to heart.”
“Do you forgive me all—_all_, besides the vase, I mean?” said the
prince, rising from his seat once more, but the old gentleman caught
his hand and drew him down again—he seemed unwilling to let him go.
“_C’est très-curieux et c’est très-sérieux_,” he whispered across the
table to Ivan Petrovitch, rather loudly. Probably the prince heard him.
“So that I have not offended any of you? You will not believe how happy
I am to be able to think so. It is as it should be. As if I _could_
offend anyone here! I should offend you again by even suggesting such a
thing.”
“Calm yourself, my dear fellow. You are exaggerating again; you really
have no occasion to be so grateful to us. It is a feeling which does
you great credit, but an exaggeration, for all that.”
“I am not exactly thanking you, I am only feeling a growing admiration
for you—it makes me happy to look at you. I dare say I am speaking very
foolishly, but I must speak—I must explain, if it be out of nothing
better than self-respect.”
All he said and did was abrupt, confused, feverish—very likely the
words he spoke, as often as not, were not those he wished to say. He
seemed to inquire whether he _might_ speak. His eyes lighted on
Princess Bielokonski.
“All right, my friend, talk away, talk away!” she remarked. “Only don’t
lose your breath; you were in such a hurry when you began, and look
what you’ve come to now! Don’t be afraid of speaking—all these ladies
and gentlemen have seen far stranger people than yourself; you don’t
astonish _them_. You are nothing out-of-the-way remarkable, you know.
You’ve done nothing but break a vase, and give us all a fright.”
The prince listened, smiling.
“Wasn’t it you,” he said, suddenly turning to the old gentleman, “who
saved the student Porkunoff and a clerk called Shoabrin from being sent
to Siberia, two or three months since?”
The old dignitary blushed a little, and murmured that the prince had
better not excite himself further.
“And I have heard of _you_,” continued the prince, addressing Ivan
Petrovitch, “that when some of your villagers were burned out you gave
them wood to build up their houses again, though they were no longer
your serfs and had behaved badly towards you.”
“Oh, come, come! You are exaggerating,” said Ivan Petrovitch, beaming
with satisfaction, all the same. He was right, however, in this
instance, for the report had reached the prince’s ears in an incorrect
form.
“And you, princess,” he went on, addressing Princess Bielokonski, “was
it not you who received me in Moscow, six months since, as kindly as
though I had been your own son, in response to a letter from Lizabetha
Prokofievna; and gave me one piece of advice, again as to your own son,
which I shall never forget? Do you remember?”
“What are you making such a fuss about?” said the old lady, with
annoyance. “You are a good fellow, but very silly. One gives you a
halfpenny, and you are as grateful as though one had saved your life.
You think this is praiseworthy on your part, but it is not—it is not,
indeed.”
She seemed to be very angry, but suddenly burst out laughing, quite
good-humouredly.
Lizabetha Prokofievna’s face brightened up, too; so did that of General
Epanchin.
“I told you Lef Nicolaievitch was a man—a man—if only he would not be
in such a hurry, as the princess remarked,” said the latter, with
delight.
Aglaya alone seemed sad and depressed; her face was flushed, perhaps
with indignation.
“He really is very charming,” whispered the old dignitary to Ivan
Petrovitch.
“I came into this room with anguish in my heart,” continued the prince,
with ever-growing agitation, speaking quicker and quicker, and with
increasing strangeness. “I—I was afraid of you all, and afraid of
myself. I was most afraid of myself. When I returned to Petersburg, I
promised myself to make a point of seeing our greatest men, and members
of our oldest families—the old families like my own. I am now among
princes like myself, am I not? I wished to know you, and it was
necessary, very, very necessary. I had always heard so much that was
evil said of you all—more evil than good; as to how small and petty
were your interests, how absurd your habits, how shallow your
education, and so on. There is so much written and said about you! I
came here today with anxious curiosity; I wished to see for myself and
form my own convictions as to whether it were true that the whole of
this upper stratum of Russian society is _worthless_, has outlived its
time, has existed too long, and is only fit to die—and yet is dying
with petty, spiteful warring against that which is destined to
supersede it and take its place—hindering the Coming Men, and knowing
not that itself is in a dying condition. I did not fully believe in
this view even before, for there never was such a class among
us—excepting perhaps at court, by accident—or by uniform; but now there
is not even that, is there? It has vanished, has it not?”
“No, not a bit of it,” said Ivan Petrovitch, with a sarcastic laugh.
“Good Lord, he’s off again!” said Princess Bielokonski, impatiently.
“Laissez-le dire! He is trembling all over,” said the old man, in a
warning whisper.
The prince certainly was beside himself.
“Well? What have I seen?” he continued. “I have seen men of graceful
simplicity of intellect; I have seen an old man who is not above
speaking kindly and even _listening_ to a boy like myself; I see before
me persons who can understand, who can forgive—kind, good Russian
hearts—hearts almost as kind and cordial as I met abroad. Imagine how
delighted I must have been, and how surprised! Oh, let me express this
feeling! I have so often heard, and I have even believed, that in
society there was nothing but empty forms, and that reality had
vanished; but I now see for myself that this can never be the case
_here_, among us—it may be the order elsewhere, but not in Russia.
Surely you are not all Jesuits and deceivers! I heard Prince N.‘s story
just now. Was it not simple-minded, spontaneous humour? Could such
words come from the lips of a man who is dead?—a man whose heart and
talents are dried up? Could dead men and women have treated me so
kindly as you have all been treating me to-day? Is there not material
for the future in all this—for hope? Can such people fail to
_understand?_ Can such men fall away from reality?”
“Once more let us beg you to be calm, my dear boy. We’ll talk of all
this another time—I shall do so with the greatest pleasure, for one,”
said the old dignitary, with a smile.
Ivan Petrovitch grunted and twisted round in his chair. General
Epanchin moved nervously. The latter’s chief had started a conversation
with the wife of the dignitary, and took no notice whatever of the
prince, but the old lady very often glanced at him, and listened to
what he was saying.
“No, I had better speak,” continued the prince, with a new outburst of
feverish emotion, and turning towards the old man with an air of
confidential trustfulness. “Yesterday, Aglaya Ivanovna forbade me to
talk, and even specified the particular subjects I must not touch
upon—she knows well enough that I am odd when I get upon these matters.
I am nearly twenty-seven years old, and yet I know I am little better
than a child. I have no right to express my ideas, and said so long
ago. Only in Moscow, with Rogojin, did I ever speak absolutely freely!
He and I read Pushkin together—all his works. Rogojin knew nothing of
Pushkin, had not even heard his name. I am always afraid of spoiling a
great Thought or Idea by my absurd manner. I have no eloquence, I know.
I always make the wrong gestures—inappropriate gestures—and therefore I
degrade the Thought, and raise a laugh instead of doing my subject
justice. I have no sense of proportion either, and that is the chief
thing. I know it would be much better if I were always to sit still and
say nothing. When I do so, I appear to be quite a sensible sort of a
person, and what’s more, I think about things. But now I must speak; it
is better that I should. I began to speak because you looked so kindly
at me; you have such a beautiful face. I promised Aglaya Ivanovna
yesterday that I would not speak all the evening.”
“Really?” said the old man, smiling.
“But, at times, I can’t help thinking that I am wrong in feeling so
about it, you know. Sincerity is more important than elocution, isn’t
it?”
“Sometimes.”
“I want to explain all to you—everything—everything! I know you think
me Utopian, don’t you—an idealist? Oh, no! I’m not, indeed—my ideas are
all so simple. You don’t believe me? You are smiling. Do you know, I am
sometimes very wicked—for I lose my faith? This evening as I came here,
I thought to myself, ‘What shall I talk about? How am I to begin, so
that they may be able to understand partially, at all events?’ How
afraid I was—dreadfully afraid! And yet, how _could_ I be afraid—was it
not shameful of me? Was I afraid of finding a bottomless abyss of empty
selfishness? Ah! that’s why I am so happy at this moment, because I
find there is no bottomless abyss at all—but good, healthy material,
full of life.
“It is not such a very dreadful circumstance that we are odd people, is
it? For we really are odd, you know—careless, reckless, easily wearied
of anything. We don’t look thoroughly into matters—don’t care to
understand things. We are all like this—you and I, and all of them!
Why, here are you, now—you are not a bit angry with me for calling you
‘odd,’ are you? And, if so, surely there is good material in you? Do
you know, I sometimes think it is a good thing to be odd. We can
forgive one another more easily, and be more humble. No one can begin
by being perfect—there is much one cannot understand in life at first.
In order to attain to perfection, one must begin by failing to
understand much. And if we take in knowledge too quickly, we very
likely are not taking it in at all. I say all this to you—you who by
this time understand so much—and doubtless have failed to understand so
much, also. I am not afraid of you any longer. You are not angry that a
mere boy should say such words to you, are you? Of course not! You know
how to forget and to forgive. You are laughing, Ivan Petrovitch? You
think I am a champion of other classes of people—that I am _their_
advocate, a democrat, and an orator of Equality?” The prince laughed
hysterically; he had several times burst into these little, short
nervous laughs. “Oh, no—it is for you, for myself, and for all of us
together, that I am alarmed. I am a prince of an old family myself, and
I am sitting among my peers; and I am talking like this in the hope of
saving us all; in the hope that our class will not disappear
altogether—into the darkness—unguessing its danger—blaming everything
around it, and losing ground every day. Why should we disappear and
give place to others, when we may still, if we choose, remain in the
front rank and lead the battle? Let us be servants, that we may become
lords in due season!”
He tried to get upon his feet again, but the old man still restrained
him, gazing at him with increasing perturbation as he went on.
“Listen—I know it is best not to speak! It is best simply to give a
good example—simply to begin the work. I have done this—I have begun,
and—and—oh! _can_ anyone be unhappy, really? Oh! what does grief
matter—what does misfortune matter, if one knows how to be happy? Do
you know, I cannot understand how anyone can pass by a green tree, and
not feel happy only to look at it! How anyone can talk to a man and not
feel happy in loving him! Oh, it is my own fault that I cannot express
myself well enough! But there are lovely things at every step I
take—things which even the most miserable man must recognize as
beautiful. Look at a little child—look at God’s day dawn—look at the
grass growing—look at the eyes that love you, as they gaze back into
your eyes!”
He had risen, and was speaking standing up. The old gentleman was
looking at him now in unconcealed alarm. Lizabetha Prokofievna wrung
her hands. “Oh, my God!” she cried. She had guessed the state of the
case before anyone else.
Aglaya rushed quickly up to him, and was just in time to receive him in
her arms, and to hear with dread and horror that awful, wild cry as he
fell writhing to the ground.
There he lay on the carpet, and someone quickly placed a cushion under
his head.
No one had expected this.
In a quarter of an hour or so Prince N. and Evgenie Pavlovitch and the
old dignitary were hard at work endeavouring to restore the harmony of
the evening, but it was of no avail, and very soon after the guests
separated and went their ways.
A great deal of sympathy was expressed; a considerable amount of advice
was volunteered; Ivan Petrovitch expressed his opinion that the young
man was “a Slavophile, or something of that sort”; but that it was not
a dangerous development. The old dignitary said nothing.
True enough, most of the guests, next day and the day after, were not
in very good humour. Ivan Petrovitch was a little offended, but not
seriously so. General Epanchin’s chief was rather cool towards him for
some while after the occurrence. The old dignitary, as patron of the
family, took the opportunity of murmuring some kind of admonition to
the general, and added, in flattering terms, that he was most
interested in Aglaya’s future. He was a man who really did possess a
kind heart, although his interest in the prince, in the earlier part of
the evening, was due, among other reasons, to the latter’s connection
with Nastasia Philipovna, according to popular report. He had heard a
good deal of this story here and there, and was greatly interested in
it, so much so that he longed to ask further questions about it.
Princess Bielokonski, as she drove away on this eventful evening, took
occasion to say to Lizabetha Prokofievna:
“Well—he’s a good match—and a bad one; and if you want my opinion, more
bad than good. You can see for yourself the man is an invalid.”
Lizabetha therefore decided that the prince was impossible as a husband
for Aglaya; and during the ensuing night she made a vow that never
while she lived should he marry Aglaya. With this resolve firmly
impressed upon her mind, she awoke next day; but during the morning,
after her early lunch, she fell into a condition of remarkable
inconsistency.
In reply to a very guarded question of her sisters’, Aglaya had
answered coldly, but exceedingly haughtily:
“I have never given him my word at all, nor have I ever counted him as
my future husband—never in my life. He is just as little to me as all
the rest.”
Lizabetha Prokofievna suddenly flared up.
“I did not expect that of you, Aglaya,” she said. “He is an impossible
husband for you,—I know it; and thank God that we agree upon that
point; but I did not expect to hear such words from you. I thought I
should hear a very different tone from you. I would have turned out
everyone who was in the room last night and kept him,—that’s the sort
of man he is, in my opinion!”
Here she suddenly paused, afraid of what she had just said. But she
little knew how unfair she was to her daughter at that moment. It was
all settled in Aglaya’s mind. She was only waiting for the hour that
would bring the matter to a final climax; and every hint, every
careless probing of her wound, did but further lacerate her heart.
VIII.
This same morning dawned for the prince pregnant with no less painful
presentiments,—which fact his physical state was, of course, quite
enough to account for; but he was so indefinably melancholy,—his
sadness could not attach itself to anything in particular, and this
tormented him more than anything else. Of course certain facts stood
before him, clear and painful, but his sadness went beyond all that he
could remember or imagine; he realized that he was powerless to console
himself unaided. Little by little he began to develop the expectation
that this day something important, something decisive, was to happen to
him.
His attack of yesterday had been a slight one. Excepting some little
heaviness in the head and pain in the limbs, he did not feel any
particular effects. His brain worked all right, though his soul was
heavy within him.
He rose late, and immediately upon waking remembered all about the
previous evening; he also remembered, though not quite so clearly, how,
half an hour after his fit, he had been carried home.
He soon heard that a messenger from the Epanchins’ had already been to
inquire after him. At half-past eleven another arrived; and this
pleased him.
Vera Lebedeff was one of the first to come to see him and offer her
services. No sooner did she catch sight of him than she burst into
tears; but when he tried to soothe her she began to laugh. He was quite
struck by the girl’s deep sympathy for him; he seized her hand and
kissed it. Vera flushed crimson.
“Oh, don’t, don’t!” she exclaimed in alarm, snatching her hand away.
She went hastily out of the room in a state of strange confusion.
Lebedeff also came to see the prince, in a great hurry to get away to
the “deceased,” as he called General Ivolgin, who was alive still, but
very ill. Colia also turned up, and begged the prince for pity’s sake
to tell him all he knew about his father which had been concealed from
him till now. He said he had found out nearly everything since
yesterday; the poor boy was in a state of deep affliction. With all the
sympathy which he could bring into play, the prince told Colia the
whole story without reserve, detailing the facts as clearly as he
could. The tale struck Colia like a thunderbolt. He could not speak. He
listened silently, and cried softly to himself the while. The prince
perceived that this was an impression which would last for the whole of
the boy’s life. He made haste to explain his view of the matter, and
pointed out that the old man’s approaching death was probably brought
on by horror at the thought of his action; and that it was not everyone
who was capable of such a feeling.
Colia’s eyes flashed as he listened.
“Gania and Varia and Ptitsin are a worthless lot! I shall not quarrel
with them; but from this moment our feet shall not travel the same
road. Oh, prince, I have felt much that is quite new to me since
yesterday! It is a lesson for me. I shall now consider my mother as
entirely my responsibility; though she may be safe enough with Varia.
Still, meat and drink is not everything.”
He jumped up and hurried off, remembering suddenly that he was wanted
at his father’s bedside; but before he went out of the room he inquired
hastily after the prince’s health, and receiving the latter’s reply,
added:
“Isn’t there something else, prince? I heard yesterday, but I have no
right to talk about this... If you ever want a true friend and
servant—neither you nor I are so very happy, are we?—come to me. I
won’t ask you questions, though.”
He ran off and left the prince more dejected than ever.
Everyone seemed to be speaking prophetically, hinting at some
misfortune or sorrow to come; they had all looked at him as though they
knew something which he did not know. Lebedeff had asked questions,
Colia had hinted, and Vera had shed tears. What was it?
At last, with a sigh of annoyance, he said to himself that it was
nothing but his own cursed sickly suspicion. His face lighted up with
joy when, at about two o’clock, he espied the Epanchins coming along to
pay him a short visit, “just for a minute.” They really had only come
for a minute.
Lizabetha Prokofievna had announced, directly after lunch, that they
would all take a walk together. The information was given in the form
of a command, without explanation, drily and abruptly. All had issued
forth in obedience to the mandate; that is, the girls, mamma, and
Prince S. Lizabetha Prokofievna went off in a direction exactly
contrary to the usual one, and all understood very well what she was
driving at, but held their peace, fearing to irritate the good lady.
She, as though anxious to avoid any conversation, walked ahead, silent
and alone. At last Adelaida remarked that it was no use racing along at
such a pace, and that she could not keep up with her mother.
“Look here,” said Lizabetha Prokofievna, turning round suddenly; “we
are passing his house. Whatever Aglaya may think, and in spite of
anything that may happen, he is not a stranger to us; besides which, he
is ill and in misfortune. I, for one, shall call in and see him. Let
anyone follow me who cares to.”
Of course every one of them followed her.
The prince hastened to apologize, very properly, for yesterday’s mishap
with the vase, and for the scene generally.
“Oh, that’s nothing,” replied Lizabetha; “I’m not sorry for the vase,
I’m sorry for you. H’m! so you can see that there was a ‘scene,’ can
you? Well, it doesn’t matter much, for everyone must realize now that
it is impossible to be hard on you. Well, _au revoir_. I advise you to
have a walk, and then go to sleep again if you can. Come in as usual,
if you feel inclined; and be assured, once for all, whatever happens,
and whatever may have happened, you shall always remain the friend of
the family—mine, at all events. I can answer for myself.”
In response to this challenge all the others chimed in and re-echoed
mamma’s sentiments.
And so they took their departure; but in this hasty and kindly designed
visit there was hidden a fund of cruelty which Lizabetha Prokofievna
never dreamed of. In the words “as usual,” and again in her added,
“mine, at all events,” there seemed an ominous knell of some evil to
come.
The prince began to think of Aglaya. She had certainly given him a
wonderful smile, both at coming and again at leave-taking, but had not
said a word, not even when the others all professed their friendship
for him. She had looked very intently at him, but that was all. Her
face had been paler than usual; she looked as though she had slept
badly.
The prince made up his mind that he would make a point of going there
“as usual,” tonight, and looked feverishly at his watch.
Vera came in three minutes after the Epanchins had left. “Lef
Nicolaievitch,” she said, “Aglaya Ivanovna has just given me a message
for you.”
The prince trembled.
“Is it a note?”
“No, a verbal message; she had hardly time even for that. She begs you
earnestly not to go out of the house for a single moment all to-day,
until seven o’clock in the evening. It may have been nine; I didn’t
quite hear.”
“But—but, why is this? What does it mean?”
“I don’t know at all; but she said I was to tell you particularly.”
“Did she say that?”
“Not those very words. She only just had time to whisper as she went
by; but by the way she looked at me I knew it was important. She looked
at me in a way that made my heart stop beating.”
The prince asked a few more questions, and though he learned nothing
else, he became more and more agitated.
Left alone, he lay down on the sofa, and began to think.
“Perhaps,” he thought, “someone is to be with them until nine tonight
and she is afraid that I may come and make a fool of myself again, in
public.” So he spent his time longing for the evening and looking at
his watch. But the clearing-up of the mystery came long before the
evening, and came in the form of a new and agonizing riddle.
Half an hour after the Epanchins had gone, Hippolyte arrived, so tired
that, almost unconscious, he sank into a chair, and broke into such a
fit of coughing that he could not stop. He coughed till the blood came.
His eyes glittered, and two red spots on his cheeks grew brighter and
brighter. The prince murmured something to him, but Hippolyte only
signed that he must be left alone for a while, and sat silent. At last
he came to himself.
“I am off,” he said, hoarsely, and with difficulty.
“Shall I see you home?” asked the prince, rising from his seat, but
suddenly stopping short as he remembered Aglaya’s prohibition against
leaving the house. Hippolyte laughed.
“I don’t mean that I am going to leave your house,” he continued, still
gasping and coughing. “On the contrary, I thought it absolutely
necessary to come and see you; otherwise I should not have troubled
you. I am off there, you know, and this time I believe, seriously, that
I am off! It’s all over. I did not come here for sympathy, believe me.
I lay down this morning at ten o’clock with the intention of not rising
again before that time; but I thought it over and rose just once more
in order to come here; from which you may deduce that I had some reason
for wishing to come.”
“It grieves me to see you so, Hippolyte. Why didn’t you send me a
message? I would have come up and saved you this trouble.”
“Well, well! Enough! You’ve pitied me, and that’s all that good manners
exact. I forgot, how are you?”
“I’m all right; yesterday I was a little—”
“I know, I heard; the china vase caught it! I’m sorry I wasn’t there.
I’ve come about something important. In the first place I had, the
pleasure of seeing Gavrila Ardalionovitch and Aglaya Ivanovna enjoying
a rendezvous on the green bench in the park. I was astonished to see
what a fool a man can look. I remarked upon the fact to Aglaya Ivanovna
when he had gone. I don’t think anything ever surprises you, prince!”
added Hippolyte, gazing incredulously at the prince’s calm demeanour.
“To be astonished by nothing is a sign, they say, of a great intellect.
In my opinion it would serve equally well as a sign of great
foolishness. I am not hinting about you; pardon me! I am very
unfortunate today in my expressions.”
“I knew yesterday that Gavrila Ardalionovitch—” began the prince, and
paused in evident confusion, though Hippolyte had shown annoyance at
his betraying no surprise.
“You knew it? Come, that’s news! But no—perhaps better not tell me. And
were you a witness of the meeting?”
“If you were there yourself you must have known that I was _not_
there!”
“Oh! but you may have been sitting behind the bushes somewhere.
However, I am very glad, on your account, of course. I was beginning to
be afraid that Mr. Gania—might have the preference!”
“May I ask you, Hippolyte, not to talk of this subject? And not to use
such expressions?”
“Especially as you know all, eh?”
“You are wrong. I know scarcely anything, and Aglaya Ivanovna is aware
that I know nothing. I knew nothing whatever about this meeting. You
say there was a meeting. Very well; let’s leave it so—”
“Why, what do you mean? You said you knew, and now suddenly you know
nothing! You say ‘very well; let’s leave it so.’ But I say, don’t be so
confiding, especially as you know nothing. You are confiding simply
_because_ you know nothing. But do you know what these good people have
in their minds’ eye—Gania and his sister? Perhaps you are suspicious?
Well, well, I’ll drop the subject!” he added, hastily, observing the
prince’s impatient gesture. “But I’ve come to you on my own business; I
wish to make you a clear explanation. What a nuisance it is that one
cannot die without explanations! I have made such a quantity of them
already. Do you wish to hear what I have to say?”
“Speak away, I am listening.”
“Very well, but I’ll change my mind, and begin about Gania. Just fancy
to begin with, if you can, that I, too, was given an appointment at the
green bench today! However, I won’t deceive you; I asked for the
appointment. I said I had a secret to disclose. I don’t know whether I
came there too early, I think I must have; but scarcely had I sat down
beside Aglaya Ivanovna than I saw Gavrila Ardalionovitch and his sister
Varia coming along, arm in arm, just as though they were enjoying a
morning walk together. Both of them seemed very much astonished, not to
say disturbed, at seeing me; they evidently had not expected the
pleasure. Aglaya Ivanovna blushed up, and was actually a little
confused. I don’t know whether it was merely because I was there, or
whether Gania’s beauty was too much for her! But anyway, she turned
crimson, and then finished up the business in a very funny manner. She
jumped up from her seat, bowed back to Gania, smiled to Varia, and
suddenly observed: ‘I only came here to express my gratitude for all
your kind wishes on my behalf, and to say that if I find I need your
services, believe me—’ Here she bowed them away, as it were, and they
both marched off again, looking very foolish. Gania evidently could not
make head nor tail of the matter, and turned as red as a lobster; but
Varia understood at once that they must get away as quickly as they
could, so she dragged Gania away; she is a great deal cleverer than he
is. As for myself, I went there to arrange a meeting to be held between
Aglaya Ivanovna and Nastasia Philipovna.”
“Nastasia Philipovna!” cried the prince.
“Aha! I think you are growing less cool, my friend, and are beginning
to be a trifle surprised, aren’t you? I’m glad that you are not above
ordinary human feelings, for once. I’ll console you a little now, after
your consternation. See what I get for serving a young and high-souled
maiden! This morning I received a slap in the face from the lady!”
“A—a moral one?” asked the prince, involuntarily.
“Yes—not a physical one! I don’t suppose anyone—even a woman—would
raise a hand against me now. Even Gania would hesitate! I did think at
one time yesterday, that he would fly at me, though. I bet anything
that I know what you are thinking of now! You are thinking: ‘Of course
one can’t strike the little wretch, but one could suffocate him with a
pillow, or a wet towel, when he is asleep! One _ought_ to get rid of
him somehow.’ I can see in your face that you are thinking that at this
very second.”
“I never thought of such a thing for a moment,” said the prince, with
disgust.
“I don’t know—I dreamed last night that I was being suffocated with a
wet cloth by—somebody. I’ll tell you who it was—Rogojin! What do you
think, can a man be suffocated with a wet cloth?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ve heard so. Well, we’ll leave that question just now. Why am I a
scandal-monger? Why did she call me a scandal-monger? And mind, _after_
she had heard every word I had to tell her, and had asked all sorts of
questions besides—but such is the way of women. For _her_ sake I
entered into relations with Rogojin—an interesting man! At _her_
request I arranged a personal interview between herself and Nastasia
Philipovna. Could she have been angry because I hinted that she was
enjoying Nastasia Philipovna’s ‘leavings’? Why, I have been impressing
it upon her all this while for her own good. Two letters have I written
her in that strain, and I began straight off today about its being
humiliating for her. Besides, the word ‘leavings’ is not my invention.
At all events, they all used it at Gania’s, and she used it herself. So
why am I a scandal-monger? I see—I see you are tremendously amused, at
this moment! Probably you are laughing at me and fitting those silly
lines to my case—
“‘Maybe sad Love upon his setting smiles, And with vain hopes his
farewell hour beguiles.’
“Ha, ha, ha!”
Hippolyte suddenly burst into a fit of hysterical laughter, which
turned into a choking cough.
“Observe,” he gasped, through his coughing, “what a fellow Gania is! He
talks about Nastasia’s ‘leavings,’ but what does he want to take
himself?”
The prince sat silent for a long while. His mind was filled with dread
and horror.
“You spoke of a meeting with Nastasia Philipovna,” he said at last, in
a low voice.
“Oh—come! Surely you must know that there is to be a meeting today
between Nastasia and Aglaya Ivanovna, and that Nastasia has been sent
for on purpose, through Rogojin, from St. Petersburg? It has been
brought about by invitation of Aglaya Ivanovna and my own efforts, and
Nastasia is at this moment with Rogojin, not far from here—at Dana
Alexeyevna’s—that curious friend of hers; and to this questionable
house Aglaya Ivanovna is to proceed for a friendly chat with Nastasia
Philipovna, and for the settlement of several problems. They are going
to play at arithmetic—didn’t you know about it? Word of honour?”
“It’s a most improbable story.”
“Oh, very well! if it’s improbable—it is—that’s all! And yet—where
should you have heard it? Though I must say, if a fly crosses the room
it’s known all over the place here. However, I’ve warned you, and you
may be grateful to me. Well—_au revoir_—probably in the next world! One
more thing—don’t think that I am telling you all this for your sake.
Oh, dear, no! Do you know that I dedicated my confession to Aglaya
Ivanovna? I did though, and how she took it, ha, ha! Oh, no! I am not
acting from any high, exalted motives. But though I may have behaved
like a cad to you, I have not done _her_ any harm. I don’t apologize
for my words about ‘leavings’ and all that. I am atoning for that, you
see, by telling you the place and time of the meeting. Goodbye! You had
better take your measures, if you are worthy the name of a man! The
meeting is fixed for this evening—that’s certain.”
Hippolyte walked towards the door, but the prince called him back and
he stopped.
“Then you think Aglaya Ivanovna herself intends to go to Nastasia
Philipovna’s tonight?” he asked, and bright hectic spots came out on
his cheeks and forehead.
“I don’t know absolutely for certain; but in all probability it is so,”
replied Hippolyte, looking round. “Nastasia would hardly go to her; and
they can’t meet at Gania’s, with a man nearly dead in the house.”
“It’s impossible, for that very reason,” said the prince. “How would
she get out if she wished to? You don’t know the habits of that
house—she _could_ not get away alone to Nastasia Philipovna’s! It’s all
nonsense!”
“Look here, my dear prince, no one jumps out of the window if they can
help it; but when there’s a fire, the dandiest gentleman or the finest
lady in the world will skip out! When the moment comes, and there’s
nothing else to be done—our young lady will go to Nastasia
Philipovna’s! Don’t they let the young ladies out of the house alone,
then?”
“I didn’t mean that exactly.”
“If you didn’t mean that, then she has only to go down the steps and
walk off, and she need never come back unless she chooses: Ships are
burned behind one sometimes, and one doesn’t care to return whence one
came. Life need not consist only of lunches, and dinners, and Prince
S’s. It strikes me you take Aglaya Ivanovna for some conventional
boarding-school girl. I said so to her, and she quite agreed with me.
Wait till seven or eight o’clock. In your place I would send someone
there to keep watch, so as to seize the exact moment when she steps out
of the house. Send Colia. He’ll play the spy with pleasure—for you at
least. Ha, ha, ha!”
Hippolyte went out.
There was no reason for the prince to set anyone to watch, even if he
had been capable of such a thing. Aglaya’s command that he should stay
at home all day seemed almost explained now. Perhaps she meant to call
for him, herself, or it might be, of course, that she was anxious to
make sure of his not coming there, and therefore bade him remain at
home. His head whirled; the whole room seemed to be turning round. He
lay down on the sofa, and closed his eyes.
One way or the other the question was to be decided at last—finally.
Oh, no, he did not think of Aglaya as a boarding-school miss, or a
young lady of the conventional type! He had long since feared that she
might take some such step as this. But why did she wish to see
Nastasia?
He shivered all over as he lay; he was in high fever again.